Masterlist for the My Little Love Universe. These series revolves around three of our favorite fictional men, Bucky, Steve and Sam. They each get their own story and this universe starts with Bucky’s.
My Little Love
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanched!Reader “Sugar”
Series Masterlist
Bucky was no longer the winter soldier. He was living freely and working with the Avengers. You were one of his closest friends and he was head over heels in love with you. The feeling was mutual. You liked Bucky the moment you met him but neither of you were willing to say anything yet. Everyday that passed, Bucky was able to remove himself more from what Hydra had done to him. Until a mission reveals that Hydra had been creating super soldier children and Bucky happened to be the father. With you by his side Bucky will learn to love and care for his kids. The love you have for each other blooms into a beautiful relationship. But Hydra isn’t happy that the next generation of super soldiers was taken from them and they’ll do whatever it takes to get them back.
Series warnings: major angst, fluff, smut, blood, medical emergencies, hydra, bad family relationships, mentioned child abuse, kidnapping, (please check individual chapters for warnings)
A Love As Sweet As Honey
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Scientist!Reader “Honey”
Series Masterlist
Steve wanted what his best friends had. He wanted love and family and peace. That’s wasn’t too much to ask for, right? Somewhere along the way Steve befriended Bruce’s lab assistant, you. You were guarded, slightly grumpy, you weren’t afraid to say what you were thinking and didn’t trust easily. That didn’t stop Steve from seeing more to you. He liked you and you liked him. While Steve didn’t want to ruin the friendship you had, you were afraid to let him see the more vulnerable part of you. However, after a night of drinking you wake up naked and next to each other. A drunken one night stand that will definitely put a strain on the friendship. Then you get a positive pregnancy test.
Series warnings: angst, fluff, smut, tears, unplanned pregnancy, talks of abortion, bad family dynamics, more to come… (read individual chapters for specific warnings)
A Love On Broken Wings
Pairing: Sam Wilson x Engineer!Reader “Sweets”
Series Masterlist
Sam Wilson had always wanted to fly. He wanted to help people and make a difference. When he saw the opportunity to become a pilot in the Air Force he took it. That choice would change his life forever. Not only would it lead him to become friends with and work along side the Avengers, he’d also met the love of his life. You also wanted to help people. Listening to your father tell stories from his time in the military and the limitations there were you wanted to created something that would change the way missions would be handled. That’s how you met the man that would steal your heart and break it.
Series Warnings: angst, fluff, smut, tears, character death, kidnapping, torture (see future chapters for warnings)
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A/N: As always my permanent and series taglists are open. I will only add 18+ so please make sure you let me know if you are 18+ or that it’s on your blog!
Warnings!!: Slow burn, Reader is an adult!!, mentions of death(major character death), injury detail, mentions of blood, mentions of bruises, physical assault, mature themes, strong language, angst, hurt/comfort, forced proximity!!
Summary:
(Gunfire. Smoke. Death. The camp fell the same way your old one did, only this time you weren’t alone when you got out—you had Daryl.)
A/N: Enjoy sweeties!!
You knew Daryl wouldn’t react well to the news about Carol; you didn’t stay long enough to see the fallout.
You wanted to be alone. You wanted to think but you doubted thinking time would be easy when everything was so…loud.
Your back hit the mattress of your bed, your head hitting the pillow with a sigh, your eyes fluttering shut.
Carol was gone, the prison was suffering from a glorified cold, and there had been a breach. What else could possibly go wrong?
Your hand snaked to the lighter in your pocket, pulling it out, fingers skimming over the photograph as you did so.
You wanted something to fidget with in all honesty.
The cold metal felt grounding against your skin, fingers tracing over the brass.
Your nail caught on a small indent in the casing, perking your attention immediately.
You opened your eyes, running your fingers over it repeatedly, almost as if to make sure you weren’t imagining things.
You squinted, trying your hardest to see what the indent was, but it was no use; it was much too dark to see a single thing.
You flickered the lighter on, curving your palm just slightly before the flame. The light reflected off of your skin, shining over the metal case.
And then, you caught a break.
—D.D.
Your brows furrowed for a moment, every cog in your brain spinning so slowly that nothing seemed comprehendible.
Then you caught up.
Daryl hadn’t lost his lighter; he’d given it to you, masking it behind a ‘simple’ good deed.
You weren’t mad, of course not. You were just…confused.
Very confused.
Your thumb rolled over the indent once more before you flicked the lid back over and buried it deep into the back of your pocket. You suddenly didn’t feel like fidgeting with it anymore.
You didn’t want to dwell on the possible reasons he could’ve done it; you just wanted to sleep.
Maybe when the time felt right, you’d ask. Maybe. You had a lot that you wanted to ask him about, but now wasn't the right time.
Not after Carol. Not after the outbreak.
You woke the next morning to the obnoxiously loud voices of Rick and Daryl in the hallway.
You’d slept in late yet again.
You picked yourself up from your bed, wiping your eyes. You pulled your curtain back, sticking your head out slightly.
“What we gonna do ‘bout those two girls?” Daryl spoke roughly, leaning against the railing.
You hesitated for a moment before you stepped out fully.
“I can…look out for them,” you butted in, voice quiet. “Teach them what Carol was before you sent her away.”
Your words came out slightly harsher than you’d meant for them too.
Your sudden presence startled Rick slightly; you could tell by the way his head cocked around.
Your eyes flickered to Daryl’s for a moment, your face suddenly feeling much hotter than it had a minute ago.
It was finding out about that damn lighter that’d caused this. You wished now that you hadn’t figured it out in the first place.
The lighter carried a very specific weight to it now that it never had before.
You turned away, composing yourself.
“Don’t start now.” Rick shook his head with a sigh.
“I’m not starting.” You objected, fidgeting with the material of your shirt. “I’m trying to help.”
Daryl stayed quiet, eyes fixed on you.
“You can help by doin’ your duties.” Rick finalised, shooting you another glare before he turned away back towards Daryl.
A beat.
“Asshole.” You muttered under your breath before you moved down the staircase.
You didn’t really care what Rick had to say. Those kids needed someone now that Carol wasn’t there: You'd step in.
You made your way towards the library room; the children were all already in there.
Lizzie looked at you.
“Where’s Carol?”
Shit. Nobody had told them yet.
A beat.
“Carol is not going to be here from now on.” You crouched down in front of Lizzy and Mika.
“Where has she gone?” Mika questioned.
You hesitated; you couldn’t tell them what she’d done—it was too brutal, much too brutal.
“She’s just gone,” you answered. “…but she’s safe.”
All eyes were on you. None of the children spoke, but you knew they were acknowledging what you’d said, even if they were confused.
Judith was in her carrier on the floor next to Mika.
“Where’s Beth?” You questioned; Beth was usually the one minding Judith.
One of the children shrugged.
“She said she had to do something.”
You nodded.
Then you dropped to the floor, crossing your legs over one another.
“So…” you started. “What has Carol been teaching you guys?”
“How to use knives,” Lizzie responded bluntly.
You thought these kids were having story time every day in here. Guess not.
You pulled your knife out from its sheath, angling it out in the palm of your hands.
“That one’s pretty.” Mika knelt, a big smile on her face, her hand reaching out to trace over the carvings in the handle.
“It’s pretty,” you agreed, glancing upwards. “But it’s dangerous. It’s not a toy.”
“We know,” Lizzie added.
Judith stirred.
You pressed your lips into a thin line, not sure on how you’d go about this; you’d never really prepared yourself to teach children how to use weapons.
“So…to kill a walker, you have to stab it through its—” You started, but you were immediately cut off by the sound of an explosion cutting through the air outside.
Your head spun towards the doorway.
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, eyes turning back towards the kids.
“What was that?” Lizzie quivered, already getting on her feet.
“Lizzie, get down,” you urged, pressing your palms flat on the floor. “Everyone stay down.”
You couldn’t hear shit. You couldn’t see anything that was going on.
You stayed in there a few more minutes in utter silence and then—
You heard the distant gunfire.
Then another explosion.
Something had happened. Something bad.
“We can help,” Mika half whispered.
You shook your head, glancing at her again.
“I’m going to go out there, and I want you all to stay here,” you finalised. “Take care of Judith, and if I’m not back within the next ten minutes, you run. Okay?”
They all nodded in response.
You got to your feet immediately, pushing out of the room and practically sprinting towards your cell for your weapon.
Everything went hazy around you as soon as you got outside; the world seemed to tilt completely.
Everything was destroyed.
You raised your gun, aiming straight at an unfamiliar man that was shooting your people.
He dropped.
You moved behind a steel container, taking cover.
Another man stopped just before you, raising his weapon; you shot him in the arm—the panic had taken over completely, so much so that your aim was completely off.
“Shit!”
You raised your weapon again, aiming straight for the head, and just as if luck had failed you—
The magazine was completely empty.
“No—No!” You cried.
You discarded the weapon on the ground, making a run for it.
Then you heard the gravel crunch behind you, and before you could turn, a hand grabbed your arm.
You hit the ground hard; the man you’d just shot moments ago was now atop of you.
You couldn’t even get your knife out, his leg was covering it completely as he pinned you down.
“Get off of me!”
“You little bitch!” He shouted, throwing a punch straight at your jaw.
The world slowed around you as soon as the second punch hit your face. You weren’t even thinking at this point; you were completely out of it.
Then the body collapsed atop of you fully, the weight of the man snapping you back to reality.
Arrow through skull: Daryl.
“We gotta go now!” He yelled, kicking the dead man from your chest and hauling you up by your arm. “Ya can run?!”
“Yeah,” you whimpered, already hobbling as Daryl supported you from the side.
Then you remembered that you’d left the children in the library room.
“Shit!” You bellowed out over the gunfire. “I’ve gotta go back, the kids—”
“Ain’t no time!”
You let the guilt wash over you whole, a sickening feeling creeping up your throat.
He was right, there was no time, so—
You just ran like your life depended on it because…it did.
Daryl kept in sync with you, hand still close in case you were to fall; you did many times.
The prison was miles behind you now, but it still wasn’t safe. Not yet.
You sprinted till your feet ached and your body couldn’t take the strain anymore. You had run to what felt like the end of the earth.
“I think we’re clear,” you panted, resting your hands on your knees as you tried to catch your breath.
Daryl looked you up and down, breathing heavily, but he didn’t respond.
You didn’t even want to think about the lighter right now; you didn’t even want to think about any of it.
Your hand slipped inside your pocket, making sure you still had your photograph.
You did.
You let out a sigh of relief.
“We gotta keep movin’,” Daryl muttered, his grip on his crossbow tightening.
He hadn’t even acknowledged what you’d said before, and now he was back to giving orders.
A beat.
“Where do you suggest we go, Daryl?” You snapped, finally coming to terms with the depth of everything.
“Don’t know.”
Helpful Daryl. Very helpful.
You sighed, pinching the skin between your brows before moving without giving him warning.
He followed.
You walked in silence for a while, taking out a few walkers here and there with the help of your blade and Daryl’s crossbow.
“What happened?” You asked finally.
You were still in the dark about everything.
“Governor,” he answered. “He stormed the gates…killed Hershel.”
You stilled.
Hershel was…dead?
You turned towards him.
“What…?” Your voice was quiet, barely audible.
He didn’t speak, just held your gaze.
That was answer enough.
You scrubbed a hand over your face, wincing as your fingers contacted your jaw. You were bleeding; that son of a bitch who’d punched you at the prison had messed you up pretty badly in the face.
“Ya alright…?” Daryl asked.
“No.”
None of this was alright, and you weren’t going to pussyfoot around the truth anymore.
Everything you’d feared had happened. Your old camp went out the exact same way.
The only change now was that you weren’t alone.
You were with Daryl.
You continued walking without a word more.
A few more minutes passed before Daryl suddenly stopped, his fist shooting up.
You froze.
“What?”
He pointed towards a gap through the trees.
You squinted, trying to spot it, but it was difficult now that the sun was dipping.
You moved slightly, knocking into Daryl’s shoulder as you attempted to get a better view.
He didn’t move, but he’d acknowledged it, you could tell.
Then you saw what he’d spotted: a small cabin, its roof caving slightly, overgrowth running up its sides.
You didn’t know what it was, but you’d always found yourself running into cabins on your commutes.
Hell, you didn’t even know if you were hallucinating or if this was actually happening.
“C’mon.” Daryl nudged you before he headed forward.
You stayed close, leaves crunching beneath your feet, almost as if they were purposefully trying to give you away.
Daryl pushed inside first, signalling for you to stay back.
He was in there for a few minutes.
You poked your head through the doorway, eyes scanning the area.
“Daryl? Is it clear?”
He backed out of a room, lowering his crossbow, eyes fixed on one of the back windows.
“S’clear.”
You stepped inside immediately at that, pushing the door closed, fingers skimming the handle for a lock.
You found one and flipped it.
Then you turned and it seemed like the world had shrunk to the space between the two of you.
The tension felt heavy on your chest; it was harder to ignore it now than it was on your journey up here.
Maybe it was because of everything that’d happened.
Maybe it was the fact that you were carrying his lighter around waiting for the perfect time to mention it.
Maybe it was because deep down in your chest you knew that you felt safe with Daryl, though you’d never admit that to his face.
“You see anything I can clean my cut with when you were searching?” You coughed, your hand grazing over the cut on your jaw.
Daryl glanced over briefly.
“Bathroom.”
That was all he said, returning his gaze back to the window.
You pressed your lips together and headed down the short hallway.
The person who lived here before must’ve been an alcoholic because the medicine cabinet was stacked with half-empty bottles.
You reached for the vodka bottle.
Then your eyes roamed the bathroom, landing on a towel that hung messily over the bathtub.
The harsh material met your face a second later as you patted down the cut.
You hissed, eyes catching your reflection in the mirror.
Bruised.
Bloodied.
A complete and utter mess.
You sighed as you continued cleaning the wound and the blood from your neck.
You felt sick.
You felt like you could cry, but the tears were too stubborn to shed.
Hershel was dead.
You didn’t know who else was alive.
You didn’t know if those children were safe.
Maybe Carol caught some luck getting out before the shit hit the fan.
You finished up, chucking the towel onto the floor.
You hesitated, not knowing if you should take the bottle of vodka out; you wanted a drink. You wanted to get so drunk that your whole mind was distracted for a while but—
That was reckless, and you weren’t going to be reckless anymore.
You placed the bottle back in the cabinet and pulled the bathroom door open.
“The medicine cabinet is stocked with—” you started as you moved towards the living room, but you soon cut yourself short when you spotted Daryl on the sofa.
He was crying.
You could hear his sobs faintly, the way his shoulders shook every time his emotion spilled out.
You just stood there like a deer caught in headlights. You felt like you were interrupting; you felt like you shouldn’t have seen him like this.
You’d never seen him cry before.
You’d never seen him so…vulnerable.
Your foot shifted against the floorboards, giving you away completely.
Daryl's head snapped up, the flesh beneath his eyes damp.
“Don’t.” He sniffled, wiping a hand across his eyes, turning away from you in an instant.
He was ashamed; you could tell.
“Daryl—” you whispered.
“I said don’t.”
“Daryl.” You spoke louder this time, loud enough for him to know that you weren’t leaving this matter be.
His jaw clenched.
“I ain’t lookin’ for pity.”
“Good because I wasn’t going to give you any.”
That got his attention, his eyes flickering towards yours.
You moved toward the opposite end of the sofa and sat down, studying him closely.
A beat.
Then another.
“Hershel shouldn’ta died.” He spoke hoarsely.
“No.” You swallowed.
“He was good.”
“He was.”
Then silence settled again.
“I always thought of him as a father figure.” You broke through the silence abruptly. “Because he was so caring and strong.”
He blinked.
“I think it’s because he was a role model,” you added. “I never really had that bond with my own dad, so meeting someone like Hershel was…y’know.”
He didn’t answer straight away, just watched you.
Then he spoke up.
“I ain’t ever had a bond with ma dad either.”
“Guess that makes two of us,” you scoffed.
For a moment you could’ve sworn you saw the corner of his lips twitch ever so faintly, but you still noticed.
“Guess so.”
A beat.
“You want a drink?” You blurted out.
You know you said drinking would be reckless, but you felt as if it were necessary to do so now.
He rested his head back against the sofa, letting out a small sigh as he did so.
“What they got?”
“I think there’s whiskey, vodka…” You stopped, trying to remember what else there was. “I don’t remember what else.”
“Whiskey.”
You nodded once and then moved back towards the bathroom, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and the bottle of vodka that you’d left behind before.
You handed Daryl the whiskey when you got back in, sitting yourself back down on the sofa with the vodka in hand.
“I don’t know if it’ll be any good.”
Daryl was already taking a swig from the bottle before you could say anything else.
“S’fine.”
You shrugged, taking a sip from your own bottle.
“You think anyone else made it out?”
His eyes flickered towards his boots as they sat propped up on the coffee table.
“Don’t know.”
There was no other possible way it could’ve been sweetened to make the uncertainty feel better.
That was the truth; neither of you knew what’d happened to the others.
“Do you ever think about before?” You asked suddenly, shifting the subject.
“What ya mean?” He asked roughly.
“About your life before all of this happened.”
His eyes dropped back to the bottle in his hand, index finger tapping on the glass gently.
“Sometimes.”
“What’d you do before everything anyway?” You questioned again; you were merely curious now.
“Nothin’.” He scoffed, taking another swig from the bottle.
“Really?”
“Mhm,”
You pressed your lips into a thin line, not fully believing he did ‘nothing.’
“Fixed bikes sometimes.” He added finally.
“I knew there was more.” You replied, the corner of your lips upturning slightly before they wrapped around the vodka bottle.
“What ‘bout you?” he asked, eager to get the topic of conversation off of him.
Your eyebrows raised slightly.
That was new; Daryl usually avoided asking personal questions.
“I worked at a bar in Seattle for a little while before I went south with Rocky.”
Your hand dipped inside your pocket, pulling the photograph of you and your dog out.
You leaned forward, tapping against the cover of the photograph.
“This was taken in 04 just after I moved to Atlanta.”
His eyes ran over the image of you and your dog; he’d seen it before on that day he’d followed you to your old camp through the woods but—
He was looking at it properly now.
“Why ya move south?” He questioned, eyes moving up to your face slowly.
You glanced away immediately at his question; this was sure a harsh topic, but…there was no getting away from it no matter how much you’d tried in the past.
“My dad died in an armed robbery…” you blurted out. “Cops shot him.”
You breathed.
“…When that happened, I knew I had to leave Seattle.”
Your eyes finally flickered towards Daryl’s.
“So I left.”
He didn’t speak for a moment, just watched you quietly.
You didn’t speak either.
He pushed his head further back into the sofa, adjusting his position.
He gestured towards the photograph that sat in your lap.
“And yer dog?”
Your fingers traced over the image again, traced over the moment that’d been frozen in time.
“He was old,” you said, voice hoarse, already feeling the emotion riddle you. “He couldn’t run. I tried to carry him, but he was too heavy.”
“He die?” Daryl asked.
You nodded.
“Walkers.”
That felt worse somehow, saying it aloud.
A lone tear ran down your cheek before you could stop it.
“I tried to save him,” you snuffled, your hand wiping the tear away. “I tried…but I couldn’t.”
Daryl looked at you like he didn’t know what to say, similar to the way you looked at him when you’d caught him crying early.
A beat.
“Ya can’t save everyone.” He said, hand tightening around the neck of the whiskey bottle.
“I know,” you snuffled. “That’s what makes it worse.”
Daryl hummed in response, eyes still lingering on you.
Watching.
Waiting.
You scoffed, dragging a hand over your face.
You were getting much too emotional; the alcohol definitely wasn’t helping.
Neither was the grief of everything that’d happened.
Neither was the exhaustion that was settling over you.
“I’m tired.” You yawned, relaxing your head back onto the arm of the sofa, boots almost touching the side of Daryl’s leg as you stretched out.
“Go ta sleep then.” He muttered, eyes roaming over your face for a moment before he looked away towards the fireplace.
You placed the vodka bottle onto the coffee table before you turned back towards him.
You were hyper aware of his breathing now—hyper aware of him in general.
The dim light cracking through the windows cast an unusual glow on his face.
He looked tired himself.
“Daryl,” you uttered.
“Hm?”
You were going to ask about the lighter. You should’ve asked about the lighter, but you held onto that question for now.
“You should sleep too.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line, the bottle of whiskey hanging loosely in his grip.
Then he looked at you.
“Not yet.”
“You’re tired, Daryl.” You replied to his dismissal, brows furrowing slightly. “I can see that you’re tired.”
“Not yet.” He repeated again, eyes still on yours.
A beat.
“You’re a terrible liar, Daryl.” You smirked to yourself, your voice quiet.
He didn’t answer.
You didn't wait for an answer either; you just let your eyes flutter shut, letting yourself succumb to sleep.
A/N: this was a whirlwind to write but honestly also loved writing it! I hope you guys enjoyed💕
Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the Taglist!💋
Warnings: So much angst!!!!!!! I made up some medical bs about omegas so just go along with it. Cliffhanger....
A/N: Please forgive me for this chapter but it was necessary. We see someone from reader's past come back.... I am more excited about the next chapter.
Series Masterlist
“I’ve been here for five hours.” A man complained at the registration desk.
You looked around the waiting room as Robby led you to the door on the side. It felt like time was frozen in the waiting room for the ED. Robby nods at the guard at the door as he scans his badge. He holds the door open for you before walking in right behind you.
“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
“Hi Donnie.” You smile up at him. He’d been the one to alert the others about your situation. The first one to step up and save you. “How have you been? How’s your mate and your pup?”
“I’m good. They’re good. Those cravings are killing me though. Ice cream and pickle runs at three in the morning, ugh.”
You giggle and hold up a container. “Robby mentioned you were looking for pineapple dessert recipes so I made pineapple upside down sugar cookies.”
Donnie takes the container and opens it up. He takes a deep breath and groans at the smell. “You are going to be her favorite person.”
You smile. “Let me know if she likes them. I can make more.”
“I will. Thank you for this. Now I’m going to hide these before the vultures in this department find them.” Donnie pulls the container closer to his chest before walking away.
Robby motions for you to follow him to the nurses station. Some of the night shift and day shift crew are standing around talking about patients.
“Y/N!” Mel rushes over to you with excitement, arms extended before realizing you might not want to be touched. She smiles awkwardly as she stops by your side.
“Hi Mel.” You bump her shoulder with yours as a small sign of affection. “Did you finish the last chapter?”
“I have three pages left.”
The two of you start to discuss a book you’d been reading together while everyone else starts to get ready for the day. She excuses herself when a trauma is called out and you shift your attention to the others around you.
Jack had stopped right beside you. He rests an arm on the counter and leans against it.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
You smile and rest your head against his bicep. It was still new. Physical contact. But you initiated and Robby and Jack followed your lead. Mostly it was a side hug or holding their hand. If you were all watching tv you would rest your head against their shoulder. The act was small but meaningful for the alphas.
“Hey kid, what are you doing here? You’re not sick are ya?” Dana looked at you over her readers.
“She looks perfectly fine to me.” Lena stands beside the blonde. “Radiant, even.”
“I just have an appointment upstairs.”
“Which you should start heading up for.” Robby appeared at your other side out of nowhere. He kept his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “You sure you don’t want one of us to go with you?”
You pull away from Jack and shake your head. “I can do this on my own.”
“But if anything happens just call us. We’ll be right there for you.”
“Ok.”
Robby and Jack watch as you walk away and disappear down the hallway. Someone makes a whip cracking sound. When they turn their attention back to the charge nurses they find Lena making the motion of cracking a whip with her hand. Dana is smirking right beside her.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“That you two are so whipped already for that sweet little omega.” Lena explains.
“You two better treat her right,” Dana adds. “Or the entire department will make your life a living hell.”
“Why would you even assume we wouldn’t treat her right?”
“Because you’re both self-sacrificing idiots.”
Jack scoffs and shakes his head. “I’ll be in an on-call room. Come get me when she comes back down.”
****
Upstairs you’re sitting in the exam room for your appointment. Dr. Bennett, the endocrinologist you had been referred to, is getting some more information.
“Do you remember the last time you went through a heat cycle?”
“Almost three and a half years ago.” You murmur. “It was irregular before that. My father made me take suppressants all the time. Then when I was um- when I was taken he gave me suppressants too.”
“Do you remember the names of those?”
“No but they weren’t regular medication. He kept them in a small bag not in a box the way they normally come.”
“Did you take those the whole time?” Dr. Bennett asks as she types away in your chart.
“No. I started to spit them out after a while. I just can’t remember when I started.”
“That’s ok. That’s good that you did that. I’ll just add that to the chart.” Dr. Bennett replies while typing. “For the moment we have to wait for the lab results for your bloodwork. After that there are a few tests I’d like to run.”
“What kind of tests?”
“Well the blood test will determine if your scent glands have stopped working altogether or if you just need some pheromone and hormone therapy to get you started. Based on that we can try and induce a small one day heat to see how you react.” She informs you.
“Ok. What happens if my scent glands aren’t working at all?”
“Well, you’ll be able to continue to live a healthy life. The only thing it would affect would be bonding and the possibility of having pups. You would still be able to have a healthy sex life but you won’t have a heat. Without a heat your possibility of getting pregnant is significantly reduced.”
It’s as if all sound had been sucked out of the room. Dr. Bennett’s lips moved but you couldn’t hear what she was saying anymore. She realized that the news landed heavier than she meant it and gave you a moment.
“Are you ok?” She asks gently.
“I-I can’t have a mate? Or pups? Why?”
“We don’t know that yet. It’s only a possibility. That’s why we have to run those tests. As an omega your fertility is connected to your ability to go through a heat. For that you need your scent glands. They don’t just produce a smell, they're responsible for the pheromones and some hormones you need for mating. But there are other options too. The first one is to see if we can kickstart your scent glands into producing the pheromones you need. The worst case scenario is your glands not working but others live a completely normal life.” She explains further. “Do you have any other questions?”
