゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ THERE WHEN SHE CRIED | 𝓜 ❝ robby ❞ robinavitch
part 1 ╰┈➤ lynnie's coffee shop ╰┈➤ request guidelines
SUMMARY ⋮ ⌗ ┆The grumpy day shift attending isn’t as gruff as he seems. He’s everything you’d asked for and more, and a month of his irrevocable love for you leaves you drowning in him. But life’s taught you there’s always a catch, always. Your catch is the father he’s trying to replace.
PAIRING ⋮ ⌗ ┆grumpy!michael robinavitch x sunshine!reader
CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ ⌗ ┆18+ SMUT AHEAD. MDNI. age gap. (r! is in her mid 20’s, robby’s in his late 40’s). r’s father’s a deadbeat. r! has anxiety. hurt comfort. r! argues with her father. medical inaccuracies. angst. fluff. r! and robby both cry. slightly self-indulgent on this one. established backstory. established relationship. other pitt characters make an appearance. description of a nasty head injury on a patient. sensitive!reader ⤷ ゛ ˎˊ˗ soft!dom!robby. sub!reader. afab!reader. use of several pet names. major daddy kink. praise. kinda crybaby!reader. use of “little girl” more than once. pussydrunk!robby makes a return! sir kink if you squint. fingering (r!receiving). cunnilingus (r!receiving). multiple orgasms. short aftercare scene ♡
WORD COUNT ⋮ ⌗ ┆10.2k
ּ֯ . ❥ ּ֯ ┆꒰ YOU SAVED HER LIFE ꒱
“THIS IS GETTING WEIRD,” Santos deadpanned beside you. She wasn’t speaking to you directly despite not minding you being in earshot. Instead, it clicked that she was speaking to an engrossed Mel who was typing away at her desk.
“What’s getting weird?” you both said simultaneously. You knew Santos was never the type to mind who she gossipped to, anyway. Less who she gossiped about.
“Robby. He hasn’t looked like someone pissed in his cheerios for over a month now.”
You shook your head and laughed. Point proven.
“I don’t know about weird. Isn’t that. . .good?” Mel said. She leaned in to whisper. “But it is nice to see him look less uptight.”
“You’ve taken notice of his behavior? How thoughtful,” you teased, looking up at the board. “I’m picking up the concussion in Central 6. Join me?”
“Sounds fun. And Mel, amen, sister,” Santos said before falling into step with you.
“But as I was saying,” Santos continued, “either he won the lottery, is being blackmailed, or found a really nice lady to bang.”
“Okay, that is wildly inappropriate to even suggest,” you giggled as you led the way to Central 6. “It doesn’t do anything for us to speculate, either.”
“I’m just saying. But no complaints from me. I’ve been getting out on time for two weeks straight and I do not want to lose my streak now.”
You hoped your face wasn’t giving away just how interested you were in Robby’s business. Hell, the fact that you were Robby’s business. In the month you’d been seeing each other, people had been talking. Over nights out after work, morning coffee runs, mid-shift gossip. You’d heard all the buzz: Somebody had taken Doctor Robinavitch and virtually altered his brain chemistry.
Was it a promotion? Mysterious source of income? Were they finally hiring the staff to run the ER beds? Raising the nurse’s salaries? Or, of course, the fan favorite theory: Robby was seeing somebody new.
He’d looked so much happier lately according to your colleagues. So much. . .looser. That usual gruffness was gone, replaced by a softer, almost sweeter demeanor, one that was much more digestible than the former.
It was getting harder each day to pretend you didn’t know the reason why. That you weren’t the reason why.
After shaking the thought off, you and Santos entered the room side by side, met by the sight of a woman with red locks and tan skin who was holding an ice pack to her head. You slipped a pair of gloves on and smiled, approaching the bedside.
“Hi, there,” you said to the woman, introducing yourself. “This is Doctor Santos. What’s your name.”
“Um, it’s Kara.”
“Hi, Kara. What happened to your head?”
“I was making dinner for my daughter. Slipped on some oil I dropped, and. . .”
“I see. Accidents happen. Do you mind moving the ice pack so I can see it?”
Kara removed the ice pack to reveal a large boil in the side of her forehead, pulling a small “Woah” out of Doctor Santos. You made a poorly hidden face of your own at the oozing wound.
“Um, okay, I see. What did you, um, fall on?” you asked as you probed it gently.
“The side of the counter. Then the floor.”
“Got it. That looks pretty severe for a hematoma.”
“A what?” said Kara.
“It’s a pool of clotted blood under the skin that can present as bumps or bruises on the surface. You likely had a smaller bump before you arrived here, but since you waited in triage so long. . .” you trailed off. “It might now be infected.”
Kara looked alarmed. “I- Is that bad? Can you fix it?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s good that you’re here. We’ll need to drain the hematoma surgically to avoid further infection and provide you with some antibiotics,” you said. “Let me get my attending, Doctor Robinavitch. I’ll consult with him about next steps.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Of course,” you said. You left the patient to Santos and did a quick scan of the ER as you approached the front desk. When you didn’t find him on your own, you signaled for Dana to come over.
“Hey, hun. What’s up?” said Dana.
“Hey! Have you seen Robby? I have a case to present to him.”
“Mmm, last I saw, he was in the break room. On his seventeenth cup of coffee.”
“Got it. Thanks, Dana,” you said, turning to leave. But before you could, Dana said, “Hold on,” signaling for you to approach the desk again.
Dana stepped around the desk and leaned in to whisper in your ear so that only you could hear her next words. “Please tell me he’s being good to you.”
You were instantly alarmed at her comment, spluttering a frantic, “W- Wait, what?”
Dana looked amused by your response, chuckling. “C’mon, hun. The way Robby’s been looking at you? Hell, way he’s been floating like a damn unicorn ‘round this place. Wasn’t that hard to put two and two together,” she said. “You kids speculate too much. Us adults know the answer’s always right in your face.”
“Hey! I am an adult,” you said with faux offense.
“Really? Still look like a baby to me,” Dana smiled. Her tone went more stoic then as she tilted her head at you. “But, seriously, Robinavitch. He good?”
You nodded, unable to resist confessing. It was Dana of all people, and besides, it felt nice to finally have someone to talk to about your newfound relationship with Robby. “So good, Dana. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more loved.”
Dana smiled. “Good. Let’s keep it that way. I don’t want to have to bench him,” she said. “If he’s keeping our lovergirl happy, s’all I care about.”
You smiled at the familiar nickname that’d been bestowed on you after your first month at PTMC. For your empathy, your attention to detail, and above all, your empathy—the way you considered the people around you and cared for them accordingly. But since you’d started seeing the man who ran the ER that’d given you the endearment. . .it felt like it had an entirely new meaning.
“Thanks, Dana. You’re the best.”
“You got it, kid.”
You excused yourself and made your way over to the breakroom. Sure enough, there stood Robby in the blue quarter zip you’d picked out for him this morning, drinking a cup of joe by the coffee machine. You closed the door and cleared your throat.
“Robby?”
Robby turned to look at you, his face softening when you made eye contact. “Yes, sweet—uh, yes?”
You giggled at his correction, stepping closer to him. Memories of the meltdown you’d had a month ago that’d wound you in this relationship to begin with flashed in your brain as you took in the familiar room, the familiar scene, one that involved you and Robby alone within it. Only this time, the circumstances weren’t so devastating. This time, it felt safe.
“You can say it, Robby. It’s just us.”
Robby smiled and set his coffee down, pulling you in by the hips. “You never know. These walls aren’t that thick.”
“Well, I don’t care who hears. They’ll know you’re the best boyfriend ever,” you smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck.
Robby pressed a soft kiss to your lips and cupped your cheek with one of his large hands. “Did you lock the door?”
“Did I—yes, but—okay,” you tried and failed to tell Robby you hadn’t come in here for one of your stolen kisses, which had become routine since the two of you had started seeing each other privately. You lost your train of thought as he started to pepper kisses down your neck, the scruff of his beard tickling your skin.
“Robby,” you giggled, squeezing his shoulder blades. “You didn’t let me finish.”
He pulled back and kissed you again, smiling against your lips. “Sorry, my love. What were you saying?”
“I was saying that I didn’t come in here to kiss you,” you said, but, oh, fuck, the whiny furrow in his eyebrows at your statement made you really wish you had. “I came in here because I have a case. And you are still my attending.”
“Right, right,” Robby said, like he really didn’t remember. That was just the effect you seemed to have on him. “What’s the case, honey?”
“Infected concussion-induced hematoma. It looks like it could get serious if she doesn’t have immediate surgery. I want your thoughts.”
“Sounds like fun. I’m on it,” Robby said. He pressed his lips to yours one more time for good measure, then let you go with reluctance. “You have your granola bar yet?”
“My granola bar? No, not yet. Haven’t worked up an appetite.”
Robby raised an eyebrow. “We had breakfast, what. . .five hours ago? You need to eat, sweetheart.”
“I will! Soon.”
“Oh, I’ve heard that one before,” Robby said. He went into the breakroom fridge to find the lunchbox he’d packed for you, pulling both the bar in question out as well as a water bottle. “Don’t come out until you’ve had both things. Understood?”
You sighed, accepting both things with fake exasperation. “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl,” Robby hummed as he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “Where’s the case?”
“Central 6. Santos should still be there.”
“Great. Thanks, honey,” he said. Then he left.
That was the other thing about your new relationship with Robby. It hadn’t only been a month since your father called you and induced panic in you on shift, to which Robby had then played your knight in shining armor. It’d been a month since Robby had made true on his word to taking care of you. To being your father’s replacement. To doing whatever he could do. You almost hoped the no contact would be eternal, so that you could never forget what it was like to feel this way.
You didn’t take the bus anymore. Robby came and picked you up without a care for the distance. He made sure you ate before coming in to start the day and would bring you home when all was said and done, though most nights he was just sleeping at yours or vice versa.
He made sure your fridge was always stocked. That your bed was made before leaving. That you had snacks on every shift. That your water bottle was always full. That you were tucked in at night. Doted on in the morning. He made sure you didn’t doubt his love for you, his complete and utter adoration, like a real father would. All while managing his own job as chief attending.
Robby felt. . .too good to be true.
You’d never seen this side of him. Didn’t even know it existed. It was no wonder none of your coworkers had shut up about his complete 180 in behavior. Behind closed doors, Robby had a heart so sweet you were starting to get cavities, ones you never wanted filled.
You finished up your granola bar and somehow swallowed down a full water bottle, before walking back over to Central 6.
“Nice of you to join us,” Robby said when you entered the room, like his hands hadn’t just been all over you.
You nodded and put on another pair of gloves, feigning indifference. This secrecy act couldn’t work without equal contribution. “Thoughts?” you replied.
“You’re definitely right about the infection,” Robby said. “We’re going to need to drain this.”
“I’ll get some extra hands,” said Santos before leaving the room.
You approached the bedside again, smiling at Kara. “How are you feeling, Kara?”
“A little woozy. The room’s kind of spinning.”
“Side effects of the concussion. Don’t worry, we’ll get you some medicine for the pain,” you said. “Then we’ll get you comfortable for surgery.”
“Thank you,” said Kara.
“Of course,” you said. Your phone buzzed in your pocket then, and you would have ignored it if it wasn’t paired with a missed call and your noisy ringer. You muttered an awkward, “Sorry,” and quickly checked it, your heart dropping at the notification.
Missed call from Dad
Dad: “Hey baby”
Dad: “Call me when you get a second”
“Everything okay?” Robby asked almost immediately. You hated how quickly the man could read you.
“Yeah. Fine,” you said. You didn’t have enough willpower to make it convincing, but luckily, Robby couldn’t scrutinize you with a patient in the room. “Lay back, Kara. Let’s get you comfortable.”
“Take sl- slong sur?”
You did a double take at Kara’s slurred sentence, your eyes widening. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Surgery?” Kara said. “Long time?”
“Kara? Are you feeling okay?”
“Head. Woozy,” she managed to stutter, seconds before her eyes were closing, her head going slack against the bed.
“Oh, shit,” you exclaimed. “Um, I’m going to need some help in here! Get a surgeon!”
Santos came sprinting back into the room with Collins and Javadi in tow, beads of sweat coming down her face. Her eyes widened just as yours had when she caught a glimpse of your now unconscious patient. “Shit, what happened? I came as fast as I could!”
“Major dysarthria, could hardly get a word out,” you said. Robby stood and started to page for a surgeon on the speaker in the room. “I need everyone to prepare for surgery. This has to get drained now.”
As you commanded your colleagues and readied yourself for the procedure, you tried not to think too hard about your father’s sudden reemergence after a month of no contact. Did he need money again? Was he in trouble? Or was this another one of his routine check-ins so he was still eligible for the mediocre father of the year award?
But there was no time to think up the answer to any of those questions. Right now, Kara needed you, and you had a responsibility to be there for her.
“Why didn’t you get me sooner? This looks fucking serious!” Garcia yelled as she gloved up, ever the blunt, egotistical surgeon she’d always been. You’d’ve been too distracted to even notice her entrance had she not made it known.
You huffed as you slipped a pair of surgical glasses on, laying Kara back on the bed. “She was talking fine just a minute ago!”
“Oh, this needed to be treated more than a minute ago,” Garcia said.
“Well, you’re here now, right? So let’s get this show on the road,” you replied. Santos and Javadi shared a look of surprise at your attitude. It was completely unlike you to be so snappy, albeit it being a smaller comment.
“Fucking show,” she scoffed. “You think this is—”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Garcia!” you snapped. For real, this time. You felt every eye on the room upon you, Robby’s the heaviest of all, but you didn’t let up. You’d never been one to snap at anybody, especially not so brashedly—but right now? It felt like everything was getting under your skin, and you were one more incident away from a meltdown.
“Do you care more about belittling me or saving the patient?” you finished. “For fuck’s sake.”
Garcia only scoffed in response, putting her own glasses on. Robby’s browns were boring into you without shame from across the bed, but now wasn’t the time to entertain his stare. Right now, it was time to get to fucking work.
By the grace of goddess, the five of you worked a miracle in restabilizing Kara—Robby was pulled away to work on another case—easing the hematoma on her forehead and sending her to surgery to have it completely removed. You didn’t say a word to anyone when the job was done; only took off towards the breakroom—this was starting to become a problem, you realized—to ignore the elephant in the room.
You closed the door behind you and took a breath when you found yourself alone. But like cosmic karma had been watching, your phone rang again in your pocket, the same contact filling the screen.
Dad.
You sighed. What’s the worst, right? It’s not like you could ignore him forever. Even if you wished you had the strength to.
“Hello?”
“Hey! You do know how to pick up.”
You sighed. “Funny. I’m at work, Dad. What’s going on?”
“I know, I know, you’re a busy girl. I’ll be quick,” he said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“What?”
“I’m in town.”
That gave you pause. Your father hadn’t come to visit you once since you’d moved to Pittsburgh a few years ago. “In. . .town? As in, here, in Pittsburgh?”
“Well, you’re not in San Francisco, are you? ‘Course I’m in Pittsburgh! Got some time off work,” he explained. You don’t know why or how he did, considering he still leaned on you to make due on bills. But, as always, you didn’t voice that to him as he went on. “I’d love to see you, baby. When are you free?”
“Oh, um. . .I don’t know. I’m really busy at the hospital, Dad.”
“Come on, kid. You can’t spare a second for your old man?”
You let out a quiet scoff. Like he ever did the same for you. “I just wasn’t expecting this, Dad. I don’t know when—”
As you were speaking, the door to the breakroom opened. Robby stepped through and closed the door softly behind him when he realized you were on the phone. He maintained his silence even more when he caught the ‘Dad’ part of your sentence.
You sighed. “What did you have in mind?”
“There’s a little diner I’ve been eyeing since I got here. Percy’s Place. You heard of it?”
“Yeah. That’s not too far from the hospital.”
“Okay, cool. So, we’ll meet there, then? You free after your shift?”
“If I’m not running late.”
“Great. See you then, baby.”
“Love you,” you said reflexively. The words tasted sour on your tongue.
“Love you, too,” he returned. You then hung up.
Robby put his hands in his pockets. “Well, I’d ask about your not-so-little bite at Garcia. But I think I can take a guess as to what it was really about.”
You put your phone away and shook your head, crossing your arms. “I can’t believe he’s in town and just. . .dropped it like that. With no regard for my time or schedule. And I still made plans to see him.”
Robby took a step closer. “He’s your dad, sweetheart. ‘Course you wanna see him. As much grief as he gives you, I know you miss him. And you never know. Maybe he’s ready to turn a new leaf.”
“I doubt it,” you said. You let your shoulders drop. “But I do want to try. Is that bad?”
Robby shook his head and stepped closer again, until your cheek was in reach and he cupped it with his usual softness, calming the rapid beat of your heart. “Why would it be bad, my love?”
“Because,” you shrugged. “I always tell you that I don’t think he’ll change. I still feel like it’s mostly true. But then I turn around and make plans with him? And then. . .”
Robby raised an eyebrow. “And then. . .what?”
“I have you now,” you said.
Robby smiled at you. He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, letting his other hand rest against the small of your back. “You’re still my girl no matter what, honey. Nothing’s going to change that,” he said. “But I have no reservations about your dad. He’s your dad, biologically, anyway. And if you want it to, then that still counts for something.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” Robby said without question. “Let’s try to have a good rest of shift, yeah?”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“Oh, and try not to bump into Garcia for a while. She’s fuming.”
Robby had a point, because Garcia, who was basically always fuming, would probably strangle you if she could get you within reach right now. “Noted.”
After the punctual conclusion of your shift—you couldn’t believe you’d been subtly wishing you didn’t get out on time—you met Robby in the parking lot, hopping into the passenger side of his truck.
“Oh, look at you. My adorable girl,” Robby cooed at your cuteness. You raised an eyebrow as he pinched your cheek, considering said cuteness was the pink tank top that’d been under your scrubs and a pair of jean shorts you’d never bothered to take out of your locker.
“Robby,” you giggled as he cupped your cheek. “You’re so weird.”
“And you love it,” Robby replied triumphantly. “Where to, my love? Percy's Place, right?”
You nodded in response. Robby put the car into drive and settled a hand onto your thigh as he pulled out onto the road.
The drive was short, no longer than ten minutes. You’d come to this diner a few times with coworkers, especially considering they were open 24/7. Robby turned to look at you when the first red light came.
“You alright, honey? You nervous?”
You shrugged. “I haven’t seen him in a while. I don’t know. I have a weird feeling.”
“Like what?”
“Like this isn’t about wanting to see me. It never is,” you said. “This is the thing dads are supposed to do for their daughters. Check up on them, make sure they’re not on, I don’t know, the brink of death. Then they reserve the right to completely evaporate because their work is done, for now.”
At the realization of your ramble, you sighed and looked away. “Sorry.”
“You know you don’t have to apologize for anything. Not with me,” Robby said. “But I get it. You feel like an obligation, not a priority. And your father hasn’t done much to convince you otherwise.” Robby squeezed your thigh here. “Still, it can’t hurt hearing him out. You might regret it if you don’t.”
You took your hand in his. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I guess we’ll see.”
A few minutes later, you pulled into the parking lot of the diner. The family-owned business was characterized by fluorescent lights, hues of various pinks and reds emanating off the building. Out front was a light-up sign that read Percy's Place in all capitals, as well as retro decorations of things like milkshakes and fries.
“I’ll leave you to it, sweetheart. Call me when you’re ready, okay?” Robby smiled at you.
You pressed a kiss to his lips. It felt like cherishing the last moments of calm before the storm. “Okay. I will.”
Stepping out of the car on your own felt weird—Robby usually never let you open the door for yourself, but you hadn’t wanted your father to see him—but you did so anyway, walking up to the door of the place with false confidence. You shot one more look at Robby before going inside.
“Baby!” exclaimed an unmistakable voice from the bench beside you as the man atop it stood up to greet you.
“Hey, Dad,” you said with a nervous laugh. You let the man pull you into a hug. “Good to see you.”
“You, too. How are you, monkey?” he teased.
The childhood nickname instantly threw you off-kilter. You didn’t think you’d heard him say it in a long while. “Um, not bad. My shift went pretty smoothly. Got out on time.”
“Glad to hear it,” he returned. “Let’s grab a seat?”
“Sure,” you nodded.
After the waitress showed you to your table, you did a brief scan of the menu, but quickly decided you’d order your usual. You stared awkwardly at your father, who was browsing it for the first time.
“So many choices. Have you been here before?”
You nodded. “Plenty of times. Burgers are pretty good.”
“Noted,” he said. “So, what’s new with you? You like it here? The hospital?”
“I like Pittsburgh. And the hospital is chaos. But the work I do is good, and that makes it worth it,” you said. “Just started the social work aspect of it about three months ago.”
“And how’s that treating you?”
You went into detail about the work you did at the hospital. How you’d only been a doctor but were asked to shadow Kiara to take some weight off her shoulders. That you had the best of both worlds, and the newfound position had ultimately made you a better doctor. Your father listened with intent interest, and the thought of that made you feel good. But you couldn’t shake this weird feeling of déjà vu. Hadn’t you told him this story before?
“Yeah, that case was a wild one. But the parents should get to keep custody by the grace of goddess,” you were saying with a light chuckle. “I didn’t tell you all this before?”
“You might have. Not too sure,” he shrugged while he took a sip of his soda. You nodded. Right. When had he ever been sure of anything when it came to you?
“But I’m glad you’re doing good, monkey. I miss you.”
“Dad,” you said reflexively. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat that formed at the thought of reciprocating the notion. “I. . .miss you, too.”
“Why don’t you come home anymore, honey?”
Your eyebrows furrowed at the sudden query. “Why don’t I—you don’t invite me to come home, Dad. It doesn’t even seem like you want me there.”
“What? Honey, of course I want you home,” he said. “You don’t need an invitation. You’re my daughter.”
You wanted to laugh. You hadn’t known he was familiar with the concept.
“I know,” you said through gritted teeth. That poker face you were so familiar with was beginning to come through, because god forbid you be the villain in this. God forbid you be the one to blame. “But it feels like you don’t care sometimes. Maybe if you were actually around, I’d come home of my own accord.”
“I do care. Of course I care. I’m just so busy with work and. . .and other things that. . .it’s hard to find time. Balance.”
“Balance. Other things,” you repeated. “What, like your wife who lives on the other side of the globe?”
There was that, too. A detail you’d completely omitted to Robby. Your father had gotten married to a woman who didn’t even live on this continent—how it’d happened exactly, you hadn’t the faintest idea—but since they’d wed years ago, it felt like he’d always cared about her more than he did you. He flew out to see her, flew her in to see him, would call her constantly when you used to visit home, and spent what was likely half his income on her.
The audacity, the nerve, to ask you for money on top of that, had always left a bitter taste in your mouth.
“Sweetheart—“
“Don’t do that,” you interrupted. The waitress came back with the fries the two of you had decided to share, but your appetite was fading by the minute. “You can’t waltz back into my life whenever you want and pretend to be a father. That’s not how it works.”
Your father stayed silent as you spoke. You hadn’t known what’d gotten into you and quickly understood this wasn’t the place to be having this conversation, but your words were pouring from your lips like heavy rain on a dreary day, and it looked like the POP was 100%.
Forget the facade. Fuck the poker face. You deserved this. He deserved this.
“I need consistency, Dad. I can’t do this back and forth thing anymore. I’m tired,” you admitted. “You don’t call for weeks on end, then crawl back when you remember I exist. You do the occasional big gesture so I’ll forget your absence. And you think it’s enough. It’s not.”
“Listen, kid. I get you’re frustrated. And maybe I could pick up the slack sometimes,” he returned. “But it’s not exactly one-sided. You could pick up the phone and call.”
You scoffed. “And listen to you lie about how much you miss me, your empty promises to do better? Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll pass.”
You shook your head. Stood up from your chair. Soda and fries completely untouched. Appetite but a mere memory. So was any good thing you’d ever had going between you and your father.
“You know what? This was a mistake. I should go.”
“You can’t run from your problems.”
You slammed a $20 bill down on the table. “Well, guess what, Dad? I only have one problem. And he’s sitting right in front of me.”
He scoffed. “You’re not exactly daughter of the year. I try to be a dad, but you make it so hard sometimes,” he scoffed. It was here you realized that people were starting to stare, but it was too late to back down now. “You always want more from me. I can’t give you everything.”
“I don’t need you to give me anything, Dad. Because you were everything to me. And you couldn’t even hold onto that. You think I want your money? Your grand gestures?” you scoffed. “No. I want a fucking good morning text. Check-ins that don’t feel like routine. I want you to call me because you want to, not because you have to. Jesus Christ, I just want the bare minimum. And you act like it’s such a chore.”
“You make it a chore, honey. You want me to be honest? You’re a sad excuse for a daughter sometimes. You can never see things from my point of view. That’s the way it fucking is,” he snapped. “You’re right. This was a mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He stood up and brushed his jeans off. “I’m going back to Boston tonight.”
“Good! Leave!” you said. “It’s all you know how to do, anyway.”
With that, you spun on your heel and took off, storming through the door of Percy's Place. You realized you’d have to call Robby to come get you, but the thought of facing your boyfriend when you were struggling with your emotions probably wasn’t the best idea. He wasn’t a far walk, anyway. Maybe you needed to clear your head.
You felt so angry. Uncharacteristically angry. That’s what that little go at Garcia had been about earlier. It wasn't the heat of the moment. You were genuinely upset, furious, even. Because no matter how much you begged for things to be different, for him to be different, your father was what he was—a deadbeat incapable of change.
What was making you so angry was that you still had hope that he would.
Like you hadn’t gotten a good enough taste of cosmic karma earlier, thunder boomed loudly through the cloudy skies ahead of you. If you didn’t call your boyfriend, an Uber, or pick up the pace of your feet, then you were going to get soaked.
Your GPS told you Robby’s was a twenty minute walk. It was foolish to hold out hope that the sky would wait for you. But, what the hell, you already maintained plenty of that for the man who’d wound you in this situation in the first place.
When you finally arrived at Robby’s, rain water was dripping from every inch of your body. Your clothes were soaked through with the aftermath of the storm. To make matters worse, like a mockery, it’d cleared up as soon as you’d walked up to the front door.
Robby had his readers on when he opened the door. He let out a small gasp at the sight of you, immediately pulling you inside. “Sweetheart,” he said worriedly.
“It’s just rain, Robby. Don’t worry,” you said flatly. Your voice lacked your usual light.
“Just rain? You could get sick,” Robby said. He immediately felt your forehead, checking for a fever. “You’re back so early. Did you walk? You should have called me.”
“W- We finished early,” you said. You were trying not to break, but Robby’s consideration was eating your brave face away. “I’m going to go shower. I haven’t had one all day.”
“Just like that? You didn’t tell me how your day was. How it went,” Robby said with a slight frown. Even after spending hours together at work, you always debriefed your day with Robby, because that was just how much he cared about you. To break that ritual was his first sign that there was more to this.
“S- Sorry. I just feel gross. I’ll tell you all about it after,” you said. Your lip was starting to wobble like the absolute traitor it was, and if you didn’t get out of this compromising position soon, your facade was going to crack.
“What’s wrong, baby? You look upset,” Robby said. God, what kind of sorcery was it that he could read you like a novel only a month into being your boyfriend?
Is this what unconditional love felt like?
“No, I’m fine,” you still tried pitifully, but tears were about to join the shake of your lip and tremble of your shoulders, and there was absolutely no hiding that amalgamation from Robby.
“Don’t do that.”
“Wh- What?”
“Act like your feelings aren’t important. Or like I don’t want to hear about them. It’s my job to listen to you, sweetie. You know that,” Robby said. “Tell me what happened.”
You sniffled as he cupped your cheeks, stroking them with his thumbs. He wiped every tear that fell, and his look of love made you feel like you could weep. You shook your head and let the tears fall, because you realized now that this was a safe space to do that. That it always would be.
“He was so mean, Robby. He said I was a sad excuse for a daughter,” you cried. Robby held the back of your head as you cried into his chest, stroking your hair.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” Robby whispered.
“He said i- it was a mistake to come see me. Th- That he’s trying so hard to be a dad, but having a daughter like me makes it hard,” you cried. “What did I ever do to him?”
“Oh, my sweet girl, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Robby cooed. He rested his chin atop your head. “You deserve so much better than that. He’s the sorry excuse for a father, making you cry like this. It’s not right.”
“I just wanted to be loved by him,” you sobbed against Robby. You must have been compartmentalizing these feelings for weeks, because it felt like your shoulders were lightening with every word you spoke. “Is that so bad?”
“No, not bad. Not bad at all,” Robby hummed. “And he should love you. You’re bright. Caring. You make the people around you smile. You love wholeheartedly, and that’s not easy to come by these days.”
You looked up at Robby as he cupped your cheeks again. “You’re a reliable friend,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “an even better doctor,” a kiss to your nose, “and a beautiful lover, inside and out,” he finished with a final kiss to your lips. “Don’t let anything he says convince you otherwise. Okay?”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“That’s my girl,” Robby said. “I promise I’ll love you in all the ways he couldn’t. I swear it, honey.”
“Pinky?”
Robby chuckled and looped your pinky through his. “Pinky.”
You let out a giggle, wiping your tears. “How bad do I look right now?”
“Absolutely terrible,” Robby smiled at you. “Kidding, my love. You’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful. Now, come on. Let’s get you freshened up.”
You nodded and held Robby’s pinky as he guided you up the stairs. This felt synchronous to the first time he’d brought you here, when he’d cared for you in your vulnerability and showed you how a real man should treat you. It felt all the more special knowing Robby didn’t make it feel like a chore.
Robby led you into the bathroom that was attached to his bedroom. “Just stocked up on that body wash you like. And your towel and washcloth are still here. I’ll go get you some clothes.”
You nodded. Robby returned with a shirt of his and a pair of shorts a few minutes later, setting them down on the counter. “Okay, angel. You let me know if you need anything.”
“Wait,” you said. You grabbed hold of the doorknob just before he could close it.
“Yes, baby?”
“Can you help me, Daddy?” you said, feeling silly as the words left your lips. But the thought of being alone with your thoughts again didn’t sound too enticing.
Robby, however, didn’t mind. He never did. He nodded and stepped back inside, and you noticed that his demeanor had changed. He looked what could only be described as protective, and that was no doubt due to the smallness of your tone, but also the fact that you’d never called him that name outside of bed. “Of course, honey. ‘Course I can.”
You lifted your arms so Robby could remove your shirt, then let him take your jean shorts off. You felt exposed when you were finally stripped naked, even though this wasn’t anything Robby hadn’t seen before. Except it’d never been this way, so vulnerable, so delicate.
You saw in the way he looked at you, that he knew it, too. Because there was nothing sexual in the way his eyes met yours. Nothing at all. It was everything to do with how enamoured he was by the woman he got to call his.
“My beautiful girl,” Robby cooed as he kissed your cheeks. “Let me get the water started.”
“Could you wash my hair, too?” you asked meekly.
“Of course I can, babygirl. What else am I here for? Come on, step in.”
After rinsing you off and getting your hair wet, Robby ran a bubble bath for you. You stepped back in and sank into the water happily, the warmth of it wrapping around you like a blanket.
“Comfortable, baby?”
You nodded. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome. Now let’s get your hair brushed, huh?”
Robby sat at the edge of the bathtub while he brushed through your hair, working out every knot that he could. You closed your eyes and tried to relax as it simultaneously washed your worries away.
“Sweetheart,” Robby said suddenly. “You know how special you are to me, right?”
You looked up at him and smiled. “No. Tell me.”
“I’d do anything for you. Anything. It kills me to see you sad. I want to protect you from every bad thing. Don’t want anything or anyone making you feel this way again. Hell, I think I’d die for you,” Robby admitted quietly. “Is that bad?”
You hadn’t realized you were crying until Robby wiped a tear from your eye. But you quickly shook your head. “No, it’s not. Not bad,” you said, using his usual words when you’d ask him such a question. “It actually scares me how much I’m falling for you, Robby. It feels so fast, and sudden. Too good to be true. But when I look at you, I see everything I ever asked for. And I know that you’re worth it.”
Robby’s teary eyes mirrored your own, and he nodded. “I think I needed to hear that.”
“I like a man in touch with his feelings,” you giggled through your tears. Robby chuckled and looked visibly looser as he started to brush your hair again.
“Oh, that makes me feel worlds better,” he laughed.
Robby was gentle with you as he finished washing your hair, lathering it with shampoo and conditioner and working out every tangle. Such a process was usually excruciatingly long for you, but Robby didn’t bat an eye. That fact that he never did was as terrifying as it was endearing.
He lathered lotion onto your body once he’d dried you off from the bath, then helped you put your—his—clothes on. When you reached your hand out so you could walk to bed together, he didn’t even take it. Only lifted you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your lips.
“Robby!” you laughed, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I’m too heavy.”
“Too heavy? No such thing,” he smiled. He opened the bathroom door and carried you to bed with ease, setting you down gently.
You cuddled up against him when he laid down beside you. He pulled you close to him, kissing your forehead.
“Did you get to eat at the diner?” Robby asked.
You shook your head. “Started arguing before that.”
Robby frowned. “I’m sorry, babygirl. You hungry?”
“Now that you mention it, I didn’t eat since that granola bar,” you said meekly.
“Then you definitely need to eat,” Robby said. “What are we in the mood for, princess?”
You felt your cheeks heat up. Robby had called you that nickname teasingly at first, but now he said it with a fondness that always had your heart lurching. “Um, pizza?”
“Sounds good. I’ll order it now.”
That was the thing about Robby. He never asked questions. Never made you second guess yourself. Sure, it was just pizza, but it was the simple fact of knowing you wanted it, that you needed it, really, that made him order it without hesitation. He did everything without hesitation.
Was it that difficult, Dad?
“All set. Should be here within the hour,” Robby said. “I got you some dessert, too. They have—princess? Y’okay?”
“What? Yeah. Fine,” you replied, turning your head to the side. Fuck. It was exhausting to be this in tune with your feelings.
“Thought we agreed on this, babygirl. No hiding feelings,” Robby said. “Look at me, sweetheart. What’s’matter?”
“It’s just. . .” you sniffled. “I don’t understand why he can’t do the things you do. Why I had to beg the universe to replace what I never had, and why I’m having such a hard time accepting it now that it’s finally here. I feel totally insane.”
Robby sat up when you did, rubbing your back. “You’re not insane, my love. And trust me, I know what it’s like. I really do. I tell people I don’t want another mother. . .” he trailed off. You looked at him, allowing him space to speak. “But the truth is, you never fill the void that forms when a parent leaves. You learn to jump over it, go around, cast it aside. But you never seem to close it.”
“That leaves you wondering, why me? Why not all the truly evil people in this world who deserve worse things? Who’d I piss off in a past life to deserve it?” Robby said. “But you drive yourself crazy with the questions, honey. None of ‘em have a good answer. Because the truth is? You didn’t do anything wrong. You showed up when he didn’t. You wanted to be a daughter and he didn’t take responsibility. That’s not on you. Don’t think for a second that it ever could be.”
“Robby. . .” you said with stray tears coming down your cheeks. Robby cupped them as he stared at you with blurry eyes of his own. Yet he didn’t wipe his own. He only catered to yours.
“I know, baby. I know. And I know you’re scared of this, with me,” he said. “But I can only say so much. I want to show you. I want to give you everything, because you are everything to me. I could tell you how badly I’ve fallen for you, how I fall more everyday. How you’re always on my mind, even when you’re not around me. How I want to spend the rest of my life making up every moment you missed with your father. But none of that stuff matters if my actions can’t attest to it. . .
. . .so be patient with me. Because I’ll always, always, always do the same for you. Okay?”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“That’s my girl.”
You didn’t say another word as you wrapped your arms around his neck, climbing into his lap the same way you had the first time. And right now? It felt like it did before. Safe. Secure. Vulnerable, but secure.
“My sweet, sweet angel. It’s going to be okay. I promise,” Robby cooed, rubbing your back. “Gonna keep you safe forever. Never letting anything bad happen to you.”
You felt the weight of Robby’s words around you like a weighted blanket. But there was nothing suffocating about the implication. It was all comfort.
When Robby finally shushed your tears away, he pulled back to look at you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “Let’s get a movie on, baby. Lighten the mood a little, yeah?”
You nodded. “I- I like the sound of that.”
Robby nodded and pressed one more kiss to your cheek before laying you down beside him again. He held you close as he flicked the TV on, picking a movie he knew you’d like before turning to cuddle you fully.
The two of you laid together in silence as the movie played. Some illy timed comedy flick that had you smiling your way out of the sadness that’d settled over you in the last few hours. But you could feel Robby’s eyes anywhere but the movie out of the corner of your eye.
They were entirely fixated on you.
“What?” you said playfully.
“Nothing. It’s just good to see you smiling again,” he said, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “You’re so pretty when you do.”
“You know what it does to me when you say stuff like that, Robby,” you giggled, unabashedly nuzzling into his touch.
“And what does it do, angel?”
You hummed. “I dunno. Makes me feel things.”
“Things, huh? Of what kind, I could never imagine,” he said just as playfully, but there wasn’t anything playful about the subtle slot of his knee between your legs, which had you shivering. “Am I on the right track?”
“Y- Yes, I’d say so,” you said with a little moan. You didn’t think you’d get here tonight all things considered, but now that you were, you realized how badly you’d been craving it.
