Pairing: Jack x F!Reader
WC: ~300
Warnings: Fluff | Tying | Inventive Jack | Soft!dom vibes | Allusions to smut |Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I missed anything!
A/N: My first Jack fic. Fair warning it might be blegh.
My submission for June Jukebox Scribbles | Prompt: "I hate to do this, you leave me no choice" Song: Rude - MAGIC! | @societynsoelsscribbles | Here ya go!✨🥹
Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist
Indulge Away!
"You're insufferable," you groaned, turning on your heel to leave.
Jack only raised a brow, determined to win this tooth and nail. "I hate to do this," he murmured, lunging forward to snag your waist and pull you flush against his chest.
You blinked.
"You leave me no choice," he continued. Before you could protest, his hand dipped into his pocket, pulling out a bundle of thin plastic strips.
You stared, dumbfounded.
"Are those zip ties?"
"Hmm."
"Jack, those are zip ties."
"Medical grade," he added smugly.
"Unbelievable," you laughed, waiting for him to laught it off.
He didn't laugh, and your smile faded. "Oh my God, you're serious."
He pressed a distracting kiss to your cheek. Before you could react, he slyly brought your hands behind your back, and a sharp zip-zip-zip echoed through the room.
"Jack!"
"You refuse to clock out," he reasoned.
"This is kidnapping!"
"Whatever you wanna call it, babygirl."
"You can't arrest me for working!"
"I'm not arresting you. I'm taking my girl home." Your whole body flushed.
"I can't," you tried again. "I have…"
"You have thirty seconds to voluntarily walk out," he whispered against your lips.
"No."
"Okay."
Jack stepped back and dramatically rolled up his sleeves. "If you don't wanna walk, I'm carrying you out over my shoulder. Looking exactly like this."
You glanced at your bound hands. "Fine," you conceded.
Jack smirked, pulling out shears to cleanly snip the plastic. "See? Wasn't so hard."
You rubbed your wrists with a huff. "I'm still reporting you to HR."
"Go ahead. They're the ones who told me to make you go home."
"And the zip ties?"
Jack shrugged, utterly unapologetic. "Those were my idea. And I can think of a better use," he said, claiming your lips.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
WC: ~300
Warnings: Fluff | Super hot super soldier alert | Bucky exercising | Bucky seducing reader | Soft!dom Bucky vibes | Allusions to smutty times | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I missed anything!
A/N: My submission for June Jukebox Scribbles | Prompt: "I can't control myself" Song: Animal I Have Become - Three Days Grace | @societynsoelsscribbles | Here ya go!✨🥹💞
Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist
Indulge Away!
Grunt.
You ignored it.
Grunt.
Ugh! It was taking everything in you to focus on the screen rather than those huffs and grunts. But to your dismay, it grew louder.
Grunt.
This time it was less of a grunt and more of a moan.
"BUCKY, CUT IT OUT," you snapped, spinning around in your chair.
He didn't stop. Instead, he cocked an eyebrow as he continued with his set, showing off the muscles rippling under his sweat-slicked skin.
"What am I doing?" he rumbled, his voice hitting the pulse in your pussy.
"That's it". You abandoned the work and strode toward him, eyes fixed on his chest. He looked practically lickable.
"Stop it. I'm trying to work," you whined, failing to mask the tremor in your voice.
Bucky set the weights down with a dull thud and stood to his full height, a smug, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"I'm working out too, beautiful," he murmured, stepping into your space and leaning down until his breath hitched against your lips.
Your eyes narrowed, trying to summon a shred of resistance. "You could lift that entire couch single-handedly without breaking a sweat," you countered, poking a defiant finger into his chest. "You don't need to exert yourself this much."
Bucky caught your wrist, and before you could protest, his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "What's your point?"
You gasped, your resolve shattering. Every instinct urged you to pull away, but you were paralyzed by the scent of him.
"You're such a little shit, Buck," you groaned, your fingers finally giving in and tangling into his hair. "You know exactly what you're doing to me."
"Oh, I haven't done a thing to you yet, my love" he growled.
Before you could say another word, his mouth crashed onto yours. In one fluid move, he hoisted you up, forcing your legs to wrap around his torso as he claimed you completely.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x resident!reader
Warnings: none, fluff and comfort, slight nervousness/panic.
Summary: When a fever leaves you completely exhausted, Abbot steps in to take care of you; unbeknownst to you, entirely validating a hospital wide betting pool on his secret crush.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
A/N I had an idea in mind but I feel it didn't turn out well, like when you plan an outfit and then the clothes don't match lol but anyway, I hope you enjoy it!!!
🎀 based on this request 🎀
The ER was always noisy, but tonight it felt like a physical burden. Going back to work after four days with a fever meant being completely exhausted after five hour. At a certain point, exhaustion stops being a feeling and becomes a physical ache in your bones.
You leaned against the central nurse station, staring blankly at a patient chart on the monitor. A tear of fatigue slipped down your cheek.
You quickly wiped it away, hoping no one saw.
But of course, he did.
Across the desk, Lena caught your eye. But she looked at you with the expression of someone watching a romantic tragedy unfold in real time. She nudged the resident next to her, who glanced up, saw you, and immediately checked his watch.
"Any minute now," Lena murmured softly.
"What happens at any minute?" you asked, your voice raspy.
Before Lena could answer, Dr. Jack Abbot walked out from a trauma bay. The second his eyes scanned the floor and landed on you, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The entire nursing station went quiet.
You didn't notice.
You just thought everyone was as tired as you were.
Jack handed the papers he had on his hands to a passing intern without looking and detoured straight toward you.
"Hey," he said. "You look like you're about to collapse into the desk."
"I'm fine, Dr. Abbot," you breathed. "Just trying to finish up a discharge."
Jack looked at the dark circles under your eyes, the slight tremble in your hand, and the absolute exhaustion radiating from you.
A protective frown line appeared between his brows.
"Lena," Jack said, his eyes never leaving your face. "Who is covering the east wing for the next hour?"
"Dr. Langdon’s doing night shift today," Lena replied instantly, a small smirk playing on her lips. "And I can handle the paperwork. Go ahead, Abbot."
"Great. You're off the clock for sixty minutes," Jack told you, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Breakroom. Now."
You blinked, panic instantly cutting through your fatigue. You stood up on shaky legs, your heart hammering against your ribs as you followed him down the hallway.
Behind your back, Lena silently handed a five dollar bill to a nurse. “Told you he’d break protocol to get her off her feet before 2 AM,” she whispered.
Unaware of the betting pool you were currently central to, you walked into the breakroom. He closed the door behind you.
"Dr. Abbot, if I made a mistake on the trauma intake—"
"Oh, no, no," Jack interrupted gently, putting a hand out to stop you. "You didn't make a mistake. You've been on your feet for five hours, non stop, after days of fever. This is an intervention."
He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a protein bar along with a bottle of water, and placed them on the table.
"Take a break," he commanded softly.
You took the food and sank down onto the sofa; the relief of finally sitting up was so intense it made your head spin. Jack stepped out for a second and returned with a jacket in his hand. Without a word, he placed it on your lap. It was warm and smelled of his cologne.
"Jack, I can't sleep, I have patients," you whispered, using his first name only because the walls of the room felt like a safe haven. "It looks bad. The other residents..."
Jack chuckled and sat down in one of the chairs, elbows resting on his knees. "Let them talk. I’m the attending. If anyone has a problem with me making sure my best resident doesn't faint on a patient, they should talk to me."
Jack's gaze was entirely focused on you. He wanted to reach out, to pull you against him and tell you that he’d carry the weight of the whole hospital if it meant you could rest.
But he didn't. He kept his hands to himself, clamping down on the feelings he'd been harboring for months. You were his resident; there were lines he couldn't cross, no matter how much his chest ached every time he saw you smile or, worse, saw you cry.
"Eat. Drink. Rest for an hour at least," Jack said, his voice a low, soothing anchor. "I'll be out there handling everything. Nobody is going to disturb you."
"Thank you, Jack," you murmured, tearing open the wrapper with clumsy fingers. You looked up at him. "You're a really amazing mentor. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Jack's heart did a painful twist. Mentor.
He offered you a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just doing my job. Get some rest."
He left the room and crossed paths with Frank as he reached the central desk. Frank glanced at him sideways, letting out a sigh.
"You've got it bad, Abbot," Frank whispered. "You know the entire night shift is currently running a pool on when you're actually going to tell her, right?"
Jack’s jaw tightened, his cheeks flushing slightly. "She's exhausted Leave it alone, Langdon."
"I'm just saying, the girl is brilliant, but she’s medically blind to the fact that you look at her like she hung the moon," Frank countered with a smirk. "You're going to have to spell it out for her. Preferably after she graduates residency."
"She needs to focus on her career. She doesn't need the complication of an attending crossing lines," Jack said. "And right now, she just needs a safe place to rest. That’s all I’m giving her."
Frank stared at him for a second. He patted Jack on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Jack. A miserable, pining man, but a good one. I'll cover her for the next hour."
"Thanks," Jack muttered.
At 7:30 AM, you were waiting for the day shift to finish taking report. You reached into your scrubs pocket for a pen, only to realize you were wearing Jack’s jacket. You smiled faintly, the scent of him clinging to the fabric.
"Alright, pay up," a loud whisper hissed from around the corner of the desk.
You paused, your hand still on the zipper of the jacket.
Lena was holding her palm out toward Mateo. He was grumbling under his breath as he fished a ten dollar bill out of his wallet and slapped it into her hand.
"I still say it’s cheating," Mateo complained. "You had inside information."
"I didn't have inside information, I have eyes and know how to bet," Lena countered smoothly, pocketing the cash. "He didn't just give her a nap break; he gave her his jacket."
You blinked, standing entirely still. His jacket?
Slowly, you stepped around the corner. "Is there a problem with Dr. Abbot''s jacket?"
Both Lena and Mateo froze. Mateo immediately looked down at the clipboard, suddenly fascinated by a trauma intake form.
"I definitely didn't say anything about a bet." Lena said. "Aren't you leaving? It's 7:30 already."
"Lena," you said, your eyebrows knitting together as you looked between her and the dollar bill sticking out of her pocket. "What bet? Were you guys betting on this jacket?"
"Oh, honey. Not just the jacket," Lena said, leaning her elbows on the counter and looking at you with a mixture of affection and disbelief. "We’ve been betting on the entire ecosystem of your life for the last four months."
"My life? Why?"
Lena let out a laugh. She looked at Mateo. "She’s serious. She really doesn't know."
"Know what?" you asked, a sudden spike of anxiety hitting your stomach. "Did I do something? Is there a rumor about me?"
Lena’s expression softened instantly. Seeing your genuine panic, she reached across the desk and gently patted your arm. "Hey, no. It’s not a bad rumor. It’s just... sweetie, how can someone so brilliant in the trauma bay be so blind?"
You stared at her, completely lost. "Blind to what?"
Lena sighed, shaking her head. "To Dr. Abbot, darling. To Jack."
The name made your heart skip a beat, though you tried to keep your face completely neutral. "What about Dr. Abbot? He’s a great attending. He’s incredibly supportive of my residency—"
"He is completely wrapped around your finger," Lena interrupted bluntly.
Your jaw tightened slightly. "What? No, he’s not. He’s just a mentor. He does things for everyone."
"Oh, really?" Mateo chimed in, unable to keep quiet any longer. "He didn't bring me a specific brand of protein bar last week just because I said I liked it."
"And the jacket," Lena pointed to the one you were currently wearing. "Jack Abbot is very serious when it comes to his personal stuff. I once saw a medical student accidentally knock a smoothie onto that exact jacket, and Jack looked like he was going to perform an unanesthetized appendectomy on the kid. And tonight he literally tucked you in with it."
You looked down at the jacket, your mind racing, replaying a dozen different interactions over the last few months.
The way he always happened to be near the desk when your shift ended.
The way his voice grew remarkably quiet and gentle whenever he spoke to you, completely different from his sharp and commanding attending persona.
The way he’d look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.
"Everyone knows," Lena said softly. "Nurses, residents, security staff. We actually have a timeline. Langdon put twenty bucks on 'After Graduation,' but I’m rooting for you two to figure it out by the end of the month."
"He... he has a crush on me?" you breathed, the words feeling entirely surreal on your tongue.
"Crush is a word for teenagers, sweetie," Lena said, looking at you with a gentle smile. "What Jack Abbot has for you is a profound case of being completely gone. He’s just too much of a gentleman, and too worried about crossing professional lines, to tell you himself."
Your hands gripped the edge of Jack's jacket, the warmth of it suddenly feeling entirely different. It felt like a protective shield of a man who was desperately trying to take care of you from a distance.
--
For days, you were a walking disaster of nervous energy and Jack noticed every single second of it.
Whenever he walked into a room, you suddenly found a patient chart that desperately needed your attention across the floor.
When you handed him a suture kit in the trauma bay, your fingers brushed, and you jumped as if you’d been zapped by a defibrillator.
You couldn't look him in the eye for more than two seconds without your face turning red.
A week later, the tension was unbearable. Jack was quietly losing his mind, convinced he had somehow crossed a line or made you uncomfortable during your shift.
Needing air, Jack retreated to the roof, the only place in the hospital where the noise couldn't reach him. The cool wind whipped at his scrub shirt as he leaned against the metal railing, his mind completely consumed by thoughts of you.
The door to the roof groaned open.
Jack turned, his breath catching when he saw you step out. You were holding his jacket tightly against your chest.
"Hey," Jack said softly. He took a step toward you, his eyes scanning your face, filled with worry.
"Lena said you came up here," you breathed, the wind catching your hair.
