Pairing: Andrew Pope Cody x lover!reader
Warnings: heavy angst, hurt, blood, injury, gunshot wound, knife wound, graphic descriptions of medical procedures, emotional breakdown, guilt, established relationship.
Summary: You begged Andrew to let you go on a job, but when things go brutally wrong, you are used against the Cody brothers. Left severely injured and bleeding out, Andrew is forced to stitch you back to life.
A/N request + my first bloody angst andrew fic !!
🎀 based on this request🎀
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
Andrew had told you no.
He’d told you no at least a dozen times, trying to keep you in the safety of the house. “I don't have a good feeling about this, baby.” he’d muttered into your hair the night before.
But you were tired of being left behind in the house.
You begged. You told him you could handle it.
Now, you were choking on your own blood, tied to a chair as Andrew’s worst nightmare was playing out in real time.
The plan was simple, or as simple as a Cody job ever got. A quick exchange, a lockbox of clean bonds, and out. But the crew they were dealing with wasn't looking to trade; they were looking for revenge since they noticed the Cody's were at his territory.
When you woke up, the metallic taste of blood was thick on your tongue. The room was dark, standing in the shadows was a man whose face you couldn't see, holding a burner phone.
And on the other end of the line was Andrew.
"I don't give a shit about the bonds," Andrew’s voice came through the speaker. It didn’t sound like him. The usual calculating edge was entirely gone, replaced by desperation. "You touch her, and I will personally dismantle every single person you’ve ever spoken to."
"She's alive, Cody," the man holding the phone drawled, stepping closer to you. He drew a hunting knife from his belt. The blade caught the weak light. "But the price just went up. You brought your own weakness to a job… not so intelligent of you, isnt it? That costs extra, I know you would give everything for her. Poor she. She's really beautiful, you know? Looks like an angel… such a shame I have to make her bleed."
"Name the place." Andrew roared through the phone. You could hear the screech of tires in the background. "We’ll bring the cash. All of it. Don't fucking touch her."
"I don't like your tone, Andrew," the man said smoothly. Without breaking eye contact with you, he drove the knife down into your thigh.
The scream that tore from your throat didn't even sound human. It was an agonizing tear as the blade sliced deep, dragging through muscle and severing a major artery. Dark arterial blood instantly began to pump through your denim.
"No! NO!" Andrew shrieked over the line, the sound of his voice breaking completely. "Stop!"
"Relax, man, I'm just making sure you understand the stakes," the man said. He pulled the knife out with a sickening squelch. The room started to spin. You started losing blood, very fast.
"I'm going to kill you," Andrew whispered, a shaking promise. "I am going to rip your fucking throat out."
"Bring the bonds to the docks. Container 42. Then I will tell you where she is. You have… ten minutes maximum before she bleed out. And Andrew? No brothers. No help. Just you. You were the only one who knew about the lockbox."
The man hung up the phone. He looked down at you, tossing the bloody knife onto a table. "Let's make sure you don't try to run, pretty thing."
He pulled a gun from his waistband. You couldn't even move to cringe away. A bullet pierced your leg and shattered your calf muscle. The force of a kick to your side knocked you and the chair down completely. You hit the ground hard, the pain so blinding that your brain simply shut off the signals, leaving you floating in a numb void.
You couldn't breathe. You couldn't scream anymore. You could only watch the blood expand toward the floor.
You have no idea how much time has passed. Your body was cold, beginning to tremble slightly. The pain in your leg had disappeared; you could barely feel you lower body. Exhaustion was taking over your body when the door was kicked open.
Through the haze of your fading consciousness, you heard gunfire. Rapid, deafening, and relentless. There were no shouts, no warnings, just the execution of the men in the room.
Then, hands were on you. Untying you and then on your face.
"Hey, hey, look at me. Look at me, baby, please."
Andrew dropped to his knees in the puddle of your blood. His face was pale, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He looked entirely broken. The fierce Andrew Cody was gone; this was just a man watching his world end.
He ripped his flannel off, his hands shaking so violently he could barely manage it, and shoved it hard against the gaping wound in your thigh.
You let out a pathetic whimper, your fingers feebly twitching against his vest.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he sobbed, pressing his weight into the wound to stop the bleeding. He took your face in his other hand, his thumb smearing blood across your cheek as he tried to keep your eyes locked on his. "Stay with me, fuck, baby, please. Do not close your eyes. You hear me? You gotta stay awake for me."
"Andrew..." you breathed, the word barely a puff of air. "C-Cold."
"I know, I know, baby, I'm right here." He looked up, screaming toward the doorway. "Baz! She's bleeding out!"
Baz appeared in the doorway, his face grim, already calling a dirty backalley doctor. "All clear. Car's running. Move."
Andrew scooped you into his arms, lifting you gently despite the horrific injuries. As he pulled you against his chest, your blood soaked entirely through his shirt. He ran out into the pouring rain, holding you like you were made of glass, pressing his lips against your forehead over and over again.
"I shouldn't have let you come," he whispered fiercely into your hair as he threw you into the back seat of the truck, climbing in right after you to keep pressure on your wounds. "I should have locked you in the house. This is on me. This is all on me."
A deep agony appeared in his chest when your eyes started closing. "Baby, hey, open your eyes, don't do that," he desesperatly tried to keep you awake, and took your hand with his free one. "Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, please give me a sign, anything." You moved your fingers, interlacing them lightly with his, pressing gently. He sighed and screamed Deran to hurry.
The truck screeched away into the night and Andrew held you tight, his tears mixing with the blood on your skin, begging god to let you open your eyes one more time.
Andrew's hands were glued to your thigh. They couldn't go to a hospital, not with gunshot wounds, not with a Cody job gone loud. It had to be the house.
Andrew carried you in. When he laid you down on the hard wood, the bright lights showed the true horror of it all: the deep slice in your leg and the bloody mess of your calf.
"Get out," Andrew rasped after some seconds, not looking at his brothers. "Everyone out. Leave."
"Andrew, you need help with—" Baz said after starting an IV, but Andrew whipped his head around, his eyes were wild.
"Out!" he roared.
The brothers backed away, closing the doors to the room, leaving only him and the sound of your ragged breathing.
Andrew tore open the medical kit, his hands fumbling with the bottles of antiseptic, local anesthetic, and heavy nylon sutures.
He knew how to patch a wound, he’d done it for his brothers a hundred times, but this was you. Every touch felt like he was breaking you further.
"I have to numb it, baby. I have to clean it first," he whispered, his voice cracking.
The moment the antiseptic hit the open laceration on your thigh, your body convulsed. An agonizing shriek tore from your throat, your fingers clawing at the edges of the table. Your hips buckled from the sheer, burning agony of it.
Seeing you twist in pain broke whatever fragile hold Andrew had on his emotions.
A choked sob escaped his chest. As he prepped the needle to start stitching, tears finally spilled over his eyelashes, hot and fast. He looked so broken in that moment, his massive shoulders trembling as he tried to thread the needle through his blurred vision.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry," he wept openly, a sound so raw it made your heart hurt worse than your physical wounds. "It’s my fault. I should’ve been faster. I should’ve kept you in the house. I did this to you."
The local anesthetic was finally starting to dull the sharpest edges of the pain into a throbbing ache. Through the haze of exhaustion and blood loss, you looked at him. You had never seen Andrew look so defeated. He looked like a terrified child trapped in a monster's body.
Slowly, weakly, you lifted your uninjured arm. Your fingers were trembling, but you managed to reach up, pressing your palm against his wet cheek.
Andrew froze at the sensation of your skin. He leaned heavily into your hand, closing his eyes for a brief second as if your touch was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.
"Andrew..." you croaked. "B-baby." He looked down at you. "N-not your fault," you whispered, trying to force a smile through your trembling lips. "I... S-stop. Don't c-cry."
"You almost died," he choked out, his voice a broken whisper. He took a ragged breath, trying to steady his hands as he lowered the needle to the edge of the knife wound on your thigh. "I can't... I can't lose you. If you die, I don't survive it. I don't."
"'m here," you promised softly. "Fix m- me up. I t-trust you."
Hearing those words, knowing you didn't hate him, knowing you still trusted his hands to put you back together, gave him the focus he needed.
Andrew wiped his eyes on his shoulder and started working. He was meticulous. Every pull of the thread was agonizing, and you still cried out, your grip tightening on the table. Every time you gasped, he would mutter a soft "I've got you, I''m sorry, almost done, baby," using his voice to soothe you.
By the time he finished stitching your thigh and packed the gunshot wound in your calf with clean gauze, the sun was just beginning to peek through the sky.
The table was a mess of blood and medical waste, but the bleeding had completely stopped. Your breathing had evened out, a faint color returning to your body as the IV fluids Baz had quickly started before leaving the room took some effect.
Andrew gently lifted you from the table, carrying you into his bedroom. He laid you down on the bed with agonizing care, supporting your body as your head hit the pillows and placing the IV bag in an IV pole.
Baz and Smurf had already been inside. While Andrew was finishing the stitches, they had silently gone to work turning his bedroom into a makeshift recovery ward. On the nightstand sat a fresh IV pole, lines, and bags of O-negative blood, the benefit of having a dirty paramedic on the Cody payroll. Smurf had even left a clean, damp washcloth and a bowl of warm water resting on the dresser.
Andrew didn’t say a word, he felt a grim wave of relief that, for once, his family had anticipated exactly what you needed to survive.
You were entirely spent, your eyes half closed, skin still holding a pallor of someone who had lost far too much blood.
"I'm going to take very good care of you, I promise, I love you so much, I can't lose you," Andrew whispered.
