pairing — underground fighter!andrew ‘pope’ cody x fem!reader
summary — pope cody’s got himself a girl he’s sweet on who works on him between rounds, and there’s no part of him that can imagine the thought of leaving you.
warnings — ( 14.5k words ) 18+ MINORS DNI !! explicit sexual content ( p in v, m!receiving oral, pope’s got a size kink, marking, scratching, praise kink, softdom!pope, slightly needy!pope? he’s also rly awkward during sex) slow burn-ish, no physical appearance described of reader (small hands + general size difference noted in relation to pope, no other physical descriptors) obsessive!pope, guns and threat at gunpoint, financial exploitation of reader - she’s paying off a debt by working, brief harassment scene, hurt/comfort and hurt/no comfort, violence, blood + injuries, emotional ending, incarceration, brief mentions of drug use, absent parent, protective!pope, reader’s guarded / slow to trust, unwanted touching (not from pope), pope has a heavy savior complex in this, no use of y/n, pope’s pov, canon-compliant (ish) but it’s pre-season one.
notes — this one got a little away from me and i’m already Sorry it’s a shawn hatosy summer!!! also i’m laughing to myself ab this fic bc the original plot was gonna be so different but this is just the way the cookie crumbled while writing + experimented with a different writing style bc i just think pope’s pov would feel like a lot at once
Craig had made some pretty stupid decisions in his life. He blew his money on blow and bikes most of the time, but once in a blue moon, he made decisions that really cut it, like putting in over three grand into Pope across a single night. Money Craig didn’t even have, money he’d borrowed off a man people didn’t borrow off, because he watched Pope punch a bag by the pool and put a body on the concrete in a parking lot behind a bar and decided his older brother was an investment.
It was, as it turned out. Pope won. Craig got his three grand back and then some, and that was how the basement off Atlantic became a regular thing, because Craig had a taste for it now and Pope had a use for cash that didn’t run through Smurf’s shady fingers first.
The crowd there was the worst he’d stood in front of, and he’d grown up in Smurf’s living room, so that was a measurement that meant something. Men who bet money they needed and meant to take the loss of someone’s skin. The air thick enough to chew, smoke and sweat and the bitterness of a room full of people who’d collectively decided this was the night their luck was going to turn.
Pope wanted to lose just so they’d fuck off.
It was run by a guy named Leo who’d met Craig at a party, late, both of them lit and certain they were about to make each other rich. Leo had the basement, the crowd, the connections that made cops uninterested, and a way of talking that made one-track-minded guys like Craig feel like they were cut in on something even as he was lifting your wallet. Pope didn’t trust him. Pope didn’t trust anybody, but he distrusted Leo with a specificity that felt like respect.
Leo ran the place like a man who’d thought about every cent in a dollar twice. Nothing in that basement was there by accident, which was how Pope knew, eventually, that you weren’t either.
The first night he didn’t put it together. He came up out of the third round with his ears ringing and his knuckles screaming and somebody pressed a wet rag to the back of his neck, and his body did what it always did. He came around with his elbow up and the words already out of his mouth. “Get the fuck off me.”
You went still. You were crouched down close enough that he could see you’d done your eyes earlier in the night and they’d worn through, smudged soft at the corners, and that should have made you look tired and instead made you look like you’d been left out in the weather, gentled by it. There was a smear of someone else’s blood drying brown along your jaw—not yours, you didn’t have a mark on you, you were the only clean thing in a room built for ruining people—and you hadn’t wiped it off because your hands had been busy all night being careful with men who were far from deserving it.
“Okay,” you said, and that was all. You stayed crouched in front of him, an arm’s length back now, holding the rag out where he could take it himself if he wanted it.
He felt like garbage. It all arrived once, the way it did with him, fine one second and then sick with it. You couldn’t have been much more than a bucket and tape to anybody else in that room, just the girl who patched them up, and he’d snapped at you like you were one of the men in the room baying for his blood.
He took the rag off your hands.
And you just went back to it. You pulled his hand into both of yours like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just shown you the worst of himself in the first ten seconds of knowing you, and started cleaning the wreck of his knuckles with a little furrow between your brows. Devotional, almost. Like his hand had been lent to you and you were supposed to return it in good condition.
It was then he realized Leo had gotten way too lucky with you. He was sure you were used as nothing but a front. You were something soft to put at the edge of all that ugliness so men had a reason to keep their money in the room a little longer. A girl who patched up fighters, sure, but mostly a thing for them to look at, to crowd, to reach for between rounds.
Pope wouldn’t admit it to Craig, or any of his brothers, ever, that the only reason he came back the next time was to see you again. He knew his words and then his sudden muteness probably made you read him as one more man to be careful around. He’d handed you that impression himself, and now he had to live inside it.
The second night, you didn’t tend to him. There was another girl near the bucket—older, harder, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and no softness in her hands at all—and she did his corner between rounds like she was wiping off a dusty counter. Pope sat there and let her and looked for you over her shoulder the whole time, which was how he found you across the room, working the cash, the cigar box against your chest as your lips moved over the count.
Pope hardly believed in coincidences. He was sure he’d snapped and you’d adjusted by putting a body between yourself and the man who’d shown his teeth. It was the smart thing. It was exactly what he’d have told you to do if he were anyone other than the man it was being done to. It sat in his chest all night like a swallowed stone, the understanding that he’d gotten precisely what he deserved and hated every second of it.
He won. He always did; that was the whole problem with him, the thing that made his Craig rich now and him useful to Smurf and left Pope standing in basements full of people who wanted to watch him hurt somebody. The crowd howled, money changed hands, and Pope barely heard whatever Leo was saying because he was watching you seal the night’s take into a zip bag and press the air out of it with the flat of your hand carefully.
He found you after, by the stairs, when the room had thinned to the stragglers and the smell of it had gone stale. He came up slow, hands where you could see them.
“You drew the short straw last week,” he said, the words coming out of him too rehearsed, because that’s what he’d been doing since he noticed you and while getting his guts punched. “Patching me up.”
You looked up at him. Up close, your worn-soft eyes were tired. “I just asked Kate to take your corner tonight.”
So, not a coincidence. He’d already known, yet it did something ugly to him. He already had people who he’d known his entire life scared of him—brothers who were career criminals—and he’d made peace with it, like he had to with everything he couldn’t change. But it landed differently from you, because you didn’t have the years to back the wariness up.
“Right,” he said, because what else was there to say?
You tilted your head, just slightly, and scanned his face like you were checking it for swelling. He knew there was none, not today. He still held still. He realized he’d have held still for anything you wanted to do to his face.
Whatever you were looking for, it seemed like you hadn’t found it. Or maybe you had. Your gaze caught on his mouth, under his jaw, and you clicked your tongue.
“You’re not —” You shook your head faintly. “It’s easier,” you said finally, “to not get in the way of guys like you. That’s all. It’s nothing personal.”
Guys like you. Jesus. He wanted to ask you what that meant, even though he knew. He was guys like him. He’d spent thirty-some years being exactly that. But he wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to be not that to you.
Any other guy would have let it go. A smarter man, a less stupid one, would’ve said that was a fair enough explanation and left you to your transparent zip bags and never come back to you unless you did to him.
“It is though,” Pope said, voice too rough. “Personal. I wasn’t—right, after the third round.” The words, his voice, everything came out clumsy, and he briefly wondered if his eyes had dropped down his face and his nose had turned upside down. “You don’t have to put Kate—or whoever there. I’m not gonna—” He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end the sentence. “I’d rather it was you.”
He suddenly felt like a complete idiot all over again when he watched your brows furrow slightly and your lips press together as you looked at him almost sadly. Then you let out a disbelieving chuckle as you shook your head as you twisted your neck slightly to look around.
“Is this gonna be a problem?” you said, lowering your voice, glancing off to the side. Checking, he realized, who was still on the stairs, who might be close enough to hear.
That was its own answer to a question he hadn’t been able to ask yet. It told him there were people you didn’t want knowing this, even though there was hardly a ‘this.’
“What?” Pope asked, playing dumb just so he could hear the words from you.
“You.” You brought your eyes back to him, and he felt slightly shaken as you pinned him with a glare that seemed almost gentle. “Saying things like that.” Your voice stayed even, but there was an edge working into it now. “I do my job here. I keep my head down—that’s better for me, okay?”
He didn’t get that. Not really. But he heard the need in it.
“Nobody’s gonna bother you,” he said roughly. It came out flat and certain, it always did when he was truly sure of himself. “Not while I’m here.”
You just looked at him like that again. “Go home, Pope—”
“Andrew,” he said, and he didn’t even know why he did.
He hated that name just as much as Pope. It was just another thing Smurf had handed him that never fit anywhere in his growing life. To the room he was Pope. On the cards he counted, he was Pope. He’d been Pope so long he sometimes forgot there was anything under it. But he didn’t want to be Pope to you. Pope was guys like him. Pope was the thing on the cards coked-up wishful men put their money on. He had no clean self to offer you—God knew he didn’t—but he had the name hardly anybody used often, and so he gave you that, stupidly, like it’d be worth something to you.
His pulse climbed into his throat. He had the sick, racing feeling he got right before things went sideways, the one that had been wrong about as often as it was right and that he'd never once been able to switch off.
“Andrew,” you said, testing it quietly in your mouth, where Pope felt everything landed differently for some reason. And then you looked at him again, and said, “Go home, Andrew.”
Thankfully, by some grace of God, Pope realized he may not have done it all wrong when you came to patch him up after the first round the following week. You dropped down onto the concrete in front of him with the bucket and the brown bottle and a roll of tape gone soft at the edges from your thumb.
You took his hand like nothing had been said, as though the conversation on the stairs had been filed somewhere and this was the conclusion you’d come to on your own time, and Pope felt that he should let that be, instead of pointing it out. He’d learned that much, and tamped down the feeling like his entire week had paid off.
“You lead with right too much,” you said, looking at his hands. “When you’re tired. You drop the left and lead with the right. That’s how they got your eyebrow.”
Pope parted his lips and blinked. “You watch me?”
“I watch the cash.” You pressed the tape down over his knuckle. “Fights are what make them move, but yeah.” You shrugged, and it was stiff. “You drop your left.”
Pope stayed silent for a moment, then asked, dumbly, “You a fighter?”
It was meant to land as dry, a joke, but it never quite did with him.
You let out the smallest of chuckles. “I watch men get hit everyday.”
Pope swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. So he watched the top of your head instead, the part in your hair, the concentration you put into doing a job that probably paid no extra if you did it well. You wrapped him efficiently, all business now, and Pope felt that you’d closed a door he hadn’t realized you’d opened.
It should have frustrated him. Instead, it made him want to earn that inch back slow, the way you’d coax anything that didn’t trust easy. He knew that wanting. He had it about a dog once, a half-feral thing that lived in the corners of the Cody Compound for a summer, that he’d fed in silence for weeks before it let him near. He’d never told anyone about that dog. He thought about it now, crouched-down you and careful tape, and didn’t enjoy what it told him about himself.
“You’re done,” you said, and stood briskly.
“Hey,” he said, the word coming out before he could think it. “Thanks.”
You looked at him a second, and whatever you found in him, it earned him the corner of a smile. You must not have been used to being thanked very often. Pope flexed his wrapped hand, feeling something close to proudness. He wasn’t sure for what, exactly, but it felt good for the moment.
For three weeks, you rationed out small jokes that he was almost sure you didn’t realize were jokes, taped him up, and left Pope driving home with whatever you’d given him that night turning over in his chest.
His fight hadn’t started yet. He leaned up against the support post by the stairs, hood up, trying to do everything he could to make himself look very still and very boring so the crowd would forget to look at him. From there, he had a clean line of the cash table, which meant he had a clean line on you, which was the actual reason he’d stood there.
There was a man at your table. Big, going soft in the middle, a Lakers cap on backward and loose, oozing the sleazy confidence of someone past four beers and good judgement. He’d been talking to you a while, Pope noticed. You were wearing a smile aimed past his shoulder—a small, pleasant, and all around absent thing—and Pope watched you do it with a protective switch under his thumb.
The man reached over and tucked a bill into your bra, slowly, like it was funny. Two fingers folded the bill below your collarbone, and you went rigid, smile staying in place while everything behind it moving.
You went somewhere way back behind your own eyes the way Pope had watched you go a dozen times, and the man laughed at his own joke and left his hand there a beat too long.
The trouble with Pope was that most of the time, he never decided. One second he was against the post and the next he had the man’s wrist in his hand and he was bending it back off you, almost politely.
“Wrong,” Pope drawled, plucking the bill out of your collar with his free hand and pressed it to the man’s palm. He closed the man’s fingers over them. “Cash goes in the box.”
“The hell’re you —” The man turned to get a real look at him, and got the whole of him. The hood and the wrapped hands and Pope’s uncanny stillness, and Pope watched the recognition arrive, and the bluster went out of him like the air on your sealed bags. “Pope—hey, man. No harm. No harm.”
“Sure.” Pope let go of the wrist and the guy immediately melted back into the crowd. The whole thing had taken maybe nine seconds and Pope’s pulse hadn’t even climbed, which it should’ve, but some animal thing under him had considered this easy.
“Why would you do that?” you said, voice quieting.
“He had his hands on you.” His voice came out defensive, which he hated, because it made him understand that he’d done something wrong before he could even process it. “I’m not standing here watching some creep—”
“That was Reyes,” you said, like it meant something. It didn’t, not to Pope, and your face did something between fury and despair as he realized this. “He runs paper for Leo. You just—” You pressed your lips together and looked around quickly, the same way you’d done on the stairs except this time he could see real fear attached in it. “I don’t—I don’t need people thinking a Cody’s got a thing for me,” you finished, quieter. “You don’t.”
“What if I—”
“You don’t, okay?” It came out sharper than you’d intended, and he saw how you caught it. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.” You were already looking away, gathering the cash box against your chest, busying yourself. “I really am better when people don’t worry about me, Andrew.”
You tucked a piece of hair back, gave him a quick, tired ghost of a smile that didn't reach anything, and stepped back into the crowd with your box like the last nine seconds could be put away with everything else you put away.
There was that horrible feeling tightening in his stomach again. He knew he’d done the right thing, but there was a frustration in him of being right about the wrong thing. The thing he’d done to help you had immediately become another thing for you to be frightened of, clean up, another man’s decision landing on your plate.
You’d probably spent your entire life cleaning up after other people’s choices and he’d just handed you one more.
He fought ugly and won ugly, which was somehow worse than losing altogether. The crowd got what it paid for and then some, and Pope walked out with a rib that clicked when he breathed and a cut over the eye he’d earned by leading with the right all night like the idiot you’d warned him not to be.
He collected off Leo without a word. Pope wasn’t even sure why the guy even bothered to grin and laugh and talk to him while he counted the money; Pope had said around two words to him and won him more than two grand.
He didn’t bother hearing the compliments—the fake, complimenting bit to make sure he came back—and took his roll of cash and shoved it inside his pocket and left out the back.
He went up the concrete steps, into the lot behind the building where the air was at least air instead of four hundred people breathing the same lungful.
He leaned against the cinderblock wall in the dark, in the orange wash of one working lot light, and pressed the heel of his hand under the bad rib and breathed shallow and concentrated on not being anywhere, on going behind his own eyes the way he'd watched you do it, somewhere the night couldn't reach him.
The door opened and shut carefully, and the latter action made him not need to look to know.
“You walked out without letting anybody look at that,” you said.
“I’m fine.”
“No, I can tell,” you said drily, almost amused. Your footsteps came across the lot and stopped a few feet off, not crowding him—you never crowded him—and giving him the room he hadn’t asked for and needed anyway. “I basically heard your ribs.”
He huffed something close to a laugh. It pulled at the rib and he stopped.
Your hands hovered around his body, like you were asking for permission to take a look without saying the words.
“Are you okay?” he asked, forcing the words out roughly. Because he needed to, it’d been gnawing at him for too long. “Is he hurting you?”
Your hands when still where they hovered. You took the rag instead, wet it from the bottle, and reached up to the cut over his eye as though he’d never asked the question.
“Hold still,” you said.
“That’s not—” He caught your wrist, palm loose around it, but he caught it. “I asked you something.”
In the orange light, Pope could see the smudge of your makeup, dark and worn through around your eyes, and the rings on your fingers catching the light each time your hand moved. You let him hold your wrist without pulling away, your eyes dropping to his chest like you’d decided against looking at his face.
He could feel your pulse under his thumb, thrumming. He let go of your wrist with a sigh, and you stepped back into the work, dabbing at the cut, close enough he could feel the warmth coming off you.
You said, after a moment, evenly, “Don’t try to help me.”
“Don’t try to help me.”
“I didn’t say—”
“It’s written all over your face.”