Jack stopped a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep from reaching out to you. "Look, we need to talk. You’ve been... avoiding me? For days. If I did something to upset you, or if I made you uncomfortable by putting my jacket on you the other night, I need you to tell me. I’ll back off. I swear I will. Just please tell me what’s wrong between us."
The panic in his eyes broke the dam. You gripped his jacket tighter, took a sharp breath, and the words just tumbled out of you.
"It makes me nervous being around you because you like me and I like you and they have a bet about you with me, did you know that?"
Jack froze. He stared at you, his brain completely stalling out as he tried to process the words that had just exploded from your mouth.
"I... what?" Jack stammered.
"The nurses! And residents! And even security!" you blurted out, your face burning so hot it made your cheeks hurt. "They bet on what time you’d kick me out of the floor to take a break, they bet on when you’d give me your jacket, and they told me you bought a specific protein bar for me, and Langdon has twenty dollars on us figuring it out after I graduate!"
You stopped to gasp for air. "I didn't know, Jack. I swear. But now I do, and every time you look at me I forget how to read a lab report, and it just makes me so nervous because I do like you, and I didn't think you liked me back, and now I know everyone in the whole hospital is watching us and can't even look at you without blushing."
Silence fell over the roof, save for the sound of traffic below.
You squeezed your eyes shut, suddenly wishing the roof would open up and swallow you whole.
Great.
You just broke the professional boundary.
And sounded like a lunatic doing it.
Then, you heard him.
You opened your eyes. Jack was smiling. He let out a disbelieving laugh, his frown completely vanishing. What Langdon said the other day, "preferably after she graduates", kept echoing in his head for a couple of days.
"Frank put twenty on it?" Jack asked.
"That’s the part you’re focusing on?!" you wailed, hiding your burning face into his jacket.
Jack closed the distance between you. He grasped your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. You looked up and his soft eyes made your knees weak.
"No," Jack whispered, his thumbs softly tracing the inside of your wrists, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "That’s not the part I’m focusing on."
He took a deep breath, stepping even closer.
"You like me?" he asked, as if he needed to hear the words clearly just to believe they were real.
"Yes," you whispered, feeling nervous and a little dizzy. "I like you, Jack."
"Good," Jack murmured, his hands sliding up from your wrists to cup your face, his palms warm against your cheeks. "I like you, too. Langdon was right. I am completely gone over you. I’ve been trying to be the responsible attending, keeping my distance because I didn't want to complicate your residency. But it has been absolute torture."
"So... you're not mad about the betting pool?" you asked softly, staring into his eyes.
Jack laughed softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned down, his forehead gently resting against yours.
"Oh, I'm furious!" Jack joked, his warm breath against your skin. "Especially because Frank made a bet about not having the guts to tell you I like you before you graduate. We're going downstairs, I'm going to kiss you right in front of them and make sure Lena gets all the credit."
You let out a soft laughter, the tension completely evaporating into the cool night air.
"Wait," you murmured, your hands finding their way to the lapels of his scrub shirt. "If you kiss me in front of them now, Frank loses his twenty bucks, sure, but Lena wins. And as much as I love her, she's been smug about this for days. Want her to suffer a little bit."
Jack paused, a spark lit up his dark eyes. "You want to see Lena loose her mind? You're evil," Jack whispered. "An absolute menace."
"I learned from the best attending in the hospital," you countered softly.
"Alright," Jack agreed, his hands sliding from your cheeks down to your waist, pulling you against him. "We keep it a secret a few days. No hand holding, no extra protein bars, and absolute professionalism in front of them."
"Deal," you smiled. "But, can you kiss me now? There aren't any cameras up here."
"No, there aren't." He didn't hesitate and leaned down, putting one of his hand on your chin to capture your lips. His hands held you firmly, securely, as if he were making sure you wouldn't walk away from him. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his neck, completely lost in him.
When he pulled back, his breathing was shallow, and your eyes were shining. He pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling away.
"Keep the jacket," Jack murmured, as he looked down at the jacket still clutched between your chests. "Looks good on you, baby."
You blushed and bit your lip as you walked back towards the rooftop door, Jack's fingers intertwined with yours for a moment, before he let go and took a step back to let you through the door first.
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x F!Reader
Warnings: Fluff | Romance | Angry Sherlock is a hot man, alright | Madly in-love Sherlock | Smug Mr. Holmes | Possessive Sherlock | Smidge of Angst | Kiss | Loose depiction of era-specific knowledge | My first ever time writing this man, so, kindly forgive me of any indiscretions | ~4k | Lemme know if I am missing anything.
A/N: I was innocently writing for Steve & Ari when, during a short break, I was randomly dusting off old docs and guess what I found? 🤭😏 I thought, why not share it with you all! This man has my thoughts twisted in ways I can't untangle. There are definitely some errors you might find in here, but I will tend to them as soon as I can. Please do leave your thoughts if this remotely piqued your fancy! It would mean so, so much. 🩷
Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner and Divider credits to me. Photo credits to the internet. Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist
Indulge Away!
According to Sherlock, love is a dangerous disadvantage. He was soon going to learn that the heart, once moved by love, is no longer its own master; it beats to another's rhythm.
For Sherlock, it began as a matter of inconvenience.
One dreary afternoon, caught in the relentless downpour, he sought shelter at the quaint little bookshop tucked between the bustling streets. The sign reading George's Bookshop was familiar to him, as he'd passed it countless times before, though he had never ventured inside.
He expected to find an older man, a bit stooped with age, who walked with a slight limp. But as he pushed open the door, the scene inside caught him entirely off guard. Instead of the elderly man he knew should be there by his mere deduction, Sherlock found you.
You were seated behind the counter, your face resting lightly on your left palm, gloveless, hair unruly and cascading around your shoulders, deeply engrossed in a book.
You did not immediately notice him, but Sherlock took his time admiring, or rather analyzing. The way the dim light from the shop caught your features, the stillness of your form, so divine. He felt the same sensations burgeon and spread as when he played his violin.
After a moment, your gaze lifted from the page, and your eyes met his. There was no dramatic reaction, no eager recognition of him as the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, something that he was more accustomed to.
Your gaze briefly flickered at him and then to the rain outside. You gave him a barely-there smile, one that seemed to acknowledge his presence. Then, without another glance, you returned to your book.
Sherlock, usually so composed, felt his rational mind falter. His heart quickened; an emotion far more complicated than curiosity--or perhaps even desire--gripped him.
That fleeting moment of your look had undone him. He battled internally as he calmly stood there and stared at your beautiful form.
And it bothered him.
No.
No one should hold such power over his heart. It was just a mere sense of indifference that made him uncomfortable, restive, and skittish.
Yes, perhaps that was it. No, most certainly, that was it.
With that conviction, he waltzed into the street and walked home drenched in the chilling rain.
~
The days that followed were filled with unwelcome and persistent thoughts of you. The logical part of his mind told him to dismiss the feelings that clouded his thoughts, but he found it increasingly impossible to reason with logic.
And so, Sherlock returned to your bookshop, determined to understand this inexplicable sensation.
This time, you stood by the large bookcase in the corner of the room, and when you heard him enter, you walked around the shelf and stood before his large form confidently, curiously, gorgeously.
You cast a look outside and then at him and smiled. Sherlock's poor heart withered like a prune and galloped like a horse. He'd never felt such conflicting sensations in the entirety of his life from another human.
"You should have carried an umbrella, sir," You spoke as you walked away to the trolley where you set the books.
When he stood motionless, you peeked at him again.
"You seem lost," You murmured as you arranged the books. "Though I wonder, whether in direction or intention."
Sherlock frowned.
The words reverberated, piercing through his inner turmoil. He cleared his throat and clenched his fists, a practiced habit when his thoughts threatened to spiral.
He didn't speak for a whole minute, and you had rolled the trolley to its place in the corner and walked around him to seat yourself at the chair behind the table.
"Do you make a habit of standing idly in bookshops, sir, or have I the honor of being your first victim?" Your tone was light, though you eyed him curiously.
He straightened his shoulders, finding his footing. "Not idly, I assure you. My standing here is quite deliberate."
"Oh?" you mused, tilting your head slightly. "And what does this deliberate visit seek to uncover?" A lock of hair fell over the side of your cheek, and he had the urge to push it back and caress your skin.
It stirred something in him. He stepped closer, hoping to be graceful yet restrained, careful not to disrupt the tenderness and do something entirely unruly.
"I seek... context," he said finally, staring at your beautiful eyes.
"Context for what?" you asked, one brow arching slightly as you leaned casually against the counter.
"For why someone as..." He paused, searching for the right word. Intriguing? Divine? Painfully gorgeous?
"...as unexpected as yourself would be here, in a place like this."
You laughed softly, the sound warming his insides, and Sherlock was certain he'd never heard anything quite like it.
"Unexpected, am I? That's an unusual compliment, Mr. Holmes." You chuckled. Not answering his question, though.
Sherlock was pleasantly surprised. You knew him.
"You've heard of me?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. "And what do you make of me, then?"
Your smile deepened, and you leaned forward slightly. "I do not lend out my compliments or opinions easily, Mr. Holmes."
An unbidden smile took over his features faster than his mind could compute.
That day, he almost stepped out in the rain joyfully, but you stopped him, handing him an umbrella. "Now, now. Don't want the greatest minds catching cold, Mr. Holmes." You bit your lip playfully and turned away.
"I thought you didn't lend out opinions easily, darling," Sherlock smugly pointed out.
Mistaking a fact for an opinion would be imprudent, Mr. Holmes. My grandfather taught me better than that," you quipped, grinning at him as you answered his previous question. So, you were George's granddaughter. He should have guessed, but he was rather lost in the perception of your beauty.
His smug expression faded, and he shook his head, clearly taken aback. A smile soon took its place. Sherlock walked home wearing that silly smile and slept peacefully as if he had just solved the most complex of cases.
~
Sherlock's daily visits to the bookshop became a ritual, though he maintained the pretense of browsing books. Each time, you engaged him in conversation, often with a quick wit that left him equal parts impressed and irked. He'd spend most of the evenings at the bookshop despite anything.
One crisp evening, as the amber light of sunset filtered through the bookshop's windows, Sherlock sat at the chair near the fireplace, meticulously thumbing through a volume he had no real interest in. You, perched on your usual chair behind the counter, watched him with amusement.
The bookshop was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire and the turning of the pages.
"You do realize, Mr. Holmes," you began, your tone soft but serious, "that you're buying books far faster than you could ever read them?"
Sherlock's fingers paused on the page, but he didn't look up. "I assure you, I am quite adept at consuming knowledge," he replied smoothly, though there was a faint hint of defensiveness in his voice.
You tilted your head, studying him like he usually did when he held your gaze. "Perhaps," you said, "but even the sharpest mind cannot possibly have a genuine interest in all of the topics you've purchased."
He closed the book with a soft thud, finally meeting your gaze. "Are you accusing me of insincerity?"
"Not insincerity," you replied with a faint smile. "Just... strategy. I've noticed a pattern, Mr. Holmes. You only purchase books when you've spent more time here than you intended. A convenient excuse, I imagine, to justify your prolonged visits."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "You're implying that I... wager my money for your time?"
That sounded preposterous, but it was true. You were, as always, right.
You leaned forward slightly, your smile widening. "Am I wrong?"
His jaw tightened ever so slightly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of amusement. "If that were true, I'd consider it a worthy investment."
The candidness of his reply caught you off guard, but you refused to let him see it, but he was a sharp man.
"A very generous sentiment, but unnecessary. I'm not struggling with money as you might have already gathered," you shrugged, leaning back in your chair. "You could simply stay without feeling obligated to buy something."
He stood up and walked slowly, holding your gaze. "Could I?" he asked, his voice quieter now. He did not miss the reddening of your cheeks. "And if I did, would you still indulge my presence?"
"Perhaps," you said softly, unwavering. "If you asked."
Sherlock leaned down closer to you, his palms flat on the table. The smell of you consumed him. The room seemed to shrink around you, the silence thick with unspoken tension.
For a moment, Sherlock appeared almost uncertain, a vulnerability creeping into his otherwise confident demeanor.
"Then consider this my request," he said at last, his voice low and deliberate. "For your time. Not as a transaction, but as a privilege."
You blinked, momentarily speechless. But as his words settled, a warmth spread through you, and you found yourself smiling in spite of yourself.
"Granted," you said, your tone teasing but your eyes sincere. "Though I expect you to at least pretend to enjoy the books you've bought."
Sherlock allowed a rare smile to curve his lips, the smallest trace of triumph in his expression. "Wouldn't that be insincere of me?" he jested, his gaze lingering on you.
You chuckled, shaking your head. "I concede my point, Mr. Holmes."
~
It was one warm evening that his routine shifted. Sherlock approached the familiar corner of the street, his steps quickening in anticipation. But as he rounded the corner, his heart sank. The shop was locked. The curtains were drawn. He stopped in his tracks, staring at the sign that read Closed Until Further Notice in your neat, looping handwriting.
Sherlock's mind raced with possibilities. Had something happened? Were you ill? Why hadn't you mentioned this during his visit yesterday?
The lack of your presence had him suffocating, and the worry deepened as the clock ticked.
He lingered outside the shop longer than he cared to admit, hoping for some clue, some sign of your return.
For the first time in years, Sherlock felt powerless.
And he despised it.
Two days flew by, which were agonizing. Even the case he found interesting felt wanting, and the prospect of dissecting Lestrade's latest blunders failed to amuse him.
His pain won over the rationality he'd been compartmentalizing when you were involved, and he started to think. He retraced the steps he knew you frequented, asked subtle questions of the few patrons who'd crossed paths with you, and pieced together fragments of your life that you'd never openly shared.
