hello, i'm liz! this is basically the place i dump fics i wrote for the pitt. i write “x-reader” for frank langdon and jack abbot. as of writing, it’s all robinavitch!reader and so is my wips so we’re going to keep it that way for now. no schedule for posting, just vibes. this blog is 18+ MDNI. enjoy! ♡
DR. JACK ABBOT, MD.
mornings at robby's
Robby had asked Jack Abbot to house-sit while he’s off on his three-month sabbatical. It just so happened that Robby also asked you, his sister. Out of all the things he’d managed to list, one would think Robby would have the decency to let you know that you weren’t the only one tasked to keep his house intact. But no, of course he didn’t because where’s the fun in that?
after shifts (series)
Two keys and a list were given out by Michael Robinavitch before he went on his three-month sabbatical. One for his sister and one for his best friend, Jack Abbot. The list is pretty generic. No smoking, no parties, no pets, no babies. It was rather odd that he’d made the list so exclusive yet simultaneously vague. Good thing Robby didn’t say anything about crashing unannounced after bad breakups or long shifts that tired you just enough to refuse to drive home or that you weren’t supposed to have sex on his bed and have multiple-orgasms in the hands of the man he happened to have entrusted the care of his home and—albeit accidentally—his equally-willing slash consent-giving and stubborn sister.
DR. FRANK LANGDON, MD.
rein me in (series)
Frank Langdon’s back in Pittsburgh ten months post-rehab, post-divorce, and post-moving into a one bedroom apartment with no wife, no kids, and more baggage. The pressure and anxiety coupled with his chronic back pain all happening on the eve of the fourth of July nearly causes him to relapse. A thing he knows could ultimately cost him his medical license and whatever semblance of a life he still had. Considering the magnitude of what he’s got to lose, he wills every strength he has left to resist the urge brought by his crippling addiction, one mocktail at a time.
summary: Two keys and a list were given out by Michael Robinavitch before he went on his three-month sabbatical. One for his sister and one for his best friend, Jack Abbot. The list is pretty generic. No smoking, no parties, no pets, no babies. It was rather odd that he’d made the list so exclusive yet simultaneously vague. Good thing Robby didn’t say anything about crashing unannounced after bad breakups or long shifts that tired you just enough to refuse to drive home or that you weren’t supposed to have sex on his bed and have multiple-orgasms in the hands of the man he happened to have entrusted the care of his home and—albeit accidentally—his equally-willing slash consent-giving and stubborn sister.
pairing: jack abbot x fem!doc/robinavitch!reader
warnings: ass!jack abbot, full on enemies no lovers, your doctors want to kill each other, a very sick fern, plant resuscitation, reader and trinity santos are besties, the pitt crew interactions, ass!jack again for good measure. reader's discretion is advised from here on out. please be responsible for what you consume but also have some fun.
word count: 6k
note: chapter one is out yay! i hope you enjoy 𑣲
Hate is a strong word to describe how you felt about Jack Abbot. After all, it wasn’t the first feeling you had upon meeting him, courtesy of your brother of course, but to say that you were merely vexed by his existence was indeed an understatement.
You’ve joined the Pitt—much to Gloria’s disappointment for the moniker having caught on—ten months ago, exactly the same time as Santos, Whitaker, King, and Javadi. Robby had joked about that fateful day in September being less of a first shift and more of a rite of passage—baptism by fire as Abbot had eloquently put it.
They weren’t wrong though. That day in September had been ingrained in your memory despite your earnest efforts to adapt some other form of coping mechanism.
You can still practically smell it; picture the entirety of just how horrifying that day truly was. The metallic stench that stuck in every wing of the emergency department. The floors, painted in crimson, slippery and unnerving. The adrenaline. The colored slap bands. The deafening silence amidst the crowd of residents and nurses trying to keep one patient alive after another; refusing to have one die on their table. Jake. Leah. Robby.
You wished you didn’t have to remember it. You wish you couldn’t. That someday you’d wake up having forgotten about it or at least some parts of it. You’d be glad and live just enough without it. That was practically the thing that had solidified your friendship with Trinity. It was, as she had gracefully put it, “a baggage that's weighing me down.” And even though she’s living up to her word of “forgetting”—or at least her version of it, you found yourself remembering.
No matter the trigger nor the reason for it, you remembered. Stubbornly so like you did every aspect of your life.
Sometimes when you remember and decide to sit with it, you wonder if it had been the point that broke your brother into taking a much needed break from the ED. Michael Robinavitch, taking a sabbatical. Who knew?
He was so excited for you to join him in the city; to join a “brilliant” team of doctors he mentioned to you once and has made a point to never do so to any of the said brilliant doctors.
He’d introduced you to Jake that day. You also had the rather unfortunate opportunity of standing alongside him as you timed Leah’s death. Robby was nearly out of it. He was shaken up by her death you had to remind him of wheeling Leah’s body out of the room Jake was currently in.
That said, you remembered in complete defiance. As though forgetting every hour that passed in that shift would mean robbing yourself of how today came to being—as cliche as that sounds—the last four hours in particular. You remembered how night shift had been called to come early with Collins gone for some reason Robby wouldn't tell anyone. Not even Dana. You remember Ellis with her steady hands, Shen with his Dunkin and slap bands, and Jack—Abbot with his “Saving Lives One Procedure And A Blood Bag At A Time” propaganda.
It was fucking badass. You gotta give it to him. Besides, that’s exactly what you thought the second you saw him dripping into a blood bag Dana had given him. You never understood why Robby talked so highly of the man until you saw it yourself. You always knew healthcare workers were inherently selfless and fucked human beings at that, but Jack Abbot seemed to be entirely something else.
Seeing Abbot that day made you rethink the decision of choosing the day shift. Your brother had conveniently left out the perks that came with being in Jack Abbot’s command. And apparently, there had to be a mass-shooting for you to discover that much of a fact.
Between patients dying left and right, endless incomings, and cops littered all over the place, there hadn’t been a time for you and Abbot to be properly introduced. You like to think that had the circumstances that day been different, you might’ve actually ended up liking Abbot as a mentor and a colleague.