You pressed the rag a little harder than the cut needed and let you, kept his face still, watching yours. You narrowed your eyes at him when he didn’t react to the pressure, as though his stillness annoyed you. Pope didn’t know how you hadn’t realized he’d let you do anything. He’d let you press the rag as hard as you wanted and he’d sit there and take it. He’d stopped having a choice about it a while ago.
That, and the fact that your hands, so small compared to the enormity of him, were the furthest things from the worst he’d taken.
“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asked, amused despite it all.
“If I were, you’d know.” But the corner of your mouth tugged, just barely, before you caught it and put it away. You eased up on the rag. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
For a second, it felt easier between you two again. Then, you remembered yourself, and he watched as your lips pursed.
“I mean it, though,” you said. “Don’t. Whatever you’re sitting there cooking up.”
“You don’t know what I’m cooking up.”
“Andrew,” you said his name flatly, and he felt like a dog at how quickly it got his neck to tilt up to meet your eyes. You hadn’t even spoke and he was looking at you like you’d asked him a question he wanted to get correct.
“You’re not the first one to try this,” you said softly. “It always goes the same way.”
“Yeah?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell me, then.”
“Either he gets in over his head and screws up.” You wiped the last streak of blood from his brow, your hand coming to rest light against his face to hold him still. He leaned into your palm, the warmth of your hand and him moving into it like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done.
One of your rings sat cool against his cheekbone and he felt that, too, the small contrast of it, cool metal and warm palm, and he was very aware you were still talking and he was having trouble with that.
“ —or he sticks around for long enough to figure out it’s too much trouble, gets bored, and quits. He leaves, and either way I’m standing here worse than before,” you said, conversationally, and he did believe it was a tale as old as time for you.
“I won’t get bored,” he managed to say. “I’m good at what I do.”
“They all say that, too.” You smiled that sad, soft smile again.
You took your hand back off his face and he felt the loss of it like air. He was already thinking about how to get you to put it back, which was probably the most pathetic thought he’d ever had, and he’d had some bad ones.
“When do you fight next? You shouldn’t, for a while. For your ribs.”
He let you change the topic. He noticed you did that often.
“Next week, probably,” he said. “My brother’s already running his mouth about it.”
“Tell your brother your ribs are hurt.” You crouched to gather the bottle, the rag, the soft-edged tape, packing them back into the bucket.
“Where do you go? After this,” he asked.
He watched the careful machinery turn—watched you weigh whether it was a real question or a way in—and then something in you must've been too tired to keep the door shut, because you let it swing.
“Home. My mom’s,” you said. “She’s around, just—not a lot.” You gathered the bucket against your hip. “So it’s me and my brother mostly. He’s eleven.”
The whole shape of you tilted and resettled in the space of the word. Why you watched every dollar like it held something up. You weren't just keeping your own head down. You had a kid behind you, in the blind spot, where the room couldn't reach him.
“He know you’re here?” Pope asked.
“He thinks I wait tables.” The corner of your mouth went up, rueful. “Thinks I’m terrible at it. The tips are all over the place, so.” You shrugged.
Pope cleared his throat. “Are they?”
“This week, yeah,” you said.
“Do you want to?” Pope found himself asking, “Wait tables.”
You looked at him for a long moment that he almost thought you wouldn’t answer. “It’d be nice, I guess. To have steady cashflow and all that.”
“Leo pays you enough?”
You shifted the bucket against your hips. “He doesn’t really—” You stopped yourself, then started again. “The tips are what they are.”
Pope hummed. “That cover everything?”
You looked at him sideways, catching what he was doing. “Most weeks,” you said hesitantly.
“This week?”
You looked off past him, and he watched you decide whether to say it. “My brother’s shoes split,” you said finally, and it’d come out in a small voice. “Bottom’s gone right through it, so.” You shrugged, making a small face as you pinched your eyes shut, like you hated saying it.
Pope took the roll out of the jacket, thumbed off a fold of it without counting and held it out.
You looked at it, then at him. “No.”
“For the kid.”
“Andrew.”
“Take it.” He kept his hand out. “It’s shoes.”
“That’s not—” You stopped. Your jaw worked. He could see all of it going on behind your face, the pride and the rule and the thing you'd spent the last few minutes telling him. “That’s just what I told you not to do.”
“You said not to help you.” He pushed his hand further toward you. “This is shoes for a kid I never met.”
He watched your eyes rise to look at the sky and you shook your head. “You’re making this really hard.”
He tipped his chin down. “Just take it. I don’t need it.”
You took it slow, your fingers closing over his for a second before they took the bills, and you didn't say thank you—he was glad, thanking him would’ve made it a transaction—you just held on to his hand a beat longer than you needed to, and breathed out, shaky, and let it go.
“Please don’t make this a thing,” you said, voice thick. “I can’t—I can’t say no to the money. I wish I could.” You looked at the bills in your hand. “I don’t wanna take things from you.”
He felt himself shrug, eyeing the top of your head as you looked down. “I’d let you.”
He’d meant to keep that to himself. Or he hadn’t. He didn’t really care, though. The money itself was nothing; what he’d just handed you was a rounding error, less than what his brothers dropped in a single night without blinking. It was the kind of number that moved in the Cody household without anyone thinking to count it; money they’d find between the cushions from five years ago.
He had more coming in than he knew what to do with and nowhere clean to put it. You had a kid to help out with and yourself to take care of, and the situation was so simple it almost made him angry.
It became a thing without either of you calling it one. It was a thing, in Pope’s mind, obviously, but he was sure that telling you would’ve spooked you and he wasn’t ready for that.
You’d started taping him differently. Early on you’d wrapped him all brisk and businesslike, done before he’d thought of anything to say. He had to watch his words in general, but he had to try even harder with you, for he never wanted to say the wrong thing. Somewhere in those weeks, you slowed. You took longer than the wrap needed—smoothing the tape down twice when once would’ve held just fine, turning his hand over in both of yours to check the knuckles you’d already checked—and Pope started to pretend he didn’t notice.
He’d sit on the folding chair with his hand lent out to you and watch the top of your head and feel his pulse come down out of his throat, slow, the dog talked off the thing. One night, he let his thumb find the inside of your wrist while you worked, resting there against the thrum of you.
He started taking on more fights and ending them earlier. He told himself it was because of his ribs, the cash, any of the reasons a man might want a thing over with. All of it when the reason was that when the basement emptied after, it was just the two of you, and Pope had started living for the after the same way men lived for the fight.
You started watching the fights now—not the cash, him—and he knew because one night he had a bad one, a hook he missed that snapped his head around. He looked for your face before he looked for anything else, and found you already wincing.
Your hand had come up halfway to your mouth. You caught yourself and dropped it. But he’d seen it and carried it home for a week, a proof of what, he didn’t know.
Pope really, really hated asking Craig anything. He knew that he’d make him pay the toll one way or another. Sometimes by talking for forty minutes about something nobody asked about, or remembering the question to bring it up at the worst possible time. So Pope sat on it for a week; he iced the rib, didn’t fight, and drove past the ring twice without going in. He knew it was fucking pathetic.
Pope found Craig by the pool, sunburnt and shirtless and rolling something on a paper plate.
“You know the girl,” Pope started, “at the ring, the one who does the cash?”
He found that he wanted to keep your name to himself, in case Craig hadn’t already caught onto it.
“Which one?” Craig asked without looking up.
“The one that does the cash, man.”
“There’s like three girls.” He licked the paper and twisted the end. “You gotta be more specific. There’s the older chick, the mean—”
“Younger. Quiet.” Pope forced his voice to stay even. “Patches people up.”
Craig looked up at him then, a slow grin spreading. “Ohhhh.”
“Don’t.”
“No. No.” Craig held his hands up, waving them slightly, delighted. “Can’t believe you’re asking me about a girl, man.”
“Forget it.” Pope turned to go.
“Hey—hey,” Craig said, standing from the lounger. “I’m messin’ with you. C’mon. What do you wanna know about her?”
“Why’s she there?”
Craig shrugged. “Pretty sure she owes Leo.”
“She owes Leo?” Pope asked, letting the surprise show in his voice. “For what?”
“Pretty sure she’s collateral.” Craig lit the thing, talking around it. “Some guy that was around. Dad. Stepdad. Who knows?” He waved the smoke out of his face. “Pretty sure she’s just workin’ the square until it pays itself off.”
“How much?” Pope asked immediately.
Craig rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid, man.”
“Just say it.”
“I’m not his accountant,” Craig said. “And she’s not worth it. It won’t work, and I’m pretty sure she’s been working there longer than she hasn’t.”
Pope ignored that. “It’s not even hers,” he said, quietly, almost to himself. “She’s down there holding it for a guy who took off. Kid at home, no money, and she’s—”
He stopped talking once he noticed the amused and incredulous expression on Craig’s face.
Craig’s hand moved to the side, waving vaguely in confusion. “She’s got a kid?”
“It’s her brother.”
“Jesus—how much have you talked to this chick?” Craig dragged a hand down his face. “Real talk. You go pay the guy off—say you even can, say he gives you a number and it’s a real one, which it won’t be—you know what happens? He realizes Pope Cody just dropped twenty grand on a girl who pours drinks and puts bandages on people.” He spread his hands. “Best case. Best case, man. We don’t know what else the guy’s got her doing. She’s been there a long time. Girls don’t stay in places like that just counting cash.”
Pope felt his teeth grind. “She counts cash and she patches people up,” he said, tipping his chin down slightly to pin Craig with a glare. “That’s what she does.”
Craig looked at him for a moment and shrugged. “Alright, man.”
“And even if she—she doesn’t just do that. It doesn’t—”
Pope’s jaw worked, and he had to look away from Craig. He had no words for it. It didn’t matter what you did in the basement, what Leo had you doing or what Craig was implying. You were still you, and Pope knew that.
If the situation was larger, then Pope saw it as more of a reason to get you out, not less. That was the thing Craig wouldn’t understand.
“It doesn’t change anything. For me,” Pope said flatly. “She shouldn’t be there, that’s all.”
Craig’s lips opened like he wanted to say something, then caught the look on Pope’s face, and said, “Yeah, man. She probably shouldn’t.”
He’d hoped that Craig would never have to meet you, at least not in the way he did.
It happened on a night Craig hadn’t wanted him there at all. Craig had come for the first few of Pope’s fight, and realized he actually didn’t have to see his older brother take down a man twice to know the money was good. He could simply hand over the bet and go do anything else with his night. So most weeks, he dropped his cash with people and disappeared upstairs and reappeared only to collect.
This week, he hung around the edge of the ring, three beers in, restless, and that was how he was standing right there when Pope took a cut over the cheekbone bad enough you came down to the corner with your supplies before the round was properly called.
Craig noticed it. The dumb piece of shit. One second Pope had your hands on his face, turned away from the crowd so nobody would notice your closeness, and the next he could feel the exact attention of his brother sharpening as he moved down to catch the interaction.
You were too deep in the work to notice Craig, lips pressed flat, that furrow between your brows, going fast because the round was coming. “This one’s gonna scar if you keep splitting it open,” you murmured, tipping his head toward the light. “You’re doing it on purpose at this point. You’re gonna ruin this face.”
“What do you think about this face?” Pope said before he could think the words through.
You rolled your eyes, lifting a hand off his face just to smack his shoulder lightly before it went right back to the cut.
“You talk too much when you’re losing blood,” you lied, but the corner of your mouth had gone soft. “Hold still.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“You’re fishing.” You pressed the butterfly closed over his cheekbone, your thumb lingering there a half-second past the job, warm against his face, and you dropped your voice even though there was nobody close enough to hear. “Ask me again when you’re not bleeding on me and I’ll think about it.”
He felt his mouth want to move closer to yours then, and he tamped down the urge. But he must’ve let something through because when his eyes flicked up over your shoulder, there was Craig, beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten.
You followed his eyes, found Craig, and Craig found you. Your hand came off his face and your spine went straight. “You know him?” you asked, quietly, gathering your bottle and tape as you stepped back to a safe distance.
Pope caught your wrist. “My brother. He’s nobody. He’s dumb.”
Your eyes went over the crowd that was distracted. “You tell him anything?”
“There somethin’ to say?” he asked, raising a brow that made him wince.
You gave him a flat look, unimpressed by the deflection. “Don’t try to be cute.”
Pope generally blamed his anger on a rage that had been planted in him from a tender age. Smurf had put it there the way you put a seed in dirt—patient, deliberate, knowing exactly what it’d grow into—and then spent thirty years acting surprised at the sheer size of it. He never thought about it. Thinking about it wouldn’t beat it away. It was just there—low and perpetual—like a pilot light he’d learned to turn down because the alternative was what happened in the ring when he forgot to.
He forgot to that night. It had nothing to do with the guy across from him. The guy was a nobody—some gym rat Leo had matched him with, all shoulders and bad footwork—and Pope would, on any other day, put him down clean in two rounds because there was no reason to make it ugly. But Pope had spent a week with a number he didn’t own and a plan he couldn’t run with yours and Craig’s voice saying ‘don’t.’ The whole impossibility of you had stacked up in his sternum with nowhere to go, and when the guy clipped him, caught him good across the mouth first, something in Pope just opened the valve.
He didn’t remember most of it after, and that was how he knew it was bad. The parts that came back later were wrong-angled and too bright (the kid’s head snapping, the wet sound, the way the crowd’s noise changed, going from hungry to something quieter, pulled back). Crowds like this roared throughout all of it unless they were watching a man go somewhere they wanted to stay back from.
Somebody got between them. There were hands on his chest and a referee he had no idea even existed shouting something and the guy on the concrete not getting up the way he was supposed to. Pope was standing over it with his chest heaving and knuckles split open through the wrap and no memory of the ninety seconds at all.
The crowd parted for him when he started walking and that should’ve told him something, the way grown men stepped out of his way. He'd looked for you on the way through.
He'd looked for you the way he always did, automatically, and he'd found you at the edge of the cash table with the box held up against your chest, and you'd been looking right back at him.
Pope was distantly and too closely—both at the same time, two things too large for him—able to register you hadn’t looked at him the way you usually did.
You'd looked at him the way the crowd had. You’d gone still and careful, your eyes wide and fixed on him like he was the thing in the room, the dangerous thing, and you'd held that box to your chest like it could go between you and him. Just for a second. Just one. Then you'd caught yourself and your face had closed over it, gone professional.
He went upstairs, and into the gap behind the stairs where there was a cot and a mop sink. It smelled like bleach. He put his head against the cinderblock and slid down it to the floor and tried to get his breathing under whatever was happening in his chest.
Pope let himself sit on the floor with his hands ruined, the pilot light still guttering too high, and he let the worst story about himself tell itself all the way through. You’d finally seen the actual thing. You’d patched him up and made jokes and told him things about yourself, and then you had to watch him nearly kill somebody over nothing, and now you knew. Now you looked at him the way everybody did, just the way his mother had intended.
He heard the door open, and he had to shake his head even though he wasn’t sure you could see it.
“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked. “You don’t have to help me or anything. Go help the guy.”
“Andrew—”
“I mean it.” His hands hung between his knees, split and shaking, and he kept his eyes on them. “Go check on him. I don’t—I don’t need it.”
He heard the door shut behind you, and then your footsteps came across the little room. “He’s up,” you said. “He’s fine. He’s got people. Concussed, probably, but he’ll be fine.” You paused, then added, “I came back here for you.”
That made his chest pull tighter. “Shouldn’t have.”
You set the bucket down by his feet, and then you were crouching in front of him, and he could see the toes of those wrong gray shoes in the edge of his vision and still couldn't make himself look higher. “Can I have your hands?”
“No.”
“They’re split to the bone. Andrew, give ‘em here.”
He didn’t. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he sat there, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you scared of me?”
You stayed silent for a second, and he felt his chest seize. Then, he felt your hand—cold to the touch—against his face, turning it gently so he’d look at you. He kept his eyes trained to the ground.
“Look at me,” you said quietly. When he refused again, your thumb slid against his cheekbone. “I’m not.”
When he said nothing, you continued, “You scared me a little out there. But look at you, you’re hiding behind the stairs. C’mon. Scariest man alive.”
He huffed and let his eyes come up anyway, finally, and you were just looking at him. “You mean that?”
Your bottom lip pushed the top, and you looked at him as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I mean it.”
The plainness of the words got him. You said that as though it cost you nothing to mean it when it was the most expensive thing anyone had handed him in years. You had no idea the things he’d done so many times they stopped feeling like anything at all. You’d seen one bad night. And he wanted to tell you that maybe you should have been scared.
He kept his mouth shut. He looked at you looking at him and decided, quietly and completely, that he was going to spend whatever time he had making sure you never had a reason to find out you were wrong.
You were close. You’d been close the entire time, crouched between his knees with your hand cold on his face, and he’d been waiting for you to flinch that he hadn’t realized how close you were.
