Dancing Pens

Sarah ☕️ 20 🌻 Marketing 🇨🇦

[littlemissihaveaquestion]

Reminder that spring will always come back, music will never stop being created, and there are still so many books left to read! You’re alive! You’re alive! You’re alive!

[kafkaesque-world]

“I’m doing badly, I’m doing well, whichever you prefer.”

— Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena 

[minimalistquotes]

When you're born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it's not.

[coldasyou]

It gets a little bit weird to me when people act like it’s sort of a paternity test.

[ss-writess]

“I will learn you so gently you won’t even realise how carefully I’m choosing every way to keep you safe.”

[thememedaddy]

[imaginesofwonder]

Emergency Contact - Jack Abbot x Reader

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

WC- 1.5k

A/N: I wrote this based on a chronic illness I suffer. I only wanted it to be a small blurb, but plans change. The whole funny reader and stern Jacks just complete something for me. Let me know if you have any ideas. Thanks. All work has been edited by Grammarly.

“What brings you today?” the young man asked as he walked into the treatment room.

You glanced at the nametag. Whitaker. The name didn’t sound familiar; he must be new.

“I passed out at work,” you said with a shrug.

“Has this happened before?” he asked, grabbing a pair of gloves.

You gave him a look. “Have you read my chart?”

Whitaker hesitated, then reached for it, feeling like a child who had missed a step. He examined it properly this time instead of skimming.

The triage note stated that you’d walked into the ER less than an hour ago and reported to the receptionist that you had fainted at work. You mentioned a brief loss of consciousness with no head strike. You’d complained of increasing fatigue over the past few weeks, but no other emergency symptoms.

Given your documented history of chronic anemia, they hadn’t made you wait. You were brought straight back for blood labs.

Whitaker’s eyes moved to the results — and froze.

Your iron levels were critically low. You barely had enough red blood cells to carry oxygen through your body. That explained why you’d passed out.

He blinked. Then blinked again.

He’d seen anemia before, but never this severe in someone alert, someone who had calmly walked themselves into the ER.

He slowly looked up at you.

You were sitting on the edge of the exam table, gently swinging your legs like you were relaxing on a swing set.

“It’s my iron, isn’t it?” you said casually. “I was supposed to come next week, but I guess now is fine.”

His throat felt tight. “It’s… really low,” he said carefully.

You shrugged. “Yeah. That usually happens.”

How were you so calm?

You had passed out and walked yourself into the ER. And you were acting like you were about to order a coffee, not undergo a medical procedure.

Whitaker cleared his throat, glancing back down at the chart.

“I’m going to order an iron transfusion,” he said carefully. “You were due for one next week anyway. This should help bring your levels back up.”

You nodded easily. “Okay.”

“I’d like to keep you monitored for a couple of hours,” he added. “Just to be safe.”

He hesitated. “Do you want us to notify you of your emergency contact? Since you passed out.”

You gave a small shrug. “I guess.”

“Alright,” he said with a nod. “We’ll take care of it.”

You didn’t look worried. Didn’t look nervous. If anything, you looked mildly inconvenienced.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he said, stepping out of the room.

The nurse’s station hummed with conversation when Whitaker approached. Santos was catching up on charting while Mel stood nearby, talking about her current patient.

Santos glanced up as he arrived. “Syncope?” she asked, nudging his shoulder. “About time you got an easy one.”

“Yeah,” Whitaker replied, leaning against the counter. “Chronic anemia. Dangerously low. I ordered a transfusion.”

“How low?” Mel asked. Blood transfusions weren’t common in the ER.

“Low enough that I don’t know how she managed to get here.”

That earned him a few looks.

“She walked herself in,” he added. “Completely calm. Explained her medical history without missing a beat.”

He flipped open the chart again, double-checking the order before calling the emergency contact.

His eyes drifted down the page.

Emergency Contact.

He paused. Read the line once. Then again.

His posture stiffened instantly.

“You okay, Huckleberry?” Santos asked, noticing the change.

Whitaker didn’t answer. He just stared.

Santos and Mel leaned in, curiosity pulling them closer.

There was a beat of silence. Another. And then—

“Oh shit,” Santos muttered.

Whitaker swallowed.

And down the hall, in exam room five, you were still sitting on the edge of the bed, gently swinging your legs, waiting for your man to arrive.

The door to exam five opened.

Jack stepped in, already in scrubs, already working. Maybe you should’ve answered his text when he said he had to come in early.

His eyes went straight to you, not the monitors or the chart, just you. He took you in carefully, cataloging every small detail until he was satisfied you were alright. You were sitting upright, breathing easily, the gentle sway of your legs a familiar sign that you were back to your usual self.

He exhaled slowly as he made his way to your bedside. “I came in early because of an accident. Not to get a call from one of the residents telling me my girlfriend passed out at work and decided to walk herself into the ER.”

You winced, then shrugged. “In my defence, I didn’t drive myself here.”

Jack let out a short laugh, half relief, half exasperation. “Thank God for that,” he said. “I don’t think I could’ve handled that.”

You grinned. “See? I think I’m learning.”

He rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth tugged into a small smile. “Barely.”

“Next time, call me,” he said, voice softer now.

“Yeah, I know,” you replied with a smirk. “The ringer’s always on for me, ain’t I special?”

Jack shook his head, pretending to be exasperated, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. “Too special,” he murmured, sliding a hand onto your knee. Thumb brushing gently. “You scared me.”

“Oh, come on,” you said lightly, trying to shrug it off. “It wasn’t that long of a scare, you were only down the hall.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed just a little. “That’s not the point,” he said, voice low. Before you could tease him further, he leaned closer and gently pulled you into a hug, holding you tight. The warmth of him, steady and real, made you pause.

You let out a soft sigh, half-playful, half-relieved. “Okay… maybe it was a little scary.”

Jack rested his forehead against yours, thumb tracing circles on your knee. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Won’t happen again. Not today. Especially since we’re getting this transfusion now—”

You grumbled, nuzzling into him. “Do we have to do it now? I have an appointment for next week.”

“Nope,” Jack said firmly as if it wasn't up for debate. “Not next week. Now. You need it today. Trust me.”

You huffed, still warm against him, but the edge of protest faded as you felt the steadiness in his hand and the quiet certainty in his voice. “Fine,” you muttered, “Only because it’s the doctor’s orders.”

Jack let out a small, satisfied hum, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “That’s what I thought.”

The door to exam room five opened, and this time Whitaker stepped in, scrubs crisp, iron bag in hand.

You looked up, smirking. “Oh! Doctor Whitaker, you’re back,” you said, voice light and playful.

Jack, sitting in the chair next to you, gave Whitaker a calm glance, thumb still brushing over your hand.

Whitaker blinked, a little stiff, and murmured, “Uh… yeah. I—”

You cut him off with a grin, leaning slightly toward Jack. “Whitaker, this is my boyfriend, Jack. Jack, this is Whitaker.”

Jack rolled his eyes, just the slightest, letting out a short, amused sigh. Then he turned his gaze to Whitaker, calm and steady, giving him a look that clearly said: ignore her.

Whitaker stiffened, caught somewhere between professional respect and utter confusion. “Uh… nice to meet you,” he stammered, holding the kit a little too tightly.

He shifted nervously, glancing at Jack, then the bag. “Do you… Want me to help?”

Jack didn’t even flinch, thumb still brushing lightly against your hand. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “You’re the doctor here, Whitaker.”

Whitaker’s face flushed, a little panicked. “Oh! Right! Of course…”

You grinned, leaning back slightly. “Don’t worry, Whitaker. I just came by to make sure Jack takes a break for once… You know, I thought I’d pay him a little visit.”

Jack actually laughed, short, soft, completely genuine — while Whitaker’s eyes widened, gripping the kit as he’d walked into a hurricane. She… she just said that? Jack actually laughed?

Whitaker cleared his throat and shuffled toward the door. “Uh… I’ll… I’ll just… leave you two to it,” he muttered awkwardly.

Jack’s eyes flicked to him, calm but firm, taking on that unmistakable superior tone. “Whitaker,” he said quietly, “next time… always read the chart.”

Whitaker froze, nodded frantically, and retreated out of the room, muttering something about supplies and professionalism.

You leaned into Jack, smiling, nudging slightly against his chair. “He’s so easily flustered.”

Jack pressed a gentle kiss to your head, still smiling softly. “Easily flustered,” he murmured, “because he has a fool for a patient.”

“A fool you love,” you teased, letting out a laugh. “At least I’m enjoying myself.”

Jack chuckled, tilting his head so his forehead rested against yours.

You grinned, nuzzling into him. “Do you think… next time, I can have an in-house appointment, Jack?”

He lifted an eyebrow, mock stern. “That’s doctor to you.” He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.

You let out a soft sigh, smiling against him. “I love you Doctor Abbot.”