He still didn't want anyone else touching you right now, so he did it himself. His hands were steady now as he spiked the blood bag, hanging it from the pole where the already started fluids where. He knew exactly how to find the veins, next to the other line.
"Small pinch, baby, I'm sorry," he murmured.
You let out a tiny hiss as the needle slid in, but you kept your half closed eyes locked onto his face. He taped the line down securely, and within seconds, the blood began to flow down the clear tubing and into your system.
Andrew let out a long breath and grabbed the warm washcloth Smurf had left and sat heavily on the edge of the mattress. With gentle strokes, he began to wipe the dried blood from your forehead, your cheeks, and your collarbone, cleaning away the horror of the night.
"The blood will help. It'll make the cold go away," he whispered, pressing the warm cloth to your cheek.
As the transfusion did its work, a faint warmth began to creep back into your skin. You felt the freezing numbness in your limbs slowly begin to lift. Weakly, you curled your fingers around the edge of her t-shirt.
"Thank you, baby."
Andrew closed his eyes when he heard your voice again, then leaning down to give you a soft kiss.
"Don't thank me," he muttered against your lips, his arms wrapping around you as he carefully climbed into the bed, mindful of the IV lines and you injuries. He pulled you against his body, his eyes fixed on the plastic bag as it slowly dripped life back into your body. "Just stay. Stay here with me. Don't leave me."
You were going to be okay. The road to recovery would be long, and Andrew would likely never let you within ten feet of a Cody job ever again. As he held you in the quiet safety of his room, the crushing guilt finally began to ease.
Warnings: friends/coworkers to lovers, established mutual feelings, fluff, drunk reader, whipped Jack.
Summary: Jack decides he’s done hiding exactly how whipped he is for you.
After a brutal week of work, your shift crew was letting loose, trading complaints about management and downing cheap drinks.
But Jack wasn't paying attention to any of them.
He was leaning against the table, a half empty beer in his hand, with his gaze entirely on you. You were sitting across the table, throwing your head back as you laughed at a joke someone just made. The warm ambient lighting of the pub caught the edge of your smile, and right then, something shifted heavily in Jack’s chest.
God, she’s easily the most beautiful person in this room, he thought, a sudden clarity hitting him.
It wasn't just a fleeting work crush anymore, and he knew it.
Watching the way you effortlessly commanded the space around you, he realized he was completely done for.
He found himself thinking past the walls of the bar, imagining what it would be like to be the one walking you to your front door tonight. He’d willingly play the perfect gentleman, do whatever it took, even charm your mom if he ever got the chance to meet her; anything just to ensure he got to stay in your life.
The mere thought of a future with you, spoken out loud or just kept in his head, made his heart race.
As if feeling the weight of his stare, you turned your head. Your eyes met his, and your smile softened into something private, just for him.
Jack didn’t look away. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
The music in the bar shifted to something with a pulsing beat, and a few people from the shift immediately dragged you out toward the cramped dance floor.
Jack stayed at the table, but he didn't join the conversation around him. His eyes followed you through the lights. He watched the way you moved, the unbothered laugh on your lips, and the way you completely shook off the stress of the past week.
Every second he spent watching you only hammered the realization deeper into his chest.
When a song ended, you made your way back, flushed and laughing. The drinks had fully caught up to you by now, leaving your mind pleasantly fuzzy and your movements a little loose.
Instead of reclaiming your original seat, you slid straight into the tight space right next to Jack.
The moment your hip met his, his hand slid effortlessly around your waist, his palm warm as he pulled you against his side. The warmth of your body radiated through his clothes, and because of the alcohol blurring your usual boundaries, you happily let yourself sink heavily into him, leaning your head back against his shoulder and looking up with slightly unfocused eyes.
"Too much dancing?" he murmured, dropping hus voice so only you could hear him over the bar’s bass.
"Maybe a little," you hummed, a smile playing on your lips. "Or maybe it's the drinks."
"You're a lightweight," he teased softly. As the words left his mouth, he leaned his head down and pressed a kiss right against the bare skin of your shoulder, his lips were warm against your skin.
A shiver ran down your spine, and you let out a soft giggle, shifting even closer until there was absolutely no space left between you. You reached up, your fingers playfully tugging at the lapel of his jacket. "Are you being sweet to me, Jack?"
"I can be whatever you want me to be," he replied without a hint of hesitation, his hand at your waist gently squeezing. He was completely dialed into you, entirely forgetting that you two weren't alone.
Across the table, a few looks were traded. A couple of eyebrows went up. One of the paramedics cleared their throat loudly, a massive smirk spreading across their face.
"Uh, Jack? You want us to leave you two alone?"
Jack blinked, fucking finally remembering the rest of the world existed. He looked up, catching the knowing grins of the entire shift crew staring.
Anyone could see it: the way he was holding you, the softness in his eyes, the absolute focus he had on you. He was totally whipped, and there was absolutely no denying it anymore.
Instead of pulling away or getting defensive, Jack just looked down at you, seeing the faint, beautiful flush on your cheeks. He chuckled, his arm adjusting around your waist.
"Mind your business," Jack said to the table, not a single bit of shame in his voice. "I'm minding mine."
Before anyone could even process his words, Jack turned his head down toward you. His hand slid from your waist up to the nape of your neck, his fingers gently tangling in your hair as he tilted your face up and captured your lips in a deep kiss.
The kiss was deep, slow, and full of all the unspoken words he’d been keeping to himself for months. It was a warm claim that left you completely breathless. He tasted faintly of the beer he’d been sipping, his lips incredibly soft but firm as they molded against yours, demanding a response you were more than ready to give.
The shift went absolutely wild around, cheers and loud whistles erupting from everyone, but Jack didn’t pull back. Instead, he only deepened the kiss.
The sheer excitement of the crew brought a shy heat to your cheeks, and a breathless smile broke across your lips right in the middle of the kiss. Jack let out a chuckle against your mouth, loving the feel of your lips curving against his.
Yielding completely to the fuzzy rush of the alcohol and his touch, you wrapped your arms tighter around his neck, burying your fingers in the collar of his shirt. You tilted your head and kissed him back softly, your smile pressing directly into his as you let him completely steal your breath away.
Loud, steady and high-pitched whistling whipped through his ears so intensely he wondered if this has just always been his life. Was he ever able to hear anything? When was the last time he heard the monitor beeping? Heard the shuffling of feet throughout the ED? Heard voices?
Your voice.
Whose voice was that in his head?
Where are you?
Cartoons of woodland animals, foxes and owls, stared at him, blurry through his weak vision.
Where was he?
He could hear his labored breathing, taste salty water as he licked his lips. He could feel a hand on his shoulder, but he wasn’t there.
How long has he been in there?
His hands were on the brightly colored painted wall in front of him, he could see his fingers splayed out against the blue as they trembled, he was unbalanced. The only thing tethering him to standing was his hands against this wall.
He was slipping, his hands slick with sweat.
He was caught and lowered to the floor.
“Jack.”
Someone was there with him.
He couldn’t breathe. There was a weight on his chest, and he couldn’t get it off. Something was stopping him from breathing. He reached a hand to his chest only to be met with the material of his tee shirt.
Blood.
There was blood on his shirt.
He blinked, once, twice. The warmth of tears falling down his cheeks grounded him, only for a moment.
The bodies in the room, limbs hanging from under blankets and blood smeared on the floor.
“I couldn’t save her.”
He choked on his words, the weight of them crushing his throat.
Her.
“Oh, god.” He brought a hand up to cover his mouth in disbelief, reality setting in as he sat in pedes, surrounded by casualties from Pitt fest.
You would never forgive him.
“I didn’t save her.”
“You should’ve never worked on her in the first place.”
Robby’s voice cut through the last bit of ringing in his ears.
There weren’t enough doctors when she came in. All residents and attendings were in traumas.
Your eyes had been pleading. There was no time. He had to do it; he had to take her.
“She was gone when she got here, brother. There was nothing anyone could have done.”
Jack stared ahead, his eyes heavy.
How could he face you after this?
“She needs you, Jack. She wants to see you.”
Jack felt like a magnet tied to the floor. How could he want to see you after this? After what he’d done? You should hate him. You should want to never see him again.
Because how are you ever supposed to look at him the same after he couldn’t save your daughter?
Jack had emerged from the trauma room with vomit clinging to his lips after emptying the contents of his stomach into a nearby bin.
The flatlining of the monitor, the small frame of his 12 year old daughter, his baby, lifeless on a hospital bed, barely recognizable because she was covered in blood.
She was only in there a few minutes before the staff realized she was already gone.
She was gone and he couldn’t save her.
And there you were. Standing, frozen, in the middle of the chaos, hands gripped behind your neck and eyes blown wide. Your clothes and hands were covered in blood.
You made eye contact and knew, without a word, that she was gone. You shook your head, mouthing the word ‘no’, and crumped onto your knees to the dirty floor of the Pitt.
Jack couldn’t handle it.
He couldn’t handle it.
He left you there, vulnerable and broken, on the floor of the ED with chaos surrounding you because he couldn’t handle the guilt that came with facing you. He let Dana escort you to the family room and he let Robby hold you as you cried before coming to get him.
You had begged Robby to find him.
“This is an unbearable weight, an impossible grief.” Robby spoke, careful with each word.
“But you’re a husband, man.”
Robby’s voice began to shake.
“And your wife needs you.”
The word “wife” seemed to snap Jack out of whatever trance he was in.
His wife.
You were his wife and you just lost your daughter and you need him.
He could handle whatever guilt was waiting for him when he met you face to face if it meant he could ease even an ounce of your pain.