He felt it now. Like always, he didn’t decide. The same broken wiring in him was pointing somewhere new, because one second he was looking at your mouth and the next his hand had come up, ruined knuckles and all, and curved around the back of your neck.
He stopped a breath short to give you an inch, some last careful piece left in him left it up to you, hung there close enough that he could feel your breath go uneven, waiting to see if you’d close it.
You did, soft, slower than he’d expected. He’d always been waiting for quickness and hardness, things that got over with, and instead your mouth settled against his and stayed. Your hand came up light along his jaw, and the split in his lip stung but he didn’t move away from it. He was sure he couldn’t have this without paying for it.
His hand was still at the back of your neck, knuckles wrecked, and he held you there carefully, just keeping you close. His thumb moved once behind your ear. You made a small sound against his mouth and he felt it more than heard it, felt it go down through his chest.
Your fingers curling at the collar of his shirt, your breath warm and uneven against his cheek between kisses.
His rib ached when he leaned into you. He leaned in anyway. He could feel the warmth of you all down his front, your weight tipped against his knees, your other hand finding his ruined one where it sat between you and holding it.
It felt like such a stark difference to how you usually held his hand, to clean it, Pope distantly thought.
You broke off to breathe, but neither of you went far. Your forehead hovered over his, and your breath stayed uneven against his mouth. He let his hands hesitantly drift down to your waist, letting his palms run over the shape of you.
You let them, your waist, the dip of it, the warmth coming up through your shirt, and you watched him do it with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“Do you like this?” Pope asked, hesitance creeping into his voice despite how hard he tried to push it out. He hated how it came out, like he had no trust in himself. But he had to know—had to hear it—because he’d just spent too long thinking you’d seen the worst of him, and now you were warm in his hands and he couldn’t quite square the two.
Your mouth curved, soft, and you tipped your forehead down against his.
“Yeah, Andrew,” you said, like it was obvious. “I like it.”
Your thumb moved along his cheekbone, and he let his lashes flutter slightly at the feel of your skin against so many parts of him all at once.
“Been liking you a while,” you added, lower, a little dry, a little shy. “If you wanna know.”
Pope’s hand tightened at your waist. “How long?”
“Not saying,” you said, smiling when you kissed him again, and he felt it against his mouth, and that was better than the answer would've been anyway.
He kissed you slow at first and then not slow, his hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other still spread wide and certain at your hip.
You shifted down into him and he broke off with a rough breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his grip going tight to hold you still.
“Hang on,” he managed to say, low against your collarbone. All the wanting you stacked up behind his ribs with nowhere left to go, and you were so warm and so real on his lap, and he was trying not to be what he always was, too much, too fast.
“We don’t have to—” you started.
“I know,” he said, voice rough. He lifted his head to look at you. “I wanna. I just—” He pushed his lips around, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want you doing anything back here. In this building.” His thumb moved at your hip. “You’re better than this place.”
Your hands pressed against his chest, and he registered the smallness of them against his broad frame, and you pulled yourself back slightly and let out a staggered breath. For a second, you looked at him. Stunned, almost, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere familiar, like nobody’d ever told you that before. He watched it cross your face quickly.
One of your hands left his chest and slid up, slid back, fingers pushing slow into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your nails digging light against his scalp. Your fingers worked through his hair and curled at the base of it, and the newness of the touch—the pure uselessness of it, a touch that wasn’t for anything—went through him like a current.
It got a low and rough sound out of him and his eyes slid shut. His face went hot at the helplessness of it, a man his size coming apart under fingers in his hair, but he couldn't stop it and he didn't pull away. He pressed back into your hand instead, into the slow drag of your nails, chasing it.
“So are you,” you said quietly after a moment.
He fluttered his eyes open halfway.
“Better than this place,” you clarified.
Pope’s mouth twitched, wanting to tell you he wasn’t. He wanted to tell you every single bad thing he’d ever done. He wanted to lay all of it down between you so you'd see he didn't belong anywhere clean, least of all up against you, you who had never chosen to work in this shithole, you who’d probably never hurt a goddamn fly.
The words stayed sealed, because he had a feeling you’d hand them all back if he tried.
“Come on,” he said instead. He shifted under you, wanting to ease into the position while having to force himself to move. “Get your stuff and clock out. I’ll drive you.”
You blinked. “Where?”
He let out a short-lived laugh. “Wherever you want to go.”
You looked at him like he’d just done a trick. “I have to be home,” you said slowly. “My brother waits up.”
“Alright.” Pope eased you off his lap, and got a hand against the cinderblock. “So I’ll take you home.”
“You don’t have to—” You were saying from the ground.
“C’mon.”
He held a hand out to you, then you took it and let him pull you up.
Pope was uncomfortable about everything. His entire life, he’d been uncomfortable, whether it was in his own skin, in his house, in rooms full of people. So it came as no surprise when he had no fucking clue what to do with you. He hadn’t thought this far; he’d wanted to get you the hell out, not get you. And now you were here—or as here as you could’ve been—and he didn’t have the next part. Nobody had ever handed him a good thing and let him keep it. He kept waiting for the catch, turning his pockets out for the cost of it, and the cost wasn’t coming. And that was uncomfortable, waiting for a hit that never landed.
So he did the only thing he thought he could’ve done, which was keep it quiet and keep it close.
The cab of his truck. The back room after the basement emptied. Your mouth on his, his hands learning you slow, because he wanted to—Pope wanted to learn you the way other men wanted to win. It was the only ambition he’d ever had that belonged all to him. He wanted the map of you. He wanted to remember the exact spot in your ear that made your breath catch, that he’d found once on accident and gone back to like a man returning to the one warm room in a house that was freezing. The way you said his name, the real one—Andrew—that fit in nobody else’s mouth but yours.
Pope had to be clear with himself about the fact that it was nothing like a life, even in his own head, because hoping for more than the thing in front of him was how you got hurt.
When the basement ran late and your house was a long quiet drive, sometimes you’d let him take you back to his place instead, and you’d sleep there. You would actually sleep, hard and deep, in a way you’d once told him you couldn’t at your own home.
He watched you sleep. He knew it was a strange thing to do but he did it anyway; propped on an elbow in the gray lights off the blinds, because it was the only time your face went all soft. Awake, even with him, you kept some of it back, the watching, the careful, the part of you that—like him—was always waiting for the next bad thing.
Asleep, you let it all go. You looked younger, and Pope thought this was how you would’ve looked all the time had the world dealt you a different house.
He must’ve shifted, or his breathing must’ve changed, because your eyes cracked open. You found him in the dark, found him watching you, and your mouth curved, slow and sleep-heavy.
“Creep,” you mumbled into the pillow.
“Yeah,” Pope said in a whisper.
You shifted toward him, unhurried, still half in sleep, and your hand came up to his jaw as your fingers traced the line of it.
“You don’t sleep,” you murmured. You’d noticed it weeks ago.
“No.”
“C’mere, then,” you said, rough, tugging lightly at his jaw, and he came.
He kissed you slow.
He always started slow—it was the only speed he trusted himself at—and you let him have it slow for a minute, warm and half-asleep against his mouth. Then you weren’t half-asleep anymore, he felt the change in you as your hand slid back into his hair and curled and pulled. The sound that the pull had dragged out of him was embarrassing.
“Quiet,” you breathed against his mouth, throwing his own word back at him—I can be quiet, he’d said once—and he huffed a rough laugh into the crook of your neck and got a hand spread wide and certain against the small of your back to pull you flush against him.
Your leg hooked over his and your breath went uneven against his ear, and Pope allowed himself to stop thinking.
He dragged his mouth down your throat, slow, to the soft place that made your breath catch, the spot he'd mapped weeks ago and gone back to since like the one warm room in a freezing house. Got there. He felt you go boneless and then not boneless, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips shifting against his, and he made a low sound into your skin and pressed you down into the mattress with the careful weight of him.
“Andrew,” you said, rough against his collarbone.
“Yes?” He lifted his head to look at you, and found you already looking at him.
Your hair was loose around your face and your lips were swollen and your eyes were dark. Pope felt a sort of satisfaction he’d never felt before knowing he’d done that, that you’d come to his bed neat and composed and he’d taken you apart this much already.
Your hand still in his hair tugged him down to your ear. “Take my shirt off.”
He went still for a second, eyes closing at the words, then he regained himself and pulled back enough to look at you.
You lifted your arms. He got it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then he just stopped, brain short-circuiting as his body immediately reacted, shifting underneath you. His hand came up and hovered over your bare waist, not quite touching, just close. Deciding where to start.
His hand settled finally, warm and certain against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured.
You let out a soft breath, and he let his thumb move, again, slow, up and he rubbed over the swell of your breasts through the bra, watching your face with his whole attention.
He pushed himself up onto one elbow to get a better look at you and you let him, lying there with your hair spread out and your eyes on his face. He took his time, and he could tell it made you want to squirm, and his free hand settled on your hip, holding you still.
“Come here,” you said softly, reaching for him.
“In a minute.” His thumb traced the underwire of your bra, following the curve of it. His eyes followed his own hand and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was concentrating.
“Andrew.”
“Give me a minute.” His mouth came down on your sternum and pressed there, warm, just breathing for a second, his hand still moving over your ribs, your waist, the dip of it. His lips moved to the curve of your breast, the soft skin at the edge of the fabric, and you felt his breath go unsteady against you.
“Can I—” he started.
“Yes.”
He reached around you, unclipped it with one hand—slightly clumsy, which was so unlike him—and drew it off you slowly, and then he just stopped again, forgetting how to move when he looked at you.
His mouth found you properly then, warm and slow, and you let your head tip back and your hand tighten in his hair and he made a low sound against you.
He worked his way back up to your throat, your jaw, found your mouth again, and kissed you slow until your hands were pulling at him and your hips were shifting and you’d stopped being patient entirely.
You pressed at his chest. He went, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, and you sat up over him in the gray light and watched his face as you settled your weight down against him, and his hands went to your thighs and gripped and his eyes went briefly shut.
You leaned down and kissed him once, soft. Then his jaw, his throat, the way he'd done to you, finding the places that changed his breathing.
His hands moved up your back, down again, restless, unable to settle. You felt him swallow when your mouth reached his collarbone.
You moved lower. His stomach tightened under your mouth and his hand came up to your hair, resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything when he was trying to hold himself back. You looked up at him from where you were and found him already looking down at you, jaw tight, throat working.
“Are you—”
“Mhm.”
You got his briefs off and he lifted his hips to help you without being asked, which made you press your lips together against a smile. You settled between his thighs and took him inside your hand first, and he let out a shaky, breathless sound as your fingers tightened around his length, small fingers tugging slightly.
You shifted down, and pressed your lips to the inside of his thigh first, just to feel him react, Pope understood. His whole leg went rigid under your lips. You stayed there a moment, and his fingers curled in your hair out of impatience he wasn’t proud of at all.
“C’mon, hey—”
You did it again, the other side, taking your time, and heard him exhale hard through his nose.
Then, you started from the bottom, tongue gliding over him, base to tip, and Pope’s jaw dropped open and stopped pretending he wanted any sort of control in this situation.
His hands fisted in your hair. Not pushing—he wasn’t going to do that—but holding on, because he really, really needed something to hold onto and you were it, you were all of it, had been all of it for months, and now you had your mouth on him and your small hand wrapped around the base of him while looking through your lashes at him like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—you absolutely did—and he wanted to do nothing about it except lie there and take it.
You took him into your mouth properly and his hips came off the mattress before he caught them, hand pressing down against his own stomach, jaw locked.
“Christ—” It came out mangled, just sound.
You set a pace that was sure to kill him, so deliberate with everything and focused attention on him entirely, and he had the distant thought that he’d never been on the receiving end of attention like this. His thighs tensed around you and his free hand found the sheets.
You pulled off just enough to say ‘don’t’ when his forearm moved toward his face, and he dropped it back, exposed, staring at the ceiling, throat working. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t, and he felt his vision go slightly sideways, hand in your hair tightening involuntarily, fingers curling against your scalp.
“Let me—” He stopped when he noticed how wrecked he sounded, barely his own voice. His grip tugged you up. “Can you—Can I—”
He stumbled over the words, but you still moved up.
You settled over him, knees either sides of his hips, and he got his hands on your waist immediately. His chest was heaving and he was sure he looked completely undone.
“Can I—” he tried again. His thumb moved against your hip, pleadingly. “I need to—” He tried again. “Will you—”
You looked down at him. “Are you asking me something?”
“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Trying to.”
“So ask.”
He took in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Can I be inside you?”
You held his eyes a second. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah.”
The sound he let out at that was quiet and involuntary and you felt it in your sternum. His eyes closed for just a second, like he needed that, you saying it had done something to him before anything had even happened yet.
You reached between you and his breath caught audibly, hands tightening on your hips, feeling it happen, needing to feel it happen somewhere in his palms.
You sank down onto him slow and his head went back and his throat worked and his hands on your hips pulled you down the last inch with a low, helpless sound that he clearly hadn't planned on making.
He’d never felt this way before, so all-encompassed. You were so warm and close in way the months of wanting had never prepared him for, your hands braced on his chest, your weight settled on his lap, and he could feel your pulse where you were joined and his own pulse and everywhere else.
He stayed there a second, both hands spread wide on your hips, breathing.
“You okay?” you asked, quiet.
“One second.”
You gave him the second. He sat up after that, and his arm banded around your waist and pulled you flush against him and that made you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his neck.
He was so much bigger than you like this, your knees hardly finding the mattress either side of him, and he held you there, mouth finding your throat.
“Do you like this?” he asked into your skin.
“Yes—yeah,” you said, slightly breathless.
He bit down lightly at your pulse point, just enough, and your nails raked down his back in response, and the sound that got out of him was dark and satisfied, his hips rolling up into you slow and deliberate.
His hips set a pace after that, one hand spread flat against your lower back holding you exactly where he wanted you, the other gripping your hip, guiding you down to meet each roll of his hips. You could feel everything. He made sure of it, and he knew by the way your walls clamped down on him.
“Andrew—”
“Feels so good,” he said through a groan, mouth set on your throat. “You feel so good.”
Your nails found his back again and he groaned into your neck and his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm for just a second before he found it again, deeper this time, and you made a sound against his shoulder that you felt him collect, felt him file away, his arm tightening around you in response.
“That good?” he murmured.
“It’s—” you started, breath catching.
“Yeah?” His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, adjusting the angle, pressing you down onto him, and whatever you'd been trying to say dissolved entirely into something that wasn't words at all. “There?”
“Jesus, Andrew—” you said, a punch in your words as he pushed you down onto him. “Where’d you learn this?”
He pulled back to look at your face, and the look on his was almost amused, almost, underneath all the want. “Just wanna make you feel good,” he said, “with me.”
Your hands coming up to his face without deciding to, cupping his jaw, and he turned into it immediately, that same helpless lean he always did when you put your hands on his face, like he couldn't help it, like you'd found the one soft spot in him nobody else had ever found.
You kissed him then, different from the others — slower, more deliberate, saying something you didn't have words for yet, and he kissed you back the same way, his pace going slow and deep and unhurried, like the night had gotten longer suddenly, like neither of you were going anywhere.
His forehead dropped to yours when you broke off, both of you breathing uneven, his hand moving up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, just feeling you.
“You with me?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”
His hand pressed you further into him, like there was any space. “Promise me.”
It came out rougher than he meant, needier than he'd have liked, and he felt it land between you in the dark and couldn't take it back and didn't try.
You looked up at him. Whatever you found in his face made yours go soft. “Promise,” you said.
He exhaled against your mouth and his hips rolled forward and you made a small sound and your hands slid up into his hair, pulling, and whatever had gone tender between you tipped back into heat, his pace picking up, deeper now, one hand gripping the headboard above you and the other finding your hip, holding you where he wanted you.
Pope had come to the basement earlier, before his fight. He had no good reason for it—the fight was in an hour, the place was half-empty, the crowd still trickling in—but he’d gotten restless at the apartment and figured he’d find you early, steal a few minutes before the room filled up.
He came down the concrete stairs and heard Leo’s voice before he saw anything, and the sound of it stopped Pope three steps from the bottom. Pope had never once in his life heard the guy yell, lose control, and the voice coming up was low and almost patient, like you’d talk to a child or a dog.
“ —count it again,” Leo was saying. “‘Cause I counted it, and I’m coming up short. That’s a problem, you know that, right?”
“I counted it three times,” you said, your voice flat and so, so careful it gnawed at him. “It’s all here. I swear, it’s all—”
“Don’t swear to me, sweetheart. Count.”
Pope came down the last steps quiet. You were at the cash table with the box open in front of you and your hands unsteady on the bills. Leo was standing close to you, like that was the point—looming, using the size of himself—as he crowded you back against the table. He was making you do the math all out in a flat, dead voice, your shoulders up around your ears, and Pope watched you flinch when Leo shifted his weight even though the guy hadn’t done anything.