Jack’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile as he rested his forehead against yours. “I love you too,” he murmured, and for the first time all day, everything melted away, leaving just the two of you.

[lovebugism]

✶ — YOUR MIND'S WALKING OUT !

summary: no one at the pitt knows you and jack are separated when you show up to the emergency room during a particularly chaotic shift, with a number of dubious symptoms that force you and jack to reconcile. (4k)

characters: jack abbot / wife!reader, jack abbot, dana evans, the pittlings

contents: established relationship, grumpy!jack, protective!jack, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread cw for mentions of divorce, medical procedures, and pregnancy

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

You make a reluctant trip to the PTMC with a two-week-old headache and the remnants of last night’s argument with Jack.

You don’t see the man when you first walk in, which you’re slightly grateful for, even though you know that a crowded E.R. is hardly ever a good sign. You feel the swelling noise and bustling bodies pressing hard on either side of you as you freeze in place by the entrance, trapped within a sea of rushing doctors and transporting patients. Dana, who had spotted you the second you walked in, rushes to your side to keep you from drowning in it entirely.

“Hey, hun,” the older woman greets in her usual gritty deadpan, wearing the weight of the long day all over her face as she rounds the work station to meet you.

“Hey, D— Lupe sent me through,” you murmur, just barely audible over the noisy emergency department. You point behind you to the double doors towards the waiting room, but don’t take your eyes off the surrounding chaos as Dana ushers you the short distance to the front desk. “Jeez, you guys are busy today, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it, honey,” Santos huffs distantly, from where she stands before the overhead monitor with a few other residents. It takes her a second too long to realize her slip-up, and her half-up ponytail sways behind her as she flashes you an apologetic grimace. “Shit. Sorry. I just— I hear Jack calling you that all the time, and it just slipped.”

You burn at the mention of his name. You hope it doesn’t show on your face.

“It’s okay,” you assure her with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Trust me— I’m used to it.”

“We’re never too busy for you, hun. C’mon. Let’s find you a room,” Dana assures with a gentle pat on your arm. She cranes her neck and shouts across the work station, “We got anything open, Princess?”

The woman bends at the waist to check her computer, then calls over her shoulder, “Psych 1 should be.”

“One of you find Abbot, will ya?” Dana asks the younger residents, peering at them over the top of the glasses sitting low on her nose as she escorts you down the hall. “Tell him his wife is here.”

You tense instinctively under her touch at the turn of phrase — a bitter reminder of the stack of divorce papers on the coffee table back home, which says that pretty soon you won’t be Jack’s wife anymore, or his honey. You dread telling his coworkers almost as much as you dread signing the wretched thing.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” you assure her with a wavering grin. “It’s nothing, D, really.”

“That’s what they all say, hun,” the woman rolls her eyes.

The remaining residents share weary looks once the two of you have disappeared into the crowd — because telling Abbot his wife is in is one thing, but telling him in the middle of the unforgiving chaos of a rather brutal shift is entirely another.

“Well, I have a patient to check on, so…” Santos trails off, ambling backward with her thumb cocked over her shoulder. She spins on her sneaker and dismisses herself with a curt wave. “Later, losers.”

“Look at this place, we all have patients to check on,” Whitaker scoffs, then cowers at the expectant looks he gets from the two women at his side. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “But, yeah, I… I have to go, too…”

Samira laughs as she watches the blonde scurry off behind Santos.

“What’s his deal?” she scoffs and turns over her shoulder to look at Mel. Her dark brows furrow when she finds the girl backing slowly away. “Dr. King?”

“Oh, I’ve already completed all my rounds, I just… don’t wanna do it,” Mel confesses, forgetting to lie. She grimaces and turns away. “Sorry…”

Samira watches them go with a confused look twisting her features. She doesn’t understand their apprehension, or their subtle looks of sympathy — as if she’d just gotten stuck diffusing a ticking time bomb.

“O-kay, I guess I’ll do it then…” she mumbles under her breath and turns on the heel of her sneaker, starting the hunt for Dr. Abbot.

Dana stashes you in a small room on the farthest end of the E.R., away from all the chaos on the opposite side, which has since been reduced to a muted droning behind the shut door. She leaves the curtains drawn and the lights dim to ease the unwavering migraine she knows you’ve been sporting for some days now — which inevitably means it’s been plaguing you for at least a week or more before you told anyone about it.

You lie back against the angled exam table with your knees bent and your arms crossed over your eyes, feeling the pounding in your skull down into your bones. You struggle to even out your breathing and harder to relax — you tense on instinct when the door clicks open, and not just because every noise feels like a knife right to your temple.

Your stomach twists with the anticipation of seeing Jack, a sick sort of feeling at potentially having to confront the night before and the uncertain future ahead. You exhale a breath of relief when Robby slides in instead, letting in a sliver of white-blue light and a trickle of noise.

“Dana told me you were in,” he says in lieu of any real greeting, shutting the door behind him with his elbow as he reaches for the hand sanitizer on the wall at his side. He rubs it between his palms and wonders aloud, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure him despite the faint grimace that twists your features when you struggle to sit up straighter on the bed. “Don’t worry about me— What the hell’s going on out there?”

Robby exhales hard through his mouth, bearded cheeks puffing. “Huge wreck, right off the highway— You didn’t see it on the way here?”

“No,” you shake your head.

“Good…” he nods. “I damn near had a heart attack when Dana told me you were in— I’m sure Abbot’s head is gonna cave in when he finds out.”

He exhales a quiet laugh and waits for you to make another stupid joke in response, just like you always do. But you avert your gaze instead and shift uncomfortably on the thin mattress, like the mention of Jack’s name is enough to make you nervous.

“What’s going on?” the man wonders with furrowed brows. You give him a shocked sort of look in response, half-confused that he’d even know you and Jack were on the outs in the first place. He elaborates soon after, “Dana said you’ve been having headaches for a while now— so that means it’s been a week, at most.”

“You guys know me so well…” you deadpan with a pair of squinted eyes. “It’s nothing, Robby. Really. I just… Had another fainting spell. And usually I wouldn’t even come in for them, but Jack said if it happened again that he’d drag me down here himself, so… I figured I’d save him the trip.”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow at the cynical smile you give him.

“Well, I’m gonna save you the lecture about waiting this long to come in… Since I’m pretty sure you’re gonna hear it from Abbot anyway, so…”

“Thank you,” you sigh.

“You sure you don’t want me to tell him you’re in?” Robby presses tentatively. “He’s with another patient right now, but he’d drop it in a second if you—”

“No,” you shake your heavy head almost instantly, ‘cause you’re not so sure how true that is anymore — Jack hasn’t exactly been too keen on dropping his work these days, which is essentially the entire reason you’re in this mess to begin with. “I don’t wanna… worry him over nothing, you know?”

Robby has a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t nothing, and that there’s something you and Abbot aren’t exactly telling him, but he doesn’t press the issue now.

“Yes, ma’am…” he nods with a huff and drops down in the cushioned stool at your bedside, silently preparing himself for the hell Abbot’s gonna raise when he inevitably finds out you’re here.

Samira finds Dr. Abbot in Trauma 2, performing an emergency surgery on a patient whose pelvis was crushed in the crash, with Dr. Garcia and a crowd of other residents at his side. The younger girl slinks through the glass door into the windowless room, and doesn’t flinch at the overwhelming scent of blood and bitter antiseptic heavying the air inside.

She plucks a surgical mask from the dispenser beside the door and holds it over her mouth as she calls out a hesitant, “Dr. Abbot?”

“Little busy here, Mohan,” Jack answers without looking at her, elbows deep in the unconscious man’s open pelvis as he readjusts the metal clamps there. Bright crimson blood stains his gloves and the stomach of his blue PPE gown as he works with expert hands.

“It’s sort of important, sir…”

Jack says nothing in response; just gives the girl a silent, expectant look from behind the safety glasses sitting low on his nose.

“Your wife is here,” she tells him, dark eyes wild from behind the mask she holds over her mouth. “She’s totally fine, she’s in psych 1 with Dana, but she—”

“Since when?” Jack snaps before she can properly get the words out, flaring red-hot with an immediate worry and a suffocating tinge of regret despite Samira’s reassurances.

Flashes of the crash plague his anxious mind. He can’t help but picture you lying as limp and as bloody as the man before him now. The brutal image hits him as hard as the memory of the last thing he said to you the night before, right before you slept in separate bedrooms.

“Well, if my work schedule makes you so damn miserable, then why don’t you just sign the goddamn papers—?”

“Um… I’m not sure,” Samira answers with a waver in her voice. “About ten minutes ago, I think? I did a few rounds before I came in here, so—”

Jack stills suddenly in place. His head snaps in the younger girl’s direction, and Samira cowers at the hardened glare in his eyes.

“Is there a reason you didn’t come to me directly?”