You were still intimate with Robby, but not nearly as rough as before. You’d wanted it like that the first time you did it, desperately needing to forget the events of the day—but as Robby explored you, worshiped you, learned all the things that made you tick and burned them into memory, he was gentle, so, so gentle. He’d tell you how precious you were to him, how lucky he was to have you. How beautiful you were while he had you pliant and vulnerable for him.
You quickly realized that this was definitely one of those times. No matter how often you came to him in pieces, he’d always put you back together again.
“Tell me what you want,” Robby cooed. He was getting you to work on using your words—it was easy to feel so timid around him—so before he did anything with you, he always asked you the same question.
“Can you kiss me, Daddy?” you asked softly.
“Good girl,” Robby praised. He then leaned in to press his lips to yours. The closeness had his knee slotting even further between your legs, brushing against your clothed core.
Robby kept a hand on your waist as he kissed you, the movie filtering throughout the room as no more than background noise. As much as you loved sex, everything about kissing, especially with Robby, was arguably more alluring. The way his lips worked flawlessly against yours. The scratch of his beard against your chin while the two of you made out. All the ways he’d grab you while his tongue melted into your mouth. It made you impossibly wet every time, embarrassingly so. But that was the way Robby seemed to like you.
You ground helplessly against Robby’s knee, whimpering into his mouth with every rock of his thigh into your pussy. He loved to watch you take your pleasure, always cooing at how well you were doing, how much he adored when you showed him what you wanted. It had him rock hard every time, like he was against you right now.
You started to guide his hand downwards, trying to hint that you wanted more, but Robby only laced his fingers through yours, shaking his head.
“Ah-ah, sweetheart. Big girl words. You know that.”
“Daddy,” you whined.
“Don’t ‘Daddy’ me. You know better,” he said without malice, but the smug look on his face still suggested condescension. “Talk to your Daddy.”
“Mmm. . .want your fingers inside me. Okay? There, I said it.”
“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Robby hummed. He slipped a hand under your shorts—his shorts—and tugged them down with ease, considering how loosely they settled around your hips. He rubbed his fingers between your folds and groaned at your wetness, which you might have thought was embarrassing if he wasn’t already used to how quickly you got worked up. “Now my girl can have whatever she wants.”
“Ah—thank you, Daddy,” you whined into his neck.
“Such a polite girl. Already can’t think, my love?”
“Um,” you whimpered against him, “maybe?”
Robby let out a chuckle, the sound making you clench around absolutely nothing. Yet. “S’okay, angel. Your Daddy’s gonna do all the thinking for you. You just sit there and take it, alright?”
You nodded at that. It felt good to not have to think for yourself. To let the worries of the day wash away while your boyfriend took care of you. And for once? You felt like you deserved it.
You whined as Robby teased you between your folds, rubbing your aching clit in little circles. The man now knew exactly what buttons to push and how to make you sweat, and you loved and hated that he got to use it to his advantage.
“Mikey. . .inside? Please?” you asked softly.
Robby usually reprimanded you if you used his name while he had you like this, but that new nickname of yours, Mikey, was just too sweet to correct. “Look at that. Someone does know how to use their words. So proud of you, babygirl.”
“You’re so mean,” you giggled, but it was short-lived as Robby began to spread you open with his fingers, before slipping one inside you. You let out a little gasp at the stretch, or lack thereof, considering your own juices were working as the perfect lubricant.
“Mhm. Tell me how mean I am, sweetheart,” Robby cooed, crooking his finger inside you, finding that spongy spot within your walls. “When I dote on you,” kiss, “buy you whatever you want,” kiss, “and fuck you the way you like. Mhm, tell me how mean I am.”
“I- I—” you whimpered, shaking your head. “You’re not mean to me. You’re so nice.”
“That’s right, babygirl. I am. And you should be nicer to me,” he hummed. He slipped a second finger inside you, picking up the pace ever so slightly.
“Sorry, Daddy. Promise I don’t think you’re mean,” you moaned. “You’re only nice t’me.”
Robby chuckled. It was true. As chief attending at the hospital, he’d always been on the gruffer side, upholding his stoic demeanor. But behind closed doors, you stripped him down to his soft center, the one he reserved for you and you only.
“Only you deserve it,” he replied. He pressed a little kiss to your nose, his thumb starting to flick against your clit now. “You’re special to me, honey. Want you to know that.”
“I do, Mikey, I do,” you panted. Your legs parted ever so slightly, allowing him to press his palm against your mound while his fingers worked inside you. You could explode at any moment now with his thick digits pumping in and out of you while his calloused palm rubbed the whole of your pussy. “Ah—feels so good.”
“Yeah? S’my little girl like that?” Robby cooed. He used his other hand to press against your belly, the pressure making your legs shake. “You feel my fingers in here, baby? Filling you up real good?”
You could only nod in response. This was the only part of sex where Robby didn’t mind you evading words.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Just keep being good f’me.”
Robby’s praise and his sultry touch were starting to make your head spin. You were overwhelmed in all the right ways, and ready to go over the edge with him like you had so many times, but the pressure in your low belly was joined by another feeling.
Tears were starting to sting your eyes.
“Daddy, Daddy,” you whimpered into his neck. You let yourself cry softly into his shoulder, because you knew he’d hold you through anything—even when you were putting the most vulnerable parts of yourself on display. “Don’t stop, please, please. Want you. Want you to make me cum.”
“Oh, my sweet angel. I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to the top of your hair. He worked his fingers inside you with renewed precision and equal pace, trying to bring you to your pleasure. “You’re doing so well for me. My good girl, my babygirl. Daddy’s right here, I promise.”
“Fuck,” you whispered into his neck. Tears were surely soaking the side of it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about that right now. All that mattered was every thrust of Robby’s fingers into your pussy, the way your legs were shaking with your impending orgasm, how your thighs were starting to close around his hand—
How he pried them back open as you finally gave in.
“Ah-ah, let Daddy see, honey. That’s it, there’s my girl—fuck, you look so pretty cumming for me,” he was saying. The words were making you dizzy with need as he fucked you through your orgasm, your pussy clenching around his digits. He slapped your pussy until your legs were trembling violently, watching your juices stir and spit off your core like a faucet. Only when you started to cry from the overstimulation did he stop, lick his fingers clean, and pull you in for a kiss.
You tasted yourself the slightest bit as his tongue slipped into your mouth. You threw your leg over his waist without a care for the mess he’d created, whimpering into his lips. You could feel Robby smiling against yours as he pulled you in by the small of your back.
“You did so well, princess,” Robby cooed finally, pressing one more kiss to your nose for good measure. “I’m so proud of you. You know that? For everything.”
You smiled and cupped his face, planting a peck of your own to his cheek. “I’m proud of you, too, Mikey. Thank you. For everything,” you repeated. You perked up suddenly when a thought struck you. “S’that pizza still coming?”
Robby chuckled. “Should be, angel. Maybe in the next, I don’t know, twenty minutes? Why?”
“Because I’m still hungry,” you smiled.
“That’s funny. Me, too. And we still have some time. . .”
You raised an eyebrow. “Robby, what are you—”
You didn’t get a word more in before he was settling between your legs without warning. You knew what his sudden ascension up your thighs would lead into—his beard scratching against your skin, and his lips pressing kisses up to your core. “Can’t leave you messy like this, babygirl. Need to clean you up before dinner.”
You let out a shaky laugh as you looped your fingers through his hair. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to have dessert after, silly.”
Robby chuckled against your thigh, and shook his head at your observation. “And you know me to be a rule follower?” Robby chuckled.
You shook your head. “N- No. I guess not.”
“Such a smart girl,” Robby cooed. He began to press kisses up your thighs again, savoring your pretty moans and the taste of your skin with every scattered suck. You were beginning to realize that between your legs was one of Robby’s favorite places to be.
Shit, scratch that—maybe his favorite place to be.
The ruggedness of his beard between your legs and lips against your inner thighs was driving you wild—but the second he latched onto your clit, you felt like an animal. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his head, sandwiching him between your thighs.
“F- Fuck. . .Mikey,” you whimpered while he started to suck on your clit. “You’re supposed to be—agh—cleaning me up.”
“Am I?” Robby muttered against your pussy like he really didn’t know. “Guess I forgot.”
“Daddy,” you chided.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Robby said with a little smirk. He started to lap up the juices from your previous orgasm like he was supposed to be, but you knew he wouldn’t stop there when all was said and done. “Can’t help myself. Fucking love this pussy.”
“S’all yours, Daddy.”
“Damn right, it’s all mine,” Robby said gruffly in response. He continued to suck the evidence of your last orgasm into his mouth, cleaning you up like he was marking his territory—but just when you thought he was finished, he started to suck at your clit again, pulling a surprised moan from your lips.
Robby didn’t let you get another word in before he was slipping his fingers back inside you, your hole already wet and pliant from your last orgasm. You instinctively shut your thighs around his head, which only made him grip one hard as he started to eat you out.
“Daddy, fuck, feels so good,” you whimpered as his fingers curled into that sweet spot inside you. Any remnants of overstimulation had transformed into pleasure, filling your veins like the sultriest honey.
“Yeah, babygirl? Your Daddy making you feel good?” he cooed between your legs, though it felt more like he was talking to your cunt than he was you. “You’re clenching so tight around me, sweetheart.”
“Can’t help it. Love the way you make me feel,” you admitted without shame. With Robby, it was like you never had any.
“There’s my good girl, my sweet little girl,” Robby moaned against your pussy, licking languid stripes between your folds. The man had studied you like an art and learned exactly how to please you—what your breaking points were, the things that made you pant and whine for more. It was exhilarating to know he could now take advantage of the knowledge when he pleased. “You got one more for Daddy, sweetheart?”
You nodded rapidly, pulling him closer to your pussy. “Y- Yes, sir. I do.”
“Fuck,” Robby groaned. “That’s my girl.”
That being said, Robby latched his mouth onto your already aching clit, working with a renewed fervor to bring you to your pleasure. You took it without reservation, squirming on the bed and squeezing your thighs around his head the harder he fucked you with his tongue. It felt like your entire being was on fire, less from the stimulation and more from the way Robby was so drunk off your pussy, like he needed this more than you did.
Shit, like he was the one taking his pleasure.
Minutes of his restless attack on your pussy, filled with determined suckling against your clit and his calloused digits inside your weeping hole lead to you finally crying out a strangled “Daddy” as you release for a second time that night.
Robby pressed a few kisses to your sensitive cunt, a stark contrast from the somewhat rough treatment he’d given you prior. When he pulled back, his beard was marked with the evidence of his ministrations, a mix of spit and your own juices visible on his lips.
“You did so well, princess,” Robby cooed, the sappiest smile plastered on his face. You giggled.
“You know, m’starting to think you enjoy that more than me,” you teased.
“Oh, I plead the fifth,” Robby laughed in return. He pressed one last kiss into your skin, this time to your belly, before standing up. “Now we can really get you cleaned up.”
He returned minutes later with a small cloth, his face now wiped clean. He sat down on the edge of the bed and settled his hand between your legs again, only it was for a completely different reason. You shivered at the feeling as you were still recovering from the orgasm, but Robby only cooed at you, talking you through his movements.
“Shhh, s’okay, babygirl. Almost done,” he was saying. He made sure he carefully attended to every spot he’d touched, the thoughtful gesture making your cheeks heat up. When he finished, he discarded the towel in his laundry hamper, then climbed back into bed with you.
“Come on. C’mere,” he hummed.
Robby didn’t have to tell you twice. You curled up against him like a cat, laying your head on his chest. Robby rubbed the small of your back and pulled you close, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Thank you, Mikey,” you mumbled sleepily. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until your body found comfort in the familiar sanctuary of his arms.
“No need to thank me, baby. That’s what I’m here for.”
You nodded. Then, without thinking—
“Mikey?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it bad if I think I love you?”
Robby only pulled you closer at that, chuckling. “No. Not bad,” he replied. “I think I love you, too.”
You closed your eyes and hummed in contentment at his answer. You felt even more elated when it struck you that you had an answer to your earlier query.
This is what unconditional love felt like. And Michael Robinavitch was ready to spend the rest of his life showering you in it.
summary: It’s a good love, you keep telling yourself. It’s good love that you can’t let slip away. Your boyfriends love you, you know they do. You’ve never been so in love… So why does it feel like grief?
tags: fem!reader. no war au. established relationship? lots of hurt with delayed comfort. inspired by olivia rodrigo’s new album.
a/n: so… is this anything?
—
The thing about your relationship with Remus and Sirius is, well, that it’s not conventional. It’s still something frowned upon by many people, and one that you can’t just search up advice for on books. Not when it’s relatively new, and something that you can’t easily come to your friends for advice when they don’t know what you’re talking about half of the time. So trying to rationalize the loneliness that you feel is mostly pointless. And, objectively speaking? An absurd reason to cry about.
So you stay silent.
You stay silent when Remus is nasty and easily irritable before a full moon. Not to you. Never to you. But the signs of his discomfort are always there. Maybe not clear at first, but Sirius knows. And it’s nice to know Remus has someone that can help him so well as he does. So you stay silent, because he’s in good hands. Sirius knows what he’s doing. And maybe they’re right, it’s for your own good.
So you stay silent.
You stay silent when Sirius comes home from work, when he’s stressed and sad and frustrated, when things don’t go as he hoped, when Regulus once again turns down his help to escape Grimmauld Place. But he’s kind, and lovely to you and Remus. Accepts dinner with a kiss to your cheek and listens about your day even when it’s clear he’s in his own head. Gears turning and turning to try and find a way to help Regulus, to lessen Remus’ burden and, maybe, to be more present for you. So you stay silent when you offer to help, maybe a shoulder to cry on, he only smiles and shrugs it off.
So you stay silent… until things change. And suddenly there’s a fresh bouquet waiting for you after work. Suddenly Remus’ knee isn’t troubling him as much. Suddenly you can sit down and enjoy a homemade meal, and there’s no reason for you to feel so sad. There’s no reason for you to be sad, so you only swallow it down and accept their kisses. Silent and happy that they’re home.
Until another full moon comes, or a call from Regulus in fear that things have escalated again. Or your boss has decided you’re too valuable for your job to let you go. Hours rise, missed moments, you stay silent because it’ll pass. Everything’s still fresh, you need to find your footing between them, and you can’t expect them to fully settle into this relationship when life itself won’t let them. It’s fine. You’re patient, you’re learning, and so are they. Because you know they love you, and you love them. So you wait, you stay silent and take what they give you—
“I don’t know, love,” Lily murmurs, eyebrows twitched together as she listens to you. She sets another folded blanket aside before looking up at you. “Doesn’t sound healthy to me.”
“It’ll get better,” you assure her again, almost distractingly as you trace idle patterns on baby Harry’s head. He’s finally managed to fall asleep, maybe James is right and your touch is godsend.
When you look up, trying to share a triumphant smile with Lily, she’s got a look that makes it dim. Not that it was very wide, they barely get to your ears lately. Your smiles come and go, but they never stay long enough.
Of course, you don’t let it linger too much. “Don’t worry about me, Lily,” you whisper, rising to your feet with Harry in your arms. The baby boy doesn’t rouse, nor does he wake as you lower him to his cradle. “I’ll be fine, yeah?”
Lily nods, watching as you kneel low enough to continue tracing figures on Harry’s hand, his little cheeks and forehead. Touch featherlight and lips twitched into a fond little smile, smaller and smaller as time goes on.
“I know you will,” she says after a long silence. “It’s just, y/n… you seem so sad for a girl so in love.”
You don’t answer, and Lily stands to go and put the blankets away. But her words hang in the air. Heavy in your chest and clinging to you even after you leave. Even when you get home to the lights on, hope flickering inside of you as you unlock the door. Even when you walk into the flat to see Remus and Sirius cuddled up on the sofa after a trying day. Even when you smile and offer each of them a cup of tea. Even when Sirius scoots a little to the side to make space for you. Even when, in his deep slumber, Remus reaches for your hand under the thick blanket. Even when you wake the next morning, and they’re gone.
The flat is warm, and they’ve left you a freshly made cup of coffee on the kitchen table. Probably Remus. With a note. big day at the ministry, had to rush. see you at dinner? love you. sirius xx. You set it down, next to the fresh bouquet and drink your coffee in silence.
You go through the motions right after. Put on a relaxing record on Sirius’ turntable, light on a candle and hope the lavender helps Remus’ migraines when he comes home. You tidy a bit between sips and changes of outfits, and pluck a flower from the bouquet to use as a bookmark before leaving the flat to go to your own job.
It’ll pass, you tell yourself. Maybe being sad is a downside that no one tells you about being in love. A secret code that you must discover yourself. Whatever it is, you won’t let it taunt this, because it is a virtue to not let good love slip away. Because it is, even if it’s unhealthy or sad at times—you know, deep in your bones, that this love is good. So maybe staying silent and enduring a bit of uncertainty is a little frustrating, but is nothing compared to the love you know they feel for you. And you feel for them.
At work, you busy yourself being useful. Even if it’s a bit boring at times. Marlene makes a joke that the girl working at the Level 6 coffee shop has a massive crush on her, you pile on with your coworkers that maybe she’s just nice and has nothing to do with Marlene being a retired Quidditch star. Dorcas comes down to visit at some point and steals her away, and you have a stretch of free time where busying yourself being useful isn’t doing the trick anymore.
Then, Sirius comes down from his Wizengamot meeting with a tense posture but a smile to ease any stress away. He kisses you and flirts with you before dragging you out for a quick lunch, claiming he’s famished and that maybe you should stop by Level 4 to coax Remus out of his cubicle. You let him, swallowing down questions about his meeting knowing well he’ll say it went well because he doesn’t want to worry you. You share a smoke outside the café after lunch, fussing over Remus and the upcoming full moon and how you shouldn’t worry about it because it’s the least they want for you. He dips you low with a long and sweet kiss before saying goodbye. You don’t ask where he’s going, knowing he’s meeting up with Regulus.
You do walk back inside the café to order a quick lunch for Remus, they wrap it warm and ready for you to drop it off at his cubicle on your way to yours. He looks up from his work, stressed and easily irritable. But never to you. You know it’s the full moon, and his migraines, so you kiss his head and wish him a good day before taking the elevator back to your level.
Remus goes to find you hours later, looking apologetic and wondering if he can spend his lunch hour with you. You pretend to be casual about it, smiling and preparing two cups of tea for you instead of making it a big deal. To not make it so obvious, how you take whatever they give you. A shared smoke, a shared lunch—small stretches of time of their days before you have to return home. Alone.
You water the flowers, you change into comfortable clothes and put on a film while you wait for them to return. It’s still early, anyway. The book Remus has been trying to read is on the coffee table, and maybe he won’t mind if you start reading it yourself. He hasn’t touched it in weeks, maybe if he sees you read it he’ll get out of his slump. You don’t get much into the book, but it’s nice. It’s nice to feel connected to him, somehow.
The night stretches, and you make dinner for three. Leaving their plates on the counter ready to heat up for them to eat, it’s okay. You can sit with them while they debrief about their day, they’ve already told you that it’s okay to eat before them if you’re hungry. You bring dinner to the living room, and a small glass of wine. One you mentioned in passing to love and the same one Sirius stocked you up the next day. The film you choose is barely entertaining, but the thematic cores still make you cry.
They come home later, together and very tired. Sharing murmurs and whispers, apologies about being away from each other and you for the entire day. Ready to share a small stretch of time before heading to bed. But all they find is a lavender candle on, Sirius’ wine and two glasses at the table, and their plates ready to heat up. It’s nearly midnight, and they know because of your calendar on the fridge that you have an early meeting tomorrow, so they eat in silence knowing you’re sound asleep in the room. Aware that you fell asleep waiting for them.
₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩
The next morning, you don’t go to work. There’s no meeting. Or at least that early in the morning. Not like you’ve written down in your calendar. You prepare coffee for three, and water the flowers and write them a little note for them to find when they wake up. big meeting today! wish me luck, can’t wait to tell you all about it later. i love you. yn xx. The flat is silent, but smelling like coffee and lavender when you close the door behind you.
You head directly to St. Mungo’s, to find a healer that can tell you what’s wrong with you. You’ve searched up symptoms, possible outcomes to your uneasiness and why you keep feeling the way you do. Desperate to fix whatever’s wrong with you and do it quickly, erase it before they can notice it. Before they can realize they’re what’s wrong with you.
So when the healer says you’re fine, you stay silent. You nod and let her go on about possible reasons, work, maybe hormones, maybe you’re coming down with something. You stay silent and accept her instructions for a few potions that could help, thank her on your way out and head directly to the Ministry.
When it’s lunchtime, your heart does a somersault when you step out of your cubicle to see them step out of the elevator. Remus holds the flowers when it’s obvious Sirius can’t, carrying various takeout containers from your favourite restaurant near the flat. You try not to be so obvious, how pathetically happy you feel by their presence. You try to push down your need to cling, to cling to them and accept their kisses and the way they listen to your made up stories about the meeting. In return, you try, maybe, with the confidence of this olive branch, to ask them about their endeavors. If Remus needs you to run to the shop for any wolfsbane or other potions he might need. If Sirius maybe wants company the next time he has to talk to Regulus.
So when they turn it down, brush down your help and claim you shouldn't worry about them, that it’s too much and heavy for you to bear, you stay silent. You smile and continue eating and answering their questions about your day. You nod and laugh at their jokes and try not to cling to hope when they leave with a kiss each and a promise to see you later at James and Lily’s for Harry’s six months celebration.
When Marlene returns from her own lunch break, you only suppress the weight on your chest. You smile and fill her in on your surprise visit, you ask her questions in return and she answers with a smile that rings the alarms in your head.
“What?”
She hums, turning in her chair. “Nothing, s’just… are you okay?”
You frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just…” she scratches her eyebrow. Her nervous tell. “you just told me your boyfriends surprised you with flowers and a whole banquet for lunch, and yet you sound like someone ripped your heart out.”
You ignore the way her words feel like a crack in your heart, knowing they come out of a place of love and worry. “Have you been talking to Lily lately?”
Marlene sits straight. “Should I?”
“No.” You say immediately, turning to your desk and resume working. “I meant about Harry. Did she say what time we should be there?”
“Uh…” she looks around. “y/n.”
“I think I’ll get there earlier. Harry’s been a tad fussier lately and,” you go on, stream rolling any of her attempts to reroute the conversation to your obvious, apparently to everyone but yourself, sadness. “I’m sure she’ll need help setting everything up.”
Before she can speak, you make up a quick excuse to run to the loo. Marlene watches you go, knowing you’re not going to the loo. Not when you’ve taken your wallet with you. She only returns to her work and covers for you when your boss walks by and notices you’re not at your desk.
You don’t go to the loo. You slip out of the Ministry and head towards Diagon Alley, desperate enough to bypass any worries that someone might recognize when you step into the apothecary with the healer’s written instructions. You buy your potions and drink them in a rush, hoping they’ll ease whatever’s wrong with you before tonight. When you return to your desk, Marlene asks you about work, and you return to your normal routine before clocking out.
Before heading to the Potter’s, you stop by the flat to change quickly and collect Harry’s gift. You suck in a nervous breath before pushing the door open, knowing it’s useless to hope but doing it anyway when you step inside. It’s exactly how they must’ve left it in the morning. The mugs are cleaned and set up on the cupboard. You put them where they belong, knowing it’s an easy mistake to make. You take the old bouquet and replace it with the new one and walk into your room to change.
You take time picking your clothes, and pretend it’s not for them. You freshen up and collect Harry’s gift before walking out of the flat, heading towards the Potters with a weight on your chest that dissipates slowly with every step closer to the cottage. Before knocking, you suck in a breath and put on your best smile. Or what you hope is genuine enough.
It’s okay, though. Because James opens the door with Harry in his arms, and the pain disappears almost magically. James makes small talk, knowing what he’s trying to tiptoe around and not giving him reasons to worry. Work is fine. Remus is doing better, his knee isn’t troubling him that much lately. I think Sirius had a small breakthrough with Regulus, I heard he’s accepted to look for flats. Me? I’m okay. I can’t believe Harry is already six months old. Just the usual. When Lily joins the conversation, sending you a knowing look, you go silent.
Good thing Harry loves to fill your silences. A quiet and absurdly funny agreement you somehow managed to create with him. He gargles and giggles at you, holding your hand and asking you to walk him around the cottage like a glorified chauffeur.
When the rest of the guests arrive, one by one, you pretend to be busy helping Lily make sure nothing’s missing when you poke your head out the kitchen every time the door opens. Hoping. Hoping. Hoping. Even if you tell yourself it’s just a matter of practically, checking who’s missing before setting plates out. You’re definitely not waiting for them to cross the threshold.
Except, when they do, you barely notice.
Harry has forced you to sequester yourself to his nursery to help him sleep. Candles have been blown, pictures have been taken and gifts opened, the baby is tired and Lily is too happy and cheerful with the festivities to make her leave. So you offer to put him to sleep. You trace idle patterns on his forehead, touch tender and featherlight; your fingertip travels from his eyebrows to his little nose and cheek and up again. He falls asleep not long after and you return to the party feeling a tiny bit lighter.
“There you are, m’love.” Sirius says as soon as you climb the last step. Your heart picks up rhythm, tugging towards him where he meets you in the middle. When he plants a kiss on the side of your face, you feel stupidly teary. “I thought you went home.”
“I was with Harry,” you explain, savoring the way he hugs you. Selfishly, almost. But quick, too quick. You school your expression before it can give you away as he steps away. “Took a bit, but he’s sound asleep.”
“Thank you!” James calls out from the living room. “It’s almost a miracle how quickly you can put him to sleep.”
“She truly has the magic touch,” Sirius says agreeably, tucking you to his side. “Don’t you, love?”
“I think so,” you shrug, smiling a bit.
“You do.” Remus says, reaching for you in the same way your heart stutters with hope. With love and affection and everything that has been craving. “Hi, saved you a piece of cake while you were upstairs.”
You blink, dazed and overwhelmed by their presence. “Oh. Thank you,” you accept it, wiggling your fingers before setting a hand out and hiding the way they shake. Remus is too busy kissing your cheek in greeting to notice, and you’re eating the cake before he can start paying attention. “When did you get here?”
“A while ago,” Sirius answers, tugging you with him towards the living room for the empty loveseat they’ve left for you. He smiles as he sits, eyeing you appreciatively. You try to control the way your heart flutters. “You look lovely.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course,” he pats the empty spot beside him, a funny lilt to his tone. “You always do. Doesn’t she, Moons?”
“She does,” Remus agrees readily, sitting down on the armrest by your side. His arm comes around your shoulders, without thought. It’s too much. “Is this the new dress you were talking about?”
You clear your throat. “Yeah. Got it the other day on my way from work.”
Remus hums appreciatingly, too. You look down at your cake, knowing how intoxicating their combined appreciation and affection can be.
“y/n?”
You look away, searching for whoever’s calling for you. “Hm?”
Lily gestures at you from the bannister. “I think Harry woke up, can you… help me?”
“Of course,” you nod, standing up. Sirius wordlessly accepts your half eaten cake, frowning when he feels a light tremor in your fingers when they brush. “I’ll be right back.”
“Sure thing, dovey.” Remus nods, sliding down the armrest to take your vacated seat. Sirius wordlessly makes room for him as the conversation picks up again.
You climb the stairs with a knot in your chest.
When you get to the top, you’re surprised by how silent it is. No wailing Harry, not even fussing with discomfort. Complete silence, and Lily studying you quietly. Almost worryingly.
“What is it?”
“Do you need a couple of minutes?” she asks instead.
“What?”
“y/n…”
“I don’t. I’m okay.” You say quickly, feeling indescribably irritated by the interruption. For being dragged away from your boyfriends. “I’m fine.”
“Just—”
“Lily. I know, I know, okay?” you take a step back, down the stairs. “But I’m fine, I promise. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I sort of do, love. You’re… well—”
“I’m fine,” you repeat. With finality. “Thank you, though.”
Before she can speak, you turn around to rejoin the festivities. Remus doesn’t move from the spot, but he does reach for you to sit on his lap. Not quite between them, just there. The conversation goes on smoothly, Lily climbs down a moment later and you feel guilt gnaw at your insides when your gazes meet. She sends you a reassuring smile before sitting down.
At some point, Remus stands, claiming his knee is troubling him from sitting down all day. He drops a placating kiss to your shoulder before you can ask, or offer to go home. Sirius reaches for your hands when you’re back to his side, threading your fingers together and bringing your joined hands to his lap, then his chest. You feel drunk and happy and overwhelmed all at once. You don’t mind the way Remus shrugs down your help with his knee, not when he doesn’t pull away like other times. Maybe… maybe things are changing.
As the night stretches and you say goodbye to your friends, the three of you go home with tension lingering between you. It grows and grows the more they touch you, the more they kiss you and the more you wish you could just go home and let them properly love you. And that they do. Careful and slow and steady and gentle and everything you had wanted for months. They kiss you and hold you and caress you until you’re spent and tired. You shower and share kisses and return to bed hours later into the night, even when the sun is beginning to peek between the clouds. You climb between them after returning from the kitchen, setting the mugs and the coffee grounds in hopes of sharing a quick breakfast before heading out for work. Sirius reaches for you in his sleep, and you fall asleep content and more in love than ever.
When you wake, there’s a steaming cup of coffee on the nightstand, and two empty spots by your sides. The note by your alarm clock goes to your purse along with the rest. emergency situation at grimmauld place. will not be back until tomorrow cos of the full moon. we love you, s&r xx. You return to bed and cry yourself to sleep, or at least until your alarm goes off. Then, you’re off to work.
₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩
After work, you go to the healer again, and you leave St. Mungo’s with an even heavier weight on your chest and a note with a number for a muggle healer. The mind kind. The kind that, according to her, would be of more help than anyone at that hospital. You shove the number deep inside your purse and go home.
You go through the motions; tidy a bit, prepare everything for Remus, leave his potions and remedies at hand next to his side of the bed. You change the sheets again and stock up on tea and sweets. You go to a corner shop and look for the specific kind of biscuits Sirius likes, because you know he’ll be exhausted and fragile after handling whatever emergency at Grimmaul Place with Regulus and then the full moon. Then stop for the apothecary again for wolfsbane and more potions your healer instructed you to take whenever you resorted “to feeling wrong” again. You shove the potions deep inside your purse and return to the flat.
When you get to the floor, you’re surprised to find the door lightly ajar, only one push does it to let you in. You look around, categorizing the little ways you can help. But your boyfriends have made quick work of the things you’ve left out for them. The tea has been prepared, the gauzes used and the jar of wolfsbane has been emptied and left to be on the kitchen sink. You venture deep inside the flat, not even shredding your coat or purse or boots before tiptoeing inside your room.
Sirius looks up from the edge of the bed where he’s setting a damp cloth over Remus’ head. Cold for his migraines. He makes you a silencing gesture before standing up, arm coming around your waist to guide you out the room and closing the door behind him.
You can’t help it, you still ask. “How is he?”
“He’s been better,” he answers. The same as always. Vague enough to not worry you further. “Where were you?”
“Went to… uh,” you blink. Mind going blank. Sirius frowns, bending sideways to search for your gaze when it takes you a bit to answer. You clear your throat. “Sorry, um, I went to get wolfsbane. I didn’t know if we had any left so…”
His shoulders slump. “Oh, my love,” he hugs you. And it’s pathetic how you nearly melt into his arms. “you shouldn’t have. It’s too expensive, you know I always cover that.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Still,” he squeezes you tight before letting go. You feel uncomfortably teary when he takes a step back. “You shouldn’t worry about this. I know you, it’ll make you sick with worry.”
You almost laugh. But the sound could wake Remus up, and honestly, you don’t feel like laughing. Not really. So you stay silent, and let Sirius hug you again.
Once again, you hate yourself for asking. “Is…” you clear your throat. “Is Regulus okay? What happened?”
Like clockwork, Sirius steps back. He cups your face in his hands. “He’s okay,” he answers, but you know it’s mostly a lie. His throat bobbles like he’s pushing down something else. “Just… a bit of a false alarm. But he’s okay. Nothing to worry about.”
You take it for what it is. And you stay silent, nodding and pushing down the lump in your throat when he kisses your forehead. This time, you don’t feel your heart cracking when he steps back, eyes flickering to the room like he wants to check on Remus. You wordlessly take a step aside, letting him know it’s okay before turning to walk out the door. A full moon routine—stock up, come home, do a quick check up and pretend it’s your own decision to go outside to clear your head. Knowing Remus doesn’t want you to see him like this. You leave with a heavy heart and the same question you ask yourself every full moon, why does Sirius get to stay and not you? But now, with an equally heavy purse, you leave with an additional realization that maybe they’re what’s wrong with you.
₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩
It’s the end of the month, and the Ministry is a mess, everyone’s running around and getting work done, struggling to finish on time and ultimately staying extra hours to get the job done. Which means that they’ve seen less and less of you. Even if, funnily enough, things have gotten better.
Regulus has successfully moved out of Grimmauld Place, signing a lease for a small home near Diagon Alley and turning his back to the Black Legacy. Remus has been promoted at his cubicle job, less hours and more perks. The past full moon was a cruel one but according to his calculations it won’t come back until a few more years in a strange astronomy breakthrough. Things look up for them now, but now you’re not there to be on the receiving end of said good news.
They see you in passing between shared lunches and surprise visits, sharing kisses when you run through each other in the hallways and pretend they’re not going home to an empty flat.
It isn’t until Marlene accidentally walks in on you crying in the Level 10 bathrooms that it’s collectively decided that something needs to be done. In the moment, though, all she manages to come up with is an elaborate excuse to get you out of the Ministry and back home before marching to Level 4 and not being at all surprised when Sirius is already there with Remus. Not even casual, just straight up flirting.
“You heartless little shits,” she gripes.
Sirius twists, flashing her a grin. “To what do we owe that lovely moniker?”
“Don’t act so charming, Black,” she snaps. There’s genuine anger in her tone to make him falter, even Remus sits straight in his chair.
“What’s the problem with you?” he frowns, never one to back down from a challenge. “Are you even allowed out of your desk? With all the work you’re supposed to be doing?”
“And how are you supposed to know that?”
Sirius scoffs good naturedly. “Have you forgotten?” he leans back on the edge of the desk, stealing a sip from Remus’ tea. “We’ve got the loveliest insider keeping tabs on you.”
Marlene bristles. Actually bristles. “I just found this ‘lovely insider’ crying at the deepest level of this fucking building.”
Remus stands. “What?”
“When? Now?” Sirius pushes himself to stand.
She scoffs. “Now you want to know?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I won’t explain to you what you’ve been too blind to notice,” she snaps, all sharp edges and barely controlled fury. “Go home. Now.”
Remus reaches for his coat, not even stopping to think how this might look to his boss. They’re out of the Ministry in record time, not even taking the walk home and straight up using the Floo Network to get to the flat. Hearts up their throats and a heaviness that, finally, matches the one you’ve been carrying for months.
Except, when they get home, it’s empty. Exactly how you left it that morning. The brand new flowers at the center of the kitchen remain damp and recently watered, the mugs have been washed and put away in their respective shelves. But you’re nowhere to be seen. You must’ve taken the long way home.
Sirius exhales deeply, slumping on the couch. He runs a hand through his face, calm at first before it turns cruel and painful. He rubs at his eyes and presses his heels until he sees stars, until Remus crosses the living room to guide them away. They share a silence, acutely aware of how deafening your absence is.
“She’s been quiet lately.” Remus murmurs, pacing around the coffee table. He takes the book at the center, under the candle and one he recognizes. One he’s been meaning to read for months. “Quieter than usual.”
“I thought it was because of her weird boss but…” Sirius trails off. “Fuck, I don’t know.”
Remus drops a kiss to his head, thumbing at his loose hairs before standing straight. “We’ll talk about it, yeah?” he says, soft and gentle despite his own nerves. “Now we wait for her to get home. It won’t be long.”
“I wish she would stop insisting on taking the tube.”
“You know how she is.”
“Yeah, I know,” he sighs, dropping his face to his palms. “She’s probably having an off week at work.”
“I’ll prepare the bath for her, when she returns,” Remus says, voice echoey as he walks down the hallway and into the room. “Set out her comfies and make sure she feels better when she returns.”
Sirius stands, feeling torn with guilt and hopeful with purpose. He makes himself useful around the living room while Remus prepares the room for you, tidying a bit and setting everything for a quick dinner and a few cups of coffee or tea. He waters the bouquet and makes a mental note to get you a fresh one tomorrow.
It isn’t until he’s walked a few laps around the flat that he notices Remus has gone awfully quiet in the room.
He starts towards the hallway. “Hey, Moons. You think I’ve got time to run to—” he halts by the threshold at what he sees. Remus sits by the edge of the bed. Your side, usually. The drawer under the bed is open and he’s hunched over himself, running a hand through his forehead as he reads off various notes and pages. Sirius frowns. “What is it?”
Remus shakes his head once, clearing his throat before turning the crinkled page towards him. “Did you know anything about this?”
“What is it?”
“Healer’s instructions.”
Sirius feels the floor giving out under him. “What? Yours?” he asks, stupid really. He knows Remus would rather suck it up and suffer than go to St. Mungo’s, and, last time he checked, he hasn’t stopped by, either. And the only person they could belong to— “No.”
“They’re from different dates.” Remus goes through them. Stacked together with a few potions’ instructions and the notes they’ve left for you. The first ones. “For fuck’s sake.”