“You’re light,” Leo said, soft. “You’re light and you’re trying to swear. You know what happens to my count when one of my girls gets light.” He let his words hang, tilting his head. “It comes out of the square. Adds to it. You’re going backwards, sweetheart, after all this time. Going the wrong direction.”
Leo reached and took your jaw in his hand—almost gently, tipping your face up out of the count—and your body went still, and that was the second you saw Pope behind Leo’s shoulder.
“Don’t touch her,” Pope said, without thinking about it.
Leo turned, unhurried, his hand still loose at your jaw before he let it drop, on his own time. He was making a point of it, Pope realized. “It’s off.” He spread the hand, easy, showing him. “See? We’re just talking. Business.”
Then, he turned to look at you, chin tipping down. “You really messing around with this guy? I thought it was just people making shit up.”
“People talk—” you started to say.
“You were just waitin’ around for some rich guy to come along?” He looked at you, shaking his head. “That it?” Then, he turned to Pope. “She could’ve gotten out a lot earlier—you know that right?” He shook his head, like he was disappointed. “Could’ve taken the back room, cut the number down to nothing in a couple months. Easy. Plenty of guys asking. But no, she just wanted to do it the long way.” He tipped his chin at Pope, lazy. “—And then go and give it away to you. For free.”
Pope’s pulse should’ve been climbing. It had gone flat and slow and cold. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” He asked, almost fond. “You gonna—”
The gun was out before he decided to pull it. His hand went to the small of his back and came around and then the thing was there, level, steady, muzzle a few inches off Leo’s forehead.
The guy stopped smiling. He didn’t flinch—Pope gave him that—but he went very slow, very careful, his hands drifting up off his sides. His palms were loose and open.
“Okay,” Leo said, quiet now. “Okay. Easy.”
“Are you kidding me?” Pope muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t have a damn gun on you?”
“I don’t need a gun in my own place,” he said through gritted teeth. His eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to the muzzle. “You wanna put that down before you get stupid over nothing?”
He’d half-hoped that Leo would’ve been carrying, show any sign that he felt afraid. “Her number. Say it.”
“That’s not—” He huffed, almost a laugh, disbelieving. “That’s not how—there’s a process to this, there’s people I gotta answer to.”
Pope’s lips flattened, eyes flicking to the ceiling, annoyed. “You know I’ll do it, man. I don’t care enough not to.”
Leo’s smile dropped then. “Half the room’s had their hands on her, you know that? She’s not somebody’s girlfriend, man. The second she doesn’t need either of us, she’s not looking back at you any more than she’s looking back at me.”
Pope let out a short chuckle. “Now you’re getting whatever I’ve got in my pocket or I’m shooting. Your call.”
“You’re making a mistake,” the guy said, his last call, Pope realized. “You can’t pull a gun on me and —”
“That’s tomorrow’s problem.” Pope’s hand stayed still. “Right now, you take the money, she’s square, she walks.” His head tipped, slight. “Say yes, man. You’re a smart guy. Say yes.” Pope nudged the gun slightly further into his head. He leaned his head closer to the guy’s ear, voice dropping into a register that would’ve been too low for you to hear. “I’ve put people down for less than this. You know that.”
Leo took a beat. “Fine.” The word came out flat, bitten-off. “Fine. The money. She’s square. Get it out slow, I don’t want your fucking hand movin’ fast near me.”
Pope reached into his jacket with his off hand—the gun never leaving Leo's face—and pulled the roll, the whole fight roll, thick and rubber-banded, and tossed it onto the table by the box. It landed heavy. Leo didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Pope, and his hands stayed up, and the deal sat there in the dead air between them, made.
Leo looked at it, and a long moment passed. He let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. “That’s it?”
“You should’ve said yes the first time. You knew I was good for it,” Pope said. “Say it,” he added. “She’s good. Tell her so she hears it.”
“You’re square,” he said to you, the words ugly. “You don’t owe me shit. Don’t come back.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Either of you.”
Pope held the gun where it was a beat longer than he had to—long enough to make it clear the leaving was his idea, not Leo's permission—and then he lowered it, slow, and stepped back, and reached out without looking and found your wrist.
“Let’s go,” Pope said roughly to you.
You didn’t move at first. He had to tug your forearm once, and then you came, stumbling off the spot you’d been rooted to, and he put himself between you and Leo and walked you up the concrete stairs and out the side door into the lot, into the air that was finally air, with the gun cooling against his back and your pulse hammering under his fingers where he still had your wrist.
Pope let out a shaky breath as he tipped his neck back to look at the sky. He’d assumed that one day, he would’ve figured it out, how to help you—it would have been cleaner, probably, and wouldn’t have happened right in front of you—and he hadn’t thought it’d be fucking today.
He still had your wrist. He made himself let it go, and turned to look at you. You were looking at nothing, at the chain-link past the lot, your arms coming to wrap around yourself, holding your elbows.
“Get in the car,” he said to you.
You stayed still.
Pope shook his head once, pressing his lips together. He nodded at the truck. “C’mon. Just get in the truck.”
You stayed rooted there in the orange light, arms folded over yourself, shaking your head faintly—not at him, not a no exactly, just somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't reach you. He felt the impatience climb in him, the adrenaline still draining, the gun still warm against his back and the tomorrow-problem already stacking up behind his ribs, and it came out rougher than he meant.
“Just—get in the damn car.” He dragged his palm down his face and exhaled.
You went around to the passenger side and shut the door. He got in beside you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. He pulled out the lot and drove the way he always did with you, to his apartment. You sat against the window with your knees pulled up and your arms still around yourself, and he kept glancing over, waiting for it, the thing he could feel build up.
“You mad at me?” he asked, the words coming out choked, almost like he was forcing them out.
You took in a breath and looked out the window. “Are you gonna be fine?”
He snorted. “Yeah. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m safe.”
You nodded, even though he could tell you didn’t believe it. He wanted to tell you that he was probably the most safe guy in Oceanside, part of a family that would make sure nothing happened to anyone in it, even if they all may hate each other deep down.
“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you said a moment later. “I wanted to do it myself.”
Pope knew what you meant, but he wanted you to talk more, just so he could justify it. “Yeah?”
“I was gonna work it down to nothing,” you continued. “And one day it’d just be done, and I’d—walk out. And it’d be cause I did it. Me. The one thing that was gonna be mine.”
“You weren’t getting out.” When you snapped your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, he forced to keep himself looking at the road. “I’m sorry, but you were never getting out. Don’t be dumb. I know you wanted to.”
“Don’t call me dumb.”
“Then don’t be.” He shook his head. “You’re paying off a debt that’s not even yours when you could be—what? Working anywhere that gives you an actual paycheck. He wasn’t gonna let you have that. There’s no fucking contract making sure he lets you out.”
You looked back at the window, jaw tight. “I didn’t want you buying me,” you said quietly. “That’s exactly the thing I didn’t want. Now I’m—I don’t want to owe you, Andrew. I like you.”
“You don’t owe me,” he said, voice rough, trying to ignore what the words did to his chest.
“That’s not how—”
“It’s how it works with me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t buy you. Don’t say shit like that. I bought you out.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “There’s nothing you owe me.”
“I wanted it to be clean,” you said, and Pope almost wanted to shut you up. “Us. I wanted to get out and just be—someone you liked. Not somebody you had to save or something like that.”
“Well, that’s too bad, then,” he rasped. “You can come with me. You can go wherever you want. You’re out, you can choose.” He killed the engine as the car reached his apartment. “You are someone I like already. I never liked who you had to be, but I like you—this, whatever it is. Alright?”
A part of Pope knew he shouldn’t have taken the job. Robberies were always a mess, but Baz had a fondness for them. And Baz had a kid and a whole life balanced on not going inside, and Pope had a girl who he wasn’t even sure was his girl, and no good reason in the world to be holding the bag when it went wrong.
So now there was a phone bolted to a cinderblock wall and a line of men behind him and a number he’d memorized. Thank God he’d memorized.
It rang twice.
“Hello?”
The sound of your voice did something itchy to his sternum. He’d last heard it three weeks ago, before the job, when you’d been half-asleep against his shoulder in the truck outside your place. You’d told him to call you when he got home.
“Andrew?” you asked immediately, like just an exhalation of his breath, you could recognize. “You’re in jail?”
He forced out a dry chuckle, because the opposite would’ve gotten him kicked. “Folsom County.”
“Jesus—why?”
“Robbery. It was a—a family thing—” He kept it short. The line was recorded; half of what he wanted to say, he couldn’t, and the other half, he wouldn’t. Especially not to you, not like this, with a guard at his back and a clock ticking somewhere.
“Can I visit you?” you asked immediately. The hope in your words tightened something in his chest so hard he had to close his eyes to loosen it even a fraction. “How long are you in there for?”
“No—don’t. Hey, listen,” he said, voice shaking and he hated it. “You—you gotta be safe, okay? If anything happens, I need you to look for—”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t take care of you from here,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need to make sure you’ll be okay.”
“How long are you in for?” you asked, weary, like you’d read somewhere between the lines and realized that you were going to hate the answer.
“Six years,” he said, letting out another sigh. Then, because he couldn’t help himself when he heard you go silent on the other end, he said, “I’m sorry.” He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that did anything.
“Fuck—fuck, Andrew. Six years—?” you said, voice so sharp he could feel it cut through him. He heard you breath, trying to collect yourself. “Okay. Okay—I can come there, to you. Visit you and stuff, alright?”
“You’re not living the next six years meeting me behind a glass, alright?”
“I don’t care about that.”
“I do.” It came out rougher than he’d intended. He pressed his forehead to the cold block, eyes shut as his free hand came up to tug at his hair. The line of men and the guards and the whole gray space fell away from him for a second, and it was just your voice in his ear and him trying, failing, to do one right thing for you. “You just got out—I’m not putting you back in. You got out, and you—you can do whatever you want.”
“I don’t want it without you,” you said, voice breaking clean down the middle, and it about took him out at the knees, standing there in his county blues with a telephone crushed to his ear.
“You’re not thinking right,” he said, trying to get the words out slowly, like saying it that way would make you believe them. “You’re not waiting for me for six years. You know how long that is?”
Pope was at a loss in this; he’d never had to push someone away before. Every person he’d needed gone, before he even knew he did, he’d made himself ugly enough to push it out. He didn’t have the ugly to use on you; he’d used up every bad thing in front of you already and you’d stayed anyway, and now he had nothing left to drive you away with except the truth, which was that Pope loved you too much to let you do this to yourself.
He couldn’t say that either because maybe then you’d really never leave.
You only breathed on the other end, and he could hear the hitch of your voice when you started to try saying something, then stopped.
“I won’t like it,” he said, quieter now, “if you wait for me.”
It was a lie and you both heard it. He didn’t try to sell it harder and let it sit there, all wrong, and moved on before you could call him out from it, because he had something he needed you to have more than he needed to win the argument.
“Listen,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You got something to write with? Or open something on your phone to get it.”
“Andrew—”
“Please.”
Something in his voice must’ve reached you, because he heard you shift.
“Okay,” you said, voice thick. “Okay.”
He recited the number, slow and twice, so you’d have it right. “That’s Baz. Alright? Barry Blackwell—write that down, too. My brother.” His teeth gritted. “You don’t ever have to call it, but you keep it. And if anything ever—” His jaw worked, and he pinched his eyes shut at the horrible thoughts. “If money gets tight or if people come sniffing around even though they shouldn’t. If you get caught up in anything—somebody gives you trouble, or anything, the car dies, whatever it is. You call him. You say you’re mine, say Pope said to call. He’ll help.”
“I don’t want your brother to—”
He didn’t want his brother to, either. Baz had a bad track record with people Pope considered his, people Pope loved. He pressed his molars together at the thought of Baz with you, of all people. Despite how much love he held for his brother, he didn’t like the thought. Six years was a long, long time.
Six years was long enough to forget a voice, long enough for the thing you’d been holding in your hands to shift without noticing, long enough for a warm and present man to become more real than a memory behind a glass. Baz wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine Baz ever meeting you and not seeing what Pope loved about you, what everyone could love about you.
“It’s the only way I can do anything for you,” he said quickly, making sure you’d understand. “It’ll make me happy.”
He heard you choke slightly on the other end. “Can you call me, then? If I can’t visit you.”
He wanted to say yes. It would've cost him nothing in the moment and it would've ruined you slow, six years of you living from phone call to phone call, your whole life arranged around fifteen minutes of a recorded line, waiting on a man in a cage. And he knew he’d rightfully deserved to be caged. He’d seen what waiting did to you. He’d pulled a gun to get you out from under exactly that.
“No,” he said. “You stay out. You got out. Stay out of all of it, including me.”
And a part of him believed he was doing you a favor, despite it all. He’d never quite gotten you all the way like he’d wanted—merged your life into his and his yours—and maybe that was for the better. As long as you were wrapped up with him, you would’ve been wrapped up with his family, the jobs, the heists, the next county lockup waiting for him somewhere down the line.
Your little brother deserved a sister who could come home clean, someone who didn’t have a Cody-shaped problem following her through the door. He’d been told he was the worst of them; he was built up for a purpose and it wasn’t the kind of thing you brought home. Pope cared about you enough to know that; it was hard not to realize it, standing in prison.
He heard you say a jumble of words in one breath, and he couldn’t quite catch any over the ringing in his own ears. The guard said he had sixty seconds left.
“I’d do it again, I swear,” he said, fast, before your voice cut off. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—it was short.”
Your breath stopped for a second, then you asked, forcing an even voice, “How will I know you’re okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I got people watching my back, I swear.”
“Please, just—”
“Bye,” he said, forcing his voice gentle. “Take care of yourself, okay? And the kid.”
The sound you made—wet and broken, landing like a wound he’d probably carry for six years—was the last of you he let himself take. He set the receiver down slow, like slow made it kinder, before you could say his name again. Because he never would've managed it if you'd said his name again.
Summary: Jack takes your virginity (that's it, that's the story)
Tags: afab reader, virgin!reader (but NOT innocent), oral sex (f! receiving), penetrative sex, age gap, sfot!jack
A/N: Soooo this originally WAS going to be a Joel fic, but The Pitt took over my brain and Jack Abbot wormed his way into my heart and I couldn't stop imagining how sweet he would be with his girl. thank you to my amazing beta @broad-shouldrs as always.
AO3
(also check out my alt blog where i post f/f pitt fanfic)
you’ve been dating jack for nearly six months. you had gathered the courage to ask for a ride after a long shift one day– the habit becoming routine until you’d confessed your feelings.
you both had spilled your secrets slowly, learning of his past, telling him yours.
yet, there was one thing you had to tell him. it was dumb, really, keeping this to yourself. you knew he wouldn’t care, but something inside you felt almost ashamed.
because you, at your ripe age of twenty-eight, were still a virgin.
you knew it wasn’t something to be ashamed of– who the hell has time for sex while working through med school and residency?
it wasn’t like there hadn’t been opportunities with jack, there had been plenty. but you’d chickened out each time, ignoring or redirecting his advances. he never pushed you, of course, the guilt already bubbling at the surface just for wanting someone so young.
so he gave you time and space when you needed it, never pressing.
you stand in front of his bathroom mirror, smoothing your hands over your worn out shirt, your heart already racing. you’d decided tonight would be the night you’d lay everything on the table. tell the truth, and if all went as planned, you would no longer have that unnecessary shame hanging over you.
his voice pulls you from your thoughts, a soft call of your name, a low rumble that sends a pleasant tingle up your spine. you catch yourself smiling in the mirror, your expression softening as you take in the pure happiness radiating from you, the nervous butterflies settling.
taking another deep breath, you slip from the bathroom, your smile still not having fallen from your face as you climb into bed, climbing under the covers he’d lifted for you before settling into his side. you wrap a leg around his hip, your face already tilting toward his for a kiss.
it was your nightly routine now when you stayed, curled up under the covers, making out like teenagers.
you pull away first, your chest heaving as you prepare yourself.
“jack, i need you.” you mumble, your eyes seeking his in the glow of the moon through his apartment windows.
his expression is confused for only a moment before realization dawns on his face. his eyes crinkle with mischief, his lip turning up at one corner. “yeah?”
"yeah," you echo, though your voice wavers just slightly. you press your lips together, steeling yourself again. "but there's something i have to tell you first."
his hand, which had been tracing idle patterns along your waist, stills. not in alarm– jack is never alarmed easily– just giving you his full attention.
"okay," he says simply.