And then, it struck him. Without hesitation, he quickly rang a few contacts.
~
The next afternoon, as he turned the corner near Regent's Park toward St. Bartholomew's Hospital, he spotted you.
You were seated beneath the shade of an old oak tree, chatting softly with an elderly woman on a nearby bench. Your smile was as lovely as ever, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. Even so, your mere presence eased the ache in his heart.
He wanted to call out to you but hesitated, choosing instead to wait. When the elderly woman finally left, leaving you alone with a small notebook in hand, he quietly approached and sat beside you.
You turned to face him. "Mr. Holmes," you said, surprised with a faint note of amusement coloring your expression. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"I might say the same," he replied, moving closer. "Your shop has been closed for three days. I assumed you had vanished."
Your expression softened, a flicker of guilt pressing over you. "I didn't mean to worry you," you said quietly. "I needed some time away."
He silently observed you for a while. "Sorry about your grandfather," he said at last, his tone unusually gentle.
For a moment, you looked taken aback, but you composed yourself with a small chuckle. "Thank you," you murmured. "The doctors say he should be up and about in a few days."
You hesitated before offering a smile--not the dazzling one he had grown accustomed to, but a softer, quieter one. "Did you miss my little bookshop?"
The question lingered in the air, delicate and uncertain.
"No," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze steady on yours. "I missed you."
That admission came to you as a surprise, but for Sherlock, it was an act of surrender. Surrendering his mind to the power of heart!
Sherlock often believed luck was an offensive concept that idiots relied on, but he might just start reconsidering a few aspects of it!
Weeks passed, and Sherlock never missed a visit. He often initiated conversations, though they were sometimes meandering and subtle. Yet, he couldn't ignore how you quietly withdrew, shutting yourself off in ways so discreet that most might overlook them. But not him. It bothered him deeply.
"I'm visiting my uncle tomorrow," you mentioned one evening, handing him a cup of tea. "I'm unsure if it'll be just a day or two."
Sherlock shifted in the well-worn armchair by the fire, his ocean-blue eyes lifting to meet yours, studying your expression.
You offered him a polite smile, but something about it didn't sit right. He nodded simply and returned to his book, though a quiet unease curled in his stomach at the fleeting look in your eyes.
~
Sherlock rarely paid attention to the conversations Watson and Mrs. Hudson often indulged in. Their chatter usually drifted past him like white noise. But when he heard your name mentioned, his focus sharpened instantly.
Through their exchange, he learned that Henry Thatchery, Watson's colleague, was planning to propose to you.
For a moment, Sherlock was stunned. The revelation shocked him, planting a deep fear he couldn't shake. The lingering thought of what might have happened if not for this sheer dumb… coincidence of him knowing about it gnawed at him. Were you planning to say yes to the marriage? The idea infuriated him even more.
And he did the most gentlemanly thing he could possibly do.
~
The ride from London had been arduous. He had pieced together the truth behind your sudden, unexpected trip to your uncle's estate. He was simmering like a storm cloud about to burst open.
But he acted strategically.
His knock at the heavy oak door was answered by a surprised butler whose wide eyes spoke volumes about the shock of seeing the famous detective on their doorstep. Moments later, your uncle appeared, his brow furrowed in confusion.
You are," your uncle exclaimed, stepping forward. "What an honor, Mr. Holmes. Forgive my manners. Please, do come in." Sherlock stood nearly a foot taller than the man before him, and the height difference seemed to leave your uncle visibly intimidated. He nodded quickly.
"You must be chilled to the bone." Sherlock was ushered inside, his eyes darting around. The warm glow of the estate's interior was not calming him in any sense.
And then he saw you.
You stood at the base of the staircase, your face frozen in surprise and panic. Your gaze flickered to his, and for the first time since he'd known you, you didn't hold his stare, nor did you look confident. You looked guilty.
Good, he thought with grim satisfaction, his own emotions threatening to boil over. You should feel the weight of what you've done.
"Mr. Holmes!" your uncle exclaimed, "What an unexpected visit! What brings the great detective to our humble home?"
Sherlock offered a strained smile, though his attention never wavered from you. "A most unfortunate circumstance, I'm afraid. My carriage suffered a wheel failure on the road, and I found myself stranded. Your estate was the closest, and I hoped I might impose upon your hospitality until the matter is resolved."
"Of course!" your uncle said, clapping his hands together. "We'd be honored to have you. Please, make yourself at home."
Ever eager to entertain such a renowned guest, your aunt and uncle immediately fell over themselves to welcome him. He also found the man he didn't mind wringing the neck of standing nearby, Henry Thatchery.
However, you remained frozen, gripping the banister as if it were the only thing keeping you upright.
Sherlock inclined his head graciously, but his eyes were still locked on yours, a silent battle of wills playing out as your family fussed over him. You finally tore your gaze away, your voice unusually soft as you murmured something about helping the staff prepare.
~
Dinner was quite an affair. Sherlock, however, was only half engaged in the polite conversation around the table. His focus was on you and, more pointedly, the man beside you: Dr. Henry Thatchery.
The doctor was a handsome man. Not deserving of you, certainly. Sherlock could see how your family had been taken in by his demeanor, but he also noticed how your shoulders tensed whenever Thatchery leaned too close or whispered something meant only for you.
It was during dessert that Sherlock decided to strike.
"Dr. Thatchery," he began smoothly, setting down his glass. "I understand you've been practicing medicine for some years now."
Thatchery nodded, his smile almost too perfect. "That's correct. It's a fulfilling profession, and it keeps me busy."
"You are a great man, indeed. Mrs. Berksmith told me how fine a man you are."
The table fell silent. Your fork clattered against your plate as you froze, your eyes wide in disbelief.
Thatchery's smile faltered. "I beg your pardon?"
"Mrs. Berksmith," Sherlock repeated, his tone casual but his gaze unrelenting. "The widow who resides near your practice. I've seen you enter her home quite frequently, often late in the evening. So, I assumed you were courting her. Aren't you?"
Thatchery's face turned an alarming shade of red. He stumbled through a clumsy denial, but the damage was done. Your family was already looking at him suspiciously, their faith in his character shaken.
When an argument ensued between your uncle and him, Thatchery simply got up, muttering humiliation and left.
Sherlock, the epitome of anything but innocence, feigned surprise at the uproar his truth-telling had caused. Your uncle, recovering first, explained that Henry had come to propose marriage to you. And he thanked Sherlock for saving them from a scandal.
Sherlock avoided meeting your gaze, well aware that he wouldn't be able to suppress the self-satisfied smirk threatening to surface if he did.
"Excuse me," you muttered, your voice tight as you retreated to your room.
His thoughts lingered upon you.
It also didn't take much persuasion from your uncle to make him stay the night either.
The madness of love is not always sweet, but it is always consuming
"Sherlock," you hissed under your breath later that evening before his room once everyone else had gone to bed. Your eyes blazed, and Sherlock searched yours with the same accusing fire. "Why are you here?" You whispered angrily.
"Whatever do you mean? My carriage had trouble." He smirked.
"How very convenient!" You chuckled humorlessly. "Why are you really here?" You asked again.
The faint moonlight made you look more divine in that off-white dress, and Sherlock, leaning against the doorframe, couldn't tear his gaze from you. The angry look only made desire grow in his depths, and for a brief moment, he forgot that he was angry with you.
But he brought his bearings straight.
His jaw tightened. He couldn't help the way his lips curved into a thin, tight smile. "I did not peg you for foolish, darling," he mocked.
Your breath caught, a sharp gasp escaping you. "Foolish?" you echoed, your eyes flashing. "You think I'm foolish?"
He stepped closer, his tall frame towering over you in the dim light; you had to crane your neck to look at him. It felt powerful after weeks and weeks of agony to see you being so vulnerable in his presence. He wanted to caress every part of you with his mouth. But he kept the minute distance.
"Foolish enough to hide from me the real intention for this visit." His voice dropped lower, almost a growl, "Why?"
You narrowed your eyes, his tone throwing you off balance.
You took a step back, crossing your arms defensively. "And what? Do you think you have some divine right to know everything about me? To dissect my every move?" Your voice quivered, but you refused to let it show. "Why should I have told you, Sherlock?"
He watched you carefully, his eyes betraying none of his thoughts, but his frustration was palpable in the way his fists clenched at his sides. "You've been avoiding the truth for far too long," he muttered, the words sharp but quieter now. "It's eating away at you, isn't it? All this pretending."
"Pretending?" you scoffed, your posture stiffening. "I'm not pretending anything."
He gave a small, bitter chuckle, his eyes darkening as he took a step forward, his breath mingling with yours.
"Are you not?" His hand reached out, brushing a lock of hair from your face, a gesture that had haunted him since the moment he met you.
Your pulse quickened. His fingers lingered on the shell of your ear before he reluctantly retreated his touch.
You swallowed, looking undone. "You think you know everything about me, don't you?" you whispered, almost as if to yourself. "Well, you don't."
Sherlock took another step closer, backing you up against the wall, his presence overwhelming, and yet his voice remained controlled, almost too calm. "Then enlighten me." He challenged.
For a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to meet his gaze fully. The tension was so thick it seemed physically engulfing.
"Why do you care so much?" you asked, the question barely leaving your lips before your eyes widened. "No, actually, do not answer that."
Sherlock chuckled, satisfied. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he spoke in a low, steady voice. "Because," he said, his words deliberate, "I can't stand watching you self-destruct."
You shuddered, leaning away slightly. "Self-destruct?" you repeated, almost mockingly, but your voice betrayed you. It was soft, vulnerable. "Is that what you think marriage is?"
Sherlock's gaze darkened, "That's exactly what I think it is if you agreed to marry Thatchery," he muttered. His face hovered so close to yours now that you could feel the warmth of his breath, the tension so thick it felt almost suffocating. "Or any other, for that matter."
You swallowed hard, your mind racing as you tried to gather the pieces of your composure.
"You don't get it," you said, shaking your head slightly. "You never will." And yet, despite every word you spoke, despite the defensive walls you tried to erect between the two of you, there was that pull you failed to acknowledge.
He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that sharp, almost teasing smile of his. "No?" he murmured, his tone laced with an unspoken challenge.
Sherlock anticipated you would close the painful gap between you and perhaps just embrace him, but you didn't. Instead, you remained rooted to the spot, though your breath was uneven. So, he took matters into his own hands. Just as the distance between your lips seemed to shrink, you took a breath and stepped sideways, breaking the spell.
"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," you said quietly, your voice betraying none of the internal chaos you felt.
He didn't move as you left, his gaze lingering on you as you retreated down the hall.
The confrontation did not end there.
~
By the time you were back in London, you were much calmer, unlike Sherlock, who was a storm of emotions, his mind spiraling and uncharacteristically untamed.
He staggered into your shop, his usual poise lost in a haze of spirits and restless frustration at your unbothered countenance.
"Do you not see it?" he spat, his words slurred but his gaze sharp. "I am undone! For weeks, I have been at your mercy, nothing more than a puppet, pulled by… by whatever devilish charm you possess!"
You raised an eyebrow, unshaken by his outburst. "Mr. Holmes, you do yourself a disservice."
"Do I?" His voice thundered now, laced with more emotion than he was used to showing. "Then explain it to me." For a moment, he softened, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Say it. Admit that you feel the same. For I am certain, maddeningly so, that you do."
The silence between you was heavy with the truth.
"No." You said.
Sherlock Holmes was not accustomed to rejection. He was accustomed to being right, to unraveling every puzzle. But you had proven to be the exception to his every rule. And now, as you stood before him, he felt his temper ignite in a way he hadn't thought possible.
"Do you mean to tell me," he began, his voice tight with restrained fury, "that after all this, after every moment we've shared, you would so carelessly brush aside what is glaringly obvious?"
You blinked, taken aback by the sharpness of his tone. "Sherlock,"
"No!" he interrupted, pacing now, his coat billowing with every agitated step. "Do not take me for some fool incapable of understanding your reasoning. I know what this is. You are afraid. Afraid of me."
"That's not true," you said, though your voice wavered. "It's not about fear...it's about practicality."
"Practicality?" He stopped in his tracks, whirling to face you. His piercing gaze bore into yours, the intensity almost overwhelming.
"I have never...never allowed myself to be consumed by anything or anyone, and yet here I am, standing before you like a… AS a lovesick imbecile, begging for you to acknowledge what is so painfully evident." His voice cracked, though he quickly masked it with a sharp inhale. "And you dare deny me?"
Your heart raced, a storm of emotions churning within you. "Sherlock. Feelings aren't logical."
"Exactly!" he snapped, his hands clenching at his sides. He stepped closer, his towering presence almost suffocating. "You cannot deny me on the grounds of practicality." "And do not mistake my anger. I am angry because I cannot bear the thought of a world where you are not mine."
You stared at him, stunned, as his words echoed between you. The weight of his confession left you breathless, and yet you found yourself shaking your head, unwilling to give in to the overwhelming tide of his emotions.
"I can't," you whispered. "I can't be what you need."
Something inside him snapped. "What I need?" he repeated, his voice rising.
"Yes, Sherlock. Marriage is important to me, and I cannot let this…" you wildly gestured between you both, "...give me false hope, knowing fully well that you consider marriage irrelevant and self-destructing, as you called it. And you are right. I should stop pretending and do myself a great service by understanding this. Thank you for reminding me not to pretend. So, yes, I can't be what you need."