But alas, that dream had long since died by the time you performed a REBOA without a consensus from your peers, nor a ‘go-ahead’ from Abbot, which was really what made things worse.
Now, you just find him—what’s the word for it?
Irksome? Spiteful? Unprofessional?
The list could go on but to say that you were simply annoyed didn’t scratch the itch that came with every mention of Jack fucking Abbot.
There had to be a thin gray line—a word in the English language yet to be invented to describe such an insufferable man—perhaps then you’d be able to surmise what you actually and truly felt about the night shift attendant.
Exasperating?
Maybe.
Last night, Abbot had overstepped his bounds, misunderstood and overstayed his welcome in your brother’s home. Not only did he desecrate the sanctity of Robby’s bedroom with his presence, he had also managed to rob you of the glory, that is, crying yourself to sleep, exactly how you’d intended and the only reason as to why you have driven with a broken heart to Robby’s home.
The only thing you wanted for yourself was to feel—to wallow. To be pathetic without requiring an audience. To be, for lack of a better word, a girl who simply had her heart broken.
For some selfish reason, Jack Abbot had refused to give you that.
You went to bed last night with nary a tear in your eyes. They’d burned with anger and hatred so vile you could feel it in your throat. Instead of being angry at exes, said anger had been directed at no one else but the man sleeping in the next room.
He wasn’t even supposed to be in Robby’s house considering he had a hospital to run. But you take it that the idiot had interpreted the liberties extended to him by your brother as something he could wield willy-nilly by crashing to his home to take naps instead of spending most of his dreadful time in the breakroom.
Thankfully, you had woken up to a quiet house all to yourself. No pests. No Jack. No Abbot.
You take his absence to mean that he’s back in the ED being a menace—just like he evidently was hours before he left, unfortunately.
Abbot had left you a note—written in what you could only deduce to be his best attempt at what counted as “legible” handwriting—with it, a potted fern.
You stared at said note, astounded.
Salvageable.
— J.A.
The plant was placed in the middle of the dining table, looking a little less green and a bit more… dead.
You eyed the fern suspiciously and mumbled, “The hell am I supposed to do with this?”
Was it one of Robby’s? Did Abbot just assume you knew exactly what type of fern it was as if you were some fern-expert? Did old people behave this way after having used most of their free-will in their very old age?
Jack and I are not that old.
Robby would definitely say. Too bad he wasn’t around.
You took your phone and attempted to message Abbot.
There was still no word from Robby, but there have been two messages from your ex, Ryan.
Let me explain what happened last night.
I know it looked bad. Please let me make it up to you.
The motherfucker. Of course, it looked bad. It was bad. What did he expect? He was head deep into another woman’s cervix for crying out loud! He couldn’t even bring himself to give you a decent apology. Now he’s got the nerve to make last night as though it had only been a simple misunderstanding? As if sex with your best friend of ten years amounted to a fight that can be reconciled by a quickie before heading to work?
You feel aggravated and disgusted. That man had been inside you—had touched you. The mere thought of it makes you want to flay your own skin and get new ones off E-bay.
You wasted no seconds in deciding to block him.
Right now, you have a trauma patient to tend to.
You find yourself typing a message.
I’m throwing this in the trash.
You looked at Robby’s antique Grandfather clock. You still have at least two hours before your shift starts. If you wanted, you could totally nurse this poor fern back to life.
Your phone buzzed with Abbot’s reply.
You wished for him to stop you or maybe tell you that he’d grown sentimental and couldn’t picture himself parting from it. Nothing new. Just something he’d willingly embarrass himself for.
Instead, he sends you a link.
Plant Guides: How to care for your Boston fern
You wanted to fucking kill him.
Did he really expect you to pencil in this—thing that he should’ve just thrown in the trash? You doubt your brother even knew it existed. If he did, he surely wouldn’t care about it dying, would he?
Furiously, despite yourself, you tapped on the link; taking thirty minutes of your intended coffee-time, learning how to reverse death and hopefully breathe life back to a poor sick fern, out of protest.
𓂃𓂁𓂃
“Buzzer beater?” was the first thing Santos had told you the second you opened the door to your locker.
“I had a fern emergency.”
“Fern?”
“A Boston fern, as I have been told.” you clarified, shoving your bag and the rest of your stuff inside your locker.
Who would’ve thought your first case for the day would be a potted plant waiting for death if it weren’t for Abbot finding it at some corner in your brother’s garage?
“Oh, is it like a band-aid baby for you and Ryan?”
With an audible sigh, you push your locker close. You hated this part. “Ryan and I broke up.”
Santos’s eyes widened in shock, “What—? NO.”
“Yes.”
“How? When? Are you okay?” She asked in a rapid fire—almost interrogating, keeping up with your pace as you began walking towards the big ER to meet everyone for hand-offs.
You gave it some thought. On the one hand, you can postpone having to tell Santos the truth on a later date. On the other, you fear that keeping the truth to yourself would just cause her to spill out details of your breakup, highly likely in the most inconvenient of times, that is, when she has her hands deep inside the torso of a trauma patient as though that would be the best time for you to spill your guts. No pun intended.
You gave her precise answers as if you were just listing a diagnosis. “Caught him in bed with Kaley. Last night. No, I’m not but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Good enough for me.” Santos told you once the information has settled. “But why the fern?”
You stifle a groan, hoping Santos had forgotten about that bit but alas had not. You didn’t want to tell her about last night entirely, otherwise you’d have to get yourself through the mortifying ordeal of explaining how you stood barely an inch from a half-naked Jack Abbot in your brother’s kitchen.
“Passion project.” you said instead.
Santos’ lips quivered, nodding her head animatedly as though she’d believed what you told her. Whatever that look meant, so long as she didn’t ask another question, you’d take it.
“Ellis is handing over a head-lac. Wanna come with?” you see the same cheeky grin she seemed to have reserved for you and Whitaker.
“All yours, Santos.”
“All yours, what?” Speaking of the devil—Dennis chimed in, throwing his stethoscope over his shoulders.