"i've never-" you start, then stop and try again. "i haven't done this before. any of it." you watch his face carefully, searching for the thing you'd been dreading. pity, maybe. or worse, amusement. "i know that's- i know it's a lot, and i should have said something sooner, but i didn't know how to bring it up without it being-"
“hey, baby, slow down.” jack stops you, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face. “take a breath, it’s okay.”
you grimace, but follow his direction and let yourself relax. then his eyes soften even further, his thumb brushes across your cheekbone with such soft tenderness that your throat tightens.
"that's what you've been worried about?" he asks, and there's no mockery in it. just genuine surprise, tinged with something that sounds almost like relief. "baby, that doesn't change anything."
you feel the tension in your muscles ease just slightly, though your heart is still hammering against your ribs. "you're not... disappointed? or-"
"disappointed?" jack repeats, and now there is a hint of amusement, but it's warm, affectionate. "why the hell would i be disappointed?"
"i don't know," you admit, your voice small. "because i'm twenty-eight and i should have–"
"should have what?" he interrupts gently. "there's no timeline for this stuff. you know that." his hand slides from your face down to your neck, his fingers curling around the back of it, grounding you. "you've been busting your ass through med school and residency. think i don't know how much of your life that takes up?"
you swallow hard, nodding.
"and even if that wasn't the reason," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "it still wouldn't matter. this isn't something you owe anyone. not me, not anybody." his forehead comes to rest against yours, and you can feel his breath warm against your lips. "the only thing that matters to me is that you want this. that you want me."
"i do," you whisper, and it comes out more desperate than you intended. "i do want you, jack. i've wanted you for-" you break off, embarrassed by your own intensity.
"for how long?" he prompts, and there's that mischievous edge again, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
"since the first time you gave me a ride home," you confess, and his grin becomes a little more sensual.
"yeah?" he murmurs, and then his mouth is on yours again, slower this time, deeper. his tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him with a soft sound that makes him groan low in his chest.
when he pulls back, you're both breathing harder. his hand has moved from your neck to your waist, his fingers slipping just barely beneath the hem of your worn shirt, touching bare skin.
"we can take this as slow as you need," he says, his voice rough now, strained. "or we can stop completely if you change your mind. at any point. you understand?"
you nod, but that's not enough for him.
"i need to hear you say it," he murmurs, gaze dark and steady on you.
"i do," you breathe. "but i don't want to stop. i want-" you hesitate, then force yourself to say it. "i need you to touch me."
the sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a laugh, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "you're gonna kill me," he mutters against your collarbone, and you feel him smile against your skin.
"is that a yes?" you ask, and you're surprised by the hint of playfulness in your own voice, the anxiety beginning to melt under the warmth of his acceptance.
"that's a hell yes," he says, lifting his head to look at you again. his eyes are darker now, pupils blown wide, but there's still that careful attention in them, that focus that makes you feel like the center of his universe. "but we're doing this right. you tell me if something doesn't feel good, if you want me to slow down, if you want me to stop. deal?"
"deal," you agree, and then his mouth is on yours again and his hand is sliding higher beneath your shirt, his palm warm and slightly rough against your ribs.
you arch into the touch without thought, a soft gasp escaping you, and he swallows the sound with his kiss. his hand moves higher still, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your bra, his thumb brushing over your nipple making your hips jerk forward involuntarily.
"that okay?" he murmurs against your mouth.
"yes," you breathe. "yes, that's–" you break off as he does it again, more deliberately this time, and the familiar heat pools between your legs, your body responding to the stimulation in little sparks of pleasure.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand stilling. "can i take this off?" he asks, tugging gently at your shirt.
you nod, then remember what he said. "yes. please."
he sits up slightly, helping you pull the worn fabric over your head, and you resist the urge to cover yourself even though you're still wearing your bra. the moonlight streaming through the window casts everything in silver and shadow, and the way jack is looking at you– like you're something precious, something worth savoring– makes your breath catch. it's one thing to be alone in your apartment, touching yourself in the dark. it's another entirely to be seen like this.
"you're so fucking beautiful," he says, and it's not a line. you can hear the sincerity in it, the awe.
"jack–" you start, but he's already leaning down, pressing kisses along your collarbone, down to the swell of your breast above the cup of your bra.
"can i take this off too?" he asks, his fingers already at the clasp between your breasts.
"yes." this time your voice is steadier, more certain.
he unhooks it with practiced ease and you help him slide it down your arms and out from under you, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. and then you're bare from the waist up, and jack is looking at you like he's been given something he doesn't quite deserve.
"fuck," he breathes, and then his mouth is on you, his lips closing around your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud as it hardens under his ministrations.
the vulnerability of it makes your skin prickle with awareness. you know what your breasts look like, have touched them yourself countless times, but having someone else's eyes on you, someone else's hands…
the sensation sends a jolt straight through you, familiar but different, and you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, tangling in his curls. you know you're sensitive there, have always been, but his mouth is hotter and wetter than your own fingers ever could be. he hums against you, the vibration making you shudder, and his hand comes up to palm your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.
"harder," you gasp without thinking, and he complies immediately, pinching just enough to make you moan. "yeah, like that."
he seems to want to spend an eternity there, and you’re almost sure you can come from just this, but you need more. you push slightly at his head and he chuckles, releasing your nipple with a soft pop and kissing his way down your stomach, his hands sliding to the waistband of your shorts.
he pauses, looking up at you, and the sight of him between your legs, his eyes dark and hungry but still patient, still waiting for permission, makes something clench deep in your belly.
"can i?" he asks, his fingers hooked in the elastic.
"yes," you say, and you lift your hips to help him slide them down along with your underwear, leaving you completely bare beneath him.
the cool air against your heated skin makes you shiver, and you have to fight the urge to close your legs. but jack's hands are on your thighs, gently pressing them apart, and the look on his face is so reverent that the self-consciousness fades.
"you're perfect," he murmurs, and then he's settling between your legs, his shoulders pressing your thighs wider, and oh god, you realize what he's about to do.
your breath catches. you've imagined this before, late at night with your own hand between your legs, but the reality of it– of him– is suddenly overwhelming.
"wait," you say, and he freezes immediately, his eyes snapping to yours.
"you okay?" he asks, concern evident in his voice.
"i just–" you swallow hard. "i've never– no one's ever–" the words feel clumsy in your mouth. you know what you like, know exactly how to touch yourself to get off, but letting someone else do it, being that vulnerable scares you.
understanding dawns on his face. "you want me to stop?"
"no," you say quickly. "no, i just–" you take a breath, steadying your nerves. "i know what i like. i just don't know if i can... let go.”
his expression softens, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "you don’t have to think about it, baby," he says. "just feel. and if you need to tell me what works, tell me. i want to learn you."
the tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache. you nod, and he takes that as permission, lowering his head.
the first touch of his tongue against you is electric, and you gasp, your hands flying back to his hair. it's different from your own touch, less precise and more intense. the groan he lets out is better than any vibrator you’ve used. “fuck, baby, you’re so wet.”
"oh my god," you breathe as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your center. he's exploring, learning, and you force yourself to relax into it, to let him indulge himself for a few minutes.
he pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. "tell me what feels good."
"higher," you manage, your voice shaking. "more pressure on the side my clit."
he adjusts immediately, prodding his tongue against your clit, and the pleasure is sharp and familiar but so much more intense than when you do it yourself. you cry out, your hips bucking up against his mouth.
"yes," you gasp. "just like that, don't stop."
you practically feel him grin against your cunt, holding you steady with one hand splayed across your lower belly, the other sliding up to find your hand, lacing your fingers together. the gesture is so tender, so intimate, that it makes your chest ache even as the pleasure builds between your legs.
you know this feeling, have chased it countless times alone in your bed, but this is different. this is trusting someone else to take you there, letting yourself be vulnerable enough to fall apart in front of him.
"jack," you gasp as the tension coils tighter, "i'm close, i'm–"
"let go," he murmurs against you. "i've got you, baby. let go."
and you do, the orgasm crashing over you in waves that feel different somehow– more intense, more overwhelming because you're not in control of it. no pause in the movement while your body seizes with pleasure, no extra energy expended on what you’re doing. you cry out his name, your back arching off the bed, and he works you through it, his tongue gentling as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you try to catch your breath.
when you finally open your eyes, he's hovering over you again, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal, his expression smug and tender all at once.
"you okay?" he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your damp forehead.
"i–" you start, then laugh breathlessly. "yeah. that was–" you shake your head, still trying to process the euphoria racing through you. "really good."
he grins, leaning down to kiss you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. the intimacy of it makes you want him even more.
"we can stop here if you want," he says against your mouth. "no pressure."
but you shake your head, your hands already reaching for his chest to push him down, reversing your positions. "i don't want to stop," you say. "i want your cock." you blush with the vulgarity of it, but the responding jerk of his hips is enough to know you said the exact right thing.
he helps you pull his shirt off, and then you're running your hands over his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him, the way his muscles shift beneath your touch. your fingers trail down to the waistband of his sweatpants, and you can see the obvious bulge there, can feel him hard and hot against the inside of your thigh.
"can i?" you ask, echoing his earlier question.
"fuck, yes," he breathes, and you push the fabric down over his hips and down his legs, mindful that his leg may be sore after a pulling a 24 hour shift.
he's not wearing anything underneath, and when his cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip, you feel a surge of pure lust that travels from the tips of your fingers down to your toes. you don’t particularly mean to just sit on his thighs and stare, but he’s just so perfect. thick, maybe six and a half inches, curving just a little toward his belly. the tip is red and flushed, precome already gathered in the slit.
"you can touch me," he says, his voice strained. "if you want."
pressing your lips together to suppress your grin, you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, almost gasping in delight at the feel of it. he’s warm and soft, yet firm and unyielding under your palm. you experimentally pump him, eyes flickering from between his legs up to his eyes.
"is this good?" you ask, adjusting your grip, twisting slightly at the head the way you've seen in porn.
"fuck, yes," he grits out. "perfect. but if you keep doing that, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast."
you smile despite yourself, feeling a surge of confidence at the evidence of how much he wants you. "can i be on top?” your brow furrows a little as your hand stills, simply holding him at the base.
he exhales a breathy laugh, then reaches over to his nightstand, pulling out a condom. "you sure about this?" he asks one more time, and you love him for it, for checking even now.
"i'm sure. wanna set the pace" you say, and the nervousness isn't about the act itself– you know how this works, know what your body needs– it's about trusting him with this, about being this vulnerable with another person.
he rolls the condom on with practiced efficiency, letting his hands settle on your thighs spread over his hips. “you ever had anything this big in you?” he asks, and it’s a genuine question.
you nod, thinking about your not so small collection of toys, and he reaches down to guide himself to your entrance. the first press of him against you makes you tense slightly– not from fear, but from the unfamiliarity of it, the reality of letting someone inside you.
"breathe," he reminds you, and you do, forcing yourself to relax as the tip of his cock teases through your folds. “lower yourself when you want, baby.”
you whimper as you lower yourself slowly, so slowly, and there's a stretch, a pressure, a moment of adjustment as your body accommodates him. it's not painful, just different. he’s warmer than any of the silicone you’ve used in the past, more forgiving inside you as you lower inch by inch.
"you okay?" he asks, his voice tight with the effort of holding still.
"yeah," you manage, eyes shut and hands planted against his chest. "just–give me a second to adjust."
he does, thumbs drawing light circles against the meat of your thighs. gradually, your body relaxes around him, the fullness becoming less foreign, more right.
"okay," you breathe. "gonna move now."
you rise up on your knees and sink back down, a slow experimental roll of your hips. the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly needy, but jack's head drops back against the pillow with a groan that makes you feel powerful in a way you hadn't anticipated.
"yeah," he breathes. "just like that."
you do it again, finding a rhythm that makes sparks shoot up your spine. his hands stay loose on your thighs, letting you lead, only tightening when you hit a particularly good spot and clench around him.
"angle forward a little," he suggests, his voice rough.
"oh," you gasp. the head of his cock rubs against a spot inside you you’ve found with your own fingers, your own toys, but so much more overwhelming with him filling you like this. "there, right there."
"yeah?" he asks, and you can hear the satisfaction in it, the pleasure.
"yeah," you confirm breathlessly, planting your hands more firmly on his chest and picking up the pace.
his hand slides up your thigh, thumb finding your clit, and you cover his finger with your own, guiding him the same way you showed him earlier. he follows your lead immediately, no ego about it, just wanting to get it right.
"like this?" he murmurs, eyes fixed on the sight of your smaller hand on top of his.
"like that," you confirm, and when he matches your rhythm perfectly you moan, long and unguarded.
"fuck," he grits out, his hips giving the smallest involuntary thrust upward. "you feel incredible. you have no idea…"
"i think i have some idea," you manage, and he laughs, breathless and undone, his hands gripping your hips for just a moment before releasing you back to your own pace.
the combination of sensations overwhelms you– the fullness of him, his thumb on your clit exactly how you need it, the freedom of controlling the depth and rhythm, the way he's looking up at you like you're the most remarkable thing he's ever seen. the vulnerability of being this exposed, this seen, should scare you. instead it makes the coil in your belly pull tighter as you clench around him.
"jack," you gasp. "i'm close, i'm so close…"
"i know," he murmurs, his eyes dark and focused on your face. "i've got you. take what you need."
you really begin to chase it without shame, your hips working harder up and down until the orgasm breaks over you in long, shuddering waves. you cry out his name, clenching around him, and feel him follow with a low groan, his hands gripping your hips to pull you down as he spills into the condom. the feeling of him pulsing inside you drags your orgasm out longer, the intimacy of a shared orgasm far more spectacular than you could have ever imagined.
you collapse forward onto his chest, both of you breathing hard. his arms wrap around you, one hand stroking slowly up and down your spine.
after a long moment you lift your head, giggling softly.
"hi," you say stupidly.
"hi," he returns, and the smile that breaks across his face is so unguarded, so soft, that your chest aches with it.
you ease off him carefully, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, and he takes care of the condom before pulling you back into the warmth of his side. you tuck your face against his neck, his pulse still elevated beneath your lips.
"you okay?" he asks, for what feels like the hundredth time, and you smile against his skin.
"i'm perfect," you say, and you mean it completely. "that was… you were…"
"you were amazing," he interrupts, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "thank you for trusting me with this. for letting me be the one."
you're quiet for a moment, just breathing him in. "thank you for making it safe to be vulnerable."
"you don't have to thank me for that," he says softly, fingers feathering over your arm.
"i love you," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can catch them.
you feel him still– just for a moment– and the familiar panic flares. too soon, too much, you've ruined it–
but then he's tilting your chin up, his eyes soft and certain in the dim light.
"i love you too," he says, and kisses you like he means it. like he'll keep meaning it for a long time to come.
Clint Flood x OFC│fluff, angst, smut│explicit, 18+
Summary: Dolly learns to trust, and Clint gives love a second chance.
Tags: Modern day Freaky Tales babysitter AU with adapted canon, slow burn, angst w/ happy ending, smut and domestic eroticism, forced proximity, age gap, found family, discussion of SA trauma from a stalker ex, Clint saves the day, canon typical violence.
A/N: This series has a very happy ending for Dolly and Clint but very heavy topics are discussed and portrayed!!! I saw Freaky Tales and immediately thought that I wish Clint was my scary mob uncle, and so this story is for all of us who never got the justice we deserved and wished we had someone like him to deliver a bit of good old fashioned street justice instead. I could've left it as a found family thing, but I liked the idea of having Clint find love again so... here we are :p Enjoy!
summary — loving jack always had a price. you just assumed you’d seen the worst of it.
warnings — 7.1k words. MINORS DNI!! explicit sexual content (unprotected piv sex), divorce, ex-spouses with a major case of unresolved feelings, toxic relationship dynamics, codependency, alcohol use, unexpected pregnancy, discussion of abortion and reproductive choice, crying, emotional distress, also the past relationship details are left vague
author’s note — whipped this up bc i could not stop thinking about this plot 😬 yk i love a gooood angst + this one should be multiple parts!!
If you knew your ex-husband was going to be at the bar, you would have gone straight home. The only point of getting drinks after a shift was to stop being a person who’d had that shift—to sit in a sticky booth with people who’d seen the same bad day and let it dissolve into something cheap—and Jack’s presence anywhere had the effect of making you more yourself, not less; a woman performing being completely okay for an audience of one who’d seen you cry over burnt lasagna on your two-year-anniversary and had the terrible indecency to remember it.
But you didn’t know. Dana had said a few of them were going to the bar after the night shift took over, and you’d heard it would only be a few of them and not done the thinking on who’d be working the night shift—you’d assumed him, because he was always there, always fucking there. So you walked in already loosened, your badge clipped to your waistband, and you were three steps into the warm beery dark before you saw the back of his head in the corner booth.
He was nursing a bourbon he’d probably make last the entire night and he was half-listening to Langdon tell some story, his leg stretched out into the aisle, and he hadn’t seen you yet. You had a second. You could have turned around and texted Dana some bullshit excuse of getting the full eight hours and walked back to the parking lot to go home to your dog and half your bed.