"You are already what I need." his breath wavered as he took a step closer to you. He took your hand suddenly, his grip firm. "You will marry me," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Not because I think it is what you want, but because it would be insincere of me if I said I didn't want it. Because you are the only person who has ever made me feel alive. Because I…"
He paused, the words catching in his throat. For a moment, the fire in his eyes softened, replaced by something raw.
"Because I love you," he finished, the confession breaking through his anger like sunlight through a storm. "And I will not let you pretend that you don't feel the same."
The silence that followed was deafening.
"But you said…"
"I did feel it was irrelevant paperwork, and I said you would be self-destructing if you married any other man... but not me."
You blinked slowly, grasping, and then your grip on him tightened.
"You really mean that?" You asked softly.
He nodded, cradling your jaw with his free hand. "I love you, you infuriating woman."
You laughed and nodded.
"What? Are you not going to share your opinions on this matter then?" He asked, irked at the lack of your response. Cheeky woman.
"I love you, you obnoxiously convoluted man. I do."
He chuckled, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. "Good," he said, before pulling you into a kiss that reoriented his very existence.
He cornered you into the table and kissed you deeply, tasting every bit of you until he thoroughly ensured you understood the depth of his love for you.
Imagine the shock Watson and Mrs. Hudson would feel when he announces his marriage nuptials within a fortnight.
Well? 🫣
If you wanna be tagged in my works, add yourself here. <3 Please send me a message if you wanna be removed from the Tag list. :)
Since Mr. Holmes is a brand-new addition to my list of characters, I'm going to tag my taglist. Please feel free to let me know if you don't want to be tagged in any further fics related to him.
orbiter (4.3k) ~ your and jack’s journey to parenthood, told from his point of view.
petals for armor (13k) ~ vignettes of your relationship with jack told through the five love languages.
is it so much to adore (7.3k) ~ when you receive your first ever daisy award, you insist that you don’t need to have a pining ceremony. you’re used to celebrating your accomplishments quietly, on your own. you have your whole life. but jack is determined to change that.
it’s always darkest before the dawn (3.5k) ~ after a heartbreaking night shift, all jack wants is to get home to you.
break me down and i’ll call you mine (18.7k) ~ other than the men he brings home on occasion, you’re the only person who knows that deran cody is gay. when your best friend becomes anxious that people are growing suspicious of his sexuality, you suggest telling people that the two of you are dating. everything is going perfectly…until his brother is released from prison and you start feeling things that you haven’t felt in years.
Summary: After a violent patient attack leaves you critically injured, Jack is forced to confront what it means to almost lose the person he loves.
Word count: 12k+
Warnings: patience violence, severe injury, angst, fluff
A/N:
read part 2 here
hey guys !! i’m genuinely so excited to finally post my first jack abbot fic, and i’m so excited for you guys to read it 😭
because tumblr hates me and this fic apparently exceeded the block limit, i had to split it into two parts <3 but i really hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed emotionally ruining myself while writing it.
anyways !!! thank you so much for reading, and please be nice this is my first time writing for the pitt/jack hahahah. if i used any medical terms wrong, my apologies 🫶
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The rain had started sometime before dawn.
By the time you merged onto the interstate, the entire city looked washed out and miserable beneath sheets of gray rain and smeared headlights reflecting across wet pavement. Your windshield wipers moved at full speed and still barely kept up with the storm. The coffee sitting untouched in your cupholder had gone cold nearly an hour ago, though you were honestly too exhausted to care anymore.
The overnight shift had turned into fifteen hours instead of eight after two trauma admissions arrived back-to-back near the end of the night, and now every muscle in your body ached with the kind of exhaustion that settled deep into your bones. You genuinely could not remember the last time you slept more than four uninterrupted hours.
Traffic slowed suddenly ahead of you.
At first you assumed construction or flooding because of the weather, but then smoke curled upward through the rain and your stomach dropped immediately.
Cars sat mangled across three lanes of traffic at impossible angles. One SUV had spun into the median while another sedan looked almost folded around the back of a delivery truck, its front end crushed so badly it barely resembled a vehicle anymore. Hazard lights blinked weakly through the storm while people stumbled across the interstate in shock.
Your body moved before your brain fully caught up.
“Oh my God.”
You were already unbuckling your seatbelt before the car completely stopped.
Adrenaline sliced straight through your exhaustion hard enough to make your hands shake as you reached for the trauma bag in the passenger seat. Rain hit you instantly the second you shoved the door open, cold water soaking through your clothes within seconds while distant screaming echoed somewhere through the storm.
Someone yelled that a driver was trapped.
Another voice screamed for a medic.
A woman near the shoulder sobbed hard enough she could barely breathe, blood running down the side of her forehead while a man beside her stood completely frozen, staring blankly at the wreckage like his brain had stopped processing reality altogether.
You were already running.
“I’m a doctor,” you shouted over the rain. “Move back and give me some room.”
People listened immediately.
The trapped driver looked somewhere in his forties, pinned awkwardly behind the wheel of the crushed sedan. Blood streamed from a scalp laceration down the side of his face while the airbags hung deflated around him. His breathing came too fast beneath the sound of rain hammering against twisted metal, panic beginning to sharpen around the edges of every inhale.
You crouched carefully beside the shattered driver’s side window, ignoring the glass biting through your scrub pants into your knees.
“Hey,” you said, forcing calmness into your voice despite the adrenaline roaring through your chest. “Can you hear me?”
The man blinked slowly toward you, dazed. “Think so.”
“Good. That’s good.” You adjusted the flashlight between your fingers while quickly checking his pupils. “What’s your name?”
“Leon.”
“Okay, Leon. I’m Dr. Y/L/N.” Your voice stayed steady automatically, years of emergency medicine taking over before panic had a chance to settle in. “Don’t move your neck for me, alright?”
A shaky breath of laughter escaped him. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Despite everything, you smiled a little.
“You’re doing great,” you assured him quietly. “Stay with me.”
And he did.
His eyes kept finding yours every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.
Your hands moved automatically after that.
Pressure against the head wound. Monitoring responsiveness. Keeping him conscious and talking while you assessed what you could from outside the vehicle. Rainwater mixed with blood beneath your fingers while traffic backed up for what looked like miles behind you, headlights glowing dimly through the storm.
Leon kept looking at you every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.
“You work at the PTMC?” he asked weakly after spotting the hospital logo embroidered onto your soaked jacket.
“Unfortunately.”
That got a real laugh out of him, brief and pained but enough that relief loosened slightly in your chest.
“You always this calm when you see a car crash?”
You let out a tired breath through your nose. “No. I’m panicking beautifully internally.”
That made him laugh again.
Patients relaxed faster once they laughed. It was something you learned early in residency, fear loosened the second people felt human again instead of helpless.
So you stayed with him.
Even after the paramedics arrived.
Even after they started finishing the extrication, peeling back what remained of the driver’s side door while rain poured endlessly over the wreckage.
You stayed crouched beside him talking him through every step because shock was already creeping in around the edges of his expression, and every time panic threatened to overwhelm him again, his eyes found yours immediately.
“You’re okay,” you kept saying quietly. “Stay with me. You’re okay.”
The interstate blurred around you in streaks of red brake lights and flashing hazards. Rain soaked through your jacket and scrubs completely now, damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin while your hair stuck to the back of your neck. The adrenaline that had carried you through the crash scene was already fading, leaving behind an exhaustion so heavy it felt physical.
An EMT looked up from the stretcher and did a double take.
“Dr. Y/L/N?”
You snapped back into focus automatically.
“Male, approximately forty-two. Restrained driver. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen currently. Complaining of left-sided rib pain. Possible concussion. Neuro status intact for now, but keep an eye on him.”
The EMT nodded once while adjusting the cervical collar. “Got it.”
They moved quickly after that, securing straps, checking vitals, loading equipment through the rain while Leon tracked every movement with the wide-eyed focus of someone trying very hard not to think too much about what had almost happened.
Your knees ached from kneeling on broken glass. Your hands had started trembling slightly now that nobody urgently needed anything from you anymore.
But you stayed beside him anyway.
Leon caught your wrist weakly just before the paramedics closed the ambulance doors.
“Hey.”
You looked up immediately.
His face looked pale beneath the blood and rainwater, eyes glassy with pain and adrenaline, but there was something steadier there too.
Gratitude maybe.
“Thank you for taking care of me.”
The words landed somewhere deeper than they should have.
You swallowed hard before giving his hand one quick squeeze.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Of course.”
For a second, you just stood there breathing.
The interstate still smelled like gasoline and smoke. Somewhere farther down the road another paramedic shouted instructions while tow trucks crawled through the rain toward the wreckage. Traffic in the opposite lanes slowed almost to a stop as people stared through fogged windows at what was left of the crash.
“You riding in with us?” one of the EMTs asked.
You glanced once toward your abandoned car still trapped in unmoving traffic nearly half a mile behind the accident scene. The thought of trying to get back to it right now felt impossible.
“Yeah,” you answered tiredly.
The ambulance doors shut behind you a second later, sealing you inside with the sharp smell of antiseptic, wet clothing, and adrenaline.
Leon talked for almost the entire ride to the hospital.
Nervous talking.
The kind trauma patients did when they were scared enough to fill every silence because silence meant thinking too hard about how close they came to dying. You’d seen it hundreds of times before. Some people cried. Some got angry. Some went terrifyingly quiet.
Leon talked.
So you let him.
He rambled about his job, about his daughter’s soccer game this weekend, about how his wife was going to kill him for wrecking the car because they still hadn’t finished paying it off. Every few sentences his voice shook slightly before he forced another joke out anyway.
You stayed beside him the whole ride, monitoring pupils and vitals while keeping him talking just enough to assess mental status without making it obvious you were doing it.
“You always pick up patients on the highway on your day off?” he asked weakly at one point.
You let out a tired breath of laughter. “Only the lucky ones.”
That earned another shaky smile from him.
The ambulance doors burst open, paramedics already rolling the stretcher down the bay entrance while rainwater dripped steadily from the wheels onto the floor.
By the time the ambulance rolled through the bay doors at The Pitt, you were freezing hard enough your teeth almost hurt. Your scrubs were soaked completely through, your shoes squelching against the floor while trauma staff moved around you in organized chaos.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Santos called across the ER the second she spotted you climbing out of the ambulance bay. “Always a pleasure seeing you this early, Iron Woman.”
You groaned immediately.
You earned the nickname after accidentally mistaking a patient for Robert Downey Jr. during a twenty-hour shift.
To be fair, the goatee had been identical.
“Dana,” you called immediately, falling into step beside the stretcher. “What’s open?”
Dana barely looked up from the nurses’ station. “Trauma Two’s clear.”
“Perfect.” You pushed damp hair back from your face before glancing toward the department. “Whitaker, Javadi, you’re with me. Perlah, can you help set up Two?”
Perlah nodded immediately and disappeared ahead of the group while Whitaker grabbed gloves from the wall dispenser on his way past.
“You look cold,” Whitaker informed you conversationally.
“Thank you,” you replied flatly.
Javadi appeared beside the stretcher while all of you pushed through the trauma bay doors together. “What happened?”
“Restrained driver, approximately forty-two,” you answered automatically. “High-speed MVA during the storm. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen on arrival, complaining of left-sided rib pain and worsening headache. Possible concussion.”
“Vitals stable en route,” one of the paramedics added while helping transfer Leon onto the trauma bed.
Whitaker immediately started attaching monitors while Javadi pulled supplies from cabinets with the frantic efficiency of someone still trying very hard to look calmer than she actually felt.
Then Jack looked up from the computer station.
And somehow, in the middle of the packed emergency department, everything softened slightly around the edges.
You caught the exact moment recognition crossed his face. The exhaustion behind his eyes shifted immediately into concern as his gaze moved slowly over you. Soaked scrubs, blood smeared across your gloves, rainwater dripping steadily from your hair onto the floor beneath you.
Jack crossed the trauma bay almost immediately.
“You okay?” he asked quietly. “What happened? I thought you went home.”
His voice grounded you in a way almost nothing else could anymore.
Maybe it was because he always sounded calm even during chaos. Maybe it was because after years together your body recognized him before your brain consciously caught up. Or maybe it was simply that exhaustion hit harder the second somebody else arrived to help carry it.
“I’m fine,” you answered automatically while stripping off your soaked gloves and replacing them with clean ones. “Probably need a head CT.”
Jack’s expression tightened instantly.
“For you?”
You blinked at him before realizing what you’d said. “What? No. For the patient.”
Behind you, Perlah had already started cutting away Leon’s soaked shirt while Whitaker attached cardiac leads to his chest.
“BP’s holding,” Whitaker called.
“Sinus tach at one-ten,” Javadi added while checking another monitor. “Probably pain and adrenaline.”
“Good,” you answered automatically before stepping back beside the bed.
“Where’s Robby?”
“Overdose in Four,” Dana answered from the doorway.
You nodded once and reached for your penlight again, checking Leon’s pupils carefully while rain continued tapping faintly against the ambulance bay doors behind you.
Santos wandered into Trauma Two looking personally offended. “Why does huckleberry and crash get invited? I can help.”
“You can stand there and look pretty while actual doctors save lives,” you shot back immediately.
Santos gasped dramatically. “Dr. Abbot, your girlfriend is bullying me again.”
“She bullies everybody,” Jack muttered.
But there was no heat behind it.
His eyes lingered on you a second too long.
You knew that look by now.
Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to bury concern beneath sarcasm and exhaustion, but you still caught it every time. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes. The slight tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The way your shoulders sagged whenever you thought nobody was looking.
“You’re freezing,” he said quietly.
“You are correct. I am freezing.”