You shake your head no. Dr. Bennett gives a small nod and excuses herself. A few minutes later a nurse comes in to hand you a few documents as she leads you out of the exam room. You first stop at the lab to get bloodwork done. After that the elevator ride down takes forever. You try to not spiral over the information you’ve been given. When the doors open the sounds of the ED pull your attention.
“Hey, I heard you were around here somewhere.” Emma, who was walking by the elevator, greets you. Her smile drops slightly when she sees your small frown. “Everything ok?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug a shoulder. “Have you seen Jack or Robby?”
“I think Dr. Abbot is in an on-call room but Dr. Robby is at the central hub.”
“Thanks”. You murmur before walking towards the main hub.
Dana is giving out instructions to another nurse as you stop across from her. You lean against the counter and send Jack a message that you’re ready to go. From down the hall Robby comes out of one of the rooms explaining why certain tests need to be ordered for a patient to Santos. He smiles when he sees you, leaving the younger alpha to do what was necessary.
“How did it go?” He stands close enough to you for you to feel his warmth.
“Got some bloodwork done. Dr. Bennett is going to wait for those results and then she wants me to come back for more tests.”
Robby hums as he eyes the paperwork in your hand. He’s read the other medical forms about you so he reaches for what you have but you pull the papers close to your chest. Dana raises her brows in surprise while Robby looks between you and her. He’s unsure of what he should do.
“Can I go now?” You say softly, almost defeated.
“Yeah, I’ll get Jack. Just wait right here.”
Dana types away at her computer but keeps an eye on you. “Everything ok, kid?” She asks when she sees you fidgeting.
“Fine.”
“We’ve talked about eye contact, kid.”
She was right. Dana has been helping you a lot the last few weeks. Especially since the shopping trip. You were going to group therapy as well as solo sessions. But Dana had been the one to help you open up more, to feel more empowered to be yourself. She said giving someone eye contact was important. It’s what got your point across. But at this moment you didn’t want any of that. You just wanted to curl up in a ball in your bed and be upset about everything.
“I’m fine.” You said while looking up at her.
Dana was taken aback by the anger and the fear in your eyes. She stood there with a sad expression on her face and nothing to say.
“Ready to go?” Jack stopped at your side. His eyes found Dana’s worried face.
“Yeah.” You nod and walk away without even a goodbye.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know but whatever news she got upstairs seems to have upset her.”
“Ok. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
Jack says his goodbyes and heads out in the direction you’d left. You were standing just outside the main emergency room doors. He slows his step just enough for you to fall in line with him. Neither of you say anything as you make it to his car and he opens the door for you to get in first. He watches as you put on your seatbelt and stare straight ahead. No light chatter and no music. Something has to be seriously wrong.
“How about breakfast at that bagel shop you like?” Jack offers quietly.
“Not hungry.”
There’s a beat of silence before Jack speaks up again. “How about that boba place Mel told you about?”
“Not thirsty.”
The rest of the drive is quiet. You don’t even notice that Jack veers off the opposite way of the house. He doesn’t say a word as he parks the car and hops out to head towards the building ahead.
A few minutes later he’s climbing back in with a bag in his hands. The name of your favorite bagel shop is printed on the brown paper bag. He sets it on your lap.
“Eat.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
“You weren’t allowed to eat before the bloodwork. You need to eat.”
You send a glare in his direction as you open the bag and pull out one of the sandwiches. Jack ordered it exactly how you like it but you’re upset so you don’t say anything. Instead you unwrap it and take a bite.
“Happy?” You snap with your mouth full.
“Feeling feisty today, aren’t we?”
You ignore his remark and Jack ignores your attitude as he turns the car on. You aren’t normally like this. Recently you’ve been happier, talkative and generally more open. If something made you happy, you would make it known. If you got angry you usually crossed your arms over your chest and had a cute little pout that Robby and Jack just wanted to kiss away. What you’ve never been is short and dismissive and distant. So something must’ve happened at your appointment and Jack was going to find out what it was. But when you got home you went directly up to your room without a word.
You laid in bed staring at the ceiling and holding on to a stuffed teddy bear Robby had gifted you. The conversation with Dr. Bennett replays in your head. This wasn’t what you thought your life would be like. You had plans. Most included the alpha you had been seeing before all of this. You were meant to leave together, build a happy life and a family away from the father that hated you. Now you didn’t even know if you could have a family of your own. Just another thing that was taken from you. It makes you question what you did to deserve any of it.
****
“She stayed in her room all day.” Jack informed Robby at shift change that night.
Robby sighs. “We can just pull her record and see what it says.”
“No. We promised her we’d give her space and privacy. That anything related to doctor appointments would come directly from her.”
“I know, I know.” Robby runs a hand over his face in frustration. “It feels like we’re back at square one. How bad could the appointment have gone?”
“Who knows. We’ll just have to be extra patient with her.”
“MVC two minutes out.” Lena announces from the nurses station.
“And that’s my queue.”
Robby nods as he slings his backpack over one shoulder and heads out for the night.
For two days you stayed holed up in your room. Robby and Jack tried everything to coax you out just to make sure you were ok. Even if you didn’t want to speak with them. Nothing worked. Mel, Emma, Samira, even Lena and Dana messaged you and you barely answered.
It’s not until you get a call from Dr. Bennett’s office that you finally reach out to the two alphas that have been worried sick about you. It’s a simple text. You need a ride to the hospital again. With a ‘if it’s not too much trouble’ and ‘please and thank you’ attached. They respond quickly. Anything just to be able to see you.
You step out of your room with a packed bag. Something that Robby notices right away. His eyes scan you from head to toe over his readers. You’re standing there with your eyes glued to the floor, shoulders hiked up to your ears. It’s as if he was seeing the same you that walked into the ED the first time. The sight breaks his heart.
“Everything ok sweetheart?” He asks softly so he won’t scare you.
You just nod. Robby sighs. The sound has you hiding your face even more, if it were possible. You don’t want to disappoint him but you feel like your life has been on hold again awaiting these results.
“Want to have breakfast before we leave?”
“Can’t.” It’s the first thing you’ve said in a few days. Your voice rough.
“Ok. Then we should get going.”
You watch as Robby grabs his travel mug and bag. He leads the way out to the car and opens the passenger door for you. The drive is quiet but tense. There are a thousand questions on the tip of Robby’s tongue but he kept to himself. He didn’t want you to shut him out more than you already had.
At the hospital Robby leads you straight to the ED waiting room. But just before he swipes his badge you stop.
“I’m gonna head straight up.” You murmur before turning to the elevator bank at the opposite end of the room.
He doesn’t have time to react as he watches you walk away.
****
“We have some bad news and some good news.” Dr. Bennett announces as soon as she steps into the exam room.
“Ok?” You’re holding your breath as you wait for the answer.
“The good news is that your scent glands are working.”
You breathe a sigh of relief before realizing that there is bad news. “The bad?”
“Well your pheromone levels are very low, which explains why you have no scent at the moment. But I’d like to admit you for the next two to three days. What I’d like to do is start you on a low level medication that should help your scent glands start working correctly. We’ll keep upping the dosage and taking blood samples to see how you’re progressing. The goal is to see if you can go into a small heat, something that we can bring you back out of quickly. What do you think?”
You stare at her for a moment. It’s so much information and you’re not sure how to deal with any of it. “I think I need a minute.” You say as you get up from the exam table.
“That’s ok. How about you come back in ten minutes and we can decide then?”
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
You rush out of the exam room and out of the waiting room. There’s no real destination in mind; you just wanted to get away from Dr. Bennett and the choices you had to make. Instead of the elevator you take the stairs and head up a few floors. Jack and Robby had mentioned how sometimes they go to the roof to clear their heads. Maybe that was what you needed.
You push through one door only to find yourself still within the hospital halls. A nurse dressed in light pink scrubs walks by with a baby in a bassinet. She smiles your way and motions to the waiting room without stopping. You don’t know why you do it but you take a few steps in. Maybe it’s just to see what you could have if the testing Dr. Bennett wants to do actually works. The room is filled with family and friends sitting around waiting to hear the good news.
“Y/N?” A deep voice comes from a hallway on your right.
You startle as you look to see who called your name. There’s no one in your life that would be up here unless someone from the ED was checking up on a patient. But then you realized the voice belonged to someone you hadn’t seen in a really long time.
“Ben?”
He smiled at you. Seeing him here after all this time was like a punch to the gut. You’d just graduated high school when you met Ben. He was working at the same coffee shop you’d started at. The courtship had started slowly since you weren’t very trusting. You had plans together. So seeing him here in the maternity ward after so long was jarring.
“How have you been?” He asked cautiously.
“Why are you here?”
Ben scratches the back of his neck. You knew it meant he felt uncomfortable. The answer came on its own when you saw the mark on his neck.
“You’re bonded?” Your voice was so small, so broken it caused Ben to drop his broad shoulders. It was something close to shame.
“I am.” He answers carefully.
“You have a pup now.”
“I do.” He replies softly.
You frown as you come to terms with the fact that the man you had dreamt of building a life with had just moved on. “You never wondered where I went?”
Ben moves to a quiet corner and you follow. He at least has the decency to look ashamed. “After you didn’t show up at work I went to your house. Your dad was furious. He said you’d packed your things and just left.”
“And you believed him after everything I told you.” It wasn’t a question.
“I didn’t know what to believe. I knew you wanted to leave his house no matter what. I just thought that you had gotten a chance.” Ben explains with a pained expression. “I think about you all the time.”
“I didn’t just leave. I was-“ you feel the tears start to burn your eyes. “That story on the news a few weeks ago about the omegas that were being held at a house, did you see it?”
He nods.
“I was one of them. My father sold me and the alpha that I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, never even bothered to go to the police. You just moved on like I didn’t matter. I wouldn’t have left without you. We had plans. Did you even really care about me?”
You search his face hoping to find an answer but all you see is guilt. This was too much you stepped away as Ben opened his mouth to say something. You couldn’t listen to whatever he was going to say. Instead you head to the stairs again and head all the way down.
****
Ahmad saw you through the stairwell door. A few moments later Dana showed up to find you sitting on the stairs crying your eyes out. She sits next to you and brings you to her side. After a few minutes you managed to calm down.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything.”
“Let’s start with one thing at a time.” She squeezes you gently. “I know it started when you came in for that appointment the other day. Did something happen?”
“Dr. Bennett-“
“Endocrinologist, right?”
You nod. “Yeah.” You explain everything from the bloodwork to the results to the test she wants to run.
“So you’re upset because you want to have pups but don’t know if you can?”
You stood up to get some space. “Yes. No. I- I don’t know but that’s not the point.”
Dana gets up from the stairs and stands in front of you to stop your movements. “Then what is the point?”
“It should be my choice. But- but it’s just something else he took away from me.” You’re crying again, your hands moving as you talk. “What did I do to deserve this? I never got in trouble. I followed the rules. I was good. I am good. I had an alpha before all of this. Now he’s upstairs with another omega and they just had a pup. That was supposed to be me. But I wasn’t important enough for him to go look for me. And-and-“
You’re practically hyperventilating as you speak but you can’t stop. If you do, all these mixed emotions will eat you alive.
“I need you to breathe.” Dana is holding you by your arms. Her grip firm, her eyes locked on to you. She’s steady, her voice grounding as she pulls you back down. “Everything will be ok. I promise.”
“You can’t know that. What if no one wants me?”
What if they don’t want me? Is what you wanted to say. What if Robby and Jack realized you were broken beyond repair and decided they didn’t want you around anymore?
“Trust me kid, you’re wanted.” She gives you a small smile. “Now go upstairs, get that test done and get your answers. The only way you beat those bastards is to live your life to the fullest.”
You take in a stuttering breath. Then another. Slowly you pull yourself together. Dana pulls you in for a hug.
“If you need anything you tell them to call down. I’m here for you and so is Robby. If we need to, we'll call Jack in early.”
“Ok.” You nod before wiping the tears away and heading up the stairs to Dr. Bennett’s office.
“Where’d you disappear to? Polluting your lungs again?” Robby looks at Dana over his readers with a teasing smile.
There’s a look of pure heartbreak on her face as she stops in the middle of the nurses’ station. And that gets Robby’s attention.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Did you know that Y/N had a mate? Or at least she was being courted before she was taken?” She asks quietly.
“No. I had no idea. How did you know?”
“She just told me.”
Robby sits up straighter and looks around to try and find you.
“She’s back upstairs. Getting some tests done. But she was so upset. Apparently that alpha is upstairs with his mate and their newborn.” Dana explains further.
The news leaves Robby reeling. It makes him realize how much more there’s still left to learn about you. He only hopes you trust him and Jack enough to tell them more about yourself.
****
“Excuse me, I’m looking for someone.”
Jack walked through the ambulance bay doors just as a tall, dark haired alpha stopped by Ahmed. He took a good look just in case he became a problem later. Or really a problem in the next few seconds.
“She has pink highlights in her hair. About this tall.” Ben held his hand up to about your height. “Her name is Y/N. Has she come through here recently?”
Ahmed perked up immediately at the mention of your name. So did Jack, who Ahmed made eye contact with just past Ben. Jack put his back pack and travel mug down by a station and walked right up to both men.
“Is there a problem here?” Jack puffed out his chest, squared his shoulders and stood like a soldier ready for battle. Even though he was shorter than Ben he still came across as intimidating.
“No, not at all. I’m just looking for someone. She possibly came down here earlier.” Ben describes you again.
Jack’s jaw tenses. He doesn’t know who Ben is or how he knows you’re here today but he doesn’t like it. For all he does know he was working with the assholes that took you the first time and they’ve been keeping an eye on you.
“How do you know her?”
“I’m sorry but how is this any of your business?”
“Dr. Abbot, senior Attending of this department. Anything that happens here is my business. Y/N is my business.”
Robby appears behind Jack after Ahmed called him over. The tension is thick between the three alphas. Ben sizes Robby and Jack up. In turn Jack and Robby stand their ground. They don’t know who he is and why he knows your name. All they care about is your safety and they’ll do anything to keep you away from any harm.
“Listen, I ran into her upstairs. We talked for a moment and she walked away upset.” Ben says after a few seconds.
“You’re the alpha that was courting her.” Robby states, making Jack look from one man to the other. “The one that didn’t do anything when she was kidnapped.”
“I didn’t know that’s what happened. I just want to apologize to her. Make sure she’s ok.”
“Why don’t you go make sure your mate and pup are ok? Y/N has a pack of her own now.” Robby says just as Jack’s phone rings.
The bond between Jack and Robby lights up with worry and fear. It’s strong enough to get Robby’s attention. He turns to look at Jack, pale while on the phone. They move together. Neither of them said a word to each other.
“Ahmad, take care of it.” Robby says over his shoulder as he and Jack head to the elevators.
****
Upstairs on the floor used for overnight testing the scent is pungent and sour. Robby steps out first with a look that could level a city. Jack is hot on his heels as they make their way over to Dr. Bennett. The blonde beta is dealing out instructions to her team as the alphas approach.
Robby stands in front of their colleague demanding to know what happened while Jack heads towards the only room in use at the moment. The scent is concentrated there. He doesn’t wait for permission. All Jack knows is that you need them and he’ll do anything to be by your side.
He opens the door slowly. The scent of rotted citrus burns his nose. The lights are off and the room is a mess. The bed is moved out of place, blankets and pillow thrown on the ground and you’re nowhere to be seen. Until you whimper. Jack finds you in the corner of the room, knees pulled up to your chest and arms around your legs.
“Hey, it’s just me. It’s just your Jack.” He announces softly so you won’t startle. Jack lowers himself to the floor until he’s seated. The less he seems like a threat the better.
You don’t waste any time, heading to sit in between his spread legs. His arms cradle you as you hide your face in his neck and take a deep breath, his scent mixed with Robby’s soothing you almost instantly.
“It’s ok baby, I’ve got you.” Jack murmurs close to your ear as he rocks you back and forth. “You’re burning up, baby.”
“Hurts.” You managed to stutter out.
“What hurts?” Jack pulls back in order to see you better.
You look him in the eyes for just a second before they roll back and you tense in his arms.
synopsis: You meet a very special wolf on the night of the full moon
notes/warnings: An AU where supernatural beings are known and accepted. This is so floofy. If you guys like it I'm totally up for at least a part two. Inspired by an ask from @crazyunsexycool about werewolf Robby finding his mate while in wolf form.
wc: 3.6k
The bench was old, worn, comfortable. The park was empty save for you, most people reluctant to be out during a full moon. Despite the relative safety, old superstitions ran deep. You were more than content to have the whole place to yourself. The moon was bright and revitalizing. You tipped your face up as you enjoyed the sensation of the moon humming through you like a current. It buzzed along your bones and pricked your skin.
As a witch you had an intimate relationship with the phases of the moon. Some good for one thing, others for another. But the full moon was your favorite. It was when you recharged your batteries so to speak. When you felt at peace with the world.
The night was quiet, the noises of the city fading into the background. The breeze carried a chill and you shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket to keep them warm. Then you felt it. A presence intruding on the perimeter you’d set in your mind. Behind you, moving closer. A steady, silent approach. But no sense of danger came with it.
You didn’t look right away. If magic had taught you anything, it was patience. You sat perfectly still, tracking the movement until a huff of breath came from directly behind the bench. Only then did you turn.
The wolf was enormous, easily twice the size of any natural animal. His coat was dark with flecks of gray scattered throughout. His shoulders were broad and muscled, his head massive. He stared for a moment before moving around the bench to stand in front of you. His ears were forward, his tail low and swinging in a slow, measured rhythm. Not aggressive. Not even cautious. If you had to pinpoint the behavior, you’d call it attentive.
You kept your hands in your lap now instead of your pockets and watched him. He stood close enough you could feel the heat radiating off of him, could smell the clean, wild scent of him. He held your gaze. His eyes were dark brown, almost black in the moonlight and full of awareness and assessment that told you this was no mere animal. There was no threat, simply…recognition.
You stared at one another for one beat, then two. Then he lowered his head and laid the full weight of it in your lap. He was solid, warm. The whine that accompanied the action was a low, plaintive sound that vibrated through you. He watched you with those soft brown eyes. Waiting.
Your hands hovered for a moment before sinking in the thick fur. In that second, you felt something slide into place inside of you with a deep, instinctive knowing. You shifted your hold and began to scratch behind his ears.
He exhaled, a full body release that softened every line of his body. His weight settled more firmly against your legs, his eyes half closing. As your attention continued, he made a small satisfied noise in the back of his throat. His eyes held a human quality in them that was unmistakable. Intelligence and a focus that didn’t belong on anything living solely on instinct.
He had been looking for you, you were almost certain. He’d crossed the park with a single-minded determination and had found you sitting on the bench. Then he’d put his head in your lap like he was coming home.
You knew what this was. Felt it the moment you touched him and the universe suddenly seemed right, complete. You tilted your head. “You’re my mate.”
The wolf lifted his head from your lap. For a moment he just looked at you, his dark eyes steady and intent. And then he whined again, louder this time, with a hint of desperation that wasn’t there before. Before you had time to attempt to figure out what he wanted, he lowered his muzzle and closed his teeth around your wrist.
Your breath caught. His jaws were enormous, capable of crushing bone. But his teeth didn’t press, settling against you with extraordinary gentleness. The pressure was so light it was almost absent. It was just the faint weight of his mouth and the light scrape of a canine against your pulse. Then he tugged.
Not hard. Just enough to say come with me.
“Okay, okay,” you said as you stood.
He released you immediately, leaving not a mark behind. He turned away from the bench and took three steps before he stopped and looked over his shoulder, those dark eyes finding yours. Checking.
You followed.
He led you out of the park and into the city. He moved with purpose, keeping a steady pace that had you taking wide strides to match it. Every half-block or so he would glance back, making sure you were still there. Still following. At crosswalks he paused, waiting for the light even when the street was empty. His nose constantly twitched as he picked up scents from the air. He stopped at lampposts and fire hydrants, sniffing, tracing whatever trail led him on.
You walked past closed storefronts with their security gates pulled down, past a bar with sound spilling from inside. A man stood just past the door nodded at you as you passed, did a double-take at the wolf, then shrugged and went back to his cigarette.
The wolf led you through blocks you didn’t know, turning corners and leading you down questionable alleyways, though you didn’t fear. Between your own abilities and your wolf tour guide, you figured you were safe enough. Then, suddenly, the hospital rose into the night sky in front of you.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The building was massive. The wolf led you around to the ambulance bay. He stopped at the edge of the pavement, right where driveway turns to walkway and turned to you.
The he shoved his head hard against your hip. The push was insistent, not rough as he nudged you toward the glass doors of the ambulance bay. You put a hand flat on top of his head. “Do you know someone here?”
He let out a frustrated whine and shoved harder. His entire weight leaned into your hip now, steering you toward the doors.
“We can’t just walk into the hospital. I’m pretty sure there are rules about wolves roaming the halls.”
The wolf sat down and stared up at you. His dark eyes were unblinking. You looked down at him. He looked up at you. The standoff lasted a good minute.
“Fine,” you said, finally.
You walked up to the doors and they slid open. A man in black scrubs with a Dunkin cup in one hand glanced over at the sound. He frowned as he saw you standing there. He moved closer. “Can I help you?”
You pointed at your companion, who was still sitting on the concrete right where you’d left him, watching the exchange with what you would have sworn was amusement.
“Does anyone here belong to him?” you asked.
The man’s brows raised and he grinned as he looked at the wolf. “This is fantastic. Just hold on one second.” And with that, the man who never introduced himself disappeared into the halls of the hospital.
You turned back to the wolf. He was still watching you, his tail wagging in slow arcs.
“Well, that was not helpful in the least.”
He blinked at you and you could have sworn he was laughing.
A low concrete wall ran along the edge of the ambulance bay, keeping the minimal landscaping at bay. You settled onto it, the cold seeping through your jeans and the wolf was there before you even fully found your balance. His head dropped into your lap with the certainty of a creature that had decided your lap belonged to him now. You didn’t question it as one hand found the soft fur under his chin and began to scratch.
A low, rumbling vibration of contentment came from him. One of his massive paws joined his head in your lap. You scratched under his chin and waited. The night had grown colder and the warmth of the wolf against your legs was welcome. “Would you like to see a trick?” you asked after a moment.
His ears flicked forward and his gaze met yours. You held out the hand that wasn’t occupied with running through his fur and produced a small ball of blue light you ran over fingers and back again. His tail wagged enthusiastically as he huffed out a breath. High praise, you were sure.
The door slid open and a man in scrubs stepped outside. His gaze found you and you waved a hand through the air to dismiss the light. He took in the scene before him. You on the wall, the enormous wolf with his head in your lap, your hand scratching under the chin before occasionally drifting up to get the spot behind his ears. His face split into a grin wide enough to show teeth and crinkle the skin by his eyes. The laugh that came from him was part surprise and part pure delight.
He walked over to stand in front of you and the wolf lifted his head from your lap just enough to look at the man who reached out and ruffled the fur between his ears with a casual affection.
“Hey, brother,” he said to the wolf. Then he looked at you, still grinning and extended a hand. “Jack Abbot. Night shift attending.” You shook his hand and he said, “Might I ask who you are and how you know our friend here?”
You told him your name before you explained everything. The park. The moon. The wolf finding you on that bench and declaring you were his in the most fundamental way possible. Then you explained about the bond between the two of you.
Jack’s grin grew impossibly wider with every sentence. By the time you finished, he was practically vibrating, his eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like triumph.
“He led you here?” Jack asked. “Just…follow me human, we’re going to the hospital?”
“Basically.”
Jack looked the wolf. The wolf looked back at Jack and you could have sworn they were silently communicating about something. “This is incredible,” Jack said, and he wasn’t talking to you. He was talking to the wolf who lowered his head back into your lap with what could only be described as smug satisfaction. “Absolutely incredible. I’ve been working with this man for years and I never—” He stopped, shook his head, and the grin came back full force. “Never mind. This is perfect. This is absolutely perfect.”
He watched you for another moment before leaning forward and dropping his voice. “So, you up for a little fun?”
The wolf in your lap made a small curious sound, his ears flicking forward.
Jack’s grin didn’t waver as he waited for your answer. The anticipation on his face was infectious and entirely terrifying.
Robby walked through the doors of the ED at ten the next morning, three hours into day shift as was the routine when he was scheduled the night after a full moon. Jack always covering the extra time without complaint. Robby was exhausted as he always was after a run, but he felt oddly invigorated.
Jack was at the nurses’ station, sitting as he typed at the computer. He looked up as Robby dropped his bag beside him and a grin spread across his face.
“Morning,” Robby said with a lifted brow. “You seem in oddly good spirits. How was the shift?”
Jack’s grin didn’t budge as he shrugged one shoulder. “Same as always. Nothing remarkable.” He paused, his head tilting slightly, the amusement in his expression increasing. “How was your run?”
Robby ran a hand through his hair, feeling the residual stiffness in his shoulders, the soreness in his muscles that came from a night spent as something other than human. “Good. Really good, I think.”
He remembered fragments. The park. A rabbit. Moving through the city. The feeling of something pressing, urgent. He tapped his temple with one finger. “Nothing. The usual black hole. But I feel like…something happened. Something important but I can’t fucking place it.”
Jack’s mouth twitched, his eyes crinkling at the corners as that grin somehow got wider. He reached out and clapped Robby on the shoulder. “Langdon’s been holding down the fort. Have a fantastic day, brother. I’m out.” Jack grabbed the bag that Robby hadn’t noticed at his feet and headed toward the doors without a backward glance.
Robby frowned after him. That was…odd. Jack Abbot was many things. Subtle was not one of them. Whatever had that expression on his face was something he was savoring and Robby was almost certain it was going to somehow bite him in the ass.
You arrived at PTMC just before noon, checking in at the front and giving your name before being let through. A blonde glanced up as you moved through the chaos toward the central hub. “Dana?” you asked, making an educated guess based on what Jack had told you.
Her gaze flicked over you from head to toe and one side of her mouth curled up as she said your name. With a nod, you confirmed your identity and she smiled wide. “Jack filled me in, said you’re here as part of Gloria’s new initiative to increase the presence of magical healing in the hospital, right?”