Samira flinches at his unusually harsh tone. Her wide eyes flit between his stern ones and the anxious looks from the residents just behind him. “Well, she said not to… But then Dana said that I should, so I wasn’t exactly sure who to listen to—”

“Me,” Jack snaps. “You listen to the attending, who told everyone to come get him if his wife came in—”

He doesn’t have time to notice his slip-up, or otherwise correct it, when Garcia steps in.

“I’ll take over here,” the older woman says in her usual deadpan. “If you guys wanna argue like children somewhere else.”

Jack doesn’t argue as he steps back from the patient, peeling off his bloodied gown and gloves with suddenly anxious hands. He chucks the PPE in the biohazard bin with an obvious fire in his touch. The sudden shift in his usually calm disposition makes Samira’s chest ache, while Garcia grins behind her mask.

“Tell your wife I said hi, Dr. Rabbit,” the woman croons with a teasing lilt and a mischievous look behind her glasses.

“She’s still not interested, Garcia,” Abbot calls over his shoulder as he storms towards the door.

“Dammit…”

Samira cowers when Jack slides past her in the doorway, not looking at her once, like he barely recognizes that she’s there at all. She watches through the glass door as he disappears into the bustling crowd outside, hands balled into trembling fists at his sides.

“Don’t worry about him, kid,” Garcia sighs, half-distracted, as she fishes her bloodied hands in the unconscious man’s open pelvis. “He’s been on his period for about a week now, and we’re all paying the price for it…”

Samira’s chest deflates with a huff. “So, that’s why no one else wanted to do it…”

The two-minute trek across the E.R. feels nothing short of two years.

The entire walk there, Jack’s anxious mind struggles to discern what Mohan could’ve meant by totally fine. Were you just a little scraped up? Were you terribly injured, but at the very least alive? Was Samira trying to soften the blow, or did she truly mean totally fine?

Jack can’t help but picture the worst-case scenario, and he expects to find you hurt.

“No, I just kinda have this headache that comes and goes, you know?” he hears you say, right before he storms inside.

“Oh— And there it is,” Jack jokes when Abbot appears suddenly in the doorway, bringing in a wave of light and noise and unadulterated panic in with him.

Jack’s tight chest relaxes slightly when he finds you totally fine — lounging in a dim room with Robby at your side, laughing at his stupid joke as he draws dark red blood from the inside of your arm.

He’s relieved that you’re okay, of course, but the sight of you smiling — when Jack hasn’t quite been able to keep food down for days with the worry that you might be leaving him — hurts him in a completely different (and only slightly jealous) way.

“Oh, fuck…” you hear yourself say when Jack storms in like a white-hot flame. Because, sure, you’ve sort of made it a point to avoid the man at every turn, but you didn’t want him finding you like this.

You know what this looks like. You know it looks like you’re going behind his back and purposefully taunting him by going to his friends instead of straight to him. You know it hurts his feelings. And you may not like him so much right now, but you never want to see him sad.

“Yeah, 'oh fuck' is right,” Jack nods as he closes the door behind him, muffling the noise as the room goes dim again.

Robby inhales sharply through his nose. He can feel the sudden tension between the two of you pressing hard on either side of him. “Little pinch,” he murmurs to you, right before sliding the needle from your vein.

“Why didn’t you come get me?” Jack asks.

“Because you were busy,” you sigh, then mumble more quietly under your breath. “Go figure…”

“Why didn’t you call before you came—”

You fight the urge to rehash the fight from the night before and roll your eyes instead. “Because it’s not a big deal, Jack—”

“Yeah, I think I’ll be the judge of that,” the man concludes with narrowed eyes and biceps that strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest.

Robby’s dark eyes flit between the two of you behind the glasses perched on his broad nose. When he’s sure the arguing has ceased, he looks over his shoulder at Abbot and begins to explain. “I’m doing an electrolyte panel to check for any imbalances— It’ll also help us rule out anemia and hypoglycemia.”

Jack nods, brows lowered in concentration. “Okay… What about—?”

“I was gonna do an ECG when the results came back,” Robby finishes for him. “Her heart sounds fine, but I’ll have to wait for a room to open up if the bloodwork comes back abnormal, and… Who knows how long that’s gonna be?”

“Alright,” Jack nods again. “Sounds good.”

Robby turns to you, brows raised expectantly. “Sound good?”

“You’re the boss, Robinavitch,” you shrug.

“Hear that, brother?” Robby scoffs as he rises from his stool, taking the vials of blood work with him as he heads for the door. He elbows Jack on the arm when he walks by and flashes the frowning man a smug grin. “I’m the boss.”

Robby opens and shuts the door behind him, and all the playful energy leaves with him. The subsequent silence feels borderline suffocating. You and Jack, barely breathing, try to break it at the same time.

“I’m fine, Jack—”

“I can’t believe this—”

You huff and tip your aching head back. “I’m fine. So you can go back and do whatever it is you were doing before. I’m sure it’s more important.”

Jack’s light eyes narrow into thin slits. His firm stature never wavers — arms crossed tight, sneakers spread shoulder-length apart — like he’s interrogating an enemy on the battlefield.

“What happened? Did you faint again?”

“Yeah…” you answer suddenly sheepishly, averting your gaze to a faded stain on the knee of your jeans. “It was in your shower chair this time. I think I had the water too hot.”

“I told you about the hot water—”

“I know,” you huff like a stubborn child. “And you also told me that if I passed out again that I needed to come in so… I came in.”

“I still wish you would’ve called me first,” he tells you — not angry this time, not truly, but still obviously hurt. “When Mohan told me you were here, I thought something bad happened to you.”

“Well, considering you told me to leave last night, I honestly didn’t think you really gave a shit anymore, Jack...” you confess with a smile you hardly mean.

“I told you to leave because you said you wanted to,” Jack argues through gritted teeth. “You act like I pulled that shit out of thin air— Like you haven’t been looking for an out for weeks.”

“An out?” you echo, a little louder than you mean to, as your face screws in offense. “You’re the one who’s never home, Jack. So if anyone’s been looking for a fucking out, it’s you— Fuck…”

You whimper when a white-hot flare surges suddenly across your skull, from temple to temple and down the base of your neck. You wince and close your eyes, tentatively tipping your head back against the bed once more.

Jack forgets to be angry in an instant. His chest stings at the pained look that etches across your features. His legs carry him to you before his brain has decided whether or not he should.

“What?” he presses, eyes wild. “What’s wrong?”

“My head…” you squeak out.

Jack huffs. “Here…”

You know he’s towering over you without having to open your eyes. You can feel him there, warm like a heater, and smelling of cologne and a long shift at the E.R. He braces himself with one hand on the mattress beside your head and covers your eyes with his free one. You don’t flinch when his gently calloused palm splays suddenly over the length of your forehead, pinky curving in the bend of your closed eyelids.

He couldn’t possibly count the number of times he’s done this over the years — hundreds, at least. It’s the only way he knew how to soothe your headaches when the medicine was taking its sweet time kicking in. It’s the pressure that helps, though you’ve always argued that Jack must have some secret healing superpowers that he isn’t telling you about.

You’re only able take your first good breath in two weeks when he’s finally touching you so gently.

“Better?” he wonders, half-detached but still strikingly soft.

You nod once beneath his palm and fight back the urge to cry when his thumb rubs softly over your temple.

“Contrary to popular belief, honey,” the older man murmurs. “I didn’t come in here to fight with you.”

“It always ends in a fight with us, Jack,” you sigh. “You know that.”

“I thought you were hurt,” he confesses, in a voice so soft it makes you feel like crying. “Bad hurt. When Mohan came and got me, I thought for sure you were involved with all the shit going on out there.”

“Well, I’m not… So you can go now…” you tell him in a trembling voice, which you’d rather blame on the lingering ache in your skull and not the fact that you don’t truly want him to leave — that you never really wanted him to leave.

You miss the quiet smile Jack gives you in response, because he can see right through you.

“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere, honey…” he says on a gentle exhale. “And I’m not signing those stupid papers.”

Your heart drops at the mention of them, at the bitter reminder of their existence, even though it’s been plaguing your every waking thought for some weeks now.

Your trembling hands reach for the one he holds over your eyes. You wrap your fingers around his wrist and knuckles, peeling his palm away to peer up at him with a glassy gaze.

“What do you mean?” you ask on bated breath.

Jack meets your weary look with a softer, sadder smile.

“Well, I just got about a… three-minute glimpse of what my life was gonna look like without you,” Jack sighs, in lieu of confessing all the gory worst-case scenarios he couldn’t quite get out of his head. “And, turns out, I’m not strong enough for that, so… I’m officially declining your divorce, honey.”

“Jack…” you protest feebly, features crumpling at his poor excuse for a joke, while his calloused palm slips from your forehead and cups gently over your warm cheek.