Santos doesn’t waste a second of her time, “Just come with us.”
Hand offs were about to begin and members of the ED have started to pile and form a huddle. Ten months have passed since you came to know the unlikely roommates. Since then, you’ve been stuck together in every shift—three peas in a pod, the triplets of the pitt or so Dana have coined it, much to Santos’ delight and your own.
Across the room you acknowledged Mel with a smile she earnestly returned. You were both in your third year of residency and have gotten a liking to taking a junior resident under your wings. Santos with you and Dennis with her. It was supposedly the other way around but between Santos’ pleading and Mel cornering you in the breakroom—pleading—for the same thing, that is, “Please switch with me,” you didn’t have much choice but to concede.
Santos has been having a tough time with integration despite it being almost a year since the two of you joined the Pitt. And while you didn’t share the same predicament, having the unfair advantage of being the boss’ sister, you’ve grown to understand Trinity Santos at a level Mel King has not; and that’s not to say it was from the latter’s lack of trying.
She really did try.
So, after the last rotation, you figured why not make things easier for everyone? After all, Whitaker was rather skilled at establishing a good rapport with almost and quite literally anyone he meets; even chemistry at times he was determined to do just that.
You’ve gotten the hang of things quite fast and have fallen to rhythm with your respective duo’s. Making your decision to switch with King at the last minute has proven to be the efficient choice.
Javadi, who was shadowing every resident that would welcome her in their team, squeezed herself and her cup of coffee between Whitaker, who was with you and Santos, and King who was standing beside Langdon. It looks like she hasn’t made up her mind which team she’d join in today’s shift. Regardless, you’re certain she’d just bounce from one case to another with nary a care on whose name it was signed on the patient’s passport.
In about three minutes, you’d hear Robby’s voice commanding the team to move a little closer whilst simultaneously expecting everyone to make room for the late-comers.
That would’ve been the case had Robby been around.
You wouldn’t admit this to him—why would you—but his being ‘Robby’ in the workplace has grown on you since your arrival at PTMC almost a year ago. With him away knowing he could’ve been around has made you miss him just a tad more than you already had. Dana might’ve been right when she said the ED would survive without Robby, but you know these three months you’ve embarked upon wouldn’t make the ED the same as Robby had left it.
For now, you had to endure Abbot and the day shift version of his “night crawlers” cringe-worthy pep talk. Why couldn’t he just make it quick and fast? Even with Al-Hashimi around to keep him on his toes, he somehow still finds a way to take up too much room.
There he was, standing in front of everyone with his stethoscope slung around his neck, army shirt peeking through the neckline of his scrubs, salt and pepper hair tousled in all the worst ways, and his throat bobbing down his wrinkled neck, looking like the poster boy of ‘Blue Lives Matter.’ You rolled your eyes at the thought as you wondered. It would be some sort of vindication if that were indeed true.
Besides, why were you looking anyway?
You willed enough strength to refrain from rolling your eyes—meeting Abbot’s gaze as he stepped beside Al-Hashimi. The corner of his lips lifted infinitesimally and you found yourself having to deal with the creeping shame of having been caught in flagrante.
You bit your cheeks, hands balled into fist at your sides. You knew there was a hit coming your way.
Only there wasn’t.
Instead, he continued on with the handover, as per usual order of business, reminding the nightshift of the wonderful job they had done for the past fifteen hours or so. He’d mentioned Crus and Ellis, acknowledging the miracle they’d performed in saving the lives of—not one but two—babies in an ECS in time for Surgery to get off their high horses and come down the ED.
He scanned the huddle, gaze falling briefly onto Santos, who was standing beside you just before it flickered to Al-Hashimi. He gestured to her, giving the floor.
She swept in with practised ease as though she had been itching to speak long before Abbot had even started. It was the first week with your brother gone. You had expected nothing else but this from her.
She went on with the usual for the day shift, clip folder in hand—before going on a tangent. Something about making sure the right amount of dosages and controlled substances are double-checked before they get out with clearance. Langdon schooled his expression fairly when he caught your eyes. Al-Hashimi has had a hot-and-cold approach with the guy for some reason.
Trinity stilled in her feet, too. Not that you’d miss anything she ever did or came to think of doing.
“What?” you nudged her, voice just high above a whisper.
She only shrugged, the tone of ‘Why me?’ enveloping her voice. “What?”
You faced Al-Hashimi, who was just wrapping her morning rundown. “—following the lead of Dr. Abbot and his team, we shall—at the very least—make today salvageable.”
Your gut leapt at the word. The word “salvageable” has been tainted in the early hours of your day; etched in your mind and stuck with a plant you didn’t really feel like saving.
You absentmindedly looked his way at the instance, eyes meeting the same pair you wanted to gouge last night for simply existing. And perhaps, for staring.
A faint grin lifted on the crook of his lips.
Jack Abbot had already been waiting.
𓂃𓂁𓂃
Surprising as it was and a relief—quite frankly, Abbot made himself scarce after hand-offs and gladly left the hospital once night shift finally ended.
True to Al-Hashimi’s words, the day had been somewhat salvageable. Not too lax to allow everyone—except Joy—to leave at exactly 6:00 PM, but not too demanding as every other shift that started off with Robby’s huddle. That was something you’d have to tell him when he’s back.
You had seen little to none of Abbot when he arrived for his shift. Little, being his salt and pepper hair and none being that you’ve deliberately made sure you didn’t need to see him at all, which is why most of your patients had been passed off onto Shen’s careful and caffeinated supervision. They were his problem now.
You were welcomed by a quiet house by the time you got back to Robby’s place. It remained immaculate. Still clean up to its nooks and crannies as though your brother had never lived a day in it.
The Boston fern was still sitting on the dining table, exactly where you left it. Abbot’s note had long been vanished to the trash. He would have to thank you for that.
The fridge is still filled to the brim. It’s puzzling how you still managed to close it. Despite the fact, Robby had missed on including your preference of goods and junk food, save for the mandatory Häagen-Dazs. The fridge was stuffed with cold beers and all things that would count as a ‘healthy’ alternative. You grunted out of frustration as you closed the fridge door with a disappointed thud.