You nodded again. It was Jack’s idea. The program was real enough and you actually were a witch trained in healing magic. He’d submitted your name himself this morning and texted you when he got approval. The best cover stories were the most truthful ones, after all.
Jack convinced you to spend a day with Robby as a human before telling him who you were to him. Something about driving his best friend crazy before letting him in on the secret. He’d seemed so giddy at the idea you’d agreed without much argument. It was unlikely Robby would remember anything about the night before, anyway. Getting to know him this way seemed infinitely preferable to just showing up with a wave and saying, “Hey, I’m your mate. How are you doing?”
Robby stood in North Four with a med student and a third-year resident, watching as the student conducted a neuro exam. His arms were crossed over his chest as he observed. The resident was correcting a small error the student had made when Robby’s spine straightened.
A scent drifted to him. Warm and layered and completely out of place in an emergency department. Something rich and complex that smelled like rain, the earth and a note he couldn’t name but that pulled at him all the same.
His chin lifted and his nostrils flared. His focus narrowed to a single point, that scent and the direction it had come from. “Finish the assessment. Let me know if you have any questions,” he announced to the room in general.
He didn’t wait for a response. He was already moving, following the scent through the department before he had fully processed what he was doing. The scent led him past staff and countless patients until finally, there you were.
You stood beside Dana, one hip leaning against the counter. You were saying something while Dana listened intently.
Robby stopped when he was maybe fifteen feet from you. Close enough his eyes registered little details about your appearance, about the way you held your hands. Close enough that the scent swamped him.
He knew you.
The certainty was bone deep and inexplicable. He had never seen you before in his life, yet every instinct he possessed insisted that he knew you as well as he knew his own name. There was no memory attached to the recognition, just the raw, incontrovertible fact that he knew you.
Dana glanced over and saw him standing there. Her eyebrow lifted along with the corner of her lips. “Robby.” He stepped closer and she introduced you by a name that meant nothing to him. “She’s part of Gloria’s new program. Here to observe only today.”
You turned to fully face him and your eyes met. “Hi.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Hi.”
He was still trying to figure this out, this familiarity, this pull when you lifted your left hand. A flick of your fingers and a small ball of blue light appeared. You let it run over your fingers and back again before another flick had it vanishing from sight. It was the kind of thing a witch did without thinking, the magical equivalent of clicking a pen.
For a moment, Robby was completely lost to you. A feeling of security that he didn’t understand at all flowed through him. He was all the more certain that he knew you. That you were important. This was driving him insane.
Realizing that he’d been staring in silence for far too long, he cleared his throat. “I should…Patients. I have patients.”
He made himself turn around. Made himself walk through the halls and find another resident to observe, another med student with a question. Anything he could focus on besides you.
He failed miserably.
For the rest of the afternoon, he found reasons to be wherever you were. When you were at the hub, he appeared with a question for Dana he already knew the answer to. Each time, his eyes found you, watching you make notes or talk to some of the staff. He slowed his pace as he passed a bay where you were holding the hand of a small fae child that was awaiting the arrival of her parents. When you were in the break room, he had a sudden need for coffee despite the four cups he’d already had that day. When work pulled him away, he immediately sought you out when he finished, needing to know where you were and if you were safe.
The department continued around the two of you. Traumas came in. Labs were ordered. Consults were called for. Students were taught. And through it all, that scent pulled at him. It was mouth watering and maddeningly familiar. But every moment spent in your presence brought him no closer to understanding.
Jack arrived ten minutes before his shift was due to start. The rest of the night shift was filtering in as well, day shift starting their handoffs. He found Robby at the hub, a tablet laying on the counter in front of him that he was absolutely ignoring. In fact, he hadn’t looked at it in ten minutes. He leaned against he counter, arms crossed as he watched you talk with one of the nurses, hands moving. Perlah was laughing and you were smiling, the expression making Robby’s chest feel tight.
Jack stopped beside him. He looked at you, then to Robby and back to you. Then he laughed, the sound drawing Robby’s attention away from his staring. “You are so far gone,” Jack said. He still had that stupid grin on his face.
Robby shook his head and huffed in irritation. “I can’t focus. I feel like I know her from somewhere. I’ve been like this all day. It doesn’t make any sense.” He ran a hand over his beard, smoothing it down. “I should introduce the two of you. Maybe you can place her.”
Jack’s grin turned smug. “Oh, I already met her. You introduced us.”
Robby turned to look at him, the movement slow and deliberate. His body orienting with the same focused intent his wolf used when tracking a scent. “What?”
“Last night.” Jack leaned against the counter, mirroring Robby’s posture. “Found her in the ambulance bay just before midnight. Sitting on the wall with a very large wolf’s head in her lap.”
Robby went perfectly, utterly still.
“She was scratching under his chin, behind his ears. Like she’d known him for years. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And he was letting her. Head right there in her lap, eyes half-closed, making these little content noises. You know the ones.” His voice had dropped to a lower register, almost gentle though the mischief was still present.
Robby knew the sounds he was referring to, the satisfied rumbling sounds his wolf made at his happiest. When he felt safe.
“He led her all the way here from some park downtown. Said he put his head in her lap then whined at her until she got up and followed him here.” Jack paused, searching his friend’s face. “He brought her right to the doors and then sat down until she got Shen’s attention. He got me and there you have it.”
Robby’s mouth had gone dry. The pieces assembled themselves in his head with a slow certainty. The scent that had pulled him across the department, the recognition with no context.
“I’d only go to someone like that if…” he trailed off, the words hanging there for a beat before he said, “Oh.”
His gaze shifted back to where your conversation with Perlah had been joined by Princess. A warmth settled over him as he realized the scent he had been chasing all day had been following him first. From a park through the city under a full moon to the feet of his best friend.
You looked up, your eyes meeting across an emergency department filled with a scent he could finally, definitively name. Your gaze flicked to Jack and back to Robby and you smiled, warm and welcoming.
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
—the cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: you’re the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jack’s characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear it’s just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: i’m not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”
“You like dark and dreary.”
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”
“I can be charming when I want to be.”
“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
—
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.
You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.
“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”
“No. You offend people on purpose.”
“True.”
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”
“Disturbingly so.”
“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”
“Do you really need me for this conversation?”
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”
“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”
Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.
“Should I talk to him?”
She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”
“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”
“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”
Now it’s your turn to glare.
“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”
You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, it’s just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)
(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
“Here, give me that.”
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
—
“He took your beer?”
“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”
“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”
“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”
You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”
“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”
“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”
“So? I know your type.”
You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”
“Hate sex is a thing.”
“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”
She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“
“Shut up Trinity!”
You both snicker.
“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”
“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”
“You’re not helping.”
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”
“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”
“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“
“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
She’s right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.
Easier said than done.
—
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.
“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.
“Did I do something wrong?”
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
“Why do you think you did something wrong?”
“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”
You pause. “And you took my beer!”
There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
He’s laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“
“How else was I supposed to take that.”
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”
He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
“You hate confrontation.”
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”
“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”
“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”
“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”
The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”
“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”
Jack just hums.
“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”
Your skin prickles again. “No.”
“Lying again.”
“Shut up.”
He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.
—
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…
…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”
‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”
It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“
“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”
You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”
“In the men’s bathroom?”
“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”
“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
“Clearly.”
You stumble forward. “I need to go—“
“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”
“There’s an attending’s lounge?”
“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”
“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”
“Ah.”
“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”
You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:
“Find another bathroom.”
“But I have to—“
“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.
You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
“That seemed a bit extreme.”
“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”
“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
“What am I going to do with you?”
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“
“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re drowning.”
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you don’t speak, he does.
“Did you think no one would notice?”
“No one has.”
“Am I no one?”
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
“You’re nosy.”
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”
“What, exactly, am I doing?”
“Pretending.”
You scoff. “Fuck off.”
“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”
“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”
You scrub a hand down your face.
“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”
Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”
“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.
“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”
Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”
You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Okay.”
You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.
—
Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(“You can’t send me home.”
“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”
“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”
“…”
“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
“Why the fuck are you still here?”
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
“How long until your bus gets here?”
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”
He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”
Jack just sighs.
“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”
You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”
He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”
“No…?”
He shakes his head.
“Come on. You’re coming with me.”
—
“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.
Probably both.
“Where did you think we were going?”
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.
“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”
“What would I even be writing you up for?”
“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”
“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”
“Yes…?”
“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”
“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”
The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.
He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”
“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“What?”
“Read your book.”
“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”
He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
“How did you even know I like diner food?”
“Because I pay attention to you.”
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”
It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
“Do you hate me?”
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
“No.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Okay.”
—
“You did what?”
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.
“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”
“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”
“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”
“No it doesn’t!”
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”
“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
“Oh.”
You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”
“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”
“What!?” You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.
“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”
“I don’t know!” You cry.
“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”
“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”
“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
“He asked what you’re doing today.”
Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”
“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“
“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”
“Just give me the fucking phone.”
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”
“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“
“There will be no wedding!”
“That’s just what you think.”
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.
“What’s he saying?”
“Go away!”
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo I’m fine i get them all the time
That’s not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
I’m not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”
“He said what?”
—
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”
“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”
“I take care of myself plenty.”
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”
“That’s different.”
“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”
“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”
You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”
“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”
“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”
Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”
“Mm.”
“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”
“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”
“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”
“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”
“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
“Like what?”
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”
“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
“Get going then.”
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
—
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
It’s bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”
“Mel asked.”
Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”
“What exactly are you asking me here?”
“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”
“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me.”
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
“You don’t look too good.”
“I’m—“
“Don’t say you’re fine.”
“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”
“Okay.”
There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”
“I don’t work tonight.”
You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”
Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
“What’d you do that for?”
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“
“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”
You nod once.
“Words.”
“Uh— yeah. Yes.”
“Good.”
Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
“Yes.”
Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”
The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.
“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”
What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.
“I know.”
“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”
It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
“You like being told what to do.”
Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”
You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.
“Makes sense.”
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
—
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what he’s doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
“What’s this?”
“A thank you card.”
You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.
“What for?”
“It says it in the card.”
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
—
It’s the card that does him in.
Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.
He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.
As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”
“No one’s heard from you in three days.”
You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”
“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”
“Jesus— I’m coming in.”
“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
“Do you have headache relief?”
You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”
“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”
“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”
“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”
“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”
“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”
“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”
“Mhm. I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”
“Of course you can.”
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
“Jack.”
“Yes?”
“Did you clean my apartment?”
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
You’re crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.
“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”
“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”
“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”
You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”
“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”
Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”
“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”
“Get used to it.”
You sigh, dramatic and long.
“I suppose I’ll allow it.”
“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”
“Well, aren’t I lucky.”
Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
“This is romantic, right?”
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
“Yes.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“You need confirmation?”
“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
notes/warnings: nothing really. still angsty. Robby sees his girl. oh, and a bar fight I guess.
wc: 3.3k
Series Masterlist
Chapter Seventeen - Lovesick
i know since i've been gone
you've got your life to live
so you should live it, baby
to you i still belong
Robby ran a hand down his face, exhausted to his core. Twelve-hour shifts spent trying to save lives while his own fell apart were taking their toll. Things were always more chaotic at shift change. More people. More clamor as they hurried to get last minute tasks completed or stepped into ongoing cases, trying to make the change over as smooth as possible. He was so fucking ready to go home.
Jack stepped through the doors of the ambulance bay, ready to start his shift. Robby watched him and felt that familiar surge of affection tempered with regret. He still had Jack. Somehow, improbably, impossibly, he still had Jack. The man had taken him back into his bed and his life despite Robby’s cruelty and idiocy. Robby didn’t deserve it. He knew that.
They finished handoff in under ten minutes. Robby gathered his things and headed for the doors. Jack followed. That was…unusual. Typically, he jumped right into his shift but tonight, he fell into step beside Robby, hands in his pockets.
The air outside was cool as he caught Robby’s elbow and pulled him off to the side and out of the way.
“She met me for breakfast this morning.”
“Did you tell her?” Robby’s voice came out rough, broken. “About how sorry I am? That I’ve started seeing Gemmill again? That I’m…Jesus, Jack, did you tell her I’m falling apart without her?”
Jack crossed his arms over his chest and nodded once. “I told her.”
“And?”
“She was going to walk out until I promised to stop talking about you.”
Robby stared at him. “What?”
“She says you have to make the effort on your own, without me being in the middle.” Jack’s voice was quiet, steady. “I won’t risk losing her, Mike. Not even for you.”
Robby felt something inside of him just collapse. A slow, inward crumpling of the little bit of hope he’d held that Jack could help him fix this. He dragged a hand over his beard. His hand was shaking and he stuffed it into the pocket of his hoodie.
“So, what do I do, Jack? How do I fix this?” The question came out small, pleading. He’d fucked up, lost his way, and he needed Jack to help him find the way out.
Jack huffed out a breath. “Well, first you need to quit trying to buy her affections.”
Pure white-hot panic shot through Robby. “I’m not…that’s not what I’m doing. Is that what she thinks I’m doing?”
Jack nodded. “You accused her of using us for our money and now you’re…well, you’re using our money to try to get her to forgive you. That’s not going to work, babe.”
“I just need her to talk to me,” Robby said, the words sounding pathetic even to his own ears. Pathetic but true.
Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, try something else, because that’s not working.”
Then he was gone, heading back into the depths of the Pitt, leaving Robby alone in the ambulance bay. He walked home in the dark, and he didn’t cry. He was too tired for tears. He was tired and alone and the silence in his head was louder than any trauma bay had ever been.
A knock came at four in the afternoon when you were working on a spreadsheet for your grandfather’s foundation. You paused, saved and set your laptop aside. You knew what it was before you opened the door. Another delivery with no communication, no heart behind it. You sighed.
When you opened the door, you were surprised to be met with a wrapped bouquet on the doorstep rather than a careful display. It was the kind of arrangement that looked like someone had had gone into a field and picked whatever was in bloom. They were beautiful in an unrefined way, nothing like the formal bouquets that preceded them. You carried them into the kitchen, setting them on the counter while you filled a vase with water.
The note was tucked between two stems, folded in half. Your fingers found it as you started to arrange the flowers. Robby’s handwriting was unmistakable, a hurried slanting script that always looked like he’d been rushed through whatever he was writing.
I’m sorry.
Two words. Nothing else.
But it was enough to cause the slightest lift of the corner of your mouth. He was learning. The flowers had a personal touch finally and he’d written a note. A stupid, short note but it was a start. You set the note on the counter beside the vase and went back to work.
The next day, the knock came around lunch time. A teenager handed you a delivery of soup from the deli near the hospital that Robby favored. You opened it and inhaled the aroma of your favorite offering from there. You ate it standing at the counter, spoon scraping the bottom of the container. When you went to throw the bag away, you found the note in the bottom.
I miss you.
You set it with the first note and went on about your day.
The third delivery arrived the following afternoon. Pastries from your favorite bakery. Three of your favorite treats nestled inside the bag. This note contained only one word. Please.
You rolled your eyes and set the note with the others. The anger had burned itself out. The pain less sharp than it had been. You’d cried it away on your couch. Shouted it into your pillow. Let it run through you until there was nothing left but remnants. Jack had told you Robby was back in therapy. You’d turned the information over in your head for days. It changed the shape of things. Just a bit. Enough for you to acknowledge that he was aware that what he’d done was inexcusable. And that he was attempting to make certain it never happened again.
Understanding didn’t mean forgiveness. It was merely the first step toward a conversation you weren’t ready to have just yet.
Notes accumulated on your counter. I’m sorry. I miss you. Please. I’m thinking of you. I was wrong. Short. Unpolished. All written by Robby’s own hand. You’d read them all precisely once before adding them to the pile on the counter and returning to whatever task you’d been working at when they arrived. You appreciated the thought behind every bouquet, every meal, every cup of coffee. But thought wasn’t enough.
Not responding had nothing to do with punishment. It was about respecting yourself. You loved him. God, you loved that stupid, broken, beautiful man. But you loved yourself enough to wait for something real. The brief notes weren’t it. The flowers weren’t it. The rent most definitely wasn’t it. You were waiting for words that hadn’t come yet. The words that acknowledged not just that he was sorry but why. The understanding of what he’d done and how fundamentally it had hurt you. Of the damage he had done. You needed something deeper than a couple of words tucked amongst the flower stems.
He had broken you. He’d taken away the trust you had, the feeling of safety and security. The home you had with him and Jack. Until he recognized all of that, there was no room for him in your life.
The Luck of the Draw hummed with activity even on a Tuesday night. Sam’s endeavor was a success and you couldn’t be prouder of him. The customers had only increased since your livestream of Chelsea’s humiliation. Word spread fast that the owner was your bestie and he was enjoying the rewards. He’d begged you to pick up a few shifts until he could get another permanent bartender on board.
You moved behind the bar with the ease of many long nights working in the same spot, reaching for bottles without really looking. You mixed drinks and carried on conversations with the customers. Sam worked beside you, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he shook a cocktail vigorously.
“Take it easy, Reynolds.”
“Gotta put on a show for the ladies.”
You blinked at him. “No one is impressed by you shaking the hell out of a whiskey sour.”
Sam shrugged. “A man can dream.”
“Idiot,” you said, affectionately. All of your best friends were idiots, but they were your idiots.
The door opened and you glanced up only to freeze for a beat as your gaze landed on Robby.
He was still in his clothes from the hospital. His beard had gotten a little longer, or maybe he just hadn’t groomed it. You usually did it for him. He looked tired. No, he looked like a man who hadn’t properly slept in weeks. He took a seat on a stool at the far end of the bar, as far from you as he could, and set his elbows on the polished wood. Your eyes met his. One second, then two. And then you looked away and didn’t look back.
Sam’s gaze flicked from Robby to you and back again. His back straightened and you recognized that flash of protective instinct he’d carried for you since high school. The one that had gotten him suspended when he punched your junior prom date for trying to feel you up. He moved to you and leaned in.
“You want him gone?”
You shook your head. “No, it’s fine.”
“You sure?”
“It’s fine, Sam.” You poured two fingers of whiskey and handed it to him. “That’ll be his order.”
Sam studied you for a beat, then nodded and went to deliver the drink without a word to Robby. And you worked. You opened beers and made drinks and laughed at bad jokes from the regulars. Through it all you felt the weight of Robby’s eyes on you. You knew without turning exactly how he was sitting. Elbows on the bar, one hand around the glass he wasn’t drinking from while he watched you move through your world.
An hour passed, the customers changed out. Robby’s drink was still mostly full, he’d barely sipped at it. He’d just sat there, watching you. When he finally stood, you didn’t turn. You heard the stool slide back, watched from the corner of your eye as he left too much money on the bar top. Your gaze followed him as he left and you sighed as tension flowed from your shoulders.
As you were walking home just after midnight, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You waited until you got to your building to check it.
I’m sorry. I just needed to see you. I miss you. I love you.
You stared at the words as you rode the elevator up, too tired for the stairs. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard before you typed a response.
Laying in the bed that was too big without you or Jack, Robby stared at the ceiling. His phone vibrated on his chest and he grabbed it, fingers fumbling in his hurry.
I miss you too
His mouth curved just slightly. He read it again. And again. Elation rose in his chest. This was the first contact he’d had from you and it wasn’t telling him to fuck off.
But he was just as aware of what you didn’t say. Not I love you too. Not I forgive you. Just I miss you too. But it was a start. An opening he wasn’t going to mar with what wasn’t said.
He sent a message to Jack asking him to call if he had a minute.
The phone rang almost immediately. “What’s up?” Jack greeted when Robby answered.
“I went to the bar. I needed to see her.” He needed Jack to know but he worried the other man would be angry.
Jack’s voice was completely normal however when he asked, “Did you speak to her?”
Robby shook his head though Jack couldn’t see it. “No. I just…watched. Sent her a message after I left.”
“And what did you say?”
“That I’m sorry and that I miss her and love her.” The words were rough around the edges. “She told me she missed me too.”
“That’s good. She didn’t shut you down, not completely.”
Robby swallowed the lump in his throat. “Do you think she still loves me? She didn’t say it.”
“I know she does.” Jack’s voice was quiet. “But I’m pretty sure you haven’t earned her saying it yet, baby.”
There was a long stretch of silence. “Yeah. Thank you, Jack. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Get some sleep.”
Robby disconnected the call and looked at your message one more time before putting the phone on the nightstand. He went back to staring at the ceiling, hot tears leaking from his eyes.
He was back the next time you worked. Same stool, same tired eyes and hunched shoulders. Another glass of whiskey sat in front of him barely touched. He watched you for an hour before shuffling out the door to go home to an empty house. When he left, your phone buzzed with another message.
I miss you. I love you. I’m so fucking sorry.
This time you didn’t respond.
The third night, Sam came over, leaning against the counter beside you. “Should I be concerned that he always seems to know when you’re here?” He tilted his head toward Robby who was sitting in his usual spot, staring into his untouched drink. “He’s not stalking you, is he?”
That pulled a laugh from you. “Pretty sure he has more important things to do with his time.” You shrugged. “I shared my location with him and Jack months ago. Never changed it.”
Sam’s eyebrows went up. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just. It’s a very easy thing to fix. Couple of seconds on your phone and no more sharing if you were so inclined.”
You huffed in annoyance. “Well, I’m not so inclined so drop it.”
He raised his hands and backed away. “Understood.”
Robby had been sitting there for forty minutes, looking more forlorn than the last time he’d been in. You set down the glass you’d been drying, squared your shoulders and walked the length of the bar. He didn’t see you coming at first, staring at his drink, one finger tracing the lines of the glass. And then he did.
His head came up. His face changed. The tired lines around his eyes smoothed. His mouth opened, just slightly, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know what. Finally, he settled on, “Hi.” His voice was rough and he cleared his throat. “Hi.”
“You have to stop this, Robby.” He flinched at the name. You kept your voice low so only he could hear you. “You can’t keep coming here. Watching me. It’s…I miss you and this is too hard on me. Do you understand that?”
He nodded once, quick. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…” He stopped, swallowed. “It’s the only way I can see you.”
You started to turn away. His hand came down to rest on yours where it sat on the bar top. His palm was warm, his skin dry and rough from the endless amount of sanitizer he used all day long. You looked at his hand on yours and then up to his face.
“I’m off tomorrow. Let me take you out to breakfast. Or lunch. Coffee. I just want to talk to you. Please.” The words spilled from his lips like he was incapable of holding them back, desperate to be heard.
You studied him. The gray in his beard. The shadows under his eyes. The desperate hope in his gaze. You could feel your resolve cracking, not because of the flowers or the notes or the rent money, but because of this. Because of the man sitting in front of you asking for a conversation, his hand on yours like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
“I’ll think about you,” you finally said. “I’ll let you know.”
He nodded. Didn’t push. Didn’t say another word. His hand left yours, the absence leaving you cold. He stood, dropped too much cash on the bar as usual and walked out, pausing at the door to look back once. With a nod he stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind him.
A couple of hours after Robby left, you were moving constantly, serving a steady flow of customers. You didn’t see the fight start. One minute a table by the dancefloor was just a table. Four guys drinking and laughing about whatever. The next, there was shouting, the scrape of chairs and the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. A pint glass shattered on the floor in a spray of amber liquid and sharp edges.
“Hey!” Sam’s voice cut through the noise. “Knock it off!”
The two men, both large and at least slightly drunk, shoved each other, chest to chest, voices raised. You couldn’t make out the words, but you supposed it didn’t really matter. Another man soon joined the fray and then another. One of the tables fell over with a crash and people moved out of the way. Some headed for the door, others just the edges of the room.
Sam vaulted the bar in one smooth motion. “Stay put!” he yelled in your direction without looking back.
You ignored him completely, moving out from behind the bar intent on bringing up the lights and shutting down the music. The brawl spilled sideways as four guys became five which became seven as a couple of the regulars jumped in to help Sam break it up. You reached the switches and cut the music while you brought the lights up to full intensity. As you turned to check on the chaos behind you, a bottle arched through the air from somewhere in the melee.
You saw it coming. You registered it was going to hit you and you should get the hell out of the way. Unfortunately, your body was about half a second behind. The bottle hit you square on the head, just at the edge of your hairline above your left eyebrow. The crack was immediate and stunning, a sound you felt more than heard, followed by a sharp flare of pain that radiated out from the point of impact. “Motherfucker,” you shouted as your vision blurred.
Hands grasped your arm and tugged you back behind the bar. Kira, one of the waitresses, pressed a folded bar towel against the wound. Her hold was firm, insistent. “Hold this. Press. Hard. I’m gonna help Sam clear the bar.”
You did as she said. The towel was immediately warm and wet against your skin. Fuck. You could feel blood running down the side of your face.
On the floor, Sam had one of the fighters in a headlock and was dragging him toward the door. Two of the regulars followed behind with two other assholes. The remaining customers were closing tabs and gathering their things before heading for the exit. It took less than ten minutes for the bar to clear after that until it was just you, Sam and Kira left with the broken glass on the floor and the blood running from your head.
Sam came straight to you once the last patron was out the door. His face was flushed and he was disheveled from the fight. His hands were steady as he lifted the towel from your forehead.
His expression did the talking. His mouth tightened and his eyes shone with worry. “Sorry, beautiful,” he said, pressing the towel back firmly. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away a streak of blood. “Looks like a trip to see your boyfriend at the hospital.”
You tipped your head back with a groan. Well, shit.
synopsisyou and Robby have always had an un-spoken understanding, that if you were two different people you'd fall in love. but he was a mess and refused to bring you down. so instead, fate threatens to take you away forever
warningsANGST. so much angst. stabbing. blood. near death. operations. typical hospital stuff but a happy ending
authornotethis is just completely ripped from that episode of ER when John Carter gets stabbed, like the medical talk is all from that. I also feel like this may be slight ooc robby cause I have struggle with how this man would be affectionate. i had a hell of a lot of fun writing this, angst is by far my favourite, i hope you like too
Pitt masterlist. Other Robby fic!
You weren't sure if it was the thumping in your head or the drum in your heart but you watched Robby closely. It could have been the injury to your head or the closeness of him that had your heart reacting in such a way.
You blamed it on the injury.