“What is it?”
Remus doesn’t answer at first, but his posture has tensed up. He reads and reads and reads like the pages would change contents, turning them over and going through each before handing them over to Sirius to read. Trouble sleeping. Loss of appetite. Sleeping too much, or sleeping too little. Shortness of breath. Then, the notes. He runs a hand through his face, hand shaking and heart heavy. saw you in passing on my way out of the ministry, you looked really lovely today. love you. sirius xx. thank you for the chocolates dovey. they really help. love, remus xx. Notes and notes and more notes. It isn’t until he gets to the very last one, that he feels his heart being cracked open, to pieces and completely torn. Treatment options, Janus Thickey Ward or—
He looks up, frowning at the ripped corner. “Or what?”
Remus shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“How,” he goes through the notes again. Reading and rereading, trying to understand the words and somehow make them fit into you—surely they would’ve noticed? Right? “How didn’t we notice?”
“I thought…” Remus looks away, hunching over his knees. He runs a cruel hand over his face, elbows digging into his knees as he tries to think. “Fuck.”
Sirius paces around the room and ignores the fact that he’s left the tea to go cold in the kitchen. He sets the notes aside, on the dresser and away from his sight before doing a full turn out the room. Towards the foyer, with a shaking hand, he reaches for his jacket. Steps follow and a scarred hand is holding him back, stopping him from taking another step out the door.
“I’m going to look for her, Remus.”
“And do what?”
“She can’t be alone. It’s late, she—”
“She could be anywhere, how do you plan to find her?”
Sirius steps away. “And what do you suggest we do? Wait?”
Remus only nods, jaw tight. “Yes,” he says plainly. Eyebrows furrowed and face cracked open with guilt. “We wait for her to get home and try to talk to her.”
So they wait.
They make themselves useful, tidying the living room and cleaning the cupboards. Sirius starts on the tea again and completely ignores the flower vase, staring back at him like the proof of what they’ve done. Remus only lays down the clothes on the bed, neat and clean. He folds the notes and the pages carefully and puts them back inside your drawer, chest heavy with guilt at his blindness and for finding them in the first place. They wait and wait, they make dinner and pretend it’s normal for you to take this long to get home. They wait and shower and get into their own pajamas to wait for you.
₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩
When you return, it’s hours later. Long into the night. You look exhausted and awfully sad. Resigned, almost. It’s too late, and Remus and Sirius have fallen asleep waiting for you. The tea remains untouched, the bath goes cold and you change into your comfies in silence before settling on your side of the bed. You fall asleep crying, knowing you’ll wake up to empty sheets and an even emptier flat. A new note if you’re lucky.
Except, when you wake. They’re there.
You don’t open your eyes at first, they feel heavy and you give yourself a couple of minutes to start waking up. It’s still early, your alarm isn’t set to go off until a couple of hours. Maybe they’re having an early morning, a head start on the day before work. You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling and aware that the bed is empty but the flat isn’t.
Maybe if you go into the living room, you might have a couple of minutes before they’re set to leave. Maybe you can have a quick breakfast, or a small lie in. Maybe Sirius would let you sleep a little on the sofa with him before Remus wakes him up and scolds him for being late again. Maybe you can bring your makeup to the living room and get ready while they drink their coffee?
You glance at the door, seeing their shadows under the sliver of light. Maybe today you’ll let them be. It’s okay, you tell yourself, you’ll talk to them later at dinner. You’ll try to do what the muggle therapist advised you to do and talk to them, maybe you’ll stop by the café on your way out of work for a few pastries—sweeten the conversation and pretend it’s not a coaxing technique to get them home early. Maybe it’s best to let them be, have a day for themselves before you… well, ruin it.
A lump forms in your throat, and you turn to your side, curling into yourself and pretend it doesn’t hurt. Pretend you didn’t spend the previous day crying and sobbing inside a tiny office and hear a muggle tell you exactly what you feared was wrong with you.
There’s a rasp on the door, quiet and tentative at first before it opens. Achingly slow before Remus pokes his head in. He’s not wearing his uniform, and his hair is tousled—like he’s just woken up or ran a hand through it over and over again.
“Oh,” he blinks, surprised to see you awake. “Hi, dovey. Good morning.”
You turn, clearing your throat and pretending this isn’t turning your morning upside down. Your heart, too. “Hi.”
“Uh,” he steps fully inside, looking heartbreakingly lost and confused. It makes your throat constrict, and it’s a conscious effort to not make your eyes flicker down the bed. To your drawer where you’ve shoved the therapist’s notes and written instructions. “Sirius ran to that café you like down the street for breakfast, he should be back soon. Would you like a cup while we wait?”
You push yourself to sit. The question crawls and crawls up your throat, trying to escape. You’re staying? “That’s… okay, yeah,” you turn to the clock. “I’ve still got a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours?”
“It’s Friday,” you explain, despite yourself. Knowing how against this is to your heart’s deepest wishes. They’re here, they’ve got breakfast for you and you’re saying you have to work? “I… well, I still have to go to work. I left early yesterday, I can’t miss it.”
You regret your words immediately after you speak, Remus’ shoulder slump, nodding in understanding and you turn to sit on the edge of the bed so you don’t have to see the heartbreak that comes with his amber eyes. So you don’t have to see him walk out of the room and let you be.
Except… he doesn’t. You stand, forcing yourself to get started with your day and remind yourself that the heaviness of your chest is just something you’ll have to learn how to handle, how to endure and carry by yourself for a while. Or at least until you muster any ounce of courage to tell them about it. Maybe tomorrow night? Remus is looking at you in a way that makes you consider calling in sick—but what if it’s just for a couple of hours? What if they end up needing to go? They’re important at work now, they might be needed. But so do you. You can’t simply call in sick, even if… well, you do have a note. A reason—No, you can’t. You’ll tell them at dinner.
Right as you’re about to round the bed, start on your day and get changed, Remus stops you before you can get to your dresser. His touch is dizzying and overwhelming at once, thumb sweeping at your elbow as he tries to coax you to look at him. You want to, you so desperately want to let him hold you and look directly into his pretty eyes, but you know better. You know how weak you are, how easily you can give into the high of being on the receiving end of their attention, their affections. You know you will either let them kiss you and drag you back to bed, or end up spilling your heart open before breakfast. You’re at crossroads and Remus is looking at you like he can see it, like he knows. You wish he knew. Maybe everything would be easier… or maybe… just maybe… this wouldn't have happened, if they knew.
No. You shake your head. Don’t go there.
“...sweetheart?
You blink, forcing your head up to meet his gaze. “Hm? Yes?”
Remus parts his lips a bit, like he’s actively holding himself back and bracing for whatever he will ask you. You find yourself doing the same. But he shakes his head, too. His hand coasts up from your elbow higher and higher the length of your arm, all the way to your shoulder. It’s a nice touch, you almost shudder like your body is finally catching up and recognizing the feeling of his skin touching yours. You swallow thickly, feeling your weak defenses and self mantras dissolving when he pulls you to him into a hug.
You suck in a breath, quiet so he doesn’t hear how complete you feel with his arms around you, chests pressed together in a way you know he’d hear your pounding heart if he pressed you closer. His arms tighten in the right places, around your back and shoulders with a hand up the back of your head that makes you think that maybe… things really are changing. Maybe you can call off work and talk things through. Maybe, yes, they’re what’s wrong with you, but there’s still time to make them right. But how can you even open your mouth to speak when the tears have already won you over? So you stay silent instead. Just a couple of minutes like this. You’ll take this, you’ll take the hug and the breakfast and the extra hours of morning light and warm coffee.
His thumb strokes at the baby hairs of your neck, an absentminded sweep that one would think it’s just muscle memory if you didn’t know better. Remus’ hand splays over your back, pulling you closer like he physically wants—needs to mould you to him. It’s enough to make a sniffle escape you, traitorous and hopeful and pathetic. Naturally, more follow. Then, a sob tears right through your throat and the jumble of feelings you’re desperately trying to push down. And you can’t keep silent this time.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, a warm breath in your ear. His thumb strokes your nape again, again and again. “I’m so sorry.”
You shake your head, finding in yourself the strength to speak. “No. S’fine, I just…” your breath stutters, not quite catching up with the adrenaline of his arms around you. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.”
Remus makes a sound, quiet but evident in his pain as he guides you a little away. His hands travel up to your face, eyebrows bunched together when your gazes meet and his eyes flit down to the tears in your cheeks. How many nights you spent the same way, crying, and crying and crying hoping they would come back—hoping they would hear or notice you’re falling apart between them in their sleep.
The front door opens and closes, followed by paper bags crinkling and tentative steps. You silence yourself immediately, knowing that, if he knew, if he heard… any plans to contain this would go down the drain. But Sirius has never been one to ignore the sound of your pain or the tension in the room once he notices it. Papers cling as he sets them down, boots stomping against the wooden floors as he starts towards the room.
Something primal about their worry, their combined panic and pain makes you move. You turn around, brushing your hair away and pretending nothing has happened, that you’re simultaneously choking on your own tears and the tension that has taken over the room. Sirius looks frustrated and sad and you’re desperately reminding yourself that it’s not at you. It can’t be at you. He would never.
“Hey—”
“I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” you speak over him, sidestepping Remus to get to your dresser. “Sorry.”
Sirius shakes his head. “What are you sorry for?”
You rummage a bit sharper inside your drawers, searching for what? You don’t know, but you have to move. You have to go. Their attention, while intoxicating as it used to be, now it feels like it’s cutting the oxygen of the room. You can’t tell them. You can’t, not when you’ve already ruined a perfectly good morning. Their plans for breakfast. Maybe walking you to work. All gone. Because you gave in, you clung to Remus and his touch and the way he hugged you. You can’t.
“You can’t what, sweetheart? Remus asks.
Your eyes snap up. “Huh?”
Sirius takes a step closer, deeper into the room. “You can’t… what?”
“What?”
They share a look, and alarm bells ring inside your head. You close the drawer, holding your clothes against your chest and trying to walk between them to get to the bathroom. Just a couple of minutes, a couple of steps—
“Wait.” Sirius says. His hand takes your elbow, too. It’s shaking. Or maybe that’s just you.
“Sirius, I have to get ready,” you point at your clothes.
He bends slightly to the side, searching for your gaze and finding it hard to even look at him. Not when it’s hard to pinpoint what it means. Months ago, you used to know him and his moods, the way he thought and the way he went quiet when he struggled. Now you don’t know if the frown between his eyebrows has anything to do with you. Or stress. Or how he went out early in the morning for breakfast and returned to a flat full of doom and pain. This was a bad idea. You shouldn’t have waited, you should’ve get started on your day as you woke up and head out before it could get to this point. You should’ve stayed silent.
“Can you look at me, my love?”
You don’t at first. Not because you don’t want to, you so desperately want to look at him. But first you must swallow down whatever is obstructing your breath, the weight on your chest and make yourself better until it’s time to go. You want to look at him and smile and let him kiss you and guide you to the kitchen for breakfast. But part of you, the deepest and most selfish parts of you, wants to simply bite the bullet and look up. Let him see how much you’re hurting, even if that’s the least you want. It’s useless—you still don’t know what’s wrong with you.
He exhales deeply, it sounds shaky even to your own ears. But he only takes a step closer, hand lowering until he’s coaxing your arm out of holding onto your clothes to hold it to his chest. “Why don’t you stay home today?” he asks, voice at odds with his face. Soothing himself in real time when your eyes flicker up in surprise. “I know you need to go to work, but I… we can’t let you go like this. Not when there’s still something we’d like to talk to you about.”
Your throat constricts. “Talk?” you ask, eyes flickering from him to Remus. “About what? Can’t it wait?”
He glances up, definitely sending Remus a panicked look that you do catch this time. When you try to take his distraction to step away, to give them a moment, Sirius threads your fingers together. Pressed against his chest.
“No, actually,” he says, surer this time. “It can’t. I’m sorry, love.”
You nod, swallowing nervously. “Okay. I’ll… um, see if I can call in sick at work.”
Remus clears his throat. “Why don’t you change, clean your face or take a quick shower while we set breakfast, hm?” His hand returns to your nape, grounding and heavy at once. Like the hand tightening around your heart.
A panicked and intrusive thought crashes into your mind out of sudden—what if they’re breaking up with you? What if this is it? What if all this time they were slowly pulling away to make the fall less painful, the news easy to digest? What if—
“It’s okay, dove. Nothing’s wrong,” Remus reassures quickly, like he can feel the panic radiating off you. Or picking up the way your heart pounds. Either way, it doesn’t help to calm you down. He takes a step closer. “We just want to talk, uh… catch up, more like it.”
“Catch up?”
“Yeah.”
Sirius’ thumb brushes the back of your hand, looking more and more like he wants to cry. You nod. You’d accept anything to lessen whatever tension has them looking so devastated, so sad. He mirrors it, looking a tad relieved and kissing your cheek before walking out the room. Remus does the same, giving your nape a loving squeeze before following him out.
You don’t allow yourself to process it, not yet. You go through the motions first. You make the bed, switch your clothes and tidy the room before going into the bathroom to clean your face and brush your teeth and do your hair. Then, you call Marlene. It’s a conscious effort to keep your voice even when she asks if you’re okay, and you reassure her many times that you are, that you’re only feeling under the weather and that you owe her a favour for covering for you. When she hangs up. You let yourself cry.
When you step out, a couple of minutes later, you think you’ve successfully rearranged your insides so they don’t come spilling out the moment you open your mouth. It takes a bit, and a hurried and pathetic attempt to remember everything the mind healer told you, the breathing exercises and the quiet mantras to calm yourself. They help, but just a bit. All the work comes undone when you step out the bathroom, finding the empty room and the door ajar. Whispers echo from the living room, quieter and broken despite their desperate attempts to even their tones.
You muster your courage, your strength and your pain altogether to round the bed; crouching down to open the drawer and collect your notes. A small museum of your relationship, the good and the bad. The notes and the silence, the love and the loneliness. All cramped between your clothes and old books under the bed. You fold them and tuck them in your pocket before walking out of the room. Not yet.
“It’s okay, love. It’s okay, we’re okay,” Remus whispers, over and over as Sirius holds onto him. “She’s okay. We’ll talk, yeah? We’ll fix it.”
“I don’t know.” Sirius whispers back, voice fraught and quiet. Too quiet. You stay silent, watching with a tightness inside your chest. He shakes his head. “I don’t know if this is something we can fix, Remus.”
“But we’ll try, yeah? We will.”
You look away. You stay silent. And you let them be. Not yet.
You walk back to the room, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to ignore the dark pitch on your stomach, growing and growing. Maybe you were right. Things were changing, but it took you a bit to realize you’re not part of those changes.
This time, you don’t check the lock before the first sob escapes your lips, embarrassed and frustrated at yourself for all your attempts going in vain. For staying silent in hopes of salvaging this, hoping things would go back to normal, that your patience was a small sacrifice for a greater purpose. That you clung to them, to stop this good love from slipping away. Not noticing it was already far from reach.
You let them be, and stay silent as you cry. You cry and cling to traitorous hope that they’ll notice, or not. Or let you be. You’ve trapped yourself in a dilemma that is ultimately the result of your own actions, wanting to be seen without having to beg.
No.
You shake your head, rub your face, then press the heels of your hands into your eyes. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. You can still make it right. It doesn’t have to feel wrong, not always. Every love has its period of uncertainty, of pain and loneliness. This is a good love, you can’t let it slip away. Even good love has to go through changes. Not yet. You will talk to them—and say what? You will try, but not yet—
“y/n?” Sirius asks, tentative at first as he pushes the door open. Slow, a contrast to the way your hands fly to clean your cheeks. He sucks in a breath.
You stand. “Sorry, I’ll be right there.”
He reaches for you, not even giving you enough time to take a step. His arms tighten around you, nearly collapsing into you with the force of his hug. His desperation. Whatever it is, you’re too raw and confused—it must rub off on you. Because it all goes downhill after that.
₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩
The breakfast has turned soggy, you push it around your plate and pretend you’re not eating it because you’re still too raw. Not because you fear this will be the last.
The notes and pages grow heavy with every passing minute, every hug and every silent look. How funny it all is, that you’ve finally gotten what you wanted, and you can’t bring yourself to enjoy it. Or at least not the way you’d want to. Not when you can’t bring yourself to open your mouth without feeling like you’re running on borrowed time, and silencing yourself immediately.
You set your fork down, glancing around the flat. The table, same one you’d share early breakfast and late dinners. The first piece of furniture you picked together. Then, the living room, the coffee table, the bookshelves, the turntables and the kitchen and— your hand flies to your face, choking up on realizations and grief. This can’t be. How can it be the end? This is good, you formed a home together. This is a good love, how can it end?
A chair scrapes, and Remus is already crouching by your side, pulling it aside to reach for you. His knees crack but his arms are desperate and steady when they pull you to him. This time, you have no qualms in scolding yourself for melting into his touch, his embrace that feels sacred and devastating at once. Your chest hurts and hiccups as you cry, turning your head and maybe hide away in his arms.
“I tried,” you whisper. It comes out like a whispered confession, like something that escapes your lips. “I just want you to know that I did try to keep up.”
He pulls away, but it’s Sirius who speaks first. “We know that now,” his voice is quiet, heavy with sorrow. Or grief. Whatever it is, your heart clenches. “We’re the ones who didn’t.”
“No—”
“We didn’t, y/n.”
“You had many things going on. Regulus, and the full moons and the transformations and—”
“And so did you. It seems.”
You suck in a breath, eyes flickering between them. Remus thumbs at your tears, his own eyes glassy and full of despair. “What do you mean?” They share a quick look, and the weight on your chest expands. Heavier and heavier, it cuts your oxygen. “Who told you?”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Remus murmurs, thumb sweeping your cheek when tears won’t stop trailing down your face. “Someone had to point it out for us to notice.”
“Who?” you swallow thickly. “Was it Marlene? Lily?”
Remus closes his eyes, and Sirius only runs a hand over his face. “You see now?” he asks, too full of grief. “All the people who noticed before we did?”
“You had many things on your plate and I couldn’t do that to you, I knew you were struggling and—”
Sirius shakes his head. “You were struggling, too! For months!”
You look away. “I didn’t mean for it to get bad,” you confess. “I tried. I really did, I promise.” you explain. No, you beg. You plead. Because the idea of your silence being the reason they walk away is too terrifying to even entertain. “I just…”
Remus strokes your face. “Please don’t silence yourself,” his arm lowers to your lap, holding your hand in his. His scars glisten with the tears he’s cleaned. Yours, Sirius’, his own. “Don’t slip away.”
Your face twists in pain, because it is a virtue to not let good love slip away—and right now it’s beginning to feel like a flaw. For slipping away from them, for letting it get to this point. For staying silent.
“I just…” you hold onto his hand. “I just missed you, so, so much. And I didn’t know why.” Their faces crack at the way your voice catches, heavy with pain and grief and the months you had to endure their absence.
“Oh, my love—” Sirius’ voice cracks, chair scraping as he stands. You’re fisting his jumper before he can even fully wrap his arms around you, clinging and clinging, and feeling the way they cling to you in return. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. They repeat, over and over and over, and you stay silent. Because it’s starting to feel like the moment they say goodbye. And you’re clinging to hope that maybe, you can get a couple of extra minutes like this. Clinging to hope. Clinging to them.
Remus’ arms shake when he tries to fix his hold around you, and his fingers brush the pages peeking from the back pocket of your trousers. He draws back a bit, just enough to pull them out.
Your breath hitches. Then even more when you look up to realize they’re not surprised at what they find. Remus unfolds them like he had been the one folding them back into your pocket, into your drawer. Sirius steps back, hands at your jaw as he cleans your tears. And the table suddenly feels like there’s something hanging in the air that you’re not privy to.
“I was going to tell you,” you’re quick to explain, words tripping out of your tongue. Barely taking shape before you’re uttering them, barely making sense to your own ears before they make sense to them. “I just… I didn’t know how and I didn’t know…” you falter.
Remus looks up. “Earlier you said that lately you don’t know what’s wrong with you,” his voice is terrifyingly calm as he thumbs at the pages. He hands them back to you. “Is this… why?”
For some reason, you find yourself nodding. Speaking. Pushing past your dread and let the truth slip out. “Yeah,” you rub your eyes. “Yes. I… well, I thought maybe it was work at first but—turns out I’m fine. The healer said I was fine.”
Sirius dabs at his cheeks. “So you kept going.”
“Yeah. I… it didn’t make sense. What she said and how I felt.”
Remus’ hands travel up, resting on your shoulders before thumbing at your jaw, your neck. Grounding motions that only bring more pain rather than comfort. “And how do you feel?”
Even if you try to look away, his sad eyes are a sight too hard to ignore. You thumb at the pages, the corner you ripped with the mind healer’s number to hide it from them, the little love notes you clung to when uncertainty was too big to ignore. To brush off.
“I…” your eyebrows twitch together, a fleeting movement that tells them everything. Everything you’re trying and failing to put into words.
He can’t help it, Sirius shakes his head at your silence. Your struggle to find the words. “I’m sorry.”
“I just…” you run a hand through your chest, trying to suppress the weight inside. Forcing it to either dissipate or to take the shape of something that can be easy to understand. You look away, then. “You know, the first person I tried to talk about this with was Lily. One day I stopped by to visit her. I told her as best as I could, hoping she would help me understand… she listened. And all she said is that I seemed very sad for a girl so in love. And it’s the only thing that has made sense through all of this. I love you so much, and yet I’m sad all the time.”
Remus looks away, eyes slipping shut. You wonder if it’s too much for you to clean his tears, but then remember this might be your last chance, so you do. He leans into your palm, and the knot in your throat tightens. Sirius makes a sound that makes your insides rattle and freeze at the same time.
“No.”
“Sirius—”
“No. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Your eyebrows twitch again. The faintest of movements. “I know.”
His voice cracks. “You were supposed to be happy and… and feel loved not—” his face glistens with tears. “Not sad. Not like this.”
You run a finger through Remus’ face, touch featherlight as you follow after a rogue tear that drags a path down one of his scars. He opens his eyes with realization, taking your hand in his to lower them to his chest.
“You were sad because we kept asking you to wait, wasn’t it?”
Sirius looks back at you, fear and realization dawning on him when you don’t answer. Remus inhales sharply.
You stare back at him, focusing on his tears and finding a way to make it easier to say. To make the words and their meaning easier to hear. “I just…” you sniffle. “I knew it was out of protection, that it was for my own good,” you pause, swallowing back a sob even when it begs to escape your lips. “But you never once stopped to ask me if that’s what I wanted.”
The silence that follows is deafening enough that you feel it in your own bones, your heart, freezing with dread and refusing to stutter with hope when the words finally leave your lips. Hope that they’ll understand. Hope that you love them despite it all. And hope that they know you would’ve stayed—
“I would’ve stayed,” you whisper, dragging the back of your hand over your cheeks. “There’s nothing none of you could’ve done or said to scare me off. I just…” you take a sharp inhale, and your hand turns, covering your face as the tears start falling again. “I just wanted to be there. Not just for the good—but… the ugly parts as well. That’s all I wanted.”
Sirius shifts, bending to take your face in his hands. Cleaning your tears when all you want to do is clean his. “You can have them. The good and the ugly parts.”
You shake your head. “You don’t have to say this.”
“I do. I do, y/n. I’m so sorry,” he holds you closer, bending down and down until his forehead is nearly pressed against yours. “You can have them.”
“Just,” Remus’ hold tightens around you. “Just please stop talking like you’re already halfway out the door.”
Traitorous hope flickers on inside your chest, too fast and burning too bright you can’t bring yourself to extinguish it. You swallow thickly, hoping it dies down. You know better than to go down that road again, but your heartstrings keep tugging you that way. Back to them, to their arms, their easy affections and the way they cling to you the longer the silence stretches on between you.
You shake your head, just to yourself at first. Don’t go there, don’t go there. The more you repeat it to yourself, the higher the flame gets. Burning brighter and brighter.
“You said it, you said this isn’t something that can be fixed,” you explain. Almost pleading, pleading for them to understand you. To know why what they’re saying it’s only feeding the fire of your hope. “And maybe you’re right—”
“No.” Sirius says, with resolve and stuttering breaths as he shakes his head. “No, we’re not. Because that’s not what I meant.”
“What?”
“I don’t know if the way we’ve hurt you is something that can be fixed that easily,” he says, bending closer until he meets your equally teary gaze. “that’s what I meant.”
“We’d never think of us as something unfixable, dove.” Remus adds, voice fraught. “Never.”
“No?” your voice quietens. Why wouldn’t it? When hope keeps pressing down and down at your chest, trying to find its way back in, it doesn’t care if there isn’t room for something else. “Even after this?”
“Even after this,” he agrees immediately. “There’s nothing worth more time and effort and fixing than this. Nothing.”
“But—”
“Earlier you kept saying you tried. Many times.” Sirius steps in, voice gaining momentum. “And you’re not the only one trying. Not anymore.”
You feel like the flame inside your chest has spread throughout your body. Hope is a dangerous thing. As intoxicating as it is painful.
“I don’t know if I’d handle it again. I won’t survive it,” you confess, first to yourself before glancing up to meet their teary gazes. “Don’t make me hope.”
As soon as the words leave your lips, you brace. You wait for the moment they draw away from you, realizing the depth of your pain. What they’ll have to work with and decide it’s not worth it in the end.
Except… they don’t. If anything, they get closer.
Remus brings your hands to his chest again. “Then don’t hope.”
Your breath hitches. “What?”
“You took the risk before, and see how much it hurt you. It’s okay not to hope, and we won’t expect you to,” he goes on. “Because that’s for us to do… for us to earn.”
“If you need to doubt, doubt us.” Sirius says, thumb sweeping at your cheeks and silently relieved there are no new tears to clean. “And…” he pauses, wetting his lips. “If you need time. Take it.”
And just like that, the flicker of hope extinguishes. But Remus only holds you closer, feeling the way it dims and the way your eyes gloss over again.
“Not time away. Just time to earn your trust again, to show you that we’ll work through fixing this. To show you the good and the ugly parts.”
You nod, slowly and just once. “Okay,” you exhale deeply. Maybe the first one that actually leaves all the way in a while. “Okay, yeah.”
Sirius mirrors your nod, holding your gaze as you try to gather your thoughts. Remus brings your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles and pressing them to his chest. In the same stutter of breath, you reach for each other again. And this time, you don’t cling as hard.
You nudge closer to him, and he turns his head to kiss your temple. So unbearably soft and tender you feel teary once again. Sirius steps back, holding your face in his hands and kissing the tears away while Remus stands. He drops a quick kiss to the crown of your head before reaching for the plates and the rest of the food to take them to the kitchen.
“Why don’t we go outside for a walk?” he says, rejoining you a bit later with a little, if fleetingly tentative smile. “The weather’s nice enough, maybe we can clear our heads. What do you think, dovey?”
“Actually,” you sniffle, brushing your hair away and feeling acutely aware of how not okay you might look right now. “I was thinking we could have a lie-in?”
Sirius tucks you to his side. “Of course.”
“But we can take a walk later.”
Remus hums, cupping your cheek. “That’s okay, too. But only if you feel like it,” his thumb strokes the corner of your lips. Feeling the way they twitch, the faintest of movements. “But first… breakfast?”
“Sure,” you nod.
“Perfect.” Sirius holds you to him a bit tighter before letting go, pushing the sleeves of his jumper up his elbows. “What are you in the mood for? I got you french toast but I reckon we can whip you up something better.”
“French toast’s fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course,” you stand, suddenly aware that you’re still holding onto your papers. “But, um, I sort of need a big cup of coffee first.”
Sirius points at you. “You’ve got it, my love.”
Remus tucks you to his side, and your arms come around him in muscle memory that pushes past missed times and your own reservations. He guides you back to the room, pausing by the living room to pick up his book on the way. You settle between the covers, not caring if you’ve made the bed not even hours ago. He follows after you, settling by your side and making himself comfortable.
“What did you think about it?” he asks, turning the book for you to see the cover.
It takes you a bit to pinpoint the book and its contents. “Oh,” you shift, turning to lie on your side to look at him. “You were right. S’a bit boring.”
His lips twitch. “Yeah?”
“Heavy world building.”
“Hm,” he turns back to the book, contemplatingly. “Suppose I’ll have to sit this one out, then.”
“I mean,” you reach for the covers, fiddling with a loose thread. “I think you’ll like it, but I personally found it very slow at times.”
Remus shuffles closer, arm around you. “Are you calling me slow?” he asks quietly. Both in a shared secret and like he’s trying to coax a smile out of you.
It almost works. Your lips twitch more obviously this time. You feel his lips curling into a smile when he kisses your temple.
“Read it to me?” you whisper. “Maybe you’ll get me to like it.”
He pulls you impossibly closer to him, and your arm circles around his torso for steadying. Slow at first, tentative. But Remus shifts until there’s no other choice but to hug him.
“Of course I’ll read it to you,” he whispers back. “Are you ready?”
“Now?”
“Sure. Unless you had any other plans in mind?”
“No,” you raise a hand, finger tracing idle patterns on his sternum. “Just sleep in I suppose.”
“Then you’ve asked the right person,” Sirius says as he walks in. Somehow managing to carry three steaming cups of coffee without burning himself. He sets them by your nightstand. “But wait for me?”
“Sure,” you reply, sitting straight to take your coffee. You pass Remus his as Sirius walks back out the room to get started on breakfast. “Here.”
“Thanks, dovey,” he takes it. Then winces at the scorching hot temperature of the mug. He still gives it a sip, and your lips curl around the rim of your mug as you drink yours. He sets it on his nightstand, and gestures at you to return to your previous position.
You do. Readily. Surely.
Sirius curses under his breath from the kitchen, cupboards opening and closing as he walks around preparing breakfast. You nuzzle closer to Remus, and he holds you to him before pulling the covers higher over you. Together, you wait for breakfast.
When Sirius comes back, you share bites and sips of coffee between chapters. Pauses to shift and to ask questions about the book, small debates about what should’ve happened instead and what Remus, personally, had done if he was the writer. You finish your coffee and your french toast, leaving the plates together by the nightstand and settling more comfortably between them. Listening as they argue about whether the protagonist is too romantic with her descriptions of everything or that’s just poor writing—things you thought yourself when you first read the book. Sirius asks about your opinion and you pretend you’re falling asleep. He lets you, dropping a kiss to your shoulder and pulling you to him when Remus gets too heated reading and describing an action scene.
Somewhere between that, you fall asleep. A few moments later, they fall asleep, too. You wake up later at night tangled between sheets and limbs, an arm wrapped loosely around your waist and inky black curls tickling your cheek. You sigh, turning to pull the covers higher before falling asleep again.
.⋆♱ "YOU IN MY MORTIFIED SOUL MADE YOUR BED AND YOUR DOMAIN; — ABHORRENCE, TO WHOM I AM BOUND AS THE CONVICT IS TO THE CHAIN."
⋅⊰༻♱༺⊱⋅
FAUSTIAN PACT — a pact whereby a person trades something of supreme moral or spiritual importance, such as personal values or the soul, for some worldly or material benefit, such as knowledge, power, or riches.
when spencer reid strikes a deal with an unsub in a moment of desperation, he fails to foresee the consequences it will have for his job, his relationships, and his sanity. and he certainly does not take into account the possibility of a love affair blossoming between himself and his secret "friend."
the behavioural analysis unit are not easy to fool, but you did it, somehow.
for the last six months, you've been living as a fugitive. a wanted woman whom the FBI refuses to give up on until you are behind bars. you're an outlaw, a villain, a murderer. and you are the last person that spencer reid wants anything to do with.
but you want everything to do with him, and so you have drafted a proposal which he cannot refuse: a country-wide wild goose chase, with the promise of a chance to put you away for good. and who doesn't love a good old game of cat and mouse?
⊱⋅.⋆♱ meet unsub!reader here !
⤷ ゛notes ! ˎˊ˗
composed of a series of oneshots; vignettes from various stages of spencer's relationship with unsub!reader ranging from their first meeting to their final (?) goodbye.
the timeline begins in december of 2009, placing it somewhere mid-season 5 after the events of episode 100. this is jesus reid propaganda. however, the bulk of these posts will be set in late 2010 to mid-2011, so around the middle to end of season six.
IN STARLIT NIGHTS, I SAW YOU | 𑣲
when the FBI's behavioural analysis unit set up their base of operations in your place of work, you have to keep calm and pretend that you are not the unsub they are so desperately searching for. you try to keep your head down, but that is a difficult task when a certain genius has taken an interest in you for reasons...unrelated to the investigation. (part one)
SO CRUELLY, YOU KISSED ME | 𑣲
the BAU’s resident genius cannot sleep due to a case weighing heavy on his shoulders, so you offer to lend an ear. he seems to believe that the key to solving this case is right in front of him…but he doesn't mean that literally, right? (part two)
GIRL OF YOUR DREAMS | ♰
after fumbling a case in amherst, massachusetts, spencer reid cannot sleep. he is plagued with dreams of the unsub who slipped through his fingers and, as the months pass, it becomes evident that what spencer is feeling goes far beyond simple hatred.
GALATIANS 5:19-21 | ♰
you finally convince spencer reid to meet with you in person with the promise of information on a prolific unsub. but standing face-to-face awakens a violent storm of long-suppressed emotions, and marks the beginning of a love affair that will ruin the both of you, permanently.
I WON'T MISS YOU | ♰
spencer receives a note in the mail inviting him to a valentine's day rendezvous at an outrageously expensive hotel. he is decidedly not going; he wants nothing to do with you and your games, not today. and yet, somehow, he finds himself standing at the door of your hotel suite anyway.
THE GIRLFRIEND PARADOX | 𑣲
when spencer seems more distracted than usual, the team conclude that he must be hiding a girlfriend. they try to get him to crack, not knowing that the reality of his situation is far worse than your typical secret relationship.
"LATE NIGHT?" "VERY." | 𑣲
waking up in the arms of the FBI agent who is supposed to be hunting you is not how you were intending to start your week. you could quite happily stay here all day, but duty calls, and spencer reid is now late for work.
SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN | ♰
spencer reid wakes up to an unexpected guest all up in his business.
SCHADENFREUDE | ♰
interrupting spencer's sleep by asking for sex takes a turn when he gives you exactly what you want in the worst (best) ways possible.
━━ ⋆ . 𐙚 ̊ . jack abbot x morgue tech!reader ; after declining robby's offer to get drinks because he has plans with you, jack lets it slip that he is seeing someone, despite the obvious lack of a title on your relationship. robby is less than thrilled when he finds out who jack is dating
━━ content + warnings ; this falls in early relationship / robby's mental health ( its implied he will commit suicide on his sabbatical ) / reader is neurodivergent, there are many disabilities that fall under this category and is not specified for a reason! / age gap ( 31 x 49 ) / fem!reader / robby unconsciously infantilizing the reader / no resolution
field trip ⋆ . 𐙚 ̊ . to THE MORGUE
━ part two
The nurses station was the hub of the emergency department like the eye of a storm. Even in rare stretches when no one was shouting for a crash cart or rushing towards the ambulance bay for an incoming trauma, the department carried its own constant hum.
Jack stood at one end of the nurses station with his forearm braced against the counter, finishing a chart he should have been done with twenty minutes ago.
The brightness from the computer screen made the exhaustion that was already pulling at the corners of his mind seem sharper.
He had to keep telling himself he'd done this for a reason. The double shift he'd never have agreed to, if not for the promise of an extra day off.
A day off that just so happened to land on the same day as yours. The odds had felt so absurdly slim that Jack had checked twice when you told him. Then he'd told you not to make any plans, for what he'd wanted to do to you would make even the dirtiest of minds blush.
He wasn't exactly sure what he'd have planned, but by this time tomorrow he knew you'd at least be together.
Though his mind was wandering far away from his chart, he was thinking about none of it visibly when Robby stopped beside him.
Robby had been standing at the opposite side of the hub for the better part of ten minutes, his attention also seemingly anywhere but on the tablet in hand. He'd probably reread the same portion of the chart twice without retaining much of it.
His sabbatical request had been approved this morning, the confirmation waiting in his email beneath a subject line so bland it almost seemed insulting.
Three months riding around on his new motorcycle, at least that's what the official story was. He'd nodded through the meeting and signed the necessary paperwork without so much as a inkling of guilt.
He had no intention of returning.
Anyone who had half a brain would be able to piece together what Robby was going to do on this so-called sabbatical. That's particularly why he hadn't told anyone, let alone Jack.
Robby knew Jack would be able to see past his rest, reassess and recover spiel.
It didn't really matter to Robby if HR believeed his story. But if Jack got so much of an inkling that he didn't plan to return in exactly three months, he wasn't sure he'd be able to leave at all.
Robby had spent most of his shift trying to decide how to tell him in a way that was convincing, and still had made no progress. Mentioning it at the hospital, surrounded by nurses and patients, a place where he wouldn't be able to explain seemed too callous.
It only occurred to him a few minutes ago that he could do it over a drink when he'd heard Santos pestering Whitaker about drinks after work. To do it somewhere outside of the hospital, where Jack could be angry without having to immediately walk into another trauma.
"You got tomorrow off?" Robby's attempt to sound ordinary only made his question sound more awkward.
"Mhm," Jack answered with a hum without looking up from his screen.
Robby let another second of silence pass before he shrugged. "I do too. Figured we could grab a beer."
"Can't." Jack's answer came so quickly that Robby's thumb stopped moving.