You never did, though. You told yourself afterward it was because the leaving would’ve told the table something. But the truer thing, the one you didn’t want to look at directly, was that an evening without Jack had started to feel like a room with the bulb burned out. You’d gotten that bad.
“There she is,” Dana said, twisting around in the booth, already sliding to make room. “Sit. I saved you the good side. It doesn’t wobble.”
You sat, and the good side put you diagonal from Jack, close enough that his stretched-out leg was a fact you had to arrange your own legs around under the table. He hadn’t acknowledged you yet. He was letting Langdon finish; Jack always let people finish, it was something that made patients trust him and made you, toward the end, want to put a plate through the wall because he’d let you get to the bottom of sentences you’d have killed to be interrupted out of.
But you watched the back of his neck change as his shoulders went from loose to aware. When he turned, his eyes found yours like a bad number on a monitor, faster than he could’ve chosen. For half-a-second, before his face caught up, he looked so completely undefended. Then it was gone and he looked at you like you were weather he'd been told about.
“Huh,” he breathed, picking his bourbon back up. “They let your department fraternize with the help now, or are you slumming?”
“Dana kidnapped me.” You reached over and took the lime off his rim. He’d never once in his life used it—he hated citrus in bourbon—and only got it because Marlene behind the bar had been putting it in each time. Jack had decided somewhere around your wedding that debating her on it was more than what the lime was worth.
You bit it and set the rind into his napkin where it went, where it had always gone.
His eyes tracked you as you did it without any comment. The better half of five years of the lime and he’d never once said anything, only bought you the garnish on his own drink.
“How was your floor?” you asked.
“Slow.” He turned the glass a quarter-turn on the table, an old tell, the thing his hands did when he was trying very hard to keep his words scarce. “Knock on something.”
“But I like watching you suffer,” you drawled.
He huffed at that. “I know.”
That was it. He was good at letting things sit, it was the worst of his habits, the way he could absorb a thing you said and just hold it instead of returning it. Half your sentences to him used to end in a silence you'd eventually have to fill yourself. You'd forgotten how much work it was. You'd forgotten you used to do all the talking and call it conversation.
“You got Kevin this week?” Dana asked from beside you.
Jack, without a beat of hesitation, said, “She’s got Kilo this week.”
Javadi, the new and curious med student in the ER, looked between both of you with furrowed brows. “Sorry. Kevin or Kilo? Is that—are those two dogs?”
“One dog,” you said.
“Yup. One dog,” Jack agreed.
“Then why—” Javadi started.
“His name’s Kilo,” Jack said.
“No, his name’s Kevin.”
Javadi’s head went between you as though she was watching a tennis match. The table laughed because they’d heard this a hundred times and it never stopped being funny to them; the divorced two doing their oldest bit, the one argument that had outlived the marriage that spawned it.
“His papers say Kilo,” Jack said in Javadi’s direction.
Robby, who’d been completely invested in his own drink, said, “And your papers say divorced.”
“And we very much are, thank you,” you said, picking it up before the laugh had finished.
Jack stayed silent then. Robby, he’d have something for. But this was you saying it, easy and completely certain in front of everyone. The leg that had been stretched into your space this entire night drew back slowly, a small retreat nobody at the table except you could’ve felt. He turned the glass a quarter-turn.
You’d done it on purpose. You’d felt the whole night immediately tilting into the warm dangerous fiction of it and you’d reached for the one sentence that would shut it, and you’d swung it at the only person who’d actually feel the blade.
The facts of your divorce were no concern to anyone but the two of you at the table, but you could feel Jack flinch inwardly by the announcement that blanketed it all; that you now lived in separate homes, that the dog was scheduled like a custody hearing; that the word ‘we’ had a tense and it was past. None of it was news. He’d signed the same papers you had in the same flat conference room, with the same pen the mediator kept clicking until you'd wanted to scream. He knew the facts better than anyone. And still you'd watched him wince when you said it out loud.
He'd built a whole life on the difference between a thing being true and a thing being spoken; it was how he ran a trauma bay, how he told a family the worst news in the world in a voice that never broke, how he'd ended your marriage without ever once saying the words that would've made it real, just withdrawing by degrees until you were the one who had to say them for him. He'd made you do that too. He made you do all the saying. And now you'd said this, and he was sitting there absorbing it the way he absorbed everything, quietly, like he'd decided long ago that taking it without a sound was the least of what he had coming.
“Just fucking do it, Jack.”
And he did—finally, finally—push into you with a single long stroke that dragged a sound out of both of you, his coming out through his teeth, and yours into the pillow. His forehead came down between your shoulder blades. He stayed there for a second, breathing, one hand splayed wide over your hip and the other braced into the mattress beside your hips. His weight settled onto the left leg the way it always settled, a decision his body stopped having to make years ago. You could feel him shaking with the effort of not moving yet, of dragging it out, because he always did this, he always made you ask twice.
“Christ,” he breathed into your spine. “You feel—” he started, and let the words die as his teeth gently pressed into the bone at the top of your shoulder. It was then he started to move.
He fucked like he did everything else with his hands; he was methodical, attentive, and so devastingly present. He went in believing there was always a correct rhythm, and he intended to find it just to ruin you with it. He’d learned by repetition until it stopped requiring thought, until he could play you without looking, and the worst part—the one you’d never say out loud—was that it worked. It always worked. He knew the exact angle that made you stop being a person with opinions about him.
That long stroke dragged slow on the way out and snapped deep on the way back in, and your whole body misfired around him whether you’d given it permission to or not.
His palm slid up from your hip to flatten between your shoulder blades and pressed, folding you down into the mattress, taking the choice out of your spine. And the new angle had you gasping into the sheets because he’d done it on purpose; he always did everything on purpose, and now he was hitting that place that made your fingers curl and your thighs shake and a thin embarrassing whine climb out you that you’d have died before making it sober.
Jack felt the exact second your control went and he leaned into it, hips grinding deep and unhurried, holding you right there on the edge of too-much like he was reading everything under your skin.
“That’s it,” he drawled out, his voice low and even, the bastard, like he had all night, like he wasn’t already wrecked behind the voice. “Yeah, I’ve got you.” And he did. He had you exactly where he wanted you and you let him, because no one had ever taken you apart this precisely, this patiently, like your falling apart was the only thing on his list and he intended to do it right.
The dog tags swung forward and dragged close across your back when he leaned over you, then warm when they settled against your skin, and you thought—stupidly, with the part of your brain that should’ve been offline—that you used to fall asleep listening to that chain shift when he breathed. You thought there had been a version of this where afterward he stayed. You shoved that thought down. You arched your back into him instead and he made a punched-out noise, low in his chest, his grip going tight on you to leave the marks.
“Slow down,” he muttered more to himself than you, but he didn’t. His hips stuttered out of their careful rhythm because this was the one place his composure failed; it was the one place where the sealed-up, gallows humor, watching-you-over-the-glass version of him came apart at the seams.
You’d figured this out over the months. This was the only place Jack was honest. He’d never say the things across a table, in daylight, with his clothes on. But here, with his cock buried inside of you and his composure shot, the truth leaked out of him in fragments he wouldn’t be accountable for later.
“Missed this,” he got out, ragged, his mouth at the back of your neck now, words pressed into your hairline like he could bury them in there. “Missed you, fuck. You’ve got no idea, sweetheart, the things I—”
“Don’t.” You didn’t want it. You wanted it so badly your chest ached and that was exactly why you didn’t want it, because you knew what it was worth in the morning, which was nothing, which was a text about whether you’d remembered to walk Kevin. “Jack. Don’t talk. You can’t—” You let out a gasp as he pressed his hips completely flush against yours, chasing you to the hilt, as if he could physically expel the words out of you. “Can’t fuck me into being with you again.”
You felt him falter at the words, just for a beat, the rhythm catching like you’d reached back and put a hand flat on his sternum. He slowed, dragged himself almost all the way out and held there, trembling, his whole weight coming down over your back so his mouth was now at your ear and you could feel everything against the shell of it.
“I know,” he said, words ragged. “I know I can’t. Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”
His hand moved around the dip of your waist, and he pulled out of you slow, the loss making you bite down on a sound. Then he was rolling you, one palm flat and insistent on your hip, turning you under him onto your back like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“No—” You got an arm up, forearm against your own eyes, because you knew what he wanted, and you weren’t going to give it to him. The face, the looking. From behind, you could keep it what it was; turned over, you’d have to be there for it. “Jack, leave it. I don’t—”
“Hey.” He held your wrist, thumb working into the soft inside of it where your pulse was going stupid. “C’mon. Move the arm.”
“No.”
“You won’t even—” He let out a low laugh, disbelieving, almost wounded. “You’ll let me do every other thing but you won’t even look at me?”
“That’s different.”
“Yeah.” He went quiet for a moment, and his hand slid up the inside of your thigh, holding you open, patient as anything. He knew exactly what the looking was and exactly why you were hiding from it, and he was going to wait you out. “I know it is. Move the arm anyway.”
He braced over you on his arm, the other hand drawing slow idle circles high on your thigh, his cock notched against you and not pushing in, just there, the threat and promise of him, while he looked down at the arm over your face. You could feel him watching.
So you did move the arm, mostly just to spite him by giving him exactly what he wanted. His face was right there—jaw tight, eyes gone dark and fixed on you like you were the only lit thing in the room—and the second you met it, the slight smugness melted clean down the middle and there was just the wanting underneath, naked and his.
“Thank god,” he breathed before pushing back into you. His eyes tracked your face scrunch up at the familiar—too familiar—pleasure like he’d been starving for exactly this. His hand left your jaw and found your knee, hooking it up higher over his hip. He’d always known your left hip sat wrong, that this was the angle that didn’t ache after; the same way you knew, without ever being told, to take the weight off his right side, the two of you arranging yourselves around each other the way you always had. “Knew you were in there somewhere.”
“Don’t get sentimental, Jack” you said, breathless. “You’ll pull something.”
He huffed a laugh against your jaw. Your hand had gone to his left shoulder and you pressed your thumb into the knot that always sat under the blade after a long shift, working it slow while he moved in you. He groaned low and helpless at the unexpected mercy of it.
“Mouthy,” he managed to say. “Even now.”
“You’re so—so insufferable.”
His mouth found the corner of yours and his hand slid up your ribs so his thumb could catch the underside of your breast exactly where he knew; your back came up off the mattress for him. “You married me anyway. What’s that say about you?”
You got your fingers to his hair and scratched once at the base of his skull, the thing that used to put him to sleep in under five minutes, something you’d done about a thousand times in a bed you no longer shared. You watched his eyes go briefly unfocused with how much his body remembered it meant being safe. You hated that you’d done it.
The easy heat in him went somewhere graver, and his hand came up to cover yours where it rested in his hair. He pinned it there, keeping the touch on him, like he couldn’t bear for you to take it back.
“Why’d you—” His hips stuttered. “Why’d you have to go, huh?”
“Don’t,” you said quickly, and your hand came out of his hair—you made it come down, fighting the pin of his fingers—and you planted your palm against his chest to put an inch back between the two of you. “Don’t talk. Just—shut up. Jack, shut up and—”
He took in a breath, lips still parted like he wanted to talk. You’d expected it. Jack was fabulous at saying everything important while inside you or when he was halfway asleep.
“Yeah.” He nodded shakily. “Yeah. Okay.”
He got an arm under the small of your back and hauled you up into him, and the next stroke was just deep and selfish, like he’d stopped trying to make his point and now was only trying to get somewhere. The slow ruinous tenderness burned off into something with no thought left in it, and your body surged up to meet it—God—yes, this, you could do, this didn’t ask you for anything you’d sworn off. This was just the white-hot animal fact of him and you could be all the way in without losing a single thing.
“There,” he ground out, forehead dropped to yours, both of you breathing into the same inch of air. “There—fuck—there you go.”
Your mind went black. That was the mercy of getting it like this; the part of you that counted the times he’d said your name, that totted up what the morning had cost, went quiet, drowned clean in the simple overwhelming good of him. You grabbed at his back and pulled him in past where there was room and made a strangled noise.
His hand found yours where it was fisted in the sheet and laced through it, knuckles white, pinning it down beside your head—needing the anchor—and you gripped back just as hard. The bed was loud. Neither of you cared. You'd gone past the place where you could have stopped even if the smarter version of you had walked in and ordered it, both of you just chasing the finish now with a kind of grim mutual desperation, like if you got it done fast enough you wouldn't have to deal with what it was.
“Close,” you breathed. “Jack, I’m close—”
“I know. C’mon, let me feel it—” His hand let go of yours and dropped between you, fingers finding you without a second of searching, the muscle-memory of you deathly absolute. “Been thinking about this all night.”
He worked you up to the edge with his face buried in your throat and his hips snapping. The whole thing finally cresting into something neither of you could've talked through if you'd tried.
You went over first, the peak tearing through you with your nails dug into his back and your spine bowed clean off the mattress. He fucked you through every second of it, hips ramming, dragging it up past the point you could stand. And right at the end of yours his rhythm broke and went erratic, deep and grinding and graceless, and you felt the exact moment it caught him.
His arms hooked tighter under the small of your back and hauled you up into him so there was nowhere for him to go but deeper, like the thought of any distance between the two of you right now was a thing he couldn’t tolerate. Your legs wrapped around the backs of his thighs anyway, your heel pressed into the base of his spine.
“Gonna—” His voice came out shredded, into your throat. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna—fuck—”
With a low broken sound, his whole weight crushed down and his hips gave those last helpless grinding pushes, burying himself to the hilt, spilling into you with his face shoved into your neck and his hand fisted in your hair. He continued moving even then, small, greedy rolls of his hips, working himself deeper through the aftershocks, wringing every second out.
“God.” He shuddered out the word against your pulse, hips still flush, seated as deep as he could get. His arms came around you completely—there wasn’t any inch he wasn’t holding—and he stayed there long after he finished, unwilling to give up the last of it. Greedy even now, especially now. Jack would take every second he was handed and a few he wasn’t.
His heart slammed against your ribs. His breath dragged itself slowly back down. For a moment, you let him have it. You let him stay heavy on and inside you, and you stared at the ceiling.
After a minute—because that’s all you could grant him, a mere sixty seconds—you put your palm flat on his chest, over the spot where the dog tags had settled cold against his skin, and you pushed.
He came up on his forearms and he looked down at you. That was the hundredth mistake of the night, letting him be that close to your face with the lights of the street coming through the blinds in stripes across him. He looked at you the way he looked at you in the one place he ever did, like you were something he'd been allowed to hold and was already being asked to set back down, and the wanting in it was so total and so useless that you had to look at his collarbone instead.
Then his fingers came up to your chin, tilting your head up gently to meet his eyes again. “I wish you weren’t so cruel to me in front of people.” he said, voice coming out so rough.
You knew exactly which part of the night he was talking about. He’d carried it the whole way here—through the parking lot, through the drive, through all of this, your body still humming with him—and he’d held onto it the entire time, only to let it out now because now was the only time he could.
“It’s not cruel if it’s true,” you said. “Nobody thought it was cruel.”
“No, nobody thought anything.” He caressed your jaw just slightly, and you stilled under the grazing touch. “I still felt it.”
Maybe it was the hour, or the drinks still thinning in you, or just the unbearable fact of him looking at you. Regardless of what it was, the lid you kept on the old thing slipped, and you didn't get it back down in time.
“Don’t talk to me about cruelty, Jack,” you said quietly, holding his eyes even though you could feel your own burn. You could do it for once, because he was the one that looked like he needed a collarbone to fix his gaze on. “It was your cruelty that did this.”
His thumb stopped at your jaw. And then, instead of the stillness you’d expected, his hand slid back into your hair and his arm came around you and he pulled you in, the whole weight of him bearing down. His face went into your neck.
You froze under him, suddenly hating him all over again for making this harder and harder each time.
“Go home,,” you said, and it came out lower than you’d wanted it to.
He let out a shaky breath against your skin. “I’d like to stay with you for one night. If you asked.”
Your hands came up to his shoulders. You gently pushed. “I’m asking you to go.”
He came up off you slow, by degrees, and the cold rushed into every place he’d just been. He never argued; he only gave you offers where with the condition of you having to ask welded into them. He sat up on the edge of the bed with his back to you and reached for his shirt off the floor.
People at the hospital had a word for you and it was ‘difficult.’ You’d made peace with it years ago. What you didn’t have a word for was the tired. You’d been tired before; this had a different grain to it, bone-level and sitting-behind-your eyes. Twice this week the floor had gone soft and far away when you stood up too fast. You’d put a hand on the counter and waited it out and told no one.
