♡ i care about her, too ♡
♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch (kinda)
♡ synopsis: after a patient attacks & strangles you, you're put on a short leave of absence so you can recover in peace. when you return to ptmc, you stay practically glued to robby's side. jealous, abbot tries keeping his distance—granting you time & space, so as to allow you to come to him when you're ready to discuss the events of that day...which he emerged from with bloody knuckles on your behalf.
♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, strangulation, assault, robby being soft w/ you, jack being jelly b/c robby has so much of your attention, jack comforting you while you have an emotional meltdown
♡ a/n: requested by @styx03, ty! | i intended for this to be a lil prequel to tell me what you feel, but it ended up being its own thing since robby's actions in this one-shot vs what i put in the aforementioned fic about him wouldn't align.
"I want out of this Goddamn bed," Mr. Haberly spits from behind you.
You nod while continuing on with furiously typing away the results from his EKG. "I understand. The doctor will be in to see you really soon. But until then—"
"What? So he can tell me that I have fuckin' Covid or somethin'?" He scoffs. "Bunch of quacks. Whole thing is a hoax. Well, you listen me to me, you little—"
You spin around on your heel, desiring to cut his tirade of expletives off at the head. "It isn't Covid in your case. Nor is it a heart attack like I know you were concerned about. We're going to run a few more tests, then—"
He shoots upright. "And max my out of pocket?" He hollers. "No," he continues with a swipe of his hand through the air. "I'm done. No fuckin' jabs, or tests, or—"
You step toward him and place a gentle hand against his shoulder. "I understand your concern with medical bills, believe me. But you really need to—"
Swatting your hand away, he rips his leads off and stands.
Panicking, you take a small step back. "Sir, p-please get back into bed. If you go home AMA, you...you may not make it back if things get worse, or—"
The world sways. One moment, you're facing your patient. The next, the back of your head has slammed off the tile floor, leaving you staring up at the ceiling. You blink dumbly, and then a searing pain begins to build at the back of your skull until it develops into a blazing inferno.
Oh God. Are... Are you paralyzed?
You curl your fingers inward, taking stock of what still functions. Just when you go to wiggle your toes, he climbs atop you and straddles your waist. "Please," you rasp as tears gather in your eyes, causing them to sting. "Pl—"
He wraps his hands tightly around your throat which you begin to claw uselessly at as your eyes bulge from your head. He presses his thumbs into your larynx next in an attempt to crush it.
His face will be the last thing you see—this red, ugly, pockmarked thing, and breath that reeks of alcohol and peppermint chewing gum which fans across your face.
You're going to die here.
If you're fortunate, his heart will give out before the job is through.
You kick your legs and flail your arms, completely helpless to stop what's happening to you.
"You stupid fuckin' cunt! I told you I wasn't gonna let you do it! Shoulda fuckin' listened!"
Your vision grows blurry, and then dim—the harsh lighting overhead bleeding, instead, into inky darkness.
"Hula hoop! We've got a code hula hoop!" Someone shouts from far away.
You'd had one of those as a child. Aggravating things. Never could get it to stay circling your waist for very long. You suppose that's of little concern to you now, however.
"It's Y/N!" They screech panickedly.
Just as your eyes have begun to flutter closed, a fast-moving, towering form rushes into the room, knocking the monster from atop you, sending him skidding across the floor.
Your body, acting on reflex, doubles over while your hand comes to circle your throat, desperate for air to fill it. You cough hoarsely—a good sign—then draw in a harsh sounding, ragged breath.
People circle you from all angles, fussing over you and speaking all at once. So quickly that you can hardly discern a single question or comment. Too much. It's all too much!
And then the screaming starts again. "Abbot's gonna kill 'em!" Yowls a feminine voice.
Your head rolls to the side, and like a horrific car crash, you find yourself unable to look away as a fist is drawn back before making impact with an impossibly swollen face, sending blood splattering against a stark white wall.
You shudder at the sight, but remain impossibly still, praying you won't be next.
Until a strong pair of arms slide beneath you and hoist you up, holding you against a sturdy chest. "I've got you, sweetheart. Stay with me."
You watch as the floor falls away from beneath you, creating a sense of vertigo. It makes your head swim.