You don't need ‘healthy’ now. What you need is to wind down and let yourself crash just like you had intended last night if it weren’t for Abbot’s untimely meddling.
You rounded your way up the stairs, aiming for your brother’s bedroom. With Abbot out of your way, you can finally sleep in Robby’s much more comfortable mattress. You were hoping to abuse more of your sibling privileges not just by wearing your brother’s old clothes—the ones you knew he never used anymore.
Much to your dismay, you had only brought clothes appropriate for work along with a handful of undergarments that would last you about three days before you inevitably had to do laundry in nothing but a towel wrapped around your curves.
After snatching a vintage Metallica tee from his dresser and your take-out arriving, you’ve magnificently turned Robby’s living room adjacent to your own. Perhaps, better considering you no longer had to tolerate and then tune out most of Ryan’s incessant whining about work and how much he badly wants to quit his job despite not having the balls to do so.
You sighed upon recollection.
Ryan hadn’t reached out in any way after having been blocked nor did Kaley, which is worse considering she was your best friend for so long. Ryan was bound to end one way or another. You didn’t really see yourself with him far into the future—but Kaley—Kaley was going to be your maid of honor and the aunt of your future children. How she was able to throw away the years you’ve spent being in each other’s lives was beyond you. It was something you couldn’t comprehend. It hurt more than Ryan’s infidelity
You rest your chopsticks on top of your glass on the coffee table instead of jamming it haphazardly in your Chow Mein. If it weren’t for work tomorrow, you would have been wasted right about now. But alas, that would have to wait. Maybe you do need to talk with Trinity about the breakup even if that would mean having to tell her more of what happened last night. Anyway, at least you still had good sense to observe chopstick etiquette before downing the rest of your first can of beer.
After the second can, you returned half of your unlikely friends to the fridge. You limited yourself to three cans. You would just have to pace yourself with the third in the hopes of getting drunk enough to cry yourself to sleep and not be hungover the next morning.
Robby hadn’t reached out since last night. Good. After your self-deprecating rambling last night, you really didn’t want him to call back. What would you tell him anyway? That he was right all along? He could’ve earned some petty cash had he bet on Ryan fucking things up with his sister. You already knew that. You know he does too, not that he’d be a pain about it once he sees you hurting but it is still a possibility you didn’t want to face. Yet.
For as long as you were being your pathetic little self, Robby has all the time in the world to ride his bike around Canadian mountains just as you did making a mess of his house all to yourself for as long as he’s gone.
You have been nursing your third can of beer by the time you feel yourself falling to sleep. If it hadn’t been for the beep of Robby’s front door, you’re sure you would’ve woken up at exactly 5:00 AM to get ready for work.
Wait—Robby’s front door?
You find yourself scrambling out of the comfort of Robby’s couch, the slightest hint of sleep and inebriation gone in an instant. Good god. Somebody has broken into the security code.
You snatched the two cans of beer from the table, holding one in each of your hands, one empty and the other nearly finished. It was the closest thing you could find that would at least give you time to flee for the stairs and jump off the balcony.
Hopefully, it won't come to that.
With your heart pounding, you stared at the door waiting for it to open. Fucking shitting hell. What else is there to do but wait? Fuck. You should’ve learned self-defense when you had the chance. Now, Robby would come home to his sister dead in his fucking living room.
With the light dimmed, you watched the door swing open.
This is it. You’d be dead in the next hour.
With all your might, you threw a can towards the front door, hitting the man entering through the threshold—
“Fuck!”
Oh shit.
The light turned on to reveal the same salt and pepper hair you have been desperately trying to avoid at PTMC. The chances of you dying now being slim to none hadn’t eased the stress out of your stomach. You would have preferred to be murdered than needing to deal with this man.
He let out a satisfying grunt, the sound of the can against the hardwood floor just as satisfying as the man standing in front of you in pain and visibly livid.
“Why the hell would you do that?” He groaned, shooting a grimaced look your way.
Instead of answering, you interrogate, “Why are you here?”
He was massaging the side of his head kissed by a can of Coors Light. “Why are you here?”
“I asked you first!”
“I’m asking now!”
You groaned, the other can crinkling in your fist. Abbot’s eyes flickered onto your hand at the sound, causing him to take a step back, his own palm still caressing his head, threatening with a pointed finger, “Don’t you dare throw that my way.”
With a gallic shrug, you smirked. “Maybe I will.”
“Do it.” He warned as though coaxing as he looked at you, his features sharp and eyes somehow grim and dark. “See what happens.”
There was something unnerving in the way he said it that made you want to tempt how faithful he was in keeping his words.
“Is that a threat?”
He closed the door just as he took a step, advancing, “Do you want it to be?”
You huffed a laugh, disbelieving despite feeling threatened at the very least. But there’s no need to tell him that. Instead, you raised your free hand to your hip in an effort to channel dominance over the unfolding situation. He watched you eye the can of beer you were still holding. Surely, you wouldn’t throw it his way, would you?
“I don’t think you’re in the position to be making any.”
Then again, he can just cross the room and snatch said can out of your hold and be done with it yet he hasn’t done that.
He let go of his head, his wedding ring catching a subtle glint from the ceiling light and his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat like it had during hand-offs.
“Let go of the damn can, Robinavitch.”
“Why are you here.” You demanded, no longer asking.
“I already told you last night.” He said through gritted teeth, already walking towards the kitchen. “I don’t need to repeat myself to you, of all people.”
You find yourself following, still holding the can of beer. “What the hell does that supposed to mean?”
You find him rummaging through the freezer, taking out a bag of frozen peas to nurse his aching head. There was a faint color on his temple suggesting that you might’ve thrown the can harder than initially intended.
You crashed the guilt inkling its way to your bones. To be fair, you were trying to not get yourself killed.
“Don’t you think you’re overdoing this ‘favor’ you ‘claimed’ to be doing for Robby?” You questioned, bunny quotes flying about wildly to stress a point. You hope you didn’t have to apologize.