He ducks down to meet your gaze when you try to turn away, bending slightly at the waist and bracing himself with his free hand curled around the top of the mattress. His nose is mere inches from yours — you can feel each of his exhales fan across your chin. You couldn’t shy away from him if you tried.

“I’m serious, honey,” he says with a stern but no less sincere look swimming in his light eyes. “You were right— I’m working too much—”

“No, don’t…” you protest with a shake of your head, because the affirmation doesn’t feel as rewarding as you’d expected it to. Instead, it makes you feel a little sick. Your gaze falls to the dog tags slipping from the inside of his scrubs, glimmering in the darkness as they sway just ahead of you. Your fingers reach to fidget with the chain on muscle memory. “It’s your job, Jack. I shouldn’t dictate how much you work—”

“You’re my wife, honey. You shouldn’t feel second to my job, because you’re not,” he tells you, brows raised to his hairline. “So, I’ll— cut down on my hours, I’ll stop picking up so many shifts, I’ll… I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to do, baby, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

You feel his words physically, like a white-hot knife lodged in the center of your sternum and twisting.

You struggle to find the words to respond, just as you struggle to find the air in the room to breathe. Because you’ve spent weeks thinking you’d failed at your marriage, and now you’ve failed at failing your marriage. It’s a stupid tug of war that makes you hate yourself all the more.

“Well, maybe we should wait for Robby to get back…” you murmur quietly, shifting on the mattress beneath him. “You know, before we have this conversation or whatever…”

Jack ducks his head to chase your averted gaze, brows furrowing in confusion. “What the hell does Robby have to do with this?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I might have, like, a super rare blood cancer or something—”

“Jesus,” Jack grimaces before you can properly get the words out, flinching away from you when you shatter the sincere moment. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I might only have a week left to live or something,” you retort with wide eyes, only partially playful. “So we might not even have to worry about any of this, you know? …Who knows?”

Jack meets your sparkling, half-crazed look with a firm scowl. “You’re real morbid, honey. You know that?”

“Well, what can I say?” you shrug and fight the urge to smile. “Your cynicism’s rubbing off on me, Abbot.”

Robby returns about a half hour later, to a room considerably less tense than it was when he left. He forgets to comment or otherwise pry about it when he slips inside, gaze averted to the glowing iPad resting on his palm. His free hand scratches at the grey patch in his beard — an anxious tic you’ve come to know well.

“Hey, uh—” he clears his throat behind his fist when the words get stuck there.

“Oh, shit…” you waver when the door clicks shuts behind him. “I was just kidding about the whole blood cancer thing, I swear—”

Robby’s brows lower in confusion. “…What?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Jack huffs, rising from the stool at your side for the first time in thirty minutes as he rushes to Robby in long strides — ‘cause he can feel the man’s trepidation like heat off a bonfire. “What did the blood work say?”

Robby inhales sharply through his nose as he passes the man the tablet. He crosses his arms over his chest and splays his right hand over the lower half of his bearded face. His wide eyes dart between the lit-up iPad and the edge of Jack’s profile, eagerly awaiting the man’s reaction.

You watch with your heart in your throat as Jack’s eyes flit wildly back and forth across the screen. His scruffy jaw slackens slightly in shock, and Robby nods slowly in a quiet concurrence.

“Okay, what the hell?” You shatter the heavy silence. “Are you guys just gonna communicate telepathically the whole time, or is someone gonna tell me what’s going on with me?”

“You’re fine— You’re totally fine,” Robby reassures you, gesturing wildly with his right hand. “Your bloodwork came back normal, but… There’s a high level of hCG in your bloodstream. And I think that’s what’s been causing your dizziness and fainting spells.”

“HCG?” you echo, eyes darting wildly between the two men in front of you. “What the hell is hCG?”

“Human chorionic gonadotropin,” Jack answers on instinct, half-strangled, and never once taking his eyes off the screen in his hands. “Means you’re pregnant, honey…”

You feel the world fall out from under you for the second or third or hundredth time that day. You hide your crumpling features behind your hands as your head falls back against the exam table. Your following words come out muffled.

“You have got to be shitting me…”

[novaleeabbot]

Headcannon- Jack Abbot has a hair kink!

The first thing Jack Abbot noticed about you when you began working at PTMC was your hair.

It was beautiful.

Your hair was so soft and shiny. He noticed the way it fell effortlessly down your back in waves that hit just below your waist. It was almost mesmerizing to watch, bouncing lightly as you turned away after introducing yourself as a first year attending transferring from a nearby hospital that had merged with another.

Your hair was mostly a dark brunette with a hint of warm, caramel highlights throughout to give it some dimension. The first shift you worked, he’d watched as you easily braided it into a neat French braid just before you began rounds with him. He’d been a bit sad that it was no longer free to fall around your shoulders, but he’d also had to admit that you looked incredibly cute in the braid with two strands framing your face.

You’d caught him staring at you and sped up your pace, apologizing. “I’m sorry. I’m almost done,” you promised him, inwardly berating yourself. Your first night on the new job and the senior attending probably thought you were only concerned with how you looked. Great. You’d been rushing out the door before your shift and hadn’t had time to do your hair. It was the first time in a long time you’d worked night shift and you’d underestimated traffic, shocked that it was still quite heavy at 6 PM.

Jack hadn’t said anything, just nodded and began to head toward a trauma room, you falling into step beside him as you finished up your braid.

Apart from that, your first shift working together had been a lot, but good. You quickly observed that he was an excellent doctor but maybe even a better senior attending. He knew when to step back but also when to step in. He was encouraging but also didn’t hesitate to correct you when needed, always explaining the why behind certain decisions or where your thinking maybe fell short. Overall he had a calm, but undeniable authority over every room he walked into. He was a natural leader without ever being cocky or condescending.

Jack made just as many observations about you. He noticed that you had such a warm, welcoming presence, which resulted in patients feeling at ease with you quite quickly. You smiled- a lot. It was a beautiful smile that reached your eyes and created soft dimples on the sides of your cheeks. You listened without interrupting, even when sentences dragged on or they didn’t seem to be directly related to medicine. You were thorough in your exams and confident in your care plans, though you also took constructive feedback easily. You were an excellent doctor.

He also noticed that at the end of the shift, when you were stood beside him after clocking out, your hair smelled so refreshing and clean, getting a waft of the scent as you untied your braid and shook your hair out. He couldn’t stop the next words that came out of his mouth. “Your hair smells really good.”

You’d glanced over at him, warmth rising in your cheeks as you offered him a small smile. “Thank you.”

You’d exchanged goodbyes and he watched as you turned and walked away again, your long hair now a mixture of waves and curls after being in the braid all day. It swayed from side to side, wild and free. His mind wandered as he imagined what it might feel like if he ran his fingers through your hair or burying his face in it after a long day, inhaling the coconut and citrus scent, the smell itself a stress reliever. He snapped out of it when Lena, the charge nurse, bumped his arm. “Dr. Abbot, you’re drooling.”

He’d frowned at Lena but did touch the corner of his lip, checking for a wet spot just in case.

As your time working together progressed, so did his love for your hair. Some days you would walk in with it flowing freely, tossing it into a bun or a claw clip on your way in. Jack had no idea what a claw clip was until he saw you clipping your hair back with one that resembled a flower and he’d asked.

He liked the claw clips because they were loose enough that often, pieces of hair would escape them. You would tuck these pieces behind your ears and once, when you were gloved up and in the midst of a procedure, you’d politely asked a nurse to push them behind your ears. However Jack was closer and had one hand out of a glove, so he’d quickly done it. His touch was quick and gentle, You’d made eye contact and both of you had a tinge of red to your cheeks as you mumbled a sheepish, “Thank you,” while the spot his fingers brushed felt like it was on fire.

Jack thought about that moment far more than he’d like to admit.

Sometimes you came into work with an intentional style, like your hair braided into a crown or pulled back into a half up, half down style or what he now knew was a bubble braid. This was another new thing he’d learned from you, after seeing you walk in one evening with it swaying behind you. “What kind of braid is that?” He’d asked, looking perplexed as he studied it. You’d shot him a funny look but answered. “It’s called a bubble braid.”

“Oh. It looks nice on you.” After he’d said these words, the funny look immediately transformed into a shy one. He was offering you an appreciative smile so you returned it with one of your own. “Thank you.”

One of Jack’s fondest memories is a day where you came in with your natural curly hair. He’d noticed the moment you walked in, having stopped chatting with Dr. Shen to let his gaze follow you as you headed over to the admin desk where they stood. You’d felt his gaze on you the entire time and by the time you got near him, you couldn’t help but tease him. “Do I have something on my face?”

“What?” Jack seemed to snap back to reality. “Uh, no.” He scratched the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed at being caught. “But your hair. It’s…” Jack trailed off and when he didn’t finish his sentence, Shen cut in. “It’s curly, Jack. C-U-R-L-Y. You’d think you’d be familiar with the term considering you have a head full of curls yourself.”