A head full of silver curls turns back to you, and when your eyes lock, his fist stops in its downward descent toward what looks to now be a dead man.
He huffs, then shoves the man aside, leaving him slumped over against the wall and quickly forgotten as he rises.
Bending your head back, you gaze up at a familiar face. One you've admired so many times before from afar. And now you're in his arms. Oh, how lovely it is to be held by him.
"Robby," calls a thickly accented voice at your side. "Put her in here. I've got the room all cleared out."
Dana. Yes, it's Dana directing him as to what to do with your injured form. You like her very much.
With impossible gentility from a man of his stature, he settles you on a gurney and cups the top of your head in his palm before turning toward the doorway from which you just entered. "Whitaker, get me a portable ultrasound machine. Now."
You hear the sputtering of a young man grasping at metaphorical straws, and then Robby sneers. "I said now!" He barks, causing you to flinch in fear.
The sound of sneakers squeaking against polished floors fades away.
Robby turns back to you, and his fingertips gently massage your scalp. "You're gonna be alright, sweetheart. I promise."
He glances to the side. "Security needs to get down here—"
"Already here," Dana says, following his train-of-thought. "Fuck 'im. I hope he codes before they get 'im off the floor."
Leaning down, Robby presses a tender kiss to your forehead, and despite the circumstances, a hot rush of blood rises to your cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I should've had a better eye on things. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again in my ER. Never."
You open your mouth to attempt a reply, until he shakes his head and shooshes you.
"Don't talk. You've got a lot of swelling," he states while tenderly probing at your throat with his fingertips. An action that causes hot tears to prick your eyes.
"Don't you worry, doll," Dana croons.
You turn to look at her, wanting to brush away the blonde strand that's fallen before her twinkling eyes.
"Dr. Robby's on the job, and he's got ya real well looked after."
You're put on leave for the next couple of weeks as you heal. Being unable to speak—not to mention the apparent bruising around your throat—would only serve to make your occupation that much more difficult.
And when patients would inevitably get to asking questions you in no way felt comfortable answering... It's safe to say you enjoy the short vacation you've been alloted as best you can.
Your return to the Pitt is just as hectic as always. A feeling quickly instilled itself within you like you'd never left as residents rushed a patient past who was coughing up mouthfuls of blood into a small plastic tub, an elderly woman hollered from her bed about wanting vodka, and an ambulance screeched outside, signaling another was incoming.
So much for trying to take things easy your first day back.
You do spend your day taking easier cases in the end, though—as easy as they can get in the ED, anyway—per Robby. He assigns you a child having an allergic reaction to a peanut butter cookie, a young woman who'd just returned from a cruise in the tropical islands and came back with the souvenir of an odd fungal infection as a reminder of her time away, and a middle-aged man with a dog bite on his rear.
The rest of the time you spend before a computer at the nurse's station, charting.
You're grateful to those who treat you the same as before the attack. Their looks don't linger, their touches aren't ginger, like you might shatter if your shoulder is squeezed too hard in a simple gesture of reassurance—no matter that you wouldn't entirely mind a hug—and their words are straight to the point of how they require your aid.
Abbot is a different story.
The first thing you'd made note of was the splint around the middle finger of his dominant hand, as well as faded yellow bruises and scabs along his knuckles. You had wanted to thank him, but when you opened your mouth to do so, the words got stuck in your throat. It's a bizarre thing to be appreciative that he assaulted a patient on your behalf, is it not?
When he looked at you with utter alertness, however—ready to hear whatever it was you had to say—you froze up, then scurried away in search of Robby.
He's been a sort of security blanket for you ever since you came walking back through the ED's sliding glass doors. The comforting feeling of being in his arms while he whispered sweet nothings to you made a lasting impression, like an imprint in wet concrete before it dried—forever memorializing the mark left upon its surface.
You've done your utmost to remain out of his way, so as not to hinder his ability to properly do his job, but when either of you have a spare moment, you seem to just appear randomly at his side. Apparently your feet have a mind of their own now, always in search of him they are.
When you're not, though, is when Abbot comes into play.
He'd started out by putting a gentle hand against the small of your back—desiring a talk with you the first morning you returned—but when you squeaked in fear from the unexpected contact, he promptly dropped it. Then watched as you wandered away in search of his fellow attending.