“Where is she?”
Robby led his friend through the nightmare that was playing out in the ED, and really hoped that Jack wasn’t seeing how every nurse and doctor froze for a moment to stare as he walked by, their eyes mixtures of pity and heartbreak as they watched him go.
The sight of you made Jack’s heart bleed. You were sitting on the couch in a quiet family room, forehead resting in your palms with your trembling fingers tangled through your hair. You were wearing new clothes and your hands were clean. No doubt Dana had given you her back up clothes and wiped you down with water and Wet Ones.
Your head snapped up when Jack shut the door behind him, securing it with a click.
Your hands reached for him immediately, your face crumbling with relief at the sight of your husband.
He didn’t hesitate to drop to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping at the material of your pants. He had to tell you; you had to know that he did everything he could and he was sorry.
“I couldn’t save her.”
It felt like a confession. As he looked up at you, your heartbroken posture hunched over him, he felt like he was going to be sick again.
How could this happen?
“I’m so sorry.”
His head dropped to your lap, the weight of keeping it up starting to feel like cement.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, clutching at his silver curls as you curled your body over his, pressing kisses to his shoulder while your tears soaked into his shirt.
“No, no.”
You wanted to say so much more. You wanted to tell him that this wasn't his fault, he's a capable doctor, you know that he did everything he possibly could. Your heart broke that he had to be the one in the room and on the case.
She was gone. She was gone in the ER, you felt it. You could see it in her sweet eyes that looked just like Jack's, she wasn't going to make it.
You felt depleted as Jack sobbed into you, gripping onto the material of your clothes like a lifeline, crushed under the weight of it all.
Robby was right. This was an unbearable weight.
Impossible grief.
Jack hated himself, hated that he was crumpled at your feet, letting you hold him instead of the other way around. He wanted to get up, to be strong for you and hold you through it, but it felt like gravity had him tied down with weighted chains, imprisoned to the floor.
"Jack..."
He shook his head into your legs before sitting up, and finally allowing his eyes to meet yours.
Devastation.
You may have been holding him now, but he'd hold you through the rest.
He'd leave you at home, taking care of your other daughter, while he went to the funeral home and made arrangements, picking out a coffin that was way too small.
He'd press kisses against the side of your face and keep his fingers tangled in your hair while you picked out flowers, trying to choose ones that you think she would like.
He’s hold you through the funeral, not daring to let go of you, and you wouldn’t dare ask him to.
But right now, as he looked at you, his wife, the world outside the door felt impossible. The grief, pain and guilt felt completely impossible.
i was reading fall in love again and again and i was wondering what it would be like if reader had died and that’s how jack found out about the tumor? idk if this was a request or not but im curious and itching for angst ig
this is a good idea! unfortunately I don’t like to write death :( I’m a happy endings girl. but thanks so much for sending something in, anon!
Summary: When you find yourself in an abusive relationship, you never thought your attending Jack Abbot would become your protector and saving grace.
TW: talk of domestic violence , age gap relationship (reader is in late 20s & Jack is 49), flashback, ptsd, domestic violence, firearms, injuries, anxiety attack, vomiting, medical inaccuracies, mention of alcohol abuse; seizures. Not proofread.
Word Count: 3.3k
Authors Note: me when I take months between chapters only for them to be ass
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The first time you woke up from a seizure and didn’t find Jack, you panicked. The air felt warmer and heavier in his absence. There was no cold rag pressed on the back of your neck, no whispering in your ear, no dimming of the often harsh lights.
Waking up in the hospital room, shoulder throbbing and skin crawling, you began to pull and scratch at yourself; calling out for Jack, for your familiar. As Robby loomed over you, checking your vitals, your fingers pawed at him, forcing his hands off you. The room still spun when you sat up, but you needed to get out. Go home. Find Jack.
Home.
Jack.
Where was Jack?
“Hey, hey,” Robby put his hands on your one shoulder, “relax for me. You just had a seizure, Jack isn’t here, honey.”
This was the first seizure you had had in months. The stress of the evening weighing so hard that you barely had time to feel it coming.
“What hap— where did he go?” You felt itchy, the skin on your neck turning raw from the scratching.
“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, his hands trying to pull yours away from your throat, but you still fought. “Look at me.”
“Where is he?” Your voice cracks, your fingers still clawing at your neck like you could peel the skin away. “Robby— where is Jack? Please.”
“He’s at home.”
“Home? Why would he go home? Why would he leave me?”
“I brought you here. Jack isn’t coming.”
“No.” You shake your head immediately, your words coming out in broken pieces, the room tilting again. “No, he— he would be here. He’s always here. After— after—”
After every seizure.
After every nightmare.
After every time your body betrayed you.
Jack was always there. For every single moment. That’s probably the very reason he wasn’t here now. His constant presence in your life the past year making it impossible to care for himself. His unconditional love and support only leading to his own self neglect. You were alone now for no reason but your own selfishness.
The room feels too bright now. Too loud. Too empty, yet too crowded. You can feel yourself slipping, Robby sensing it too.
“Hey, stay with me. Take a deep breath.”
“Why isn’t he here?”
Robby sat beside you now, helping you find the memories of the night you wish you could have permanently forgotten. Helping you paint a picture of why you were here.
Then the visions slammed into you fast. The explosion. The hallway. The gun. His voice. His hands. The pain. His eyes. The moment the lights came back. The way his face broke when he saw you. Robby coming to get you. Your breath caught as you replayed it in your head. Over and over and over again. It all came back.
So you cried. You cried and cried. Hours turned to days. Days turned to weeks, and yet you still cried.
You stayed with Robby, him hiring a nurse to stay with you when he or Dana were on shift. It was mortifying. You spent your days locked away alone in Robby’s guest room, Dana offering to paint your nails or do your makeup. Anything that would bring some light back into your life.
“Alright, let’s see those nails.” Dana sat down at the edge of the bed, shaking a jar of polish. “Warmer weather is coming, so I’m thinking something bright. What about this pink, or maybe even orange?”
“My hands shake too much, you won’t be able to paint them.” You tried to smile. “But thank you.” You held out your hand and she watched as it trembled.
Ripping back the blanket she pulled off your socks with zero hesitation.
“Then I’ll pain your toenails. No worries, hun.”
“Oh you don’t— I’m sorry about my legs.” You tried to pull them back under the covers. “Last time I tried to shave I cut myself because of my tremor.”
“Okay, I’ll shave them when I’m done. Have a full spa day and everything.” She winked and went back to painting. She was your rock through this, her presence the only one that didn’t make your body panic.
Still, the seizures came more frequently now, the stress of Jack's absence leaving a hole in your heart and your mind. You felt ridiculous, not knowing how much you had depended on him until he was gone .
Every time you woke up it was someone else.
Robby.
Dana.
A strange nurse.
All kind.
All careful.
But not him. Not your Jack.
And that absence felt louder than anything else. Louder than your own heart beating in your ears when you woke up. Brighter and harsher than the lights that flashed before you slipped under.
Waking up, gasping, drenched in your own sweat, muscles screaming and stiff, you still called for him. You still reached out for him. Expecting him to be there.
“I want Jack.”
“I want him.”
“I need him.”
“Where is he?”
Never there.
“It’s my fault.” You whispered one day, curled up on Robby’s couch, absolutely exhausted from your seizure that morning. Every muscle in your body ached, your tongue bitten raw from your violent convulsions, and your eyelids fluttered shut every so often no matter how hard you fought to stay awake.
“You know that’s not true. You aren’t responsible for what happened.” Robby glanced up through his glasses and he sat in the armchair across from you, charting on his laptop.
“He stopped going to therapy because of me. He stayed up all night with me. He—”
“He made choices,” Robby cuts in. “His recovery is his responsibility. Not yours.”
“If I wasn’t so—” you gesture vaguely at yourself, at everything, “so broken, he wouldn’t have had to carry so much.”
Robby’s jaw tightened for a second before softening again. He set the laptop aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, scratching at his beard.
“He was loving you, and he’d do it all again in a heartbeat. That’s what Jack does. He carries you to the finish line. He carried me over the line a few times too.”
“What do you mean?”
“After Adamson…” he admitted, voice trailing. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t shut my brain off. Started drinking more than I should’ve. Thought I was hiding it.”
Your eyes opened a little wider. You’d never heard him talk about himself like this. Robby never allowed vulnerability to get in his way.
“Jack noticed before anyone else did, that I wasn’t eating, lost some weight,” he said. “Showed up at my apartment one night with groceries, threw out every bottle in the place, and sat on my floor until sunrise while I ranted about how I could have done things differently. How I killed Monty.”
Despite everything, a watery laugh escaped you. “That sounds like him.”
“Yeah.” Robby smiled properly this time. “Infuriatingly heroic.”
The room went quiet except for the ticking kitchen clock and the low hum of the refrigerator.
“He loves hard,” Robby said after a moment. “Sometimes so hard he forgets he’s human too.”
“And now look what happened.”
“ What happened was because he stopped taking care of himself,” Robby corrected. “Not because he loved you.” Across the room, Robby’s phone began to buzz on the side table. Both of you looked at it, Jack’s name lit up bright.
Right on time.
Every day at noon. Every day at six. Every night before bed.
He never missed one.
Robby let it ring twice before grabbing it. He looked at you first, always asking without words. You can only nod.
“Hey.”
“How is she?” Jack’s voice was rough, tired. Like he hadn’t slept.
“She had a seizure this morning.”
The line went silent for a beat too long.
“She okay?”
“She bit her tongue but other than that she’s alright.” Robby glanced at you. “Just wiped out.”