“Give it to me straight, Doc,” you joked. One of his gloved hands cupped your chin, nudging your gaze up. The other dabbed gently at the cut to your forehead. “Am I gonna make it?”
There was a line of displeasure in his lips. “Not funny,” he mumbled.
“Sure it is.”
“No, it's not.”
You rolled your eyes before going back to focusing on him.
It was rare you got to watch him in his concentration. Usually you were in the middle of a trauma when he pulled out the serious face and things were moving too fast for you to even catch a glimpse. Now- his focus was all on you. You could study the creases at his brows and the flecks of grey in his beard.
“You ever notice you have these deep lines between your eyebrows when you're concentrating?”
“It's called age,” he said but there was the smallest hint of a smile there.
“Aren't you twenty-seven?”
This time he couldn't stop the smirk of amusement and finally you won.
Robby dabbed away the blood at your cut, changing the gauze. “Don't think you're distracting me.”
You hummed as he tilted your head into the light. “Distracting you from what?”
“Reporting him.”
You grew silent and looked away.
It was Robby's turn to stare at you, eyes without warmth, stern in ways he was with patients that didn't want to listen to good advice. You may be sitting on a bed in exam room four and you may have a chart written up but you were not a patient. “He was scared and confused-”
“ - he pushed you.”
“And I was the one that tripped and bashed my head.”
“He threw you down!”
You winced at his snap and then winced at the pain your wincing brought you.
Robby sighed with some sort of regret. His fingertips brushed your skin as he finished cleaning the cut and you couldn't help but think it was a deliberate move. He'd been so careful not to touch or apply pressure but suddenly the callous of his fingers were there.. “If we don't take care of ourselves nobody else will do it.”
It was the same thing Dana had said to you when she saw the patient push you down and run out the room in distress, hospital gown slipping on his shoulders. She'd taken you under her arm, stirred you to a chair. She was firm in both checking you were okay and that you were going to report him for hurting you.
You look past Robby, trying to see through the glass door. The Pitt carried on it's usual bustle but Dana kept a close eye out on you in the room. “Where is he now?”
“None of your concern,” he said. “The cut's clean, looks like you won't need stitches.”
“You've restrained him haven't you?”
Robby frowned. His head shook slightly in disbelief- like he couldn't believe you. “He hurt you. Jesus- you think I was gonna just tuck him back in bed- you think Dana was!”
You were used to the rise in Robby's voice, as attending it was his job to command everyone. You just didn't like to hear it risen at you. “He woke up, confused and startled.”
The patient was brought in un-conscious at the side of the road, a gash in his arm. Nobody knew his name but you'd admitted him and ran some tests while he was semi-conscious. He'd woken up as you were checking his IV and the next thing you knew hard hands were pushing you away. You'd taken the tray down with you and smacked your head in the process. Then he'd ran and then Robby had you in his arms, willing to pick you up and carry you off if it weren't for your insistence to walk to an exam room.
Robby's body heaved in a sigh as he put his hands on his thighs. “He hurt you,” he repeated, looking up at you through his eyelashes.
You slowly met his gaze as he got closer on the stall in front of you. “I've had worse.”
It wasn't supposed to be a dig but as his eyes met yours in a haze of dark anxiety you figured it came off that way.
Really what happened between you and Robby was ancient history. A whole six months since you'd stopped seeing each other; if that's what it could be called. It was really only one stupid kiss and several flirts that created the thick tension between you two. Nothing had ever been done to encourage it further, yet nothing had also been done to squash it.
Whilst his gaze remained on you, Robby got out his penlight and checked your pupil reaction.
“Any pain?”
“Well, the light's a bit bright.”
He put it down and with his gloved hands he slowly pressed around the small cut on your forehead, hands cupping your face tenderly. “Any pain?”
“No, you've done all this twice now.”
“It's procedure for any patient.”
“It's special treatment,” you grumbled.
Robby grabbed a bandage from the tray. “You're a special patient.”
The heat crept up your cheeks before you stared at the bandage.
“Robby-”
In one hand he held a bandage, in the other a small spider-man plaster that he so obviously got from pedes.
You stared at him. “Really?”
His cheeks tilted in a small teasing grin. “All we have, I'm afraid.”
You seriously doubted it but tapped the spider-man plaster nonetheless. “I'm sure I could have done this myself, you know,” you said as he peeled away the plaster. “Or at least got one of the nurses to do it. I'm sure you're needed somewhere more important.”
He frowned again. “More important?”
“There's a guy that came in with a GSW to the chest ten minutes ago and you're saying you don't need to be there?”
Robby's hands fell to either side of your face, gently taking your cheeks. His thumb brushed the curve of your cheek bone. He could feign he was checking your pupils but you both knew better. “There's nowhere else I need to be.”
Six months ago you'd kissed in a bar ten minutes away from the Pitt. Every day since- you'd been fighting the urge to kiss him again.
At that moment, with his gentle touch and soft gaze, you wondered if he'd been fighting to.
“Look up,” Robby said with a clear of his throat.
You weren't sure what he was trying to check for anymore. Maybe he was just looking for an easy way out.
“I still want you to get a CT scan.”
“Now that's dramatic, I didn't expect that from you.”
“Any nasuea?”
You shook your head as Robby steadied you, sliding the plaster in place.
“Have you been drinking enough today?”
“Two cups of coffee count?”
Robby gave you a plain look as he yanked off the latex gloves, throwing them into a corner of the room. “Ten minutes rest, I'll bring you some food and water.”
You sighed dramatically. “Robby!”
He pushed himself up from his stool. “As you're attending I'm not asking, I'm-”
“Telling?” you guessed.
Robby hovered as you pushed yourself up back on the bed. You wouldn't say it but your head was hurting from the fall. Nothing more than a headache that some painkillers couldn't stop. If you told Robby that yes, you were in pain, you were sure he'd pull the curtain, change you into a gown and play doctor all day.
You lied back on the pillow as Robby plumped it and smoothed out the sheets under you. He was lingering and for a moment you thought of asking him to stay.
Your mouth had opened to ask when the door was nudged open.
“Robby, we got a car crash coming in five,” said Dana. She looked at you then, eyes crinkled in worry. “How you feeling, hun?”
“I'm fine, thanks Dana.”
She nodded once, offering you a small smile before leaving.
You looked up at Robby as his body lingered over yours, one arm stretched high above your head, the other lower. Your gaze flickered up and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan over you. “Ten minutes?” you asked.
“On the clock.”
“Then I'm free to go?”
His head tilted, a sly smirk playing around his thin beard. “I'm not keeping you a prisoner.”
You folded your arms over your chest, glancing away. “Feels like it.”
He chuckled lightly. For a moment his breath lingered over your forehead, closer than before.
When you glanced up he froze, hands clenched on the bed, his jaw taunt. It was as if you'd caught him in the act.
Suddenly you wished you hadn't looked up. You wished you'd let him do whatever he was going to do. Because once he'd been caught he straightened up and threw you an awkward thumbs up. “Ten minutes.”
You trace your finger over the plaster as you slowly left your room, creeping out like you were a teenager sneaking out of your parents to meet a guy. Except you were trying to avoid the guy.
“That was eight minutes!”
You looked up and found Robby at the nurses station, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Were you timing me?”
Robby held up his phone, showing you the timer he had counting down as next to him, Dana snorted. “Have you had something to drink? Or eat?” he asked as you leant over the counter. He was still watching you eagerly, waiting for any sign you were in more pain then you let on so he could send you back to bed.
“Thought you were getting me a drink?”
He rolled his eyes before obliging, sliding away to get you a drink. He turned back only once. “Don't go near him!” he called, the both of you knowing who the he was.
You saluted him, watching him go before turning to Dana. “How is he?”
She peered at you over her glasses. “Terrible. He's been worried sick, was practically watching you through those windows. Didn't blink for a minute!”
“Not Robby, my patient. The John Doe.”
“Well that ain't your concern anymore," she said.
“I want to treat him.”
“He's awake now, we've restrained him in twelve but Robby wants you nowhere near him.”
“Robby is over-reacting,” you sighed.
Dana lifted her shoulders. “Of course he is, it's you. You think he's gonna react rationally?”
Nobody was supposed to know about you and Robby and the thing that lingered in the middle. But somehow, Dana always ended up knowing everything.
You backed away from the counter, assuring Robby was nowhere to be seen. “Twelve, you said right?”
Dana huffed but lucky for you there were a dozen more things she needed to do. “Fine! Go! But take security with you!”
You saluted and headed that way. Outside the door, Ahmed was already there.
“Hey, doc,” he greeted. “He's been asking about you, said he wants to apologise.”
You weren't scared like you thought you'd be, stepping into the room while Ahmed promised to stay outside, just a shout away of you needed him. Your heart wasn't pounding as you slowly moved the curtain, finding the patient lying on the bed, restraints around his wrists and tied down. He wasn't thrashing about. He was calm, clocking you as you walked in.
“You're the nurse?” he said.
“Doctor, actually,” you said, introducing yourself.
He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes or add colour to his face. There was nothing in his eyes anyhow. He was pale and the thin bandaging that had been done for his arm while he struggled was bleeding through. “I-I pushed you, I am so sorry.”
You were about to say it was fine, but it wasn't you shouldn't tell him it was. You could accept the apology but still acknowledge that whatever state he was in, you shouldn't have been hurt. “Do you know where you are?”
“The hospital?”
“That's right, PTMC. Can you tell me your name?”
He nodded, gulping. There was a thin layer of sweat over his skin. “David Brown.”
“And do you know what month it is?”
“M-March.”
“Okay, good,” you said, making a quick note of his name in his chart. You sat down on the stool, shuffling to the side of his bed. “Mr Brown-”
“David,” he corrected you.
“David,” you said. “You were brought in just under an hour ago with a pretty bad laceration to your lower right arm. You were found un-conscious. Do you remember anything?”
You watched the sweat bead at his forehead, his eyes scrunched as he tried to think. His breathing grew heavier, face morphed into pain as he tried to think. “It's okay if you don't.”
“I-I don't,” a stray tear fell down his cheek.
“That's okay,” you assured him. “I'm gonna order you a CT and a toxic screening just to rule out any drugs or alcohol in your system. Is that okay?”
David's head jerked in something like a nod before you door swung open, clattering on the other side of the wall.
Robby stood at the end of the bed, face red, hands at his hips. “What are you doing in here?” he snapped.
“Doctor Robby-”
He gave you no time to explain, jutting his head back. “Step outside please, doctor.”
You stood, slowly and walked out slower.
David called out after you. “I really am sorry!”
Robby looked back like he didn't believe him.
The two of you stepped out and you spoke before he could, beating him by a second. “I'm ordering him a CT and toxicity test. That gash on his arms needs to be cleaned and stitched up, it's bleeding out.”
Robby didn't care to hear it. He pulled the curtains over and closed the door as he followed you out. “What did you think you were doing in there?”
“Tending to my patient.”
“I told you to leave him.”
“He wanted to say sorry. Ahmed, didn't he want to apologise?” you said, looking to security for some help.
Ahmed held up his hands. “Oh- I want nothing in this!”
“If he wanted to apologise he could've wrote a letter. Told me to apologise to you,” he said, still holding onto his anger. “I told you to leave it, the guy attacked you!”
“Lightly shoved me from shock!”
“Have you seen what he did to your head?”
“Yeah, a small cut, doesn't even need stitches- that's what you said!”
“It's a wound! There was blood!” he yelled. “You are not to go anywhere near him from now on, do you understand?”
There was a new anger in Robby then, something you saw rarely in him. Dana had said he was worried about you but you saw none of that concern in him now, only anger. Anger because you hadn't listened to him not because of well fair.
“I'm a doctor, I'm supposed to be helping people,” you defended, your own anger not rising to his.
His hands balled into fists. “Help someone who's asking for it. I see you in with that guy again and you're on triage for a week, you understand?”
Where was that softness in his eyes? Where was that care he tended to you in the room all alone?
“You understand?” he snapped again when you didn't answer.
You knew if you turned there'd be several pairs of eyes on the pair of you. Watching, assessing, see how you reacted. Nobody had ever heard Robby speak to you like that because he'd never shouted at you before. “I understand, Doctor Robinavitch.”
“So you yelled at her.”
Robby thought he'd find solace on the roof, that with only him and the night sky he stood a chance at thinking things through logically, for once on the right side of the rail.
Then Jack's voice sounded behind him and the peace he was searching for fell further out of reach.
“Who told you?” he asked, head falling.
“Oh, you know,” he mumbled, shoes shuffling over the roof as he got closer to him. “Just everybody that was in attendance to your little show.”
Jack leant next to him on the rail, staring at him.
Robby could feel his eyes but looked out on the skyline that was more favourable to him. Jacks eyes felt like everybody else that watched him yell at you. He could call it worry- it didn't change the way your face dropped the louder his voice rose.
“You wanna talk about it?” asked Jack.
“No.”
“I heard she got attacked.”
“Or lightly pushed as she'd put it.”
“She's a soldier.”
Robby shook his head. “No, she's a doctor. Today she could have been neither if that man-” the words chocked in his throat. What if he had hurt you even more? Punched you? Strangled you? He'd seen it all in the ER and yes, you'd been hurt before but that didn't mean he needed to have you hurt again.
“I saw her when I was coming up, she seemed fine,” said Jack. “About to clock off, you sure you want to end the day on such a bad note.”
“She doesn't want to talk to me.”
“Come on, she always wants to talk to you,” said Jack. “And I only know that cause you always want to talk to her.”
Robby wished he could say that telling Jack about the kiss so many months ago was a mistake but he couldn't because that would mean kissing you was a mistake. The only mistake made with that kiss is that he hadn't pulled you back in, kissed you every day since. But he'd told Jack on one of those lonely nights when they'd each had one too many beers how much he missed you even if he saw you every day.
“I was so fucking scared, brother,” he admitted with a long exhale of breath. Robby slumped over the rail, catching himself. “Code hula-hoop was called and her name and I- I didn't know...”
Jack's hand was firm on his back. “I know.”
Robby nodded, head tucked down. He wouldn't cry, he wasn't sure how these days but he sure as hell felt like it. It had been a hell of day, worse when he couldn't join your side without you walking off.
“You were worried, you don't know what to do with that,” said Jack.
He could admit that much.
“You go home now, she goes home, you're carrying this weight to the next day and it'll continue,” he said, therapizing him. “You were scared you might have lost her?”
Robby glanced Jack's way. There was never any judgment, only a keen understanding he sometimes didn't like.
“You might lose her if you don't do something about it.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Jack shrugged. “Apologise.”
Robby hesitated, the words 'I'm sorry' foreign on his tongue.
Jack chuckled low in his throat. “Is that really so hard for you?”
He nodded and Jack carried on laughing. By the end, even Robby was chuckling through watery eyes.
“Okay, okay, let's try,” said Jack, straightening up, encouraging him to do the same. “Repeat after me, I'm sorry.”
“Jesus-”
“Jesus, you can't even say it-listen we'll go slow, I'm-”
Robby's phone rung in his pocket, thankfully saving him from the embarrassment. “Dana-” he answered as he spotted Jack's phone going too.
“Get down here, now!”
“What's going on?” he asked, though his feet were already moving.
He didn't see the way Jack looked at him, he hardly heard how Dana said your name because when she did Robby dropped his phone and ran.
“Robby!” Jack called but he was off the roof and furiously pressing the elevator button. He managed to slide past the doors before they closed on him. “What did Dana say?”
But Robby couldn't speak. He heard Dana's voice re-play in his head again and again. That you had been attacked, that they needed him. He couldn't think beyond that. Beyond you and attacked there was nothing.
Jack was watching him closely. “Okay-” he must've known it was bad too. “Okay, Robby, we don't know what's going on down there but you gotta stay cool, okay? You gotta stay cool or leave us to it.”
He should've kept a closer eye on you, should've sent you home.
“Robby if you get in our way I'm taking you out of there, understand?”
The doors slid open and Robby ran out, Jack quick on his heels.
“Where?” he barked out. There were no faces around him he could figure out, no Dana, no Langdon- so everyone must have been in with you-
“Trauma one!”
Robby burst through the doors.
The chaos was everywhere and he paused. There were more bodies in the trauma room then he'd ever seen. In between them all a body that he could vaguely re-call as yours. Your trainers- usually white- were seeping in blood.
“Can you open your eyes?”
“No respond to command!”
“Two stab wounds to the left flank! First one L-two, second L-five.”
“Is it the spinal chord?” asked Whitaker.
“Can't tell it depends on the angle!” said Langdon. “Jesus- there's too much blood, I can't see a thing!”
You lied on the bed, blood splattered around your clothes, un-responsive to everyone around you. You were letting them prod, push and pull when you'd hardly let him asses your cut just hours ago.
Hours when you were teasing him and he was thinking about kissing you again.
What had happened.
If it was a papercut you'd be feigning death.
This was the closest you'd ever looked to dying and Robby couldn't feel his legs.
"Doctor Robby?" someone called in the room but it wasn't you. You weren't responding to anyone. “Doctor Robby!”
Jack moved past him, body knocking his. “I'm here!”
“BP seventy over fifty, pulse one-twenty.”
Jack moved around you, pressing the chest piece of the stethoscope to your chest. “Push in two litres of O-neg. Good breath sounds bilaterally.”
Robby's ears were ringing but he could feel himself shake his head. “She's not-she's not O-neg, she's B-positive,” he heard himself mumble.
There was a sharp beeping through the room and Robby thought it was a strange sound for his heart breaking.
“Pulse ox ninety-three!”
“Do we intubate?” asked Mohan.
Your body jerked and as if you were the puppet master tugging on his strings, Robby found his feet and moved to your side.
He moved around until he was the closest to you, replacing anyone else at your side. Others watched, un-sure if they should've told him to wait outside like he was family.
Jack gave them the nod and the room moved again.
“Give me ten by mask, no intubation. Send a trauma panel!” ordered Robby.
“We need X-ray for a chest!” yelled Jack.
“X-ray can come to us! I am not moving her!” he shouted. “Help me roll, let me see!”
The blood on the front of your scrubs was splashed but as they turned you, leaning you on your side Robby's body slumped, something like a chocked sob wracking through his body.
He couldn't see the puncture wounds through the blood that soaked you. Just as Langdon had said it was a mess. “Jesus chr- oh god.”
“Pressure's up to ninety palp!”
“Who did this?” he yelled out as they gently set you back.
“The guy who came in un-conscious earlier!”
Jack looked over at Robby.
Robby felt the muscles in his jaws work and he grunted. “I'll kill him,” he grumbled.
“Robby!” lectured Jack.
But he wasn't going to take back his words. “He's fucking dead.”
“He fled the hospital,” Langdon told him. “Left his knife in the room though, they'll find him.”
It couldn't have been a scalpel, it couldn't have been scissors. The guy came in, found a knife- or brought one from home- to harm you. If Robby ever saw him again he'd kill the guy and deal with the consequences that came.
“Toes are down going, no spinal injury,” said someone else in the room but he was losing all focus that wasn't you.
Garcia walked through the doors, joining the crowd of people around you.
“Tell me you've got an OR booked!” said Jack.
“With her name on it! How we doing in here?”
Santos pushed her way ahead, a small and un-characteristic tremble to her hands. There was another unit of blood pushed into your bloodstream and Robby was seconds away from hooking himself up and giving you his very blood. “Pressure's up!” she reported, lingering over you with a light. “Right pupil five millimetres and reactive -”
Suddenly your body jerked at the light. Your head thrashed side to side as you slowly returned to consciousness.
“Huh... I-wha-”
“Hey! Hey!” Robby pushed his way to you, looming over you and catching your eyes.
They were wild, looking around before settling on him.
“Robby?” you uttered, lips dry, dried blood at your neck. Your eyes were looking around like you couldn't quite see.
“Yeah- yeah it's me.” His hand flew to your hair, brushing it back as your eyes were going from him to around you, panic rising in your eyes. “Look at me, focus on me.”
“What-what?”
“You were stabbed,” he uttered.
Your eyes widened and he brushed back your hair again, doctors moving around the two of you. They could've been right on his back or a thousand miles away. All he focused on was you. Your hands waved around, getting in the way of tubes and the doctors.
Robby grabbed your hand, squeezing.
You focused on him and he tried to smile, tried to make himself convinced everything would be alright. He knew it was a grimace.
He'd never hated his medical training more. Because he knew this amount of blood loss was bad, he knew stabbing so close to the spinal chords was dangerous. He knew you were strong and hated staying still for too long and now you'd be forced to recover.
“My pressure?”
“It's up.” He watched as your eyes teared up, looking away from him again. “Good, that's good.”
Your hair sprawled out as you shook your head. “Am I gonna.... will I walk again?”
Robby hesitated. “Yeah- yeah we think it missed your spinal chord.”
Robby knew that but he couldn't help the tears that fell, couldn't help the small sob that ripped through his throat. You'd been calm at the cut with your head, damn right comedic. Now- you were quiet, whimpering and crying in pain and there wasn't anything he could do.
He was a doctor, he could help and check vitals and squeeze the bag of blood slow.
But he couldn't move from your side.
You nod before your back arched in pain and you yelled out.
“BP eighty palp!”
Robby got up, ignoring the ache in his knees as he loomed over you, trying to calm the pain. “Do something!”
“Robby!”
He looked.
You'd drained the blood dry.
“What?” you uttered, voice trembled in terror.
“Okay she needs to go up, now!” Jack called out.
“Let's get her moving!” yelled Garcia.
You groaned in pain. “What's going on?”
Robby didn't know what to do. It wasn't a conversation of telling a patient what was going on or what wasn't. It was telling you. He stuttered lamely, lost as another tear slid down his cheek. You hadn't even cried yet and he was close to blubbering.
His head bowed to you. He was mumbling, he thinks he was praying.
“Robby-” your hand waved out in front of him and he grabbed it, squeezing. “It hurts.”
“Okay, okay, we're gonna-” what was he gonna do? He pressed your hand to his lips, holding it there.
“Hey, honey,” Jack appeared at your other side and your eyes moved to see him but Robby didn't let go. “Hell of a way to get into the night shift.”
“Jack-” you winced.
Jack looked from you to Robby, the same way he looked at the family of unfortunate patients. “We're taking her up to the OR now.”
Your fingers wiggled in Robby's grasp and he looked back to you. “It's bad huh?”
“No, no,” said Robby smoothing back your hair again.
“Your losing a lot of blood, and your foley output is bright red,” said Jack. “But we're gonna sort it and you'll be fine. You trust me?”
Your breathing was shallow, hard breaths hardly coming out. Still, you tried to smile. “Do I- do I have a choice?” your voice came out through seethes of breath.
Robby closed his eyes tight, as if he could feel the own stabbing in his heart.
“Robb-Robby?”
He glanced at you, your eyes fluttering shut. The little hold you had on his hand weakening. He fumbled up, hands holding your cheeks. “Woah-woah- open your eyes! Look at me- look at me!”
You mumbled, head lulling.
“Going up!”
“Look at me, open your eyes!” he all but shouted at you as your eyes were still rolling to the back of his head, wavering between waking and whatever else was on the other side.
“Robby!”
Robby held onto the side of your bed as the team around you wheeled you away and through. There was a stutter of shock waving through the crowd, fear chocking them, shock eating at them. There was police around, all trying to get a look.
“Talk to her, Robinavitch!” said Garcia.
He didn't talk to patients, he evaluated them, stitched them up when he could.
Robby looked up at Jack, hoping for help. He looked grave, watching Robby un-sure but people came back from worse. You'd come back. “Hey, hey look at me,” he uttered and squeezed your hand. When that didn't work he pulled at your eyelids and finally you responded with a grumble.
The elevator doors slid open and you were hauled in, Robby squeezed in too.
“Wh-what?”
He got a flash of your eyes before they closed again.
Your lips were dry and chapped but Robby kissed you anyway, pressing his lips to yours soft, not pushing afraid he'd hurt you but he wanted you to know he was there.
He smiled. He'd never seen you first thing in the morning, he imagined this is what it was. Groggy eyes, words hardly there but with less pain and blood. Robby pulled back and ignored the blood drying in splatters on your neck. “Are you with me, honey?”
You blinked and groaned in pain. “I don't-I don't know.”
“You're with me, yeah you are, you're with me,” Robby mumbled. “You look very pretty, even covered in blood, you know that?” he mumbled, trying to say it so only you could hear.
There was a huff of a smile followed by pain.
“You can't flirt with me while I'm dying, Robinavitch.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
Robby grabbed your face, smooching your cheek maybe a bit too harsh. “You're not going anywhere.”
“You've pushed four bags,” you whispered. “You're gonna push a five.”
There was a huff of laugh from Jack.
Robby sniffed. You were too good at your job sometimes, ignoring the ache in his back as he leant over you. “You shouldn't be counting.”
“What can I say I'm over-qualified,” your eyes shut again but your lips moved in mumbles.
“What is it? What are you saying?” he asked, a crack in his voice. “What? Tell me.... tell me.”
But you weren't really there anymore. You were incoherent, eyes not really there. None of you was really there. “Robby.... Rob.... please, Robby.”
“What? I'm here, I'm right here, okay? Okay, honey?” Robby felt his chest cave in. “What's taking this elevator so long?” he snapped.
“It's bad, I know,” you said, fingers drifting soft over his arm before it dropped. “I can't- I can't-”
The doors slid open, a team waited on the other side.
Garcia pushed you ahead into the team, spouting who she wanted to scrub in, telling them all who she wanted out front watching. Your condition was a perfect teaching sort.
You weren't for teaching. You were for saving!
Robby wanted to tell as much as the team wheeled you away and Jack's arm came out to stop him.
“You can't go in there man,” he said.
“Like hell I can't!”
“No, you can't!” said Jack.
Any other time Robby would have argued more but he had nothing to say. He needed to be there, he wanted to be there but as soon as they cut you open he'd break. As soon as he saw inside your body he'd tie himself to you.
He'd seen over a hundred bodies cut open in his time but yours might break him.
Robby nodded, hands going to the back of his head.
Someone in the room cried and it took him a moment to realise it was him.