You hadn't eaten, either. The granola bar was still in your bag. So when you stood up from the workstation to walk the corrected units down yourself, the room didn't gray at the edges this time. It dropped. The whole thing tilted bright then dim, your hand reached for the counter and missed it by an inch, and the next clear thing was the floor being closer than it should be and a hand hard around your arm.
“Okay—I’ve got you. Sit.” Dana, you recognized. Of course it was Dana; she had a sixth sense for the exact second a person stopped standing upright. She steered you down to a chair before you’d finished falling. “Head down. Between the knees. You’ve told a hundred people to do this—do it.”
“I’m fine,” you said, voice coming out depleted. “I just got up too—”
“Yeah, you’ve been getting up fast a couple times this week.” " Her hand was on the back of your neck, two fingers at your pulse, and she wasn't looking at your face, she was looking at her watch, counting, and the professionalism of it—the way she'd switched you from colleague to patient without asking your permission—made something cold go through you. “When’d you eat, hon?”
“I ate.”
“When?” When you stayed silent, she said, “That’s what I thought.”
She straightened up and you heard her turn. “Hey! Somebody grab Robby. No, he’s not—just grab him.” She turned back to you, and gentler than you wanted, in a way that told you exactly how bad you looked, she said, “We’re gonna put you in a room. Don’t make a face. We’re gonna put you in a room, run some fluids, check a couple things. If it’s nothing—thank god—then it’s nothing, and you can be insufferable about it for weeks. But you went down, sweetheart, and I’m not arguing with you about it.”
You wanted to argue; you wanted to refuse the chair and go back to work instead of occupying a bed at work. But you were so tired. You were tired, and some animal part of you had already known that for two weeks and had been waiting, with a patience that frightened you, for someone to make you stop.
So you let Dana walk you to the room. You let her pull the curtain. You sat on the edge of the gurney in a department you'd worked in for over a decade and let a colleague put a line in your arm, and you stared at the corner of the blood pressure cuff and did not let yourself think the one thought that had started, very quietly, somewhere underneath the tired, to assemble itself, and would not finish assembling until Robby came in twenty minutes later with your labs and a look on his face you couldn't read, and asked you, carefully, like a man stepping onto ice, when your last period was.
You’d seen him tell a people about death with more steadiness than he was managing right now, standing at the foot of your gurney with a tablet he wasn't looking at, asking you about your cycle like the answer was already on the screen and he was just giving you the courtesy of arriving at it yourself.
“Why?” you asked flatly.
“Just humor me. Tell me.”
You told him and he had no reaction, and that was how you knew. Robby’s face had gone completely neutral.
“Okay,” he said, setting the tablet down. “Your labs came back. Everything’s—the anemia’s mild. That’s the lightheadedness and not-eating. We’ll sort that out.” He paused, took a breath in, and the cold thing that had gone through you on the floor came back and sat down in your chest and stayed. “Your hCG’s elevated.”
You felt your body run cold then.
“That’s the pregnancy hormone,” he said gently. He was a teacher before anything, and that reflex was still on, even with you.
“I know what hCG is, Robby,” you said, the words coming out sharp, voice cracking the last word in half. You saw him nod sharply as he decided to ignore it. “I—I know what it is.”
“It’s early,” he said. “Numbers are consistent with early, which means you’ve got time. That’s what I’m saying. You’ve got time to think about whatever you need to think about.” He was being so careful. “I didn’t put it into anything yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
Early. You’ve got time.
He picked the tablet up—done being a doctor about it now, the official part handled—and leaned a hip against the counter, and his voice changed, going off-duty.
“Hey,” he said. “Congratulations.”
You nodded, your mind already distant.
“You gonna tell Jack?”
Your mind sharpened. For a second, you genuinely didn’t understand the sentence. Your brain refused it wholly, turned it over to look for the trick. There was no way Robby knew—there was no way anybody knew—because you’d been so careful, the whole thing happened in the dark precisely so it wouldn’t seep into the light, so nobody could say a sentence like that. Your stomach dropped through the gurney.
“Huh?”
Robby looked at you, then shrugged. “I just figured, because you two still talk. He’d want to know. Big life thing.” Then, he added softer, misreading your face completely, “I guess it’s really over between the two of you then?”
You felt your breath hitch in your throat. That was what people would think when it got out, that the door has finally shut. They’d think you were getting clear, a baby with somebody new means the Jack-of-it-all was finally done, mercifully done. That you’d moved on and met someone, that you were building a thing past the divorce you survived. This was supposed to be proof of it. The sad civilized arrangement nobody named, ended at last by a life you were starting without him.
Robby had it exactly backwards and he had no way to know it. It was the furthest thing from over. It was likely the most permanent thing that had ever happened to you, and it had Jack’s name and only Jack’s name. The thing Robby believed to be your way out was the thing that could mean there’d never be a way out. Not anymore, if you chose to have this child. Not ever. You’d be tied to Jack Abbot. A year and a half of getting clear by inches.
You realized Robby was still standing there and that he’d asked you something. He was waiting for an answer you didn’t have the throat for.
“Can you give me a minute?” Your voice came out hoarse. “Just—a minute. Please. And don’t put it into anything yet. Just—don’t let anyone know.”
Robby nodded, probably thinking you needed a beat to let the good news settle, to feel something private and large before the world got its hands on it. “Course. I’ll hold the room, keep people out. Take your time.”
His hand found your shoulder on the way past, squeezing, and then the curtain rings scraped along the rod and he was gone.
It all came up at once, fast and without warning. Your hand was flat on the edge of the gurney and you watched it shake, and you made it stop. You could always make your hands stop. What you couldn’t do was make the rest of it stop. The rest of it was the thought you wouldn't think of, thinking itself anyway, and the worst part was the voice it came in, your own, flat, professional, the one you used to walk a frightened patient through their options without ever letting it shake. You could end it. It's early. Numbers consistent with early. You knew exactly how early early was. You knew the window, the way you knew the shelf life of a unit of platelets down to the day. You knew how clean it was, how legal, how completely nobody's business but your own. There was a door. Right now, there was still a door.
There was a door. There was, right now, still a door; it was the realest door, the one that actually led all the way out that would let you walk back into the life where you got clear of Jack Abbot for good and never had to share a child or a custody calendar or a name with him. He would give you Kevin, you knew that. Over would mean over, for good, where in five years you’d be a woman the hospital remembered being married once, to the ER’s night shift attending, you know the one.
You could take that door. It was yours to take. Nobody even had to know.
You sat in the small bright room and made yourself look directly at the door and waited to feel the relief of it, yet it didn’t come. What came instead, rising up under the grief like a second tide, worse than the first, was a thing you had no word for and no right to and could not, would not, look at straight on, was that it was Jack’s.
You wished you could see it as a curse, and somewhere in the last thirty seconds it had turned over in you and come up as something else; a small, traitorous, and warm thing. It was the exact warmth that had locked your ankles around him, the same warmth that had opened the door for him every night. A piece of him you could get to keep, that no amount of divorce could put back in its box. The one version of forever you two were going to get. And a part of you, a part you despised with everything you had, wanted it. More than the baby in the abstract. His, specifically and unforgivably.
You put your hand over your mouth as you felt it all come up, and you cried—the real way, the way you hadn’t since the lawyer’s office. You cried a cry that came up from the root and shook you apart, alone, in a place where you worked, with only a curtain covering you.
You couldn’t have heard the shift change happen on the other side of the curtain. The hospital had kept turning around your little curtained box, that somewhere out there it had ticked over into evening and the day people were handing the floor to the night people. You hadn’t heard any of it.
You hadn’t heard Dana catch him at the board, and she would have—you know she would have tried—put a hand flat on his chest the second she saw which way he was moving. You only heard the curtain rings scrape against the rod.
You looked up—ruined, mid-breath, your hand still pressed over your own mouth with your face holding an expression no one had ever seen you do. And there was Jack with one hand still fisted in the curtain he'd thrown back, stopped dead in the gap of it.
He’d come in braced, almost with the same register he came in when there was a level 1 trauma, except this one was a case of lightheadedness. His sleeves were shoved to his elbow, jaw already set, and he’d walked in expecting to find blood or something else equal to that, a thing he’d be able to clean up and fix. He had a hand half-raised for it, and it stayed there, hovering, for it had nothing to fix.
You knew his face better than your own; there’d never once been a thing he could’ve kept from you, not even when it felt like he was hardly your husband, especially then. You watched the readiness dissipate off of Jack’s face, watched the doctor leave him by degrees until what was left standing was just Jack.
Just Jack had no protocol for this; there was nothing he’d been taught to do with his face when you were crying because you didn’t cry.
He of all people knew so. He’d sat at a conference table with you while a mediator clicked a pen and you signed your name with a hand that was too steady. He’d carried his own boxes down to the truck while you watched from the upstairs window, dry-eyed, because tears would have made it all real and you refused—out of spite, out of the last thing you had—to make it real where he could see.
His mouth opened, and his throat worked around words, any word. When he finally spoke, it was just your name, and it came out cracked down the middle, like a plea and a prayer.
He had no idea. It made you sob slightly louder than you would’ve liked, the realization that he was standing there gutted with fear for you, scared past the edge of himself, and he did not know. Jack could not have known that he was the answer, that you were the answer. If he’d asked you what had happened, the whole truth would have been his name and your own; it would have been the thing you’d done together in the dark a couple dozen times and called nothing.
“I hate you,” you said, because the only thing you’d been capable of doing was throwing up a wall, driving him out with your own two hands. And it didn’t work, because the words had come out between sobs, wet and wrong, the cruelty falling apart on the way out.
He didn’t argue it. He never argued the ones he thought were true. He just took it the same way he’d taken every other blow you’d ever landed, without ever lifting a hand to stop it, as though he’d decided a long time ago this was the least of what he had coming.
Still, something moved through him when the words hit, a flinch, a wince that started behind his eyes and pulled his whole face down with it.
He came the rest of the way to you anyway, and your hand came up between you—far from a hit, there was nothing left in your arm to make one, just the heel of your palm landing against his chest, more sob turned outward than strike. It pushed against nothing. Jack didn’t even rock with it. And then your fingers were curling into the fabric over his sternum instead, gripping when you’d wanted to shove, the same failure of your hands as two weeks ago; pushing him away and hauling him in, your body unable to decide which.
“You—” Another blow, glancing off his chest. “Why did we have—”
“Okay.” He let you continue, letting the first ones land, face stricken and bewildered as he absorbed the blows for a crime he couldn’t name. “Okay. Okay, hey—”
You drew back, and when your hand closed in again, his own came up and closed around your wrist. You could’ve pulled free—he’d left you room for it—but you let him keep holding it there against his chest where you’d been striking him.
“What happened,” he said, words coming out quietly, not even a question. “Whatever it is. Talk to me. What happened?”
He started to move into you, closing the space between you by inches, his other hand coming up to your face, your shoulder, somewhere, anywhere, his whole self trying to fold into your orbit the way it always had. “Just tell me,” he said, closer now, voice dropped lower, into a register it stayed it when it was only the two of you. “Let me—”
“No.” You twisted your wrist in his hand and turned your face away from the one coming toward it. “You can’t just—I won’t let you—”
His forehead had dropped down to hover over your temple, the warmth of him crowding into every place you’d been trying to wall off. “I’m not. I’m not doing anything. I’m just here—let me be here.”
Here. He’d said the word so softly, with so much surety, like it was a small thing to ask, like it had been a place he’d ever once been. The wall you'd been holding with both hands didn't come down so much as it went out from under you, the way the floor had two weeks ago, all at once and without your permission.
You stopped twisting away. You felt him feel the fight going out of your wrist under his fingers and felt the new alertness move through him.
“You want to be here,” you said into his chest, where your fists were still knotted in his shirt, the words coming out muffled aimed at the fabric. Then, through a disbelieving laugh devoid of any humor, you said, “You want to be here?”
“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah. I’m here.”
“Fucking—” The laugh that tore out of you was anything but one. “Congratulations, then.” Your forehead pressed down hard against his sternum, your eyes squeezed shut, because you couldn’t say it and knew you were going to anyway. At least you wouldn’t have to watch. “Fuck—You’re gonna be a father.”
Everything that had been moving stopped all at once; the hand at your jaw, the thumb that had been working slow along your wrist, the whole restless warmth of him trying to fold into you went motionless. For a second, he didn’t even breathe.
You forced yourself to look up. You wanted, somewhere mean and small and ten years old, to see it touch Jack. You wanted to finally watch something get all the way through.
You got it, and it was worse than you’d let yourself imagine.
The first thing that fell of was the part that told you he was ready to fix this, fix you. It fell clean off, his brows furrowing in worry, a tell that looked too tiny for something this large.
For a second—less than that, before he could pull the reins on it—something that had no business being there moved under the fear. You knew it because you’d felt the exact same thing only a few minutes ago, alone, the warm traitorous thing rising up under the grief. It was there, on his face—unguarded, naked, wanting—and you watched him catch it. You watched his whole face wilt as he understood, in real time, that he wasn't allowed to feel it, that the wanting was obscene standing next to your wreckage, and you watched him put it away. He got it back behind the wall fast, the way he got everything back behind the wall.
Only his hands gave him up. The one at your jaw had started to shake.
He let out a choked sound, like he was trying to lift the words out of his chest but they kept getting stuck halfway.
“You’re—” He stopped himself and swallowed, not being able to get the back half of a sentence out of his own throat. “We’re—?”
“Yeah.”
His fingers around your wrist pulled it closer to his chest, as if he could press it through his body and into wherever the words wouldn’t come from.
“Let me—” he said, and stopped. Every possible word was too big to get a mouth around. “Just—let me.” His forehead came down against yours, and his eyes shut, and you felt the whole of him shaking now, not just the hand. “Please.”
content: 18+, andrew cody x reader, fix it fic series for seasons 2 to 6 of animal kingdom, reader is meant to be 25-30, reader is deran's friend, mostly canon compliant, A LOT of world building, reader occasionally takes place for a few pre-existing characters, frequent switch of povs, dark themes, show-compliant crimes, death, murder, allusions to cheating, jealousy, physical violence, afab reader, reader is mentioned to have hair a few times, SPOILERS for seasons 1-6 of animal kingdom, uses transcripts of dialogue from the show, smut, oral (both f and m), shower sex, p in v sex, softdom!andrew, sub!andrew, dry humping, thigh-riding, mentions of future pregnancy, etc etc etc.
summary: andrew had always been known as the fixer of problems, the one guy his family always called to remedy any situation that was just too much for the average person to handle. he'd never expected much of life, settled with the misery that he'd been struck with from the moment he'd been born into the cody family. things only begin turning around for him once he meets you, a well-kept secret of deran's who'd suddenly been thrust into andrew's life.
(in other words, a fix-it fic for animal kingdom in which andrew finally gets his happy ending!!)
summary: when an abandoned baby takes the e.r by storm, and seems to only be comforted by you, jack takes a keen interest in the maternal streak he didn't know you had. (5k)
characters: jack abbot / wife!reader, dana evans, emma nolan, michael robinavitch, whitaker and his ducklings (joy and ogilvie), baby jane doe!!!
contents: grumpy!reader, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, humor, not proofread cw for mentions of child abuse (r had a bad upbringing), smut 18+ ft. breeding kink!!
FIC #3 / 20 FOR 20
The smell of fresh coffee clings to the stale air of the empty break room, mixing with the stubborn scent of antiseptic that always seems to follow you and the ghost of Shen’s egg salad that he just had to pack for lunch. You sit slouched in a plastic chair at the round table, with one leg hooked over the spare one at your side, and a clipboard resting on the thigh of the other.
You hope to spend the next hour or so of your shift right here, pretending to stay busy flipping through MRI results and procedure notes until it’s time to go.
“I won’t tell anyone you’re camping out here if you promise to do the bulk of the driving to the cabin tonight,” Jack had told you when you found him in the break room, passing you the mug of steaming coffee he’d made for himself without a second thought.
The caffeine is the only thing keeping you going this far into your shift; along with the fact that you’ll be spending the rest of your Fourth of July with him in his countryside cabin — the furthest from the PTMC either of you has been since you got married.
“How about you don’t tell anyone, and you do the driving?” you propositioned, flashing the man a faux-innocent look from over the top of the rim as you brought the cup to your mouth. The fresh brew singed the tip of your tongue a bit, just enough to jerk your exhausted mind awake.
“Fine…” Jack caved with a slow huff; his first good breath all day. His following words came out slightly muffled as he leaned forward to press a fleeting kiss to your temple before walking on by you. “How much we got left on our sentence, huh? An hour? Two?”
“Sixty-four minutes, but… Who’s counting?”
“Well, that’s plenty of time for something fun to happen.” Jack turned in the doorway to flash you a knowing grin that you met with a tired scowl.
“Don’t jinx it,” you called to his retreating figure.