“Is she eating?” Jack asked next. “Still throwing up after?”
“She ate toast, managed to keep it down.”
“Did she sleep last night?”
“Some.”
You felt like a patient, Jack asking for your medical history. Asking about the details of your body. Your symptoms. Your pain. As if loving you now meant settling for your vital signs.
“She taking the Keppra?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, started Dilantin last night too.”
“Any more shoulder swelling?”
“Minimal.” Robby’s eyes softened when he looked at you. “She’s right here, you know.”
The room went very still.
“I know.” Jack’s voice cracked. “I’m not asking to talk to her.”
“I know,” Robby said back.
You hated him for that restraint. For making sure he could trust himself before allowing himself to walk back into your life.
“I uh— been working on adjusting my meds. Meeting with my therapist. Support groups. Feeling good, Robby.”
“Good.” Robby nodded once, even though Jack couldn’t see it.
“I’m doing what I’m supposed to.”
“I know.”
“Tell her I’m doing it.” There was something childlike in the statement. Something desperate.
“You can tell her yourself when you’re both ready.”
“Tell her I’m sorry anyway.”
You stood too quickly, dizziness crashing over you. Your healing shoulder screamed as you shoved the blanket off and stumbled toward the hallway.
“Hey—easy,” Robby started after you, rising from his chair.
“I’m fine, just tired.” Your voice came out sharp, broken. Then you kept walking, disappearing into the guest room and shutting the door with trembling hands.
That was the routine for 4 months. Robby told Jack to stop calling, to focus on his own healing— but Jack still called.
You found yourself living on autopilot, just existing in your own seclusion. You felt nothing anymore. Your brain scrambled into a million pieces. The light from your eyes vanished, or what was left of that light Charlie had extinguished.
So when Robby stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, you hardly acknowledged his presence.
“He’s ready.” He says, only above a whisper. Your eyes flick up to meet him. “Tomorrow, if you’d like to see him.”
“Where?” you ask finally, your voice smaller than you expect.
“Schenley Park, it’s easy. Public. I can be close by but give you two space.”
Robby watched as you nervously picked at the stitching on your quilt, your lips trembling as you fought back your tears. You wanted to go. More than anything you wanted to see Jack, to collapse into his arms and sleep soundly for the first time in months. But your stomach lurched high into your throat, and despite trying to swallow it back, you found your head in a trash can heaving.
Robby was beside you before you could fully drop to your knees, one hand gathered your hair while the other steadied your shoulder carefully, mindful of the injury that still lingered beneath the surface. Your entire body shook with the force of it, stomach empty but still trying to turn itself inside out.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”
You hated that phrase.
Because nothing about this felt okay.
Your ribs ached as you finally pulled back from the trash can, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers. Humiliation burned hot beneath your skin.
In that moment you wanted to die. You wished Charlie had finished what he started. Or you had just stayed. Certainly you’d be dead by now? At his hands? Of course you would.
For a split second you hated Jack. Hated that he saved you from that man. Saving you from what you so desperately wanted, death.
“You don’t have to go,” he said after a moment.
You rinsed your mouth weakly before leaning back against the headboard again. Your chest still spasmed every few breaths, body trying to settle after the panic ripped through you.
“What if I only see the man who I saw in the hallway that night?”
“You might… but you might see the man you knew before.”
Jack asleep on the couch beside you after seizures.
Jack making coffee exactly the way you liked it because your hands shook too badly in the mornings.
Jack tracing the scar along your collarbone absentmindedly while you fell asleep against his chest.
Jack laughing.
Jack humming under his breath.
Jack.
Your Jack.
Not the man in the hallway.
Not that stranger with the gun.
The man you loved.
“Okay,” you whispered shakily. “Tomorrow.”
And when tomorrow came you spent most of your morning in the bathroom throwing up your dinner from as far back as 2004.
When Robby pulls up to the park it feels too open— too exposed. There’s nowhere to hide out here; no walls, no doors, no place to barricade yourself if something goes wrong.
The park seems too bright. Or maybe it just feels that way after months of dim rooms and drawn curtains. The air was too thin, and Robby noticed as you took one deep breath after the other.
“You can still say no.” He stopped you on the path, hand on the small of your back. But in the distance, sitting on the bench, his elbows resting on his thighs, head hung below his shoulders— Jack. Your Jack.
“No,” you whisper. “I need to do this.” And your feet started to move. There was a hesitation in your step, your gate uneven against the gravel that crunched below your shoes. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to turn around but you kept moving.
Jack must’ve heard the gravel shift as you got closer because his head lifted. He stood quickly as if he were back in the Army and you were his Officer, you were almost expecting him to salute. He shifted his weight on and off his prosthetic, moving side to side.
“Hi.” He spoke softly, the way he would after a seizure, when everything was too loud. You had imagined hearing his voice again a thousand different ways.
“H-“ the words barely came out as your throat tightened like a vice grip.
“You look…” His voice cracked.
Tired. You looked completely and utterly exhausted. He noticed the difference in your complexion— the hue more grey and sickly. Your eyes said so much and yet so little, your expression unmoving as you stand before him with lifeless eyes. What had happened to his sweet girl? What had he done?
“You too.” You answered, the tension in his face and shoulders making him look so— so— sad?
Heavy silence settled between you. Jack noticed the slight droop in your shoulder, and the way your fingers twitched and trembled by your sides.
Four months.
Four months without hearing him laugh from another room. Without his hand brushing absentmindedly against your back when he passed you in the kitchen. Without the sound of his prosthetic against hardwood floors at night.
Without home.
Four months
Four months without Jack tracing and memorizing the scars on your back, admiring your strength and beauty. Without Jack watching you relearn something that once came easy, in awe of your resilience. Without hearing you snort when you laugh at something genuinely laugh. Without watching the way your tongue sticks out when you’re trying to focus.
Without you.
You sat at the far end of the bench, far enough to keep your distance, but not far enough that you could still smell the familiar scent of his cologne— pine and cedar. The smell that would often be the first to greet you when you’d wake up from a seizure.
“I rehearsed this you know,” he admitted after a long pause, his voice was rough. “What I’d say if you ever agreed to see me.”
You glanced at him, watching the way his unknowingly rocked himself forwards and back in his attempt to self sooth.
“Can’t remember a damn thing.” He finally chuckled dryly.
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly.
Jack noticed. God, he noticed immediately.
His eyes flickered toward you so fast it almost hurt to see the hope there before he buried it again.
“You cut your hair,” he said softly.
Your fingers instinctively brushed the shorter pieces near your jaw. Dana had done it one night after another seizure left you vomiting and shaking on the bathroom floor. You’d hacked at it yourself first in a moment of weakness. Dana just fixed the damage.
“It was falling out,” you admitted quietly. “Stress.”
Jack’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind.
“I did that too.”
You looked down at your hands.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said carefully. “I’m not here asking for that.”
“Then what are you asking for?”
“A chance to prove that night is not the man I am.”
“I know that’s not the man you are, Jack.” You whispered, not because you were nervous, but because your throat felt like sandpaper.
“I wasn’t taking my meds,” he admitted quietly. “I started thinking I didn’t need them.” His thumb rubbed over his knuckles compulsively. “Therapy got harder after you moved in.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because you started mattering more than anything else in my life.” His voice was barely above a whisper now. “And I think some part of me thought if I focused hard enough on keeping you safe, then maybe I didn’t have to look at what was happening in my own head.”
You stared at him.
“I should’ve noticed,” you said softly.
Jack’s head snapped up immediately.
“No.”
The sharpness in his voice made you flinch instinctively.
Jack froze the second he saw it.
Every ounce of color drained from his face.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, recoiling back against the bench like he’d been burned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” But your body still reacted.
Jack swallowed hard, forcing his voice quieter.
“You don’t ever blame yourself for this.” His eyes locked onto yours with something fierce and broken all at once. “Do you understand me?”
The silence settled between you again, but more comfortable this time.
“I missed your seizures.”
You blinked at him in confusion.
Jack let out a shaky breath through his nose.
“That sounds horrible.” A weak, self-deprecating smile flickered across his mouth. “I mean— I hated seeing you hurt. God, I hated it. But taking care of you… It made me feel useful again.”
Your eyes burned instantly.
“You were more than useful, Jack.”
“I hate that I can’t fix this,” he admitted quietly. “That’s what I do, I fix things.”
He was starting to ramble now, losing a bit of control as he poured his heart out to you.
“I wanted you to hate me. Thought it would make all of this easier, but you kept worrying about me even after what I did to you. You said you loved—“
“I still do, Jack.”
“I asked my therapist the same thing over and over, ‘How do I know I’ll never lose control again?’” He laughed bitterly under his breath. “You know what he told me?”
“What?”
“There are no guarantees. Only accountability. Treatment. Consistency.” His jaw tightened. “Choice. And I choose you. Every time. Every single time, I choose you.”
You were crying now, tears flowing freely as Jack hesitantly cupped your face in his hands. You melted into him, your forehead pressed against his and you both lost control. Your noses touched, your lips brushing against each other softly— but you pulled back.
“I can’t go back there Jack, to your house. I can't go back.”
“Then we don’t. I’ll sell the place. I’ll build you anything you want, with my bare hands if I could. From the ground up. Anything you want. You want a pool? I’ll get you a pool. You want a big bay window in your bedroom? Lots of books? Wrap around porch to watch the rain? I’ll make it all happen for you baby.”
Your lips crashed, a moan escaping your lips as his hands pulled your flush against him. Then his hands roamed, up and down your back, in your hair, along your hips; he had to feel you, make sure this was real, that he wasn’t dreaming.