“First, stop with the air quotes. You’d be doing both of us a favor.” He walked towards the sink and filled himself a glass of water, one hand still pressing the frozen peas against his head. “Second, I already told you I’m house-sitting for Robby. That would generally explain why I come here for naps and for cleaning. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
Now that explains why Robby’s house was immaculate.
“Well then, you no longer have to do Robby any favors. I’m his sister. I should be the one looking after his home.”
He shot you a look. ‘Oh, really?’
“Right. Robby’s lucky to call you his sister.” He sneered, murmuring, “What a fucking sister, that is.”
“Excuse me?”
“Please, Robinavitch. Mike’s been away since the fourth of July and it took you a whole week to get your ass in here.” You scoffed. Mike. You hated how he was too familiar with your sibling. “—stop acting as if you really care about house-sitting or being a good sister. You and I both know that’s not the reason why you’re here.”
You swallowed the bitter truth coiling around your throat.
He had a point.
If it weren’t for the breakup, you wouldn’t be here; not until a few more days or so. Maybe even longer, long enough to make sure all of Robby’s plants were guaranteed to greet death at the door.
“I was preoccupied.” you find yourself giving him an explanation, how little that was.
“Look, I don’t really care.” He said bluntly, words slicing through you like a dull knife. Messy and brunt on its edges as though to make sure it got to hurt more. “You could be the Queen of England or the President of the U.S. fucking A., I still wouldn’t shit myself to care. You aren’t Robby. So until you grow a pair and age twenty more years exactly like your brother, your word is as good as garbage to me.”
Garbage?
“What the hell is your problem, Robinavitch!”
Abbot dodged the can of Coors Light as its remains splattered over the backsplash. It hadn’t even registered that you had set the can flying his way fast enough to stop yourself, let alone care.
Shit.
You lost it.
“You.” You spat, “You’re the problem.”
You held your chin high, glad to be standing across the room from him as opposed to having to stare at him like you did last night; inches apart with him half-naked and evidently interrupted from his nap.
Abbot let out an exasperated sigh, gaze now set at you evidently reining himself in.
“As far as I’m concerned, your brother gave out two keys. As to why he told neither of us, I will never know. But that just means I enjoy the same privileges as you inasmuch as you share the same responsibility of keeping his house kept as I do. Throw all the temper tantrums you want, but I’m not going anywhere.” He set the glass down, hard enough to make a sound; to stress his point. “I’m taking my nap.”
He strode past you, heading for the stairs.
“Where do you think you’re going?” You spun on your heels and followed him.
“I’m not finished, Abbot!”
“Oh, but I am—!”
He turned to face you, movement so fast and harsh that you nearly bumped against his chest. You were fairly aware that unlike last night, he was fully clothed despite being enraged. You took a step backwards but held his gaze.
“I’m half-way through a god-awful shift, my head fucking hurts—thank you very much, and I’ve burned about half an hour off my break having to explain myself when there wasn’t a need in the first place. If you say you’re not finished, don’t come crying to me because I assure you I wouldn’t want to be of help.”
You stood there, conflicted as to whether to slap him for the double entendre or let go of this petty argument and let the man get some sleep.
He stared down at you, searching your eyes as he successfully extinguished the fire in them. He might have won this round.
“I want you gone in the morning.” You bite.
“I just want a fucking nap.” He breathed, tired and resigned to any more bickering. He took his leave, heading to Robby’s room.
“I want you out of my fucking face!” You yelled on the top of your lungs so as to make sure he heard and felt every bit of rage that accompanied such statement.
It wasn’t your finest moment, that you were sure of.
A breath is caught in your throat, feeling the burn of impending tears threatening to let loose out of the corner of your eyes.
It was going to be a long night.
𓂃𓂁𓂃
You succeeded in crying yourself to sleep as originally planned. Frustration bleeding out of your system instead of the pain and betrayal brought upon by infidelity and your relationship’s demise.
Abbot was gone by the time you woke up. It was as if he hadn’t been around last night—as if he hadn’t caught a can of beer with his head, as if he hadn’t insulted you and implied that you were something akin to garbage.
The Boston fern was no longer on the dining table. It was moved on the accent table near the living room window, looking more alive now that it had water and appropriate sunlight.
You let out a sigh. Perhaps you can miss work today and get back to your apartment. You would need more clothes anyway. But then Abbot would know he got under your skin last night and you know that’s the last thing you’d want to happen. You would gladly wear the same underwear for a week if you had to if it meant you prove a point.
Not that the current circumstances would come to that. You hope it wouldn’t. You have impeccable hygiene.
You find a postcard stuck to the fridge. It was from Robby. You deduce Abbot had taken it from his mail.
You didn’t even think of checking your brother’s mail yet have the audacity to reign over his house as though you owned it, lording familial ties over Jack Abbot just because you can and he couldn’t.
He brought in Robby’s mail simply out of consideration.
What have you done so far?
You flipped the postcard to see your brother’s note on the other side. It was dated July 13th 2026.
Canada is as beautiful as advertised. I met a hockey player. Turns out, they’re endemic ‘round here.
You scoffed a laugh.
I’m sorry about Abbot—and for losing my phone. I’m glad I won’t ever get to hear your voicemail about that unfortunate fact I left out.
At least, that explains why he hasn’t called back. It will probably take some time before he finishes setting up a new one.
You blinked at the latter portion of the note as you read it again. This time, making sure you got it right.
He’s a good guy. I like him. Please make sure he’s alive by the time I get back?
Hoping you’d do your poor brother a favor,
Mike
You put the postcard back where Abbot had left it, feeling resigned to the idea that he might actually have the same privileges as you did. You hated how manipulative Robby was being when he intentionally signed off with his nickname. He knew full well how to wield his brotherly privileges onto you just as much as you did with the contents of his refrigerator.
Begrudgingly, you opened said fridge—finding another note stuck on one of the three cans of Coors Light left from last night.
You owe me six more of these. — J.A.