"Can't?" he repeated, glancing sideways at Jack from over the rim of his readers.
"I've got plans," Jack replied, tapping through the final portion of his chart.
Robby studied him for a moment, but Jack's expression gave him nothing. It rarely did.
After years of friendship, Robby had learned that if he ever wanted to understand Jack past the little dialogue he offered, he'd have to be able to notice the little things. The slight tightening around his eyes when he was irritated, the way he pressed his tongue into his cheek when he was trying to bite his tongue, and the subtle lift at one corner of his mouth when something amused him more than he wanted anyone to know.
At the moment though, there was only concentration and fatigue. Neither of which gave Robby any insight on to what his mysterious plans were.
Robby snorted and returned his attention to the tablet. "What, one dangerous hobby ain't enough?"
Jack stops typing. He turned his head just enough to look a Robby confusion breaking briefly through his usual stoicism.
Robby continued typing on his own chart. "Between swat and your inability to sit still, I figured you'd taken up cave diving or something'."
A nurse stepped between them to grab a stack of labels from the printer. Jack shifted back to give her room, his hands abandoning the tablet on the counter. He could have dismissed the comment. He could have said nothing and let Robby assume whatever he wanted about the plans tomorrow night.
Instead, perhaps because he was tired or because the truth was suddenly easier than inventing another answer, the words left him before he had decided to share them.
“I’m seeing someone,” Jack said.
The tapping against Robby’s screen stopped completely.
For several seconds, the department seemed to move around the two of them without either man participating in it.
Jack Abbot did not date casually. At least, he never had in all the years that Robby had known him. He knew that the death of his wife had changed the way Jack had seen the dating pool so if there had been women, Jack treated the details with the same security other people reserved for classified records.
Robby had tried more than once, to push him toward something resembling a social life. The suggestions had been met with grunts, deflections, or a look that warned Robby not to press his luck.
Now Jack had apparently been seeing someone long enough to have plan on a shared night off, and this was the first Robby was hearing about.
"Serious?" Robby asked.
Jack opened his mouth with an answer ready, then paused.
The question should not have required thought. Serious was supposed to be the threshold people crossed deliberately, something agreed upon. But Jack could not remember a single conversation where either of you had defined what was happening between you.
He thought of the snacks that you saved him from your lunch because you knew he wouldn't eat on shift if you didn't.
He thought of the go bag he left in his truck so he'd have fresh clothes after spending that night at your house because he hadn't yet gathered the courage to ask you for a drawer of his own.
He thought of the way your shoulders loosened when he walked into the morgue and how you had started looking for him at the end of every shift as naturally as he looked for you.
And he thought of tomorrow night and the quiet certainty with which he had already reserved it for you.
“Yeah,” Jack answered, nodding once as the truth settled into place. “It is.”
Robby’s surprise softened into something warmer. A grin spread across his face, genuine and immediate. “Well, shit,” Robby said. “Good for you, man.”
“Thanks,” Jack replied.
The conversation stilled there because Jack offered nothing else.
Robby waited for a name or a detail, perhaps even a grudging explanation on how the relationship had started. Jack, however, simply returned his attention to the tablet.
He watched him for a moment before remembering that if he wanted information from Jack, he'd have to ask for it directly.
“So who is she?” Robby asked. “Would I know her?”
Jack glanced toward him again. The question carried a second one beneath it that neither man needed stated aloud: did she work at the hospital?
“Uh, probably not,” Jack said. “She works nights downstairs.”
Robby’s expression changed.
His brows pulled together as he followed the implication through the hospital’s layout. Downstairs could have meant a variety of different things. Imaging, maintenance, central supply, or several administrative offices.
But nights narrowed the possibilities significantly, and Jack’s recent habit of disappearing toward the service elevator after shift change narrowed them even further.
Robby hoped he was wrong but he asked anyway. "Like in the morgue?"
“Yeah.” Jack frowned at the disbelief spreading across Robby’s face. “Why?”
The answer confirmed exactly what Robby had been trying not to conclude.
He knew the night staffing downstairs. He knew there was only one regular technician working those hours, and he knew you well enough for an image of you to rise immediately in his mind.
You standing on the edge of the day shift bustle with a clipboard tucked against your chest, waiting too long for an opening in a conversation because interrupting felt impossible.
You apologizing when someone else stepped into your path.
You going silent when too many people spoke to you at once. He remembered the meetings about your transfer to nights and the relief that had settled over you once the hospital found a schedule better suited to your needs.
Robby looked at Jack, who stood almost twenty years older, physically imposing without effort, experienced in ways you were not, and apparently serious about you.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Robby muttered.
Jack’s frown deepened.
“Are you having some kind of midlife crisis?” Robby asked.
“What are you talking about?” Jack replied with the beginning of an incredulous laugh, as though Robby had changed subjects without warning.
Robby said your name. He did not mean for it to sound harsh, but disbelief sharpened every syllable. As if he couldn't even think of you in the same context as Jack.
“Yeah?” Jack answered.
The simplicity of his confirmation only worsened the unease gathering in Robby’s chest. “You don’t think she’s just a bit too young for you?” he asked.
“What?” Jack replied.
He had already said the word several times during the conversation, each repetition carrying a different shade of confusion. Now irritation began to bleed into it.
Robby glanced toward the nearest treatment room before lowering his voice. The ER had no privacy, only varying degrees of public exposure, and this was not a discussion he wanted overheard.
“She’s what, thirty?” Robby asked.
“Thirty-one,” Jack corrected.
“And you’re pushing fucking fifty, Jack.”
“I’m forty-nine.”
“Oh, that makes it better,” Robby said dryly.
Jack did not respond.
He genuinely did not understand why the number changed anything. You were thirty-one, not twenty-one. You had a career, an apartment, bills, preferences, and the ability to make decisions he does not always agree with. He had not hidden his age from you or misrepresented what he wanted. He had not tricked you into anything.
The idea that your age alone made you incapable of choosing him struck Jack as absurd.
Robby watched the confusion remain on his face and mistook it for a failure to see the problem.
“You know the only reason she switched to nights is because she couldn’t handle the stress of days,” Robby said. Jack’s brows knitted together.
That detail caught him more sharply than the accusation about his age. He knew why you preferred nights. He knew the quiet helped, that the reduced staff and predictable routines made it easier for you to work without spending every hour braced against other people.
What he hadn't known was that Robby knew any of that.
“What would you know about her?” Jack questioned. The wording landed harder than he intended.
Robby’s mouth tightened. “I know she’s vulnerable,” he said.
“I know that,” Jack answered.
There was no hesitation because denying it would have meant denying parts of you Jack had spent months learning how to understand. He knew confrontation exhausted you. That you sometimes agreed too quickly because disappointing someone frightened you more than discomfort did.
He knew there were days when the world pressed too harshly against your skin and words became difficult.
But he also knew you were stubborn, capable, and more perceptive than most people gave you credit for.
He had watched you stand over bodies no one else wanted to see and give them more care than some patients received alive. He had seen you solve problems alone because asking for help did not come naturally, even when it should have.
Your vulnerability was not the sum of you.
Robby heard only the admission.
“And that doesn’t bother you?” Robby asked.
The question changed the shape of the conversation.
Until now, Jack had understood Robby’s concern as skepticism about an age gap. Irritating, perhaps invasive, but not insulting. This was different. The implication beneath the words reached somewhere much closer to bone.
Jack’s expression closed.
He turned his gaze toward the patient board mounted above the hub, though he was no longer reading it. His jaw flexed once. Then again.
He loved Robby like a brother. That knowledge was the only thing keeping him silent. Because the answer forming in his mouth was cruel, and once spoken, it would not be easily taken back.
Robby recognized the warning in Jack’s stillness but continued anyway. He had known Jack too long to be frightened by silence, and concern had already carried him past the point where stopping felt responsible.
“I think you’re in a position where she might not know how to tell you no,” Robby said. Jack’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
The department kept moving around them, oblivious to the turmoil forming between the two attendings, though Jack heard none of it clearly.
“Watch yourself,” he said. His voice never rose. It did not need to.
Robby drew in a breath through his nose. For a second, he seemed prepared to leave it there. Then the thought of you on days, overwhelmed and apologizing, pushed him forward again.
“I’m not saying you’re a bad man,” Robby said.
Jack looked at him. The anger in his face was controlled but unmistakable. Robby lowered his voice even further. “I’m saying good men can still make bad decisions.”
The words settled between them with enough weight to make the space around the, feel suddenly narrow.
Jack stared at the man who had known him through war stories, grief, the death of his wife, and every self-destructive choice he had made in the name of being useful. Robby knew exactly what kind of man he was, which made the implication worse rather than easier to dismiss.
Jack could have defended himself.
He could have told Robby that you had set every boundary between you and that he had followed each one. He could have explained how carefully he watched for hesitation, how often he asked when you seemed unsure, how terrified he was of becoming another person who spoke over you.
He did not say any of that.
Defending the relationship to Robby felt too close to placing you on trial. It would require exposing things that belonged to you, private choices and private moments that Jack had no intention of turning into evidence.
More than that, anger had closed around his throat.
“I haven’t,” Jack huffed.
He shoved his tablet onto the counter with more force than necessary and turned away.
Robby watched him cross the department, shoulders rigid and gait sharper than usual as he moved toward the south corridor.
The invitation for a beer remained suspended between them, unanswered in every way that mattered.
Robby looked down at the tablet still resting in his hand. The sabbatical he had intended to mention now felt impossibly distant, the carefully imagined conversation reduced to another thing he had failed to say.
Across the ER, Jack disappeared around the corner before the anger could loosen enough to let doubt in.
finally putting a masterlist together bc i’m tired of linking the parts on every fic lmao. enjoy the fire moodboard and the thrill of convenience!
warning(s): gideon is not a good dad. reader has daddy issues and argues w/ him and spence constantly. angst, hurt/no comfort and hurt/comfort, fluff scattered around sparingly. more specific warnings on each chapter
read it on ao3 | spotify playlist | gideon!reader tag
-
plastic hearts
↳ 1.1k words, the original fic | spencer gets a front row seat to some gideon family matters.
the stalker arc (set in s1)
heat lightning
↳ 4.1k words | you end up at the heart of the bau's latest case.
family line
↳ 3.8k words | you're stuck in a safe house with the guy you hate and everything is perfectly fine.
(please) spare me indignity
↳ 5k words | you and spencer spend more time together. it's bad, then it's good, then it's something else altogether.
in over my head
↳ 5k words | between all the arguments, you and spencer begin to understand each other a little bit more.
something about her
↳ 5.3k words | you’re reminded why you’re really here while spencer does some unwanted self reflection.
growing sideways
↳ 4.8k words | you and spencer have separate talks with parts of the team. it becomes clear that this case is nowhere close to over, and neither of you really know how to feel about each other.
full of rain clouds
↳ 5.8k words | the team gets a break in the case, you and spencer have a few heart to hearts. you’ve always been your own worst enemy.
wishbones and clovers
↳ 5.9k words | forced to sequester in spencer's apartment, the two of you finally make some progress in the right direction.
for cryin' out loud!
↳ 9.4k words | as the BAU rushes to finally close your case, you and spencer grow steadily closer — and then one call changes everything.
synopsis you and Jack have always been two peas in a pod, working the ER together, on the field together, no wonder you started to search for those dark eyes and damning smirk. and you thought for a second, just for a second, he might be searching for you too, until you hear the man you're crushing on airing out everything he hates about you
warningstypical medical drama stuff, in-accurate medical terms. miscommunication. angst. insecure reader. language, jack says things he doesn't mean about reader. angry love confession in the rain. this is not proof-read
authornotei really really really loved this idea and tried so hard to do it justice, I hope you like anon. I tried to stay close to the SWAT idea but I'll be honest I know nothing about American army stuff (i'm british) so I sort of set it as much in the Pitt as I could. I also couldn't find ANYTHING for Jack's military background so I made up some SWAT guys
pitt masterlist. another Jack fic!
Just when you thought the rest of your day was going to be boring, Jack Abbot and his crew of SWAT pushed through the ambulance bay doors, yelling off stats, applying pressure where needed and clearing the way around them.
Which was a welcome change from trying to sell Robby your hypothetical first born child in exchange for a lunch break.
“Intubated neck wound, stats are going down. Got a room?” said Jack.
You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”
“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”
“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”
Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.
You were what could be called, a floater.
By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.
“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”
You helped lift him over to the bed.
“Did you intubate him?” you asked,
“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.
You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”
“Shot at.”
“You need to be looked at?”
“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.
“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.
There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.
Jack had.
Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.
“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”
Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.
“You should get that looked at,” you told him.
“I'm fine.”
“No, you're not.”
There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.
“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”
You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.
So, he wasn't in the joking mood.
“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”
You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.
“Demanding,” said Robby.
“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.
Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.
You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”
The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.
“Geez- woah!”
“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.
The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.
“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”
“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”
“I know that but-”
“- this is a transected trachea now-”
There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.
There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.
You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.
It was one of the reasons he always called you in.
“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.
Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”
Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”
“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.
You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.
But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.
Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.
He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.
Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.
“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.
“Don't want the paperwork?”
“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.
“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.
There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.
You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.
And, why.
Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.
He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.
Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.
And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.
Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.
“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.
Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”
She hummed. “Funny.”
“Thank you.”
He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.
They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.
He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.
Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.
“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.
Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”
“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.
Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”
Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.
“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”
“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”
Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.
Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.
“Are you avoiding her, now?”
Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”
“Did she do something?”
“No.”
“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.
Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”
Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”
Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.
“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.
“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.
Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”
“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”
“Jack, c’mon-”
Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.
“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.
Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.
Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.
Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”
Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.
“She’s not it, Robby.”
“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.
“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”
He pressed down against the metal band branding him.
“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.
Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”
Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”
“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.
“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.
But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”
“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”
“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.
Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.
“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”
“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.
In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.
Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.
Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.
You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.
That’s why you felt it plummet.
She’s not it for me.
There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.
But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.
She's brutal.
It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.
You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.
You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.
She's not it for me.
“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”
“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.
Robby gave a nod and left you to it.
Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?
Besides from not being his wife.
The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.
It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.
You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.
You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.
Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.
The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.
You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.
A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.
“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.
When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.
“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)
Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.
And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.
But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.
You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.
“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”
You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”
Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”
“Well, no-”
“Then get your ass over here.”
“Robby-”
“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”
Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.
Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.
You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.
“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.
At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.
“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”
“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.
“Room in trauma one!”
Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.
“You're here,” was all he said.
You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.
Jack didn't like that person.
“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.
“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”
“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.
“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”
“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.
You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.
“What have you got?” he asked.
It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.
“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.
You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”
“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”
“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.
“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.
You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”
“Okay, start an-”
“- start an internal massage-”
You and Jack said at the same time.
Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.
“Pulse?”
“Barely.”
Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”
“I need suction!”
“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.
“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.
Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”
“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.
Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”
Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.
“Clamped,” said Princess.
“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.
There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.
“He's going into V-fib!”
You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”
They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.
“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.
“Charge to thirty! Clear!”
Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.
“There! He's stable!” said Princess.
“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.
“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.
You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.
Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.
When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.
The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.
You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.
“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.
“Thank you.”
He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”
“Yeah.”
“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”
You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”
“What, from the guys?”
You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.
“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”
Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?
“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.
“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”
She's brutal, you know.
You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.
“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.
Heading back in seemed the safer option.
Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”
“- I've been busy-”
“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”
“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”
“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”
“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.
Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”
You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.
“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.
You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.
“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.
“Nothing, nothing.”
Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”
He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?
Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”
“Huh?”
You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”
For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.
But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.
Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”
“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”
He gulped. “I didn't mean-”
“-what, for me to hear it?”
“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.
“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.
“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”
You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”
“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”
You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”
“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.
“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.
Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”
“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”
“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.
You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”
“- I know, I know you do-”
“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.
“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”
“You know what the worst part is?”
Jack shook his head, waiting.
“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”
Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.
It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.
Jack had fucked up.
There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.
He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.
He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.
He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.
“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”
“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”
They'd refused, with good reason.
He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.
It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.
Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.
“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.
He said he was looking for you.
“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”
“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.
Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.
There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.
“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.
Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”
Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.
You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.
“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”
“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.
“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”
You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”
Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”
You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.
He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.
“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.
Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.
“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”
“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.
Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.
“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.
What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.
He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.
“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.
“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.
“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”
There was a glimpse of a smile.
Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”
An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.
“Sorry,” he uttered.
You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.
It was enough for now.
Your name was called down the corridor.
“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.
“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”
Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.
Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.
“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.
Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”
“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”
Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”
“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”
“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.
Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”
“-Robby-”
“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”
Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.
Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”
A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.
“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.
Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.
Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.
Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.
They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.
They told you not to change.
It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.
Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.
You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.
Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.
“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”
Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.
Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.
It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.
“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.
“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.
The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”
You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”
You put in the orders for stitches.
“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.
“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”
The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.
You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.
Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.
You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”
You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.
“Here, I can-”
His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.
Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.
The tin fell into your hand.
Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”
“Thanks.”
It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.
It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.
“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”
Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”
“It's in the garage.”
“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.
The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.
“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”
“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”
You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.
“You don't have to, Jack.”
“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”
Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.
Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.
“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.
“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.
“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.
Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”
The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.
“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”
The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.
“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”
“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”
“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”
“-so why try?”
“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”
“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”
“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”
To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.
He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.
“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”
“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.
“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”
“Excuse me?”
Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”
You chuckled.
“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”
You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”
He waited, catching his breath, for more.
You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”
Jack nodded, looking down.
The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.
“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”
His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.
“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“And looking to settle down.”
Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”
“Therapy is good,” you said.
Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”
As sorry's went... as love confessions went.
“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.
“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”
You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”
He smirked a little. “No.”
Your heart dropped.
Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”
His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.
You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.
You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.
Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.
You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.
“Will you let me?” you asked.
“Always,” he promised.
thank you to anon for requesting, and thank you to @oldbaddies and @mafercita101 who wanted to be tagged :)
summary — you were the person frank bet on before you’d earned it, the one he handed crumbs you’d turned into a religion. it was fine and completely harmless; he was married, untouchable, and miles above you, and wanting him cost nothing as long as it stayed in your head.
warnings — general warnings for the series, detailed warnings in chapters - age gap/minor power imbalance, implied but not formal mentor-mentee relationship, emotional infidelity, divorce, exploitation of feelings, unhealthy relationship dynamics, substance abuse and addiction, depictions of medical trauma, obsessive idealization, unhealthy attachments.
comment to be added to the taglist!
01. drop dead ✦ 02. stupid song ✦
03. u + me = <3 ✦ 04. purple ✦ 05. begged ✦
06. the cure ✦ 07. cigarette smoke ✦ 08. maggots for brains ✦
09. honeybee ✦ 10. what’s wrong with me ✦
11. my way ✦ 12. less ✦
a particularly bad shift ends with you in tears and Trinity scrambling to make it right.
trinity santos x f!reader
______________________________________________
wc. 6.6k
rating. 18+
synopsis. Trinity liked you, probably more than she should and in a way that made her chest tighten and cause breathing problems. she could also be mean
warnings/tags. MDNI, mean!santos, (followed by), incredibly guilty!santos, protective trinity, medical inaccuracies, reader is referred to by she/her, reader is a resident, hurtful words, anxiety attacks, patient death, blood, needles, grievous injury, idiots in love, requited love, trinity is an idiot, emotional constipation, suicide jokes, brief suicidal ideations
a/n requests are always open, i write for multiple fandoms so i plan on making a rules/requests page for your convenience but i haven’t just yet. if you’re specifically interested in requesting for pitt characters i write for all of them, that includes the women ofc, i love my ladies 🫦
your first impression of Trinity Santos wasn’t exactly flattering.
it was your second shift in the pitt, and practically downpour outside the hospital walls as you scrambled to keep up with the work load. MVC, only 2 hours into the day, all hands on deck.
you were practically scurrying around the nurses station trying to discharge patients as quick as possible, free up some beds, move others to the hall if possible.
jackson peterson can go to the hall. he’s stable enough, plus he just finished getting iv fluids half and hour ago.
mrs richardson is good to go home, she just needs her paperwork.
kelly anderson is still waiting for CT but she’s stable, vitals are good, she can sit in the hall via wheelchair.
you pause, brows pushing together as you try to think back on what else dr robby had asked of you.
you turn, feet on a swivel without a glance.
“watch it hun,” dana.
she’s passing you right as your shoulder nearly collides with hers, and although her voice is strict her eyes are soft, amused beneath her glasses. noted. look both ways.
“i hope we get something good,” santos jogs to catch up with you, elbows bumping as you exit to the ambulance bay where you can already hear the distance sirens incoming, “dibs. watch and learn.”
she’s cynical, you can tell by the edge in her voice and the way she doesn’t bother to glance your way. rude. you didn’t even catch her first name, she didn’t even ask for yours. double rude.
your eyes narrow, about to retort at the brunette when suddenly your eyeline has gone vertical, hands shooting out as your body loses momentum, shoes squeaking against the rainwater.
one minute you’re approaching your attending, and the next your ass is smacking hard against the pavement. if your tailbone was sentient it would be cussing, a dull throb crawling up your spine.
the worst you’d get is a bruise if it wasn’t for the eyes that have followed you down, a few ooos and damn’s coming from your colleagues that make your ego shrink beyond repair.
“oh my g-, that was,” santos. she’s still beside you, maybe a few steps ahead but she’s now doubled over in laughter, clutching her stomach like it’s so funny it hurts, “that was beautiful.”
damn her.
mohan is already at your side, brows pinched in concern, a hand extending to aid you. you take it gracefully, as gracefully as someone who just embarrassed herself front of her higher up’s can manage. you’re pulled to a stand, groaning low at the soreness presenting itself across your ass. you would rub at the pain if it wouldn’t make you look even more like a moron.
…and santos is still laughing, so much so you’re positive you can see tears in her eyes. okay it wasn’t that funny.
“my day is made, nothing can top that,” she’s acting like you didn’t get hurt, granted it’s a superficial bruise of an injury but still, have some decency, “thanks for the show, slip.”
oh. oh no.
you were there when javadi collapsed. in fact you managed to catch her halfway to the ground. you remember the way santos rolled her eyes, arms crossed like it was an inconvenience.
you were there when she prodded at poor victoria and thus crowned her, ‘crash’. but javadi was a student still, passing out happens all the time for them. you were a resident, technically an equal to santos, both interns, both R1’s. and now what, you’ve been demoted by someone on the same level as you to slip?
it’s not even a creative nickname.
______________________________________________
“head in the clouds slip? or just running on fumes.” two hands grasp at your shoulders with a jolt, they’re off in a second but the way it shocks you out of your stupor lasts. you turn just as the short ponytail of brunette hair flicks to the opposite side of you. trinity leans against the counter of the nurses station beside you, a look on her face that says tell me all.
you sigh half heartedly, ignoring the way you can still feel the warmth of her palms against your shoulders, turning to face her.
“just thinking about the first time we met.” you chuckle, it’s a funny memory now thankfully. trinity eyes you for a second, you swallow, slightly shrinking under her gaze.
“oh yeah,” she says it like she’s too cool to think about it, lips pursing in a way that tells you she’s actually holding back a smile, “and you ignored me for weeks after.”
you snicker. yeah, you remember that part too.
however it wasn’t because you were mad per say, more because of the embarrassment you felt whenever you saw her… okay and you were a little mad.
“i’ve grown to appreciate your comments, no matter how annoying they can be.” you tease, nose wrinkling to really emphasize your point. trinity scoffs but the look in her eyes doesn’t change, gaze locked with yours.
“plus if i didn’t put up with you,” you lean in, mischievous grin creeping onto your lips, you miss the way trinitys throat bobs as you invade her personal space, “you’d be all alone.”
it’s a jab you know is a lie, and so does she, but you still chuckle as you grab your patients chart from the counter and briskly pass her.
the hum of the er drones.
you’re oblivious to the way her body turns towards yours as you leave, like it’s magnetized, green eyes following your frame until you turn the corner and disappear from sight.
trinity sinks forward into the counter, a harsh breath leaving her lips as she plants her elbows and places cheek to palm.
“am i intruding?” trinity’s head snaps up, eyes falling on dana now sitting across the desk. she’s looking over the glasses perched on her nose, a knowing smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.
“do i sense tension?” samira smiles as she approaches, handing a chart off to dana. she’d seen the interaction, she’s seen all of them. her and dana exchange knowing looks as trinity’s back straightens, face sinking into an expression that reads ‘i have no idea what you mean’.
“i’m gonna get details on the nun with syphilis.” trinity turns to leave, not bothering to address the two women.
“gonorrhea.” dana corrects without a glance up.
“tomato, tomahto.”
—————————————————————————
“how do you put up with it?”
you look up to find victoria standing in the doorway of the break room, hands wringing awkwardly. you pause, sandwich halfway to your mouth.
“uh, context?” you laugh, placing your lunch back down on its wrapper as victoria takes the empty seat across from you.
“santos. she’s, pretty mean,” she continues, that uncomfortable look on her face that just screams victoria javadi, staring into your eyes, “like, how do you deal with that stuff.”
you’re not sure how to answer that. you just don’t really mind. for whatever reason.
“huh, i’ve never put too much thought into it,” you ponder, the question she’s asking now sparking your own interest, “i think it’s just her way of communicating.”
“by belittling?”
“unfortunately.” you chuckle, watching how victoria shifts in her seat. you can tell she wants to say more, it’s like she’s holding a jumpy frog in her mouth.
you glance up and down, taking in the way she clutching her lavender jacket closer around her body like a safety blanket.
“you want me to talk to her?” that gets victorias attention, her eyes widening like a frightened puppy put on the spot. her hands shoot up in mock surrender, palms waving.
“no, that’s not necessary,” she replies, tone a little panicked and speaking quicker than you’ve ever heard her.
“i won’t mention this conversation, i’ll make it seem like it was all me,” you continue, nodding, “i won’t throw you under the bus.”
victoria pauses, hands falling into a clasp on the table.
“um, sure. if you’re cool with that.” she goes to stand, smiling in that way she does where her lips slightly curl into her teeth. you pick up your sandwich, ignoring the dollop of mayo that drops onto your thumb.
then she pauses again, freezing for a minute at the doorway before angling herself so she can address you properly.
“she still calls you slip.” she says, voice a tad softer than before.
you smile. easy.
“i’ve grown to like it.”
______________________________________________
“did you hear about the guy in chairs who’s eye popped out of the socket?” was the last thing you wanted to hear as you took a sip of lukewarm, watered down coffee shen had offered you before he left.
you swallowed with a grimace as trinity stuck her phone in your face, zoomed in on a picture you can only imagine she took in an effort to make you puke. you shove the device away from your face, face screwing up as trinity just laughed like it was the best thing in the world.
“ew. gross trin.” you suck in a breath, watching trinity eye the picture again before slipping her phone in her back pocket.
“you’ve definitely seen worse,” she quips, leaning her backside against the nurses desk, looming over you like a dark cloud as you sit in the chair dana always claimed. you were just keeping it warm for her, “i didn’t take you for a lightweight, slip.”
if your eyes rolled any further back you’d lose them.
“i’m not, but come on i was eating.” you nod to the dunkin cup in your hand, trinity follows your eye-line, landing on the few inches of ‘coffee’ left.
“you don’t eat coffee, babe.”
you freeze before your lips can wrap around the orange straw again, hand unknowingly gripping the plastic cup harder. your eyes are on the counter beside trinitys hip, blinking like a moron.
your lashes flutter, eyes glancing up to land on the woman mere feet from you. a harsh breath escapes your throat when you take in the way she’s seemingly frozen as well, if you just lean in a bit closer you can faintly see what appears to be a pink hue coloring her ears.
“that’s a new one.” you cough.
“shut up,” trinity squeezes her eyes shut, running a firm hand across her face. you follow the movement.
she opens her eyes to glance down at you, and you suddenly feel very small under her gaze, the fact you’re sitting down and she’s standing doesn’t help the situation. nor does it calm the racing of your heart or the fuzziness in your brain.
“um, i-,” trinity starts, the stutter in her voice catching you off guard in a way that’s concerning. however she’s cut off by a frazzled whitaker appearing out of thin air, body practically collapsing while still standing before the two of you.
he’s huffing like he ran a marathon, however you know for a fact the two patients rooms he’s been managing are both only several meters away.
“alien hand syndrome.” he announces it like the two of you are supposed to have a clue what he’s referring too. you and trinity lock eyes, she shrugs and it makes you smile.
“huckleberry, you don’t have to make up excuses for why i caught you jerking it the other day,” trinitys arms cross, leaning further into the desk. that gets a laugh out of you, even though you feel slightly bad at the way dennis’s face drops.
his face says ‘not this again’.
“trin.” you chuckle, bringing the coffee back to your lips.
“what? no!” dennis waves his hands like he’s been accused of a crime, like he’s in defensive mode or fight or flight and he’s about to book it down the hall. how can someone look so much like a soggy, depressed napkin?
“my patient, mr davidson? he was brought in for causing a disturbance at the gym down the street,” he continues while shaking his head like she’s waiting for trinity to keep her joke going, her silence is worrying, “he has alien hand syndrome, i’ve never seen it in person.”
he seems both parts greatly excited and deeply confused. typical dennis. trinity looks back to you, brows raising when she catches your eye, then back to dennis.
she snorts a laugh through her nose.
“it’s okay, we all need time for ourselves.”
whitaker takes a breath, eyes falling shut.
“mr davidson-,”
“is that what you named your penis?” okay. she just says things in a certain way that you find so funny. you choke on a laugh, smacking a hand against trinitys knee as she just smiles at dennis, you don’t notice the way her eyes occasionally glance towards you.
“who named their penis?” oh my god. robby walks up from behind you, crossing his arms in a way that mirrors trinity. he looks amused, however you can also see the urge to reprimand the three of you sitting behind his eyes. your back straightens like you’ve been struck by lightning.
“dennis.” you respond calmly, holding back the howl you want to let out at the way dennis’s soul appears to leave his body. trinity seems to be doing the same, hunched over with her shoulders trembling.
robby eyes the three of you. he shakes his head like a disappointed father. you think you see a brand new wrinkle form on his forehead in real time.
“do i have to say it?” he says, hands on his hips.
you grab trinitys hand, standing to her left as you use your free hand to pick up the chart you’d been using earlier.
“nope! in fact labs are back so we’ll be on our way,” you tug trinity with you, past whitaker who looks like a kicked puppy, “i’ll let you know when mrs martin is discharged!”
you drag trinity along with you, grinning without teeth towards robby one last time as you leave the nurses station.
“um, we’re not on the same case?” trinity whispers, leaning so close you can feel how her breath tickles your ear.
“we just needed to get out of there, robby had that look on his face.”
______________________________________________
it’s been an awful day. there’s no other way to spin it. you’ve had patients die, you’ve had your hands on them as they’ve taken their last breath. you’ve seen children die, so young it hurts your soul and makes you find yourself on the roof. you’ve had belligerent patients, family, you’ve been shoved and hassled by people in chairs.
but that’s the job. and maybe that’s what it is, without a break in so long you slowly sink into the hopelessness of it all. thankfully you can go home at the end of the day, most times at least, flop onto bed still in your scrubs and just try to forgot. but it still takes a toll.
as you stare down at the blood coating your gloved hands, it draws your attention to the red bleeding through your scrubs into the clothes beneath. it’s tacky and growing cold, the edges of crimson around your shoes browning to a rust color.
your fingers tremble, bottom lip quivering. you’ve cried before on shift, it happens. it just always sucks.
“you did a great job.” mohan is beside you, you feel the steadiness of her palm plant on your shoulder. she’s always been kind, she always knows what to say, and yet this time her words fail to ease back the panic in your stomach.
“he still died,” you say it as a fact. his body is still only a few feet away, mckay is currently covering his face with a sheet. red bleeds through, “what’s the point if they just die.”
“sometimes no matter what you do, and no matter how good you are, they still don’t make it,” samira states, you can’t bring yourself to look at her, “it’s not a failure on our part.”
she’s right.
you know she’s right.
but it still stings. you can’t help the shaky breath that leaves your lips, shoulder moving in a way that lets samira know you appreciate the gesture but don’t want to be touched. she listens, grip falling from you.
“how much longer is your shift?” mckay asks and as she approaches, you can see the sympathy all over her face. something about it makes you uneasy. why would she feel bad for you? you didn’t die. he did.
“3 hours,” you reply, but it’s hollow, concerning. samira and cassie exchange a look, “i’ll be fine.”
and it’s the truth. you will be fine, you’re always fine. it’s just difficult sometimes, doesn’t mean you can’t pull yourself out.
“how about you clean up and then get some fresh air before returning, okay?” cassie tells you, and you can tell she’s telling, not asking, “i’ll let robby know. he’ll understand.”
you don’t bother arguing, just nod quietly as mckay motions for you to leave the room first. you do so in silence, head hanging a bit more than usual.
mckay and mohan give you another once over before dispersing.
you tug the gloves off your hands, tossing them in a nearby waste disposal bin, there’s a bit of blood near your wrists, having soaked in right below your sleeves. just as you turn to walk outside and follow the instructions you’d been given, you feel someone flick the back of your head.
you turn, coming face to face with trinity. her eyes widen, and for a second you think something reassuring is about to leave her mouth. you could use a hug from her, make just a pat on the back. someone you trust, someone you like, someone you…
your heart sinks when she smirks.
“damn carrie, who came in with the pigs blood?” it’s funny. really, it’s a good reference, it makes sense, if you saw her like this you’d probably say the same. but her words lodge in your ribs and wiggle up into your chest cavity in a way that makes you want to lurch over and lose your lunch.
you can feel how your face drops further, unfortunately for you, trinity was looking at your once white sneakers now red, when it did.
“seriously, did you actually kill someone on purpose?” she shuffles closer. eyes narrowing like she’s analyzing you, waiting for you to reveal a knife or chainsaw. you shake your head half heartedly, trying to muster up a smile.
“no.” you say it with a tone so forlorn you can see how trinitys brows furrow slightly, like she’s a bit taken aback.
she pauses.
“yeah, no shit,” normally her laughter would brighten your day, make a bad shift good. but right in this moment, you wanted nothing more than to hear it stop, “i don’t think i’ve ever seen you cry.”
she chuckles like that’s supposedly funny. you suck in a breath, you can feel the heat behind your eyes returning.
dammit. don’t cry. not now.
“come on, i thought you weren’t as sensitive as the others,” you know she’s trying to be funny. you can recognize it in her tone, you know her. she’s not trying to be malicious but man, she’s really making this worse for you. this is the last thing you needed.
you can feel your pulse pick up, the shake in your legs coming back full force. you need to get away from all of this, it’s embarrassing, you don’t want her to see you like this, it’s not her fault.
it’s not her fault, so why do her words hurt so much?
“scrubs exchange.” is all you can get out without it sounding like you’re about to burst into tears, keeping your voice calm and level. hopefully she gets the message as you move to scurry past her, shoulders brushing at the close proximity.
trinity can feel her smile droop, thrown off by your behavior. did she go too far? no, if you actually felt bad you’d tell her. you know you can trust her, right? her mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words.
come on, say anything.
her thoughts are begging her, she wants to grab your arm, pull you back in. but she doesn’t, because if you were really, actually feeling upset, you’d tell her.
so she turns before you get far, jogging to catch up with you. maybe if she can make you laugh you’ll tell her you were just messing with her, it was a joke, to see her reaction.
yeah. that’s probably it.
she places a hand on your arm, pulling it a little as she manages to stop you in your tracks. you stay facing the other direction.
“come on don’t be such a baby, i’m messing with you,” she jokes, chuckling awkwardly like she’s fixing something, “don’t be so pathetic, slip.”
mistake.
trinity braces herself for you to shove her, faux anger and whip back with you own retort. you always do, you’re slip, she’s santos, it’s your thing.
sniff.
trinity’s smile drops faster than her stomach, like she’s going to be sick. her grip on your wrist tightens subconsciously, which only furthers to splinter her chest in two when she feels you tug.
and then you rip your arm from her, like her touch has burned you, like you can’t stand to be touched by her, like it’s disgusting.
“hey, i-,”
the words die on her tongue when you whip around and she’s met with something that just utterly destroys her.
your face is blotchy with tears, cheeks swollen, bottom lip riddled with marks where your teeth dug into it, the flesh quivering uncontrollably. rivets of tears spill down your face, washing past and carrying drops of blood that had lingered.
then you made a sound, this soft, heartbreaking, whimper of a sob that thankfully isn’t loud enough for any other staff to hear but isn’t too quiet that trinity misses it.
trinity can feel her throat go dry, what? no, no no no, why is she crying?
her hands feel clammy, fingers twitching like she’s resisting balling up her fists, no matter how much she wants to dig her nails into her palms and draw blood.
“wait-,” she sputters, face contorting in fear. what’s she scared of? please, please don’t tell me i just lost her, “don’t cry, i was-,”
“it’s not funny.” you sound so sad so, so sad and she wants to scream. it’s like all the fluorescent lights above trinity are aimed at her. it’s cruel, the way her chest in heaving with heavy breaths she can’t seem to catch.
she watches as you wipe at your cheeks with open palms, which does nothing to clear the wetness of your face as more tears fall.
she wants to grab you, hold you, tell you she’s sorry, probably more sorry than she’s ever been. she’s never once felt bad poking and prodding at anyone before, but now? this? she feels as though she’s staring at the scene of a crime.
a crime she caused.
her hand is shaking as she reaches out, you have to know she’s sorry, right? you know her, she would never intentionally make you feel like this. if you could just take her hand, allow her touch, she could prove it to you.
all the movement does is cause you to take an unsteady step back, then another.