“Jack—“ you gasped into his mouth, but he just shook his head. He needed to hold you, to feel you, make up for all the time that was spent without you.
“I love you.” He whispered between kisses, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Summary: When you find yourself in an abusive relationship, you never thought your attending Jack Abbot would become your protector and saving grace.
TW: talk of domestic violence , age gap relationship (reader is in late 20s & Jack is 49), flashback, ptsd, domestic violence, firearms, injuries, anxiety attack, vomiting, medical inaccuracies, mention of alcohol abuse; seizures. Not proofread.
Word Count: 3.3k
Authors Note: me when I take months between chapters only for them to be ass
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The first time you woke up from a seizure and didn’t find Jack, you panicked. The air felt warmer and heavier in his absence. There was no cold rag pressed on the back of your neck, no whispering in your ear, no dimming of the often harsh lights.
Waking up in the hospital room, shoulder throbbing and skin crawling, you began to pull and scratch at yourself; calling out for Jack, for your familiar. As Robby loomed over you, checking your vitals, your fingers pawed at him, forcing his hands off you. The room still spun when you sat up, but you needed to get out. Go home. Find Jack.
Home.
Jack.
Where was Jack?
“Hey, hey,” Robby put his hands on your one shoulder, “relax for me. You just had a seizure, Jack isn’t here, honey.”
This was the first seizure you had had in months. The stress of the evening weighing so hard that you barely had time to feel it coming.
“What hap— where did he go?” You felt itchy, the skin on your neck turning raw from the scratching.
“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, his hands trying to pull yours away from your throat, but you still fought. “Look at me.”
“Where is he?” Your voice cracks, your fingers still clawing at your neck like you could peel the skin away. “Robby— where is Jack? Please.”
“He’s at home.”
“Home? Why would he go home? Why would he leave me?”
“I brought you here. Jack isn’t coming.”
“No.” You shake your head immediately, your words coming out in broken pieces, the room tilting again. “No, he— he would be here. He’s always here. After— after—”
After every seizure.
After every nightmare.
After every time your body betrayed you.
Jack was always there. For every single moment. That’s probably the very reason he wasn’t here now. His constant presence in your life the past year making it impossible to care for himself. His unconditional love and support only leading to his own self neglect. You were alone now for no reason but your own selfishness.
The room feels too bright now. Too loud. Too empty, yet too crowded. You can feel yourself slipping, Robby sensing it too.
“Hey, stay with me. Take a deep breath.”
“Why isn’t he here?”
Robby sat beside you now, helping you find the memories of the night you wish you could have permanently forgotten. Helping you paint a picture of why you were here.
Then the visions slammed into you fast. The explosion. The hallway. The gun. His voice. His hands. The pain. His eyes. The moment the lights came back. The way his face broke when he saw you. Robby coming to get you. Your breath caught as you replayed it in your head. Over and over and over again. It all came back.
So you cried. You cried and cried. Hours turned to days. Days turned to weeks, and yet you still cried.
You stayed with Robby, him hiring a nurse to stay with you when he or Dana were on shift. It was mortifying. You spent your days locked away alone in Robby’s guest room, Dana offering to paint your nails or do your makeup. Anything that would bring some light back into your life.
“Alright, let’s see those nails.” Dana sat down at the edge of the bed, shaking a jar of polish. “Warmer weather is coming, so I’m thinking something bright. What about this pink, or maybe even orange?”
“My hands shake too much, you won’t be able to paint them.” You tried to smile. “But thank you.” You held out your hand and she watched as it trembled.
Ripping back the blanket she pulled off your socks with zero hesitation.
“Then I’ll pain your toenails. No worries, hun.”
“Oh you don’t— I’m sorry about my legs.” You tried to pull them back under the covers. “Last time I tried to shave I cut myself because of my tremor.”
“Okay, I’ll shave them when I’m done. Have a full spa day and everything.” She winked and went back to painting. She was your rock through this, her presence the only one that didn’t make your body panic.
Still, the seizures came more frequently now, the stress of Jack's absence leaving a hole in your heart and your mind. You felt ridiculous, not knowing how much you had depended on him until he was gone .
Every time you woke up it was someone else.
Robby.
Dana.
A strange nurse.
All kind.
All careful.
But not him. Not your Jack.
And that absence felt louder than anything else. Louder than your own heart beating in your ears when you woke up. Brighter and harsher than the lights that flashed before you slipped under.
Waking up, gasping, drenched in your own sweat, muscles screaming and stiff, you still called for him. You still reached out for him. Expecting him to be there.
“I want Jack.”
“I want him.”
“I need him.”
“Where is he?”
Never there.
“It’s my fault.” You whispered one day, curled up on Robby’s couch, absolutely exhausted from your seizure that morning. Every muscle in your body ached, your tongue bitten raw from your violent convulsions, and your eyelids fluttered shut every so often no matter how hard you fought to stay awake.
“You know that’s not true. You aren’t responsible for what happened.” Robby glanced up through his glasses and he sat in the armchair across from you, charting on his laptop.
“He stopped going to therapy because of me. He stayed up all night with me. He—”
“He made choices,” Robby cuts in. “His recovery is his responsibility. Not yours.”
“If I wasn’t so—” you gesture vaguely at yourself, at everything, “so broken, he wouldn’t have had to carry so much.”
Robby’s jaw tightened for a second before softening again. He set the laptop aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, scratching at his beard.
“He was loving you, and he’d do it all again in a heartbeat. That’s what Jack does. He carries you to the finish line. He carried me over the line a few times too.”
“What do you mean?”
“After Adamson…” he admitted, voice trailing. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t shut my brain off. Started drinking more than I should’ve. Thought I was hiding it.”
Your eyes opened a little wider. You’d never heard him talk about himself like this. Robby never allowed vulnerability to get in his way.
“Jack noticed before anyone else did, that I wasn’t eating, lost some weight,” he said. “Showed up at my apartment one night with groceries, threw out every bottle in the place, and sat on my floor until sunrise while I ranted about how I could have done things differently. How I killed Monty.”
Despite everything, a watery laugh escaped you. “That sounds like him.”
“Yeah.” Robby smiled properly this time. “Infuriatingly heroic.”
The room went quiet except for the ticking kitchen clock and the low hum of the refrigerator.
“He loves hard,” Robby said after a moment. “Sometimes so hard he forgets he’s human too.”
“And now look what happened.”
“ What happened was because he stopped taking care of himself,” Robby corrected. “Not because he loved you.” Across the room, Robby’s phone began to buzz on the side table. Both of you looked at it, Jack’s name lit up bright.
Right on time.
Every day at noon. Every day at six. Every night before bed.
He never missed one.
Robby let it ring twice before grabbing it. He looked at you first, always asking without words. You can only nod.
“Hey.”
“How is she?” Jack’s voice was rough, tired. Like he hadn’t slept.
“She had a seizure this morning.”
The line went silent for a beat too long.
“She okay?”
“She bit her tongue but other than that she’s alright.” Robby glanced at you. “Just wiped out.”
“Is she eating?” Jack asked next. “Still throwing up after?”
“She ate toast, managed to keep it down.”
“Did she sleep last night?”
“Some.”
You felt like a patient, Jack asking for your medical history. Asking about the details of your body. Your symptoms. Your pain. As if loving you now meant settling for your vital signs.
“She taking the Keppra?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, started Dilantin last night too.”
“Any more shoulder swelling?”
“Minimal.” Robby’s eyes softened when he looked at you. “She’s right here, you know.”
The room went very still.
“I know.” Jack’s voice cracked. “I’m not asking to talk to her.”
“I know,” Robby said back.
You hated him for that restraint. For making sure he could trust himself before allowing himself to walk back into your life.
“I uh— been working on adjusting my meds. Meeting with my therapist. Support groups. Feeling good, Robby.”
“Good.” Robby nodded once, even though Jack couldn’t see it.
“I’m doing what I’m supposed to.”
“I know.”
“Tell her I’m doing it.” There was something childlike in the statement. Something desperate.
“You can tell her yourself when you’re both ready.”
“Tell her I’m sorry anyway.”
You stood too quickly, dizziness crashing over you. Your healing shoulder screamed as you shoved the blanket off and stumbled toward the hallway.
“Hey—easy,” Robby started after you, rising from his chair.
“I’m fine, just tired.” Your voice came out sharp, broken. Then you kept walking, disappearing into the guest room and shutting the door with trembling hands.
That was the routine for 4 months. Robby told Jack to stop calling, to focus on his own healing— but Jack still called.
You found yourself living on autopilot, just existing in your own seclusion. You felt nothing anymore. Your brain scrambled into a million pieces. The light from your eyes vanished, or what was left of that light Charlie had extinguished.
So when Robby stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, you hardly acknowledged his presence.
“He’s ready.” He says, only above a whisper. Your eyes flick up to meet him. “Tomorrow, if you’d like to see him.”
“Where?” you ask finally, your voice smaller than you expect.
“Schenley Park, it’s easy. Public. I can be close by but give you two space.”
Robby watched as you nervously picked at the stitching on your quilt, your lips trembling as you fought back your tears. You wanted to go. More than anything you wanted to see Jack, to collapse into his arms and sleep soundly for the first time in months. But your stomach lurched high into your throat, and despite trying to swallow it back, you found your head in a trash can heaving.
Robby was beside you before you could fully drop to your knees, one hand gathered your hair while the other steadied your shoulder carefully, mindful of the injury that still lingered beneath the surface. Your entire body shook with the force of it, stomach empty but still trying to turn itself inside out.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”
You hated that phrase.