You crumpled the paper with your fist, feeling the smothered anger from last night come back to life; sparked by an unassuming yellow sticky.
Robby had given you yet another responsibility. But sure, you’d be glad to do him a huge favor.
You’d keep Abbot alive.
After all, where’s the fun in beating up a dead man?
note: reblogs and comments are highly appreciated i would love a chat with yall ◡̈ ᥫ᭡
Hi! Do you do tag lists? If so could you pls add my side blog to the Jack abbot x robinavitch!reader tag list? The one where her and Jack both have keys to robbys place when he’s on sabbatical? I know you haven’t posted anything for it yet but I’m quite excited to read it!!
My side blog is @my-fangirling-outlet
of course, i’ve included you! icymi, here’s a link to the prologue ㅤ♡
summary: Two keys and a list were given out by Michael Robinavitch before he went on his three-month sabbatical. One for his sister and one for his best friend, Jack Abbot. The list is pretty generic. No smoking, no parties, no pets, no babies. It was rather odd that he’d made the list so exclusive yet simultaneously vague. Good thing Robby didn’t say anything about crashing unannounced after bad breakups or long shifts that tired you just enough to refuse to drive home or that you weren’t supposed to have sex on his bed and have multiple-orgasms in the hands of the man he happened to have entrusted the care of his home and—albeit accidentally—his equally-willing slash consent-giving and stubborn sister.
pairing: jack abbot x fem!doc/robinavitch!reader
warnings: they can’t sleep and they stumble into each other in the kitchen in the middle of the night type of stuff, you know it. mentions of suicidal tendencies but no implications as to its certainty, just references. blood and medical procedure references. author not a doctor so medical inaccuracies littered here and there. english is my second language so shh. this fic will be posted on AO3 once completed.
word count: 2.8k (a quickie before the longreads)
note: aaand we’re live! you got me. when am i going to be done with robinavitch!reader fics? honestly dunno. best believe i’ll just keep doing this. i plan to write the chapters solely on reader's pov so perspective with respect to jack’s feelings and why he might be acting in some ways would be limited and harder to decipher. jack's pov will come... much later. rest assured, it will come. no schedule for posting but hopefully weekly updates will be a thing. enjoy, lovelies!
The mistake should’ve been deciding at the last minute to sleep at Robby’s. Not going home to a shared apartment only to find your boyfriend fucking the brains out of your best friend.
Ex best friend.
Ex-college friend and roommate. Ex-sisters for life. Ex-whatever the fuck that fucking cunt was thinking when she decided to throw a decade-old friendship for a dick that couldn’t even make you cum.
The mistake should’ve been Robby handing you a spare key despite knowing full well you won’t need it. Not the way you desperately stumbled out of the apartment you pay for, driving across town just to have a proper bed to cry in, to wallow in, to refuse to sleep in disgustingly so for a time longer than a week because surprise, surprise, you’re grieving the first-real relationship you’ve ever had since an atrocious record of casual dates and failed situationships.
The mistake should have been on Robby’s shoulders for knowing his sister better than she knew herself.
For knowing and insisting that something ridiculous would happen while he’s away because that’s how it’s always been whenever things involved that obnoxious boyfriend of yours.
Jesus. Ex-boyfriend.
If Robby so badly wanted to be given the ‘Brother of the Year’ award for being a Know-It-All, he should’ve been here with you to sit with it—to talk you out of committing a felony before eventually conceding to murdering that motherfucker who somehow always found extraordinary ways to ruin your life.
But he’s not. He’s away gallivanting with the ghosts of suicidal-wild buffalos in Mt. I-Wanna-Smash-My-Head-In. He’s somewhere across North America feeling the warm breeze of Summer, worrying about nothing else but the tedious ramblings of that jurassic-old brain of his.
Instead of being with you to open his door wide with open arms, he has stuck you with a duplicate and a fucking security code that more often than not doesn’t even work.
Really, you weren’t at fault.
The mistake was never yours. Not even when you know Robby’s going to say, “I told you so.”
“Well, too bad you’re not here to tell me twice.” You spat, answering the tiny voice in your head that somehow always belonged to your older brother.
You harshly wipe your cheeks for any tear-residue you might’ve still had whilst you stick the keys into Robby’s front door. You press the six-digit combination for the security code of his surprisingly smart-and-not-so-smart home.
You hate him. You absolutely do.
You hate him for not being here when you needed your brother’s shoulder to cry on. You hate him for stocking up his fridge with your favorite flavor of ice cream because he simply knew what would make you visit his home despite explicitly listing down house-sitting instructions.
He knew you wouldn’t drop by as often when things were good. Why would you when you have a perfectly fine place of your own? At least, you thought you did.
The nerve of some people to subconsciously wish for your break up as though it had been a long time coming.
“Michael Robinavitch. You know what to do.”
You’ve reached Robby’s voicemail for the third time tonight.
The first time you had tried to reach him was when you were rummaging through your purse hoping his house keys were somewhere tossed among the million other things you managed to bring on this fateful Friday evening.
You hadn’t reached the beep yet before you ended the call.
The second time was when you had to pull over downtown because… well, water works. Crying while holding a steering wheel wasn’t exactly a good kind of combination, partly because you could only make out words like a five year old would but mostly because you only wanted to do one thing and that was to run over every incompetent man that came your way.
Calling Robby for the fourth time would be absurd not only because you knew full-well he wouldn’t answer. Let’s call a spade, a spade. Robby had gone off to Canada for a reason and that reason happened to also concern the people of Pittsburgh.
Calling a fourth time would mean your brother needing to get back home. You weren’t much of a pain in the ass to do that. Apparently, as per Robby, trying to get in touch with him thrice was a good threshold to avoid unnecessary panic and heart attacks over breakups and basically anything in general when it involved Michael Robinavitch’s sister’s ever so pathetic life.
On the third try you had waited for the beep. Just waited, not even hoping he’d pick up the phone and answer.