Jack scowled at Shen who just chuckled as he walked away, sipping his coffee. When he turned his attention back to you, he nodded. “Yeah. Curly. It looks different than usual.”

“I didn’t blow out my hair this week,” you replied, shrugging. You usually tamed your curls into a bouncy, smooth blow out each Sunday just to make your life easier throughout the week. You loved your curls, but couldn’t keep up with them most weeks. But you’d gotten your ends trimmed yesterday and the stylist had done a phenomenal curly hair routine on you, so you hadn’t bothered to blow them out.

Jack quirked a brow. “Blow it out?”

His question didn’t surprise you. By this point, you’d noticed how fascinated Jack was with your hair. You’d been working at PTMC for four months now, and would be lying if you said you didn’t always put a little extra effort into your hair, as you had a feeling Jack liked it.

You liked a lot of things about the doctor as well. He was, like mentioned earlier, an excellent doctor and a better teacher. It definitely didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes. He was incredibly handsome, with a face that was sculpted by time and a pair of hazel eyes that could swallow you whole. He also had the thickest, sculpted biceps you’d ever seen, with prominent veins running down his arms that you’d gotten caught staring at one time too many.

You answered his question easily. “A blow out is a hairstyle. It’s what I do to straighten out my natural curls.”

Jack nodded in understanding. “Oh. Okay.” He paused for a few moments, glancing down at the iPad in his hands. He began to tap away so you scanned into the computer nearby and pulled up your charts when you heard his voice again, making you pause and look up. “You should wear it like that more often. Curly, I mean. It looks very nice on you.”

You smiled. “Thank you.” He nodded and went back to working. You pretended not to pay attention or listen when Lena, was sat beside Jack, nudged him and whispered, “Would you just ask her out already?”

You bit back a grin as he and Lena began to whisper yell at one another, though you secretly agreed with Lena. Couldn’t he just ask you out already?

This thought didn’t stay with you long, as that shift turned out to be one of the longest, most draining days of your career. It was the kind of shift that would stick with you long after it was over.

It was also why Jack found you in the staff locker room after the shift from hell, sitting on the bench and staring straight ahead as you disassociated. So much so that you hadn’t even realized he was in the room with you, or that he’d taken a seat beside you. It wasn’t until he spoke in a gentle voice that you drifted back into consciousness, though you hadn’t heard what he said. “Hm?” You murmured, tired eyes flitting to his.

Jack took in how worn down you looked. Shadows beneath your eyes. Shoulders dropped forward slightly. A dullness to you where usually, you glowed.

And your hair. It sat in a lopsided bun to the left side of your head, drooping sadly as a bunch of curls escaped it.

He repeated the words he’d said moments ago, gesturing to your hair. “I said your bun looks as sad you do.”

“Gee, thanks,” you replied in an unusually sarcastic voice and Jack immediately regretted his words. He’d meant them to be teasing, a way to lighten the mood, but clearly, they had done the opposite. He backtracked. “I was kidding. Just trying to get you to crack a smile. It’s been missing all day.”

You nodded. “Yeah well, do you recall the day we had? Not much to smile about.”

He nodded in agreement, letting out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. It fucking blew.”

You both sat in a comfortable silence for a while. You watched as Jack rubbed at the area where his prosthetic was attached to his leg, feeling for him. The shift had been nonstop, so you had no doubt he was probably aching.

It was at that moment you realized your own head was a bit sore, probably from carrying the weight of your dense, heavy strands of hair all day. You reached up and freed it from the bun, letting out a relieved sigh, reaching up to massage your scalp.

Beside you, Jack sucked in a breath. When you looked at him, he stared at you in disbelief. “How?” He questioned and you shot him a confused look. “How what?”

“How does your hair still look and smell so damn good, like, 13 hours later?”

It was then you blurted out the question that had been on your mind since the day you met him, your words practically involuntary. “Do you have like, a hair kink?”

“What?” Jack reeled back in shock as you slapped your hand over your mouth, eyes widening in horror. You could not believe you just said that. You stared at him, wide eyed and embarrassed as you held your hand firmly over your mouth so no other insane words would escape you.

It was only when an amused look crept over his face that you lowered your hand slowly, your face still burning.

“Did you ask if I had a hair kink?” Jack questioned and you nodded shamefully. He began to laugh and the corner of your lip quirked, your body relaxing slightly. Finally, Jack shrugged. “You know, I’ve never had a particular thing for hair. Until I met you.”

Your face continued to burn but less with embarrassment as you felt a bit flustered upon hearing his words. “Oh,” was all you managed to say for a moment while Jack studied you. Eventually, you were able to form a more cohesive thought. “So, you do have a thing for my hair.”

“Maybe,” Jack answered. “Or maybe I just have a thing for you.” His voice was mostly confident but there was a hint of shyness to it, especially as he broke eye contact, something he usually didn’t do. His eyes wandered around the room as he waited for your response.

You were a bit stunned by his words. You weren’t clueless, by any means. You knew he flirted with you. You flirted back. But had you actually expected him to admit he had a thing for you?

After swallowing the lump in your throat, you spoke in an earnest voice. “Well, I might have a thing for you too.”

His eyes found yours again. He grinned slightly. “Yeah?” He sounded a bit hopeful. You nodded, returning his grin with one of your own and a pleased look crossed his face. “There’s that smile.”

You both sat, grinning giddily at one another. It was Jack who broke the silence again. “Do you wanna grab a coffee?” He paused before adding. “Or breakfast.”

“Breakfast sounds good,” you answered and he led the way from there. Your first date took place at cozy diner Jack picked out about ten minutes from the hospital. Thankfully, you two had a lot more in common than just work, and the date was just what you needed to get your mind off the terrible shift.

You bonded over your love for rainy days, preference of waffles over pancakes, and debated on whether or not the panda at your local zoo, Coda, who was famed for being over 50 years old, was actually the original Coda. Jack was a realist, saying there was no way that was the same panda from 50 years ago. You were an optimist, saying it had to be, that they had the same vibe. This earned you a pretty intense laugh from Jack, who’d unfortunately had a mouthful of coffee that ended up on his eggs as he snorted.

When breakfast was over and you’d both lingered without food in front of you for as long as was socially acceptable, Jack walked you to your car. “This was nice. When can I see you again?” He asked.

You couldn’t help yourself. You loved to tease him. “Well, probably in about,” you stopped to glance at your watch. It was 9:14 in the morning. You did the math quickly. “Ten hours, give or take. Unless you planned on playing hooky from work.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Never mind.” But he stayed planted in front of you, biting back a grin as his eyes wandered from yours down to your lips. They flicked back up for just a moment, questioning. You gave him a reassuring nod and this was all he needed. He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss was brief, but sweet. His lips moved softly against yours, tasting like the coffee and waffles he’d just eaten. His hands came up to cradle your face, and despite the kiss only lasting a few seconds, it was enough to leave your head spinning when he pulled away. You were glad to have his hands holding you steady, as you weren’t entirely sure you’d be upright now otherwise.

Jack’s thumbs brushed across your cheeks. “So, dinner Saturday?” You were both off on Saturday. You nodded. “I’d like that.”

He smiled before pulling you in for a hug, letting his head rest lightly against yours. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling the warmth of him pressing back. You felt him nuzzle his face into your curls, inhaling slightly. You couldn’t help but chuckle. “I knew you were obsessed with my hair.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes twinkling. “Maybe. But it’s mostly you I’m obsessed with.”

[novaleeabbot]

Jack Abbot Loves His Pregnant Wife!- Jack Abbot x Pregnant Reader

Note- I didn’t proofread this but it was sitting in my drafts soooooo here you go :))))

You tried your best to stifle a yawn as you and Jack walked into the hospital. You turned your head away from him, bringing your hand to your mouth, trying to make it look like you were wiping something off your face.

Beside you, Jack frowned. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired. Ever since you knocked me up,” you replied in a huff.

Jack groaned. “Baby you can’t say it like that. Makes me sound like I’m some weird old man and not your loving, adoring husband.”

He grabbed the next door for you as he continued. “You do remember that we agreed to have a baby, right? Put in the mutual work for it?” A smirk crossed his face. “Well, actually, I will say that specific night you definitely picked up my slack. And then some.”

Your cheeks heated up as your head whipped around, ensuring nobody was around. Then you whacked him on the chest. “Jack!” You hissed. “We’re at work!” You pressed the button for the elevator.

“I know that.” He shot you a funny look. “But nobody is around. I can’t appreciate how much effort you put into creating that beautiful baby boy inside you?”

“So I’m nobody?” Dr. Robinavitch, or better known to you two as Robby, teased from the open elevator doors. You stepped in, cheeks still warm, knowing he’d had to have caught that last bit of the conversation. Jack followed, chuckling as he clasped Robby on the shoulder. “Good evening brother.”