Because nothing about this felt okay.
Your ribs ached as you finally pulled back from the trash can, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers. Humiliation burned hot beneath your skin.
In that moment you wanted to die. You wished Charlie had finished what he started. Or you had just stayed. Certainly you’d be dead by now? At his hands? Of course you would.
For a split second you hated Jack. Hated that he saved you from that man. Saving you from what you so desperately wanted, death.
“You don’t have to go,” he said after a moment.
You rinsed your mouth weakly before leaning back against the headboard again. Your chest still spasmed every few breaths, body trying to settle after the panic ripped through you.
“What if I only see the man who I saw in the hallway that night?”
“You might… but you might see the man you knew before.”
Jack asleep on the couch beside you after seizures.
Jack making coffee exactly the way you liked it because your hands shook too badly in the mornings.
Jack tracing the scar along your collarbone absentmindedly while you fell asleep against his chest.
Jack laughing.
Jack humming under his breath.
Jack.
Your Jack.
Not the man in the hallway.
Not that stranger with the gun.
The man you loved.
“Okay,” you whispered shakily. “Tomorrow.”
And when tomorrow came you spent most of your morning in the bathroom throwing up your dinner from as far back as 2004.
When Robby pulls up to the park it feels too open— too exposed. There’s nowhere to hide out here; no walls, no doors, no place to barricade yourself if something goes wrong.
The park seems too bright. Or maybe it just feels that way after months of dim rooms and drawn curtains. The air was too thin, and Robby noticed as you took one deep breath after the other.
“You can still say no.” He stopped you on the path, hand on the small of your back. But in the distance, sitting on the bench, his elbows resting on his thighs, head hung below his shoulders— Jack. Your Jack.
“No,” you whisper. “I need to do this.” And your feet started to move. There was a hesitation in your step, your gate uneven against the gravel that crunched below your shoes. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to turn around but you kept moving.
Jack must’ve heard the gravel shift as you got closer because his head lifted. He stood quickly as if he were back in the Army and you were his Officer, you were almost expecting him to salute. He shifted his weight on and off his prosthetic, moving side to side.
“Hi.” He spoke softly, the way he would after a seizure, when everything was too loud. You had imagined hearing his voice again a thousand different ways.
“H-“ the words barely came out as your throat tightened like a vice grip.
“You look…” His voice cracked.
Tired. You looked completely and utterly exhausted. He noticed the difference in your complexion— the hue more grey and sickly. Your eyes said so much and yet so little, your expression unmoving as you stand before him with lifeless eyes. What had happened to his sweet girl? What had he done?
“You too.” You answered, the tension in his face and shoulders making him look so— so— sad?
Heavy silence settled between you. Jack noticed the slight droop in your shoulder, and the way your fingers twitched and trembled by your sides.
Four months.
Four months without hearing him laugh from another room. Without his hand brushing absentmindedly against your back when he passed you in the kitchen. Without the sound of his prosthetic against hardwood floors at night.
Without home.
Four months
Four months without Jack tracing and memorizing the scars on your back, admiring your strength and beauty. Without Jack watching you relearn something that once came easy, in awe of your resilience. Without hearing you snort when you laugh at something genuinely laugh. Without watching the way your tongue sticks out when you’re trying to focus.
Without you.
You sat at the far end of the bench, far enough to keep your distance, but not far enough that you could still smell the familiar scent of his cologne— pine and cedar. The smell that would often be the first to greet you when you’d wake up from a seizure.
“I rehearsed this you know,” he admitted after a long pause, his voice was rough. “What I’d say if you ever agreed to see me.”
You glanced at him, watching the way his unknowingly rocked himself forwards and back in his attempt to self sooth.
“Can’t remember a damn thing.” He finally chuckled dryly.
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly.
Jack noticed. God, he noticed immediately.
His eyes flickered toward you so fast it almost hurt to see the hope there before he buried it again.
“You cut your hair,” he said softly.
Your fingers instinctively brushed the shorter pieces near your jaw. Dana had done it one night after another seizure left you vomiting and shaking on the bathroom floor. You’d hacked at it yourself first in a moment of weakness. Dana just fixed the damage.
“It was falling out,” you admitted quietly. “Stress.”
Jack’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind.
“I did that too.”
You looked down at your hands.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said carefully. “I’m not here asking for that.”
“Then what are you asking for?”
“A chance to prove that night is not the man I am.”
“I know that’s not the man you are, Jack.” You whispered, not because you were nervous, but because your throat felt like sandpaper.
“I wasn’t taking my meds,” he admitted quietly. “I started thinking I didn’t need them.” His thumb rubbed over his knuckles compulsively. “Therapy got harder after you moved in.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because you started mattering more than anything else in my life.” His voice was barely above a whisper now. “And I think some part of me thought if I focused hard enough on keeping you safe, then maybe I didn’t have to look at what was happening in my own head.”
You stared at him.
“I should’ve noticed,” you said softly.
Jack’s head snapped up immediately.
“No.”
The sharpness in his voice made you flinch instinctively.
Jack froze the second he saw it.
Every ounce of color drained from his face.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, recoiling back against the bench like he’d been burned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” But your body still reacted.
Jack swallowed hard, forcing his voice quieter.
“You don’t ever blame yourself for this.” His eyes locked onto yours with something fierce and broken all at once. “Do you understand me?”
The silence settled between you again, but more comfortable this time.
“I missed your seizures.”
You blinked at him in confusion.
Jack let out a shaky breath through his nose.
“That sounds horrible.” A weak, self-deprecating smile flickered across his mouth. “I mean— I hated seeing you hurt. God, I hated it. But taking care of you… It made me feel useful again.”
Your eyes burned instantly.
“You were more than useful, Jack.”
“I hate that I can’t fix this,” he admitted quietly. “That’s what I do, I fix things.”
He was starting to ramble now, losing a bit of control as he poured his heart out to you.
“I wanted you to hate me. Thought it would make all of this easier, but you kept worrying about me even after what I did to you. You said you loved—“
“I still do, Jack.”
“I asked my therapist the same thing over and over, ‘How do I know I’ll never lose control again?’” He laughed bitterly under his breath. “You know what he told me?”
“What?”
“There are no guarantees. Only accountability. Treatment. Consistency.” His jaw tightened. “Choice. And I choose you. Every time. Every single time, I choose you.”
You were crying now, tears flowing freely as Jack hesitantly cupped your face in his hands. You melted into him, your forehead pressed against his and you both lost control. Your noses touched, your lips brushing against each other softly— but you pulled back.
“I can’t go back there Jack, to your house. I can't go back.”
“Then we don’t. I’ll sell the place. I’ll build you anything you want, with my bare hands if I could. From the ground up. Anything you want. You want a pool? I’ll get you a pool. You want a big bay window in your bedroom? Lots of books? Wrap around porch to watch the rain? I’ll make it all happen for you baby.”
Your lips crashed, a moan escaping your lips as his hands pulled your flush against him. Then his hands roamed, up and down your back, in your hair, along your hips; he had to feel you, make sure this was real, that he wasn’t dreaming.
“Jack—“ you gasped into his mouth, but he just shook his head. He needed to hold you, to feel you, make up for all the time that was spent without you.
“I love you.” He whispered between kisses, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Summary: Bucky wants to take you away from it all. This time, you might just let him.
Word count: 2.8k
Warnings: Angst, mentions of abusive parents
a/n: I’m in love with 40s Bucky!!! This is based on this request.
Masterlist
The rain was merciless against your skin as you ran down the streets of Brooklyn. The heels you had been forced into pinched against your toes, and your satin gloves soaked water into your fingertips. You knew you should have waited for the car to come get you, but your mind was racing too fast for you to form a coherent thought.
Occasionally, the cut on your cheek burned when a salty tear mixed in with the rain. Bucky wouldn’t be happy when he saw that; Steve would probably try to fight your dad.
When the small apartment building you longed for finally came into view, you raced up the rickety old steps. Bucky always told you not to run on them—especially not in heels—the groans from the aging wood gave him a heart attack whenever you bounded up too quickly. Normally, you would listen to him. Not today.
Your knocking was loud enough to wake the entire unit. You beat your hand against Bucky’s door relentlessly, praying that he wasn’t out with some girl for the night or over at Steve’s. By some stroke of luck, the door whipped open with a force, your best friend on the other side rubbing his eyes and looking half asleep.
“Buck,” you choked out, tears blurring your vision. “I told them.”
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!fem!reader
warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)
summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.
word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)
author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!
It started small.
A shift in the way you smiled—no longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtower’s echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.
The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didn’t exactly operate in peacetime.
But Bucky…Bucky saw more.
You were the team’s secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operative’s dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.
You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.
You made things work. You made the team work.
You were the light that steadied them all.
But lately… that light had gone out.
Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.
He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.
You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.
When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled.
Terrified.
The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.
You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.
And then the bruises.
They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.
You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.
But these weren’t accidents.
There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.
A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.
Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.
His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.
He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.
The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.
He began checking your schedule.
Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.
You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.
One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.
You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced.
“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”
But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.
And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.
He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.
Something far more dangerous.
And whoever had hurt you?
They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.
Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.
The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience.
Stillness.
Safety.
So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.
The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.
The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.
You were still there. Of course you were.
You always stay late now.
“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.
You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.
Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.
The one he recognised too well.
The one he used to see in the mirror.
“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.
You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.
“Sure.”
But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.
He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.
You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.
He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”
You didn’t answer.
“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”
Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.
You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.
“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”
Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.
“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”
“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.
Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”
The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.
And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him.
“I thought I could handle it.”
Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”
Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”
His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”
You didn’t answer.
But your silence was answer enough.
His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”
You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”
He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.
But it wasn’t at you.
“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”
Your eyes met his cerulean irises then.
And something inside you cracked.
Because he didn’t look at you with pity.
He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.
And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.
You told him everything.
From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.
Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.
You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.
Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.
“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”
“You don’t have to ask,” he said.
He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.
You hesitated. “I don’t—”
He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”
And you believed him.
The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.
At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.
The broken picture frame on the floor.
The hole punched in the hallway drywall.
The cracked phone screen beside your bed.
You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.
When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.
“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.
Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.
“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”
You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it.
You were leaving.
Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.
And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.
Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.
There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”
You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.
He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.
“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”
You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.
You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.
You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.
Safe.
Protected.
Free.
You woke up with a gasp.
The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.
Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.
The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.
You couldn’t stay.
Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.
Bucky’s door was cracked open.
He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.
Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”
His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”
His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.
Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”
He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”
You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.
You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.
Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.
His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.
When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.
You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.
“I’ve got you.”
The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.
You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.
For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.
You were safe.
Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.
The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.
For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.
You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.
Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.
“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”
You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered.
Later that day, the team found out.
Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”
Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.
Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.
It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.
John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.
“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.
You hesitated. “Why?”
“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”
You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.
Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.
“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”
You could’ve cried.
Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.
“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”
You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.
Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.
“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“I don’t—”
“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”
Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange.
But real.
Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.
Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.
When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.
Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.
“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”
Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.
You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.
There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.
And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.
You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.
One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.
“What?” you asked.
“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.
You blinked. “I—I am?”
She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”
One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.
“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.
“Yeah,” you said.
He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.
You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.
He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.
It was the safest you’d ever felt.
It had started out as a good night.
One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.
The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.
“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”
You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.
But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.
The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.
Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.
You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.
Then the door jingled.
And just like that, the warmth bled from the room.
Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.
Bucky stilled beside you.
Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.
Like he still owned the air you breathed.
Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”
Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.
“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”
The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.
Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.
John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.
“Take that back,” Bucky growled.
Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”
You flinched.
Bucky didn’t.
“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.
Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”
Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”
You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.
But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.
With his metal hand.
The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.
Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.
“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.
Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.
“Do you understand me?”
A choked nod.
Bucky dropped him like trash.
Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”
The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.
“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.
Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.
Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.
Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.
He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”
You nodded shakily, tears welling.
Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”
John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.
And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.
“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”
You leaned into him, trembling.
“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.
Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”
And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.
You had them.
You had him.
You were safe.
You didn’t speak on the way home.
No one made you.
Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.
You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.
The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.
When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.
“Do you want to be alone?”
You shook your head.
He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.
“Can I stay?”
You nodded.
Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.
You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.
“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”
Your throat tightened. You nodded.
“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”
You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.
And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”
Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.
“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”
You closed your eyes.
And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.
Not because the fear was gone.
But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.
He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.
It sounded like safety.
It felt like home.
a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)
Summary: You can hold your own—always have. But that doesn’t stop your husband from going full Winter Soldier mode when he sees someone laid a hand on you.
Warnings: Language, injuries, soft-but-intense husband!Bucky, protective behavior, possessiveness, comfort, fluff, violence mentioned (not graphic), "who did this to you?", lots of banter.
Word count: 1.3k+
A/n: this fic is from my poll where husband au and who did this to u prompt won. I will do the enemies to lovers in my next fic. Thank you for reading <3.
Divider credits: @saradika
Night- 1:47 AM
You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.
No sound. Good.
You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.
He’d be asleep. He had to be.
You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.
You made it three steps down the hallway.
Then— “Don’t move.”
Shit.
His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.
You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."
A light flipped on.
Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.
His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.
He didn’t say a word.
You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“Who did this to you?”
You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”
“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”
“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”
“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”
He was in front of you in three long strides.
His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.
“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”
“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”
“I’m not made of glass—”
“You’re made of everything I live for.”
Your breath caught.
He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”
“It’s not important.”
“It is to me.”
You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”
“I should’ve.”
“Bucky—”
“Tell me his name.”
You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”
He didn’t deny it.
“And if I don’t?” you added.
“I’ll find him anyway.”
You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”
He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.
“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”
“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”
You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”
“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”
Twenty Minutes Later...
You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.
He hadn’t stopped touching you.
Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.
“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.
“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”
“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.
He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”
“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”
He paused. “Wait. You won?”
“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”
He stared.
Then—slowly—he grinned.
“That’s my girl.”
You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.
Still, he wasn’t done.
As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”
Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”
“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”
God.
You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Too late. You did. You always do.”
You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
He grinned and kissed your forehead.
Next Day – 2:00 PM
You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:
Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.
—B <3
You rolled your eyes.
And sighed.
And smiled.
He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.
You didn’t even have to ask.
“You found him, didn’t you?”
He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”
“And?”
“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”
“Bucky…”
“And probably won’t be talking much either.”
You stared at him.
“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”
“Jesus—”
“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”
You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.
“You are so dramatic.”
“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”
“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”
He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.
“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”
The Next Morning – 9:07 AM
Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.
Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.
“You awake?” you mumbled.
“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”
“You’re creepy.”
“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”
You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.
“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”
“Bucky.”
He blinked.
“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”
“…Is that an option?”
You groaned and buried your face in his chest.
“You’re insufferable.”
He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.
“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.
You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”
“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”
You swallowed hard. “I get it.”
“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”
“Only a little?”
“I toned it down for your sake.”
You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”
“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”
You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.
a/n: I wrote this because my writing brain is broken 😔 please enjoy ily dearly 😔❤️
Masterlist
~~
The day was awful. For everyone.
The air conditioning in the lower levels of the hospital gave out, slowly wheezing to a tragic end that made way for grouchy patients and overheating staff. The ambulance bay doors were propped open to allow some airflow, which then also allowed a flock of birds to terrorize the Pitt and crack the glass door in south 15. And then Gloria came by with wonderful news that there was still no resolution for the nurse’s strike at Presby, and many of their patients were being rerouted to PTMC to alleviate the burden there.
It was great. Everything was great. Your shift was almost over, and your underscrubs were clinging to the back of your neck, and everything was great. You wished—silently and greedily—that Jack would call out for the night so you could bask in your woes as he held you and spoon-fed you ice cream, but the Pitt needed Jack tonight, desperately, so you couldn’t ask him to baby you.
Well, you could ask, but he would probably say yes, and you liked the night shift staff too much to do that to them.
“What the hell happened in here?” you heard Ellis ask, her backpack slung over her shoulder with casual air. You envied her rested face. “Why’s it so damn hot?”
You grimaced, the expression making your head hurt. “What didn’t happen here?”
“That bad, huh?”
“I mean, I’m sure there’s been worse days. Not sure when those would have happened. Maybe before electricity and the discovery of germ theory.”
Ellis leaned her forearms on the counter by your computer, raising a brow. “Germ theory bad? Damn.”
You finished your blessed last note and slammed the key to lock your account. “Just—maybe screen some patients for bird flu if they’ve been here all day. All I’ll say.”
Ellis blew out a breath as you leaned back in your chair and pressed a hand to your forehead. You needed to drink about a gallon of water to abate the headache permeating along your temples—or maybe three. Jack liked to keep those gross electrolyte packets at your place for days like these, and while you usually had to choke them down and beg him to leave you alone, the sour peach flavor was calling your name.
And so was about 14 hours of sleep wrapped in that hoodie Jack got from some national park you couldn’t remember the name of.
“Let me know when you’re ready to do handoffs,” you called as residents and trickled in, your face in your hand and your eyes barely open. “I’ll be here.”
“And don’t you just look so excited?”
Jack’s voice sent a tiny jolt of energy through you—a really tiny, almost neuron-firing-level of energy. You cracked an eye wider and saw your boyfriend standing where Ellis once was, his expression far fonder and far less filled with disgruntled trepidation.
“I’m thrilled,” you droned out, fighting off the smile working onto your face.
“Yeah, I can tell.” Jack rounded the nurse’s station and leaned over your shoulder, pressing his lips to your temple in a chaste kiss that jostled you around. “Are you good to drive home, or do you need me to have Shen take over for the first half hour?”
“I can drive home,” you scoffed. “I’m tired, not incapacitated.”
Jack hummed by your ear, spinning your chair and touching your forehead with the back of his fingers. “We should get an ice pack on the back of your neck before you head out.”
You swatted at his hand with a breathy laugh, rolling away from his assessment. “You should go get ready for report. Sooner you do that, the sooner I can leave.”
“You told me the AC went out nine hours ago. When’s the last time you drank water?”
“Will you leave me alone?” you exasperated, still laughing, still the happiest you’d been all shift. “Go find Robby. He’s in an awful mood, and if he’s distracted, I can slip out and take care of myself, Dr. Overbearing.”
Jack knocked his head to the side as he looked at you, the fondness still open on his face. He reached into the side pocket of his bag and tossed you his water bottle, giving you a pointed look as he backed away and headed to the lockers.
The day was awful, but as you took a large sip of that damn electrolyte water and thought about the way Jack always looked at you, it felt a little less awful.
Until Robby burst through the elevators with a vendetta.
His ambush started on an uneven playing field. You had a clipboard in hand as you rattled off the vitals of a woman presenting with a kidney infection, the eager intern beside you nodding intently. The air had kicked on about five minutes into your rounds, and you silently cursed it for working just as you were leaving.
“Another hour of observation and she should be good to go. Needs a ride due to the morphine dose,” you rattled off.
“Got it,” the resident relayed back. “For the fracture in north 12, did you say—”
Robby’s voice interrupted the flow of your rounds.