“Hey-hey-” Jack embraced him and Robby couldn't reach to hug him back but he could let himself down. “I will go in, I will be there, you know I will do everything to save her. We will save her.”
To save your life, Robby let him go and stood alone. He looked down at his hand as if he could feel the ghost hold of you still there. When he looked down, all he saw was the hair on the back and the tremble of his fingers.
Robby- for the first time since he was a boy- learnt how to cry.
He tried- boy did he try- to get back into the swing of things. Robby walked into the Pitt with red, blotchy eyes and a waver in his voice. He looked at the board, picked up a sixty year old patient with migraines.
“Hello I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby. What seems to be the problem today?”
That was as far as he got before Dana walked in.
“No, no, no, no!” she said, putting the chart down and dragging him out. “I am so sorry Mrs Klepton, we'll get Doctor Shen with you in just a moment. Come with me.”
He was dragged out like a scolded child and shoved into the lounge.
“What do you think you're doing?” she'd snapped.
Robby had put himself in the corner, crowding himself in, arms over his head. What was he doing? Trying to be useful. You'd be up in the OR lord knew how long. If he sat and waited he'd go mad.
Dana leant on the counter. “What'd you think you're doing here, Robinavitch? Get outta here, go home! Better yet go wait for her.”
“I-I can't.”
“Robby.”
He could feel the tears start again. Didn't the human run out of tears eventually? They didn't teach that in med school. “I- I can't. I'm useful in-in here, I'm not- I'm not-”
“Right now there's only one person you can be useful to, so go to her.”
That's how he ended up in the OR waiting room, alone, not flicking through the magazines provided, not even watching the fish in the tank. He was just sitting.
Waiting.
At some point he'd taken the clock down to not watch the hands turn but eventually the sun rose and he was terrified like no other day.
It was going on 05:00 am when the door slowly pushed open. It wasn't with a rattle of relief or with a cheer, it was a slow push.
Robby thought his heart was broken before.
He was hunched over himself, elbows balanced on his knees as he hid his face in his hands and slowly rocked himself. “No... no... no...”
“Robby,” Jack said quietly. His steps were slow but he felt his hand on his back.
Robby flinched, shrinking into himself.
Where was the knife so he could stab himself?
“Robby- she's okay.”
There was a crack in his neck from how quick he looked up. It wasn't enough to convince him, his clinical trained mind wondering all the what would comes? Had it got into your spine? How much blood had you lost.
But Jack listed it off like he knew what Robby needed to hear first. It hadn't hit an aorta, it got an artery hence the bleeding but they'd stabilised it with more blood than they would have liked. But you were alive, though sleeping and they had no worries for you at the moment.
Robby nodded when Jack finished. He must have come right from the OR to tell him because he was still in scrubs and covered in blood. Your blood. “Can I see her?”
You didn't look peaceful. Robby had never thought how uncomfortable the hospital gowns must have been until he saw you lying in one. There was oxygen tube in your nose and an IV in your hand. There was some bruising he hadn't noticed before on your arms from the fall you took.
“What do I do now?” Robby mumbled. He was good at the saving lives part, he just wasn't sure what to do when they hung in limbo.
Jack patted his back, leading the way in the room. “For a doctor you're pretty clueless. You sit with her.”
Robby followed in, un-sure what to do with himself so he held onto either end of his stethoscope.
There was a chair already pulled up to your side as Jack busied himself on the other, checking your IV and BP- all looked good.
Robby had caught you napping at your desk once, fallen asleep while charting. He'd admired you for a moment before slowly waking you with a pen poked in your head. You'd looked so peaceful then- nothing like it now.
“Is she cold?”
“No- I don't think so.”
Robby slowly sank down in the chair and picked up your hand again. It stopped the trembling in his at once.
“I gotta get off, I'll cover the day, do something about the nights. Stay with her, call me if there's any changes,” said Jack.
“Thank you, brother,” said Robby.
There was a dull drumming in your head. Your back was aching and even moving your eyes hurt. Beyond all of that there was something else, something heavier.
Your eyes opened slowly and you found the lights ahead. They burned brighter than the sun, like every morning when you walked into PCMT. You tried to hide, to shield yourself with your hand but you couldn't move it.
Panic coursed through you. Why couldn't you move it? Why could you hardly feel your hand? Dear god-
“Hey,” a gentle voice greeted and you searched for them.
Jack stood over you, leaning at you bed.
Your mouth was parched as you tried to speak.
“You're okay,” said Jack in a whisper. “You remember what happened?”
Step by step you thought back. You were leaving, only checking on David once more before sharp pain hit you in the back and you were shoved. When you came too again faces blurred together and pain blinded you to them all.
There was Robby. Somewhere in all of that.
“I was... stabbed?”
Jack nodded, a small trembled in his chin. “Yeah you were. But you're gonna be okay, there was no injury to your spine.”
“I'll walk?”
“Twelve hours time we'll get you up.”
When you focused you could feel the ache in your arm as if someone was pulling it. There was something heavy at the end like someone was holding it, tight.
Robby was at your other side, lying on your arm and holding you down. His body was curved over, head turned away as his back moved in soft breaths.
“Thought I'd let him sleep. He's been up watching you since you came out the OR,” said Jack.
Robby. He'd stayed.
Had you asked him to? You'd wanted him to. Maybe he understood that.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Jack shook his head. There was no need to thank him, you knew that, but you were thanking him for the life you'd put in his hands and that he'd let Robby be at your side. “You want some time?”
You nodded stiff, feeling the ache in your back more and more. You knew you had months ahead of you of pain but you didn't want to dull it with drugs just yet.
Jack petted down your hair once before taking his hoodie off the back of the chair and leaving, closing the door gently.
In the silence you watched Robby a moment longer, matching your new breaths with his. The weight of him on your hand made you tingle as you slowly worked your fingertips back to life.
You tried to move your hand out from his weight but he stirred.
Groggily he turned and looked around the room, waking up more confused then you were.
“Robby?”
His eyes widened.
Robby moved up at once, looming over your bed as you tried to push yourself up. “Hey, hey, take it easy,” he fretted, eyes raking over your body like he was checking all of you were there. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”
“Robby-” you tried to protest.
“BP is hundred over eighty.”
You tried to entertain him, just as you had with the cut on your head. If you let him go through the motions just might just end up holding his hand again. So you let him try your nerves, let him ask if you were in pain. You let him ask you to wiggle your fingers and toes. You let him lift one leg and the other as high as he could before you winced in pain.
“Can you stop being my doctor for a second and sit back down?”
Robby seemed startled but hid it quickly. He realised Jack was out the room. “He should've woke me, checked you over.”
“You were resting, he said you'd stayed.”
He looked at you, astonished you'd think he'd go anywhere else.
You watched him sink into his chair, clasping his hands together and wedging them between his knees. Your fingers ached to hold him but your body was weak even talking. “You look tired.”
He chuckled low and smiled. His face was pale, eyes red, hair a mess. His entire body was slumped. “I look tired?”
“A nice tired, a handsome tired.”
You focused on your hand, lifting it enough. You watched as Robby looked down and took it without hesitation, he held it tight, grasping it between his big hands and bringing it to his lips.
You felt him kiss your palm.
“I was stabbed?”
Robby nodded, slowly. “Two puncture wounds, missed the spinal chords, nicked an aorta, bled out. That was our biggest worry but-”
“But I'm okay now?”
Slowly, he nodded.
You groaned, shifting your head aside. You'd have rolled over to show your protest but you had a feeling you'd be putting as little pressure on your back for a while. “Is Mr Brown?”
“The police are looking for him,” said Robby, without letting you even work out just what it is you were trying to ask about.
You nodded slowly, looking down to where your hand disappeared in his. “I'll report him this time, I promise.”
Robby stared at you, eyes wide with something you couldn't name. “I just want you to focus on getting better. On coming back... coming back to me.”
You didn't think, even coming out of an op and the haze of pain, that you could ever be where he wasn't. You think, no matter how terrible it seemed, that it was meant to happen this way. The stabbing and scarring that would no doubt end up on your back might have been the best thing to ever happen to you.
“Robby,” you whispered.
He must have heard something in your voice as he slowly stood and hunched over you, a hand lying on the top of your head.
His eyes were watering with tears.
You could remember faint images of this happening before, as you were slowly lulled to sleep by drugs. His hand combing back your hair felt like it had always been doing it. Like you'd always woken to him.
“Did you kiss me?” You didn't know where the memory came from, or even if it was a memory. It could've been a dream.
To his credit Robby didn't startle or flinch. He slowly nodded, leaving room for objection. He leaned over close to you, another hand cradling your cheek. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Robby inhaled sharply. “I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you months before I did. I wanted to kiss you last week and two minutes ago when you woke. I wanted to kiss you covered in blood and... I want to kiss you now.”
You smiled and it brought you no pain. “If my back wasn't in pain I'd be kissing you right now,” you chuckled and then the pain came.
Robby leant down to you, his eyes searching yours. Close enough you could see what was in his eyes, what he'd been hiding. Warmth. Admiration.
His large nose brushed yours as he kissed you slow with no rush of need. His hand was soft as he angled you so he could explore every line and curve if your lip.
Your own hand slowly wound up, around his head, stroking the back of his hair and resting there. He didn't mind the oxygen tube or that she couldn't reach up to meet him. In fact he kissed her like he'd planned it like this a hundred times.
When there was an alarming beep from the machines Robby pulled away quick, studdying them.
“It's just my heartrate,” you said. “Might have been beating a little faster there.”
He agreed but seemed solemn to do so.
You watched the crease between his brows appear again. “You know, if I knew I just needed to be stabbed to have you kiss me again I'd have-”
“Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”
For the sake of his nerves, you didn't.
“You know if I'd have known that it was just gonna take me getting stabbed for you to sell that motorbike, I'd have got stabbed a lot sooner,” you said teasingly as Robby pulled into his new designated parking space outside the ED.
It had been a month since the incident but you were still reaping the small benefits that came with it. Like Robby insisting you stay with him to get the best care, like him getting rid of his motorbike to get a better car that was more comfortable on your back.
Like having so much time with him.
Mornings where he dedicated time in messaging the sore spots of your back and spreading an oil that was going to help the scaring. Like the dinner times when you read him a recipe that he never followed to the t. Like the kisses you stole in the night when he'd watch you and kiss you without straining to go forward.
Robby parked the car and turned off the engine. “If I had a dollar every time you said that,” he grumbled, picking up his bag and exiting.
You were still moving slower, still kept a crutch with you to keep weight off your back. You were coming back to work with a much lighter work load and you were sure Robby would be glued to your side all day like he practically had the month you'd took to recover.
Even before you could open the door Robby was there doing it for you, your own bag in his hand.
“You think anyone's gonna want to see the cool scars I've got, they kind of look like stars,” you said as Robby stayed close by your side, walking in with you.
“You sent them all pictures,” he said, mildly irritated. You and everyone around you seemed to try to crack jokes about the thing. He felt sometimes he was the only one who saw the near death wound for what it was.
“Excuse me- most of them asked for pictures.”
“Completely inappropriate.”
A few ambulance workers saw you, greeting you with smiles you returned while Robby waited next to you, holding up a polite hand in greeting.
It dropped, grazed yours and picked it up, holding on as the two of you walked in.
Usually Robby liked to walk in through triage, get a feel of what was happening but he wasn't risking that many foreign bodies next to you even though they caught David Brown and he was being charged.
Robby had something to live for, had something to protect. Nothing was happening to it. To you.
“It's good to have you back,” said Lupe as the two of you passed her at the door.
“Do you think that was a pun?” you uttered to him, rewarded with the smallest tint of his lips as he pushed open the door.
Loud clapping greeted you with some cheap, paper, party poppers when you walked in. Thee was cheering to and a large banner was hooked up, saying 'welcome home!'.
A place that could have held such terrible memories was brightened up as you jumped from one smiling face, to another.
Next to you, Robby stepped back, blending into the admiring crowd and started to clap too with something more than fondness in his smile. Love. A word that had woven its way into your vocab since moving in with him to get help for your wounds.
A word that summed up so much of what you had.
“You did this for me?” you asked.
“It was all Robby's idea,” said Jack, leading the cheering.
You didn't have to even move. Like he knew what you wanted Robby stepped over to you and kissed you. He always kept his lips irritatingly light, encouraging you to stretch out muscles in your back to join meet him.
You grinned against his lips. “I should be stabbed more often.”
Pairing: Dad!Thor x Female Reader
Warnings: Domestic fluff, bedtime chaos, family softness
Words: 300 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles connected to this
Prompt: June 11th - “Tell you a story.”
Bedtime had become a battlefield. A soft one, admittedly, littered with blankets instead of shields and stuffed animals instead of sword... But a battlefield all the same.
Your youngest had already surrendered, warm and milk-heavy against your shoulder, one fist curled in your shirt as you rocked him near the nursery door. The older two, however, had formed an alliance.
A dangerous one.
They sat cross-legged on the rug steadfast in their choice: your daughter with her arms folded, your son wearing the solemn expression of a prince wronged by unjust law.
Thor stood before them, hair loose around his shoulders, taking the matter with the gravity of treaty work.
“No bed,” your daughter announced firmly.
“Not tired,” your son added, immediately yawning.
“I see,” Thor’s brows lifted. “Then we must negotiate.”
That got their attention.
He lowered himself onto the rug with a quiet groan, far too large for the little room and yet somehow perfectly at home in it. Both children leaned forward, suspicious but interested.
“One drink of honeyed milk,” he said, holding up a finger. “One final check beneath the bed for monsters, though any monster with sense would fear your mother more than me.”
Your daughter giggled.
“And,” Thor continued, voice dropping, “I shall tell you a story.”
Your son narrowed his eyes. “A big one?”
“A mighty one.” Thor nodded
“With dragons?”
“Several.” You smiled wider listening.
“With me in it?” Your son inquired.
“You shall be leading the charge.”
Your daughter pointed at herself. “And me?”
Thor pressed a hand to his heart. “My fiercest general.”
They considered.
Then, together, they nodded.
Thor looked up at you, victorious and helplessly proud.
Five minutes later, both children were tucked beneath blankets, eyes wide as Thor whispered of dragons who feared bedtime most of all.
SUMMARY: The ER is not a pleasant place to work when you’re six months pregnant. The constant check-ins from your coworkers and patients is one thing, but the attention from Jack Abbot? That’s another thing entirely, and it thrills and terrifies you all at once.
NOTES: Pregnancy, single mother reader, mentions of absent co-parent, canon-typical workplace stress + scenarios, mentions of Jack’s wife, vulnerability, Jack is so sappy and sweet in this.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You hated being treated differently. The frustrating thing was that everyone seemed to think they were being kind.
Ever since the pregnancy had become impossible to hide, people had started looking at you differently. Patients asked if you should really be working. Nurses tried to take things out of your hands. Residents hovered whenever you lifted anything heavier than a clipboard. Every conversation seemed to begin or end with somebody asking if you were alright.
You knew they meant well, and that somehow made it worse. You were twenty-six weeks pregnant, not made of glass.
Most days you could ignore it. Most days you smiled politely, accepted the concern for what it was, and carried on. You had chosen to keep working. You loved your job. The emergency department was exhausting and chaotic and occasionally heartbreaking, but it was yours. It gave structure to days that might otherwise have been swallowed whole by anxiety.
The anxiety was harder to admit, but nobody seemed concerned about that part. Nobody saw the moments you sat alone in your apartment after a shift with one hand resting over your stomach, wondering if you were making the right choices. Nobody saw the nights when you woke up terrified by the sheer scale of what was coming.
You were going to be somebody’s mother. The thought still knocked the breath out of you. You were going to do it alone, and that part was worse.
The baby’s father had left months ago, long before anyone at work knew about the pregnancy. There had been no screaming argument. No dramatic betrayal. Just a gradual retreat until one day you realised you were the only person still fighting for something that no longer existed.
You had survived it. You would continue surviving it. You didn’t have any other choice. Which was why you absolutely refused to become somebody else’s responsibility, especially Jack Abbot’s.
“Why have I got room fourteen?”
The question escaped before you could stop yourself. Dana looked up from the desk.
“What about room fourteen?”
You stared at the assignment sheet in your hand. Room fourteen contained the sweetest little old lady currently waiting for discharge paperwork. Room twelve contained a man with a minor fracture. Room nine needed routine medication.
That was it. No aggressive intoxication. No psychiatric hold. No combative family members. No complicated trauma patients. Nothing.
It was practically a holiday.
You narrowed your eyes. Across the department, Jack was discussing scans with one of the residents, words thorough and professional despite the toll the rare day shift was taking on him.
Your gaze lingered. Unfortunately, Jack’s eyes lifted almost immediately. Straight to you. The man possessed some supernatural ability to know when you were looking at him.
Your stomach performed an irritating little flip. That was becoming a problem. Actually, no. The crush was the problem. The stomach flipping was merely a symptom.
Jack’s expression remained perfectly neutral. You pointed at your assignment sheet. He looked away immediately, seemingly guilty.
You knew it.
Ten minutes later you cornered him near the medication room. “Stop it.”
His eyebrows rose. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You keep changing my assignments.”
“I don’t make assignments.”
“Jack.”
His mouth twitched. That tiny almost-smile somehow made him more infuriating.
“You have no proof.”
“I don’t need proof.”
“Yes, honey, you do.”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Jack. You keep giving me easier patients.”
Jack folded his arms. The movement pulled at the sleeves of his scrub top. Your traitorous brain noticed entirely too much about him these days. The broad shoulders. The wedding ring he still wore. The permanent exhaustion around his eyes.
The gentleness he tried so hard to hide beneath sarcasm. “You think I have nothing better to do than secretly manipulate patient assignments?”
“Yes.”
That earned an actual laugh. A short one. Rare enough that it briefly distracted you. Jack shook his head.
“I think that’s insane. You’re being a bit… God, what did Javadi call it? Delulu?”
“Never say that again. I’m serious.”
“God forbid a guy try something new.”
You stared at each other. The familiar tension settled into place almost immediately. Neither of you ever acknowledged it. Nobody else seemed to notice it either, which felt impossible.
You noticed everything when it came to him. The way his voice softened around frightened patients. The way he instinctively positioned himself between vulnerable people and whatever was upsetting them. The way he always appeared beside you whenever a shift became overwhelming.
That last one was definitely intentional.
The problem was that Jack never did anything obvious enough to challenge. Every act of care was disguised as practicality.
A patient would need transferring and somebody else would mysteriously volunteer before you could. You would arrive at the break room to find tea already waiting. A difficult relative would somehow end up redirected towards an attending physician instead of a pregnant nurse nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift.
None of it was dramatic. None of it could be called out without sounding ridiculous. Still, you knew.
“You don’t need to look after me.”
The words came out quieter than intended. Something changed in his expression. Not much. Just enough.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the department seemed strangely distant.
“You know,” Jack said eventually, “it’s possible for people to help each other without it meaning something.”
The statement should have reassured you. Instead it hurt. You weren’t entirely sure why. Perhaps because you wanted it to mean something. That was the truth you kept trying not to examine too closely. You wanted his attention. You looked for him at the start of every shift. You noticed when he wasn’t there. You noticed when he looked tired. You noticed everything.
The feelings had arrived slowly and then all at once. Now they sat heavily in your chest, impossible to ignore.
You forced a smile. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“You still need to stop.”
His eyes held yours. For a second you thought he might argue. Instead he sighed.
“You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”
You laughed despite yourself. “That’s rich coming from you.”
A trauma alert sounded overhead. The moment vanished instantly. Jack pushed away from the wall. Professional mask sliding neatly back into place.
You hated how easily he could do that.
As though he could simply lock parts of himself away whenever necessary. You wondered what it would be like to be that controlled. To not feel everything so intensely all the time.
“Come on,” he said. “Work calls.”
You fell into step beside him. Close enough to hear his breathing, and to smell hospital soap and coffee. Close enough that the ache in your chest returned before you’d even reached the trauma bay.
You wished it would stop. You wished it would get worse. Neither option seemed particularly safe.
Especially not when Jack glanced at you as the doors opened and asked, quietly enough that nobody else could hear,
“You feeling alright today?”
The concern in his voice was genuine. Simple. Uncomplicated. Somehow that made it harder to answer than any question you’d faced all week.
The trauma ended up being far less dramatic than the alert had suggested. A motor vehicle collision. Two patients, both conscious. One broken wrist, one nasty laceration that looked significantly worse than it actually was. Nobody needed a miracle.
For once, the emergency department managed to survive a trauma call without the world ending. You should have felt relieved. Instead, the restlessness that had settled beneath your skin earlier refused to leave.
Jack’s question kept replaying in your head. ‘You feeling alright today?’. Such an ordinary thing to ask. People asked it all the time. The difference was that most people weren’t really asking. Most people wanted reassurance. A quick smile and a simple yes.
Jack always seemed to want the truth. That was what made him dangerous. He paid attention. It would have been easier if he didn’t. Easier if he were merely an attractive older guy with freckles and muscles and curls. A crush based on appearances would eventually burn itself out.
Unfortunately, every shift seemed determined to reveal another reason to fall for him. You hated that. Mostly because there was absolutely nothing sensible about it.
Jack was older than you. Widowed. Emotionally complicated in ways you suspected only a therapist fully understood.
You were carrying another man’s baby.
The timing couldn’t have been worse if someone had deliberately arranged it.
Yet every time he looked at you, some foolish part of your heart seemed convinced there was still something worth hoping for.
By three, your lower back felt like it had been replaced with concrete. The baby had apparently decided sleep was for cowards and had spent the last hour enthusiastically rearranging your internal organs.
You were updating notes at the nurses’ station when a sharp kick landed beneath your ribs. The involuntary wince escaped before you could stop it.
Unfortunately, somebody noticed. Of course somebody noticed. “Everything alright?”
You looked up. Jack. Again. The man appeared with the consistency of a haunting. You straightened immediately.
“Fine.”
“You know I was literally standing here when that happened, sweetheart.”
“I’m still fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I make faces all the time.”
“You looked like somebody stabbed you.”
“That’s slightly dramatic.”
His expression remained unconvinced. The irritating thing was that he wasn’t hovering. Not really. He wasn’t fussing or ordering you to sit down. He was simply standing there looking concerned. Which somehow made it impossible to dismiss.
The baby kicked again. Your hand moved automatically towards your stomach. A subconscious gesture. One you’d barely realised you’d started doing.
Something softened in Jack’s face. The sight of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No awkwardness. No discomfort. Just warmth.
Your pulse stumbled. Dangerous. Very dangerous.
“You should take ten.”
“No.”
“Five.”
“No.”
“Two and a half?”
A laugh escaped despite yourself.
“You negotiate with trauma surgeons like this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They aren’t as terrifying as you.”
You rolled your eyes. Jack looked suspiciously pleased with himself. The sight made something warm spread through your chest. You hated how often that happened around him. The feeling had become increasingly difficult to ignore. Particularly during the quieter moments.
Those moments were always the worst. Those were the moments when you remembered how easy it felt to talk to him. You couldn’t pinpoint when it had started. At some point he’d stopped feeling like an attending physician and started feeling like Jack. The distinction mattered more than it should have.
“You know,” he said eventually, leaning against the counter beside you, “it’s alright to admit that you’re tired.”
You stared at the computer screen. The blinking cursor suddenly seemed fascinating.
“Who says I’m tired?”
“You’ve had three cups of coffee in ninety minutes.”
“Maybe I like coffee.”
“You hate coffee.”
Your head dropped backwards. “Oh, come on.”
His smile widened. “You told me.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
You looked at him. Actually looked. The man remembered entirely too much. The realisation struck with uncomfortable force.
Six months ago.
You couldn’t remember half the conversations you’d had yesterday. Jack remembered an offhand comment from six months ago.
Your chest tightened. The feeling wasn’t entirely pleasant. Part of you wanted to bask in it. The rest wanted to run. Nobody had paid attention to you like this in a very long time. Not before the pregnancy. Certainly not after.
The baby’s father had forgotten things constantly. Appointments. Plans. Conversations. You had spent months shrinking your expectations just to avoid disappointment.
Now here was Jack remembering your coffee preferences. The comparison felt unfair. Your emotions didn’t seem particularly concerned with fairness.
His gaze lingered. Not challenging. Not pushing. Just waiting. You wondered whether he knew how difficult that made things. Most people demanded explanations.
Jack simply offered space. The urge to step into it was becoming overwhelming.
A sudden rush of emotion caught you completely off guard. Exhaustion. Fear. Hormones. Loneliness.
Whatever combination was responsible, it hit hard enough to sting behind your eyes. You looked away immediately. Embarrassing. The last thing you needed was to start crying at the nurses’ station.
Jack didn’t comment. Another kindness. He simply moved slightly closer. Close enough that you could feel the steady presence of him. Not touching. Never assuming. Just there. Ready if needed. The gesture nearly hurt.
“You’re allowed to lean on people sometimes.”
The words were quiet. Careful. As though he wasn’t entirely sure he should be saying them.
You laughed softly. A humourless sound. “That’s easy for you to say.”
His expression shifted. Something sad flickering briefly across his face. “You’d be surprised.”
The answer lodged somewhere deep. You knew enough about Jack to understand what wasn’t being said. The grief he carried everywhere despite pretending otherwise. Perhaps that was why being around him felt so different.
He never treated pain like weakness. He understood it too well.
A call light sounded down the corridor. The interruption should have felt annoying. Instead it came as a relief. The conversation had wandered dangerously close to honesty. Neither of you seemed entirely prepared for that.
You pushed away from the desk. Professional instincts taking over. Work was easier. Work always had been. People made sense when they were patients. Charts and medications and treatment plans were infinitely simpler than feelings.
Jack watched you stand. Something unreadable lingered in his eyes. Then it disappeared, locked away behind professionalism once again.
You found yourself wishing, not for the first time, that he would let you see what lived underneath it. The frightening thing was that you suspected he wished exactly the same thing about you.
The shift should have ended an hour ago. That was the thought repeating itself through your head as you stared at a computer screen that no longer seemed capable of forming coherent words.