Without another word, Jack pulled his hoodie off the back of the nurses’ station chair and draped it carefully around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him, smelling faintly like coffee, antiseptic, and the cologne he only remembered to wear maybe twice a month.
Something in your chest tightened stupidly at the gesture.
Behind him, Santos gagged theatrically. “Oh my God. Romance in the trauma bay. I’m going to throw up.”
“Go chart something,” Jack said flatly.
Whitaker looked up from the monitor leads. “Actually, I think it's very sweet."
“You’re all miserable,” you informed them while pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself.
“No,” Javadi corrected while checking Leon’s blood pressure. “You two are just aggressively in love in public.”
Jack looked genuinely offended. “Aggressively? I don't get it."
Despite yourself, you laughed softly while stepping back toward Leon’s bedside.
Leon noticed the interaction immediately.
“That your boyfriend?” he asked weakly from the trauma bed.
“Husband to the emergency department,” you corrected while snapping fresh gloves on. “Boyfriend in real life.”
Jack rolled his eyes while typing orders into the computer. “Don’t encourage her, Leon.”
Leon grinned despite the pain. “You guys are disgustingly cute.”
Under the brighter trauma lights, bruising had already started blooming dark purple across his ribs beneath the rain-soaked skin.
“Headache worse?” you asked while checking his pupils again.
“A little.”
“You nauseous?”
“Not yet.”
“Good,” you answered. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Javadi palpated carefully along his left side while Whitaker adjusted the blood pressure cuff.
“There’s something strangely comforting about you people,” Leon admitted weakly after a moment.
“You say that now,” Javadi muttered.
That earned another tired laugh from him before he winced sharply afterward.
“There it is,” you said softly. “Still joking. Good sign, buddy.”
There was something oddly comforting about patients who stayed conversational. After years in emergency medicine, you learned to appreciate moments where humanity still existed between procedures and bloodwork and trauma assessments.
Sometimes those tiny conversations mattered almost as much as the medicine itself.
Jack stepped beside you while reviewing Leon’s vitals, his shoulder brushing yours briefly in the cramped trauma bay. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, damp fabric, and rainwater now that Leon’s soaked clothing had finally been cut away.
“You should change,” Jack murmured quietly while adjusting one of the monitor leads. “I got this, baby.”
You barely glanced at him, still focused on the chart. “Don’t worry. I’ll survive.”
A tired look crossed his face immediately.
“That’s usually what people say right before passing out.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder, though exhaustion dulled most of the energy behind it. “You’re dramatic.”
“You’ve been awake how long now?”
“Eighteen hours.”
Jack stared at you flatly. “That’s not comforting.”
“You stopped at a major accident scene after an eighteen-hour shift?” Javadi asked incredulously.
You shrugged slightly.
And that alone made Jack’s jaw tighten, because that was exactly the kind of thing you always did.
The adrenaline carrying you through the crash scene had almost completely faded now, leaving behind exhaustion so heavy it felt physical. Your wet clothes clung coldly to your skin beneath Jack’s hoodie while every muscle in your body ached now that the immediate crisis had passed.
Jack exhaled softly through his nose before lowering his voice.
“You don’t always have to run yourself into the ground trying to save everybody.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
You focused instead on adjusting Leon’s blanket over his chest, smoothing the fabric carefully just to give your hands something else to do.
Jack knew you too well by now to push after saying something like that.
That was part of what made loving him dangerous sometimes. He noticed things you worked very hard to hide from everybody else.
He noticed the way your hands trembled after bad trauma calls once the adrenaline wore off. How you skipped meals without realizing it during difficult shifts. How every patient death stayed with you longer than you ever admitted aloud.
Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to compartmentalize just enough to survive it, which somehow only made him better at recognizing when you weren’t doing the same.
His hand brushed briefly against the small of your back as he moved toward the monitors again.
“Don’t worry, Leon,” Jack said easily while checking the cardiac tracing. “You’re in good hands.”
Leon looked toward him before his gaze drifted back to you.
“I figured that out already,” he said softly. “She stopped on the interstate for me.”
You glanced up from the chart, slightly surprised by how steady his voice sounded now despite everything.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” Leon continued quietly.
You shrugged lightly, pushing damp hair away from your face. “Part of the job.”
“Maybe,” he answered softly, still watching you carefully. “But most people would’ve kept driving.”
Something warm and uncomfortable settled low in your chest at that.
Most patients never saw the moments in between all of this. They saw calm voices and steady hands. They saw competence because that was what they needed from you in moments like these.
They never saw the aftermath.
The exhaustion. The panic doctors swallowed in real time just to keep functioning. The way people occasionally locked themselves in supply closets for thirty seconds after bad cases just to breathe before walking back out like nothing happened.
But Leon had seen you kneeling beside twisted metal in freezing rain with blood on your hands while traffic screamed past only feet away.
He’d seen the human part too.
And somehow that felt far more exposing than expected.
Before you could answer, something shifted.
Subtle.
Small enough most people in the room probably would have missed it entirely.
But after years in emergency medicine, your body noticed changes before your brain consciously caught up.
Leon’s breathing changed.
One second it was slow and uneven with postictal exhaustion.
The next it caught strangely in his chest.
His eyes lost focus somewhere over your shoulder while every muscle in his body tightened beneath the blankets all at once.
Your stomach dropped instantly.
“Leon?”
Jack looked up from the monitor station at the exact same moment Leon’s entire body stiffened violently against the mattress.
“He’s seizing!”
Everything exploded into motion.
The seizure hit hard and fast, violent enough that the entire trauma bed rattled beneath him. His back arched sharply while his arms convulsed uncontrollably, knocking equipment sideways as monitors erupted into sharp screaming alarms throughout the room.
“Clock started,” Perlah called immediately.
“Two minutes on the seizure pads,” Whitaker added while grabbing suction.
“Turn him,” you ordered.
You and Javadi moved together automatically, carefully rolling Leon onto his side while his body continued jerking violently beneath your hands. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth where he’d bitten through his tongue while every breath came in horrible choking gasps between convulsions.
“Airway’s clear,” Javadi said quickly, though her voice still sounded tight with adrenaline.
Across the room Jack was already pulling medication from the crash cart while Dana called CT from the doorway ahead of transport.
Then finally, slowly, the seizure broke.
Leon’s body slumped heavily back against the mattress drenched in sweat while ragged breaths tore unevenly from his chest. The room fell briefly into that strange silence that always followed emergencies, where everybody still moved quickly even though the worst part had passed.
For now.
“Let’s get a CT stat,” Jack said immediately.
You nodded once, trying to ignore the tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline spike was crashing again.
“I’ll stay with him until transport.”
Jack hesitated.
Only briefly, but long enough for you to notice.
Something unreadable crossed his expression while his eyes flicked from Leon back toward you.
Concern maybe.
The same quiet tension he always carried after particularly violent trauma cases.
“You sure?” he asked softly.
You frowned slightly. “Yeah.”
Whitaker glanced briefly between both of you like he noticed something too, but before he could say anything Dana appeared in the doorway again.
“Trauma Three needs help now.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
His fingers brushed briefly against your wrist before he stepped away toward the hallway, disappearing almost immediately back into the noise and chaos outside the trauma bay.
The room quieted afterward.
Machines beeped steadily while rain tapped faintly against distant ER windows somewhere down the hall. Whitaker and Javadi had already been pulled into another room, leaving you alone beside Leon while he lay motionless in exhausted postictal confusion.
You dimmed the overhead light slightly before adjusting the blanket higher over his chest.
“Hey,” you said gently when you noticed him beginning to stir. “You’re okay. You had a seizure.”
No response.
His eyes stayed fixed upward, unfocused and confused.
Postictal.
You had seen it hundreds of times before. Disorientation. Confusion. Agitation sometimes. Patients waking terrified because their brains had not fully caught up to reality yet.
Your shoulder ached dully now that exhaustion was settling deeper into your body again. You reached absentmindedly for the chart at the foot of the bed, mentally running through differentials and imaging priorities while waiting for CT to call back.
You missed the shift in him by less than a second.
One moment Leon lay motionless against the mattress, the next his eyes sharpened violently.
Not recognition.
Fear.
Pure terrified instinct.
Your stomach dropped.
“Leon—”
He surged upright before you could finish the sentence.
His hand closed around your throat with terrifying force, slamming you backward into the cabinet hard enough to knock the air violently from your lungs. Pain exploded across the back of your skull as your head cracked sharply against metal.
“Leon!”
The sound came out broken and strangled.
But he wasn’t seeing you.
That was the horrifying part.
His eyes looked completely wild now—unfocused, terrified, empty all at once. Pure neurological panic stripped entirely of recognition.
For one terrible second, training overrode fear.
“Leon,” you gasped desperately, grabbing his wrists instinctively instead of striking him. “Listen to me. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”
Nothing reached him.
His grip tightened harder around your throat.
Air stopped.
Panic slammed through you instantly now, sharp and animal and overwhelming in a way you almost never allowed yourself to feel. Your vision flickered violently while you clawed uselessly at his hands, trying desperately to drag in even one full breath.
You needed help.
Safe word.
Your mouth opened automatically.
“H—”
Nothing came out except a rasp.
Leon shoved you backward harder, your skull slamming against the cabinet again hard enough that white exploded across your vision.
The hospital safe word.
You just needed to say it.
“Hula—”
The sound collapsed into another strangled gasp as his fingers crushed tighter against your airway.
Your lungs burned.
Tears blurred your vision from pain and lack of oxygen while movement echoed faintly somewhere outside the trauma bay. People were still moving through the ER completely unaware of what was happening behind the curtain.
Your body was weakening fast.
You forced one shredded breath into your lungs and screamed:
“HULA HOOP!”
The entire department reacted instantly.
The trauma bay doors burst open hard enough to slam against the wall while voices shouted over each other.
Hands grabbed Leon, trying to drag him backward while he fought wildly in blind confusion and terror.
But before anyone could fully pull him away, he shoved you violently across the room.
Your shoulder struck the edge of the cabinetry with a horrible crack before the rest of your body collapsed hard onto the tile floor.
Pain tore through your arm instantly, sharp and wrong enough it barely felt real.
You couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
The room blurred violently while alarms screamed overhead and people shouted your name somewhere nearby.
And through all of it, through the pain and chaos splitting apart around you, your brain found one thing instinctively.
Jack.
You thought about the way he always found you in crowded trauma bays without even trying. The way his hoodie still smelled faintly like coffee and antiseptic around your shoulders. The quiet brush of his hand against your back only minutes earlier.
You wondered irrationally if he was going to blame himself for leaving the room.
That thought hurt almost as badly as the pain itself.
Your eyes slipped closed just as the world dissolved completely into noise.
Jack was halfway through finishing a chart when he realized he had not seen you in several minutes.
He looked up automatically, scanning the department for you out of habit more than anything else. Usually he could spot you immediately no matter how crowded the ER became. You moved quickly when you worked, sharp and focused and impossible to miss once he knew what to look for.
But you were nowhere.
“Hey, Javadi,” he called while signing off medication orders. “Have you seen Dr. Y/L/N?”
Javadi looked up so quickly, like she was a deer caught in headlights. “Uh… no,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. “I haven’t seen her since I left Leon. Sorry.”
Then she disappeared almost immediately toward another patient before he could ask anything else.
He pushed himself upright from the workstation, the familiar ache radiating faintly through his prosthetic. Long shifts always made it worse. The socket rubbed raw after enough hours on his feet, especially during busy trauma nights when he barely sat down.
Normally he ignored it.
Right now he barely felt it at all.
“Dana,” he called, already moving toward the nurses’ station. “Have you seen Y/N?”
Dana barely looked up from the chart she was reviewing. “Pretty sure she’s still with Leon. Why?”
Jack turned the iPad slightly toward her. “They haven’t gone to CT.”
That got her attention.
Her eyes flicked quickly toward the tracking board before settling back on him. “They’re probably backed up upstairs.”
“Maybe.”
But something still felt wrong.
Dana sighed softly. “Jack, she’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”
He knew that.
God, he knew that better than anybody.
You were one of the strongest people he had ever met. Smarter than most attendings twice your age. Calm during trauma activations that made residents freeze completely. You handled combative patients, pediatric codes, catastrophic MVCs, and grieving families with a steadiness that still amazed him after all these years.
But that feeling in his chest would not go away.
Dana pointed down the hallway. “I actually need you in Central Fourteen. Chest pain rule-out and Dr. Garcia wants another set of eyes before she calls cards.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, still staring at the tracking board.
“Right,” he muttered distractedly. “Yeah. Okay.”
He turned reluctantly toward the direction of Central Fourteen, adjusting his pace automatically as the prosthetic clicked softly against tile beneath his scrub pants. Fatigue had settled deep into the joint hours ago, making his gait slightly uneven now that the adrenaline from earlier trauma activations had worn off.
Then he heard it.
“HULA HOOP!”
Everything in his body stopped instantly.
The voice was barely recognizable.
Raw. Ragged. Strangled around obvious pain and panic in a way that made every hair on the back of his neck stand upright immediately. For one horrible second his brain refused to process it properly because it did not make sense. Not your voice. Not like that.
And then recognition hit him all at once.
The hospital safe word.
Trauma Two.
Jack’s heart dropped so violently it almost hurt.
No.
The thought hit him before anything else.
No no no.
Adrenaline detonated through his bloodstream hard enough to make him dizzy.
Then instinct took over completely.
“No,” he breathed aloud, already moving before the word fully left his mouth.
He pivoted so sharply pain shot violently through his prosthetic, the sudden turn grinding pressure through the socket hard enough that under normal circumstances it would have staggered him. But right now he barely felt it beneath the sheer overwhelming panic flooding his system.