“just, leave me alone, santos.” and you’re turning on your heel again, pretty much speed walking as fast as you can away without getting told to slow down.
trinity stands with her had frozen mid air, fingers extended like an idiot.
her hand drops to her side, balling into a fist.
god. why do her eyes sting so much.
santos. you called her santos
not trinity, not trin, not idiot. you hadn’t called her santos since you’d first been acquainted, since the time period where you’d do anything to avoid her. she never wants to go back to that time, not after knowing you, not after…
she hangs her head, trying to get a grip, gain her momentum back. she can feel the sweat blossoming across the back of her neck, nervous, shaky. she takes a deep breath, and exhales.
she had to fix this. but how, when you didn’t even want to look at her?
______________________________________________
“do you think if i fling myself hard enough off the roof the impact will kill me instantly?” okay. wow.
whitakers head snaps up, eyes wide and rapidly blinking like he’s trying to rationalize that he didn’t actually hear what he thinks trinity just said. his mouth opens, then closes, fingers gripping at the binder in his hands.
“pardon, i, what?” he’s clearly taken aback, still blinking like it’ll shed some light.
“maybe i can blow myself up,” she continues, the serious look on her face fairly concerning, “hospitals have oxygen canisters, it’s possible.”
dennis takes a deep breath, glancing both ways like someone will come and save him from this conversation.
“you’re, joking right?” he needles in, hoping for the love of all things holy she breaks character and starts cackling like normal. instead she turns to him, face blank with a look of utter defeat. everything trinity is not.
“i fucked up.” she concedes. which is rare for her, so much so dennis does a double take, a little dramatic in a way that would make trinity roll her eyes if she wasn’t so damn bothered.
“i made her cry.” she confesses, lowering her voice a bit like anyone else knowing what she’s done would actually end her.
dennis blinks.
he says your name as a question.
“i’ve made people cry before, nothing bad”, she shakes her head, “but like, i have.”
she’s picking at her cuticles, pulling back skin and drawing blood. if it’s painful at all she doesn’t let on, stare empty as she looks to the tile floor.
“so what’s the issue?”
yeah. what is the issue?
“the issue is,” she inhales like it’s the last breath she’ll ever take. she wants the earth to swallow her up, maybe if she grovels enough it will, “she won’t look at me, won’t speak to me.”
a heavy pause.
“it’s been 3 days.” there it is, what’s caused the exhaustion to be present on trinitys face. it’s like in these three days, she’s gone through war.
“everything feels wrong.”
“maybe you should talk to her?” dennis tries, all it gets is that same blank look, like obviously, she’s tried that.
it’s like she has the plague. the day of the incident you finished your shift without looking her in the eye once, which she’ll admit was pretty impressive. even when you ran a code together, you managed to help the patient, stop a major bleeder, speak to her professionally like nothing had happened, and yet after you finished you left the room before she could say your name.
the next day trinity came into the pitt feeling a bit better, obviously you wouldn’t still be upset. you had a whole night to think, lament, hate her, get sleep and rest. maybe you’d come up and forgive her, maybe you’d act like nothing had happened. she just needed to know the two of you would be fine.
that’s until you came in with your coffee, looking well rested, and walked right past her. she watched you walk up to samira and begin chatting. and yeah, you and samira were friends, but you’d never ignored trinity to talk someone else.
however what hurt more wasn’t the fact you’d ignored her, it was how happy you looked. samira made a face and said something she couldn’t make out and you broke into laughter like it was the best thing you’d ever heard.
she was supposed made you laugh. trinity did. not mohan, not dennis, not dana. not anyone.
yet there you were, treating her like a stranger and fluttering around like you hadn’t a care in the world. you’d walked into the break room when she was finishing leftover lasagna, and caught the redness your eyes still had, most likely from the other day. it made her throat tighten, and suddenly she wasn’t hungry anymore.
the third day trinity hadn’t gotten any sleep. she spent the night rolling from one side to the other, her pillow was warm, her fitted sheet kept popping up, and her thoughts was running a mile a minute.
what if she never speaks to you again?
she jolted into an upright position, heaving like she hadn’t just been laying down. no, she couldn’t let that happen.
she was knocked from her thoughts by someone clearing their throat. oh yeah, she’d walked out with javadi to check on chairs and make sure no one had kicked the bucket.
“i’ve been here for 4 hours, 4!” the man before them states, having stood up to block their path down the aisle. he’s taller than both of them, chest heaving, eyes wide and bulging.
“we see patients based on severity, so-,” javadi starts, mouth clamping shut when the man focuses on her, taking a bold step forward.
“severe? i could have a brain bleed, my heads been fuzzy for hours now and no one wants to do their damn job!” he shouts, now catching the attention of others, the room quieting down at his level of noise.
javadi checks her chart, locates his name, and nods.
“um, so you were seen briefly to rule that out, unfortunately we can’t bring you back just yet-,” she’s cut off again when trinity speaks up, expression like she can’t be bothered to deal with this.
“you’ll be seen when you’re seen, if you don’t want to wait,” she looks towards the door, angling a thumb at it to catch the man’s attention, “you can sign an AMA and leave.”
it blunt, it’s honest, and it clearly enrages the man.
“you know what, bitch-,”
he looks like he’s about to explode on them, hopefully not physically, they would never find out as dana and security come running up from behind.
“okay! okay no,” dana gets between, hands up like she’s ready to throw a punch if need be, “that’s what we’re not gonna do here.”
“sir if you can’t sit down and be an adult, i’m afraid we’ll have to get the police involved.” dana minces no words, glaring the man down like she really needs him to consider his options. thankfully it seems to have worked, his angered expression not leaving, yet he lowers himself back into the seat and crosses his arms. it’s like watching a petulant child get put in timeout.
javadi releases the breath she was holding, leaving back to the double doors to the pitt.
dana has already began speaking with security, pointing out who they need to keep a better watch on.
trinity sighs, and although her shift only started a few hours ago, she just wants to leave. she begins to follow Javadi, looking up from the various shoes of the people in the waiting room before her gaze falls on familiar eyes.
you stand a few yards away, seemingly having arrived with dana seconds ago which she hadn’t noticed to due facing the other direction. she’s ready to see you retreat, go back to treating her like dust under your sofa. but you don’t. you’re standing with wide eyes, lips parted like you can’t take in air fast enough. and suddenly you’re walking towards her, grabbing her hand before she can ask why, before she can worry you’re just going to say this is the last time you’ll ever touch her.
but you’re dragging her back through the doors, away from the noise of people. she can see you glancing around from behind you, like you’re searching for something. then she’s being yanked into an empty patient room, one that had just been discharged, drops of blood still on the floor.
you release her hand just to turn and yank the curtain shut, pausing after the light from outside dims and the silence becomes overwhelming.
“what, were you thinking?” you say before even turning to look at her, and trinity is properly confused, her hand still tingling from where you’d been grabbing her. she felt something like a caged animal all of a sudden, but maybe not seeing as there’s no where she’d rather be.
“w-what?” there’s that stutter again.
it’s your turn now, shifting to face her with an expression she’s never seen aimed at her before.
“you just riled up a guy twice your size, not to mention he was already pissed before you even opened your damn mouth!” that makes her jaw drop, brain back to static, confused.
“you care?” she replies, not snooty, not in a nasty way. she says it smooth, like a saturday morning, like she needs the answer to be yes or she’ll die right here and now.
you blink, taken aback.
“of course i care,” you say it like it’s easy, like you couldn’t even think of anything else you’d say to that. you don’t approach, you just stand their, staring at her like you also share her confusion, “you think i’d cry over someone i don’t care about?”
that’s a gut punch, and trinity would physically grab her gut if she didn’t think it would make her look even more stupid in front of you.
“i’m sorry.”
she says it barely above a whisper, eyes casting down like she’s ashamed. and quite frankly she is, she wouldn’t be in this predicament if it wasn’t for her and her annoying deflections.
your mouth shuts, processing.
“i didn’t like seeing you cry,” she continues, “i actually would rather go my whole life without seeing it again.”
the air feels heavier, weighing down on the both of you.
“especially considering i was the reason.” she can see the way your face falls at her words, and wishes nothing more than to pull you in and comfort you. but you probably don’t want that, especially after she treated you, after she hurt you.
“trin-,”
her breathing catches in her throat at the nickname, one you didn’t call her often but enough that whenever you did it felt like something real.
“i’m not mad at you.”
“you have every right to be.” she scoffs, lip curling like she has no right for you to forgive her. she’s caught off guard however when you take a weary step forward, rocking back and forth as you balance into the motion.
“i was upset, yes, but i was never mad,” she wants believe you but part of her is also jarringly aware that something in her brain wants you to be mad at her. she deserves it, she aimed her remarks at the one person she never wanted to see crumble from them, “my patient died that day.”
you say it with hesitation, and trinity has to physically hold herself back from approaching you and wrapping an arm around your shoulder, tugging you into her side.
she can see how your throat bobs, inhaling deeply like you’re preparing for a difficult conversation. she’s ready, ready for you to be done with her. she laughed at you when you’d lost a patient, she’d made it worse even unintentionally, how do you come back from that?
“i was having a rough week, and i was down,” you sigh, pained at the thought, “i’m sorry.”
trinity blanches. you’re sorry?
“what?” she speaks before her brain catches up with her mouth.
you nod, looking forlorn.
“i ignored you, which wasn’t very mature,” you’re clearly putting a lot of thought into your words based on the scrunch between your brows, “i think i was embarrassed, that what you said got to me so much.”
“don’t.”
you look up at that, finding a conflicted expression plastered across trinitys face. she looks distraught, pieces of hair have fallen from her ponytail to frame her face, she doesn’t bother push them back.
“don’t apologize, please,” she whispers, and it’s the more genuine you’ve ever heard her, “i’m the one who needs to, please.”
that’s probably the most you’ve ever heard trinity say please and it’s been twice, and aimed both times at you.
“i’m not good at this.” she huffs.
“this,” she waves a hand between the two of you, “being close like this with someone, not wanting to hurt them so badly it makes me feel sick.”
it’s your turn for your breath to catch.
“i never meant to hurt you,” she continues, as if you would start talking again, like you weren’t standing there at a loss for words, “i’ll never do it again, believe me.”
she’s begging.
if anymore desperation were to pour off her she’d been on her knees, looking up at you and hoping you wouldn’t slam the door in her face.
she doesn’t know how to do this, apologize, actually be sorry. she’s felt remorse, she’s not that emotionally reserved. but this is different, this is you. if she can’t talk normally to people her own age, family of patients, how is she supposed to explain how she feels to someone she’s…
she doesn’t have too.
because before her mouth can open again and spew more sorry’s, she’s pushed against the empty gurney behind her as your body collides with her. it’s warm, the way your hands wrap around her back, pull her weight into yours. your face is shoved in the crook of her neck, breath tickling the hairs at the back of her nape.
her hands shoot out, bracing a second too late and pausing before her brain catches up and she’s realizes what’s happening and wraps her own arms around you. her fingers dig into your scrubs, hands gripping at your waist like she’s scared you’ll slip away or disappear or, god forbid, ignore her again.
she can feel the breaths you take as your chest is pressed to hers, she doesn’t think she’s ever been this close to you. it sends her thoughts on a spiral, she’s so glad, overjoyed that you’ve obviously forgiven her but man.
she can feel the heat flood her cheeks, burning her face as if the ac wasn’t currently is blasting. her fingers tremble against your body, suddenly too aware of every part of you tucked into her. she’s happy, the relief she feeling is overwhelming, however the next breath she takes in is shaky.
“i take that as a-,” she wants to joke, make a quip that you didn’t stay mad long, how she can’t blame you, you must have missed her so much.
until you lean back enough to catch her eye, faces nearly nose to nose, and your head tips forward.
hold on.
trinitys aware of what’s happening. how couldn’t she be when she’s thought about this moment for months, unfortunately so often sometimes you’d catch her staring and make a tease about her being oh so in love.
“i can’t blame you trin, im just too pretty.”
you’re right, you can’t blame her, because that’s just a fact. a fact running through her mind as the plush warmth of your lips press to hers.
of course she tastes good, she’s always smelled amazing, this shouldn’t be shocking.
but it’s shocking enough that she stumbles a bit, the backs of her thighs catching on the gurney. and oh god, your hand is now in her hair, tugging at the roots, adjusting her back like she’d go anywhere.
it’s mean how you’d nails rake across her scalp, tongue darting out to lick at the seam of her bottom lip, it’s pure evil.
right as her mouth opens, heart thudding so quick she’s worried you’d feel it against yours, you pull away.
fuck.
there’s a string of spit connecting your lips, your hand swiftly coming up to wipe at the glistening on your chin an breaking the connection.
“i forgive you.” you say it in this soft voice, all casual like you hadn’t just rearranged her mind and weakened her self control. she can’t help but snort, eyes rolling as her heart continues to race.
4 Times Trinity Flirted and You Didn't Realize + The One Time You Did
Trinity Santos x Autistic!psych!reader
Summary: Trinity Santos has been flirting with you for weeks, through coffee, compliments, rain-soaked conversations, and dinner deliveries, but you keep missing every cue. It isn’t until a quiet moment in the break room that everything finally clicks, leading to a direct confession, a kiss, and Trinity making sure there’s no room left for misunderstanding.
Authors note: This was a request that can be found here
1. The Coffee
The first time Trinity Santos flirted with you, she did it over a burnt cup of hospital coffee.
You were standing in the break room at 6:43 in the morning, half-awake, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other scrolling through patient notes on your tablet. The ED was already loud beyond the door. Monitors beeping, residents calling for labs, nurses moving with the sort of speed that made the whole place feel like a hive someone had shaken.
Trinity came in still tying her hair back, black scrubs wrinkled in that very specific I slept for three hours and woke up angry about it kind of way.
She stopped when she saw you.
“Wow,” she said.
You looked up immediately. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Your brow furrowed. “Is there something on my face?”
Trinity’s mouth twitched. “No.”
You lifted a hand to your cheek anyway, because people always said “nothing” when there was, in fact, something. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” She moved past you toward the coffee machine. “You just look good in the morning.”
You blinked at her.
Then you looked down at yourself.
Your scrub top was slightly untucked. Your badge was twisted backward. Your hair had been put up in the dark and had mostly surrendered. There was a pen tucked behind your ear that you didn’t remember putting there.
“I look exhausted,” you said.
“Both can be true.”
You stared at her for another second, waiting for the joke to finish forming.
It didn’t.
So you nodded seriously.
“Thanks. You look tired too.”
Trinity paused with her hand on the coffee pot.
Slowly, she turned her head toward you.
You offered her a polite smile.
Her lips parted like she was going to say something, then closed again. She poured her coffee with the expression of someone deciding whether or not to walk into traffic.
“You’re killing me,” she muttered.
You looked back down at your tablet. “I can switch the coffee out if it tastes bad.”
Trinity stared at the back of your head for a full three seconds.
Then she laughed.
Not loudly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Just this small, helpless thing that made her shoulders dip.
“No,” she said. “Coffee’s fine.”
You hummed, already reading again.
Behind you, Trinity leaned against the counter, watching you like you were a puzzle box with no visible seams.
“You’re really something,” she said.
“Thanks,” you answered automatically. “You too.”
She smiled into her mug.
You still had no idea.
2. The Scrub Cap
The second time, it was during a psych consult.
You’d been called down for a patient who was refusing treatment, paranoid and overstimulated from the chaos of the ED. Trinity was the resident assigned to the case, standing outside the room with her arms crossed, explaining the situation fast enough that most people would’ve missed half of it.
You didn’t.
You listened, nodded, asked two questions, and then went in.
Twenty minutes later, the patient was calmer, sitting on the bed with a blanket around her shoulders and a cup of water in her hands. Trinity watched you through the glass with something unreadable on her face.
When you came back out, she stepped aside to let you through.
“That was impressive,” she said.
You tapped something into the chart. “She needed less stimulation, not six people talking over each other.”
“Yeah, but you got her to trust you in, like, two minutes.”
“She was scared.”
Trinity tilted her head. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it sound simple.”
“It was simple.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Trinity moved closer, voice lowering. “You’re just good.”
You glanced up.
There it was again. That look. Warm. Sharp. Like she’d found something she wanted to touch but knew better than to reach for in the hallway.
Your brain politely sorted it into professional compliment and moved on.
“Thank you,” you said. “You handled the clinical side well.”
Trinity blinked.
Then her eyes narrowed slightly, amused and offended all at once.
“You’re complimenting me back?”
“Yes?”
“Like this is peer review?”
You frowned. “Was I not supposed to?”
She huffed a laugh and leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Okay. Let me make this easier.”
You looked at her fully now.
Trinity reached up and tugged at the edge of your scrub cap. It had slipped slightly, probably from you running your hand over your hair too many times.
“There,” she said, smoothing it into place. Her fingers lingered just long enough to be noticeable to anyone with a functioning sense of romance.
You did not have one of those.
You immediately touched the cap yourself.
“Oh. Was it crooked?”
Trinity’s hand dropped.
Her face went blank.
Then she looked away, biting the inside of her cheek.
“Yeah,” she said. “Terribly crooked. Medical emergency.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“I did, in my own way.”
You nodded. “Thanks for fixing it.”
Trinity inhaled slowly through her nose.
“Anytime.”
And because you were you, you added, “It’s good to know you’re observant.”
Trinity stared at you.
Then she whispered, “Unbelievable.”
You smiled faintly, assuming she meant the patient case.
3. The Ambulance Bay
The third time was in the ambulance bay.
It was raining hard enough to turn the pavement silver. You’d gone outside for air after a difficult consult, the kind that left something heavy sitting behind your ribs. You weren’t crying. You weren’t even close.
You just needed the world to be quieter for two minutes.
Trinity found you anyway.
She always did that, somehow.
The door opened behind you and she stepped out, immediately making a face at the weather.
“Gross.”
“You can go back inside.”
“And leave you out here looking tragic and beautiful?” she asked. “No thanks.”
You glanced at her. “I don’t look tragic.”
“No. You do.”
You considered that.
“Is that a bad thing?”
Trinity looked at you like you’d just handed her a scalpel blade-first.
“No,” she said slowly. “That was not the part I expected you to question.”
You tucked your hands into your scrub pockets. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
She smiled then, soft and lopsided. “Maybe I just wanted to stand next to you.”
That should have done it.
That should have clicked.
The rain. The quiet. The way Trinity had stepped close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. The way her voice gentled only when she spoke to you.
Instead, you glanced toward the parking lot.
“Are you avoiding someone?”
Trinity’s smile fell open into disbelief.
You kept going, because unfortunately, once you found a possible explanation, your brain liked to trot after it like a little hound.
“Because if you are, I can stand here longer. Make it seem like we’re discussing a patient.”
Trinity pressed her lips together.
Her eyes dropped to the ground.
For one strange second, you thought she might be upset.
Then she laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth.
You stared.
“What?”
She shook her head, rain catching in the loose pieces of hair near her face.
“Nothing. Nothing. You’re just…” She looked at you again, eyes bright. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m trying to be helpful.”
“That’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
You frowned harder.
Trinity softened.
She reached out, carefully brushing a raindrop from the shoulder of your scrub top.
“Come back inside before you freeze.”
“I’m not cold.”
“You’re shivering.”
You looked down at your own arm.
You were, actually.
“Oh.”
Trinity’s smile returned, smaller this time.
“Yeah. Oh.”
She opened the door and held it for you.
You walked in first.
Behind you, Trinity murmured, “One day, I’m going to flirt with you so directly you’ll have no choice.”
You half-turned. “Did you say something?”
“Nope.”
4. The Dinner Invite
The fourth time, she brought food.
That was serious.
You were in your office with the lights dimmed, your shoes kicked off beneath the desk, and a stack of notes glaring at you from the screen. It was past the end of your shift. Technically, you could leave.
Realistically, the charting goblin had its claws in your ankle.
A knock sounded at the doorframe.
You looked up.
Trinity stood there holding two takeout bags.
“Are you busy?”
“Yes.”
She lifted the bags.
You paused.
“Less busy than I was.”
She grinned and came in like she’d won something.
You moved a pile of papers so she could put the food down. The smell hit first. Warm rice, grilled meat, garlic, something spicy enough to make your stomach wake up and file a formal request.
“You didn’t have to get me dinner,” you said.
“I know.”
You looked into one of the bags. “Did someone order too much?”
“No.”
“Did the restaurant mess up?”
“No.”
“Did a patient’s family bring this?”
Trinity stared at you.
“I bought you dinner.”
You looked up.
“Why?”
The question came out genuinely.
Trinity’s expression did something complicated. Amusement first. Then fondness. Then a little flicker of exasperation.
“Because I like feeding you.”
You absorbed that.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Still incorrectly.
“That’s very kind.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Kind.”
“Yes.”
“I brought you your favorite.”
“You know my favorite?”
“You get the same thing every time we order from there.”
“That’s pattern recognition.”
“That’s interest.”
You nodded. “Both can be true.”
Trinity dropped into the chair across from your desk and rubbed a hand over her face.
“I swear to God.”
“What?”
She looked at you through her fingers. “Do you think I bring dinner to everyone?”
You thought about it.
“You’re friends with Dennis.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“And Mel.”
She lowered her hand. “You are dodging the point so hard it’s becoming athletic.”
“I’m not dodging. I’m answering.”
“You’re not answering the right question.”
“What’s the right question?”
Trinity leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
Her voice softened.
“Why do you think I know your favorite order?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
The answer that came first was practical. Because you worked together. Because she noticed things. Because doctors noticed patterns. Because residents learned people’s habits when they were sleep-deprived and trapped in the same building for too many hours.
But Trinity wasn’t looking at you like this was about sesame chicken.
She was looking at you like she had been standing at a door for weeks, knocking with flowers, fireworks, a brass band, and a handwritten sign, and you had kept asking if the noise was maintenance.
Your face warmed.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly.
Trinity’s gaze flicked across your face.
For once, she didn’t make a joke.
“Think about it,” she said.
Then she pushed one container toward you and picked up her chopsticks like she hadn’t just rewired half the room.
You did think about it.
For the entire meal.
For the rest of your charting.
For the drive home.
For two days after.
+1. The Time You Did
The time you finally noticed, Trinity wasn’t even trying.
That was the ridiculous part.
It was late again. Of course it was. The ED had been brutal all day, one long unraveling thread of chest pain, psych holds, trauma alerts, and family members crying into vending machine coffee.
You found Trinity sitting alone in the nearly empty break room, head tipped back against the cabinet, eyes closed.
For once, she looked truly tired.
Not cute-tired. Not Trinity-tired, with sarcasm sharpened and ready.
Just tired.
You stepped inside quietly.
“Hey.”
Her eyes opened.
The second she saw you, her face changed.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to catch.
But you did.
Her shoulders eased. Her mouth softened. Something guarded in her expression loosened, like her body had recognized you before she decided whether to allow it.
“Oh,” she said, voice rough. “Hey.”
Your stomach flipped.
Small.
Dangerous.
Warm.
You stood there with one hand still on the door.
And suddenly, all of it came back.
You look good in the morning.
You’re just good.
Maybe I just wanted to stand next to you.
I like feeding you.
Think about it.
You had thought about it.
Apparently your brain had needed to receive the evidence, organize it, mislabel it, archive it, retrieve it, then finally set it on fire.
Trinity rubbed at one eye. “You okay?”
You walked farther into the room.
“I think you’ve been flirting with me.”
Trinity went very still.
Then she sat up.
Slowly.
“Sorry?”
“You’ve been flirting with me,” you said again, more certain this time.
Her expression cracked.
A smile crept in at one corner of her mouth.
“Have I?”
You gave her a look. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you haven’t.”
Trinity leaned back in her chair, now far too pleased for someone who had been half-dead thirty seconds ago.
“I don’t know. This is a pretty serious accusation.”
“You told me I looked good in the morning.”
“You did.”
“I looked like I’d been dragged through a supply closet.”
“Still worked for me.”
Your face heated.
Trinity noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Her smile softened into something less smug and more careful.
“You finally caught up,” she said.
“I’m sorry it took me so long.”
“Don’t be.” She shrugged, but the movement wasn’t casual enough to fool you. “It was kind of cute.”
“I thought you were just being nice.”
“I am nice.”
You stared at her.
She sighed. “Fine. Nice adjacent.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Trinity’s face changed again.
That was when you really knew.
Not because she flirted. Not because she teased. Not because she brought you dinner or stood too close in the rain or looked at you like you were the only steady thing in a collapsing hospital.
Because when you laughed, Trinity looked relieved.
Like she’d been waiting to hear that sound all day.
Maybe longer.
You stepped closer.
Her eyes followed you.
“Are you flirting with me right now?” you asked.
“No,” she said.
You raised an eyebrow.
Trinity smiled.
“Now I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to decide what you want to do about it.”
The room went quiet.
Beyond the door, the ED kept roaring. Phones ringing. Wheels squeaking. Someone calling for an attending. Life continuing in all its fluorescent chaos.
But inside the break room, everything narrowed down to Trinity Santos sitting in front of you, watching you with that impossible mix of patience and nerve.
You took another step.
Then another.
Her smile faded, but only because her lips parted slightly.
You stopped in front of her.
“I want you to flirt with me again,” you said.
Trinity’s eyes darkened with amusement.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“But more directly this time.”
She tilted her head back to look up at you.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I want to kiss you.”
Your breath caught.
There it was.
No room for misinterpretation.
No clinical loophole.
No colleague-shaped excuse to hide behind.
Just Trinity.
Just wanting.
Just you, finally understanding.
You swallowed.
“I noticed that one.”
Her smile returned.
“Good.”
Then she stood, slow enough for you to move away if you wanted.
You didn’t.
Her hand touched your waist first, careful and warm through the fabric of your scrubs. Your fingers curled lightly into the front of her scrub top, exactly where you’d wanted them for longer than you had allowed yourself to admit.
Trinity leaned in.
Paused.
Still giving you a way out.
You closed the distance yourself.
The kiss was soft at first. Almost questioning. Then Trinity made this small sound against your mouth, half relief and half finally, and you forgot every clever thing you had ever almost said.
When you pulled back, she stayed close, forehead nearly touching yours.
“You know,” she murmured, “for a psychiatrist, you are impressively bad at reading romantic cues.”
You breathed out a laugh. “In my defense, you’re very sarcastic and I’m very autistic.”
Trinity paused.
Then her expression softened so quickly it almost stole the air from the room.
“Okay,” she said, thumb brushing once over your waist. “Fair defense.”
“In my other defense, you’re very pretty and that makes your sarcasm harder to decode.”
Her grin came back slowly.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You flirting back.”
Your face warmed. “Was that flirting?”
“Baby,” Trinity said, delighted now, “that was practically a love letter.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.
“In my defense,” she added, “I bought you dinner.”
“I understand that now.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because I can do it again. For clarity.”
You smiled.
Trinity’s thumb swept once over your waist.
This time, you noticed.
This time, you leaned closer.
“Dinner sounds good,” you said. “But I think I need more evidence.”
Trinity’s grin turned slow.
Dangerous.
Delighted.
“Oh, I can provide evidence.”
And when she kissed you again, there was nothing subtle about it.
when you overhear a comment frank makes to mateo, you decide to back off. frank doesn't like that one bit and does everything in his power to get your attention back.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING frank langdon x er!barbie!reader
WARNINGS overheard conversations, miscommunication, mutual pining, idiots to lovers, girly!reader, post-rehab frank langdon, recovery themes, yearning to the max, repression also to the max, flirtation as a coping mechanism, kissing!, making out on the job!
WC 3.9k | REQUEST here!
“The new intern claims Barbie’s been doodling your name with little hearts all over her forms. Somebody’s got it bad.”
Mateo’s statement floats over the nurses’ station diver.
It manages to slam straight into your self-image. Delicate tissue at the best of times, wedged between your left ventricle and the tiny circuit that compels you to adopt every sad house-plant at Trader Joe’s.
Yes it’s true, you do, for the record, employ thematic embellishments. A heart here. A flourish there. (Morale matters; medicine is bleak). That is not the same thing as ‘having it bad’.
But the problem is apparently people can’t make that distinction, and now you can see it too clearly, a pack of first-years huddled together, snickering over your smittenness, spider-webbing a hairline crack right through the high-gloss competence you spent seventy-eight paychecks shellacking.
It’s that eighth-grade deja vu: the day Jack Harrison caught you tracing Mrs. Jack Harrison in bubble letters on your planner and passed the page down the row like contraband.
The heat that bursts behind your ears now is the exact temperature of that day, when the whole cafeteria seemed to sync with your cardiac rhythm — thump, she likes him, thump.
You straighten behind the med cart, ready to emerge and correct the narrative before it mutates any further, when Frank speaks first. “Ignore it. It’s just noise — I’m sure she’ll lose interest soon enough.”
Oh.
Something clamps shut inside you so abruptly it almost audibly clicks.
Like you’ve been fizzing under pressure all shift and someone, somewhere, has just screwed the cap on tight. The carbonation tears around blind, frantic for an exit.
Noise. The word expands until it feels the whole corridor. Noise, as in background nuisance, as in easily tuned out, as in the thin electrical whine of a dying bulb that nobody bothers fixing until someone from maintenance finally rips it out and tosses it.
So that’s what he hears when you talk? A squeaky hindrance he tolerates out of courtesy?
The lively back-and-forth you stored under maybe someday morphs, in one breath, into you pawing at a deadbolt while he waits for the scratching to stop.
You pivot on silent flats, slip down the side corridor before Mateo or Frank registers movement.
Three steps in, a shoulder clips yours — McKay, clutching a stack of imaging requests. Clipboards explode across linoleum.
“Whoa, road-runner much?” she laughs, stooping. Her grin falters when she meets your deer-in-the-headlights stare. “Hey, you good? You’re kind of… vibrating.”
There’s no better word for it. Your fingers keep sparking against each other, your chin keeps twitching toward the main hall, and every nerve ending chants the same directive: bolt, wounded-fawn style, into the nearest underbrush before the hunter looks up.
You drop to your knees, paper edges nicking your skin as you herd the spill into something vaguely stack-shaped.
Out of the corner of your eye, Frank and Mateo both turn at the clatter. Frank’s brows notch, mouth already forming the silent You okay?
You slap the stack into McKay’s hands.
“Peachy!” you babble, already sidestepping to block Frank’s sight-line. “Totally good. Very busy. High-priority sticker emergency. Life or death if you’re, like, six and waiting for discharge.”
Your shoes squeak as you bolt.
There are several indicators, in Frank’s opinion, that suggest you’ve come down with something terminal, and the first arrives in the form of his inbox.
Or rather, the absence of its usual infestation.
When he finally gets ten uninterrupted minutes to wade through his overnight emails, there is only one from you.
A curt administrative note about revised intake-labeling protocol, plus an attached spreadsheet for the week’s front-desk coverage.
It is concise. Properly punctuated. Horrifyingly lucid.
Frank stares at it a full second longer than necessary, as if more of you might reveal itself under scrutiny.
Because, usually, by this point, there are at least twelve.
They arrive in glitter-bomb bursts throughout the day. A few carry actionable intel. Most are digital magpies’ nests: random URLs, blurry memes, rogue exclamation points, and the kind of half-formed shower-thought nonsense you apparently consider too important to trust to your own mind.
He spends longer than he’s willing to admit at the computer waiting for more emails to come in.
They never do.
The second indicator presents itself when he swipes into radiology and, for the first time in recent memory, does so alone.
No sudden apparition at his elbow, no imploring eyes, no breathless little “oops, forgot mine again,” delivered as though this is an unforeseeable act of the gods rather than a behavior pattern.
He tends to just hand the badge over without questions.
There is no point doing otherwise. If not him, you’ll simply latch onto the next available soft touch with security clearance, and Frank would rather it be him.
He frowns when the reader spits its green light at an empty hallway.
The third, and by far the most worrying, indicator arrives in the break room.
Frank boxes himself into a stolen minute, pours a cup, looks up too late, and finds you standing at the same counter.
Usually this is your opening. Your preferred habitat.
You’d reach across his body for sugar you absolutely do not need (you’re sweet enough as it is), clip his front with your ass, crowd his elbow while stirring, then look up like none of it was intentional, like he’s just a piece of furniture placed unfortunately in your path.
He braces for impact. Nothing happens.
Instead you give a brisk nod, measure out a generous amount of creamer into your cup, and keep your radius fanatically intact.
You leave before he can tally the damage.
The space beside him turns freezer-aisle cold. Frank’s fingers blanch on the mug handle. He blames the overzealous hospital ventilation for about half a second, then hears the excuse rattle around his own head and die there.
He has half a mind to go after you. Catch you by the wrist before you get too far, steer you into a vacant bay, and do the whole thing properly since apparently no one else is treating this personality drop as emergent.
History, exam, differential. What’s been siphoned out of you, and can he replace it?
In a better universe, that line of inquiry earns him one of your usual responses, “Should I unbutton for the stethoscope, Doctor?”
But he can’t do that. Can’t go stalking after you like some lovesick asshole with a savior complex and a death wish.
Especially not now when he is, at best, one bad headline away from vaporizing the fellowship he’s been clawing toward for years. He needs HR to stop looking at him like one more incident will finish the job rehab failed to.
And beyond that, he’s been trying to starve the gossip before it gets any bigger. Partly for himself, sure. Mostly for you.
This place has a long memory when it comes to his mistakes and a short one when it comes to anything decent he’s ever done.
He’s not about to hand the hospital a fresh excuse to staple your name to his and let people act like you’re just another piece of collateral from the mess he made of himself.
But shit he misses you. He wants your attention back on him. And the flirting and the smart mouth and the little collisions of your body with his like you’ve forgotten where one of you ends and the other begins.
So if he can’t be obvious, he’ll be strategic. He’ll do what he does best. Lay the bait and wait for you to come to him.
At two he messes with the thermostat.
There’s a woman in Facilities who’ll adjust it for him without putting in a work order, no questions, an ongoing favor from the time she showed up in the ER with split knuckles and a story about slipping while replacing a vent cover.
Frank stitched the cut closed in under six minutes, declined the point out that the wound looked a lot more like she’d punched through something than brushed against it, and earned himself a useful little pocket of goodwill in the process.
And, more often than not, Frank squanders that usefulness on you.
A degree warmer in the mornings, sometimes two if the night crew has left the department with all the ambient warmth of a crypt, timed just before you blow in the front doors, already looking faintly wounded by the concept of central air.
It’s at sixty-six now.
Low enough to summon you, high enough that no one can accuse him of weaponizing infrastructure for attention.
Although that is precisely what he’s doing.
But it takes longer than expected for you to appear in his line of sight. And when you finally do, you pay him no mind.
You putter through the department in several layers: cardigan, coat, fleece, thermal tights, hands tucked into your sleeves.
You look pissed. You look adorable. Frank resents learning those two things can coexist so easily.
He tries to catch your eye but you just keep moving through the pit like an overdressed cumulonimbus radiating indignation at every ceiling vent, refusing to seek him out.
It makes no sense. You should have filed a verbal complaint with him by minute eight.
And at minute forty-five he watches (sourly) as Garcia slides up beside you, a still-steaming warmer blanket perfectly folded over her arm.
“You look frostbitten,” she murmurs, settling the plush square around your shoulders.
You exhale a blissed little thank-you and lean into her, soaking up the heat Frank had planned to supply by proxy.
Garcia lifts her gaze, finds him across the pit, and winks. Problem solved, ER Ken, she mouths, fluffing the blanket with exaggerated care just to make sure he clocks her fingerprints all over his failed experiment.
Problem not solved. In fact, freshly enlarged.
Frank later lumbers down the hallway toward your office like a kicked senior dog chasing the last scrap of affection from its owner. He clutches the print-outs in his hand so tight they rasp with every step.
He finds you at your desk, hair fallen in stray ribbons across your face, mouth pulled down at the corners while the monitor paints you blue. Concentration or maybe displeasure. Hard to tell from this angle.
He hovers, suddenly unsure whether to knock on the actual door or just the wall of silence you’ve erected.
He opts for the literal door, two knuckles, two quick knocks.
Your head lifts. Something bright like excitement sparks across your face then the expression collapses, shutters down to business. Like you remembered all at once the circumstances surrounding him and whatever stupid hope had leapt up before you could stop it.
He hates that expression immediately. Hates that it exists. Hates even more that he can’t quite sort out why seeing it on your face feels like a personal failure.
“Need this form revised,” he says, lifting the mangled stack. “Thought maybe you could escort me to radiology? Could use the company, and you terrify the techs less than I do.”
It’s needy and transparent and he knows. He doesn’t care how it sounds as long as you say yes.
“I’m, uh, really busy at the moment, Dr. Langdon. Pending labs, two admits… might be a while.” You rattle it off too fast, like reading a grocery list you just wrote in your head. He knows every item is invented on the spot.
“Humor me, okay? I’ve had seven hours of people telling me to wait my turn. I need one cooperative face before I implode.”
You worry the inside of your lips, eyes flicking to the doorway.
Finally you nod. “Fine.”
One syllable, and it hits like epinephrine. He can’t stop the microscopic lift of his chin, lungs taking in a fuller breath as if permission itself has oxygenated the air.
He angles toward the hallway, offering the smallest tilt of his shoulder so you can merge.
“Thanks,” he says, voice pitched towards casual.