Robby greeted Jack then stopped short before greeting you. You frowned as he stared at you with eyes that slowly narrowed. “Uh, hi to you too Robby?”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Robby said, crossing his arms over his chest.

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Give me a break,” you replied just as Jack muttered a, “Thank you,” to Robby. You scowled at him. He pretended not to see it, brushing imaginary lint from his scrub top.

Robby turned his pointed gaze on Jack, who did a double-take when he realized, surprised to be his next victim. “What?”

“She’s supposed to be on maternity leave as of two days ago.” Robby spoke in a tone meant to shame Jack, who quickly gestured toward you. “You tell her that man! She doesn’t listen to me!”

Your scowl deepened. “I’m literally right here. And I’m fine to work. Dr. Porter just said to take it easy is all.”

They both turned their attention to you. Robby shook his head in disapproval while Jack scoffed. “You don’t know how to take anything easy.” Then, almost as if he’d set himself up for his own joke, a devilish look flashed across his face. “Well actually, I can think of one thing you take pretty easily.”

“Oh my God! Jack!” Your eyes widened, embarrassment flooding through you as you glanced from him to Robby, who at least was trying to hide his laugh with a fake cough. Jack just shrugged. “What? I was just giving you a compliment.”

“I’m going to report you for sexual harassment.” You told him this in the most serious tone you could muster. He quirked a brow. “I don’t think you can do that honey. We’re married.”

“Well I’m going to divorce you and then report you for sexual harassment.” This earned a laugh from Robby. You smiled, proud of yourself.

Jack stepped toward you, apologetic look on his face. “Okay, okay,” he surrendered, taking your hands in his. “I’m sorry. Don’t divorce me. I love you.” His tone was remorseful. You softened.

“Well, not until you’re an attending and I can take you for all your worth.” His words caused you to rip your hands free from his and spin around, crossing your arms angrily across your chest as Robby burst into laughter. You hated when he was funnier than you.

Robby began to bid goodbyes. He started with Jack. Though you were faced away from the two of them, not wanting to see Jack’s face, you could hear the typical bro-hug- hands clasping and shoulders bumping behind you.

Robby cautiously made his way in your line of sight. He opened his arms wide, fond smile on his face. “Just wanna make sure you and my godson are getting the rest you need. That’s all.”

You stayed stubborn for a moment before giving in, knowing that is exactly what the case was. You stepped forward, giving him a tight hug. He returned the squeeze.

Robby was family. You had no doubt in your mind that his intentions were nothing but good, even if he sometimes worked your last nerve. But you knew that’s what brothers did.

Just before you pulled away, you lifted yourself onto your tiptoes, dropping your voice to a low whisper. “Please don’t leave me alone with him.” You used your eyes to gesture behind you as best you could. “I’m scared.”

“I heard that!” Jack exclaimed. His tone was sharp, then suggestive, yet again. “But don’t be scared baby. I’m going to take good care of you.” You didn’t have to look at him to know he wore a pleased smirk.

Robby chuckled, stepping backward out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened. You hadn’t realized it had been stopped the entire time. You made a grab for him. “Robby, please!”

“Have a good shift you two. Keep an eye on her, Jack.” Robby waved goodbye. Jack’s voice was closer this time. He was practically growling. “Oh, I plan on it.”

The last thing you saw before the doors shut was Robby shaking his head, still laughing.

You felt Jack’s hands on your hips. You glared at the door in front of you. “I’m so divorcing you.”

“No you’re not.” His breath was at your ear now, his hands on your hips. It sent a shiver down your spine. You could practically feel his smug grin. You swallowed the nervous lump in your throat. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

“Really? I didn’t think you had any room left in there.”

You groaned. How on Earth did he manage to keep it going this long? You tried to make your next words sound threatening. “You’re so going to get it when we get home.” Instant regret flooded through you at your word choice. You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the next thing out of his mouth.

It didn’t disappoint. “Careful princess.” His hands came from behind you and cupped your large, pregnant belly, pulling you flush to his chest. You let out a surprised breath of air. His lips brushed against your ears, a grin finally breaking free from you as he spoke his next words in a low drawl. “You giving it to me is what got you in this situation in the first place.”

You shook your head in an amused manner. He may be a pain in your ass but he was right. You so weren’t divorcing him.

[cartersway]

JACK ABBOT is the kind of man who would do anything for his wife. He would let her kick his ass if she needed to. But the moment you found out you were definitely pregnant, he was completely undone — dropping to his knees like the news had knocked the air out of him.

You, on the other hand, feel like the most unattractive woman alive. You’re sore, bloated, exhausted, and ready to cry over the smallest inconveniences. Nothing fits right. Nothing feels right.

But to him, you’re untouchable. Radiant. Powerful.

While you see swollen ankles and mood swings, he sees the woman carrying his child. And the way he looks at you — like you’re something sacred, something devastatingly beautiful — makes it impossible to believe you could ever be anything less.

He treats every little request like it’s an honor. Ice cream at eight in the morning after a brutal shift? Easy.

He comes back twenty minutes later than usual with the exact flavor you mentioned once in passing — plus two backups “just in case.” Shoes still on. Hair still messy from work. Exhaustion clinging to him. But the second he sees you on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, his entire face softens.

“Anything else?” he asks, like he hasn’t just worked twelve hours.

You sniff, already emotional for no clear reason. “Maybe pickles.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just leans down, presses a kiss to your temple, and heads back toward the door.

For him, it isn’t about cravings. It isn’t about hormones. It’s about you. And if loving you means grocery runs at dawn and midnight snack emergencies, he’ll treat every one of them like a sacred mission.

He starts keeping notes in his phone — things that make you nauseous, things that don’t, the brand of crackers you can tolerate, the exact temperature your tea needs to be when your stomach is unsettled. He memorizes it all like exam material.

He carries the mental list of appointments, vitamins, questions for the next check-up. Reads articles at two in the morning about what size the baby is this week and sends you screenshots like it’s breaking news.

“Apparently we have a blueberry now.”

You laugh despite yourself.

When your back aches, he’s already behind you, hands warm and steady, working slow circles into the sore muscles. When you wake up at three in the morning because you “feel weird,” he’s upright in seconds, fully alert, asking questions in that calm doctor voice that never makes you feel ridiculous.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, pressing his palm gently over your stomach like he can guard both of you at once. “I’ve got you.”

And when you avoid the mirror — when you mutter something cruel about your body under your breath — that’s the only time he looks almost offended.

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

He steps closer, hands sliding over your waist — not careful, but certain. Like you’re not fragile. Like you’re powerful.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “What you’re doing is unreal.”

You roll your eyes even as your throat tightens. “I’m bloated and hormonal, Jack.”

He huffs softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You’re building bones,” he corrects gently. “And a spine. And tiny fingers.” His thumb brushes over your skin like he’s already memorizing the outline. “You’re doing something I could never do.”

The way he looks at you then isn’t pity. It isn’t reassurance.

It’s reverence.

Not loud. Not exaggerated. Not performative. Quieter than that. Softer. Like he’s standing in front of something he doesn’t fully understand but deeply respects.

“You’re incredible,” he says, almost to himself.

You let out a weak laugh. “I threw up twice today.”

“And still,” he replies immediately. “I don’t care if you’re bloated. I don’t care if you’re cranky. I don’t care if you cry because the grocery store ran out of your cereal.”

A faint, stubborn smile tugs at your mouth. “It was my favorite cereal.”

“I know,” he says, completely serious. “That’s why I went to two other stores.”

He leans down and presses his lips just below your navel, lingering there. There’s no teasing edge to it. No hunger meant to intimidate. Just quiet devotion.

Later, when you’re half-asleep on the couch, he drapes a blanket over you and kneels again — not dramatically, just instinctively — resting his cheek against your stomach like he’s listening for something only he can hear.

"You take care of them," he whispers softly. Or him, or her. He doesn't care. "I'll take care of both of you."

He presses a slow kiss into your hair.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, almost like it surprises him.

You frown sleepily. “For what?”

“For choosing me,” he says. “For this.”

His thumb moves in a quiet rhythm over the place where your body is changing — where everything feels unfamiliar to you but sacred to him.

And even on the days you don’t recognize yourself — when you feel swollen and overwhelmed and nothing like the woman you used to be — he looks at you like you’re still her.

Only stronger.

Only more extraordinary.