Fear swallowed everything else whole.
Not the controlled fear he knew from trauma medicine. Not the clinical kind that sharpened your focus during codes and mass casualty calls.
This was different.
This was personal.
Jack shoved past a stretcher hard enough that the wheels screeched across tile while people all around him started reacting at the exact same time. Nurses turned toward Trauma Two instantly at the sound of the safe word. Dana’s head snapped upward from the nurses’ station. Santos was already running before half the department fully understood what was happening.
But Jack got there first.
The curtain outside Trauma Two jerked violently as shouting erupted from inside the room. Monitors screamed overhead loud enough to echo through the entire department while equipment crashed hard against the floor somewhere beyond the drapes.
“Get him off her!”
The words barely registered through the roaring in Jack’s ears.
His pulse was so loud now it drowned everything else out.
He hit the doorway hard enough that the curtain ripped halfway off the track as he shoved inside.
And then he saw you.
Lying on the floor.
Motionless.
For one horrifying second his brain simply stopped functioning.
You were crumpled unnaturally against the tile beside the cabinets, one arm twisted wrong beneath you while blood streaked across the side of your face from where your head had struck something hard enough to split skin open. Jack noticed everything all at once in the brutal hyperclarity trauma doctors developed after years in emergency medicine.
The bruising already forming around your throat.
The abnormal angle of your shoulder.
The way your chest barely moved.
And somehow that was the part that terrified him most.
You were not moving enough.
Leon was still screaming somewhere nearby while Ahmed and two nurses fought to restrain him against the opposite wall, his face wild with postictal confusion and terror. Somebody was yelling for sedation meds. The entire trauma bay had dissolved into complete chaos.
But Jack barely registered any of it.
Because you were on the floor.
And you were not getting up.
Something inside his chest seemed to cave inward violently.
“Oh, honey.”
Then he said your name, and the sound that came out barely resembled the steady, composed voice Jack used during traumas and codes and every impossible shift the hospital threw at him.
This was different.
There was no clinical calm left in him now.
Only fear.
Pure terrified fear.
He dropped beside you so fast pain tore sharply through his prosthetic as his knee hit tile, but he ignored it instantly. His hands shook hard enough he almost missed your carotid pulse the first time he checked.
Then finally.
There. Weak, but there.
Relief hit so hard it almost made him nauseous.
“Oh my God,” he whispered shakily, one bloodstained hand cradling the side of your face carefully while the other pressed against your neck searching for injuries. “Hey. Hey, stay with me. Come on.”
You did not respond.
Jack’s stomach turned violently.
Training forced itself back online in fragmented pieces despite the panic threatening to choke him alive. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Neuro. He assessed automatically even while his brain screamed at him that this was you beneath his hands.
His eyes flicked instantly toward your throat again and rage flooded him so suddenly it nearly stole his breath.
Finger-shaped bruises were already darkening against your skin.
He hurt you.
The realization nearly made Jack physically sick.
“Jack,” Dana’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as she dropped beside him. “We need to move.”
But Jack could barely hear her.
Your eyelashes fluttered faintly for half a second before falling closed again and something inside him broke completely at the sight.
“No no no,” he whispered frantically, brushing damp hair away from your face with shaking fingers. “Stay awake. Baby, stay awake for me.”
His voice cracked hard on the last word.
That terrified him almost as much as the sight of you bleeding on the floor.
Because Jack Abbot did not lose composure.
Not during traumas, not during mass casualties, not while pronouncing deaths.
But right now panic was tearing straight through him so violently he could barely breathe around it.
And for the first time in years, he had absolutely no idea how to separate being a doctor from being the man who loved you.
“What the hell happened?”
Robby’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as he pushed into Trauma Two with Mohan directly behind him, but for half a second, both of them stopped cold.
The room looked catastrophic. Leon was still fighting violently against security near the far wall, his movements frantic and disorganized while Santos shouted for more sedation. Equipment littered the floor around the trauma bay, overturned trays and scattered supplies crunching beneath people’s shoes as alarms screamed overhead loudly enough to make the entire room feel claustrophobic.
And in the middle of all of it, you were lying motionless on the floor with Jack kneeling beside you.
Blood streaked down the side of your face and disappeared beneath the collar of his hoodie still hanging around your shoulders. Bruising had already started darkening visibly around your throat, ugly fingerprints blooming beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while your left arm rested at an angle that made Mohan’s stomach immediately drop.
“Jesus Christ,” Mohan breathed.
“Security’s got the patient,” Dana snapped, already dropping beside you with Santos. “Probably postictal aggression after the seizure. He went after her.”
Robby moved instantly after that, years of trauma medicine overriding shock the second he reached your side. “Get her on a gurney now. C-spine precautions. Santos, I need vitals. Dana, page CT and tell them we’re coming immediately. Mohan, get me neuro and ortho on standby.”
Everybody moved except Jack.
He stayed frozen beside you on the tile floor, one hand still cradling the side of your face like he physically could not force himself to let go.
“Jack,” Robby said.
No response.
Jack was staring at you with an expression Robby had never seen on him before. Not panic exactly. Worse than panic. Helplessness, maybe, like his brain had short-circuited somewhere between doctor and boyfriend and now could not figure out how to function as either.
“Jack,” Robby repeated more firmly.
That finally seemed to pull him back enough to blink.
“She isn’t breathing right,” he said hoarsely, voice rough enough it barely sounded like him anymore. “He had her by the throat. Her head hit the cabinet, probably. Possible LOC. Shoulder’s definitely dislocated, maybe fractured too.”
The words came out clipped and automatic, pure trauma assessment forced through panic, but his hands were still shaking.
Dana and Santos carefully slid a backboard beneath you while Mohan cut away the remains of the hoodie around your shoulder to assess the injury better. The second the fabric moved, Jack saw the full extent of the bruising spreading across your throat, dark purple already beneath your skin.
“He squeezed hard enough to leave petechiae,” Santos muttered quietly while examining your neck. “Shit.”
You stirred weakly then, letting out a broken sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as Dana stabilized your shoulder. Jack moved instantly at the sound.
“Hey,” he said, voice softening so fast it almost hurt to hear. “Hey, don’t move. You’re okay.”
Your eyes fluttered halfway open for barely a second before unfocusing again.
“She’s awake,” Jack breathed.
“For now,” Robby answered grimly while checking your pupils with a penlight. “Possible concussion. We’re not ruling anything out yet.”
Jack knew that tone. It was the same one they all used when things might be much worse than they looked initially.
Around them, the room was finally beginning to settle into controlled chaos instead of outright panic. Security had Leon restrained now while Santos pushed sedatives through an IV line with tight, controlled movements. Leon’s terrified shouting dissolved into confused, exhausted mumbling as the medication began taking effect.
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” Mohan said quietly, mostly to fill the horrible silence hanging over the room.
Jack did not answer. Rationally, he already knew that. Postictal aggression, neurological confusion, severe agitation after seizure activity. They had all seen it before. But none of it mattered right now, because every time Jack blinked, he saw your body hitting the floor again.
“On my count,” Santos said firmly while positioning herself near your head. “One, two, three.”
They lifted you carefully onto the gurney, and the second they moved your shoulder, a sharp cry tore from your throat despite your barely conscious state.
Jack physically flinched.
Robby looked at him immediately. “Jack, I need you with me here.”
But Jack still looked frozen. His prosthetic locked slightly as he stood too quickly, pain shooting sharply through the joint while exhaustion and adrenaline crashed violently together inside his body. Normally, he compensated automatically for it. Years of physical therapy had taught him exactly how to move through pain without thinking.
Right now, he barely noticed it. All he could see was you strapped to a trauma gurney instead of standing beside one, and somehow that felt profoundly wrong in a way his brain could not fully process yet.
Dana squeezed his arm briefly as she passed him. “She’s alive,” she said quietly, firmly enough that it sounded almost like an order. “So stay with us.”
Jack swallowed hard, then finally nodded once.
The second the gurney locked into place beside the trauma bed, the room shifted fully into trauma mode. Controlled chaos. Fast hands. Sharply clipped orders. Monitor alarms blending into the constant noise of the ER outside while everybody moved around you with the kind of practiced coordination that only came from years of emergency medicine.
“BP dropping,” Santos called from the monitor station. “Ninety-two over fifty-six. Heart rate one-forty. Pulse ox ninety-four.”
Robby swore quietly under his breath before stepping beside the gurney. “Dana, I need another large bore IV. CBC, CMP, coags, type and screen, lactate. Full trauma panel.”
Dana was already moving before he finished speaking.
Mohan carefully stabilized your cervical spine while Perlah adjusted the collar more securely around your neck. Blood stained the side of your face now, dark against pale skin beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while bruising continued spreading visibly across your throat.
“She’s tachycardic from pain and adrenaline,” Mohan said quickly while palpating carefully along your ribs and clavicle. “Left shoulder deformity obvious. Could be anterior dislocation, maybe proximal humerus fracture too.”
“She hit hard,” Dana added grimly while cutting away the sleeve of your scrub top completely. “Look at the swelling already, poor baby.”
Jack forced himself closer finally, though every instinct in his body screamed at him to stop looking entirely.
Your shoulder looked wrong. Not subtly wrong, catastrophically wrong. The joint sat visibly displaced beneath skin already darkening with bruising while your arm rested protectively against your torso in unconscious guarding. Even barely responsive, your body was trying to protect the injury.
“Y/N?” Robby called firmly while shining the penlight into your eyes again. “Hey, stay with me.”
Your eyelids fluttered weakly, and your lips parted slightly before a small broken sound escaped you, more pain than words.
“There you go,” Dana said softly. “That’s good, hey sweetie.”
Jack swallowed hard. Normally those words would have sounded clinical. Routine. Hearing them about you made him feel sick.
Robby’s fingers moved carefully along your scalp before stopping near the back of your head. “She’s got a laceration here. Probably where she hit the cabinet.”
“How bad?” Jack asked immediately.
Robby looked up briefly. “Needs staples. I’m more concerned about intracranial bleed.”
Jack felt the room narrow sharply around him as his brain supplied every possibility instantly. Subdural. Epidural. Contusion. Diffuse axonal injury. Years of trauma medicine suddenly felt less like a skill and more like torture because now he knew exactly how bad this could become.
“BP’s still dropping,” Santos called sharply.
“Hang another liter.”
Dana connected fluids immediately while Mohan checked your abdomen carefully for rigidity and tenderness.
“She guarding?”
“Little bit.”
“Could just be pain response.”
“Or internal injury,” Robby answered grimly.
Jack closed his eyes briefly. Only twenty minutes ago, he had been teasing you for refusing to change out of wet scrubs. Twenty minutes ago, you had been standing beside him alive and exhausted and rolling your eyes at him. Now you were strapped to a trauma gurney while your coworkers discussed possible brain bleeds.
The trauma bay doors pushed open again.
“What do we have?”
Garcia entered already pulling gloves on, clearly expecting another routine consult before her eyes landed on the gurney. Then she froze.
“Is that...?”
Nobody answered immediately because suddenly saying it aloud made everything feel horrifyingly real.
Garcia moved closer automatically, surgical instincts taking over even while shock still flickered visibly across her face. Her eyes swept quickly across your injuries, taking in the bruising around your throat, the unstable shoulder, and the blood matted into your hair.
“Oh my God.”
Jack looked away sharply at the sound in her voice. He could handle panic, trauma, blood, failed resuscitations, and catastrophic injuries. But he could not handle hearing pity directed at you.
“What happened?” Garcia asked quietly.
“Postictal assault,” Robby answered while reviewing your vitals. “Patient seized after MVC. Became combative during recovery.”
Garcia’s jaw tightened immediately. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Jack, and somehow that made everything worse. Everybody in the hospital knew about the two of you. Not because either of you talked about it much, but because some things became obvious after enough years working together. The way Jack unconsciously searched for you in crowded rooms. The way your voice softened around him even during impossible shifts. The way both of you somehow always ended up side by side during difficult traumas without discussing it first.
And now everybody was watching him try not to fall apart while you lay bleeding in front of him.
“Y/N,” Garcia said gently while stepping closer to assess your airway. “Can you hear me?”
Your brow twitched faintly at the sound of your name.
“Good,” she murmured softly. “Stay with us.”
Jack finally moved closer again until he stood directly beside the gurney. For a second, he just stared at you. Really stared. At the bruises darkening beneath your jaw, at the trembling rise and fall of your breathing, at the blood drying against your temple.
Then very carefully, he reached down and took your hand.
Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm almost immediately.
Tiny movement. Huge relief.
“Okay,” Robby said firmly, forcing the room back into focus. “Let’s move. I want CT angio head and neck immediately. We’re ruling out intracranial bleed and carotid injury.”
Garcia nodded once beside him, already assessing your airway with practiced hands. “Neck swelling’s getting worse.”
Jack saw it too now that she said it aloud. The bruising around your throat had spread darker beneath the fluorescent lights while swelling gathered visibly beneath your jawline. Every breath you took sounded wrong now. Wet. Shallow. Strained enough to make every survival instinct in his body start screaming.
“Pulse ox is dipping,” Santos called sharply. “Ninety-one.”
“Jaw thrust,” Garcia ordered immediately.
Dana repositioned carefully at your head while Garcia leaned closer, studying the bruising around your airway with growing concern. “She may need to be intubated before CT if the swelling progresses.”
The word hit Jack like a physical blow. Intubated. His brain immediately supplied images he did not want. Ventilator settings. Sedation drips. ICU monitors. Neurological checks every hour.
“No,” he said automatically before he could stop himself.
Everybody looked at him.
Jack swallowed hard immediately, realizing too late he had said it aloud.