You had decided to give yourself time to breathe and hopefully think as the line continued to ring. Otherwise, you know you’d fail to remain composed and Robby would have to resort to hearing ugly heaping sobs out of protest rather than anything remotely coherent as he pick up the phone
“Hey. I’m alright, I didn’t mean to scare you by being such a pain about this. I just… wanted to say I’ll be at your house or in this case, I already am.” You prefaced. “By the way, I raided your fridge and found the Häagen-Dazs you left for me a week ago—which by the sound of my voice and the time I am making this call—you’ll figure out why I’m finally using my house-sitting privileges.”
You paused. “Ryan and I broke up. Finally.”
You let out a laugh, unamused.
“Well, I had to break it up. I mean, who wouldn’t after finding another woman’s legs wrapped around his head, am I right—?”
You let out a sigh, feeling that familiar twist in your gut as you force yourself to relive such a horrific scene for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour or so.
“Anyway, I know you’re off trying to find some zest for life or some ‘Thelma & Louise’ typa thing as Abbot says you’ll be off doing. I just thought you needed to know because… ugh.” Your voice breaks. “This shit is hard. It sucks. It definitely would’ve sucked less if you were here. Okay. I hope you have as much fun as I’ll be having at your house for maybe a week or two? How does that sound?”
You chuckled despite yourself. Still, no Robby. Just a voicemail running for not longer than a minute.
“—Right. Ok. I’m rambling now. Miss you, Mike. Call me when you can.” You let your hand fall to your lap, still grasping your phone for dear life.
You’ve been sitting on your brother’s kitchen island inhumanely devouring a tub of ice cream for god knows how long since you arrived. At least, even with Robby away, he made sure you got some company, something to keep you busy in the meantime as a preemptive measure to salvage what’s left of his sister’s broken heart.
Or something to that effect.
“You do know Thelma and Louise drove off a cliff and died, right?”
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
You shot to your feet to find Jack Abbot standing across the room with only his sweats on.
“What the hell are you doing here?” You spoke accusatorily, clutching the Häagen-Dazs tub as panic bled down your throat. Apparently, seeing Jack Abbot and the possibility of him having heard your pathetic rambling to your brother seemed a lot worse than finding your boyfriend eating out another woman’s vagina.
“House-sitting for Robby.” He simply states like some arrogant prick who had forgotten he was possessing the premises simply because your foolish brother had somehow thought he’d be competent enough for it.
“I am house-sitting for Robby,” You state in turn, putting the ice cream tub haphazardly on the kitchen island. “and I am pretty sure he would have mentioned that kind of information to me if he really did.”
“You know,” You watched as he scratched his stubble, “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about giving my brother a passive-aggressive message than a friend who happened to be doing him a favor.”
Your eyes widened, “What? I did not!”
Except, you absolutely did.
You quickly checked your phone. Still nothing from Robby.
A good thing. You can still retract your Thelma and Louise thing.
You pointed at Abbot as if to warn him not to do anything stupid whilst you pressed on the call button for the fourth time tonight.
“Do. Not. Move.”
Michael Robinavitch. You know what to do.
“Hey!—So, slight hiccup,” You find yourself pacing the second you begin speaking after the beep. “Still no reason to worry or anything because I’m calling for the fourth time, I just wanted to say that I have never seen ‘Thelma & Louise’ in almost three decades of my existence, contrary to your hopefully on-going five so I don’t think you should be taking into consideration what I told you about doing whatever it was that Thelma and Louise had gotten themselves into.”
You shot Abbot with a pointed look. He was still standing where you last saw him. Except now, he’s leaning against the door frame with a foot crossed over his ankle.
“Jack is here too, by the way. I would’ve appreciated it if you had told me someone else was allowed to crash in your house despite earning at least $300,000 for his annual salary.”
Jack Abbot smirked. Full of himself.
“There, I told you.” You breathed, suddenly aware that you’ve willingly put yourself before Abbot's undivided attention because of your own doing.
But even then, it’s still Robby’s mistake.
You turned your back on Abbot and threatened your brother in a hushed tone, “Now you’ve got no reason to be driving off cliffs, Michael. You don’t get to kill yourself because I will be the one to do it. Got it? Good.”
Abbot rolled his eyes as though to appear unenthused.
“Are you done?”
You put away your phone in the back pocket of your jeans.
No. Obviously, you were not.
“When have you been crashing here?” You scorned.
He shrugged, still visibly unentertained by the presence of the other and lesser Robinavitch.
He folded his arm to his chest, still leaning against the door frame. “And why do you think I need to tell you that?”
You haven’t spent five minutes with this man and he’s already getting on your nerves.
“Because you’re in my brother’s home,” You tell him, “not that I needed to stress that fact any further.”
“So?”
Christ. He’s infuriating.
“‘So,’ what?”
“You’re playing the “Robby is my brother so I get to do whatever I want” card already?”
You huffed, “The situation calls for it seeing as you’ve got no regard to the fact that I have a key to his house.”
“I also happen to have a key to his house.” He repeats the statement, visibly enjoying getting on your nerves. “Obviously.”
“I didn’t think having a key simultaneously meant you could crash here anytime you want.” You snarked.
“Why else would he give me a key if that’s not what the situation calls for? House-sitting works that way, Robinavitch.” He smirked, “Didn’t you get the memo?”
With a hand on your hip, you stood your ground. “I don’t need a memo. I’m his sister.”
“Ah. Convincing argument.” He said just as a faint yet satisfied grin crept in the corner of his lips, “Is that why Robby’s plants were dying by the time I got here?”
It had been more than a week since the night Robby left to hit the road. You’ve promised to drop by the day after, but things kind of got in the way and visiting had somehow been pushed to the back of your mind ‘til you forgot about it. Eventually.
The previous week in the hospital had been rather exhausting. To top it all, your stupid ex-boyfriend thought it’d be a good idea to cheat on you after a twenty-hour shift in the ER.
Also, Robby had plants?
“Unlike you Abbot,” You bite. “I have a life.”
“That’s it? That’s your explanation?” He scoffed as though he was talking to a second-grader rather than a grown woman with multiple degrees and a license to practice medicine. He muttered, “Didn’t think downing a tub of Häagen-Dazs constitutes as having a life, but alright.”