[abbotafterhours]

after hours (jack abbot x reader)

pairing: jack abbot x fem!resident!reader

author's note: hey! i'm back again! thanks for the love on everything so far, all the support really means the world and it's so nice to get back into the swing of writing, please enjoy another one before I burn myself out <3

word count: 2,018

warnings: sort of suggestive, domestic bliss!!, reader is suggested to be younger than him, soft jack, medical inaccuracies as alwayssss

description: a morning spent with jack after a gruelling work week. you're both super in love etc etc etc

⏾

Your entire body is warm right now. Like, the kind of warm you feel right in the bottom of your tummy when you take the first sip of tea after a long, exhausting night shift, or the kind of warm you feel when you see a shelter dog finding his forever home after years of neglect. You can tell it's the morning, because there's this stream of light coming in through the left window where you hadn't closed the blinds all the way - it stretches across your closed eyes and across your face. Those blinds are always damn closed in this room, anyways, no harm in some light sometimes.

There's also warmth coming from a weight across your waist, heavy and grounding and solid, an arm thrown over you like it fell there sometime the night before and just decided to stay there. Your cheek is smushed up against soft curls that smell like cedarwood, antiseptic and something so distinctly him it's mind-numbing. If Robby found out that Dr Jack Abbot falls asleep with his head tucked into your neck and his leg folded across yours, you'd be screwed. That's why you keep it just your little secret. And maybe giggle about it with Victoria and Trinity when you've had just a little too much during girls' night.

You blink slowly awake, well rested and giddy to see the sunlight cutting in through the blinds after a solid week of heavy rainfall across Pittsburgh. Not that you've seen much of the outside, having been stuck inside of the ER for a grilling 6 days. Remembering where you are, under navy, soft cotton bedsheets, you look down at your sleeping boyfriend and his stupidly-cute, stupidly-open lips as light snores roll past and reverberate off of your neck. You rarely get to see Jack like this - completely vulnerable and soft and boyish - light freckles adorned across his forehead and soft lines beside his eyes remind you that he is fully human. Who is actually drooling all over you, by the way.

You shift slightly, testing the grip around you to see how much you can move, and the hold around your waist tightens automatically, a splayed hand moving across your stomach that's adorned in one of his old college t-shirts that frankly has seen better days, but you insist you wear anyways. You panic for a second, thinking you've woken him so your body goes rigid. You sigh in relief when you look down at him again and see him exactly in the same place as before. He must be exhausted. It's been one of those weeks.

For someone who claims he doesn't cuddle, he's treating you like a pregnancy pillow right now.

Your free arm reaches for your phone on the nightstand beside you, because of course you're thinking about your for you page. You swipe open the screen and see that you've got a snapchat video message from Shen, which you decide you'll leave opening till later, as it's most likely a review of a new coffee place he uber eats'd to the PTMC at 3am last night. Plus, you like to annoy Jack with stories of his residents' favourite syrup of the week.

You open the TikTok app, keeping your volume at the lowest setting, and scroll through a couple of videos. You're keeping an eye on the man that's basically on top of you to make sure he's not waking up. The one thing Jack hates more than iced vanilla lattes is interrupted sleep. Your about to scroll to the next video, when Victoria's face fills the screen immediately - Dr.J, explaining "Five Tips for your First Year Residency", in that bright, cheery voice that you're used to discussing charting struggles and Mateo-isms with.

But the second she says, "Number one-stop calling every mild tachycardia a crisis-"

Jack groans. His eyes are still closed.

"You're kidding," he mutters into your shoulder.

You grin. "You're awake."

"I was sleeping."

"You were snoring."

"I don't snore." You snort.

Victoria continues, "..if your attending looks tired, maybe consider they've been here 12 hours longer than you have-"

"Right on," he says, leaving a lazy kiss on the side of your neck that makes a shiver run up your spine.

Victoria's voice is long forgotten as you move your head to rest against Jack's soft curls on the top of his head, which he more than likely needs a haircut for. You'll remind him of that after you keep him in bed for as long as you can.

You have a few seconds of comfortable silence, afraid to say anything in the hopes of letting this moment go on forever. You're rudely interrupted by the Snapchat notification noise that rings through the room and you wince. As quick as the noise goes off, Jack has rolled onto his back, bringing you with him as a high pitched yelp comes out of your mouth.

"Sweetheart, I swear if another sound comes out of your phone I'm going to lock it in a box for a week."

You blink up at him, still half-laughing from the yelp you let out when he flipped you over.

"Violence?" you gasp dramatically. "Over a little text?"

His arms tighten around you then, pinning you more firmly as he takes your phone and throws it somewhere down the end of the bed. You think this may be an inappropriate time to comment on how his biceps look ridicously biteable right now.

"I was this close,", he says, holding his fingers barely apart, "to going back to sleep"

"You were awake the whole time?"

"I was drifiting"

"You were drooling"

He lifts himself off the bed then, moving to settle over you with those stupidly obnoxious veins in his arms bracketing you inbetween them. His expression is somewhere between grumpy and dangerously focused. You can't help but notice the sunlight cutting across his defined shoulders, or the mess of his hair from having your fingers in it all night.

You swallow.

"Okay, Jacko, I know you have this whole brooding, mysterious energy going on all the time, but this is entirely too intense for 9am"

He laughs through his nose and drops his head down to your shoulder, groaning, "Sweetheart, it is not 9am for me".

His voice vibrates warm against your skin, and you hate (love) how easily that makes your stomach flip.

"For normal people, it is," you counter, fingers instinctively moving to rest at the back of his head.

He lifts his head to look at you properly now. He looks unfairly too good and too put together for someone who just woke up. You try very hard not to stare. You fail, obviously.

His mouth tilts at the corner when he catches you doing it, that faint, almost-smirk he pretends isn't a smirk at all. The sunlight hits the line of his jaw just right, catches on the faint scar near his temple, outlines the shape of him in a way that makes you feel entirely unworthy of him.

"Stop that," he quips.

"Stop what?"

"That look."

"What look?!"

"The one where you're thinking something you shouldn't be"

You grin up at him, and notice how his eyes grow softer. You heart skips like 20 beats.

"I'm thinking extremely respectable thoughts, Dr Abbot"

"Liar"

His voice is rough with sleep and you feel it everywhere. He moves his weight just enough that you're aware of him in a way that takes your breath away and makes you feel like you've been given a double dose of epi all at once.

"You antagonise me first thing in the morning," he says quietly, studying your face. "Then you stare."

"I can't appreciate my boyfriend?"

"You can. Silently, preferably."

You hit him across the shoulder at that and he laughs, a carefree, easy laugh that shakes his shoulders and reminds you that he's still soft around the edges. He takes another exhale through his nose, but this time his hand slides from the mattress to your wait, setting it there. His thumb presses into the soft cotton of the tshirt you've stolen from him. A reminder that you're real, you're here, you're not a hallucination his brain cooked up after too many code blues.

He leans down, slower this time, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that isn't rushed or teasing. It's warm, sleep-heavy, certain. His hand tightens again and you think you might have a bruise there from all the times his hands go back to that same spot.

"You didn't wake up once last night, you know" you whisper when you part, half-lidded eyes looking through long eyelashes right up at him. Jack thinks he might still be asleep. Dreaming.

"It's easier."

"What's easier?"

"To sleep, when you're here."

And there it is. You could cry at the admission. You almost feel your eyes welling up at the thought. Sometimes, it can be hard reading him. Like, when Dana tells you he's gone up to the roof again to take a break, but you know it's because he's beating himself up about something. He protects you from it. That dark side of him that you know listens to police scanners in hope of a distraction and finds comfort in wearing a SWAT medic vest every other week.

But here he is, above you, looking through you like he can see everything and beyond that. Admitting to you that you make it easier. You wish you could tell him that that's all you want to be.

Not a distraction, or a light to balance the dark, or something that fixes him. You just want to be a place he can rest.

"You know, I coud make it a habit. Sleeping here, I mean. Wouldn't want you losing some well needed z's"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean-if, if that's something you'd want. Like, I don't want to overstep or make you feel pressured or like I'm slowly invading you space with my skincare products and emotional support water bottle or-"

He cuts you off by kissing you. Mouth crashing against yours in a desperate, searing kiss that knocks the breath straight out of your lungs. Firm, and certain and all too quick. And when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours again.

"You know, you left your conditioner in my shower three months ago."

You blink.

"That was strategic"

"I know"

"And you didn't say anything."

"Why would I?"

You hestitate. "Because..it's your place?"

He reaches up to hold your cheek in his too big hands, thumb hooking lightly under your eye to rub away a loose eyelash thats gotten stuck there.

"You think this is just my place?" he asks.

You falter a little at that.

"I don't want to assume," you admit, softer now. "You like your space. Your routine. Your...weird old man night-shift cave"

His mouth twitches faintly in an almost smirk.

"I think it stopped being just my space the second you left that damn polka dot scrunchie on the gear stick in my truck."

You let out a small, embarassed laugh. "Okay, that was actually not intentional."

He moves then, rolling just enough so you're both at a more comfortably aligned angle on the mattress, an arm firmly around you.