Now, he loves Robby like a brother. He's one of his closest friends. His closest one at PTMC, to be certain. But watching you at his side—gazing up at him with doe eyes, all soft and adoring like—has left a feeling of heated jealousy burning deep within his chest.
Not because he feels like he's owed something for having defended you—he would've done it for anybody here (perhaps he wouldn't have gone quite so far in another's case as he did for yours)—but rather because he wants to gain whatever it is that Robby seems to have; whatever spell he's cast over you.
He doesn't know why it means so damn much to him: ensuring that you understand he's just as much of a safe place for you as Robinavitch—but it does. So, he goes about it by a different approach. Such as buying you lunch.
Until you take the pricey sandwich from him with a quiet 'thank you' before wandering off to eat it in solitude one afternoon.
It makes him feel just the least bit pathetic, practically courting you like a damn school boy with a juvenile crush, but he simply wishes for you to talk to him. Have one decent conversation so he can get...whatever this is out of his system and he can get his head screwed on right once more.
Because if your reason for avoidance is fear? He can't let that go. You should never have a reason to fear a fellow coworker here, particularly an attending. It'll only serve to make the possibility of dire mistakes all the more likely on the job if you hesitate to ask for his expertise when it's required.
So he gives you space; deigns that you'll come to him when you're ready.
He hopes so, anyway.
"I care about her, too, y'know?"
Glancing from the iPad he holds, to Jack over his glasses, Robby raises a brow in confusion. "What?"
Jack folds his arms, then rolls his head to the side from atop his shoulder. He should've kept his damn mouth shut.
"You know who."
Robby merely stares at him for a moment before he snorts quietly with mirth—an action that sends his shoulders slightly shaking from a sense of amusement. "Y/N?" He asks.
That damn obvious, then, Jack muses. "Mhm."
"Alright."
Jack rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. This is the stupidest fucking conversation he's ever had in his life, hand to God. "She just won't..." He sighs from frustration. "She won't fucking talk to me," he hisses while turning toward him. "Every time I try, she runs in the other direction. To you."
Unexpectedly, Robby barks a laugh, then waves his hand before him. "I'm sorry," he begins before crossing one arm over the other, leaving the tablet to hang loosely at his side. "Are you actually saying that you're jealous? About what, Jack?"
Jack silently steams. If this were the damn cartoon with the coyote, there'd be smoke coming out of his ears. "Forget it," he clips before stomping off.
"Oh, come on!" Robby hollers from behind him. "Come back so that we can talk about—"
A raised middle finger cuts him short.
You can't stop shaking. Violently. You're all alone, trapped in that room again, with a hefty man atop you, trying to choke the life from your throat.
You hadn't even done anything wrong—all you wanted was to help him; make him better. Send him home to his family.
Your fault, your fault, your fault. Last you heard, he was in jail. Now what will happen to him? And there've been whispers. That Jack's professionalism has been called into question—if not his medical license as well. How many lives have you ruined all because you were too weak to act? To take care of the problem you caused?
You want to tell someone. Want the truth of everything you've been bottling up and pushing down to come spilling out like an endless river until its bed has gone dry and nothing is left but sand.
But you can't burden anyone else. Can't put them on the line as well for the sake of your own sanity.
Cradling your head in your heads, you rock back and forth while sobbing, doing your utmost to self-soothe and come back to yourself before your break is over.
It's been like this every day since you got back: scheduled meltdowns. You worry you're conditioning yourself for them, because once the clock hits a particular time, here comes a downpour.
"You're fine, you're fine, you're fine," you repeat over and over again.
Problem is, they feel like empty words at this point because you've said them so many times.
A metal door swings open, and you huddle further into the corner you occupy beneath the stairwell, quietly sniffling, hoping they'll soon be on their way.
Even footfalls descend the stairs, your eyes drifting to each one as an unknown foot makes contact with the other side of the stairs that loom above you.
Then they stop at the bottom, round a corner, and—
Oh no.
"You've got people looking for you," Abbot states with his hands on his hips.
Your chin wobbles, then you break into a fit of sobs again.
Taken aback, he stalls for a moment before morphing into a soldier ready to jump into action. His black tennis shoes scuff against the floor as he walks over to you. Pressing his back against the wall, he slides downward, finishing with a quiet 'oomph' when his butt hits the floor.