Your eyes burned with contempt. You knew he’d deliberately spoken loud enough for you to hear.
“I didn’t think I needed to give you any.”
You see him push himself off the door frame and briskly walk towards the fridge. You find yourself stepping back, suddenly aware that he was half-naked and the thought of even brushing against his exposed skin in the slightest had been rather… revolting.
He was wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants.
Right. Revolting.
He pours himself a glass of water, the liquid clashing against the glass, filling in the silence.
Isn’t he going to say something?
You felt as though you needed to speak. Sitting in the quiet with Jack Abbot seemed more chilling than walking into your boyfriend and best friend in the middle of sex.
“Why are you here, Abbot?”
Instead of a decent reply, he took his sweet time to finish drinking.
Fucking prick.
He gulps a final time and sets the glass down just as he leaned against the counter, now standing across from you. “You were saying?”
You groan. Internally.
He knew how you hate having to repeat yourself knowing full-well he had heard it the first time.
“Why are you here?” You demanded.
“I already told you. Robby asked me to watch his house.”
“What about your house?”
“My house is perfectly fine.” He replied.
Then why the fuck are you here, Abbot?
You bit your tongue, choosing to extend a little more patience than having to immediately resort to violence.
“Aren’t you supposed to go home? I’m here now. I don’t think I need another set of hands for the job.”
A grin tugs at his lips ever so slightly.
“I think I can handle this myself, Robinavitch. Go home. I’ll tell Robby you came to visit, watered his plants and did your sisterly duty of making sure his house hasn't burned to the ground.” He suggested just as he moved away from the counter, taking a step closer to you. He looked down at you as though to examine your features, gaze heavy with something—incomprehensible. “Let’s just say, I’m doing both of us a favor.”
You scoffed. You were hoping he would be more pressed than you care to admit. Just like you had planned to deny that you didn’t feel uncomfortable to be put under his gaze.
“I’d rather die on the spot than owe you a favor, Jack.”
You call his name with disdain.
Only he doesn’t seem to be fazed by it, not even in the slightest bit.
“Lock the door on your way out once you’re done hating yourself with that tub of ice cream.” He says a final time, already aiming to exit the kitchen.
“I’m staying.” You keep your hand firm.
He barely met your eyes when he looked over his shoulders. A beat passed and only then did you realize that you were supposed to elaborate as to why; to explain as if Robby would have required you to had he been around.
You were Robby’s sister. That should’ve been enough for an explanation.
“I… I can’t come home.” You find yourself admitting. “I came here because I needed a place to crash.”
You had found yourself hoping he would let it go, that he would choose not to be a complete jerk as to make you explain more than what you’re willing to out of spite and humiliate you even more than he’s already had.
Abbot doesn’t say a thing.
Well, a thing that wasn’t infuriating.
“Take the guest bedroom,” He prefaced just as he looked back at you, “Or do you need me to show you where you can spend the night?”
Oh, you badly wanted to throw the spoon you’d been using, preferably onto his old and wrinkled stupid face.
“And where will you be sleeping?” You asked, arms crossed to your chest.
“Why?” He arched his brow, interested, “Want to share my bed?”
“You mean Robby’s bed?”
He shrugged, not denying. “Doesn’t matter if I’m in it.”
You were about to say something clever—throw another punch, but Abbot had already turned his back to you to leave the kitchen.
By the time he gets to the other side of the room, he turns, shifting slightly but never meeting your eyes.
“I trust that you know your way around?” He raised his chin infinitesimally just as he said, with that same infuriating grin, “Otherwise—if you get lost, you know where to find me.”
Your hands balled into fists as Abbot left to head for the stairs, ensuring that Michael Robinavitch’s sister went to bed feeling nothing else but anger and hatred for him.
note: series taglist is open! hit the comments or my inbox should you want to be included. reblogs and comments are highly appreciated i would love a chat with yall ◡̈ ᥫ᭡
summary: Two keys and a list were given out by Michael Robinavitch before he went on his three-month sabbatical. One for his sister and one for his best friend, Jack Abbot. The list is pretty generic. No smoking, no parties, no pets, no babies. It was rather odd that he’d made the list so exclusive yet simultaneously vague. Good thing Robby didn’t say anything about crashing unannounced after bad breakups or long shifts that tired you just enough to refuse to drive home or that you weren’t supposed to have sex on his bed and have multiple-orgasms in the hands of the man he happened to have entrusted the care of his home and—albeit accidentally—his equally-willing slash consent-giving and stubborn sister.
pairing: jack abbot x fem!doc / robinavitch!reader
genre: 18+ MDNI. brother’s best friend/best friend’s sister. fluff, angst HEA, slow burn but pace fast enough for the timeline, secret crush (sort of), eventual smut, sexual and suggestive themes, smut with a bit of yearning, porn with plot, competent!jack abbot, ass!jack abbot, jealous!jack abbot (yes, the holy trinity), will they-won’t they, hurt/comfort, from squabbles to lovin’, robby is away on a three-month sabbatical, they can’t sleep and they stumble into each other in the kitchen in the middle of the night type of stuff, you know it, and then they were roommates! oh and of course—robinavitch!reader.
prologue
chapter one / ?
epilogue
note: remember when i said i was thinking about a slow burn jack abbot fic but dreading having to actually write it? well... the dread passed and i'm now doing it. "build and they will come" sort of thing. author not a doctor so expect medical inaccuracies littered here and there. english is my second language so shh. this fic will be posted on AO3 once completed. i will be having a taglist for this series. should you want to be included, just let me know.
the world really went to absolute shite when boys started spending their time yapping on podcasts instead of forming bands in garages and i will die on this hill
kinda fleshing out the idea of my abbot angsty slow burn fic and debating whether to write it as ‘x reader’ or mohabbot fic. thing is, i want to exhaust as much creative control i can get characterization-wise and obv i wouldn’t get that if i write samira bc i have to stick with what she’d do canonically—but—at the same time, i also think it can work despite restrictions, ykwim? i could just cry