Every part of you ached. Your feet hurt. Your back hurt. Your shoulders felt impossibly tight. Even the baby seemed exhausted, the constant movement from earlier reduced to occasional sleepy stretches beneath your ribs.
The emergency department had entered that strange period between night and morning. The chaos was winding down. Exhaustion was settling over everyone like a heavy blanket.
Those were always the dangerous hours. The hours when emotions started slipping through cracks you’d spent all shift holding together.
You rubbed a hand across your face and tried to focus on the discharge paperwork in front of you. The words blurred. For a moment you simply sat there staring at them.
Then, completely without warning, your eyes filled.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” You muttered it to yourself.
Nobody else heard. At least, that was what you thought. You blinked rapidly and forced yourself to take a breath. You were not going to cry.
Not here. Not now.
The ridiculous thing was that nothing had actually happened. It was just exhaustion. Pure, relentless exhaustion. The kind that seemed to hollow you out from the inside.
You loved your baby already. Loved them with a fierceness that still startled you.
That didn’t mean you weren’t frightened.
Every day seemed to bring a new thing to worry about. The nursery. Money. Childcare. Labour. The future. The endless responsibility waiting just around the corner.
Most of the time you managed to carry it.
Tonight it suddenly felt very heavy.
“You missed a spot.”
You jumped.
Jack was standing beside the desk, a takeaway cup rested in one hand.
You stared. Then frowned. “What?”
“The discharge summary.” He pointed towards the screen. “There.”
Sure enough, you’d missed an entire section. Your shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
Jack studied you for a second. Long enough that you knew he’d noticed. The tears. The exhaustion. All of it.
You looked away first. Humiliation immediately flooding your chest.
“You should go home.”
You laughed quietly. “I was planning to.”
“No.” His voice softened. “I mean now.”
The concern in it almost made things worse.
You swallowed hard. “I’m nearly finished.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.”
“Then go home, sweetheart.”
Something inside you cracked. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that holding everything together suddenly became impossible.
You looked down at your hands, at the hospital ID badge hanging from your neck, at anything except him.
The words came out before you could stop them. “I don’t get to stop.”
Silence.
Your throat tightened. You hated this. Hated feeling exposed. Hated feeling weak. Most of all, hated how desperately you wanted somebody to understand.
“I don’t get to fall apart,” you continued quietly. “Everybody keeps telling me to rest and take breaks and ask for help, but at the end of the day it’s still just me.”
The confession hung between you. Entirely honest. You hadn’t meant to say any of it. Months of fear seemed to have slipped free without permission.
“I go home and it’s just me.”
Your voice wavered. You pressed your lips together immediately.
For a long moment neither of you spoke. The department carried on around you, life continuing exactly as normal. Meanwhile your entire chest felt like it had been turned inside out.
Then Jack set the coffee cup down. Carefully. As though sudden movements might break something. And, maybe they would.
His gaze never left yours. “You know what’s been driving me insane for the last few months?”
The question caught you completely off guard. You frowned. “What?”
“You.” Jack huffed out a short laugh. Not amused. Nervous. The sound alone was shocking. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him nervous before. “You refuse help from everybody.”
Your mouth opened.
He continued before you could interrupt. “You carry everything yourself. Every shift. Every appointment. Every problem.”
“Jack—”
“You never let anybody look after you.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Emotion immediately tightened your throat again. You looked away. He wasn’t finished. You could tell. The realisation sent your pulse racing.
“I keep telling myself to stop.” His voice had gone quieter now. Rougher. “I keep telling myself you’re perfectly capable and none of this is my business.”
You slowly looked back at him. Neither of you seemed capable of looking away anymore. The space between you felt impossibly small, despite the fact neither of you had moved.
“I know you don’t need me.” The confession sat heavily between you. “I know that.”
His jaw tightened briefly, the way it always did when he was forcing himself to continue.
“But every time you walk into a shift looking exhausted, I want to help.”
Your heart stumbled, then stopped entirely.
“I want to take the difficult patients.” His eyes never left yours. “I want to make things easier.”
Another breath. Another heartbeat.
“I want to be the person who carries some of it when it gets too heavy.”
The world seemed strangely quiet. Every sound fading into the background. Your eyes burned again. This time you didn’t care. You’d spent months convincing yourself you were imagining it. Misreading kindness. Projecting your own feelings onto harmless gestures.
Now Jack was standing in front of you looking like he’d rather face another mass casualty event than this conversation.
The sight nearly broke your heart.
“You know why that’s a problem?” he asked softly.
You shook your head. The answer came anyway.
“Because somewhere along the way I stopped doing it just because I care about my staff.”
The breath left your lungs. “Oh.”
Brilliant response. Truly. Jack laughed quietly, a little helplessly. The sound made your chest ache.
“Oh,” he echoed.
For one terrifying second neither of you spoke. Then something shifted. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or relief, or simply the fact you’d both spent too long pretending.
Whatever it was, it finally pushed you forward.
“You make me feel safe.”
The words escaped before you could second-guess them. Jack froze. You continued anyway.
“If that’s a horrible thing to admit, then fine.”
A shaky laugh slipped out. Your eyes filled again.
“You make me feel looked after. I keep trying not to need that.”
Jack’s expression softened completely. “You don’t have to earn being cared for.”
The sentence hit harder than everything else combined. Nobody had ever said that to you before. Not like that. Not as though they genuinely believed it. A tear escaped, and then another, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.
Jack stepped closer. Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn’t. His hand settled against your arm. The simple contact nearly undid you.
For months you’d been carrying everything alone.
Not because you wanted to, but because you thought you had to. The difference suddenly felt enormous.
Neither of you said anything for a while.
There wasn’t much left to say. The truth was already sitting between you. Visible at last. Jack’s thumb brushed lightly against your sleeve. A tiny movement so careful that it made your chest ache.
The man looked at you as though you were something precious. The realisation was terrifying. It was also wonderful.
For the first time in a very long while, the future didn’t seem quite so frightening.
Nothing had magically been fixed. You were still pregnant. Still scared. Still facing a thousand uncertainties.
Jack was still carrying grief of his own. Life remained complicated. Messy. Difficult.
Yet standing there beneath fluorescent hospital lights, with exhaustion pulling at both of you and dawn beginning to creep through distant windows, something fundamental had changed.
The loneliness wasn’t quite so sharp anymore.
For months you’d been trying to convince yourself that strength meant carrying everything alone. Looking at Jack now, you finally understood how wrong you’d been. Sometimes strength looked a lot more like letting somebody stay.
Summary: People start calling you Sharkbait. One day someone does it in front of Park.
Tags/Warnings: Brendon Park x reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, brief mention of an age gap (40s-20s), mild language, mild power imbalance, watch me avoid talking about medical things
wc: 1,146
a/n: I was possessed to write this in the middle of the night. Mean beefy men have me in a chokehold.
Dedicated to @godmadeaterribleerror . Look! I finished something!!
You didn't really think about it, the first time it happened. You'd been halfway through a chart, awareness pitched somewhere behind you in case someone needed you — someone always did, eventually — and when you heard the name Sharkbait, you knew instinctively Santos was talking to you. She's always giving out nicknames like that, and you didn't have one yet, and people had taken to dragging you over to present for Park the Shark, because apparently you were the only one who could handle him without getting your head bit off.
You didn't really get what the big deal was. It wasn't hard to figure out how to deal with him — that's what you do, after all, assess people and then figure out how to deal with them. He wants clear, concise answers, and respect, so you give him both. Easy.
He's not the kind of person you'd joke with, or get chummy with, not unless he crossed that line first. Even then, best to tread carefully.
But he's not complicated, and he's certainly not scary the way everyone seems to think he is — though you would categorize him as intense. Focused. It's what makes him such a good surgeon.
And sure, maybe he trains his laser focus on you more than anyone else in the ED. Maybe his attention is less sharp when it settles and finds you on the receiving end.
It doesn't mean anything, surely, but that didn't stop Santos from noticing, and it didn't stop her from making a shitty nickname, and if you were thinking a little more clearly, you'd have realized that you should've shut that shit down. Park is your much older, much more attractive, incredibly no-nonsense indirect boss, not to mention, you actually kind of like the guy. He probably wouldn't take lightly to everyone going around implying he's trying to get in your pants, and even if Santos is mean, she's not evil. She'd back off if you needed her to.
But you'd been tired, and distracted, and you hadn't really thought about it that hard. And when she called out "Sharkbait, get over here!" you hadn't corrected her.
Instead, you'd tapped out the last line of your sentence and carelessly called back, "Sharkbait, ooh-haha." It wasn't even a conscious decision.
It's from some fuckass movie you watched when you were eight, and you hadn't thought about it in years, but apparently that one word had been enough to trigger the call and response you learned in second grade. It shouldn't have stuck, either, but then Whittaker had called you Sharkbait while you were talking to a patient, and you'd muttered it under your breath, and now you just can't stop.
Everywhere you went, people called you Sharkbait. Even Robby does it sometimes, when he's calling you over to observe procedures. And you, in a true show of human adaptability, do not stop to think about why it's such a mistake. You hadn't caught it the first time, and you hadn't caught it the second time, and by the third it simply became another thing in the background. Another name, another title, none of them really you.
Everywhere you went, you'd parrot it back. Mostly it was an announcement, a way to say I'm here, I'm paying attention, tell me what you need, without quite so many words. In the more serious situations, it was a half-whispered thing under your breath, a reminder that there would be time where things weren't falling apart, and you would be capable of joy and whimsy again.
Either way, it always came.
Unless Brendan Park was in the room. The Shark walked in, and suddenly everyone was calling your full name like you're George fucking Bush. Even the mention of a consult from him was enough to dissuade the use of it for a few minutes.
All of which led to twenty minutes ago, when you'd been hunched over a trash can, shoveling a granola bar down your throat with such ferocity that you felt simultaneously like a starved horse and the kind owner feeding it.
You'd caught a glimpse of Park gliding through the ED like Moses parting the Red Sea, and had stuffed the last of your precious calories into your mouth in a desperate bid to be done by the time he reached you. Even when you weren't called over to present, he rarely came down without stopping by, so you'd gotten used to putting on your best face on a dime.
You could see that Dennis was going to call you over before he actually did it, so you'd already been shuffling over to the hand sanitizer when you it happened. "Sharkbait! Whittaker says you should present this one."
Your mind knew it was a bad idea — tried to stop your mouth from following through — but habit is a bitch. "Sharkbait, ooh-haha," you fired back, just loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise of the ED.
For a half-second, everyone froze.
Park turned to you, molasses slow. Arched an eyebrow. "You like that stupid nickname?"
You'd blinked at him. Refused to shrink under his gaze, or his tone, or the way it all made your blood sing and your skin burn. Forced your voice smooth and even, just as unbothered as he sounded about... well, everything. "I haven't really thought about it all that much, honestly. Mostly just reflex by now."
Maybe he genuinely believed you. Maybe it's because you've always been honest and efficient. Maybe he just doesn't think you have the balls to lie to him. Whatever it is, he hadn't commented on it further, so you didn't either.
You both pretended it never happened, right up until he disappeared back upstairs, and you allowed yourself a single moment to acknowledge the fact that you may have just lost all your goodwill with the best orthopod in the hospital.
What you don't know is that Park had been the one to start it with an offhand comment to Garcia about the ED dangling you in front of him like sharkbait every time he went down there. She'd repeated it to Santos, and soon it had spread like wildfire. Not what he'd intended, and he'd considered snapping at the mousy boy when he'd drifted by and heard him calling you that a few weeks ago — only to be stopped dead by your sweet little call-and-response, like you were fucking taunting him. Practically begging him to come bite.
The fact that you had the balls to do it with him right in front of you — and then look him dead in the eyes and call it reflex — has just cemented what everyone else already knows.
He wants you.
And if you don't mind flaunting that fact to the whole hospital, oblivious as you may be, he's not going to be the one to stop you.
Hello all! Here’s part 2 yay. Thank you all for the lovely messages and comments on part 1. I didn’t think these scenes were gonna be so detailed so definitely more action(and smut hopefully) will be in part 3. Didn’t think this was gonna be so slow burn damn.
Hope you like it! Luvs ya xx
2.9k words
Warnings: Swearing I think idk
Summary- Daryl is pissed after the argument, you look the bomb.com and get flirted with
~~~~~
The party had barely started and already half the men in Alexandria looked confused.
Rick stood near one of the tables outside, nursing a drink while watching groups of people gather beneath the string lights.
The women had completely taken over. Everywhere he looked there was laughter.
Carol was wearing lipstick. Rosita looked like she’d declared war on every eligible man within a ten-mile radius. Even Michonne had done something different with her hair.
It was strange…But nice. For once.
“You seein’ this?” Abraham asked, appearing beside him with a grin.
Rick huffed out a laugh.
“Hard not to.”
Abraham gestured vaguely toward the crowd.
“Whole damn town got ambushed by hairspray.” Abraham snorted. “Seriously though. They look happy.”
Rick nodded. They did.
Glenn was beside him, smiling as Maggie showed him her freshly painted nails for what had to be the fifth time.
“They still look nice,” Glenn assured her.
“You didn’t even look.”
“I did.”
“You absolutely didn’t.”
Rick couldn’t help smiling. Maggie left to get another drink.
“I think Rosita threatened Eugene with eyeliner.” aaron said replacing her spot.
“That sounds right,” Glenn laughed.
Eugene immediately pointed across the party.
“For the record, I was not threatened. I was aggressively encouraged.”
“Same thing,” Aaron said.“I walked into Carol’s house earlier and got kicked out because apparently I wasn’t allowed to see the ‘final reveal.’”
Glenn snorted.
“Yeah that's carol for ya.”
The conversation drifted naturally toward the topic everybody had been talking about all evening.
You.
Aaron shook his head.
“She really found all that stuff?” Aaron asked.
“Yep,” Glenn replied.
“Whole drug store.”
“Damn.”
Rick shook his head.
“Wasn’t exactly thrilled she went alone.”
“No kidding,” Abraham muttered. “But do the ladies look HOT!”.
A few chuckles followed.
The conversation might’ve stayed there.
Except Aaron suddenly looked past Rick.
Toward the opposite side of the street.
A grin appeared on his face.
“Oh.”
Rick followed his gaze.
Then Glenn.
Then Abraham.
Almost immediately, all four men started smirking.
Because there was Daryl. Sitting by himself.Again.
He was leaning against a porch railing with a beer in one hand, looking thoroughly miserable.
“Uh oh …He’s still sulking.”
“Ain’t sulking.”
Daryl hadn’t even looked up.
Glenn exchanged a glance with Maggie.
“Sure.”
“Ain’t.”
Aaron folded his arms.
“You’ve been sittin’ there all night.”
“Ain’t been all night.”
“It’s been an hour.”
“Same thing.”
Glenn bit back a smile. Daryl shot him a warning look. Traitor.
Rick took a sip of his drink. “Heard what happened at the gate.”
Immediately Daryl’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t.”
“Just saying.”
“Don’t.”
Rick ignored him.
“She scared the hell outta everybody.”
“Exactly.”
“But that ain’t no excuse for how you talked to her .” Silence.
Daryl stared at the ground. The music from the party drifted through the air. Laughter echoed from somewhere down the street.
Finally he muttered,
“I know.”
The answer came so quietly that Glenn almost missed it. Aaron’s eyebrows lifted.
“You know,” Aaron said carefully, “most people apologize after callin’ somebody a slut.”
Abraham winced at the abruptness of the Conversation. Daryl looked like he’d rather let the walkers have at him,
“Ain’t need a damn lecture.”
“Didn’t say ya did.”
“Then shut your damn mouth.”
Rick sighed.
“Daryl.”
The archer scrubbed a hand over his face. Already irritated. Already tired. Mostly because they weren’t wrong.
Maggie appeared beside Glenn carrying two drinks. One look at Daryl told her exactly what was happening.
“Oh good,” she said dryly. “We’re still doing this.”
Daryl groaned.
Maggie ignored him. “You really hurt her.”
His shoulders tensed.
“Know that too.”
The answer surprised everybody.
Including him.
Because there wasn’t even any fight left in it.
Just guilt.
Maggie’s expression softened slightly.
Only slightly.
“She did all that for us.”
Daryl didn’t answer.
“Not for attention.”
Still nothing.
“Not for men.”
His jaw tightened. Because that’s exactly what you’d said. Word for word. And hearing it repeated made him feel worse.
The silence stretched.
“Look,” Glenn said carefully, “she was trying to do something nice.”
Daryl rubbed a hand across his face.
“I know.”
“Then why’d ya say it?”
The question landed hard because Daryl didn’t actually have an answer.
Not one that sounded sane.
Because saying:
Because I thought she’d gotten herself killed.
Because every time she leaves the gates I can’t breathe right until she comes back.
Because seeing those bags made me realize she almost died for something I didn’t understand.
…wasn’t exactly an option.
So instead he grunted.
Everybody immediately knew he wasn’t going to answer.
“That’s what I thought,” Abraham muttered.
Daryl wasn’t paying attention to whatever they were saying anymore.
The words had turned into background noise. None of it registered.
Because you’d just walked out of the house.
For a second, Daryl genuinely forgot how to breathe. The porch suddenly felt too small. Too hot. Too crowded.
You stood at the top of the steps laughing at something Rosita said. The dress Carol had bullied you into wearing fit like it had been made for you. Your hair fell in soft curls around your shoulders. Even from across the street, Daryl could see the effort that had gone into it. The makeup wasn’t heavy. Wasn’t dramatic.
Just enough.
Enough to make you look like the woman you’d been before the world ended. Or maybe the woman you’d always been. Daryl wasn’t sure.
What he was sure about was that he couldn’t stop staring.
“Wow.” Aaron’s voice broke through the fog.
Daryl ignored him. Your smile widened at something Rosita said.
And there it was. That smile.
The one he’d spent all day wishing he’d never taken away.
Something twisted painfully in his chest. Because you looked happy. And he hadn’t been the reason for it.
For once, You looked completely free of him. No arguments. No bickering. No eye rolls. No yelling.
Just happy.
The realization hit harder than he expected.
“You should probably close your mouth.”
Daryl immediately snapped his jaw shut.
Aaron grinned.
“Thought so.”
“Shut up.”
Aaron laughed into his drink.
Across the street, Carol appeared beside you and immediately started fussing with your hair. You swatted her hands away. Carol ignored you and fixed it anyway.
The sight made something unexpected tug at the corner of Daryl’s mouth.
For years he’d watched you fight with everybody who tried taking care of you.
Carol.
Rick.
Maggie.
Him.
Especially him.
Stubborn as hell. Always had been.
You said something that made Rosita throw her head back laughing. Then you laughed too. Daryl felt the sound all the way from where he stood.
And God help him, you looked beautiful. Not because of the dress. Not because of the makeup.
Because for the first time in a long time…
You looked alive.
The thought hit him like a punch.
Suddenly he was back at the gate. Back to seeing those bags. Back to hearing your voice shaking with anger.
‘I didn’t do this for men.’
Back to watching tears gather in your eyes.
‘I’m tired of surviving like I’m already dead.’
Daryl swallowed hard.
Because now he understood. Looking at you standing there surrounded by people who cared about you…
He understood exactly why you’d done it. And somehow that made him feel even worse.
As if sensing it, your eyes lifted.
Across the crowd. Across the street. Straight to him.
Everything in Daryl’s body locked up. For one stupid second he thought maybe you’d smile.
Maybe wave. Maybe something. Instead your expression cooled instantly.
Like he was any other person at the party.
Then you looked away and kept walking.
The smile returned the second rosita said something else.
Somehow being yelled at would’ve hurt less. At least then you’d still be looking at him.
The moment you stepped outside, the noise hit you all at once.
Music. Laughter. Voices overlapping under the glow of string lights stretched between old houses.
Alexandria looked… different tonight.
Warmer, somehow.
Or maybe that was just what everyone was pretending.
You adjusted the dress Carol had insisted on helping you into, suddenly hyper-aware of how it sat on your body. Not uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar.
Like you were wearing a version of yourself you hadn’t met in a long time.
Rosita was talking beside you, but you only caught half of it.
Something about “not letting men ruin a good eyeliner moment.”
You laughed anyway.
It felt easier than thinking too hard.
Carol reached over and fixed a strand of your hair that had already fallen out of place.
“You’re gonna undo all my work,” she said softly.
“I didn’t ask for this much effort,” you replied, swatting her hand away.
But you didn’t really mean it. Not fully.
You felt people watching you as you moved down the steps.
Not in a bad way.
Just… aware.
Like you’d stepped into a version of yourself that existed before everything got sharp and loud and covered in blood.
For a second, your chest tightened.
Then Rosita bumped your shoulder.
“Relax,” she said. “You look good.”
You rolled your eyes.
“I look like I survived a makeover apocalypse.”
“That’s basically what happened,” she shot back.
You laughed again.
Easier. Lighter.
Like you could almost forget the way your hands still remembered holding weapons better than anything else.
Across the street, you saw him.
Daryl.
You didn’t mean to look.
It just happened.
He was sitting with the others, half in shadow, beer in hand.
Not moving much. Just watching.
You couldn’t read his expression from here. You weren’t sure you wanted to. Your stomach tightened anyway.
The memory of the gate flashed through your mind before you could stop it.
His voice.
Your voice.
The word.
You swallowed and looked away too quickly, pretending Rosita had said something funny again.
She hadn’t.
But you laughed anyway.
Because it was easier than letting your mind go back there.
You told yourself not to think about him.
Not tonight.
Not now.
Not when everything was supposed to feel normal.
“You’re doing that thing,” Maggie said, joining you.
“What thing?”
“Thinking too hard.”
You scoffed.
“I’m not.”
Maggie just smiled like she didn’t believe you.
You followed her gaze without meaning to.
And there he was again.
Still watching.
Still not doing anything.
You couldn’t tell what you were supposed to feel about that.
Anger? Relief? Nothing?
You settled on nothing.
Nothing was safer.
So you turned back to Rosita mid-sentence and forced yourself to laugh again.
But your awareness of him didn’t leave.
It just stayed there. Quiet.
At the edge of everything.
Like a door you weren’t ready to open.
Someone stepped into your space. Not close enough to be rude. But close enough that you noticed immediately.
Spencer Monroe. Of course.
He had that easy, practiced smile on his face,like the world hadn’t ended and he was still allowed to be confident in it.
“Hey,” he said.
You blinked, slightly thrown off. “Hey.”
Rosita’s expression shifted instantly beside you, like she was already bracing for entertainment. Maggie, a little further back, raised an eyebrow.
Spencer ignored them both. Or tried to.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you like this before,” he said.
You glanced down at your dress automatically.
“Oh. Yeah. That’s probably because I usually look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”
Rosita snorted. Spencer smiled wider.
“I was gonna say… you clean up pretty well.” There it was. The compliment.
Simple. Harmless.
Still made something weird tighten in your chest.
You weren’t used to that kind of attention anymore. Not soft attention. Not normal attention.
You shifted your weight slightly.
“Thanks.”
A pause.
You suddenly became aware of how many people were nearby.
How many eyes were not-so-subtly drifting this way.
Including his.
You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.
Spencer tilted his head slightly.
“You’re the one who went out for all this stuff, right?”
You hesitated.
“Yeah.”
“That was… pretty impressive.”
You gave a small shrug like it didn’t matter.
“It was just a run.”
“It wasn’t ‘just’ anything,” he said.
That made you pause. Because it sounded like he actually meant it. Not in a flirty way. Not exactly. Just… genuine.
Rosita leaned in toward Maggie behind you, whispering something that made Maggie try not to smile.
You ignored them.
Spencer shifted a little closer—not invading, just settling into conversation.
“So,” he said, “you going to enjoy the party you basically saved, or are you gonna stand here pretending you don’t like being told you did something good?”
That made you laugh. A real one this time..
“Did I save the party now?”
“I mean,” he said lightly, “you brought back civilization in a bottle. So yeah, kinda.”
You rolled your eyes, but your mouth was still curved.
“Civilization in a bottle. That’s dramatic.”
“I’m a Monroe. We do dramatic.”
That got another laugh out of you.
Easier again.
You didn’t notice the shift at first. The way Spencer’s tone softened slightly. The way he stayed where he was instead of stepping away. The way he was looking at you like you were something interesting, not just someone surviving.
You felt it across the street before you saw it. That pressure. That awareness.
Like someone had gone very still.
You didn’t turn. Not yet.
Spencer continued talking, saying something about how Alexandria had needed this kind of night for a long time. You nodded occasionally. Half listening, Half aware of something tightening in your stomach that had nothing to do with him.
Then he offered you a drink. You took it without thinking too hard.
“Thanks.”
And that was when you finally looked up. Not at Spencer. Past him. Across the street.
Daryl.Still on the porch. Still watching. Completely still now.
The expression on his face was unreadable from here. But something about the way his shoulders sat made your chest tighten anyway. Like he’d gone quieter. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just… gone inward.
You held his gaze for half a second too long. Something flickered there. You couldn’t name it. Then your expression shifted on instinct.
You didn’t smile.
Didn’t wave.
Didn’t soften.
You just… turned away. Back to Spencer.
Like it meant nothing.
Like it was easy.
Spencer was still talking, unaware of the shift. You laughed again at something he said. It sounded normal. It felt normal.
But your attention wasn’t fully here anymore. It was split now.
Between the conversation in front of you…
And the silence you could feel across the street.
Daryl should’ve left.
The second he saw you walk into the party, he should’ve gotten on his bike and disappeared for the night. Instead, he made the mistake of staying. Now he was miserable.
He leaned against the porch railing with his beer, staring stubbornly into the distance. Absolutely not looking at you. Not even once. Not at all.
“You’re starin’.”
Daryl didn’t look away from the street.
“Ain’t.”
Aaron appeared beside him, following his gaze directly to where you stood laughing with rosita.
“Mhm.”
Daryl took a long drink.
“Ain’t starin’.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
Aaron’s grin widened.
Daryl hated him a little.
Then daryls hunter eyes saw spencer monroe making a bee line for you.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Aaron muttered.
Daryl watched him stop beside you.