“Sure.”
He glances at you to his left. Goosebumps litter the expanse of your arms. He eases his stride so you’re shoulder-to-shoulder instead of half a step behind. “You cold?”
“Nope. Perfectly comfortable.” You answer while simultaneously yanking your sleeves down to your knuckles.
He snorts. “Yeah and I’m the post child for impulse control.”
You stop mid-stride, eyes narrowing. “That’s not funny, Frank.”
His first name. That’s progress, he thinks. Even laced with contempt, hearing it from you feels like an exhale after hours underwater.
He knew you wouldn’t like the joke. Made it anyway, cheap currency to buy a spark out of you. If spark equals fury, so be it. Fury beats indifference every time.
“Yeah, poor taste. Reflex, I guess.” He winces, thumb rubbing the knot at his collar.
You huff through your nose and pivot forward again, pace clipped. Frank falls in step a half-pace behind, then edges closer.
“Cardigan looks new,” he ventures. “Color suits you.”
“It’s old,” you say, eyes still on the hallway ahead.
Frank smothers another wince. Stupid. By this point the day has offered him more than enough evidence that the usual methods are dead on arrival.
Compliments, bait, orchestrated coincidence, all of it useless now that you’ve apparently decided to treat him like a mildly inconvenient coworker.
That’s the part he likes least. The sudden sense that he can’t locate himself in relation to you anymore.
The part he likes least changes when he finds you twenty minutes later, stationed beside some orthopedic meathead, looking luminously alive.
No longer wan or withdrawn or visibly dying of whatever new strain of virus you’ve contracted. But smiling. A laugh bubbling out, fingers corkscrewing a curl the way they do when you’re charmed.
Apparently you can still flirt. You can still sparkle. You just can’t seem to do it anywhere near him.
Before his cortex can veto, he’s crossing the floor, stopping dead at your shoulder.
“Just need a status update on Mrs. Carlson’s tib-fib before radiology locks the board.”
Mrs. Carlson, insofar as he knows, is fictional, but her imaginary fracture buys him two startled glances and three precious seconds inhaling the vanilla-and-alcohol warmth of your laugh.
Meathead flips through pages. “Um… we don’t have a Carlson today.”
Frank fakes a thoughtful frown. “Huh. Alias, then. Happens every weekend — patients think we’re the witness-protection program.”
Ortho squints. “I can pull the day-sheet again —”
“Good idea,” Frank says, nodding like a supervising attending. “Check PACU and the boarding queue; wouldn’t want to miss an imaging window.”
The guy mutters agreement and slinks off, shoulders hunched in duty. Frank turns to you, expression suddenly softer.
Crossing your arms, you cock a hip where Ortho had been. “Impressive diversion tactic. Did Mrs. Carlson spring fully formed from your imagination, or is she a previous imaginary friend?”
The fury’s back again.
Frank scratches at his jaw. “Didn’t think it through.”
“You think plenty. Maybe just tell me what you want instead of throwing Jason under a bus.”
Jason. Stupid name for a stupid guy, he thinks.
What he wants is one honest conversation and maybe your ass back where it belongs — in his personal space. He can’t say that last part though, so he settles for the first in the only terms he knows how.
“What I want is a five-minute consult with you. Somewhere quieter.” He flicks a glance at the empty bay down the hall, then back to your crossed arms. “Please.”
You study him for a moment, then nod once.
“Bay twelve’s open. Five minutes, then I’m due back at my desk.”
Frank files the claim under Questionable. You treat workstations like bar stools — occupied only until something shinier beckons. It’s not the desk ticking in your head; it’s the idea of being walled in with him past the half-life of your composure.
He watches tension climb your scapulae as you march ahead, timing yourself like a patient on a stress test.
Bay 12 yawns open and swallows you both.
The instant the noise of the corridor seals off, Frank feels his pulse redeploy to places it has no business patrolling. Temples, wrists, the hollow just above his sternum.
For one beat you stand opposite like combatants in a children’s-duel-turned-board-meeting: arms folded, backs straight, pretending neither of you can feel the static in the air.
“Right.” He claps once (why did he clap?) and immediately regrets it. “Consult.”
Your brows tip up, perfectly polite, perfectly guarded. “On our imaginary tib-fib?”
Frank’s ears go hot.
“Yeah, about that. I might have — misallocated resources.” He forces a laugh that sounds like a cough that sounds like a car refusing to start. “Look, I just —” A breath, steady, like he tells interns before a lumbar puncture. “I’ve noticed you’ve been… different. Quieter. Less —” he gestures vaguely, like there’s a medical term for starlight. “I thought maybe I’d done something.”
“Frank, I’ve been at this hospital for three years. You’ve existed in approximately one and a half of them. If I’m different and you assume it’s about you, that’s either breathtaking narcissism or —” a small, lethal smile “— maybe something else.”
Something else. He recognizes your own bait and still lunges.
“Yeah. Maybe.” Quiet. Direct. No place to hide in it. “Maybe I did assume it had something to do with me because I wanted it to.” His knuckles sweep his jaw. He never looks away from you. “Because if it’s not that, then I’m standing here making an ass out of myself for no reason, and I’d actually prefer the narcissism.”
You hesitate. “I’m just… giving you a little breathing room, okay?”
“Breathing room?” He moves toward you impulsively before catching himself, eyes wide, almost pleading. “I don’t — fuck, I don’t want breathing room. What are you doing that for?”
“What do you think?” You laugh, but it’s hollowed out completely. He doesn’t like the sound. “I spend half my shift practically trailing after you. Everyone sees it. I just —,” you purse your lips. “I don’t want to embarrass myself any more than I already have.”
He frowns at that. You’ve never once moved through this place like someone worried about looking foolish.
You flirt when you want to flirt, laugh when you want to laugh, and say things most people would bury alive before letting them leave their mouths. You leave little traces of yourself everywhere. Lip gloss prints on coffee lids. Heart-dotted notes. Sweaters draped over chairs that aren’t yours. There is nothing cautious about you, nothing particularly governed by social survival.
Even your embarrassment tends to be theatrical, temporary, burned through fast and replaced with another bad idea. He has never known you to care this much about the audience.
“What are you talking about?”
He watches as your eyes break off and land somewhere past his shoulders, as if the answer might be stapled to the wall.
“I heard what you said earlier.”
Frank’s brow furrows harder, causing a headache. “What?”
“With Mateo.” Your arms tighten across your middle. “About me being ‘just noise.’ About how I’d lose interest soon enough.” Your eyes flick up to his for a second. “So I thought maybe I should help you out with that.”
Blood sluices out of his skull, then surges back so hard his vision pulses.
For a beat, Frank just stands there, knocked completely sideways by the realization that you heard that, heard those exact words with none of the context that had made them make sense in his head. Christ.
No wonder you pulled back. No wonder you’ve been different. He’d been cornered by Mateo outside the med-supply cage, half-listening to him gleefully recycle some intern gossip thread like it was harmless entertainment, and all Frank had been trying to do was kill it fast.
Shut it down. Mateo was fishing for a reaction, for confirmation, for anything he could carry back into the staff room and let breed.
Robby’s got a disciplinary file half built with his name on the tab. One more thing and he’ll be back in that carpeted purgatory explaining how “post-rehab Frank” was just a limited-time offer.
The only thought had been do not feed this. Do not let you become a bigger target than you already are.
“No, that’s — fuck.” He breaks off, already hating how badly he’s said everything. “That’s not what I meant. I called the intern noise. The gossip. The whole stupid conversation. I meant she’d get bored and move on if I didn’t exacerbate it. I did not mean you.”
If anything, the entire point had been to avoid throwing you under the bus by acting like there was nothing there to poke at. And somehow that attempt has landed here, in front of him now, having done exactly the opposite.
You look at him for a second like you’re trying to decide whether to believe him and coming up short.
“I can handle it, you know. I’m a big girl. If I’m too much, or if I’ve been making you uncomfortable, you can just tell me.” The flat seam of your lips is more withering than any shout. “I’d rather hear it straight than keep walking around here feeling like some joke everybody else is already in on.”
“I know you could,” he says, too fast, like he needs to get there before you decide otherwise. “I know you could handle it. And if that was what this was, I would’ve said it, yeah?” His chest keeps punching at the scrub top, lungs over-ventilating around the terror of being misunderstood. “I don’t want you to stop flirting with me. I don’t want you to stop hovering or talking or… any of it. I — I fucking need it — You.”
“Frank…”
His eyes flick down to your mouth, then up again, like he hates that you can see him thinking it.
“If I do something stupid right now,” he says, voice low, “are you gonna slap me?”
He’s half begging for the hit, half begging on the green light.
Your exhale stutters into a breathy laugh. “Depends how stupid.”
Stupid wins.
Frank closes the last inch and touches his mouth to yours.
Soft at first, like he’s half-afraid you’ll vanish. You don’t. You stay… then soften… then melt, and everything inside him rushes forward. The second your lips part, the kiss deepens. Hunger and apology braided tight.
His hand rises to the back of your neck, thumb stroking the hair there, and the kiss tips from cautious to greedy in a single heartbeat.
He’s been starving himself on purpose, convincing the ache it was dietary. You don’t feed a craving that noble, he’d told himself in a dozen graveyard-shift pep talks. Now the craving is kissing back, and his resolve crumbles like a sugar packet.
You curve forward, spine bowing until his shoulders hit the curtain and the metal rings screech on the rail, but the world past the vinyl may as well be orbiting another sun. You both break into breathless laughter, but neither of you stops.
They warned you about selfish addicts, a voice needles.
This is exactly what they meant: taking the one thing that makes the ward bearable and unintentionally hurting its feelings to keep it safe — then stealing it anyway.
He swallows the guilt, chases it with another taste of peppermint.
Frank pulls back just far enough to speak, foreheads still touching. “No more breathing room, okay?”
You pretend to ponder, then glance at the inch (maybe) separating your bodies. “Pretty sure you just repossessed every cubic inch of it.”
“Good,” he says, thumb stroking the tendon at your nape like he’s checking his own pulse there. “I’m keeping it.”
Selfish, a reprimand flickers, but he can’t imagine surrendering the warmth that’s finally tugged his chest open.
Then the hallway pager shrieks, reminding you that the world still exists and someone probably needs a doctor who isn’t currently making out behind a curtain.
You both straighten, slower than necessary, Smooth hair, reset badges.
As you step through the divider he catches your hand, gives it a quick, secret squeeze.
You squeeze back, and the grin you trade in that split-second says everything the rumor mill never could: whatever this is, it’s no longer background noise.
MARIA NOTE hi hi hi thank you for reading and witnessing er barbie and franks FIRST KISS!!!!!!!!!! behind a questionably sanitary curtain, no less. may their pager batteries die forever so we get more smooch time. ₊ ⊹🪻 ✧˚. ᵎᵎ 🪴
but kiss me & i might...
⤷ jack abbot x nurse!reader ⌇ 23.1k
✶ ― SYNOPSIS. the 5 times jack abbot walks you home + the 1st time you invite him in.
warnings.ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, night-shift nurse!reader, colleagues to lovers, slow burn, smut (jack pussy pleaser abbot and his big dick, soft dom jack, fingering, piv, unprotected sex, praise, creampie, cum play, cum eating, smothering?, sex against a wall + cowgirl, hair pulling [jack receiving], slight dubcon as they are both tipsy), age gap (reader is early 30s), fluff, pining, longing, workplace romance, mentions of mental health struggles + therapy as consequence of the pittfest tragedy, violence + workplace assault, jack calls the reader kid but it's only as a coping mechanism!!! (he's down bad), one too many references to drop dead by olivia rodrigo, no mentions of jack's late wife or his wedding ring, 1 reference to a scene from the movie fresh. i tried my best to represent jack's life as an amputee as respectfully as possible, deepest apologies if i failed to do so.
ᯓ★ hyde's input. wrote most of this in the hospital, boots on the ground journalism.
𓂃✍︎ dt. huge big fat sloppy wet kiss for miss @pinksplace for popping my beta-reader cherry and reassuring me that this was not straight up buns, no hotdog. your friendship means the absolute world to me, the fact you match my freak is just a bonus. and to my cousin @iamthatonefangirl for telling me to watch the pitt back in february, you helped awaken something in me that had been dormant for months. & to me for continuing my tradition of posting a fic on my birthday, finishing this was my present to myself.
follow @houseofjekyll + turn on notifications to know when i post a new fic!
The first time feels like a fluke.
A rare silver lining of good stroked through the grey devastation that was today; after hours of wading through blood and gore, you at last strike gold.
“You heading off too, kid?” Despite the questioning tone in Jack’s voice, you know it’s an order.
He’s staring down at the park bench, eyes hovering over you and how tightly you’re still clutching that fourth can of beer, zoned out and completely oblivious to how everyone else has already packed up for the night and headed home. Not to sleep, no. It’s doubtful any of you will get much sleep, not after the events of today.
Robby had slipped away first, not without sharing a few final words of wisdom aimed at soothing everybody’s aching soul. Javadi followed soon after, abandoning a half-drunken beer as she went racing off to answer her mother’s beck and call. Mateo, Princess and Samira called it quits together, each heading off in different directions. Even Donnie left eventually, the now empty cooler in tow, his wife waiting patiently for him to crawl back to their newlyweds home and into her arms.
Then there were two.
Abbot and you.
Neither of you dared to interrupt the silence that had rolled in, minds too busy swimming in pools of thought, struggling against violent currents and attempting to escape the deep end.
Moonlight crept through the crevices between the branches above, cicadas came together to sing in disjointed harmony, and the world around you both kept moving, completely oblivious to how your own life had come to a halt. Somewhere between waking up to the screech of your pager and rushing through the doors of the PTMC to find it in a state of chaos, different and bloodier than you’d known it to usually be, you had shutdown.
Jack knew better than to force you out of that state.
He saw himself in your blank stares and the bouncing knees, remembered how it felt to be young, bright-eyed, and finally forced to reckon with how brutal this field could be. He didn’t need to ask to know: this had been your first mass casualty event.
Maybe that’s why he sat with you, the passing of time irrelevant, and let you fester in your shock. Let whatever cracks were forming in your heart deepen, because he knew it was the only way they’d be able to solidify. Let you exist on the periphery of life for however long you needed, his own senses fully intact and ready to watch over your body while your mind drifted elsewhere.
Only when he noticed you stifling a yawn did he act.
Jack, conscious of not startling you, moved slowly. Calmly.
He started with his prosthetic, lifting it off the bench and placing it back down onto the ground before safely attaching it. Then his bag, hands rummaging unnecessarily as though to check everything was in place — he’d already checked before leaving the locker room, but he figured another revision and a few more minutes for you to sit with your thoughts couldn’t hurt. Slinging one strap over his right shoulder, he pushed his frame off the wooden bench and came to a stand, the sickly-sweet gravel of his voice perforating the silence at last.
“Hmm?” Your reply is practically nonverbal, a simple hum. Enough to acknowledge the fact he’s spoken, yet not enough to answer his question.
Hazel eyes zero in on your own, observing how they’re tired, blinking just a little bit too lazily. The beer has warmed your cheeks, sped up your heart, and slowed your mind. Dancing on a tightrope between tipsy and inebriated, the last thing Jack is about to do is send you off home alone.
“C’mon,” he gruffs out, prying the can from your hand and laying it to rest on the bench. He replaces the weight of it in your palm with his touch, thick fingers effortlessly engulfing your own. To his delight, you give way easily, rising to a stand as he tugs you up. “Let’s get you home.”
You attempt some version of, “I’m fine.”
Jack pays it no mind.
Instead, he grabs at your familiar pink duffel bag. Something settles in his chest, dark and sickening, at the sight of dirt staining the bottom of the fabric, ruining your usually polished belongings. How apt it seems, a perfect mirror to how today has the left a smudge on you.
You stare at him all of a few seconds, eyes red. There’s no tears in sight, just the remnants of those that have already fallen. Then, when the older man shifts his weight off his right leg, you finally begin walking.
The journey is slow.
Jack’s unsure if you set the pace to accommodate to him or to put off the inevitable of going up to a lonely apartment, where all that work you’ve done to suppress the storm of emotions building inside you will prove useless the moment you step into the quiet of your home, the furthest place from danger and, yet, where all your troubling thoughts will at last catch up to you.
He thinks he’s better off not knowing, chooses to believe you’re doing it for his sake.
Some of your steps are swayed. The sight of your unsteady feet and teetering body are enough to keep his mind alert, fighting off the exhaustion that threatens to find him soon. This was supposed to be his day off, after all. He was supposed to be catching up on sleep right now, not watching over one of his nurses and worrying himself sick with thoughts of how today’s horrors will linger with you for years to come.
It was supposed to be your day off too, after all.
Neither of you should have been at the Pitt.
One man and a weapon had changed that.
You come to a stop abruptly, catching the doctor off guard and sending his solid frame crashing into your back. Before either of you can stumble too far, Jack’s snaking his free arm around your waist and stabilising you against him.
Maybe it’s the warmth of his palm, large and imposing and seeping through the cotton of your top. Maybe it’s the gentleness behind his touch, the way it anchors your feet to the pavement and silently promises that it- he won’t let you fall. Maybe it’s the weight of today finally shaking your unbreakable self, your arms too weak to keep holding you above water for much longer.
The reason doesn’t ultimately matter.
What matters is you’re finally speaking.
“Did you litter?”
Not exactly what Jack expected you to say.
It startles him for a moment, has him forgetting how today was full of horrors and has him wondering, instead, if you recycle.
It shouldn’t be so easy to picture you, bed head and a wrinkled shirt (preferably one that originally belongs to him), huffing and puffing your cheeks while you shoot around his kitchen, bags scattered along the island as you berate him.
Jack, how many times have I told you. Yellow is for plastic and cans, blue is for paper, green is for glass!
And wouldn’t it be so hard for him to fight back a smile, heart bursting with joy? A lovesick fool, happy to be lectured on the complex recycling system if it means having you, half naked, half awake, frowning at him as soon as you notice the shake in his shoulders.
Sorry, sweetheart. Promise it won’t happen again… And his hands finding your waist, pinning you to the marble counter-top so there’s nowhere for you to run from his mouth, trailing molten kisses up the expanse of your neck, lips lingering just to feel the steady thrum of your carotid pulse, physical evidence that you’re real, and here, and in his arms-
The blaring of a horn pulls Jack Abbot back onto the sidewalk.
You’re still in his arms but his lips are far from your neck and the speed of your heart is testament only to the anxiety speeding through your veins.
“Yeah. Maybe. I- I’m not really sure,” try as he might, he can’t remember if he ever moved your can from the bench. Is it still there now, half empty and waiting for its owner to return? “I’m sure someone’ll throw it away.”
Like you can’t dwell on the thought for too long, you move on, and finally say what’s really been troubling you.
“I don’t know if I-” the words catch on your throat, dry from the beer and raw with emotion. “How do I go back?”
Vague, unspecified.
Jack, with years of becoming fluent in you, understands.
“You find a way.” He wishes he could give you something more helpful, more reassuring. All he can offer you is the truth. “It’ll be hard. Different to how it was before.”
“I don’t think I can-” once more, emotions cut you off.
You’re not crying, not yet.
Stubborn as he knows you to be, steadfast in your need to remain strong until the very end. It wounds him in a way that feels a little too deep for a man who should see you as nothing more than a coworker.
Attending physician. Nurse. Colleagues.
Those are the only three words that either of you should use to describe the other. Jack knows, has known so for years. So, why does he keep having to remind himself?
“I don’t think I belong there, Doctor Abbot. You saw it, I froze. I hesitated. You had to ask me twice for the scalpel, and then- We lost him. If I had just- I should have-”
The hand at your midriff finds your shoulder, turns you around, and then his eyes find yours.
“Stop that, now. That man, he was good as gone when he reached us,” it’s a brutal truth but one that needs to be said. Jack knew it then just as much as he knows it now; that red wristband was destined for peeds. “You could have handed me that scalpel at the speed of light, and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing, okay?”
You take a steadying breath.
It doesn’t work.
Instead, Jack watches it shake right through your frame. Your eyes drift from his own, like if he stares too long, he might catch a glimpse of every self-blaming thought racing through your mind.
“D’you even realise how many lives you helped save today?” The question comes tumbling out before Jack can stop it, some enate part of himself screaming at him to reassure you, to scramble up all the fractured pieces of you and slot them back together. That’s an attending’s job, right? To keep watch over the crew, to take care of the crew. So what if you’re off-the-clock? “One-hundred and six.”
“I only worked on-”
“Doesn’t matter who you personally worked on. Every one, you hear me?” He gives a squeeze of your shoulder, tells himself it’s because he wants to get you to look at him. If the touch happens to ground him too, it’s a coincidence. “Every life we saved tonight, you had a hand in that. You being there mattered, we couldn’t have done it without you.”
The words settle over you like a blanket, wrapping you in warmth and promising you shelter.
They don’t erase the sadness, don’t make it dissolve into a puddle on the ground, left to be forgotten on the dirty surface of the sidewalk. But they do enough to ease the tension between Jack’s brows and to wipe a layer of uncertainty from your eyes.
Then, unable to help himself, Jack adds, “I know I certainly couldn’t. Can barely intubate without my favourite nurse at my side.”
You laugh, slightly.
It eases something in Jack’s chest, nonetheless.
“Doctor Robby says it’s not right for attendings to play favourites.”
Now Jack is the one laughing.
You take the chance to pry your bag from his grasp, throwing the strap over your shoulder. The first act of Goodnight.
“Yeah, well, come to me again when Robby starts taking his own advice.”
There is no grand goodbye between you.
Just an exchange of fractured smiles, a subtle nod of approval from Jack as you take the first step towards the building’s entrance, and the wave of your hand before you turn fully and dash to safety.
Before you can slip through the crack you make in the building’s heavy door, Jack calls out, “I’ll see you tomorrow, kid.”
Once again, not a question. An order.
The second time is all about convenience.
It’s the last night of your monthly seven-days-on, the kind of shift where the hours stretch themselves impossibly thin and it feels like you’re crawling towards the end, a goalpost that keeps moving an inch out of reach each time you start to feel relief. By the time you officially clock out, shooting off towards the locker rooms before Whitaker can ask you to accompany another patient for a CT or Princess can enquire on any night shift gossip, you’ve worked an extra two hours and the bags beneath your eyes feel so heavy, they may as well be dragging by your feet.
Out of your scrubs, back into clothes that only partially carry the sterile stench of bleach and blood, you busy yourself with cramming things into your bag while trying your best to let Mateo’s generosity down softly.
“It’s fine, really,” even you have to admit that you don’t sound as sure as you mean to be. For a moment, you mull it over, imagine the comfort of letting yourself sit back and relax in the passenger seat of Mateo’s car. The sooner you’re home, the sooner your week off can start, right? Still, something within forces you to decline. He lives on the opposite side of the city and, with gas prices rising and his body’s tank running on empty hours before his next shift, the last thing you want to be is a nuisance. “I don’t mind the walk, gives me the chance to decompress.”
Your fellow nurse looks at you with a level of distrust, doubting the reassuring smile you cast his way.
“Are you sure?” Mateo pushes, dragging his tired body along the lockers until he stands behind yours. His curls, freed at last from the constraints of a hair-tie, peek out from the door. “I really don’t mind taking you. I mean, no offence, but you look like you belong on the set of Night of The Living Dead right now. Don’t wanna send you off just to later find out you tripped over air and wound up back here as a patient.”
Slamming your locker shut and giving his shoulder a shove — with no force behind it and doing little to move the man — you roll your eyes, “I’m fine, dingus.”
“Dingus? What are we, five?”
“I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one treating me like a toddler.”
“Like a toddler-?! I’m trying to be a good Samaritan. A gentleman!” You dodge Mateo’s hand as it reaches for your duffel bag. “Now quit being stubborn and let me make sure you get home safe-”
Everything happens so suddenly, your brain is forced to compartmentalise every action, step by step, as they unravel.
Mateo reaches for the bag, again.
You dodge it, again.
You glide to the left.
You run shoulder-first into a solid wall of warmth.
And there he is. Jack Abbot, freshly changed out of his scrubs. Hair wet from a shower, an overly woodsy scent clinging to damp skin, black t-shirt stretched a little too tightly over his chest. Despite his attempts to scrub the night away, he’s thrown on the same pair of cargo pants he spent the last fourteen hours rushing around in.
You almost want to chastise his stupidity, until you remember you can’t.
Not only is he your colleague, he’s your senior.
What business do you have telling a man like him to do anything?
“I’ll take her home.”
Never a question, always an order.
Unlike weeks ago, world turned upside down and veins full of sickly beer, you have half the mind to turn him down this time. To inch away from where your body collides with his. To reinforce your grip on the pink strap of your bag. To shake your head and offer a polite, though bashful, smile.
“Doctor Abbot, it’s fine, really! You don’t have to offer me a ride, I really do prefer walking-”
“I’m not offering you a ride,” Jack shuts you up with a pointed look, eyebrows jumping as though he’s daring you to shoot him down again. “Car’s in the garage, something’s up with the exhaust. I’m walking your way anyway, may as well let me keep you company.”
The truth is, you’re not sure why you are so hesitant to accept his offer.
Jack is a good guy, and he’s certainly not a stranger.
You’ve known him since you first stepped foot in the emergency room. Younger and brighter, the both of you. Back then, he was still new. Back then, you were still a student. Time passed, as it tends to do; Jack became a trusted figure of authority, you graduated right into the night shift. Brief exchanges of good morning, good night, and how are you? during the shift handovers blossomed into good job, good call, and I need you with me.
Lena likes to tease you, throwing looks over the top of her glasses every time he saunters up to the nurses’ station, raps his knuckles upon the desk and tilts his head towards whatever room he needs you in.
He likes me because I talk to the patients, is typically your explanation while Lena looks at you otherwise. Keeps them busy while he works.
He likes you because you’re a pretty young thing, Lena never fails to retort between answering the every whim of the staff, like the charge nurse she is. Gives those hazel eyes something to ogle.
“C’mon, are you really gonna run away from a disabled vet?” Jack pushes, shooting you that infamous silver-fox smirk. Damn him and those arms, muscles pulled taut as he crosses his hands over his chest, impatiently waiting for you to give in. “What if I stumble and there’s no one there to catch me? That’ll be on you, kid. Think you can handle it on your conscience?”
“Yeah, imagine you come back next week and find out gramps here split his head open on the curb,” Mateo chimes in from the sidelines, only for the amused expression to melt the moment you pin a glare on him. “What? The man made a good point!”
“Yeah, kid,” you barely have the chance to register how swiftly Jack tugs the duffel out of your grip, staking claim over your belongings and securing himself as a guardian to guide you home. “I made a good point. Now, are you gonna keep me waiting? ‘Cause I’d really like to see the tail end of this place at some point today.”
So you let him walk you home.
Steps less swayed, back more stiff, you try your best not to think about the last time you both walked this path. You, drowning in sorrows; him, swimming effortlessly with his head above the water.
The sun is rising slowly, rays of golden warmth kissing over the city. It’s not enough to fight away the bitter chill of winter, sending your hands diving into the pockets of a flimsy coat, reaching for a warmth they never quite find. Beside you, Jack is unshaken, barely bothered by the way his breath reflects back at him with each exhale.
“You did good today,” Jack says today in place of last night, the true mark of what the night shift does to a person’s perception of the world. Daybreak becomes dusk, while dusk becomes sunrise. Where others prepare to start their daily ritual of adhering to capitalism, you’re crawling into bed and giving in to the sweet relief of sleep. “Calmed that kid right down.”
You know immediately who he’s referring to.
James. A sweet baby boy, barely a day past 6 months, running a fever of a hundred and three, and sporting a nasty ear infection.
Understandably, he had been screaming up a storm.
Unfortunately, a certain patient nursing a headache was screaming even louder, profanities that pleaded for someone to Shut that fucking baby up!
Jack had offered to shut the patient up.
You had a more peaceful idea.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” god, you feel pathetic.
Praise is far from something foreign to you. Patients, colleagues, and friends alike are always firing off at you, sweet words that affirm the simple gestures and quiet good you bring into their lives. Whether it’s through fluffing a pillow, aiding in procedures, or gifting out your time freely; praise always worms its way into your ears.
But this is different.
Jack is different.
Every good job, every well done, every thanks, kid; it shoots right through you. Lightning that electrifies you, takes you from a state of near asystole to tachicardic in as little as the few seconds it takes his lips to shape the words. Your cheeks warm, your palms sweat. Words run from you, leaving you to grab at the few you can manage and stumble over half-formed sentences.
Worst of all, you think he knows.
He has to, right?
A man like him has lived through enough — lived long enough — to recognise the tell tale signs of the effect he has on people. Hardly anyone is immune or safe from his charms, from college kids that wind up in a gurney after having a little too much fun with a fake ID, to elderly women rushed in by their panicking children, afraid a bad cough or a sore back could be the sign of something far more sinister in the aging body.
“How did you know it would work?” It takes you an embarrassing amount of time to realise Jack is talking again, head turned to watch as you walk alongside him rather than focusing ahead. “Flipping him over?”
Right.
James.
The crying baby.
Your peaceful idea.
That’s what you’re both talking about.
“Old wives tale,” you finally answer, mind drifting back to the memory of your quick thinking. The screaming baby, the screaming patient. Your hands, gentle as they picked James up. The questioning look from everyone in the room as you flipped the infant over, face down and hovering a few inches off the basinet. And then, silence. No more screaming baby. “My mum used to do it to me, flip me over when she couldn’t get me to stop. It just, y’know, shocks the system. It’s like flipping a switch, turning the baby off.”
“Huh,” somewhere above, a bird chirps, singing a song of good morning. “I’ll have to remember that.”
And then, before you can think any better or question the possible implications, you open your big mouth, “Why? Thinking of stepping into fatherhood?”
Jack gives you the worst possible answer he could have come up with: “No such thing as too late, right?”
“Yeah, maybe. If you’re a man,” you huff. “I, on the other hand, am running out of time on my biological clock as we speak.”
“Then you should get to work on changing that. If you ever need any help with it, I’m always here.”
He says it so casually, like each syllable doesn’t inch you closer to an imaginary ledge.
But his words aren’t what move you to silence.
It’s the imagery they conjure.
Positive tests and hospital visits.
The cold touch of gel on your belly, the warmth of a hand clasping your own.
Sweat rolling off your skin, limbs tangling with yours upon a mattress.
You have to physically shake yourself out of the… Fantasy? Nightmare? Mortifying hell-scape where you’re envisioning what it would be like to let a very handsome attending bend you over and get you pregnant?
“Oh my god,” you half whisper, half yell. “Doctor Abbot, did you just seriously offer-”
“Oh, you’re a pervert!” he has the audacity to exclaim as he swings your bag and bumps it against your thigh, the mischief in his eye the only thing that gives him away. This is Jack, after all, a notorious and shameless flirt. His words didn’t mean anything beyond making you flustered. “I was just offering up my kind and professional aid, as a healthcare provider and an avid champion behind women’s health.”
Head shaking and shoulders bouncing; you’re caught under the influence of Abbot’s charm. Completely unaware of the false sense of safety he’s lured you into, taking you by the hand and dragging you out to sea, waiting until your feet no longer reach the bottom, and then he let’s go, leaving the currents to pull you under…
In simpler words, he asks you the very thing you’ve been avoiding: “How's therapy going?”
“Good. Great. Yeah, I definitely feel a lot… Better. Thanks,” the words taste bitter on your tongue, bursting out of you with an urgency.
Maybe, you figure, if you say it fast enough, there will be no space to doubt it, no time to notice the lie.
“That’s amazing,” he nods curtly, only for that easy-going lilt on his lips to twist into something a little more sinister, a little more interrogative. “Cause when I spoke to Caleb, he said you haven’t been showing up. You wanna pretend you found someone else, or are you gonna tell me why you’re not using the help that’s there?”
You knew this conversation was bound to happen, from the moment Jack referred you to the PTMC’s trauma specialist, high-strung and hell-bent on fast-tracking your progress to mental wellness.
Jack hadn't known about the nightmares.
Or the sickening doubt.
Or the fact you remember every face you treated that day.
Even then, he knew you enough to notice the shift in your demeanour in the days following the Pittfest tragedy. He knew you enough to pull you aside and introduce you to Doctor Jefferson.
Deep inhale, slow exhale. Eyes focused on the pavement ahead, you finally answer, “I just… I don't like it.”
Jack scoffs.
“Nobody likes therapy.”
“It makes me feel… weak. Like I'm not cut out for this.”
You make it to your apartment building sooner than you expect, despite knowing the exact time it takes to trek from your door to the entry of the PTMC.
Any smarter woman would use it as an escape plan, as an excuse to duck out of a conversation that has you shifting weight from one foot onto the other and searching for anything to look at other than the whirlpools of brown that the doctor has pinned on you.
It turns out, you’re not as smart as you think you are, because your feet remain planted on the ground and there’s a feeling hollowing out your chest at the thought of parting from his side.
You will yourself to strip your bag from his grasp.
“Look, kid, I can’t force you to go. I don’t want to force you.” It would be easier to focus on what Jack is saying, if he didn’t have to sound so distracting. Soft-spoken, deep voice, on the verge of begging at an altar if it will get you to listen. “But I know what this job does to people, how it rots away at us if we don’t cure our wounds. I’ve lived it. I’ve seen it. I don’t want that for you. So just… Try, would you? If not for you, then for the poor old attending who really needs the help of his favourite nurse and her magic hands that manage to soothe even the weepiest of babies?”
Echoes of Mateo’s voice ring in your ear, his overly enthusiastic exclamation of The man made a good point! on loop.
There’s every chance you’ve been damned by some higher power, afflicted to live this life with a particular weakness to the man before you. It’s the only thing that makes sense, truthfully, when you find yourself conceding without a fight.
“Okay.”
How unfair it is, for eyes like that to light up so easily, “Okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll give it a try.” This time, there’s no bitter aftertaste to your agreement. Just the cold hard truth on your tongue: you’ll take a step down the path towards help, the path Jack put you on. “Can’t make it any worse, I guess.”
“That’s my girl.”
His words hit you like a sucker punch, straight to the gut and leaving you winded.
You stumble, both on your words and on the stairs, as you bid him goodbye and dash into your apartment building.
Safely tucked away at last, a whole week ahead without the threat of mortifying yourself in front of Jack Abbot.
The fourth time is a matter of protocol.
Jack once heard Dana ask Robby, “is it really a shift in the ED if you don’t end it wanting to quit?”
Today more than ever, he feels an itch to see resignation papers.
Not his own.
Yours.
Wrapped up in the active war zone of a multi-vehicle collision, Jack’s hands, eyes and mind were too focused on the woman actively bleeding out on the table to notice you slipping out of the OR, called upon by the charge nurse.
She needed you to check on a patient.
A favour, quick and simple. That’s all it was supposed to be.
There was never supposed to be a grapple for power. Or the clatter of metal meeting the ground. Or the crack of a skull following suit. Or the sickening sound of someone calling code Hula Hoop, when Jack’s hands are too occupied to run towards the source of violence.
It takes him twenty-eight gruelling minutes to make it free from the trauma rooms.
Jack strips himself of the PPE with haste, gloves and gown practically disintegrating under the force of his need to get out of the room and find out what happened, who it happened to.
He knows the answer is you before Mateo even gets the chance to speak.
Lena is on the phone, barking orders down the line. By the few words he manages to catch through his own deafening panic, the police no doubt sit on the receiving end of her call.
There are other patients to attend to, and other matters that are far more pressing — from an outsider’s point of view — that call for Jack’s immediate attention. He brushes them all aside, near blind to any consequence as something commands his feet across the department floor and straight for Exam Room 3, where the tiniest glimpse of you waits behind glass.
Shen is already tending to you, planted firmly by your bedside while the Pitt’s newest resident, Nazely, runs through your vitals. One of your arms is bent backwards, holding a compress to the back of your head. There’s a spatter of blood down the shoulder of your scrubs, splotches of a deep red staining the grey fabric. If Jack looks at it for too long, he’ll throw up, so his eyes shift to your face instead.
When he finds you smiling, a flood of anger finally collapses the immovable dam within him.
Jack frowns before he can even think to stop himself.
“What the hell happened?” Disgust stains each of his words, bleeding all over the room and stiffening the shoulders of those who potter around you, Nazely and the nurses alike.
Only Shen is unmoved by his outburst, turning to meet him with a deadpan stare and a mocking finger pressed to his lips, before he breathes out a gentle shh. “Watch it, old man, my precious patient’s got a nasty headache.”
There’s a likelihood Shen doesn’t get the chance to witness Jack’s eye roll, as the older man slips right through the gap between your gurney and his fellow attending. Without a word of acknowledgement tossed your way, he pries the cold compress from your fingers, commanding you to drop your arm and yield the task of holding it against your head over to him.
This time, Jack speaks a little softer, “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”
“I don’t know, Doctor Abbot, there’s this thing called HIPPA-”
“John, I swear to-”
“It was my fault,” your voice cuts through the bickering of the two attendings, snapping the heat of Jack’s gaze off of Shen and onto you. The frown lines along his forehead ease ever so slightly, against his will, as you insist on flashing him an even bigger smile than before. “Lena, she told me- warned me the guy was in an altered state of mind. I shouldn’t have- I know better than to turn my back on a patient in that state. But it’s fine-”
Jack starts up immediately, hackles rising on the back of his neck as he takes the stance of a defensive mutt, ready to fight tooth and nail to protect its owner, “It’s not fine-”
“I’m fine, Dr Abbot,” pathetically placid, the brush of your fingertips as they graze his arm is enough to neutralise his outrage, nostrils no longer flaring with each puffed out breath of frustration. “He grabbed me, we tussled, and then I slipped on my own untied shoe lace.”