Your name was a harsh strike through the air, and you jumped at his curt shout, your clipboard rattling. The intern stared at you with wide eyes as you waited for the telltale signs of Robby’s approach, but they never came. He wanted you to go to him. That wasn’t great. You’d also never heard him say your name with so much vitriol before, and you couldn’t pinpoint anything throughout the day that would have warranted such a call.
“Um,” you paused. You shot your gaze to the side and considered pretending that you hadn’t heard him, but the entire room had paused when he shouted, so there was really no pretending. “Why don’t you catch up with Dr. King’s handoffs? I only had a few left.”
The intern looked like she wanted to say more, maybe offer encouragement as you went off on your final mission in life, but she only nodded and scurried away, leaving you to parade yourself awkwardly into the hall.
Robby did not look patient or kind or understanding when you got there. He had his hands on top of his head and was staring at the ceiling, his weight bouncing on his toes until the door to the Pitt closed, and you were alone with his frustration. He took in a large breath and looked at you, brows raised.
The silence dragged.
“You know I don’t treat you differently just because of your relationship with Jack,” Robby started, kissing his teeth. “I told you that when you started dating.”
You blinked, unsure where the conversation was heading. You weren’t even sure if half the staff at PTMC knew you were dating Jack; special treatment was not an expectation nor a perk, and you had only recently become more lax in keeping your relationship private.
“What? Robby, I know that. I would never—”
He was already shaking his head, the quickness of his words overpowering your rebuttal. “You fucked up. You fucked up, and I can’t make concessions for you just because of your relationship with an attending. I told Jack that if you were going to make your relationship public, you had to be perfect. If you weren’t perfect, it would—”
“Wait—you told Jack? Why are you talking to him about my career? And you never told me that I needed to be perfect. I didn’t realize my relationship suddenly gave me unreachable contingencies.”
Robby shrugged. “It makes sense. If you make mistakes, it looks bad on him. If you aren’t disciplined properly, it looks like favoritism.”
“Disciplined? What have I done to warrant being disciplined?”
Your body was heating up despite the air feeling cooler than it had all day. Your hands clenched into fists as you ran through the decisions you made throughout the shift, all the patients you’d treated and discharged. Nothing was alarming. It had been the environment, not the caseload, that made this day so chaotic.
“You tell me,” Robby posed, and his nonchalance was starting to piss you off.
An entire day of everything going wrong, and you kept a positive attitude. You had led the interns and taken the grunt work, and you had only eaten about half of a granola bar throughout your shift because of it. You could only recall one major trauma from the day, and you’d been pulled from the hall to assist with it. You hadn’t been part of the intake or the transfer. Everything else had been run-of-the-mill injuries and angry, sweaty patients.
You opened your mouth and closed it a few times. “I—I have absolutely no idea.”
Robby nodded, and you could tell from the redness working up his neck that he was about to blow. He’d been a ticking time bomb all day, something—maybe the heat or the multiple shifts—eating away at him. And you, alone in the hall, were about to be the victim of that repression.
It all blew up at once. Robby was jutting his hands out as he yelled about improperly ordered labs and a missed CT. Then there was something about an incident in the hall with the same patient and letting a med student perform a procedure you shouldn’t have. He paused for a moment when your eyes became glassy, but started up again with a shake of his head because you were a doctor. You needed to know when to take criticism.
He threw his hands up when he shouted about legal action and pressed his tongue into his cheek when you couldn’t answer a question about charting. He didn’t let you get a word in to answer him, but there was also the issue that the case wasn’t yours. You distinctly remembered Santos complaining about the situation earlier in the shift, med student intervention and all, but apparently, Robby was just getting word about it. And you had been incorrectly tied to each mistake.
Silent tears were running down your cheeks as he made the final blow.
“You know, maybe this isn’t where you should be. You’re sloppy now—distracted by your personal life. That’s not what a doctor is. Figure. It. out. Or I’m recommending a transfer because I can’t run my ED with an incompetent—”
“Hey, whoa!” Jack was quickly jogging down the hall, and you blinked at the ground to steady yourself. More tears fell. He stepped in front of you, fingers tenting against Robby’s chest and pushing slightly. You hadn’t realized how close he had gotten while he yelled. “Wanna tell me why the hell you’re talking to her like that?”
Robby laughed—a mean laugh. “Fuck, how ironic. You come to her rescue when she can’t handle it? She messed up, Jack. Multiple times. She deserves to hear it.”
You saw Jack’s shoulders tense through your blurry gaze.
“What the fuck are you talking about? We don’t talk to any of our doctors like that. Calling her incompetent—what’s going on with you?”
“She missed basic signs. Didn’t run the tests she was supposed to and couldn’t figure out how to teach the med students the fundamentals. She’s been too busy cozying up at your apartment to—”
“Watch yourself,” Jack snapped in a low tone. “This is about the medicine, but it could pretty quickly be about something else.”
You let out a shaky breath, begging the tears to stop, but it was like a dam had cracked from the stress of the day, and being yelled at for several minutes was not something your nervous system could regulate. You clutched your scrub top in your fists and counted your breaths, feeling pathetic and angry in each of your movements.
“Can’t seem to separate them with her,” Robby accused. “Even now. I can’t teach my senior resident without her boyfriend getting in the way.”
“That wasn’t teaching. You were berating her in the hallway. She never cries, and she hasn’t stopped since I got here, so, Robby, you need to back the hell up and reassess.”
There was more silence, the two men staring each other down, and then Robby slapped his hands against his thighs and shot out a quick “find me when she’s ready to take accountability,” before harshly pushing his way back into the Pitt. Your tears had finally begun to slow as the heat in the hallway dissipated, but you felt them well up again when Jack turned to you and hushed out a gentle sound.
“C’mere, it’s alright,” he muttered, yanking you against his chest. You pressed your face into his shirt and tried again to calm your breath, latching onto the soap and detergent and the feel of his body against yours. He held you for a moment and then spoke close to your ear. “The hell was that about?”
You gripped the material along his back. “Wasn’t even my case,” you hiccuped, words uneven. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“Probably because you had the shift from hell and then got screamed at.”
You felt Jack tuck your hair back from the stickiness of your face and kiss you where his touch lingered. Your eyes fluttered shut. “Maybe I deserved it.”
Jack pulled away, a frown etched on his face. “You just said it wasn’t yours.”
“It wasn’t.” You bit into your lip and looked down at his sure hands along your waist. “But maybe he was right, and I’m distracted by our relationship—being a bad doctor and not working how I’m supposed to. I mean, you’re here, comforting me, and anyone else would have had to take what Robby said and get over it.”
“Robby wouldn’t have had that argument to use against anyone else,” Jack countered, palms running flat along your head until they cradled the back of your neck. “He’s pissed about something else, not you. You’re a damn good doctor. If workplace relationships jeopardized that, he would be an issue too.” Jack’s jaw flexed, and he muttered a quiet, “Hypocrite,” to the air beside him.
You were vaguely aware that Robby hooked up with a nurse from admin. Some of your anger flickered back to life at the reminder of his distracting relationships, but your head was pounding, and Jack kept scanning your face for any sign of happiness, his brows furrowed and his face wincing, so you sighed and tried to play along. When the twitch of your smile was mirrored on Jack’s face, it felt worth it to try and forget.
“Are you comparing me to Robby’s late-night hookups?”
“Never,” Jack whispered, pulling you closer and slotting his mouth against yours. “You’re my whole world, baby.”
You huffed, clutching his wrists. “Yeah, well, your whole world has a puffy face and just got reamed out by your best friend, so I need a couple of minutes before I can finish my handoff report.”
“Want to sit in my truck for a while?”
“Do you still have the gushers I left in there?”
“Why do you think I offered?”
You sat in Jack’s truck for approximately ten minutes, eating every last one of the gushers in the oversized bag Jack bought you on a road trip a couple of weeks ago. The air conditioning blasted the heat from your face, and you downed an entire water bottle he had left for you in the door. And while you recalibrated, Jack found Robby.
“Got a sec?” Jack barely asked, sweeping past Robby to meet back up in the hall. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for his friend to let the door swing behind him.
“Look—” Robby started. “I get that she’s your girl, and it can be difficult to—”
“Wasn’t her case,” Jack interrupted, expression as neutral as he could get it. “It was Santos’. She wasn’t going to tell you that, but I will.”
Robby paused, nodding jerkily. “Okay. Okay, my bad. I’ll talk to her.”
“You will.”
Robby eyed Jack. “But my point still stands. She needs to be able to take whatever this ED throws at her. She can’t have you swooping in to protect her.”
Jack pursed his lips, nodding back at Robby to make the space feel equal. “Robby, I respect you. A lot. You’re one of the few people left that I’ve cared about for most of my life.” He took a step closer. “But I’ll protect her from what she needs protecting from.”
The air between them was heavy and uncomfortable, and Jack couldn’t remember a time it had ever felt like that. Maybe a few months after his wife died and he lashed out. Maybe when Robby wouldn’t ask for help and Jack forced it a little too hard. Or maybe it had never felt like this—with Jack on the offensive, unwilling to let anything slide.
Robby must have felt it too. “Heard,” he affirmed.
“Good.” Jack went to leave the hall, patting Robby’s shoulder as he went. But he felt there was more to say, so Jack paused, looking at the wall behind Robby’s head. In a matter-of-fact tone, he said, “And if you ever make her cry like that again, I will beat the shit out of you.”
Robby’s head turned to look at his friend fully, and Jack met him there. He lifted the side of his mouth in a fleeting smile, patted him on the shoulder once more, and then left Robby in the hall.