Watched you laugh at something he said. Watched Spencer smile. Then smile again. Then lean a little closer.
The beer bottle creaked in Daryl’s grip.
Aaron noticed Immediately.
“Uh oh.”
“Ain’t nothin’.”
“Daryl.”
“Ain’t nothin’.”
Aaron looked delighted. “You know Spencer’s flirting with her, right?”
Daryl’s jaw tightened. “No he ain’t.”
“He definitely is.”
“He talks like that to everybody.”
“He really doesn’t.”
Spencer laughed at something you’d said.
You laughed back.
Daryl looked like he wanted to fight God.
Aaron barely held it together. “Oh my God.”
“Shut up.”
“You are jealous.”
Daryl nearly choked on his beer. “The hell I am.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Ain’t.”
“Look at your face.”
“My face always looks like this.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
Daryl glared at him.
Aaron grinned.
Then things got worse. Much worse. Spencer offered you a drink. You accepted.
Daryl straightened immediately.
Aaron noticed that too.
“Wow.”
Daryl ignored him.
Spencer said something else.
You laughed again.
The sound carried across the street.
And somehow that annoyed Daryl most of all.
Because after everything that happened today…
After the fight.
After the yelling.
After seeing you cry.
Some asshole in a button-up shirt was getting more smiles out of you in five minutes than Daryl had managed all week.
The realization sat heavy in his chest.
Before he could stop himself, he pushed away from the railing.
Aaron blinked.
“Where are you going?”
“Need another drink.”
“There are drinks literally behind you.”
Daryl stopped , Thought about it. Then sat right back down.
Aaron burst out laughing. “You were gonna go over there.”
“No.”
“You absolutely were.”
“No.”
“Daryl.”
“Shut up.”
By now Glenn had wandered over.
“What’d I miss?”
Aaron pointed toward Spencer.
“Daryls not feeling this party”
He mouthed very discreetly the word “jealous” to Glenn and he understood instantly.
His smile grew.
“Oh.”
“Don’t.”
Glenn failed spectacularly at hiding his amusement.
Maggie arrived a few moments later carrying another drink.
One look at Daryl.
One look at Spencer.
One look at you.
And she immediately groaned.
“Oh, he’s even worse than I thought.”
“Thank you,” Aaron said.
“Shut up, both of ya.”
Maggie folded her arms.
“You know she’s doing that on purpose.”
Daryl frowned.
“What?”
Across the party, your eyes briefly flicked toward him.
Just for a second.
Then away again.
Back to Spencer.
Back to smiling.
Maggie’s grin widened.
“Oh, yeah.”
Daryl’s stomach dropped.
Because suddenly he wasn’t so sure Spencer was the one in control of that conversation.
Brendon’s wife breaks her ankle, is given morphine, and goofy chaos ensues. 😵💫 (random age picked for his wife, some medical terminology included.)
Thanks for all the love and support on my other Park x reader fics! I’m forever grateful to every one of you that reads, reblogs, and likes 🤍.
The stretcher rolled into the sliding doors of the PTMC Emergency Dept, the EMTs talking quickly to the staff. “30 year old female patient, was walking her dog when she twisted her ankle in a hole. She didn’t realize until she went to stand up that the bone was protruding through the skin. 18g IV started in right AC, 4mg zofran given for nausea, 30mg toradol given for pain with 1000mg PO Tylenol.”
You were fighting back tears as the doctors moved you from the stretcher to the trauma bed. “What’s your name?” A female doctor asked, shining a pen light in your eyes. You spoke your name in a shaky voice, wincing as someone began gently prodding your ankle.
“I’m Dr Robinavitch, but you can call me Dr Robby. This is Dr Santos and Dr Whitaker working with me today. You fell in a hole while walking your dog?” Dr Robby’s voice was loud, but steady, easily booming over the chaos in the room.
“Yeah, uh, I was walking him at the dog park and I guess one of the other dogs dug a big hole in the dirt and I just wasn’t paying enough attention, oh my god, ow!” You were cut off by Dr Santos pressing a handheld butterfly ultrasound against your ankle.
“Thready pulse noted, slight discoloration and swelling around the protruding bone.” She stated, wiping the gel off of your ankle. The words “protruding bone” made you ill. You didn’t want anything protruding from your body.
“Can we please get her some pain meds before her x-ray? And maybe an ortho consult, this is going to need surgery.” Dr Whitaker said, and Dr Robby nodded in agreement. “Any chance you’re pregnant?” Whitaker continued, and you shook your head.
“No, I took a test this morning and it was negative.” You said, gritting your teeth as Santos continued to assess you. Relief was quickly given through your IV, as cold morphine was pushed through.
“Good plan. Now who wants to call the shark?” The silence in the room was deafening, and you sighed with relief as the morphine really started to kick in.
You could faintly feel pressure as they secured your ankle, preventing you from moving it and causing anymore damage. The morphine had your mind spinning, your ears buzzing while a warm sensation tingled throughout your body. It had you so out of it, you didn’t even recognize the man that walked in the door of the trauma bay.
“This better be good, Robinavitch, I have shit to do.” Brendon Park announced, walking through the sliding doors and freezing, narrowly missing them closing on him. “What the fuck?” He uttered, almost knocking Whitaker down as he rushed to your bedside. The ER staff stood back in shock, watching the emotion on Park’s face as he took in your injury. “Baby girl, what did you do?” His large hands cupped your face gently, cradling you like you were made of glass.
Your head rolled back onto the stretcher, looking up at his handsome face. “Oh hey Brendon, what are you doing here?” While reaching a hand up and booping his nose. A strangled sound came out of Whitaker’s throat, and Santos watched with her mouth open. Robby just watched carefully, glasses perched on the crook of his nose. “You guys, Brendon is here!” You cheered.
“Yay..” Santos muttered, sarcasm evident in her voice. Brendon began tenderly looking at your ankle, grimacing at the exposed bone.
“Baby, this is going to need surgery.” He told you, running his hand through his slicked back hair, and you just grinned at him, not even realizing what he was saying to you.
“These are my new friends, Brendon! They’ve been so nice to me! Friends, this is my husband!” You announced proudly, reaching out and grasping his hand, showing off your wedding rings, side by side. Everyone was silent for a moment, before Brendon Park, the known ortho “shark,” cleared his voice.
“Jesus, Robinavitch. How much morphine did you give her?” You were looking at your husband adoringly, holding his hand to your chest and you fluttered your eyes at him.
“Apparently just enough.” Dr Robby cackled, turning and stepping out of the trauma bay, getting a handful of hand sanitizer on his way out of the room.
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.
Warnings!!: slowburn, Reader is an adult!!, mentions of death, gore, injury detail, hurt/comfort, angst, mentions of blood, mature themes, strong language.
Summary:
(You are hit with yet another problem in the prison. Could anything ever be easy in a world gone bad? The answer to that is no, absolutely not.)
A/N: Oh you guys just wait for the next chapter hehehe. I HOPE YOU ENJOY!
For the first time in months, you finally felt like maybe you’d gotten somewhere with Daryl, not anywhere particularly far but enough to know that he wasn’t all as bad as you’d originally thought.
The lighter, you thought maybe it was his way of apologising for being such a prick after your injury.
Maybe you were getting too far over your head. Maybe.
It was sunnier outside today; the yard felt fuller than it usually did. You didn’t mind the people this time. Seemed like your tolerance for people was broadening.
You spotted Rick and Carl in the pigpen, feeding the pigs.
You still hadn’t asked Rick about the whole thing about sending Daryl after you in the woods.
You didn’t really feel like it was the right time when everyone looked so…happy.
“Nice day today,” you said, leaning over the wooden fence boards. “You want me doing anything other than fence duty, Rick?”
Rick chuckled to himself, turning away and chucking some worms onto the dirt.
“You can stay on fence duty for now.”
You pressed your lips into a thin line. You’d expected that answer, but there wasn’t any harm in asking.
“Maybe she can help with the pigs?” Carl's eyes flickered from you and then towards Rick. “Can she, Dad?”
“Pigs already been helped,” Rick said, plopping the tin bucket onto the soil. “Maybe tomorrow.”
You shrugged.
“Right, okay then,” you sighed, pulling yourself back from the fence. “I’ll get back to it.”
Rick glanced at you.
“Yeah. You do that.”
He was feigning seriousness, but you could tell he was a fraud.
You rolled your eyes, backing away slowly, giving Rick a chance to change his mind.
The only thing that answered you was the sound of distant gunfire.
You froze, eyes panning towards the source of the sound.
Rick spun around, already moving towards the latch of the pen.
“Cell blocks?” Maggie yelled from the tower above.
“I don’t know!” Rick shouted back, already moving. “Carl, get in the tower with Maggie! Don’t argue. Go.”
Rick nudged you on the shoulder.
“You, with me, let’s go!”
You moved immediately, boots pounding against the gravel as you sprinted.
“What's going on?!” Your voice cracked from the sheer volume of your yell.
“Walkers in D!” Glenn shouted back, already running inside.
You didn’t speak; you just ran inside after him.
You were met with the sound of Walkers and the yelps of the other camp members.
This wasn’t a breach; it couldn’t have been.
You fired at a walker that was crawling after one of the children, pulling the boy to his feet immediately after the walker was down.
“You follow the others!” You shouted over the panic, shoving him towards the hoards of people running for safety. “Don’t stop running!”
He ran, an older man throwing him over his shoulder and darting with the rest.
Then you were back to killing the next walker that stumbled your way.
They were coming out of the cells; they were falling over the rails from above. The whole cell block had turned into a complete bloodbath.
The sound of gunfire surrounded you.
Then it went quiet.
“Are we clear down here?” Rick addressed everyone still standing. “We’re safe?”
“Yeah!” Sasha shouted back from the far corner of the cell.
Daryl was already moving up the staircase; you followed instinctively.
“Watch out.” He muttered to you, eyes scanning over the area, crossbow raised high.
You nodded, staying close behind, your bodies so close that you could practically feel the heat radiating off of him.
Dead bodies lined the floor. Blood splattered everywhere you looked.
It was a goddamn sight for sore eyes, that was for sure.
Glenn yelled by one of the cells, a walker pushing him against the wall.
“Get down!” Daryl shouted, releasing an arrow.
The walker dropped.
You rushed over; Daryl followed and yanked Glenn back up to his feet.
“You okay?” You panicked, hand instinctively moving to Glenn’s shoulder.
“I’m good,” he panted. “Thanks.”
You let out a sigh of relief.
Then you followed Rick and Daryl into the cell where the walker had emerged from.
“Oh, it’s Patrick.” Daryl uttered, eyes moving over the body.
“Shit.” You spoke quietly, wiping at the blood on your face with the back of your hand.
Daryl stepped back, leaning against the railing, looking out onto the floor below.
“That’s all of em.”
A beat.
Then everyone was moving to kill the ones that had been bitten. To kill the ones that had died.
You moved through the cells. You didn’t spot anyone until you made it to the last cell.
An older man, his face completely pale, purple veins painting the skin beneath his eyes.
You crouched down, pulling your knife from its sheath. You hesitated for a moment, and then silver buried itself into the older man’s skull.
The council soon gathered together for a meeting. You weren’t on the council, so you just went to your cell to get yourself cleaned up.
To clean the blood of your hands and your face.
You knew what’d happened. You overheard Rick talking to Hershel and Doctor S about it.
Patrick died because of a goddamn flu, and then he turned and went on a rampage.
A fucking flu managed to get that many people killed.
You had to stay away; that was the order. You’d been exposed, and nobody was taking risks of more people catching whatever this was.
The blood marked the dampened cloth as you scrubbed your face.
You scrubbed three more times, and then it was gone.
It wasn’t your own blood; that was the sickening part about it.
You threw the cloth onto the floor, pushing your head back against the wall and pulling the photograph out of your pocket.
It was a comfort thing, really, looking at how everything was before this, looking at your dog like he was still…here.
This cruel world had taken everything meaningful from under your grasp and chewed it whole.
Your finger skimmed over the material once, and then you folded it back up and pushed it deep inside your pocket next to the lighter Daryl had given you.
When you got back outside, more havoc had already started reeking.
One of the outer fences was caving completely. Shit.
You were supposed to be out there earlier. You were too busy being all sentimental in your room.
You sprinted over, joining the others in pushing the fence back.
It was much too heavy.
“Shit!” You heaved, gasping for air. “It’s too heavy!”
It bent further. Too overbearing. Too powerful.
“It’s gonna give!” Rick shouted.
Everyone pushed further, but it was no use. Your efforts were going nowhere.
“Everybody back!” Daryl pulled away from the fence. “Come on, back. Now.”
You jumped back, nearly tripping over a lone pebble on the ground. You composed yourself quickly.
A beat.
“Fence keeps bending in like that, walkers gonna come straight through it.” Sasha called out.
Rick sighed. He was contemplating something, you could tell.
“Daryl, get the truck. I know what to do.”
Daryl moved immediately. Your eyes followed him.
You didn’t expect a look back and you didn’t get one either.
You moved on, walking towards the half-dug graves.
Glenn followed. As did Maggie.
The sun was beating down ten times harder than usual, making it much harder to work efficiently.
You continued digging regardless.
One body went in, then another, a cross being stuck at the head of their graves.
These people were here this morning, and now they were six feet under.
You finished up, wiping away the sweat that beaded at your brow.
“You done?” Glenn asked, his voice slightly muffled under his mask.
You just nodded in response, placing your shovel onto the floor and leaving the scene abruptly.
Then your emotions came crashing down on you so hard that they almost gave you whiplash.
You went to the only place that you knew would be clear at this time of day: the tower.
You broke down when you got up there, sobbing hysterically. The tears rolled down your face, dampening your skin.
You were scared. You could finally admit that without being so stubborn now.
The camp was falling apart, and for all you knew, it could end up exactly like your old one.
Dead people.
You alone…again.
You lowered yourself down onto the cold metal deck, drawing your knees close to your chest and burying your head in your hands.
The tiredness consumed you whole. You were exhausted. You couldn’t stop your eyelids closing in on themselves.
You went out like a light.
Everything went quiet again.
Still.
“Ya sleepin’?” Daryl spoke gruffly.
Your eyes fluttered open slowly, landing on him.
You adjusted to the light again, realising that you’d let yourself fall asleep when you should’ve been working.
“Crap,” you let out an exasperated sigh, sitting up almost immediately. “How long have I been out?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t know. Ain’t been up here.”
You rubbed your eyes, clearing the sleep from your tear ducts before you picked yourself up and dusted over your pants.
“Anything happen?” Your eyes lifted to his. “Whilst I’ve been out?”
He didn’t respond at first, yet his eyes stayed on yours.
You knew that meant no good.
You raised your brow, waiting for his answer.
“Karen an’ David,” he started, eyes tearing away from yours briefly before they returned. “Somebody killed ‘em.”
Your eyes widened in disbelief.
“What…?”
“Tyreese is pretty cut up ‘bout it,” he added. “Started throwin’ punches at Rick.”
Your eyes flickered to the ground. You should’ve known you’d wake to more trouble.
A beat.
“Was lookin’ for ya to see if ya wanted t’come on a run.” he spoke finally, shifting the subject.
Your eyes shifted back towards his.
“Where you going?”
“Some veterinary college t’look for meds,” he breathed. “‘Bout fifty miles out.”
You hesitated.
He noticed that.
Then you realised that he’d come to you to ask for your help—he didn’t put it in those exact words, but you knew that’s what he was implying.
The quicker the antibiotics were obtained, the quicker these people would be back on the mend.
“I’ll go.” You spoke finally.
“C’mon then,” he spoke from the top step. “Go get yer gear.”
You nodded, pealing yourself off the railing and following him down the steps.
You didn’t walk particularly fast, nor did he.
You both shared the awkward silence like you both had split custody of it.
It was always the same. Just quiet.
“Ya been cryin’?” He asked quietly, his voice rough—that southern drawl was impossible to miss.
You didn’t expect him to talk. You didn’t even expect him to question it even though you knew he saw the dried tear tracks that had marked your face.
You looked at him.
This was the second time he’d found you crying: once at your old camp and now, he knew you’d been crying up on the tower.
“I was,” you sniffled, wiping at your cheek with the sleeve of your shirt. “Then I fell asleep.”
Daryl's eyes flicked over your face for half a second before he looked away again.
"Mm."
That was a typical Daryl response; you expected it.
But he still bothered to ask; that must’ve meant something. Well, at least it meant something to you.
Your eyes moved over the side of his face; you didn’t realise you were staring until Daryl cleared his throat.
Had he caught you staring? Shit.
Hopefully not.
“I’ll um…” you coughed, almost choking on your own embarrassment. “I’ll go get my gear.”
You didn’t wait for a response; you just went.
You should’ve known this never would’ve been a straightforward journey.
Walkers stormed the car, and you and the group had to make a run for it.
The walk nearly took you out; you were damn near exhausted.
Luckily, you’d managed to find an old garage on the side of the road.
Daryl stopped just by the side of it, scouting out something he’d spotted.
“You see something?” Bob questioned, stopping his tracks.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
He pushed through the overgrowth, the bottom half of his body disappearing behind it.
You waited.
“There’s a car.” He mumbled, pulling at the handle.
“Try the wires,” you said immediately.
Your dad had taught you how to Hotwire back when you were a kid.
You knew all too well how this worked.
Daryl yanked the car door open and crouched inside.
You, Bob, Tyreese, and Michonne pulled at the vines that covered the car's bonnet. They were stubborn, but they fell apart eventually.
“Anything?” You shouted out from the front of the car, hands settling on your hips.
“Nah,” Daryl sighed, emerging from the car. “We gotta find us a new battery.”
You huffed, moving around the building before anyone could follow you.
The way in was clear enough already. You gripped the vines and pulled at them.
“Hey!” Daryl protested, following you with the others behind him. “We don’t know what we’re dealin’ with.”
“Help me then.” Your voice was barely audible beneath your grunts.
Daryl’s eyes tracked over you once more, and then he joined you.
Then everyone else joined.
You pulled your knife out, chopping through the overgrowth aggressively; Tyreese was doing the exact same, beating down the lock on the steel door.
Aggressive. Overly so.
You were acting irrationally. You wanted out of this damn place so you could be back on the road to find those meds.
Daryl noticed, distracted, watching you with an unreadable expression on his face.
A walker shot out through the vines, gripping at the material of Daryl’s vest—he dealt with it almost immediately.
Michonne sliced through another walkers head that’d gotten too close to Bob.
You stabbed through the skull of another.
Then before you knew it, one was coming full force towards Tyreese. He didn’t let it go; in fact, he was dragging it out further.
“Tyreese let it go.” Michonne spoke from behind, sword still lifted.
He didn’t listen.
“Ty!” Daryl shouted.
The walker collapsed on top of him, pushing him to the ground.
You moved to help, but Daryl got there before you, yanking the walker back by the hem of its shirt.
Bob lifted his gun to shoot, but you took the kill rather, pushing your boot down hard into the walkers head, crushing it in one.
“Why didn’t you let go?” Michonne questioned Tyreese sternly.
No response.
Daryl’s eyes moved towards your own face, still catching his breath.
He wanted to say something, you could tell, but instead, he pushed a new arrow through his crossbow and moved with Bob towards the inside of the garage.
You knew that look didn’t mean any good.
You stayed back, helping Tyreese and Michonne pull the remaining vines from the car front.
They were bickering back and forth about what’d just happened with Tyreese back there.
You weren’t listening anyway, too busy with the task in hand.
“And you,” Michonne spoke, dragging your attention away from the car.
You looked at her, waiting for her to scold you too.
“The hell were you thinking walking over there like that without knowing what you were dealing with?”
“I was doing what needed to be done.” You spoke plainly.
Michonne sighed.
“You keep doing things like that and you’ll get yourself injured again.”
Her voice was calmer now, less stern.
You knew she was worried; she was worried about all of you.
You turned your attention back towards the car, dragging more growth out.
“I’m fine, Michonne.”
And that was that.
By the time Daryl and Bob got back with the battery, you were sat on the ground with your back against the wall.
Daryl didn’t even look at you.
He was probably thinking the exact same as what Michonne had spoke to you about.
You sighed.
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and then finally faced you.
“Ya still got that light?”
You raised an eyebrow, confused as to why he was suddenly asking you for a lighter now.
“Where’s yours?”
He didn’t answer for a moment.
A beat.
“Lost it.”
You didn’t move for a moment, eyes just watching him closely.
Daryl losing his lighter? Not like him.
Then you reached into your pocket, fingers catching on the photograph before you pulled the lighter he’d given you out, throwing it towards him.
He caught it and flicked it on, covering the flame with his hand, smoke flying from the burning end.
He chucked the lighter back towards you. You caught it.
Your eyes moved from him then to Bob, then back to him.
“Any of you guys have a spare smoke?”
Daryl threw you a cigarette from his pocket; it was slightly bent but still usable.
“Thanks.”
You flickered the lighter on.
The smell of tobacco filled the air around you, a wisp of grey smoke brushing against your skin.
Nobody spoke for a minute.
Daryl flipped the car bonnet and got to work fitting the battery. Bob was leaning against the wall smoking.
Your eyes panned towards Daryl. The silence from him wasn’t the usual kind; it was driven by something.
“Are you mad at me now?” You muttered, eyes staying on the side of Daryl’s face.
He stilled; you could practically see the cogs turning in his brain, and then—
He turned his head towards you rather than the engine.
“Ain’t mad at you,” he spoke dryly, voice slightly muffled due to the cigarette hanging at the corner of his lips. “Just gotta stop doin’ stupid shit.”
You huffed, taking a drag from the stick.
“I wasn’t being stupid.”
“Ya were,” Daryl finalised. “Runnin’ off like that just then. That’s stupid.”
You rolled your eyes, looking towards the ground. You couldn’t argue with him; he was right. Michonne was right too.
Stupid.
Everything around you went quiet.
You could hear Bob and Daryl talking about something, but their voices were distant, far away.
You were ruminating.
Everyone seemed to always say the same thing about you: how you did things so rationally, how stubborn you were.
It was always the same.
The engine coming to life snapped you back to reality, dragging you away from your thoughts completely.
The veterinary college was no piece of cake; it was over run—as expected—but you still managed to find what you needed.
The car ride on the way back was the worst.
It was deafeningly silent.
The sun was falling, and outside was a setting doused in low exposure.
Daryl was pissed at Bob after he’d caught him lugging around a bottle of alcohol in his bag rather than filling up on meds.
You were in the passenger seat; Daryl was driving. Tyreese, Bob, and Michonne were in the back.
You pulled the glovebox open out of sheer attempts to distract yourself from the high tensions between all of you.
Whoever’s car this belonged to before sure had good music taste.
You pulled a CD out of its case, hand trailing over the graphic design on the front.
Daryl's eyes flickered towards you; you didn’t look at him, you were too busy scanning through the track list.
“Why don’t ya try it?” Daryl muttered, his voice still rough but slightly reigned in.
Your head spun towards him at that. He wasn’t even paying attention to the road ahead, just busy glancing between the CD and your…face.
“You think the stereo works?”
“Try it.” Daryl repeated gruffly, eyes tracking over your face once more before he turned away.
You pushed the CD into the stereo, pressing play.
The static answered you at first, loud and obnoxious. Your expression was riddled with one of disappointment.
“I guess no music today then.” Michonne chimed in.
And then, you could hear the bass filter through the speakers, then a voice.
“Holy shit!” You chuffed, turning the volume up.
Michonne chuckled from the back seat.
“Hell yeah.” Daryl nodded.
You hadn’t heard music in a hot minute; music was your life before the apocalypse, and hearing it now after so long just felt like a complete breath of fresh air.
You were smiling ear to ear, and an unusual feeling riddled you: happiness.
After everything, after everything that was to come, it finally felt like a break.
The sun dipped fully now, the darkness surrounding you at all angles, the only light visible being the one emitting from the moon.
You could see the gates of the prison just up ahead. The gate opened, and Daryl hit the gas pedal harder this time, a sense of urgency in the way he was driving now.
The respite you’d felt early soon fluttered away as soon as the car pulled up outside of the prison.
The fences were holding on for dear life, the wooden beams supporting them now lying prone on the ground.
There had been a breach whilst you’d been gone.
You pushed out, pulling your bag off your shoulders and giving it to Tyreese.
“Get in there. We got this,” Daryl urged Tyreese and Bob.
Daryl and Michonne rushed towards the left-side fences; you rushed towards the right side with Rick.
You pushed the wooden beams that had become sloppy back into stiff, secure position.
“Is everyone safe?” You spoke through breathlessness, struggling slightly as you pushed a beam upward.
“Everyone’s fine.” Rick replied.
“Carol? Carl? Maggie? Hershel?” Your eyes moved towards his face, pressing further. “Are they okay?”
“Carl, Maggie, and Hershel are fine.” Rick grunted, pushing the last beam into place.
“And…Carol?” You spoke quietly, stepping back from the fences.
He didn’t answer at first; he didn’t even look up at you.
You could feel the dread creeping into your gut.
“Rick…?”
A beat.
“She killed Karen and David.” He spoke finally, eyes meeting yours then. “I had to send her away.”
“What?” You nearly choked on your own breath.
He sighed.
“She’s got supplies. She’s got a car. She’ll be okay out there.”
“You just left her?” Your brows furrowed, and your heart was beating tenfold.
Carol may have done wrong, but she was still your friend.
A good friend.
“I couldn’t have her here.” Rick snapped, frustration almost bubbling over the surface.
You scoffed, stepping back slightly.
A walker groaned by the fence. You pulled your knife out and stabbed it clean through the eyes.
“You better get some rest.” He muttered.
You didn’t respond.
A beat.
Then he turned away and headed back towards the prison, leaving you outside alone with what had just been said.
Carol was gone. You wanted to go out there and find her, but that, again, was another irrational thought.
People needed you here.
“This part secure?” Michonne spoke from behind you.
“Yeah.” You uttered, wiping your blade on the material of your pants. “Clear.”
“You okay?” she questioned.
You turned.
They were both looking at you now.
Daryl and Michonne.
You hesitated, eyes flickering away from them and towards the gravel below your boots.