"If you want to sleep here," he continues, "sleep here"

Your chest tightens, and you can't believe what you're hearing. How normal this all is.

He presses a slow kiss to your temple, then your forehead, then back to your mouth, softer each time. Like a punctuation, telling you that he wants this, wants you, wants all the weird stickers you have on your diary and the little monkey keychain that swings off your bag.

"This is all very emotionally open of you, Dr Abbot."

"Don't ruin it, kid."

You smile and tuck yourself closer against him, your leg sliding comfortably over his like it's muscle memory now. He adjusts automatically, hand settling at you hip, chin resting against the top of your head.

"You think Dr J has any tips for moving in with your attending?"

[goldsainz]

# JACK ABBOT — SEE YOU CLEARLY !

MASTERLIST !

REQUEST !

001. SUMMARY !

✶ after forgetting your backup contact lenses you must wear your glasses, shocking your attending in the process.

002. WARNINGS !

✶ reader needs contacts/glasses to see properly. reader works at the pitt but no rank specified, just that you're not an attending.

word count : 1,5k

gif from @doctorjackabbot

You’ve been wearing contacts for years.

Long enough that most people at the Pitt don’t even know you own glasses.

They sit forgotten in the side pocket of your bag, an emergency backup for twelve-hour shifts and fluorescent lights that dry your eyes out until they burn. You hate wearing them at work. They fog when you rush between rooms. They slide down your nose when you’re sweating. They make you feel younger somehow—softer.

And at the Pitt, you don’t have room for softness.

Jack Abbot notices everything about you. The way you triage with incredible efficiency. The way you steady shaking hands without making a show of it. The way you don’t flinch when someone yells.

He’s never noticed you squint.

Until today.

It happens mid-shift. A trauma rolls in, fast and loud and chaotic, and you’re at the bedside for nearly an hour straight. The air is dry. You blink too much. Your vision starts to blur at the edges. By the time you step out into the hall, your eyes are burning so badly you can barely keep them open.

You duck into the staff bathroom, hands braced on the sink.

“Not now,” you mutter.

The contacts have shifted and one is definitely torn. You recognize that scratchy, wrong sensation immediately. After washing your hands, you take them out carefully, blinking against the sting. The relief is instant—but so is the realization that hits you a second later.

You don’t have spares.

“Great,” you sigh, staring at your blurry reflection.

For a second, you consider just powering through it—squinting your way through the rest of the shift and pretending the sting in your eyes isn’t driving you insane. But you know better. You won’t last an hour like this, and the last thing you need is to misread a chart or medication label because you were too stubborn to grab your backup.

Which means leaving the safety of the bathroom.

You dry your hands slowly, take one last look at your unfocused reflection, and step back into the hallway. Without your contacts, everything feels slightly off-kilter—the lights too bright, the edges of people and gurneys a little too soft. 

You keep your gaze down as you walk toward the lockers, hoping no one stops you on the way.

When you get to the lockers it is mercifully empty. You crouch in front of your locker, fingers fumbling with the zipper of your bag until you find the hard case tucked into the side pocket. In it, wrapped in an old cleaning cloth, are your glasses.

You hesitate again before unfolding them.

They’re simple, with thin metal frames, a little too big for your face, the kind that make your eyes look wider and a touch more exposed. You slide them on and blink a few times as the world snaps back into sharp focus. The clarity is immediate, almost jarring.

There’s a small mirror on the inside of one of the lockers. You glance at yourself, head tilting slightly as you take in the difference. 

You look… different but not worse. Just less guarded somehow, like a layer you didn’t realize you were wearing has been peeled back.

You exhale slowly, straighten your shoulders, and throw the ruined contacts into a nearby trash bin, slide the glasses on, and step back into the chaos of the floor.

It takes exactly thirty seconds.

“Oh my God,” one of the nurses says dramatically. “You wear glasses?”

A couple of heads snap up from charts. Someone actually leans closer, squinting at you like they’re trying to confirm it’s really you.

Shen swivels in his chair, openly staring. “Wait, hold on. Since when have you been hiding these? This is a betrayal.”

“A betrayal?” You repeat flatly.

“Yes,” he insists. “We work twelve-hour shifts together. I thought we told each other things.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we focus on the patients instead of my face?”

“Sorry,” another nurse chimes in. “You just look… adorable.”

Adorable.

You groan. “If anyone says the word adorable again, I’m transferring departments.”

Ellis smirks at your irritation. “Noted. Adorable is off the table. We’ll workshop alternatives.”

There’s laughter. A few exaggerated double takes. Nothing malicious—just the kind of teasing that happens when something shifts in a place that rarely changes.

You try to brush past them, pretending none of this is getting to you, but the teasing follows like a wave. It isn’t cruel. It’s just new and impossible to ignore. And in a place where everything is routine and muscle memory, new stands out.

You adjust the bridge of your glasses self-consciously, wishing your face didn’t feel like it’s under a spotlight.

And then you feel it.

That shift in the air that has nothing to do with Shen or Ellis or any nurse.

You glance up almost immediately.

Jack is standing at the end of the nurses’ station with a chart half-lowered in his hand. He isn’t laughing or smirking or joining in. He’s just staring, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to recalibrate something he thought he understood.

His eyes drag over your face like he’s trying to recalibrate something. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“What?” You ask when you get closer, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jack doesn’t answer right away. He blinks, slow and deliberate, as if surfacing from somewhere else. “It’s just…” he trails off quietly. “I—”

His jaw flexes. You’ve seen that look before—usually right before he says something sharp or carefully controlled—but this isn’t sharp. It isn’t controlled, but instead stunned.

“You look…”

Your stomach flips despite yourself. 

“Different?” You offer, a hint of defensiveness creeping in.

His gaze softens, and the shift in it makes your pulse stutter. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Different.” A small pause stretches between you before he adds, lower, “Good different.”

The hallway noise seems to dim at the edges. Someone wolf-whistles from behind you. “Oh, he likes it.”

You feel heat climb all the way up your neck. “Can we not do this right now?”

But Jack doesn’t break eye contact, and that’s what makes it unbearable. 

Later, when the rush finally ebbs into something manageable, you find a computer at the end of the nurses’ station and start charting. The department hums around you—monitors beeping, phones ringing, Shen arguing with pharmacy over speaker—but it’s background noise now. 

Your glasses have stopped feeling foreign on your face, though you’re still hyper-aware of them every time you glance down at the screen.

You don’t notice Jack approach until the chair beside you scrapes softly against the floor.

He pulls out the chair beside you and sits—not across from you or at the next computer, but right next to you.

“You don’t wear them often,” he says after a moment, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past the two of you.

You keep your eyes on the screen, pretending your pulse doesn’t immediately spike. “No. Contacts are easier.”

“For who?” He asks mildly.

“For me.” You huff a quiet laugh. “I get less comments about my sight—or lack thereof—this way.”

He hums at that, but he doesn’t look away. You can feel his gaze tracing over your profile, lingering at the bridge of your nose, the way the thin frames rest against your cheeks. It makes your fingers stumble over the keyboard.

“They suit you,” he says finally.

You snort softly, trying to deflect the sudden tightness in your chest. “That’s not what everyone else thinks.”

“I don’t care what everyone else thinks.”

The words land heavier than they should. You glance up at him, and immediately wish you hadn’t. He’s closer than you realized, one arm resting along the back of your chair, his knee angled slightly toward yours.

“I like seeing your eyes like this,” he continues, voice quieter now, steadier. “They look bigger.”

Your heart stumbles. “They’re the same eyes,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, holding your gaze. “But now I get to see them clearly.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of how easily someone could glance over and notice the way he’s looking at you.

Your glasses slide slightly down your nose when you look back at the screen.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches up. There’s a split second where his hand hovers, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. His fingers gently nudge the frames back into place, the touch light and careful.

It’s brief, but it lingers.

“You should wear them more,” he says quietly.

“So the entire department can keep bullying me?” You let out a small, shaky laugh. 

He almost smiles, something warm flickering in his eyes. “Let them,” he replies. “Gives me an excuse to stare.”

“You stare anyway,” you murmur before you can stop yourself, pulse ringing in your ears.

He doesn’t look embarrassed or caught. Just nods once, slow and certain.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”

And the way he says it makes you think maybe the contacts weren’t the only thing that shifted today.

NOTE : wrote a little something something for my visually impaired girlies and i actually quite liked this! i’ve been trying to write my jack abbot angst fic from the poll but i’ve been struggling with it, so a little fluff will keep everyone happy (or so i hope) 🫶

[overclassy]

[whumpypepsigal]

That you mean everything to me I love you deeply, Rose.

[lovelornparagraphs]

you take 10 busines days to respond to anybody...

some of us are ✨ employed ✨

[stuckinapril]

Being in your 20s is like I just made 100 different life defining choices this week alone and I don’t know if a single one will stand the test of time