Robby’s expression softened slightly. “Jack.”
He hated the way Robby said his name right now. Carefully. Like he was one bad second away from falling apart completely.
“I know,” Jack muttered quickly, dragging a shaky hand down his face. “I know.”
But he didn’t. Not really. Because his brain kept splitting violently between two impossible realities. One side of him catalogued injuries automatically. Airway trauma after strangulation. Possible cervical instability. Hypoxia. Concussion. Internal bleeding. Shoulder fracture-dislocation. The other side could barely process the fact that you were lying here at all.
Your breathing suddenly hitched sharply.
Jack’s head snapped toward you instantly.
Your eyes fluttered weakly before opening. Confusion crossed your face immediately while you tried weakly to move, but pain flashed across your expression so fast it made Jack physically tense.
“Don’t,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “Baby, don’t move.”
Your gaze drifted slowly around the trauma bay like you were trying to understand where you were. The bright lights. The people surrounding you. The monitors beeping overhead. Then finally, your eyes landed on Jack.
Relief flickered there instantly. Small. Barely there. Enough to nearly destroy him.
“Hey,” he said softly, gripping your hand tighter without realizing it. “Hey, I’m right here.”
Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out at first except a weak breath.
Jack leaned closer immediately. “What?”
Your brow pinched faintly in confusion.
“...Leon?”
The room went quiet for half a second.
Even now, barely conscious and injured and terrified, your first instinct was still the patient. Something inside Jack cracked painfully at that.
“He’s restrained,” Robby answered gently before Jack could. “You’re safe.”
Your eyes shifted again, slower this time.
“Hurts,” you whispered faintly.
Jack looked immediately toward your shoulder. “I know,” he said quietly, voice finally cracking despite how hard he tried to control it. “I know, sweetheart.”
Garcia’s eyes flicked sharply toward him at the sound. Jack almost never lost composure at work. Not like this.
Robby swore quietly under his breath. “We tube here or risk losing it in CT.”
The room shifted instantly again. More movement. More urgency. Dana reached for airway equipment while Santos prepared sedation meds with visibly tighter movements now. Mohan adjusted oxygen flow quickly while Garcia moved toward the head of the bed.
Jack felt suddenly frozen all over again.
Your eyes moved back toward him weakly, panic beginning to flicker beneath the pain now that you were awake enough to understand pieces of the conversation around you.
“Jack,” you whispered hoarsely.
His chest tightened violently. “I’m here.”
Your fingers curled weakly against his hand.
“Don’t...” Your breathing hitched painfully. “Don’t leave.”
That finally broke him.
Because you sounded scared. You, the person who stayed calm during pediatric arrests and mass casualty incidents and catastrophic traumas that made residents physically sick afterward.
Jack leaned down immediately, pressing his forehead briefly against yours despite the blood and chaos surrounding both of you. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered shakily. “Okay? I’m right here.”
Then your heart rate spiked sharply.
“One-fifty,” Santos warned.
Your oxygen dipped again.
“Eighty-eight.”
Garcia looked up instantly. “That’s it. We’re securing the airway.”
Panic flashed visibly across your face, and Jack felt your hand tighten weakly around his.
“Hey,” he said immediately, brushing damp hair carefully away from your forehead. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
Your unfocused eyes found his again.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, even though his own heart was pounding hard enough to make him nauseous. “Just keep breathing for me.”
Garcia stepped beside him carefully. “Jack,” she said quietly. “I need room.”
And suddenly he realized there was nothing else he could do. No medication to order. No procedure capable of fixing this himself. No trauma protocol separating him from the overwhelming terror flooding his chest.
All he could do was let go of your hand and watch other people try to save you, and somehow that felt worse than anything he had seen in his entire career.
And somehow that felt infinitely worse than any injury he had seen in his entire career.
The intubation blurred together afterward in fragments Jack knew would probably stay with him for the rest of his life.
Garcia’s voice turned sharp and clinical the second she stepped fully into procedure mode. “Etomidate ready?”
“Ready.”
“Succinylcholine?”
“Ready.”
“Pulse ox?”
“Eighty-seven and dropping.”
The room moved quickly around you after that. Packaging tore open, monitors screamed softly overhead, and Santos pushed medications through your IV with controlled precision while Dana stabilized your cervical spine at the head of the bed.
Jack stood rooted beside the wall, feeling completely fucking useless.
He had watched hundreds of intubations in his career. He had performed them himself during impossible traumas, with blood filling airways and families screaming outside the room. Usually, the procedure grounded him. Medicine always grounded him because medicine made sense. Algorithms. Protocols. Airway, breathing, circulation. Find the problem and fix it.
But this was you, and suddenly none of it felt clinical anymore.
Your eyes found his one last time before the sedatives fully took effect. Fear still flickered there beneath the exhaustion and pain, but so did trust. Complete trust. The kind that made his chest ache violently because you were still looking at him like he could somehow fix this.
Then your body relaxed beneath the medication.
Garcia moved immediately. “Going in.”
The room fell quieter for a second except for the ventilator alarms and the sound of Jack’s own pulse hammering violently in his ears. He watched Garcia guide the laryngoscope carefully while Robby monitored your vitals from beside the bed.
“Visualized.”
“Tube.”
“Advancing.”
Jack swallowed hard enough that it hurt.
You looked so small suddenly. That was the thought that kept repeating in his head while he stared at your motionless body beneath trauma lights that suddenly felt much too bright. You had always seemed larger than life somehow. Loud when you wanted to be. Brilliant. Sharp-edged. Impossible to intimidate. The kind of doctor residents followed instinctively because even during disasters, you carried yourself like you could handle anything thrown at you.
Now you were lying completely still while somebody else breathed for you.
“Tube’s in,” Garcia confirmed.
Relief swept through the room instantly, subtle but collective.
“End tidal color change confirmed.”
“Breath sounds bilateral.”
“Secure it.”
Dana taped the ET tube carefully into place while the ventilator connected with a soft mechanical hiss. Your chest finally began rising in slow, controlled breaths afterward, steady and artificial and horrifyingly impersonal.
Jack hated the sound immediately.
The ventilator transformed you from injured into critical in a way his brain could no longer avoid.
Robby was already moving again. “Okay, we transport now. I want CTA head and neck, cervical spine imaging, chest CT, trauma series. Somebody call ortho and tell them she’s likely got a fracture-dislocation.”
“She’s still hypotensive,” Santos warned while adjusting fluids.
“Pressure?”
“Ninety systolic.”
“Hang another liter.”
Everything continued moving around him after that, but Jack could barely process any of it fully anymore. The room had narrowed into snapshots burned violently into his memory. Blood staining the collar of your scrub top. Finger-shaped bruises spreading darker around your throat. Your hand slipping weakly from his when they rolled the gurney toward the doors.
He followed automatically beside the bed while they rushed you toward imaging. His prosthetic protested immediately beneath the sudden pace, sharp pain radiating through the socket with every uneven step, but he barely registered it now. His entire body had narrowed itself into one singular instinct.
Stay close. Do not lose sight of her.
Hallway lights blurred overhead while the gurney rattled violently across tile. Nurses moved aside instantly when they recognized who was lying on the stretcher, and somehow that silence hurt worse than panic would have.
People stopped talking when they saw you.
A respiratory therapist physically froze near the elevators before whispering, “Oh my God.”
Jack looked away immediately. He could not handle watching other people realize how bad this was.
Then suddenly, he was left standing alone in the hallway.
The silence hit him all at once.
He stared numbly at the closed doors for several long seconds before finally turning back toward Trauma Two because he genuinely did not know what else to do with himself.
By the time he returned, the room was mostly empty again. The chaos was over. Only the aftermath remained.
One overturned tray still sat abandoned near the wall where it had been kicked over during the struggle. Wrappers and syringes littered the floor beside shattered plastic packaging while a monitor continued beeping pointlessly beside an empty bed.
And blood.
Your blood was still everywhere.
Jack stopped walking.
For a second he just stood there staring at it. Tiny streaks across the tile floor. Smears against the cabinets where your head had hit. Dark fingerprints dried against the bedrail.
His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might actually throw up.
Because the only thing left of you in this room now was blood.
Not your laugh echoing across the nurses’ station during overnight shifts. Not your sarcasm when Santos annoyed you on purpose. Not the warmth of your body curled against his after impossible shifts when both of you were too exhausted to even speak properly anymore.
Just blood.
Jack looked down slowly at his own hands. There was still dried blood caught beneath his fingernails from where he had held your face trying to keep you conscious. More stained the sleeves of his scrub top in dark rust-colored smears that made his chest tighten painfully every time he looked at them.
You were intubated upstairs while trauma surgeons searched your brain for bleeding.
The thought cracked something open inside him.
If he had stayed. If he had trusted his instincts. If he had checked sooner.
“Jack.”
Dana’s voice came softly from the doorway behind him.
He did not turn around immediately. For a second, neither of them spoke while she took in the scene around him. Dana had worked in emergency medicine long enough to understand what trauma aftermath looked like, not just physically, but emotionally too.
Jack looked wrecked. Not outwardly hysterical. That almost would have been easier. Instead, he looked hollowed out from the inside.
“You should sit down,” she said gently.
“I’m fine.”
The answer came automatically, immediate and empty.
Dana almost sighed because they both knew it was complete bullshit. She stepped further into the room slowly, careful with him now in the same way people approached trauma patients who had not realized how badly they were injured yet.
“You’re shaking.”
His hands were trembling badly now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, small uncontrollable tremors moving through his fingers no matter how tightly he clenched them into fists.
“I left her,” he said quietly.
Dana’s expression softened immediately. “Jack.”
“I left her alone with him.”
The guilt in his voice nearly hurt to hear.
Dana moved closer. “You could not have predicted postictal aggression escalating like that.”
“But I should’ve checked sooner.”
Jack laughed once under his breath, but there was absolutely no humor in it. Just panic and exhaustion and guilt twisting together so tightly he could barely breathe around it anymore.
“She sounded scared,” he whispered roughly. “Do you know how bad it has to be for her to sound scared?”
Dana’s chest tightened painfully because she did know. Everybody in that hospital knew how terrifyingly calm you usually were under pressure. You were the person comforting other people during disasters. The doctor residents looked for during bad traumas because your voice never shook.
But tonight it had.
Dana stepped directly in front of him then and reached up without hesitation, gripping the back of his neck firmly enough to ground him.
“Listen to me,” she said softly but seriously. “She is alive.”
Jack swallowed hard. “She squeezed my hand before CT.”
“Then hold onto that.”
His eyes burned immediately at the words.
For a second, he looked terrifyingly close to falling apart completely.
“She was looking at me like she thought she was dying.”
Dana’s face crumpled slightly at the crack in his voice because Jack Abbot almost never sounded fragile. Not after everything life had already put him through.
But this was different.
This was you.
“You know her,” Dana said quietly. “You know how hard she fights.”
Jack closed his eyes briefly because somehow that made this hurt even worse. He did know. He knew the exact stubborn determination living inside you, the way you worked through exhaustion and grief and pain because your body physically did not know how to stop caring about people.
And suddenly, the idea of losing you felt so catastrophic he genuinely could not imagine surviving it.
When you woke up, the first thing you felt was pain.
Not sharp at first. Not localized enough to understand. Just heavy.
A crushing ache spread through your entire body like every bone had shattered somewhere deep beneath your skin. Awareness dragged itself slowly upward through layers of medication and exhaustion while fluorescent hospital light glowed faintly red through your eyelids. For one blissfully empty second, your brain stayed blank enough that you did not remember anything at all.
Then your chest tightened violently around the ventilator tube lodged in your throat.
Panic hit instantly.
Your eyes snapped open as your body reacted on pure instinct, trying desperately to fight the foreign object forcing air into your lungs. The movement sent agony ripping through your throat and jaw so violently it nearly knocked you unconscious again. A horrible choking sound escaped around the tube while pain exploded across the side of your head hard enough to blur your vision immediately.
The monitors beside your bed erupted into sharp alarms.
Then suddenly Jack was there.
He moved so quickly the chair beside your ICU bed nearly tipped backward onto the floor. One second the room felt empty and terrifying and unfamiliar, and the next his hands were hovering carefully near your face like he wanted to touch you everywhere at once but was terrified of hurting you more.
“Hey, hey, don’t fight it,” he said immediately, voice low and urgent. “You’re okay. Breathe with it.”
You could see his mouth moving. Could see panic written all over his face.
But you could not hear him properly.
Everything sounded distorted beneath the ringing in your ears, voices muffled and warped together like you were trapped underwater. The ventilator hissed rhythmically beside you while your chest rose mechanically against your will, and the sensation was horrifying enough to send another wave of panic crashing violently through your body.
Jack kept talking anyway.
You recognized the cadence of his voice more than the words themselves. Calm. Steady. But underneath it there was something rawer now, something desperate he usually hid much better than this.
Your entire body hurt.
Your throat burned every time the ventilator pushed another breath into your lungs. Your jaw ached violently from the intubation while your left shoulder throbbed with deep nauseating pain that radiated all the way down your arm. Even breathing hurt despite the machine doing most of the work for you.
Then memory came back all at once.
The trauma bay. Leon seizing. Hands crushing around your throat. Your head slamming violently against the cabinet. The floor.
You started crying before you even realized it was happening.
Tears slipped silently sideways into your hair while panic clawed straight up your chest hard enough to blur your vision again. You could not stop shaking. Every instinct in your body still screamed danger even though logically you knew you were safe now.
Jack’s entire expression broke the second he realized you were crying.
“Oh, baby,” he whispered hoarsely.
At least you thought that was what he said.