"Alright," he begins, dragging himself closer until he's pressed against your side. "This about what happened, or somethin' new?"
"H-happened," you choke out inbetween sobs.
For once, Robinavitch fails to be the hero coming to your rescue this time, Abbot muses, despite knowing that he's too damn old to be thinking so immaturely.
And yet.
Outstretching his arm, he makes to wrap it around your shoulder, until you go spastic, nearly pushing him over onto his side. "No! No, I can do it! I have to! I can do it this time! No one has—has to—"
Resituating, his brows furrow. "Sweetheart, what the hell are you talking about?"
Burying your racing head in your hands, you claw at your scalp. "It's all my fault," you mutter between ragged breaths. "That man. He's in jail. And—And you. Your job and—and license. Oh, God, what've I done?"
His mouth falls slightly open as he attempts to formulate a reply. You blame yourself? Just how long have you spent beating the shit out of yourself for things you had no control over, exactly?
Grabbing your face between his hands—refusing to let you slip from his grasp this time—Abbot levels you with a steely look. "I gave that piece of shit what he deserved. Had we been outside the hospital, I can promise you that I would've done a lot worse. I only stopped because you were watching. As for my license, yes, there was an inquiry, but the case is now closed. I'm fine. HR deemed in the end that ultimately I did what I had to to protect my staff."
Sliding his hands beneath your legs, he drapes them over his lap before enveloping the rest of you in his arms.
Almost immediately does the tension within you loosen from the unexpected embrace.
He cups your cheek and brushes a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Everything is fine. That...patient," he spits. "Is fine. Recovering. In jail. Where he fucking belongs. Whatever happens to him next is strictly due to his own actions. Understand?"
Slowly, you nod. "I'm sorry. That I've been avoiding you."
He shakes his head. "I understand why now: you felt guilty when you had no reason to. I thought..." He trails off. "Doesn't matter now. Everything is alright. That's what matters."
"W-what? You thought—"
He sighs, and runs a tired hand down his face before leaning his head back against the wall behind him. "I lost myself in the moment." He wiggles his splinted finger. "When I saw him on top of you, something just...snapped. Everything went red. I was out for blood; felt like I was back overseas again. The shouting turned into gunfire, and all I saw was a faceless man trying to hurt someone that I—"
No. He can't go that far. Not when you're in such a delicate state of mind.
"That you...what?" You question innocently.
"Care about." Deeply, he supplies, but leaves unspoken.
Jack knows it's more than that.
Your sobs having turned instead to the occasional quiet sniffle, you let your eyes flutter closed. Now having exhausted yourself from a nervous breakdown, you'd really like to take a nap.
But there's still four hours left of your shift.
Jack's lips tug into a soft smile at the sight of you so peaceful. And in his arms, at that. "You okay now?"
You nod, then yawn. "Sleepy, but yes."
Granting a kiss to the crown of your head, he breathes deeply. "I knew you were going through it. It's why I hovered," he murmurs against your forehead. "Then I gave you space since suffocating you wasn't getting me anywhere. Maybe I should've done things differently—"
You shake your head, then settle it atop his shoulder. "It wasn't you. It was just...me."
He chews his lip for a moment. Fuck it. "You went to Robby."
Your brows furrow. "Yes...?"
Jack rolls his eyes, then squeezes them shut. He is truly too old for this schoolyard crush bullshit. Damn his heart. "Maybe I got a little jealous."
Your head shoots up—nearly clipping his chin in the process. "Wha—" Your mouth quirks to the side, so as to prevent yourself from smirking. There's just something so deeply hilarious about that statement to you. Coming from someone such as himself, especially. He served overseas—bearing witness to God knows what, then came home only to continue watching people die in the ED, and you giving Robby attention is what does him in?
At a loss for words, you merely look at him with wide eyes.
Shaking his head with a smirk now plastered on his face, he half turns his head toward you. "You don't have to say anything. Please don't, actually. I've already given him shit about it and don't need to feel like any more of an ass than I already do."
You lean forward, and he slides a palm up your thigh. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, you nuzzle against his neck. "I'm just glad to hear that everything is okay with you."
Resting his cheek against the top of your head, Jack nods. "Same here."