“And where is he now? This altered patient,” his grip slips slightly on the compress, apologies flooding his tongue at the slight wince the action wakes in you. Ignoring your pain, you take more notice of the hostility in his stance, quirking an eyebrow up at him in a silent question. “Don’t give me that look. I’m a doctor, I want to make sure he’s getting the standard of care he deserves.”
When you try to shrug off his interrogation, Shen finally proves he can do something other than get on Jack’s nerves this evening and unveils the truth, “He took off, slipped out the ambulance bay when they called the code.”
“Son of a-”
“CT’s back,” Nazely, quiet as a mouse, had managed to slip out the room unnoticed, and now shoulder-barges her way back in, carrying your results and cutting off Jack’s foul mouth. “Other than a nasty bump, you’re in the clear.”
It’s not that Jack doubts the intern’s ability as a doctor.
And it’s certainly not that he doesn’t trust Shen.
It just so happens that, when the young resident goes to hand-off your CT scans to one of the attendings, Ellis comes knocking on the door, demanding the input of her most trusted attending.
Jack’s never been more relieved to come in second.
Hawk eyes scan over black and whites images, and only once he’s confirmed with his own two eyes that you truly are in the clear does Jack feel that tension in his shoulders begin to unwind.
In a room that now only houses two, he lets himself stand as close to you as he needs, shifting his stance to keep watch on the doors on either side of the room — a guard dog that can never deny it's nature to protect, even as it nestles into its owner.
He doesn’t quite nestle into you, careful to obey that fine line of decorum that exists between colleagues, between a junior and a senior, between a girl your age and a man as weathered as him. No matter the itch in his palm that begs to be scratched by skin no other than your own, he resists the urge to touch you.
Until you move.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Puzzled by the sternness in his usually nonchalant voice, you gaze over your shoulder at him, now sat upright and with both legs swung over the other side of the bed, “To finish… my shift?”
And that is how his hand finds your arm, a grasp that is gentle yet firm, allowing him to guide you back into your previous position. In his other hand still sits the ice pack, as he continues pressing it to your head.
“Uh-uh,” the denial is followed by a tsk, as he slips back into Doctor Abbot mode and puffs out his chest, taking on the persona of big, bad, commanding professional who knows exactly what his patient needs. “Your shift ended the moment that head of yours hit the ground. And since that asshole-” a pointed look shoots his way, warning in your eyes. Jack corrects his previous verbiage, “altered patient who did this took off, new protocol says I can’t let you leave hospital grounds on your own. Now unless you know someone kind enough to pick you up at 4 am, I suggest you take the opportunity to get some rest. I’ll come wake you when the morning shift zombies start strolling in.”
He leaves no room for debate.
He leaves the room, drawing the curtains and switching off the light.
If Jack were even a modicum more brazen, he’d shamelessly have locked the doors, ensuring you can’t slip away to return to your duties. In the end, he doesn’t have to worry about catching you back out on the floor, as when he checks on you some time after five fifteen, Jack finds you curled into the bed, the ice pack now fully melted and discarded halfway down the foam mattress.
By the time he wakes you, the clock has long struck seven and Robby is breathing down his neck, urging him to open Exam Room 3 back up to actual patients and not just that nurse you like to ogle.
Something in your demeanour has shifted.
Quiet, slow, weighed-down. You don’t walk; you drag yourself to the lockers. Head turned to the floor, body pulled in on itself, voice soft as you bid people good morning and goodbye.
Jack follows in your footsteps, hovering in the periphery of your every move, from your locker out into the street.
You don’t acknowledge him, barely even look at him, yet you yield easily to the way he takes the weight of your bag off your shoulder, slipping it onto his own. And so he gives you your space, walks a few paces behind as you both inch along the path back home — your home.
A shiver forces him to break the silence.
It creeps down your spine, from top to bottom, and settles into your hands, a subtle shake that not even shoving them into the pockets of your coat can quell.
“Wait a second, would you, kid?”
Jack’s never fought so hard to keep his voice soft. Despite his efforts, you startle at the interrupted silence. When your feet pause on the concrete, it’s unclear if it’s because of his request or your shock.
Instead of dwelling on the thought for too long, Jack focuses on his self-assigned task, shrugging his bag off of one shoulder and manoeuvring it to lay against his chest, allowing him to observe the contents as his hand riffles through it. Digging way down past rolls of bandage, a tube of specialised moisturiser, a few odd pairs of compression socks, and various other miscellaneous wonders, his fingers finally happen upon what they’ve been seeking: hand warmers.
“Here,” he starts up, as he hastily rips a packet open and shakes the bag. “This should get the cold out your bones.”
Jack has always prided himself on his rationality. Controlled and composed, with eyes that have payed witness to more horrors than the heart can cope with, it is a rare — if not impossible — feat to catch him sporting a heart rate higher than seventy three.
Watching you envelop the warmer in both your palms, soothing out the shake brought on by early morning chills and the residue panic from your attack, he’s tachycardic.
Months of awaiting the rise of an opportunity — since that second time he walked you home and watched you attempt to hide your skin from the wind’s bite with the flimsy pockets of your coat — buying those hand warmers has at last payed off.
He’s not quite finished digging through his bag.
Untangling the ball that has become of his wired earphones, Jack awaits permission before slipping one bud into your ear, the other into his own. He plugs them into his phone, swipes along his catalogue of playlists, and hits play on the first one that catches his eye. Medicine in the form of music, doctor’s orders.
And just like that, you’re both on the move again. The silence between you now carries a soundtrack, a mixture of eighties rock and seventies funk marking the beat of each footstep. Jack no longer hovers a few paces behind, welcomed back to your side by the short string of wire dangling between you.
Halfway through The Cure’s Just Like Heaven, Jack catches himself entranced in the shape of your lips as they mouth along to each lyric, and it strikes him, then and there, that maybe a moment like this is what inspires a musician to write, to eulogise an emotion through the eternal art of music.
For a man who long ago stopped talking to any version of a god that may exist, walking along by your side, hands brushing occasionally, bodies drifting closer to each other’s orbit; it’s as close to heaven as Jack may ever get.
Jack doesn’t leave you at the entrance to your building.
He holds the heavy door open for you, follows you in. Learning quickly that you live on the third floor, he bites back a comment about how shaky the elevator is, enduring the ride up. Following as you weave through the hall, right down to the end, he keeps quiet as you pause outside a door.
For a moment, he thinks that you’re going to say goodbye. That you’re going to thank him for walking you home, again, even after he’s told you it’s no bother. That you’re going to fish out your keys and slip through the door, starting the countdown on the clock of when he’ll get to see you again, later tonight for another shift in the pitt.
What Abbot isn’t expecting is for you to turn to him, cheek already streaked by a rogue tear, with another dancing on your eyelashes and promising to follow soon.
You take a moment to find your voice, lips parting and delivering the promise of your voice, “I’ve never felt unsafe at work.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, wanting to let your words simmer.
You have other plans.
“But when he-” the crack in his heart echoes the one in your voice, lips trembling over silent vowels as you fail to speak.
Tears roll down like waves, crashing against your chin and dripping onto the neckline of your sweater. And all Jack can do is clench his fist, hold it close to his side as blunt nails tattoo their print into the flesh of his palm. He cannot risk letting his guard slip, risk acting on an impulse you might not welcome.
“I was scared.” You breathe out, like the words you utter are a grave sin, the weight of guilt at last ripped off your shoulders. “Which is stupid, I know. I was fine, it was just a- I shouldn’t of-”
“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts, daring to take a step closer, hands still glued to his sides. “You were attacked.”
Like hearing it spoken aloud clicks something into place, gravity kicks in and you finally come crashing down, waves of tears now aided by a storm of overwhelming emotions. Shoulders shaking, breath stilling, eyes landing on every inch of the hallway but the place he stands.
Jack is no stranger to stomach-churning sights.
He’s withstood the horrors of a war zone, watched bullets hit their marks and shrapnel claim countless victims — his leg, to name one. From the brutality of war to the chaos of an emergency department, he’s bit back the acrid burn of bile at the back of his throat; it comes with each life he fails to save. There are nights where he cannot count the dead on both hands, never mind one. He has reckoned with the missing piece of him, where empty space now occupies the flesh that once extended below his right knee. Perched upon a shower bench, or throbbing with a phantom ache, or soothing vaselines and creams into an angry red stump, Jack learned to endure the pain.
But this — you, breaking down before his eyes, barely a step between you both — brings on a pain like no other, something he can't quite describe.
Cracks are forming in his composure, a trait he wears like armour, threatening to spill onto the dirtied floors of the building's hallway. His fingers slip, no longer balled into fists but pressed flat against the top of his thighs, drumming a nervous rhythm into stained cargo. When Jack tries to clear his throat of the ball forming within, he nearly breaks out in a cough, choking on the comfort he longs to speak into existence.
You interrupt his collapse of self-control.
Two steps is all it takes for your forehead to kiss his shoulder. Dampness overcomes the grey fabric of his shirt, your tears staining it a darker shade. Jack freezes at first, hands unwilling to move beneath the growing fear of touching you wrong, scaring you off. Then, slowly, as the weight of you presses deeper into the crook of his neck, his arms find themselves taking full possession of you, fingers splaying up the length of your spine and pulling you tighter against him.
For a moment, the outside world holds no consequence. Jack is not an attending, you are not a nurse. There's no decade of time between the age of your bodies, nor a quiet though respectful history of admiration between you as coworkers. That acceleration of his heart is not a reason to panic but a reason to rejoice, no fear of any wicked woes from years gone by sneaking back up to remind Jack of troubles past.
No, none of that matters in this moment but you, Jack, and the syncopation of your breathing.
One of his hands finds your hair, equal parts warm as it is large when it cups the back of your head and smothers you closer into his pulse point. Suddenly he’s grateful he reached for the expensive cologne today.
Clearing his throat, Jack attempts to self soothe from the sharp pain in his chest that grows with every sniffle from you, “Fear doesn’t make you any less brave.”
Your reaction is delayed, barely acknowledging the fact he spoke at first, until you’re bursting into a fit of subdued giggles.
While laugher wasn’t exactly what he was aiming for, Jack can’t help but feel like he's succeeded at something.
“Who knew you could be so deep, Jack,” he wrestles with his body at your soft reply, willing himself to not imagine you mentioning deep and his name in a much racier setting, preferably splayed out on the navy of his bedsheets, hair a soft halo that further cements your image as an angel… An angel he wants to commit every carnal sin against.
You move too soon for Jack’s liking, who nearly clings onto your figure until logic kicks in and reminds him how pathetic of an image that would paint. There's a streak of colour down your cheeks, stains where tears have dragged away the subtlest hints of makeup, yet Jack swears he’s never seen you in a prettier light than this: beneath the cold, buzzing light of the hallway, stepping back from his arms with a look in your eyes far lighter than the one you sank into him with.
“Easy on the teasing, kid,” the nickname has never felt more like a lie, sour on the back of his tongue. The last thing Jack Abbot considers you is a kid. Younger? Of course, but nothing short of a woman, in shape and in mind. “I stole that quote from my therapist actually, I’ll have you know.”
Then, for reasons less related to muscle memory than he would dare to admit, Jack shoots a wink in your direction.
Goodbyes exchanged and apologies for wet shirts successfully curved, Jack lingers by your door until he hears you twist the lock shut behind you, a solid frame of wood bringing the abstract divide between you into the world of the tangible.
Right then, right there, still running on that same spike of adrenaline from when he first heard the horrid cries of code Hula Hoop, Jack Abbot is struck over the head with a horrific realisation.
One taste of you in his arms is not enough, and it never will be.
Jack needs more.
The fifth time is a matter of routine.
You’ve always been a fiend for structure; a creature of habit. Doctor Jefferson reckons it’s the perfect trait to balance out the chaos your field of work brings into your life — when you reiterate that explanation to Jack, him retying his laces for the third time in a row and you reshuffling the same stack of papers for a fifth time, the attending is quick to agree.
“Have you seen yourself eat a sandwich?” Jack’s defensive retort comes no sooner than a moment after your hand teasingly swats his shoulder. Unbeknownst to you, the sudden sway he gives has less to do with the force behind your hand, and everything to do with how your touch grips at his soul. “You’re the only person I know that takes the exact same order of bites, every time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” your protest is far from filtered through any seriousness, words that are soon followed by an amused snort. “No I do not!”
“Uh yes, you do,” back on his feet and standing straight, Jack’s gaze lowers to meet your own, sitting prudently at your desk and finding any measly task to occupy your hands for five more minutes, if only to continue giving your feet the break they need from running here, there, and everywhere. Force of his own habits, or perhaps a nervous tick, you watch as the attending occupies his hands with the shape of his stethoscope, two fists dangling from his neck as he curls his knuckles and tugs on the object.
With your apparent eating habit now dragged into the spotlight, Jack dismisses himself with nothing more than a cheeky lift of his lips, and a muttered Duty calls! as a set of EMTs come strolling in with a gurney.
The rest of your shift passes in a Jack-less blur, your eyes and ears too occupied as you trail next to Parker.
She had lay claim over you no more than seven minutes into your shift, face lighting up like a Christmas tree at the sight of you strolling out from the locker room, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your body familiarised itself with the shape of your scrubs. Without even so much as a hello, Ellis grasped a hand around your forearm and tugged you off towards triage, paying no mind to Jack’s questioning gaze as you both shot right past him. All she offered him was a, “Sorry, Abbot, your girl is mine for tonight.”
Abbot didn’t correct her.
Your girl.
Every part of your psyche is aware it’s a minuscule thing to get hung up on, to feel your stomach fluttering with an unknown anxiety each time you replay the scene; yet it happens all the same.
As you assist Dr Ellis, passing her a scalpel.
As you rip off dirtied gloves and replace them with a new pair.
As you stir sugar into your third coffee of the night, eyes staring blankly ahead while Ellis talks your ear off, venting about her recent misadventures in love.
“And then guess what she said!” Parker’s voice may as well be going in one ear and out the other, because you’re far from listening, eyes too busy following the shape of Abbot as he cuts down the length of a hallway, one of the younger residents glued to his side and pitching their newest case.
Has the casual dominance he wears like another layer of clothing always had this effect on you, firing off error warnings in your mind as you watch him steer his resident out the way of an oncoming gurney — a motion that reads as second nature, not even so much as a moment’s thought running through him before he’s executing the action.
Ellis snaps you out of it, fingers clicking in your face and blinking her back into focus.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Huh? What?” It’s torture not to let yourself get wrapped up in Jack again as he perches himself across from you both, elbows braced on the nurse’s station and arms straining at the seams of a navy top you swear is purposefully two sizes too small. “Yeah, of course I am.”
“Then guess what she said next,” despite the distrusting glint in her eye, Dr Ellis spares you the humiliation of telling you she caught you staring at her attending.
“Uh… That she’s not ready for a relationship, even though you met on a dating app?”
“Worse!” she exclaims, right as you notice Jack’s hazel gaze meet yours, intrigue practically dripping off his eyelashes with every involuntary blink. “I don’t date Virgos. I mean, can you believe that? The girl is navigating her love life by letting goddamn starry shapes guide her!”
“Hey,” you feign a face of offence, hand clasped your chest as though to shield your heart. “Some of us just like the comfort of fixed compatibility.”
You watch as the betrayal settles over Doctor Ellis, glazing over her already dead-pan stare with a look of pure judgement, “Et tu, brute? Go on then, shove your knife deeper, would you ever date a Virgo?”
“I don’t know. I guess? I’ve never really thought about what signs I wouldn’t date,” you pause, the hairs on the back of your neck standing to attention as a strange sensation of being watched creeps over you. But as you look back over in Jack’s direction, you find him engrossed in his phone. A pitiful feeling dawns over you, baptising your heart with a hollow ache only disappointment can conjure. “Weirdly though, all my exes have been either a Pisces or Gemini. I don’t know what that says about me but-”
You finish on time, for once.
No last minute emergencies, no lingering to help Jack as he squeezes one last case into his already-finished shift, no letting your scrubs overstay their welcome; you pry them off like they are caught ablaze. And then you linger.
Hands occupy themselves with minuscule tasks, organising and rearranging the items in your locker; then unzipping your bag and going through each of your belongings. Eyes take the occasional peek towards the entries of the lockers, and ears perk up each time footsteps grow closer.
It’s only when Jack steps through the door at last, defeat written all over his face, that your mouth moves. First, stretching into a smile, and then forming a few words.
“Rough night?”
Relief ripples his features at the sound of your voice — like finding a streak of sunlight on a rainy day— bringing the tiniest spark of joy back into his sunken eyes, “Thought you’d have gone by now, kid.”
You waver, something about his question feeling accusatory, even if he delivers it in the gentlest of voices.
Why haven’t you left?
A troublesome cat, an unfinished box-set, and a bowl of leftover pasta sit in the confines of your apartment, practically begging you to race home back to them and delve yourself into comfort, that momentary pause to the chaos of the PTMC you struggle to find in the hours between shifts. A few months ago, you would already be a glass of wine deep and settling in for just one more episode of many, far from lingering like a bad scent amongst the lockers. But then again, a few months ago, the road home was a lonely one.
At what point did that seventeen minute walk become the highlight of your day?
Something warm meets your nostrils, dragging your attention across to where Jack now stands, spritzing his sweat-ridden neck with a few pumps of cologne. You don’t mean to notice the bottle has less than a quarter of its amber liquid left. You also don’t mean to reminisce on the first time you saw the bottle, clasped in Jack’s hands. The memory was one you thought would be singular, never once before having witnessed the older man groom himself after a shift.
Instead, it’s become his signature.
Clock out, hit the lockers, drown the stench of bleach with a warm musk, and then…
“Do you have any gum?”
You know this scene all too well, you almost get ahead of the script and answer before he even asks. Fortunately, you manage to play it cool, “Uh, let me check… Yes!”
Jack doesn't need to know that you didn’t really need to check.
And Jack definitely doesn’t need to know that you never used to carry gum, not until the first time he asked.
But does he need to move closer, that cloud of freshly sprayed cologne enveloping you in its arms, just to pluck the strip of gum from your outstretched hand?
Mint blankets over the notes of bergamot and black pepper, and Jack washes away the stale coating in his mouth, jaw wound tight as he crushes the white rubber beneath his molars.
He doesn’t inch away, retreat back to where he once stood. Instead, his hand finds your own, fingers bumping against yours and silently commanding you to relinquish control… Of the strap of your bag, of course, index and middle finger hooking beneath the padded fabric and slinging the bag over his own shoulder.
“You know,” you say, because you have to. If you don’t distract yourself with speech, you’ll drown in those hazel eyes, too close for comfort and, yet, nowhere near close enough. “You should really start bringing your own gum. Or a toothbrush, if you’re that scared of having a bad breath. What if I switch to day-shift, huh?”
Maybe Jack scoffs in disbelief, knowing there’s not a version of reality where you elect to work days. Or maybe the scoff is a way of downplaying his irritation at the thought, possessive over the sheer possibility of losing his girl to the likes of Robinavitch, hot-head extraordinaire with a touch of suicidal tendencies.
Whatever his reason, Jack is quick to mask the original expression on his face with an easy smile, one corner of his lips twisting upwards as he shrugs, “It’s less to do with not wanting a bad breath, more to do with the fact I like being in your debt.”
Frozen in shock, mouth slightly agape and brows furrowing, you barely register as Jack starts to make his way down the hall, snapping out your trance only as he calls your name.
Like a dog called to heel, you scurry off to join his side.
Jack stops informing you that he’s walking you home.
Without fail, every shift, he shows up, steals your gum, invades your space, and takes your baggage hostage, guiding you out of the ER with the ghost of his touch against your lowers back, steering you through the crowd of ailing folks and stopping you from diving in to help.
Conversation is no longer something the space between you demands, a comfortable silence settling in; the wind down of a hectic shift sound-tracked by the sound of a city waking up, the smack of your footsteps hitting the ground, and the occasional exchange of words.
Like today, as you pass by a unit under construction and Jack reads over the sign: a soon-to-open sushi restaurant.
“You ever been to Japan?” He asks, curiosity practically beaming from his eyes.
“Never. You?”
“Once, when I was young-” he hesitates, like he intended to add -er to the end of his word but decided against it. “Would you ever go?”
“To Japan?” He nods. “Yeah, maybe.”
His reply arrives like a confession, gentle and lacking the confidence you’ve come to associate with Jack, “I’ve been meaning to visit again.”
Silence keeps you both company the rest of the way, until your feet come to a halt outside your apartment block. Jack doesn’t intend to follow you to your door, not like the last time. Instead, he shrugs off your bag and helps you slip it over your own shoulder, using those large hands to scoop your hair up, rescuing you from the sharp sting of feeling the strap pull down on it.
Then Jack announces, just as lacking in confidence as the last time he spoke: “I’m not a Virgo.”
You stare at him, blinking slow, letting his words settle into the grooves of your brain and sink down until some part of you starts to make sense of them.
The more he speaks, the clearer it becomes what he’s attempting to say, “Or a Gemini. Not even a Pisces.”
Suddenly, those moments as you stood listening to Dr Ellis’ romantic woes, with the nurses station between you and Jack and fleeting glances snuck between nurse and attending, it all feels less innocent, less casual. More intentional.
Jack had been listening, hanging on to your every word as you entertained Parker and pretended to allow astrology to rule over the romance in your life.
“Just, thought I should let you know,” much to your dismay, Jack’s fleeing quicker than you can chase him, a sheepish smile overcoming his face and a hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “In case you were ever wondering.”
Finally, there is the time where lines blur.
“Come on,” the tell-tale whine of a tipsy Trinity Santos rings out of your phone’s speaker, interrupting an intimate evening for three: you, your cat, and a cheesy horror movie, where the only thing scarier than the lacklustre VFX are the plot inconsistencies. “Even Crash- Ow! Sorry, I mean, even Vic is here!”
The last thing you want to do on your night off is to squeeze yourself into a pair of jeans and spend it in the presence of the exhausted day-shifters, four-drinks too deep for you to ever catch up, no matter how many shots you throw back.
Unfortunately for you, the only thing more convincing than Trinity’s pleading is Whitaker’s tipsy bellow of your name, followed promptly by, “I need a karaoke partner! Santos ditched me for Mel!”
It’s only with a groan that you agree, “Okay. Fine, yeah, whatever. I’ll come. But I’m having an early night! No seven am walks of drunken shame like last time!”
“Don’t worry meemaw, we’ll get you tucked into bed before three, latest,” Santos’ laugh rings down the line, the alcohol coursing through her veins amplifying the humour she already finds so easily in her own words. “Now hurry, the bar closes at eleven, then who knows where the night might take us!”
You enter the bar, already braced and ready for the impact of the Pittlings swarming you, like bees drawn to honey, a tangle of arms wrapping themselves around you. Only as Mel let’s you go — the last to do so — do you notice a figure you had not anticipated.
Dr Robby, sat in all his grumpy glory, greeting you with a tightlipped smile and a single wave of his hand. Before you can even open your mouth, ready to return the greeting, you take a step forward, heel landing in a puddle of spilled drinks, and nearly slip… only to find there’s a presence at your back.
Not touching you, but there; hovering, lingering. A buzz of energy trapped in the minimal space between the small of your back and the warmth of a hand.
“Careful, kid. There’s better ways to fall head over heels.”
Without even having to turn your head, you know it’s him.
You do so, anyway, and welcome in the sight of Jack Abbot clad in a pair of dark jeans, dark boots, and a white button up, sleeves rolled below his elbows and with the buttons undone enough to tease the way his collarbones sit dusted by freckles. Familiarity is in his scent, a cloud of his cologne settling into the atmosphere above your head, and the low lights of the bar catch on his pupils, reflecting warmth.
A million thoughts run through your head: how he’s no doubt come to keep Robby company, how the sleeves of his shirt are practically choking his biceps, how wrong it feels to see him surrounded by the Pittlings, how much of a relief it is to see him.
But all your mouth can manage is an unpleasant, “Why are you here?”
The table’s chatter comes to a pause, all eyes on you two as an exchange of chuckles, whistles, and even a soft ouch crawls its way out of Robby’s lips.
“No! Sorry, I-” hellbent on embarrassing yourself, it seems, you groan as your face dives into the safety of your palms, cheeks hot to the touch. “That’s not what I meant-”
Fingers seize your wrists in a gentle grasp, momentarily soothing over your rapid pulse point before they tug your hands away from your face, putting you back on display to the rest of the bar. All you see is Jack, in front of you, biting back laughter and fighting off a teasing grin.
“I know what you mean,” by the grace of something merciful, he lets go of you, sending your hands dropping back down to your sides. “I swapped with Shen. He needs my Sunday off.”
At the mercy of God, or the universe, Samira puts an end to your humiliation ritual and jumps out her seat, lacing her arm with yours, and drags you off in the direction of the bar, “Let’s get you a drink. Alcoholic, preferably!”
A half hour passes in the blink of an eye, clock striking ten and beginning the countdown to the bar’s closure. You down your first drink - a concoction of fruit juice, and syrup, and cheap liquor. The second is one you treat a little kinder, nursing your glass of vermouth and giving it the attention it deserves, each sip a chance to let the flavours melt into your tongue. By your third, the sweet feeling in your chest is enough to counter the bitterness of any drink, and so you move onto the cheap beer Trinity clings to like a lifeline.
Jack sits furthest from you, alternating between sophisticated sips of a bourbon and gulps from a beer bottle his hand engulfs entirely too easily. Despite the fact he sits knee-deep in conversation with Robby — who has spent most of his night complaining, no doubt, about a recent run-in with Gloria — while you lend an ear and a smile to Dennis as he pleads his case to you on why his friendship with a certain widow is perfectly innocent, the two of you orbit each other.
With eyes that wander, drawn from one side of the table to the other. At first, it’s bashful: whenever you catch him, Jack’s neck snaps his attention right back to his fellow attending. But as the drinks flow and time ticks on, it grows bolder, transitioning into a challenge; hazel eyes pinning your own into a staring contest as they watch you over the rim of his glass. You lose, conceding to whatever force draws your eyes down like magnets to the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
With fingers that toy a line between distance and friction. When you reach for the handful of nuts at the centre of the table, Jack’s fingers meet your own in the bowl. The graze is minute, barely a whisper of contact between skin, yet it shakes you to the core. Familiar fingers meet your skin as Jack makes his way around the table, excusing himself with needing a trip to the bathroom. It’s as he passes you that he strikes, a teasing drum of fingertips against your shoulder — mimicking the call of someone searching for your attention — that has your head turning to the right, only to find no one there. By the time you catch onto the fact it was Jack, he’s standing in a queue for the toilets and offering you a challenging raise of his brows. What the challenge is, you don’t quite know yet.
You’re not given the chance to dwell on the thought, not when Santos slams an empty bottle down into the centre of the table and declares, “Time to find out all your dirty secrets. Truth or Drink!”
A chorus of groans echo from the surrounding party, yourself included… Yet you all entertain her all the same, no one daring to challenge her pointed stare as she spins the bottle.
It lands on Mel, whose excitement lasts all of the seven seconds it takes Trinity to dish up a question.
Have you ever tried to break up a marriage?
Mel drinks.
Victim #2, much to Trinity’s delight, is Javadi.
Javadi, who already is nose deep in her glass before a question can even hit the table, slamming her empty cup down onto the table with a sheepish smile.
“Dammit, I was gonna tell Mel to ask about Mateo,” comes Santos’ disappointment.
The younger girl is just as quick to reply, “Why do you think I drank?”
Poor Robby ends up roped into the game next, following in the footsteps of the previous players and drinking instead of answering Javadi’s interrogation, “Do you follow me on TikTok?”
It’s when Dennis takes a swig of his colourful cocktail that Samira groans, surprising the entirety of the table as she throws her head back and exclaims, “Oh my God, you people are so boring! All too chicken to answer!”
Jack seems to take that as a challenge, for when the bottle comes to a halt, neck pointed in his direction after Dennis spun it, his arms remain firmly crossed over his chest.
“Shit. Wow, okay,” the younger boy is startled, no question burning on the tip of his tongue for a man he barely knows. So he settles with something simple, something impersonal, something with no deeper intention behind it to humiliate the man: “When was the last time you lied?”
Jack doesn’t answer immediately.
No, he makes a show out of turning his wrist up to his eyes, squinting as they read of the dials and his face settles into an emotionless expression, “Like… an hour ago?”
Quick as a whippet, Trinity dives at the first chance to investigate, “Who did you lie to?”
“That’s a different question,” Jack fires right back, reaching for the empty bottle to spin.
For some reason, his eyes are pinned on you. Even as the bottle lands on Trinity, they linger on your frame, that same unknown challenge in his stare.
The bar spits you all out at four minutes past eleven, bodies spilling out into the street. It’s chaos, voices of strangers mingling in with those of your coworkers. You’re being tugged each and every other way, a million questions fired in your direction.
C’mon, don’t you agree we should go Downtown?
No, no! We have to head to Passion!
Ew, Passion sucks. Every surface is… sticky.
Can’t we just go anywhere that offers karaoke?
Poor, unsuspecting Dennis is left flinching back in shock as a unified bark of No! comes from all the girls, disgusted eyes burning him for so much as daring to suggest such a thing.
“Wherever you kids are going, it won’t be with her,” Jack, emboldened by the booze in his veins, finally lets that hand of his fully press against your lower back. Your head turns to find him already watching you, amused by your puzzled look. “You’re working tomorrow.”
“So are they!” You exclaim, hand pointing out to the crowd of Pittlings. “They have work sooner than I do!”
“And that’s Dr Robinavitch’s cross to bear. You, on the other hand,” a finger drags down the slope of your nose, taping against the tip as Doctor Abbot leans down to your ear, like you’ll suddenly lose the ability to hear him over the noise of the city streets. “You’re my problem.”
It’s hard to breathe; the night air too cold, too thick, too drenched in Jack’s cologne.
You know his reputation; you’ve been victim to it. Jack Abbot, shameless flirt, tongue always locked and loaded with a comment capable of shaking even the most stable of heartbeats. But this is different.
This is his hands on you, this is his voice claiming some form of ownership over you, this is his stare tearing through the fabrics of your being and embedding itself inside your chest, awakening a kind of warmth that even the hottest Pittsburgh summer day would envy.
“Boo!” It’s Victoria who cries out, cutting right through the budding tension between nurse and attending, one-too-few seconds away from blossoming into something far from the professionalism of colleagues. “You’re leaving already!?”
Your mouth opens, ready to answer.
Jack steals the words right out your mouth, “Yes. I think it’s about time we leave, don’t you agree?”
Spotlight pointed at you, he puts you on the spot for the entire group to watch how you fumble over a simple, “Uh, sure.”
The hand against your lower back sticks to you like a magnet the whole way home.
A journey longer than the one you usually stumble down with Jack by your side. It would have made more sense to hail a cab, any rational adult would recognise that, yet neither of you dare to suggest it. Crowds of drunken fools spill out from bars and invade the sidewalk — the kind of stumbling messes that activate a cynical part of you, wondering just how many of them will wind up in the care of your colleagues before the end of the night — Jack answers their invasion by drawing you closer, footsteps fading to the back of yours as he guides you to walk ahead of him, the burn of his hand reminding you that he’s there, that you’re safe, that no wave of foreign faces is going to sweep you up and drag you away.
Even as you make your way up the stairs to your apartment floor, elevator out of service, Jack lingers a few paces behind, watching your every move.
It’s as your fumbling around in your purse, fingers blindly rummaging through loose change and half-empty lip gloss tubes in search of the keys to your apartment, that Jack takes it upon himself to start spewing revelations.
“It was you,” he says, pauses and, when met with your questioning eyes, glancing back at him over your shoulder, clarifies. “The last time I lied, tonight. It was to you.”
A few seconds pass in silence, and then, “Oh.”
“Shen doesn’t need Sunday off.”
“Oh.”
“I knew you were off tonight.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he leans down, enters your orbit and invades you with the knowledge of how solid his chest feels pressed against your back, and how warm his breath feels, brushing against the shell of your ear as it mimics your repetitive exclaims of shock. “‘S that all you know how to say?” Before you can politely beg him to back up, for the sake of your sanity and your fraying willpower, hanging on by a single thread that seems more than eager to snap and unleash the burning in your loins upon the older man, Jack shuffles a few steps back and takes a deep breath — the kind that has his shirt straining against the growing width of his chest. “It’s not the first time I’ve lied to you.”
“Oh- Wait,” Cut off by your own confusion, you spin on your heel a little too quickly and stumble forward, hand inches away from rediscovering the meaning of balance against his chest. “What have you lied about?”
“There we go, finally using that pretty voice properly again,” if you had known this was what a tipsy Jack Abbot behaved like, you would have offered him a drink months ago. Especially with the way his cheeks sit blushing in red, a shy imagery to contradict the growing boldness in his words. “My car was never in the garage. I even drove it to work that day. But you wouldn’t accept Mateo’s offer for a lift, so I figured I’d need a real good excuse to walk you home.”
Clarity washes over you not in repeated waves, but in one single tsunami.
Overwhelming, a wall of emotions flooding over your being. You mentally retrace each step you’ve taken in his company. Each walk home, each careful conversation exchanged between you. Every cloud of worry that hovered overhead, convincing you of a reality where your presence and the act of accompanying you home is nothing but a burden to Jack Abbot, a simple kindness that’s gotten out of hand and now he does not know how to back out of.
But his words bend that reality, until it snaps in half and ceases to exist. Because here Jack is, telling you he orchestrated reasons to walk you home, excuses to linger in your presence after the night shift came to an end and patients are no longer a force that brings you into one another’s proximity.
Jack Abbot wants to be around you. So why on Earth would you part from him now, just because your finger had hooked itself around a keyring?
“Jack,” in the quiet of the hallway, his name echoes off your lips, uttered more intimately than ever before. “Do you want to come in for a drink?”
Your confidence is a case of easy come, easy go; dissipating before you can even wait for a proper reply from the man. Anxious thoughts dialled up and overloading, you turn back to face your front door, shakily shove the key into the door, and unlock something that feels a little more than just your apartment, a point of no return awaiting in it’s premises should Jack choose to accept your offer.
Walking in before Jack can speak, you get your answer with the gentle closing of the door behind you and the clearing of Jack’s throat, swallowing back what may just be a similar ball of emotion swelling within your own.
If you had anticipated Jack Abbot standing in your living room tonight, you would have at least attempted to tidy up.
Then again, if you had anticipated this, there’s other things you would have done differently… You would have made sure you actually had something to offer him to drink, for starters.
“Uh… I don’t have any beer,” you mutter, more to yourself than Jack, one hand holding the fridge door open and the other rummaging through the half-empty shelves, like you might somehow unveil a surprise bottle of anything-worth-drinking. “I can offer bourbon? Maybe? Or I’ve got leftover wine. Might have gone bad though. Shit, sorry, I really don’t have anything to offer.”
Closer than you anticipate, hovering by the entry to the kitchen, Jack rasps a careful, “Just you is fine. ‘S all I’m really here for.”
Like two opposing magnets drawn together by an unseen force, distance becomes null and void as eyes meet and you both inch closer, devouring the space between you with careful steps. Face to face at last with everything that has been brewing beneath the surface of your interactions, you barely squeeze out a whisper of his name before Jack claims your mouth as his prisoner.
Lips lock like shackles, trapping you in place against the older man. Hands find one another’s frames, his large palm staking claim over the back of your neck and tilting your face into the perfect angle for him to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing with a graze over your lower lip, the beginning of a chuckle bubbling in his chest as you answer his touch with a pitiful whine, before he finally licks into your mouth. Your own hands carve out a path for themselves, sliding over the expanse of his broad shoulders, curling around the tightness of his biceps, trailing down his waist to find the worn out leather of his belt, two finger hooking beneath and drawing his body closer — like any space still exists between you.
He lets you move him all the same, walking yourself backwards and dragging him along until your back hits whichever wall sits the closest. Any memory of the layout to the apartment you’ve spent the last five years living in has melted away in the heat of Jack’s mouth, kissing you like he has something to prove and this is the only chance he’ll ever get.
Squeezed flush against one another, no barrier but clothes sitting between, you feel the shape of him pressing into your hip and making you painfully aware of the fact Jack Abbot, the older attending you forced yourself to learn to observe quietly and cautiously from a safe distance, now has his semi-hard cock straining against you. That realisation must run through you too viscerally, for Jack’s soon tearing his mouth away from you.
“Shit- Sorry,” he just about gasps the apology out, lips incapable of drifting too far for too long, a smatter of kisses meeting the edge of your jaw as you feel Jack angle his hips away from you. “Been a while since I last-” He’s cut off by his own groan, reactionary to the weight of your hand landing atop the bulge of his jeans, palming at the length of him in hopes of finding out just how hard he can grow. “And I’ve just been thinking about this, ‘bout you for so long. Just-” greedy mouthed, even his desperate please for apology are interrupted by the drag of his tongue over your pulse point. “Ignore it, I’ll keep myself in check. Don’t wanna come on too strong, scare you off.”
It’s a bit late to retreat now, is what you want to say, with the way your thighs are squeezing together in search of any friction and the cotton of your panties sticks uncomfortably against your folds.