He sat carefully on the edge of the chair beside your bed before reaching for your hand, avoiding IV lines and bruises with practiced gentleness. The second his fingers touched yours, you grabbed onto him desperately enough that pain shot violently through your injured shoulder again.
You did not care.
Jack was here.
And somehow that meant alive. Safe.
Your grip tightened harder around his hand while your breathing turned ragged around the tube again. Jack immediately leaned closer, his thumb brushing shakily across your knuckles while he tried to calm you before you exhausted yourself further.
“It’s okay,” he murmured softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Only then did you really look at him.
And God.
He looked awful.
Dark bruising sat beneath his eyes like he had not slept once since this happened. His hair looked messy in a way that suggested he had spent hours dragging anxious hands through it, and there was something hollowed out in his expression now that made your chest tighten painfully.
You mouthed the question anyway despite the ventilator.
What happened to you?
Jack watched your lips carefully before understanding finally crossed his face. His throat worked once visibly while emotion flashed so openly across his expression it almost scared you more than the pain itself.
He still looked terrified.
Even now.
Instead of speaking, he carefully turned your hand over in his and began tracing slow letters against your palm with his thumb.
Patient attacked you.
The memory crashed back completely after that.
The pressure around your throat. Leon’s empty unfocused eyes. Your body hitting the wall. The terrifying realization that he genuinely did not recognize you anymore.
You jerked violently on instinct before you could stop yourself, panic surging through your bloodstream so fast your vision blurred instantly while the cardiac monitor erupted into another wave of alarms beside the bed.
Jack reacted immediately.
“Hey, hey, look at me.”
You could not fully hear the words, but you knew his voice. Knew the shape of it. The desperation underneath it.
Your breathing turned frantic around the ventilator while terror clawed violently through your chest again. You remembered thinking you were going to die. Not abstractly. Not distantly.
Really die.
And for one horrifying second, lying in this ICU bed unable to speak or breathe on your own, that feeling came rushing back all over again.
Jack kept one hand wrapped tightly around yours while the other hovered uncertainly near your face. He looked like he wanted to pull you against him and protect you from everything all at once but knew touching you too much would only hurt you further.
Your eyes darted weakly around the ICU room instead. Machines. IV poles. Bandages. Your leg elevated and immobilized beneath blankets. Soft restraints loosely secured around your wrists so you would not accidentally pull the ventilator tube out while disoriented.
You felt trapped inside your own body.
The panic became unbearable.
Then your eyes landed on the PCA pump beside the bed.
Jack noticed immediately.
His entire face fell.
“Baby…”
You reached weakly toward the button anyway with trembling fingers.
Jack looked absolutely shattered watching you press it. Not angry. Not disappointed.
Heartbroken.
Because he understood immediately what you were doing.
You could not stop the fear. Could not stop the pain.
So you were choosing unconsciousness instead.
Medication flooded slowly through your bloodstream almost immediately afterward. Warmth spread outward in gradual waves, softening the sharp edges of panic first before the pain finally began loosening its grip around your body. The terror still lingered somewhere deep beneath everything else, but it no longer felt sharp enough to suffocate you alive.
Your grip weakened slightly around Jack’s hand as exhaustion dragged heavily at your eyelids again.
Jack stayed exactly where he was.
You could barely keep your eyes open anymore, but you still saw the way he looked at you while the medication slowly pulled you back under.
Completely devastated.
Like watching you choose sedation over consciousness hurt him almost as much as the attack itself.
Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm before your eyes finally slipped closed again.
The last thing you felt before unconsciousness dragged you under completely was Jack lifting your hand carefully toward his mouth and pressing one shaking kiss against your bruised knuckles.
The second time you woke up was somehow worse because this time you stayed conscious long enough to understand what had happened to you.
Pain existed everywhere now.
Not sharp anymore. Not even severe enough in one specific place to focus on. It had settled deeper than that, heavy and constant, wrapping itself around your entire body until even breathing felt exhausting. Every inhale pulled painfully against bruised ribs while your jaw throbbed in slow aching pulses that spread all the way into your skull. The medication dulled the edges enough to keep panic from swallowing you whole again, but not enough to make you forget.
Nothing let you forget for very long.
Garcia stood beside your ICU bed when your eyes finally opened again, flashlight moving carefully across your pupils while monitors hummed steadily around the room. The overhead lights had been dimmed sometime while you slept, leaving everything washed in pale blue-gray shadows that made the hospital feel strangely unreal.
“Hey,” Garcia said softly the second she noticed you were awake. “Welcome back.”
Your hearing still came and went in fractured bursts after the concussion. Some sounds arrived painfully sharp while others disappeared completely beneath the relentless ringing inside your ears. Voices felt warped and distant, like everybody speaking stood underwater somewhere far away from you.
You blinked slowly toward the doorway and spotted Santos hovering there awkwardly holding a bouquet of flowers that looked aggressively stolen from the hospital gift shop. Half the stems bent sideways beneath crinkled plastic wrap while one of the price tags still dangled visibly from the bouquet.
You stared at them for a second before a weak breath of laughter escaped you despite the pain immediately punishing the movement.
Santos looked so relieved at the sound she nearly seemed close to crying herself.
“You scared the absolute shit out of us,” she said quickly, like humor was the only thing keeping her from saying something genuinely emotional instead.
The ghost of a smile tugged weakly at your mouth.
Garcia stepped back after finishing the neuro assessment while Santos moved a little closer to the bed, still clutching the flowers awkwardly against her chest.
“Abbott threatened like six people,” she muttered after clearing her throat.
Your eyes shifted toward her slowly.
“He almost went through security trying to get back to Leon.”
Your stomach twisted instantly.
Leon.
For one horrible second you saw him again exactly as he looked before the attack happened. Pale and exhausted beneath ambulance lights while rain hammered against the windows around both of you. Laughing weakly through pain. Asking if you were always that calm. Looking at you like you were safe.
You swallowed hard against the sudden nausea crawling into your throat.
“What happened to him?” you asked quietly, each word dragging painfully through the ache in your fractured jaw.
Santos’ expression changed immediately. The sarcasm disappeared first. Then the humor.
“He’s okay,” she answered after a moment, voice softer now. “Physically, I mean.”
You closed your eyes briefly.
Santos hesitated before continuing more carefully. “He doesn’t remember anything after the seizure started. Robby thinks it’s the postictal state mixed with the head trauma.”
The room fell quiet after that.
Not awkward quiet.
Heavy quiet.
The kind that settled directly into your ribs and stayed there.
Because the worst part was that you believed her completely.
You knew exactly what postictal violence looked like. You understood the neurological confusion, the blind panic, the total loss of recognition that sometimes followed severe seizures. Rationally and medically, every part of your brain understood exactly what had happened inside Trauma Two.
But emotionally, it still hurt in ways you did not know how to untangle yet.
A strange grief wrapped itself around the fear sitting inside your chest because less than an hour before the attack, Leon had been sitting beside you in the back of an ambulance talking about his daughter and his wife and soccer games and stupid jokes while rain pounded against the windows. You remembered thinking he seemed kind, the sort of patient who apologized too much for being in pain.
You had liked him.
And then suddenly he became the person who nearly killed you.
Emergency medicine was cruel like that sometimes. One second somebody was human to you. The next they became trauma.
Santos stepped closer quietly before squeezing your foot gently through the blanket. “We’ll come back later, okay?”
You nodded weakly.
After they left, the ICU room felt unbearably quiet again. Machines hummed softly around you while rain tapped faintly against distant windows somewhere beyond the hallway. Pittsburgh looked gray outside the narrow ICU window, the city blurred beneath another storm rolling slowly across the skyline.
You drifted in and out for hours after that.
Sometimes nurses came in to check vitals and neuro responses. Sometimes transport arrived to wheel you toward imaging. Sometimes you only woke long enough to register pain before medication dragged you under again.
Then sometime deep into the night, consciousness returned slowly enough that you realized somebody was sitting beside your bed.
Jack.
At first you thought he was asleep.
His head rested bowed carefully against your hand where it lay on top of the blanket, broad shoulders slumped forward like exhaustion had physically crushed him downward into the chair. The dim ICU lighting softened the edges of him enough that for one brief second he looked strangely fragile.
Then you noticed he was shaking.
Your heart cracked instantly.
Jack was crying.
Quietly. Almost silently. But hard enough that his shoulders trembled every few seconds beneath the dim blue ICU lights.
The sight hurt worse than any fracture in your body.
You had seen Jack exhausted before. Angry. Burned out after impossible shifts and mass casualty nights and pediatric codes that left entire departments emotionally gutted afterward.
But you had never seen him like this.
Very slowly, ignoring the pain shooting through your ribs and shoulder, you lifted your fingers weakly toward his hair.
The movement alone was enough.
Jack lifted his head immediately.
His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed beneath exhaustion so deep it looked painful. There was stubble shadowing his jaw now like he had not even thought about himself since this happened, and the healing cut near his cheekbone stood out harshly beneath fluorescent light.
Destroyed.
That was the only word your exhausted brain could find for the way he looked.
Jack Abbott was always the steady one. The person everybody else leaned on during disasters because he never seemed to break no matter how catastrophic things became around him.
Until now.
“I should’ve stayed.”
The words came out rough enough they barely sounded like him at all. Raw. Torn open somewhere deep inside.
You frowned weakly despite the pain. “No.”
“I knew something was wrong.”
“You couldn’t know.”
“I did.”
Jack stood abruptly then, pacing once across the small ICU room before turning back toward you like he physically could not force himself to stay still anymore. His prosthetic clicked sharply against the tile beneath his scrub pants while one trembling hand dragged hard through his hair again.
“I left you alone in there.”
“Jack.”
His face crumpled so suddenly it stole what little breath your bruised ribs could manage.
“When they pulled him off you...” His voice broke completely for one horrible second before he forced himself to continue anyway. “You weren’t moving.”
Your own eyes filled instantly.
Jack pressed shaking fingers hard against his mouth, trying desperately to regain control of himself and failing anyway.
“There was so much blood,” he whispered finally.
The confession hollowed the entire room out around both of you.
You reached toward him carefully despite the pain.
Jack moved back to your bedside immediately this time, like he physically could not tolerate distance from you anymore, and leaned down slowly until his forehead rested carefully against yours.
For a long time neither of you spoke.
Machines hummed softly around the room while rain tapped gently against the windows again. Jack’s breathing still shook every few seconds no matter how hard he tried controlling it, and you realized with sudden aching clarity that he had been holding himself together by force ever since the attack happened.
Probably for everyone else.
For the department.
For you.
Until now.
Finally, through the ache in your jaw and throat, you whispered softly, “You saved me.”
Jack closed his eyes immediately like the words hurt almost as much as the memory itself.
For a long moment he did not say anything at all. His forehead stayed pressed carefully against yours while his breathing shook unevenly every few seconds, and you realized suddenly that he was trying very hard not to completely fall apart in front of you. The effort of it sat visibly in every tense line of his body, in the way his fingers curled tightly around yours like letting go might physically destroy him, in the way his shoulders remained rigid even now like some part of him still expected another disaster to happen the second he stopped bracing for it.
“You almost died.”
The words came out so quietly you nearly missed them beneath the hum of machines surrounding both of you.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you again, and the expression on his face made something ache deep inside your chest because he looked terrified still.
Not panicked anymore. Not frantic.
Just deeply, genuinely terrified in a way you had never seen before.
“I couldn’t get to you fast enough,” he admitted roughly, eyes fixed on your face like he needed constant proof you were still here. “I heard the safe word and I ran, but by the time I got there...” His throat tightened visibly. “You were on the floor.”
You swallowed painfully.
Bits and pieces still came back in flashes more than complete memories. Leon’s hands around your throat. The cabinet slamming against the back of your skull. The overwhelming certainty that your body was beginning to give out beneath you.
Then Jack.
Your eyes drifted slowly across his face now, taking him in properly for the first time since waking up. The exhaustion. The fear. The sleepless hollowing beneath his eyes. He looked like somebody who had been surviving on adrenaline alone for far too long.
“You did get to me,” you whispered carefully.
Jack laughed once under his breath, but the sound cracked painfully in the middle. “Barely.”
“That’s not true.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
You knew that look. The same one he got after bad outcomes. After losses he carried around long after everybody else moved on. Jack had always been harder on himself than anyone else could ever be, especially when the people he loved were involved.
And God, he loved deeply.
Even when he pretended not to.
You shifted your hand weakly against his, ignoring the ache radiating through your shoulder and ribs.
“Jack.”
His eyes lifted back to yours instantly.
“I’m here.”
Something inside him seemed to break completely at those words.
Jack lowered his head again, pressing one trembling kiss carefully against your bruised knuckles before holding your hand against his chest. His heartbeat pounded hard and uneven beneath your fingers, fast enough that you could still feel the leftover adrenaline vibrating through him.
For a while neither of you spoke again.
The ICU remained dim and quiet around you while rain continued tapping softly against the windows outside. Nurses’ footsteps echoed faintly somewhere down the hallway, distant enough that it almost felt like the rest of the world existed somewhere very far away from this room.
Your eyelids had started growing heavy again by the time Jack finally spoke.
“You scared me,” he admitted quietly.
The confession sounded small somehow. Honest in a way that made your chest ache more than the injuries did.
You looked at him for a second before squeezing his hand as tightly as your exhausted body would allow.
“I know,” you whispered.
Jack nodded once, eyes never leaving your face.
Then very carefully, like he was handling something impossibly fragile, he leaned closer and pressed a kiss against your forehead while exhaustion slowly began pulling you back under again.
This time, when sleep finally took you, Jack’s hand never left yours.