“Rick sent Carol away.”
Your eyes flickered to Daryl's. His jaw tightened almost instantly.
“What?”
His words came out rough, sharper than usual.
“…she killed Karen and David.”
A/N: I hope you enjoyed lovelies!
Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the Taglist!💋
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist | ao3
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
Warnings!!: slow burn, reader is an adult!!, mentions of character death, gore, mentions of trauma, mature themes, strong language, angst, hurt/comfort, reader is extremely confused with her feelings😭
Summary:
(You had insisted that Daryl Dixon was, in fact, an asshole. But when it mattered most, it seemed he was always the first there—and that left your mind all over the damn place.)
A/N: listened to the tlou soundtrack whilst writing this and it was literally the perfect combination. I hope you enjoy lovelies!
The following morning was like a breath of fresh air, not in the literal sense of the phrase but in the sense that some of your restrictions had worn off.
No more standing still waiting for your healing to suffice. No more watching people risk themselves while you stood sweetly doing laundry or watching from the tower above.
Freedom.
If you could even class it as that.
“You gonna go on a run today?” Maggie fell into step beside you as you headed outside. “Daddy said he cleared you.”
You giggled, turning your head towards her as your steps fell in sync.
“Yeah,” you nodded, eyes scanning the lot. “Might go solo.”
Maggie looked at you as though you’d just said the worst thing you could’ve.
“Solo?”
“Mhm.”
“I don’t think Rick’ll be happy about that,” She scanned over your face; she was worried about you, you could tell. “With your leg an’ all.”
You were getting ticked off by the number of people questioning you.
Hershel cleared you. That was all there was to it.
Way to ruin the mood.
“Rick can’t stop me,” you finalised. “It’s not like he’s going to say no if I bring things back either.”
Maggie sighed.
“I can go with you…”
“No, Maggie,” you said, shaking your head and stilling your steps. “People only go on runs with others when they know they’ll run into something bad.”
Maggie’s eyes tracked over your face.
“I’m going on a short run as reinforced by your dad,” you said. “No need for backup when I’ve got my gun and two working legs.”
She went to speak, but she stopped herself at your stubbornness.
You knew what she would’ve said anyway.
“Plus,” you started. “I’m sure Glenn would want to tag along with you if you did come anyway and…I’m not about to be a third wheel on my first run back.”
She chuckled at that.
“Fine.”
You squinted your face at her jokingly.
“Gonna head to fence duty for a while.”
“Alright,” she nodded. “It’s really nice having you back out here.”
You shot her a smile before saying your goodbyes, turning on your heel and stalking your way up to the fence.
You got a few smiles on your way up there; it seemed like people really did miss having you out in the yard after your accident.
You took your usual spot on the fence away from prying eyes and lingering questions.
“What an ugly bastard—” you muttered, taking out the walker in question, wiping the remnants of its brain clean of your knife and onto your pants.
You took four more walkers out.
Four.
And then you spotted Rick talking with Daryl and Tyreese by the pigpen.
You may as well tell him you’d be going on a run now.
You made your way over, boots heavy against the floor, arms crossed over your chest.
“I’m going on a run today.” You interrupted their conversation—not on purpose; you just wanted to make your point clear as soon as you could.
Rick looked at you.
Then Tyreese.
Then Daryl.
You didn’t even look Daryl straight in the eye; you’d actually had time to have a deep think about his actions.
The avoidance, and then suddenly jumping to help you?
That pissed you off.
“You’re goin’ with these two, if you’re goin’ anywhere.” Rick stated.
“No, I’m not.” Your words came out fast. “I’m going on my own.”
“Ain’t safe out there.” Daryl uttered, eyes practically glued on yours.
“Yeah, well,” your eyes flickered to Daryl’s for a brief moment. “Did everything out there alone before I got here. I know how to handle myself.”
“Ain’t like that now.” Daryl spoke again, his voice rougher this time.
Tyreese didn’t speak a word.
Rick was already sighing, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What are you, hm?” You raised your brows at him, eyes fully on his now. “You my chaperone now or something? That’s funny, Daryl, because it’s not like you cared at all before.”
Daryl went to speak, but Rick cut him off instantly.
“Quit it.”
“No!” You raised your voice. “I’m sick of everyone treating me as though I’m some kind of fucking child!”
Rick looked at you properly then, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed.
“Nobody’s doing that.” Rick stressed.
You shook your head.
“You’re doing it right now.”
A beat.
“She’ll be fine Rick,” Tyreese finally cut in. “She’s a tracker. She knows the route and she’s got a gun.”
You nodded at Tyreese, thankful for his backup.
Rick sighed once more, already knowing nothing would be stopping you getting offsite.
“You better be back before night if you’re goin’.”
“I will.”
And then that was it; you didn’t even wait for another word; you just went.
You grabbed your gun from your cell, your satchel, extra ammo from storage, and a new silencer for your weapon.
“You going on a run?” Carl questioned as you made your way outside.
“Yeah,” you smiled at him, not slowing down.
You wanted out as soon as you could; you needed a break from everyone.
“Don’t die out there!” He shouted out from behind you, his voice carrying through the wind.
You chuckled to yourself.
“I won't, Carl! I won’t!”
The gates opened, and you were soon stalking your way toward the forest.
Glenn covered you from the tower as you walked, taking out the walkers that moved your way.
The leaves crunched beneath your boots, and the wind brushed through your hair.
You weren’t exactly tracking anything in particular; you just knew exactly where your feet were taking you.
Your old camp.
You knew there would still be supplies out there, and you were certain the walkers would’ve drifted elsewhere after they’d eaten their way through your old friends.
It was bittersweet, really.
You missed them.
A walker stumbled out of the brush, grumbling loudly; you took it out without even looking at it.
Then it felt like the whole world went silent.
That’s what you wanted. You wanted the peace, the solitude.
But the silence only meant bad.
You kept moving.
Your camp was a long way out, and if you wanted to get there and back by dusk, you had to be fast.
You just need to make a quick pit stop first.
A cabin sat just ahead of you; you’d seen it many times before, but you were much too weak to even attempt to search it.
Guess now was the time.
Your hand snaked around the handle, turning it slightly.
It opened with a creak.
You entered.
The smell was stale and pungent, attacking your senses all in one.
You pushed through anyway.
You flicked through the cabinets; most of it had already been picked over, but there were still a few tins stacked underneath the faucet.
You pushed them into your satchel and continued searching.
The rest of the place was empty; you’d gotten lucky finding those tins.
You moved towards the door you came in through, pushing it open whilst fiddling with the strap on your bag.
You didn’t even notice the walker stumbling towards you.
Too distracted.
It made a moaning noise, and that’s when your eyes finally picked up. You frantically drew your weapon to shoot, but before you could—
Somebody had taken it out clean through the eyeball for you.
You froze as the walker dropped in front of you, an arrow straight through its skull.
An arrow.
You knew whose arrow almost immediately.
You exhaled through your nose, eyes scanning the area.
“You following me now?” You shouted out.
No answer.
A beat.
“Just leave me alone, Daryl.” You rolled your eyes, stepping over the dropped body and continuing on your commute.
“Rick sent me.” He emerged from behind a tree, crossbow still raised.
You glanced at him for a minute before you turned again, keeping your distance from him.
“So you’ve been following me my whole time out here?”
“Ain’t followin’ you.” He grunted, trailing you slowly.
“So what are you doing then?” You faced him, eyes widening.
“M’followin’ Rick’s orders.”
“Bullshit.” You spat, hands gripping the sides of your pants so hard your knuckles turned white.
“It ain't.” He spoke back, jaw tightening.
You scoffed, turning away from him.
He still followed. Leaves crunching beneath his feet with every step he made.
“You know what's funny?” you called over your shoulder. “Nobody cared what I did before my injury.”
Daryl's expression darkened.
“That ain't true.”
“Really?”
You spun around again.
His eyes flickered away for half a second at that, but you caught it.
Another beat.
“And now you want to stand on some fucking moral high ground?” You raised your voice, words coming out sharp.
“The hell's that suppose’ to mean?” His own tone rose now, voice gruff.
“You know exactly what it means.”
“I ain’t on no damn moral high ground!” He seethed. “You don’t know what the hell yer talkin’ about!”
“Really?” you hissed.
His temper flared.
“Ain’t my fault ya got some suicide wish comin’ out here alone!”
You looked at him, brows furrowing; somewhere deep down, that statement hurt.
Hurt enough to knock the fight out of you.
“Just go back, Daryl.” You sighed, turning and making your way back through the leaves.
He waited a beat and then—
He was back on you like a damn fly.
You didn’t want to speak anymore. Neither did he.
You walked in utter silence for the rest of your journey, and then, you spotted it: your old camp.
The tents had dipped to the floor a long while ago, you could tell. The wood centered in the middle had gone completely black, the smell of ash flickering through the air.
You could feel your chest begin to ache seeing it all again.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself forward; everything felt ten times harder being out here after you’d built the courage to finally come back.
It didn’t feel fair, you being here and them not.
Maybe it should’ve been you.
Your boots carried you further to what used to be your tent. Most of it had collapsed inward, the canvas rotted from the months of rain it had endured before finally giving up.
You crouched beside it anyway, fingers lifting the material up slightly to peer under.
Your hands brushed against everything, unsure of what they were looking for exactly.
Then they skimmed over a canvas.
A photograph of you and your dog from back home, back home when everything was okay.
You had carried it everywhere with you; you only lost it when your camp went downhill.
You stared at it, chest aching so violently that you could have thrown up.
Daryl noticed.
“'Ey.”
You didn't answer.
“'Ey.” He repeated, nudging your foot gently with the toe of his boot.
Your eyes never left the photograph.
The edges were worn soft from years of being folded and unfolded, carried from place to place.
“I found him when I was fifteen,” you murmured. “Someone left him half-starved on the damn side of the road.”
Daryl stayed quiet.
You weren't even sure why you were talking. You didn’t elaborate further.
The silence stretched.
The camp suddenly felt too small.
Empty.
Dead.
“They're all dead.” Your voice was hoarse as you tried to stop yourself from crying.
Daryl's gaze shifted from you to the collapsed tents.
“Ain’t on you.” His tone was calmer now, less aggravated than before.
You looked back down at the photograph, a lone tear splashing against the image.
Daryl pretended not to notice; you couldn’t tell if that was better or worse.
Probably better.
“C'mon.” He tapped you gently on your shoulder.
His touch was almost…grounding.
“What?” You sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand.
“We ain't gettin' back 'fore dark if ya sit here all day.”
You looked at him.
He looked back.
“Take the picture.”
You didn’t hesitate, folding the photograph carefully and slipping it into your pocket.
Then you stood, collecting yourself.
“Check the tents,” you started, wiping at your eyes again. “I’m sure there will be stuff still in them.”
His eyes tracked over yours for a moment before he nodded.
You ended up managing to find about a dozen unopened tins, some bandages that had survived the mold, and some unopened bottles of water.
Then—
You left.
Dusk had already started to fall, settling slowly over the trees.
You and Daryl walked in silence.
The argument from earlier had burnt itself out now, and the silence was simply because neither of you knew what to say.
It seemed you never knew what to say to him, and he, vice versa.
The photograph sat folded inside your pocket, fingers touching it through the material of your pants every so often to make sure it was still there.
Your foot stubbed against a fallen branch that you’d failed to see in the dark.
Your leg protested immediately.
Not enough to stop you but enough to remind you that you were still, in fact, injured.
Daryl's eyes flickered downward. You noticed.
“I'm fine.” You muttered.
“Ain't say nothin’.” He grunted.
“You were thinking it.”
“Nah.” He spoke, eyes glancing over towards you.
A lie; you could tell.
You rolled your eyes, focus returning towards the route ahead.
A few minutes passed before you spoke again.
“I forgot what this felt like.” You said quietly, the hoarseness still evident in your voice but less so than before.
“What?” He questioned, eyes moving to the side of your face.
“Being out here.”
Your eyes tracked over the woods around you.
“The quiet.”
A beat.
“Everything at the prison's so...” you started, trying to find the right word. “Loud.”
Daryl huffed softly through his nose, an agreement almost; at least, it sounded like one.
You glanced at him.
“You get it.”
“'Course I do.”
That was probably the most obvious thing he'd said all day.
You smiled despite yourself.
You spotted movement between the trees before Daryl did, hand instantly moving towards your gun.
A walker: It’s body half-rotted, a limp in its walk, and a groan coming from its mouth.
You drew your gun.
Before you could aim, Daryl's hand briefly caught your forearm.
The contact surprised both of you, his grip dropping almost immediately.
“I got it.” He whispered.
You blinked.
The walker barely had time to turn before Daryl’s knife buried itself in its skull. Its body dropped, hitting the forest floor with a thump.
Daryl wiped the blade against his pant leg, blood staining the material.
You stared at him.
“Whatcha starin’ at ?” His eyes raised from his knife to you.
You didn’t even know yourself why you were staring.
“Nothing.” You shook your head, moving without waiting for him.
A few steps later, he fell into pace beside you again, kicking at rocks that lay in his path.
You adjusted the strap of your satchel higher onto your shoulder.
After another minute, Daryl spoke.
“That picture.” He pointed lazily towards your pocket, eyes not bothering to look at you.
You blinked.
“What about it?”
“The dog.”
Your hand instinctively moved to your pocket; you hadn’t expected him to bring it up.
“What about him?”
Daryl shrugged.
“What was S’name?”
“Rocky.” Your voice broke slightly.
Daryl nodded once.
Your eyes lingered on the side of his face, brows furrowing slightly.
Confused.
Nobody had ever confused you as much as Daryl did.
Your eyes moved away after a moment, and when they did, they were met with the dark outlining of the prison tower and then the prison in whole.
Carl's voice echoed faintly through the distance. “They’re back!”
You laughed.
“Damn kid.” Daryl muttered under his breath at the pure loudness of Carl’s voice.
The gates opened slowly.
You entered, a whole hoard of people gathering around the gate like it was a ‘welcome home party.’
Maggie's eyes immediately dropped to your leg. “How's it feel?”
“It’s fine.”
Glenn moved over to take part of the supplies from your bag.
“Damn.” His eyebrows rose.
“Found my old camp.” You shrugged, words coming out flatter than you’d intended.
Glenn's smile faded slightly; Maggie’s did too, but neither of them pushed.
They understood that it was still raw for you.
Tyreese took a few of the tins. “Good haul.”
“Yeah.”
“Daryl helped—”
You cut yourself short realising Daryl wasn’t beside you anymore.
Your eyes panned to your left, then your right, looking for him, but—
He was already about twenty feet away from you now. His crossbow slung over his shoulder.
You just started.
Watched.
The yard slowly dispersed around you.
Carl lingered a second longer than everyone else.
“You didn’t die. That’s good.”
“Told you I wouldn’t.” You snorted.
His grin widened before he jogged away, probably to find his dad.
After that, you were left standing by the gate alone, gaze drifting over the darkened lot.
You huffed, making your way through the yard and towards your cell.
The days began flying by like clockwork after that night; everything just seemed to have fallen into place.
Except…
You still couldn’t make your mind up on Daryl. You’d been thinking about him a lot more than you would’ve liked to admit, and that freaked you out.
Were you civil or were you not?
Beth had made a tally chart, something about how many days camp had gone without an accident; you found it sweet, honestly. At least someone had hope in such dark times.
You woke later than you usually did that morning.
Clearly, you needed the rest.
You ran a hand over your face, groaning as you always did; the cell mattress really wasn’t doing any favours for your back, but you couldn’t complain.
Your eyes flickered over the cell. The photograph you’d retrieved from your old camp sat on a small, wooden, makeshift table. You picked it up and placed it straight into your back pocket.
You told Carol that you’d help her cook some deer meat that Daryl had caught on a run yesterday.
You stalked through the corridor, completely passing each cell.
Then, you stopped and turned around.
Beth’s cell.
You wanted to see what day you were on without an ‘accident.’
She was lying on her bed reading some kind of old magazine when you knocked against the metal bars.
“Hi Beth.” You smiled gently. “Just wanted to check in on what day we were on without an accident in camp.”
Her eyes flickered up from the magazine towards the tally chart.
“It’s been thirty days!” She couldn’t hold back her smile.
“Great.” You nodded. “See you around Beth.”
Then you were off again, making your way outside.
You rounded a corner, and the only smell that hit you was that damn deer meat.
Carol had started without you.
“Carol!” You groaned, hands situating themselves atop of your hips. “I was supposed to be helping you with that!”
She chuckled slightly, turning towards you.
“I didn’t want to wake you because I know you needed the sleep,” she started. “And Patrick’s been helping me.”
“You should’ve woken me up, Carol.”
You huffed.
“Too late.” She lengthened the words out, a hint of amusement in her tone.
You weren’t impressed.
You pulled a piece of meat off the bone and popped it into your mouth.
It was good.
Surprisingly so.
“Good.” You pressed your lips into a thin line, too stubborn to admit that the food was actually nice when you didn’t have a hand in cooking it.
Carol looked like she was about to scold you. Half serious, half not.
“What?” You raised a brow. “I said it’s good…”
“It’s your tone.” She spoke, amusement riddled in her voice.
You rolled your eyes, popping another piece of deer into your mouth before you rested against the edge of the wooden table.
“There supposed to be a run today?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Carol nodded. “You wanna go?”
“Wanted to.” Your eyes flickered away from carols and over the lot. “Also need a new lighter, might be one there.”
“Well, why don’t you ask Daryl?” She uttered, her voice barely audible now from the background chatter.
“Where is he right now?” You didn’t face Carol, distracted by the movement near the fence lines.
“Right there.” She muttered.
You turned almost immediately, and funnily enough, Daryl was standing right behind you, picking off pieces of meat from the tray.
He seemed to have a thing for staying as quiet as humanly possible when in your presence.
Why? You had no clue.
You were also certain Carol had picked up on your behaviour around one another. Maybe you were overthinking it.
“Ya wanna go on the run?” He lowered his head slightly, the gruffness in his voice evident.
He was there the whole damn time and didn’t even think to say a word.
“Yeah,” your eyes met his. “When are you leaving?”
“Soon.”
You studied him for a moment before you spoke.
“Gonna go get my stuff then.”
He grunted, turning back towards Carol.
“Uh,” you scratched the top of your head, eyes moving back towards Carol. “I’ll see you later, Carol.”
You didn’t want to intrude any further, so you just headed back inside to get your things.
You happened to be the last one out; it seemed like everyone was waiting on you.
“Shit,” you placed your rifle into the back of the truck, then your satchel. “Sorry.”
“You ready to go?” Sasha spoke, arm braced on the open door of one of the cars.
“Yeah.”
Then, you were on the road.
Bob was on your left; Michonne was on your right—she’d volunteered last minute to go on the run.
“Be careful this time,” Michonne uttered to you. “We don’t need you injured again.”
“I’ll be careful.” You smiled, hands drumming against your thighs.
You were stressed. Anxious. Paranoid: This was your first major run since the injury.
“Listen,” Michonne whispered, nudging you slightly on your arm. “You’ll be good out there. You always are.”
“She’s right.” Glenn added from the front seat.
“Thank you, guys,” you started. “But…please don’t get all soppy on me.”
That got a few chuckles.
You’d be fine. Hopefully.
The area looked mostly clear when you arrived. Sasha had lured the hoards away a few days early with a boombox.
This place looked like some kind of military setup: tents, flags, trucks.
Guess none of them were so lucky.
Daryl banged against the glass of the storefront.
“Jus’ give it a second.”
“Okay, I think I got it.” Zach chuffed, leaning against a brick wall.
You raised an eyebrow, confused as to what on earth he was talking about.
“Got what?” Michonne questioned.
“Oh, I’ve been trying to guess what Daryl did before the turn.” Zach turned, looking at Michonne for a second before sitting on the brick edge.
“He’s been tryin’ ta guess for like six weeks.” Daryl added.
You glanced briefly between Zach and Daryl and then Michonne, trying your hardest to remain composed.
“What’s your conclusion then, Zach?”
A beat.
“Well, the way you are at the prison,” Zach started. “You being on the council, you’re able to track, you’re helping people, but you’re still being kind of…”
Zach searched for the word.
“Surly.”
Surly was right.
You narrowed your eyes, falling into place beside Michonne, both of you waiting for what would be said next.
“Big swing here,” Zach continued. “Homicide cop.”
Michonne laughed at that.
Your eyes widened immediately, a smirk spreading over your lips. “Oh, I think you’ve got it spot on there, Zach.”
Sarcastic.
Daryl knew that tone in your voice all too well, and he shot you a glare in return, but it didn’t carry any malice.
“The man’s right.” Daryl nodded his head, eyes lingering on yours. “Undercover.”
“Come on, man,” Zach responded, completely oblivious to what was going on. “Really?”
“Yup,” Daryl’s eyes moved from yours and then towards the space ahead of him. “I don’t like ta talk about it ‘cause it was a lot of heavy shit, y’know.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” You shot out, lips pressing into a thin line.
You saw Daryl’s lips flicker into something more than the usual scold at that.
Then he composed himself and looked away.
“Dude, come on, really?” Zach pressed again, still unaware.
Daryl turned towards him, finally done with the questions.
That was all the answer that Zach needed to know that Daryl was a complete bullshitter.
“Okay.” Zach nodded to himself, clearly disappointed that he didn’t get it. “I’ll keep guessing, I guess.”
Daryl cleared his throat.
“Yeah, ya keep doin’ that.”
You chuckled to yourself, as did Michonne.
And then, as if the world had a strict agenda against laughing, a walker bashed against the window inside.
It almost made you jump. Almost.
Daryl stood up at that, crossbow tight in his grip.
“We’re gonna do this, detective?” Michonne joked, readying her sword.
“Let’s do it.”
Everyone filed through, taking out the walkers one by one; they never stood a chance against all of you.
You separated from the others, eyes scanning over the tills, looking for a new lighter, but to no avail.
Nothing.
Guess you’d have to wait for another run to find one.
You picked up a few things you thought useful and shoved them into your satchel.
You adjusted it.
Then a crash.
Your head rose immediately, jogging towards the source. A wine shelf had collapsed, trapping Bob underneath.
You rushed over, as did Daryl.
“Shit!” You yelped, crouching down.
“You cut or somethin’?” Daryl asked.
“No man!” Bob panicked. “But my foot is caught!”
The ceiling groaned above you; your head snapped towards it and then…
It caved.
A walker came through it, swinging on the metal structure after it had gotten caught on its own guts.
“We should probably go now!” Glenn spoke with urgency.
“Get Bob!” Daryl shouted, readying himself for the fallout, crossbow raised.
Then havoc broke out; several walkers piled through the ceiling, hitting the ground violently.
You fired immediately, as did everyone else.
One walker dropped.
Then another.
The ceiling groaned again, another pile of walkers collapsing through.
There were too many of them.
A walker fell straight on top of you from the roof above, trapping you under its body, knocking your weapon straight from your hands.
You pushed at its head, fingers sinking into the mushy flesh, but it didn’t give.
“Fuck,”
A blade sunk through its brains, the sharp end just mere inches from your face: Michonne.
“You okay?”
She pushed the walker from you, extending her arm out to pull you up.
“You get bit?”
“No—no, I’m fine.”
She yanked you up, stabbing another walker straight through the eyes after you were on your feet.
“Everyone move!” Sasha yelled.
“Get Bob!” Zach shouted, firing his gun.
Daryl threw his crossbow over his shoulder, grabbing the edge of the shelf.
Zach joined him. As did you.
You planted your boots, pain shooting up your closed wound; you ignored it completely.
The shelf shifted.
Daryl dragged Bob out, pushing him to his feet.
“Get out now!” Michonne shouted with urgency.
You ran, falling into place beside the others.
Zach didn’t move, a scream tearing through his throat.
You turned, eyes widening in horror, watching as a walker chomped straight through his leg.
Everything stilled around you, noise pitching out.
“Zach!” Glenn shouted.
You froze up completely.
“Go!” Daryl barked, grabbing your arm and hauling you out of the way.
The ceiling caved completely, dust spilling from whatever had fallen through it.
You moved fast, but your brain hadn’t caught up as quickly as your feet did.
Zach was there a minute ago, and now he was being mauled. You had all left him there to be turned into one of those…
Monsters.
The guilt crept into your stomach, knocking the air straight from your lungs.
You didn’t even register anything else until you were back at camp.
You gave your supplies to Glenn and moved in silence towards the fences.
You needed to keep your mind busy.
Your knife moved through the gaps messily. Not as professional as you usually were.
“You good?” A voice beckoned from behind you. Southern—flat.
You knew who it was: Daryl.
“Fine.” You lowered your knife, turning towards him. “You?”
He nodded in response. You could tell he wasn’t as ‘good’ as he claimed. You didn’t question it.
“I—uh,” you sighed, scratching the back of your neck. “I keep having to thank you for things, but I just wanted to say thanks…for pulling me out back there.”
Another nod.
“You gonna tell Beth?” You questioned.
“Yeah,” he grunted.
A beat.
Daryl reached into his vest pocket, pulling something out; you barely paid attention until he held the thing towards you.
A lighter.
He wiggled it impatiently.
“Take it.”
You stared at it before taking it from his hand, rolling the cogs to see if the gas still worked.
It ignited.
“Where'd you get this?” You questioned, hand tracing over the engravings over the casing.
“The store.”
You looked at him, really looked at him this time.
“You hear me speaking to Carol about it?” You tilted your head slightly.
He just looked at you. No response. No nod. No grunt.
That spoke words. He had heard you.
“Well, thank you, Daryl,” you spoke quietly. “Again.”
“Ain’t nothin’.”
You slipped the lighter into your pocket beside the photograph of your dog.
Somebody called you from in the distance, dragging your attention away from him.
A beat.
“I’ll see you later, Dixon.”
You didn’t even mean to call him by his second name; it just slipped out before you could even stop yourself.
He grunted.
That was goodbye enough.
A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed!!
Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the Taglist!!💋
I was half expecting reader to confront Rick about sending Daryl after her only for Rick to be like ‘I didn’t send him.’ Then she’d realize he was just worried about her!
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