But Jack is blushing enough as it is, tips of his ears as red as you imagine his hair once was, face burning hot as he burrows it deeper in your neck. So you spare him some kindness and settle on the buckle of his belt, choosing direct action over teasing words.
A switch seems to flip at the brush of your fingers as you reach for Jack’s belt, attempt to dive beneath the waistband of his boxers. The older man stiffens against you, in more ways than one, head rising from your neck like a cobra enchanted by the notes of a flute. Thick fingers curl around your wrist, prying your hand from him gently yet accompanied by the disapproving tut only an authority figure could conjure, moments away from teaching you a lesson.
His chastisement isn’t vocal but physical, dragging your wrist up to his mouth and greeting it with the gentlest press of lips, right where your pulse recounts a soliloquy on the affect this man has on you, heart rate spiking. Jack lingers, face turning to brush the tip of his nose against your skin while his eyes slip shut, like he’s drowning himself in the fading notes of your perfume. Then, he jumps right back into action, manoeuvring both your arms above your head and pinning them against the wall.
“No one ever tell you to keep your hands to yourself, sweetheart?” No man’s condescension has ever sounded so appealing, so soft. A softness he pairs with the brush of fingers, his free hand tracing a path for itself down the length of your torso, catching on the waist of your jeans and lingering, only to continue its descent over the shape of your thigh. “‘S okay, I don’t mind being the one to teach you.”
“Doctor Abbot,” you breathe, something stirring in your bones the longer the man stares at you, eyes spilling secrets of every degenerate thought passing through his mind.
“Really?” Jack reclaims your skin with his mouth, teeth scraping over your clavicle before his tongue tastes your flesh, a slow drag of the wet muscle halfway up your neck. Your pulse, a bass drum thrumming against the restraints of your veins, brings him to a pause, luring him into peppering a series of chaste kisses over the spot. All the while, his hand is familiarising itself with the curve of your thigh, fingertips dragging over the seam of your jeans and following its journey north, inching towards your clothed core. “Still calling me that, even while I’ve got my hand between your thighs?”
Maybe the alcohol is clouding your judgement, eradicating any hint of the usual hesitation that has ruled over past encounters like these, leaving you shy and bashful, and far from the kind of person willing to rip their aching desire right out their chest and present it to it’s new owner, heart in hand and lust in eyes.
The unexpected confidence boost has your hips shamelessly rolling into the palm of Jack’s hand as he engulfs the expanse of your core. Breathing stalls as the inseam of your jeans brushes against your lace-covered clit, pulsing with anticipation of whatever the older man plans to do with you.
“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” It’s unfair, hearing such earnest words falling from his lips, a touch of breathlessness to further sweeten the desperation in his voice; all the while one hand tightens it’s grip on your fidgeting arms and the other, firm and steady, undoes the button of your jeans and begins drawing the zip down at an agonizing pace. “Dangerously so. Might have to file a complaint soon, tell the board how inappropriate it is of you to distract me with just a smile while we’re meant to be saving lives.”
A sigh, delicate as silk, robs you of the satisfaction of replying instantly, body too busy accustoming itself to the intrusion of his hand on your skin, explorative touches that dip beneath your waistband and drag slowly through your folds.
Stealing yourself and silencing the part of you that wants to melt into his hand and let him remould you into something new, you eventually manage an amused, “I can always change departments, Dr Abbot. They’re always looking for extra hands with the inpatients.”
“Do that, and I’ll drag you back, kicking and screaming, if I have to.”
Beneath your clothes, the tip of Jack’s middle finger has taken to dipping between the warmth of puffy lips, collecting a dollop of your liquid pleasure, and lathering it over the desperate nub of your clit in gentle circles. His movement is casual, careless, not a hair out of place or a shaking of nerves evident on the man in front of you. Just the hungry eyes of a man in control, ready to take his time tearing you apart bit by bit, in a way only he can put you back together after.
“Fucking soaked,” Jack’s comment feels aimed at his own ears, a passing acknowledgement of your state that you just so happen to hear as he brings a second finger up to lazily play with your clit, all the while the wet patch soaking into your panties grows, no doubt seeping through lace and staining denim. “‘S actually a little pathetic, kid. I’ve barely even touched her and she’s weeping for me.”
Heat burns at your cheeks, the foul nature of the words leaving his mouth bringing you to a confusing state of embarrassment mixed with the headiness of lust, clouding your better judgements and axing whatever part of your brain is in charge of overthinking, just in time to halt a spiral down into the dreaded pits of sleeping with a coworker, a man you’ll have to continue to see nearly everyday, for better or for worse — everything hinges on how tonight ends.
There’s no time to worry about the end when Jack is just beginning.
Those same fingers that teased at your clit dip lower, nestling themselves between your folds. As though shocked by your warmth, you feel more than hear the man groan into your neck, a half-bitten back string of curses parting from his pretty lips.
“Can I, sweetheart?” His plead for permission pulls you out of your body momentarily, mind drawn away as it attempts to recall the last time a man bothered himself with asking before taking. “Need to know how she feels, ‘s all. Can you let me do that, hmm? Let me fill her with my fingers? Promise I won’t ask for more, won’t push my luck. Christ, already know I’m pushing it now, thinking an old man like me has any business messing with a pretty thing like-”
“Yes, Jack!” Cutting off his rambling mouth, your hips keen into the tantalising drag of his fingers through your slit, a back-and-forth motion he’d spent his whole monologue performing idly, with an occasional torturous catch of his fingertips on your entrance, threatening to delve deep only for him to course-correct and set them back on the track up the length of your slit. “Please, God, just- Touch me.”
“Greedy girl,” he tuts, face winding it’s way out from your neck just for his hazel eyes to observe your face as he finally breaches his fingers past your entrance. “Am I not already touching you?”
Replies are lost to the kitchen air, breath knocked out your chest in one foul swoop as he burrows his fingers knuckle-deep. Your lips part, your eyes roll back, and you grind down against his hand, as if by some grace of god he’ll hit some place deeper inside, fingers already pressing against that spot inside you as Jack curls them towards himself, putting the come in come-hither.
The angle is awkward, movement hindered by the tight squeeze of your jeans around his wrist, yet Jack works through the strain, digits pulling out at a slow, agonising pace, only to slip back inside equally as slow. It’s like he’s making you savour the feeling, imbedding every ridge and wrinkle along his fingers and knuckles into your memory, so the next time you find yourself hot under the blanket and struggling to sleep at night, your own hand won’t bring you half the relief.
His fingers fall into a rhythm, a back and forth tease that sets your nerves ablaze and unravels a ball of desire you long ago tossed aside, four weeks into working at the Pitt and telling yourself that those pesky butterflies you felt every time a certain attending crossed your path were nothing but newbie nerves. Marking the tempo of his touch, the repeated squelch of your cunt being filled by his fingers rings out; the deeper he dives, the wetter you grow. Your moans follow along to his beat, a perpetual huff of half-formed whines and hitched breaths, echoes of pleasure that claw their way out your throat and shamelessly sing him a song of praise.
“Ah, ah,” Jack mimics you, hot breath brushing against the shell of your ear as he feeds your moans right back to you in a tone so condescending, you feel your toes curl. “‘S that all you know how to say?”
Those same words and that same mocking tone from the hall have your skin crawling with need. A need to press yourself closer, until all your frayed edges tangles themselves in Jack. A need to fight against the hold of his hand, wrists squirming and fighting for release in hopes of winding your arms around his broad shoulders. A need to give in to the overwhelm, dive head first into the waves of desire that roll over you… So you do.
Jaw slack, toes curled, head thrown back. An orgasm crashes into you with the force of an ocean, sweeping you under and flooding the palm of Jack’s hand with the sticky sweet evidence of how good he’s making you feel.
His fingers fuck you through the experience, lazily curling and stroking the fire, drawing out your pleasure for as long as your body allows him, until a dry sob racks through your chest and tears dance along your lash line, head shaking as you protest the overstimulation.
The retreat of both Jack’s hands, slipping from the waistband of your jeans and relinquishing the grip on your wrists, it does not grant your poor heart respite, a chance to calm the beating it’s delivering against your chest. Instead, he doubles the speed, raising the fingers stained in your own slick and brushing the tips against your lower lip.
“Say ah,” not a question, a demand. Jack is an expert at ordering you around in a manner soft enough, confident enough to have your head reeling and will bending to his every wish.
Under the effect of his darkened gaze and the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixing with the beer on his breath, how can you do anything but let your mouth fall open?
Your first thought is disbelief, running cold down your spine at the unexpected sweetness that coats your tongue; sweetness that melts into a sharp tanginess, giving way to a thirst like no other, glands going into overdrive and wetting your palate. Drunk on yourself, you let your eyes slip shut and your lips wrap around the stretch of Jack’s fingers, a pleased hum bubbling up your throat as his digits apply the slightest of pressure against your tongue, testing the waters of your gag reflex as he slowly pushes himself deeper in your mouth, soaking himself in your spit.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” Jack’s spare hand has found its way down to your waist, slipping over the slopes of your curves and perching itself atop your hip, where he delivers a firm squeeze. “Made a real mess of my hand, ‘s only right you clean it up.”
By the time Jack pulls his hand back, a string of saliva connects his fingers to your lips and a craving is reawakening between your thighs. Afraid to fracture the fragile atmosphere between you and the attending, you choose to lead with action again, one hand grappling at the buckle of his belt while the other begins to hastily drag your jeans down the swell of your ass, skin-tight fabric stubbornly refusing to give way and grant you the freedom of air against your legs.
You only make it so far, barely managing to pry apart his belt when Jack intercepts your desperate touching, hands reclaiming possession over your own and shooing them away. With a pause for consideration, the mental cogs visibly turning behind his eyes, you watch as the attending descends the path of your body, peeling down your jeans along the way. A hiss is bitten back as he bends his knees, one foot planted firmly on the ground the other — his right knee — kissing into the kitchen floor, prosthetic calf laid behind him.
It’s the brush of a breath against your thigh that has you lurching back into your body, ignoring the worried nagging voice that wants to drag him off his knees for the sake of his health and comfort… and instead focusing on the part that wants him off his knees for a far more selfish reason.
“Jack,” your attempt at protesting is pathetic, a well-intended firm call of his name fracturing midway and collapsing into a whine as the man takes to laving his tongue up the expanse of your inner thigh, inching dangerously close to where you can feel your centre throbbing, crying out for him in morse code, desperate for the simplest of touches so long as the one delivering it is the older man currently kneeling on your kitchen floor.
Fingers wind in greying curls, the faintest burn of auburn and copper tickling against your knuckles. You attempt a tug, gentle enough to do no harm yet firm enough to get the point across of what you want: Jack, up and on his feet.
The man does not take the hint, instead he inches further up your leg, nose nuzzling against your mound. Blood rushes in every direction as you witness him pull in a sharp inhale, flooding himself with the intoxicating scent of your would-be pheromones.
“I want to taste you,” he says it with a fire behind his eyes, words impassioned by an animalistic desire; any woman would be mad to not throw herself at him, plead him to take anything and everything from her, however he should please.
Which makes the confusion burning his features more than understandable as he takes in your shaking head and your gentle mutters of no, followed swiftly by, “I need you to fuck me, Jack.”
Hands seek purchase on your hips, grip squeezing a little tighter as he steadies his prosthetic back onto the floor and brings himself back to his standing height. You can see the hesitation, in his eyes and in his fingers, as he slowly continues the undoing of his belt, slow and calculated movements that drag cracked leather free and loosen the clutch his jeans have around his waist.
“Who knew the Pitt’s sweetest nurse could be so demanding?” he muses, like joking might distract you from the cloud of doubt that has so visibly rolled in and settled above you both.
You entertain him, even if only for a moment, “Only when I don’t get what I want. Are you gonna deny me, Jack?”
“So you’re a brat,” bypassing your question, Jack drags the zipper of his pants down and leans his face in, lips brushing against your own with the ghost of a kiss. “Noted.”
His kisses paint a pretty picture of distraction, peppering affection over inches of skin that had spent so long being neglected, you’d nearly forgotten they existed. Over the swells of cheeks, down the slope of a throat, onto the point of a shoulder and back up to the shells of an ear. While your heart wants to sink into the feeling, fall back and let him lather you in every mouthful of affection he can sear against your burning skin, your brain takes the reins of the situation and forces your hands onto his shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Direct and to the point, you avoid the time-waste of skirting around the subject and confront the change in his demeanour head-on, the sudden hesitancy. A sense of panic licks up your spine, filling your mind with thoughts of Jack regretting having started this, crossing over the safe lines of coworker and marching across into trickier territory. “If you don’t want- I’d understand, okay? If you say it was just the heat of the moment, and the beer, and that you no longer want-”
“What? Baby, I promise this is anything but- Fuck,” Jack practically collapses into the groan that tears out of him, hand falling over his face and pressing into the corners of his eyes as he struggles to get the words out fast enough, a soul-crushing need to put an end to the rejected twinkle in your eyes as you offer him a gentle smile, the kind offered by politeness instead of happiness. Jack hates it on you. “I don’t know how to explain without sounding conceited.”
“Oh-kay,” your confused exclaim melts into acceptance, though your eyes remain sceptical as they trail over the attending’s face, awaiting further explanation. When it doesn’t come, your eyebrows jump, a visual nudge that has Jack finally spilling confessions all over your kitchen floor.
“I’m… Big.”
And cue the laughing track.
Watching as the tips of his ears bleed a bright red, you bite back and swallow down a comment about how his height is a little over average at best. Because when a puppy-eyed Jack Abbot warns you of his size in a manner that implies real danger, the last thing you should do is turn his panic into a joke.
“How big?”
“I don’t know-” Then he cuts himself off, like reality has struck him over the head and he remembers he is, in fact, a medical professional and, though he may never have measured his own endowment, surely he can guesstimate. “Maybe like eight. Inches, I mean. And, um…” what a thrill to see Jack reduced to a mumbling mess, a man so usually consumed by his flirty nature, a charm so potent that it pours off him in rivers, soaking all who wind up in his vicinity. Yet here he stands, barely enough space for a deep breath between you, shyly detailing the heat he’s packing beneath the waistband of his trousers. “I’m- I mean it’s pretty thick, too.”
Silence haunts the space between you.
A sick satisfaction pools in your loins, knowledge renewed on the fact you’re bare from the waist down yet all the power seems to sit in the palm of your hand in this moment, Jack’s fate hanging in the balance of however you choose to react to his assumed shameful confession.
So when all you offer is cocked head and a tongue poking against the inside of your cheek, Jack just about falters into insecurity, seeking validation before you even have time to utter a word.
“I’m not bragging. Or, you know, talking myself up. It’s just- I don’t want to hurt you, or to-”
“Take it out.”
His neck practically snaps as his gaze flies from the floor to your eyes, hazel rings that grown thinner under the enlarging of his pupils, lust bleeding into his stare as he managed a careful, “What?”
“This big dick of yours,” emphasis to your words, you finally let yourself look down and catch sight of him, firm and heavy beneath the confines of dark blue denim. The view of his bulge alone is enough to have your mouth watering, but you can’t let it slip, not when your grip on the reins is finally secured. “Let me see it, Doctor Abbot.”
The switch is instant.
Bashfulness melts away and the cloud of doubt is blown away as a cockiness overcomes Jack’s features, face splitting into a shit-eating grin. Fingers work fast this time, dipping beneath the elastic of his boxers and granting his cock freedom at long last.
No trace of a lie in his words; Jack is big. Uncut, with a rosie red tip that’s already made itself known, glistening with the rogue drops of precum that smear the mushroomed head. At the base sits a bush of hair, groomed enough to show you he cares enough to trim it yet overgrown enough to tell you it’s been a few weeks, silver locks threaded through a valley of dark auburn. Freckles dust his skin in subtle specs, while a vein draws a colourful line up the length of him.
You can practically feel yourself throbbing, calling out for him with each moment that passes, your eyes glued to the phallic shape. Jack, evil incarnate, has the gall to lick a stripe up his palm, hand wrapping around himself and daring to give a slow pump.
“I’m gonna need you to stop looking at me like that,” Jack cuts himself off with a hiss, teeth taking his bottom lip hostage as a chuckle rustles out from the depth of his chest. In that moment, you swear nothing has ever been more attractive than the gentle disapproving shake of his head as he rakes his stare down the shape of you, eyes clinging to where your thighs sit squeezed together, stealing any amount of friction you can find. “‘Else I might cum all over myself like some desperate college kid.”
You reach your hand out, searching for traction and finding it in the belt loop of his trousers, still clinging to his tree-trunk thighs. And thank god for that, for it allows you to tug the man closer, chest to chest, knuckles brushing over the hood of your clit as he works his hand over his cock one last time.
“Then give me a reason to stop looking, Doctor Abbot,” swallowing back any lingering shame or shyness a less hornier version of yourself possesses, you curl a hand over the top of his and stare into pools of hazel as you speak, “Don’t you want to make my eyes roll back?”
Never has a man looked so eager to part your legs, the skin of his knuckles burning white as he takes a hand to the back of one of your knees and hooks it over his waist. Left with no choice but to keep your thighs spread, you indulge yourself by glancing down at the view. Visual sin, erotica live in emotion, Jack guides the blushing tip of his cock up the length of your cunt, soaking himself in your arousal. A mutual gasp echoes out into the kitchen on his second swipe, head catching on your entrance only to be denied easy access, hips rolling only to watch himself press against your clit.
“Don’t care if it hurts,” bordering on lost in lust, you barely register the words as your mouth moves. Jack, on the other hand, clings to every syllable, awaiting whatever salvation they promise to bring him. “Just wanna feel you, Jack. All of you, please.”
“Shh, shh,” his hushing is full of mockery, like the last thing he really wants is to silence the desperate plea in your voice. He does so, unintentionally, by finally lining himself up with your entrance. “Don’t need to beg, baby. I’m gonna give it to you, all of it. Just be sure to cry real pretty for me if it gets too much.”
Something animalistic comes over you as Jack feeds the first inch into your cunt.
The burn is there, the stretch of long-unused walls remoulding themselves around the shape of Jack. But any pain is sweet, the kind that tickles at your nerves and has your heart speeding up, adrenaline activated and intoxicating your bloodstream.
Jack, conscious of the crease between your brows, is tentative, careful. He gives a barely-there thrust, letting himself inch just a little deeper into the pulsing warmth of your pussy. There’s a vein across his forehead that makes itself known, the force of his concentration paired with an accelerating heart rate drawing it to front and centre stage of his face. All it does is make you want him more, deeper, quicker.
Words cease to serve any purpose as the two of you give in to the physical, hands that grasp and pull and anchor themselves atop one another’s skin. You think you breathe some version of his name, but the letters are knocked out of you as your fingers tangle themselves in grey curls and, in the blink of an eye, Jack’s pelvis sits flush against your own, cock buried right to the deep hilt and face collapsed into your own, foreheads exchanging sweat as his temple kisses against yours.
A pitiful whine claws its way from you, suddenly painfully aware of how well Jack fills you, stuffed to the brim in a way no man before has quite achieved. You feel him in your cunt, in your guts, in your lungs with every shaky breath you pull; you are drunk on the attending and the feeling of his cock pulsing deep within your gummy walls.
“Sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” apologies are overflowing from the fountain of Jack’s mouth, brushing against your cheek in tiny puffs of breath as the older man blesses you with a whimper so pathetic you nearly come undone right then and there, cunt ready to spill all over his throbbing cock. “Didn’t mean to- shit. Wanted to take it slow, ease him in, but god… You’re just so tight. And warm, and- Ahh! And your nails, they- they scrapped against my scalp and you were tugging on my hair and I couldn’t help it, baby.”
How can you even contest or complain, when you feel like a live wire, thrumming with a deadly kind of energy that threatens to burn everything and anything that touches you and isn’t Jack Abbot?
His hips rock back slightly, only for him to fuck back into you, tip to cervix. The leg hooked around his waist tightens around him, holding Jack as close to you as possible. The scene between you plays out with an intensity one could cut with a knife.
Slow and shallow rolls of hips, punctuating each shaken breath you pull and forcing the air out of you in pitiful whines and moans, songs of praise for Jack's viewing pleasure.
Foreheads together, breaths mingling until it’s hard to tell where your exhale stops and his inhale starts. Both nurse and attending, junior and senior, woman and man; whatever title you and Jack may be addressed by, you’re equal measures of the same mess, staining one another with nails that scrape over freckled skin and five o’clock shadows that burn at cheeks.
“Look at you,” Jack marvels, one hand scooping up to cup your face and remind you of how big his hands look — hands you spent weeks wishing would reach for yours during quiet walks home. Yet now one cradles you while the other grips at your body, tilts your hips at angle that drives him just that little bit deeper. “Taking it like a good girl, no whining or complaining that it hurts.”
What really hurts is that he is still moving at an agonisingly slow pace, torturous drags of his thick length along your walls. If you weren’t speechless under effects of his ministrations, you’d maybe find the ability to tell him this.
“You’re just grateful to have something to fill this pussy, huh?” Something catches in Jack’s throat, a fractured groan that raises a sudden alarm. It feels different to previous ones, born from somewhere deeper, more painful in his chest. “If I knew you’d be do eager, I wouldn't have waited this long to come inside.”
You stomach three more measured rolls of Jack’s hips before you cave into the anxious feeling hollowing your pleasure, the wince on his face having grown deeper and more concerning.
All it take is a hand to his shoulder and a barely formed Jack, wait, for the man to tear himself off you, putting immediate distance between you despite the hand that remains on your face, holding it steady as his gaze sweeps over you in search of evidence of your well-being.
“What’s wrong, kid?” Just like that, you watch him slip back into the practised role of a caretaker, Dr Abbot taking centre stage and relegating Jack, the man keen on seeing you come undone at his touch, to the wings. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I told you- Warned you, baby.”
His rambling would be endearing, if you weren't aware of the sudden empty feeling of your cunt clenching at nothing and, worse, the bitten-back wince of pain that pronounces itself across his face as he shifts weight from one foot onto the other.
So you take matters into your own hands to silence his spiralling mind.
Literally into your hand, fingers wrapping themselves around the thick swell of his cock, standing at attention and smearing the evidence of your lust over Jack’s lower abdomen. The reaction is instant: hips bucking into your touch in a stuttered thrust, mouth falling agape and silent as you envelop him in your gentle touch.
“You didn’t hurt me,” quite the opposite, the tight fit of his dick bordering on nothing short of heaven. “But you’re hurting yourself.”
Before Jack can demand a much earned explanation, you trade his cock for one of his hands, threading yourself to him and enduring he can’t let go as you begin guiding him to your bedroom, the gentle jingle of his loose belt slapping against his thigh announcing each step he takes.
Lit only by the silver light of moon, you turn to him as you reach your humble queen size bed and try your hand at that stern yet caring look Jack has mastered — the look that’s held your heart hostage since you first witnessed it directed at you.
“Your leg. It’s hurting,” now you wish you had opted for switching on a light, because you swear you see the subtlest hint of a blush taking over Jack’s cheeks, guilty and caught when he thought he was doing such a good job to mask the dull ache of his limb. “Take it off, Jack. Or at least let yourself rest on the bed, let me do the work.”
Your silver fox puts up little fight, mouth opening and swiftly closing before any empty protest can flee. The mattress squeaks beneath his weight as Jack sits down on the edge, both legs bent at the knee and feet planted on the floor — he makes a conscious effort to keep his boots from touching the small carpet that runs along your bedside, unwilling to taint the cream coloured fur.
As he hunches over, hands peeling back the leg of his trouser to expose the sight of his faux-calf, a fragile quiet befalls you both. You watch entranced as he removes the prosthetic, a practised ritual he performs with the ease of a man who long ago came to terms with the cards that were handed to him. Freed at last, unwinding a strip of bandage from the stump, Jack takes to removing his clothes next, while you take to filing away his previous movements into a part of your mind labelled later, a future in the shape of a question mark, the possibility of some day needing to remove it for him.
There is something decidedly cruel about the sight of Jack Abbot sitting at the edge of your bed, completely undressed and pinning you beneath his stare as his hands now occupy themselves with more nefarious actions, one gripping at his cock and indulging himself in a languid stroke while the other takes claim of the bottom of your shirt, balling the fabric up in a fist as he tugs you close so abruptly, it’s only natural that you slip and tumble into his naked lap.
An awkward repositioning is punctuated by your own nervous laughter, a shy giggle making itself known as you straddle the doctor, the hand between his legs now teasing at your core, dipping into your honeypot just to soak himself in your sweetness before diverting his attention to your clit, pointer and middle finger rubbing an agonisingly slow circle over the nub.
“You’re gorgeous,” Jack whispers, honesty rolling off him in waves as his eyes ravage the newly exposed sight of your naked chest, t-shirt and bra tossed behind you in the blind chaos of falling into Jack. “You know that, right?”
There is urgency in his voice, like his worldview might just collapse if you tell him otherwise, and the desperation is enough to have you giggling all over again, a noise that quickly is intercepted by a gasp, eyes slipping shut as the man welcomes himself to the taste of your flesh, mouth swooping forward to take the right nipple between his lips, “You might have mentioned it before.”
“Then let me mention it again,” mumbled into your chest, he marks the sentence with a kiss to the opposite nipple, “And again,” the next kiss lands back on your right nipple. “And again.”
Both of you groan at the other’s ministrations, your hand threaded back in the silver locks of his hair and tugging at them just sharp enough to have Jack’s hips rutting up into you, bodies searching for the sweet release of friction yet neither of you rushing to give in as you slowly wade into the depths of lust, grinding desperately against one another like a pair of inexperienced college students.
“Jack,” you breathe his name, hand tilting his head back from your chest and granting you the freedom to plant your mouth against him, tongue dipping into the cavern of his mouth, the taste of beer and bourbon still on his lips.
“Hmm,” Jack hums, hand cradling your cheek.
Between you, tensions rise as your folds spread around his cock, rubbing up the length of him as he rocks himself against you.
“Are you going to fuck me,” is all he lets you get out before he drags you in for another kiss. “Or are we going to sit like this all night?”
“I don’t know, feels pretty good to me,” he’s teasing you, enjoying the sight of you growing more and more dishevelled by your own carnal needs, your nails digging into his freckled shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Sighing with nothing but sexual frustration, you recapture those earlier reins and slip your hand between you both, grabbing at Jack’s cock and lining it up at your entrance, thigh muscles burning as you hover, “Well I would.”
You sink down onto him slowly, eyes incapable of resisting the urge to roll to the back of your skull as you feel that sweet familiar burn of him stretching your walls.
Jack is speechless, but far from quiet, mouth open and singing you the prettiest songs of guttural praise. His hands are on your hips, gripping you in a way that threatens to bruise, all the while you are savouring the flush press of your bodies, your soaked folds kissing the base of his cock with a creamy ring.
When you finally begin to move, a careful raise of hips, you condemn both of you to a world polluted by lust, and pleasure, and the aching need to keep stimulating friction.
The rhythm comes naturally, a slow build-up of you fucking yourself down onto him, stuffing your cunt full to the brim. Jack has given in, handed himself over to you for you to use how you please, while his hands rake over every sliver of skin they can reach. Smoothing over your thighs, grabbing at your waist, pinching at your hard nipples, guiding your mouth down to meet his, a kiss that is more an exchange of breaths than a battle of lips.
A symphony composed entirely of sin, the darkness of your bedroom is set ablaze by the wet slap of skin meeting skin, a squelch punctuating each time he fills your cunt and a new wave of your arousal drips down his thighs and stains your bedsheets.
“This fucking pussy,” Jack speaks like you have personally wounded him, your forehead meeting his shoulder as you let out a squeak, the hands on your waist no longer sitting idle but now guiding you, bouncing you down to meet the upward rut of his hips. “‘S so tight, and warm, and perfect. You’re perfect, letting me stretch this little hole. Taking all of me.”
“Love it, Jack,” You’re babbling into his shoulder, mind turning to unusable mush the faster Jack slams you down on him.
“Love what, kid?”
“Your cock.”
“Yeah?” Oh, the smugness in his voice should be illegal, but you have only yourself to blame. “Who knew my pretty nurse was so good at taking dick. Can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me all this time.”
A chord is winding inside you, drawing tighter and tighter as Jack continues to bounce you down on his cock, pausing every few thrusts to let you savour the full stretch, grinding up and biting back laughter as you greet him with the whites of your eyes.
“Holding- ahh! Out?” Your walls flutter around him as you feel yourself closer to the edge of an orgasm.
“Yeah, sweetheart, holding out,” a kiss lands on the side of your head, as though Jack is incapable of not showering you in as much physical affection as possible. “Ignoring all my flirting, never giving me a sign that you want me just as much as I want you.”
“Flirting?!” Head out from his shoulders, you gaze down at him in disbelief, refusing to take the blame for why it has taken so many months for the pair of your to wind up here, naked and desperate and staining your sheets together. “How was I supposed to know? You flirt with everyone- Jack!”
His name is more shriek than moan, tearing out of you as his fingers press themselves to your clit and send you head-first into an orgasm.
Jack fucks you through it, slower rolls of his hips stretching out your state of euphoria and granting him a longer view of your mouth spewing profanities and your eyes rolling back and your hips bucking atop him, both fleeing from and feeding into his touch.
A sudden bang interrupts the scene, cutting your bliss short and forcing you to swallow back a moan.
Frozen in place, fingers to your clit and cock half-way buried inside, Jack’s wide-eyed gaze watches you with a questioning glance. Silence isn’t given the chance to settle fully between you, as soon another sound — from the same direction as the bang — echoes through your bedroom.
“Hey! Keep it down, some of us are trying to sleep.”
Jack is the first to react, laughter shaking his shoulders. His head tilts back, disbelief gripping him in its clutches. Collapsing back onto your bed, he drags you down with him, sweaty chest pressing to sweaty chest. You follow him into laughter too, your own muted chuckles spilling into his neck as you shyly bury your face away, mortified by the thought of one of your neighbours hearing you and Jack.
Apparently, it has the opposite affect on him.
Because instead of crippling mortification, Jack has already begun rutting back into you, shallow thrusts that he somehow manages to deliver, despite the fact his cock already fills you to the brim. Nerves aflame from a ruined orgasm, your body is quick to submit to him, hips tilting to welcome him deeper, back arching into his body. But the moment your lips dare to part, a chastisement is quick to follow, a disapproving tut coming from the man beneath you.
“Shh,” despite his hushing, he makes no attempt to slow his thrusts, the very cause of your fracturing sanity, mouth no longer in control of the noises you let out. Neighbours be damned, you would happily dare any of them to feel the sweet release of Jack stretching them out and not turn into raving banshees. Well, not quite so happily, for you are very quickly growing not only fond but possessive of the attending. “I know, kid, I know. Feels good, right? So good you just wanna scream, don’t even care if someone hears?”
Whether you realise it or not, you nod along to his mockery, desperate please for more, please, just like that, Jack proving his point perfectly: you don’t care.
The only thing you can do is feel him, all of him.
“That’s it, let it out,” he croons, faux sympathy in his voice while he cups your face and swipes away at a tear, the overwhelm of feeling so full and so close to cumming for a third time finally getting the better of you. Tear gone, the hand on your cheek drifts down to cover your mouth, smothering you into silence, muffling the shriek you let out as his hips grow sloppy, desperate, fucking you deeper, harder, faster each time, his own orgasm creeping over the horizon. “I’ll take you to my place next time. ‘S a detached bungalow, can be as loud as you need to be. And, god, I plan on giving you reasons to be loud, put you in every possible position, make you cum so many times you lose count.”
Every moan and groan and whine of his name that leaves you is muffled by the heavy palm of his hand… Which turns out to be a blessing in disguise when a third and final orgasm collides, head first, right into you, leaving you a mess. As you writhe and wriggle, one of the muscles in your calf cramping as your toes curl and your body pulls itself taut, Jack is fighting his own personal battle, hips stilled and limiting the friction as much as possible while you fall apart atop him.
Fingers tangled in his hair, face engulfed by his heavy hand, thighs squeezing around his hips; the image of you cumming is the kind that pushes a man to pick up a paint brush, all in the hopes of memorialising the art in motion onto canvas. Jack can barely focus on you, however, eyes squeezing shut as he steadies his breathing and struggles to hold back a flood.
“‘M gonna cum, baby,” Jack strains out, pulse near visible along his jugular as his heart rate shifts into overdrive. “Need you to lift these pretty hips off me or else- ahh!”
The whimper you pull from him is damn near heartbreaking, right from the gut and full of a fractured sincerity. Unwilling to so much as let him finish any thought of pulling out, never mind his sentence, you’ve staked your claim, shook your head, and cemented yourself flush atop him, cock stuffed to the brim and left no choice but to spill into the pulsing heat of your walls.
Hot, thick ropes of Jack’s cum flood your pussy, painting a pearly white mess inside of you. Overflowing and with nowhere else to run, you feel the unmistakable stickiness of his cum, now mixed with your own orgasmic bliss, leaking out of you and staining both your skins in the act. Breathless and minds drifting far away from the physical plane, you crash down atop Jack, overstimulated and overspent, and drift into the comfort of his arms enveloping you, holding your sweaty figure against his own in an embrace that says stay without uttering a single syllable.
Frozen in time, the pair of you remain glued to one another. Your breathing falls in sync, each rise of his chest matching perfectly with your exhale, and a gentle rocking remains between your bodies, an invisible stream of desire that ebbs and flows, manipulating Jack into rocking up into you and teasing you into grinding down to meet his movements, in spite of the teeth clenching sensitivity tingling at your skin.
You are the first to move, a careful rise from his chest. Already softened within you, his cock slips out of you and you pull a breath in through a grimace. The muscles in your thighs have turned to mush, more unstable than jelly, and so it is nothing short of a miracle to feel Jack’s steady touch settle itself on your hips, hands supporting the dead-weight of your lax body and guiding you to hover over his lower abdomen. You quickly realise he has less than pure intentions, as you watch satisfaction creep back into his pupils when a string of his cum dribbles out from your cunt and drips down onto his skin.
Admiring the picture you paint over his lower stomach, Jack has the nerve to mock the tired whine he coaxes from you as fingers swipe through the white mess and slip between your folds, feeding his spend right back into your walls.
Back hitting the mattress before you can protest, you struggle over a gasp and a barely stringed together sentence while the attending slips down the length of your body, pausing only when his head reaches your thighs.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” Jack, with reflexes quick enough to match his wit, intercepts your legs before they can crush his head between them, your hips bucking and your heart unsure whether you are trying to chase after or run from the teasing stripe he licks up your cunt. “You cleaned your mess, now let me clean mine.”
Your heads hit the pillow as the Sun hits the horizon.
By nine, birds chirp by the windowsill and sunlight cuts through the sliver in your curtains, forcing your half-asleep form to retreat into the safety of Jack’s chest. He answers your cry for help instantly, arms pulling tighter around your waist as he continues to venture through a land of dreams, lips parted in the softest snore.
By noon, the city is awake. Cars honk their horns, voices fill the streets, doors slam from floors above and below. But in your apartment, not a creature stirs, bodies clinging to one another and sleep with equal fervour. If you drift left, Jack soon follows. If Jack flips onto his front, your palm is quick to flatten itself over his back. Magnets connected by an unseen force, the pair of you toss and turn beneath wrinkled bedsheets.
By four, the bathroom mirror is fogged. You are a nervous wreck contained behind the nervous smile of someone who is trying their best to be supportive despite the shampoo stinging at your eyes and the grown man you are supporting against your frame. Unwilling to let you drag one of your leather dining chairs into the cubicle, Jack had insisted he would be fine to shower standing, so long as you kept him company.
By six, your apartment is empty. Clad in the familiar shapeless clothing that is sure to keep you comfortable throughout your shift, you’re struggling to find the right time to ask Jack to hand you your bag back, too used to his habit of prying it out your hands to even notice he had done so as you both departed from your front door. No choice but to throw on last nights clothing, Jack is silent at your back, one arm pulling you against him as yet another neighbour slips into the confines of the elevator — freshly fixed yet sending a shiver down your spine with each shake it gives in its descent down to the ground floor.
By some miracle, you make it out onto the street.
Which maybe, now that the fresh air hits your cheek, you are beginning to lament. Because this is it, the point of no return; where you go one way and Jack will go the other, trailing home to enjoy the rest of his night off while you no doubt will spend your entire shift dreading where the events that transpired between you — the stolen kisses, the lustful whines, the rolling hips — leave you both standing.
Taking your bag from him seems like the correct first move to make towards goodbye, but when you reach your hand out, Jack answers your silent plea with his empty one threading itself into your hold, fingers entwined in a manner so perfectly it has you reminiscing on how your bodies lay atop your mattress.
The attending has already tugged you halfway down the street before your mouth catches up with your feet, choking out a dumbfounded, “Where are you going? You’re off today.”
“So?” Jack barely offers you a bothered shrug of his shoulders, glancing back at you with a look in his eyes so warm, you worry you might just melt into the asphalt. “That doesn’t mean I can’t walk you to work.”
+ extra hyde!
· this fic was meant to be short, believe it or not... my first proper fic of 2026, yippee!
· olivia, girl... never stop making albums for me to cry to.
· pov: jack abbot, the biggest flirt who turns into a bumbling idiot when faced with the person he actually wants:
turnnoffyourmind
tangentwithtanner
dailybridgerton
amandla
vaporwave