You’ve given enough of yourself for one night, you think; and after a rather urgent thoracotomy that nearly killed both the patient and you (though mostly in the metaphorical sense), you feel like you’re owed the small break. Now that the day shift is trickling slowly in, you’ve decided to stay hidden until somebody absolutely needs you.
You sink deeper and deeper into the plastic chair, willing yourself into invisibility, until a baby’s cry shatters the sacred quiet.
The high-pitched whine cuts through everything — your heavy exhaustion, your simmering headache, and the steady hum of the emergency department you’ve learned to tune out over the years. You drag yourself from your seat with a distant groan in the pit of your throat, ‘cause you know you won’t be able to relax until you know someone else has got it handled.
You trudge to the door and take a peek down the hallway, if only to say that you did, and find the long corridor bustling with an energy much livelier than you are. When the crowd parts, you spot Dana walking your way with something tiny swaddled in her arms — much too small to be as loud as it is now.
Her eyes light up at the sight of you.
“Dr. Abbot— Just the person I was looking for!” the older woman croons in her usual gritty monotone, with a knowing smile sitting crooked on her mouth. “We got a baby Jane Doe, ditched in the bathroom.”
Your features crumple under the weight of your exhaustion. Your head tips back to groan a long and theatrical, “No…” though your sneakers scuff the floor as you trudge her way despite yourself. “I only have one hour left on my shift— Please don’t make me do anything else.”
“Well, I also got a central line placement in Central 13,” Dana deadpans. “You know, if you’d rather not waste time takin’ care of this perfectly nice baby.”
The swaddled thing fusses when it’s shifted in her hold. Your eyes flit from its scrunched face, round and wet with tears, to the wise look in Dana’s eyes. She grins at your obvious hesitation.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
You sigh and step forward, like a martyr to the gallows. You trade the clipboard in your hand for the baby in Dana’s. She sets the thing gingerly in your hold — a warm and delicate weight between your arms, fitting just perfectly against your chest.
You had done a rotation in pediatrics before you settled on emergency medicine some years back. You know what it means to take care of a baby in the most technical sense, though none of it ever seemed to come totally naturally to you.
You move like a robot accordingly, all tense and methodical. The whining baby settles into your hold with a gentle coo anyway, like a switch suddenly flipped.
“Well, look at that,” Dana hums with an arched brow of amusement. “You’re a natural.”
“You’re evil,” you deadpan.
“So they say,” the woman quips drily, patting you on the shoulder with a warm hand. “C’mon. Show my shadow how to do a proper pedes check-up— Dr. Abbot’s not as mean as she looks, Miss Emma, I promise.”
You flash the young, fresh-faced nurse a polite smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes before leading her towards the pediatric unit across the way. She’s made of bright smiles, braided chestnut curls, and sunshine incarnate as she scurries just behind you. She’s got a sparkling look in her dark eyes that you’re pretty sure you lost somewhere around your first week of residency.
You pass the workstation with a sort of tunnel vision zeroed in on the vibrantly painted pedes room. You nearly miss Jack standing there, leaning over the desk with his arms folded and his biceps straining against his scrub sleeves.
The silver-haired man briefs a newly arrived Robby on the morning cases and pauses at the sight of you — his whole entire life, cradling a much smaller one in her arms, with an exhausted frown on your face that you don’t bother trying to hide.
Robby traces the man’s suddenly distracted gaze over his shoulder. His brown eyes follow your form, lighting up at the sight of you the same way Jack’s do.
“Well…” the older man croons. “Would you look at that—”
“Don’t,” you cut in sharply, and don’t bother slowing your stride as you pass them.
Jack’s quiet laughter follows you across the room. His eyes do, too, as he drinks up every ounce of you and the tiny thing swaddled in your arms. He finds himself getting drunk on a craving he didn’t know he had until that very moment.
Robby’s dark eyes squint. “Why do I have a feeling that you’re mentally siphoning through a bunch of baby names right now?”
“I always liked the name Milo for a boy. And Iris for a girl— but the missus is pretty allergic to pollen, so I’m not sure she’d go for that,” Jack answers without missing a beat, as though the thought had haunted his head at least once before. He only turns to face Robby again once you’re out of view. “What do you think?”
Robby just scoffs out a laugh. “I think you’re screwed, brother.”
Baby Jane Doe is mostly stable, all things considered.
Physically, she’s perfect. She had obviously spent the bulk of her little life being properly cared for. And, if you had to guess, she spent most of the time being held — if her immediate protest at being left in the warmer had anything to say about it. Her breathy whines fill the otherwise silent room as you perform a routine evaluation with practiced hands. You pay little attention to her annoyed cries and slip into teaching mode despite your palpable fatigue.
Emma hovers just behind you, with empathy glittering in her dark doe eyes. “Gosh,” she sighs. “How sad…”
“Eh,” you hum with a lazy shrug. Your gloved fingers lift the hem of her tiny white t-shirt to check for any bruising on her soft, pale skin, or for any other markers that might indicate signs of infection. You ramble on, half-distracted, “If you think about it, this baby got pretty lucky— If it really was abandoned, I mean. Better to be left here than with a family that can’t love it properly, right?”
Emma’s eyes widen at your cynicism. She can’t shake the feeling that you’re speaking from experience as she swallows hard and nods once in response. “Right…”
The door swings open across the room. The noise of the E.D. swells for a brief moment, before muffling when it clicks shut again a second later. Robby steps in first, with Jack following close behind. The former stands on the opposite side of the warmer and keeps his suddenly softened gaze on the cooing baby before him.
Jack migrates to your side the same way he always does — never as close as he’d like to be while on the clock, but never more than a few inches away from you when he can be.
“What are we thinkin’ here, Doc?” he asks.
“Normal pulse. Normal BP,” you rattle off with an air of indifference. “She’s well-hydrated, too. No visible sign of infection, either — though I guess we can’t rule out a benign virus just yet.”
“Do you think she qualifies for Safe Haven?” Emma wonders from Robby’s side.
You shake your head, lips softly jutted. “No. Either this baby is gigantic, or it’s well past the twenty-eight-day mark for Safe Haven. Worse-case scenario at this point is obviously abandonment. She’ll likely be put in foster care after a full evaluation.”
The young girl’s face falls slightly.
You soften despite yourself.
“But,” you add, if only to make her feel a bit better. “Past experience tells me that her parents might’ve just needed a break. Maybe they— I don’t know— stepped out for a cigarette or something. God knows, I’d need one if I had to take care of an alarm clock twenty-four-seven.”
Robby scoffs a weak laugh and shakes his head. “I’ll get Lupe to make an announcement in Chairs. See if anyone’s looking for her— If you’ll excuse me,” he nods with a polite smile down at the squirming baby below before sauntering out of the room.
The baby jerks when the noise of the crowded E.R fills the room again, startled by Dana’s yelling, who seems to be telling off a rowdy patient down the way. Her wet eyes squeeze shut as her gummy mouth opens to bellow a tiny wail. You reach out to comfort the baby, if only to hear less of the thing, with a methodical palm placed against its frail chest.
It whines for a moment before softening with a contented sigh.
“Look at that… You’re good with her,” Jack mumbles, taking a step closer to peer over your shoulder — until you can smell the coffee on his breath and the musky cologne lingering on his skin. A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth as he watches you with glittering eyes. “Told ya you should’ve gone into pedes.”
You flash him an emotionless scowl. “Don’t patronize me,” you scold.
“Have you guys ever thought about having kids?” Emma wonders with a kind smile, having assumed your marital status from your matching last names and golden wedding bands. She cowers instinctively when your eyes turn to her in sync, fearful she might’ve said the wrong thing. “Or is that super rude to ask? I’m sorry—”
“No, it’s not rude at all,” Jack assures her, reaching to wrap his hands around either end of the stethoscope around his neck. It makes his freckled biceps strain against the black sleeves of his scrubs as his silver head swivels slowly to look at you. Something mischievous swims in his blue-green eyes as he lilts, “We’re just… going with the flow. Right, Dr. Abbot?”
You meet his tightlipped grin with a deadpanned look. The two of you agreed long ago that, while neither of you is totally opposed to having children, you’d also be perfectly happy living a completely childfree life.
But instead of getting into all of that with less than an hour left on your grueling shift — in front of the newest addition to the nursing team, no less — you just nod with an artificial smile.
“Right. Yeah,” you say, already inching back towards the door. The baby starts to cry again a second later, in a series of revving whines that lead to a sharp shriek. You flash an apologetic grimace over your shoulder from your place in the doorway. “You guys have fun with… all that.”
You spend the next half hour finishing up your already-completed charting. You reword, backspace, and click occasionally at your mouse — pretending to work to keep from being bothered, though it isn’t quite as foolproof as you would’ve liked. Whitaker rushes your way with one of his interns in tow, sporting a worried sort of glint in his wide puppy dog eyes that he only gets when something’s going wrong.
“Hey… Dr. Abbot. Are you— Are you busy at the moment?”
“Nope,” you answer in a monotone, without looking up from the bright-white computer screen ahead of you. “And I’d very much like to keep it that way.”
“Well, uh…” Whitaker falters, shifting awkwardly on the other side of the desk. “We— We kinda need you. In pedes.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Baby Jane Doe hasn’t stopped crying since you left,” the woman behind him says, standing several inches shorter than the boy and sporting a heavy pair of glasses and a glittering silver septum in her nose.
Your eyes dart toward the stranger — Joy Kwon, MS3, the badge on her chest reads.
“That was, like, twenty minutes ago,” you say with an incredulous twist to your features.
“Exactly,” she deadpans.
You huff and lead the duo the short distance back to the pediatric unit. The crying hits you before you’ve even crossed the threshold — a sharp, unrelenting wail that adds to the headache you’ve been nursing all day.
You find a lanky, blonde-haired man who eerily resembles Whitaker in the vibrantly painted room, though his badge reads James Ogilvie, MS4. The young med student flashes you a wide-eyed look of horror, holding the writhing baby in a visibly awkward hold.
“Please help me,” he pleads.
You don’t bother trying to hide your apathy as you trudge across the room to close the distance between you. You slip the tiny baby back into your hold, where it settles almost instantly, heavying against your chest with another breathy whine. You rock it gingerly in your arms the way you were taught to. Its wet eyes flutter slowly shut as fat tear drops trail down its reddened cheeks.
Whitaker gestures with a dazed smile. “See? Knew it. Total natural.”
You flash the boy a deadpanned look over your shoulder. “Because I’m a woman? That means I’m automatically a natural-born caretaker?”
His light eyes widen with an immediate panic. Joy tries and fails to hide her amused smile as she purses her lips to the side of her mouth. Whitaker, meanwhile, stumbles over himself to get the words out.
“W-What? No! No, not at all! I just—”
“She’s just messing with you, kid.”
Jack’s voice drifts in as he steps through the door, saving the boy from his own stuttered-out apology. He’s perhaps the only one in Pittsburgh who can decipher your usual monotone from your humorous one, which he was only able to master after years of loving you.
“Oh…” Whitaker says, deflating with a relieved sigh, though his pink cheeks are slow to lose their newfound color.
“Go check on Mr. Alvarez for me, will ya?” you tell him, jutting your chin back towards the door. “You know, since I have to take care of… this thing.”
Whitaker leaves and takes his interns with him, who trail after him in line like ducklings. They pass by Jack in the doorway, who peers at you over their heads with a pair of wide eyes.
“This thing?” he scoffs.
You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I’m not getting attached to it.”
“It?!”
You huff and adjust the baby in your arms, with one hand resting on its diapered bottom and your other rubbing gently over its tiny back. You sway gently back and forth, far too sweetly for the following words out of your mouth.
“The entire reason I got into emergency medicine was so I could help people without having to deal with all the— baggage that comes with him.”
“Well, babies don’t have baggage, honey,” Jack laughs as he strolls slowly towards you. “They’re brand new— that’s literally their whole thing.”
“Yeah. That’s because the parents give it to ‘em through… years of psychological torment.”
Jack studies you for a long moment with a pair of squinted eyes. “I think you might be projecting a little bit here…”
“I know I am,” you scoff. “Which is why I’d be a horrible mother. ‘Cause I’d just be a mirror of my mom, and our kid would just be a mirror of me, and it’ll just be a whole cycle of… emotionless, unaffectionate women...”
You trail off with a heavy sigh, lifting your gaze from the calming baby to the man towering over you. You find him wearing a much softer gaze than you expect him to. He tilts his silver head to his shoulder, eyes narrowing and lips curling slowly.
“Our kid?”
Your eyes flick away and back again. “…What?”
“You said our kid,” Jack clarifies with a wider grin.
You roll your eyes at him despite the way your cheeks blaze beneath his unwavering stare. “Well, we are married, you know? Who the hell else would I be having kids with— Robby?”
“God, I hope not— Poor kid,” Jack quips drily before leaning in to press a soft, fleeting kiss to your temple. His silver scruff brushes our delicate skin when he pulls away, far sooner than you would’ve liked. “And, just for the record, I think you’d be an amazing mom.”
Something warm flickers in your chest at his words, like embers stoked suddenly to flame. You recoil physically from the foreign feeling, with a grimace twisting your features.
“Eugh…”
“What?”
You shake your head in response, parting from him to set the now-slumbering baby into the warmer at your side. You lay it gingerly onto the blankets before stepping away with your hands splayed out, as if it had burnt you in some way.
“It got too real for a second there,” you mutter with a look of disgust on your face. “I started feeling all… warm and… and fuzzy— I didn’t like it…”
Jack laughs.
“Yeah, that’s what they call happiness, Dr. Abbot,” he jokes in a gritty deadpan. “And I’m glad you’re finally getting to experience it after three whole years of marriage.”
Jack can’t get the sight of it out of his head. You, in the rocking chair in the corner, with the pedes room dimmed to a dull lamplight, cradling a sleeping baby to your chest and looking half-asleep yourself.
“Thought you weren’t getting attached?” he whispered into the serene silence from his place in the doorway.
“’M not,” you mumbled back, head lolled to your shoulder, eyes half-closed. “‘M just using this as an excuse to shut my eyes for a second.”
Something about it all catches him off guard. Not the baby, exactly — he’s seen a thousand babies before — held them, handed them off, charted them like any other patient in a sea of a hundred different patients. They were always temporary things to him, always someone else’s.
But then he sees you — his future, his eternity — with someone else’s baby tucked to your chest as if it had always been there. You had one hand instinctively supporting the weight of her head while your other smoothed up and down her back. And your voice, often edged with sarcasm dry enough to sand wood, had softened into something warm and low and honeyed. And the seemingly orphaned baby, who could cry loud enough to rattle glass, goes instantly still in your arms like it finds sanctuary in you alone.
It does nothing more than pique his curiosity at first — the idea of having kids with you, of how great a mom you would be — which isn’t a completely rare thought, but one that is typically fleeting. But then the thought lingers. Festers. Settles somewhere in the pit of his chest until he can’t breathe without thinking about it.
By the time you’ve settled in the empty cabin, six hours away from the PTMC, the desire has rooted itself somewhere far deeper than he’d like to admit.
Jack, freshly showered, reclines on the clean sheets of the familiar bed, smelling of detergent and time gone by. The bedroom settles slowly into a lamplit darkness in time with the late night. Fireworks crackle faintly in the distance, in mere echoes rolling across the midnight-colored lake outside. The quiet feels borderline suffocating compared to the never-ending chaos of the E.D.
You move through the space as if you had always been there. Jack watches you from his spot on the bed, which gives him a perfect view of you in the adjacent bathroom.
Your hair is still slightly damp from the shared shower, dripping onto the t-shirt swallowing your body whole. Your bare feet pad softly along the tile as you complete the last steps of your skincare routine; your attention flitting between your reflection in the mirror and the video playing on your phone.
It strikes him somewhere deep — swells from his stomach, to his chest, to his throat, until he gets the very sudden urge to cry.
“Should we have a kid, you think?” Jack blurts, as if the question were as simple as asking you if you wanted pizza for dinner.
You still in place in the golden-lit bathroom. Your fingers freeze on your cheeks, mid-swipe of moisturizer, as you flash him a deadpanned glare from the doorway.
“…Do you hear that?” you wonder in a monotone.
“The sound of my sperm dying?” Jack jokes
“The sound of quiet,” you correct before turning away to continue your work in the mirror. “Which doesn’t exist when you have kids. I mean, think about it— We wouldn’t have even been able to come here today if we had a kid. We wouldn’t be able to do anything.”
“Well, that’s just not true,” Jack scoffs, folding his arms behind his silver curls until his biceps strain beneath the sleeves of his black undershirt; the hem rises just enough to reveal the tuft of light brown-blonde hair trailing down into his sweatpants.
His silver scruff brushes his freckled skin when he turns his head. “Parents take their kids places all the time— or alarm clocks, as you so lovingly called them.”
“Yeah, well, not mine,” you murmur distantly as you chuck your crumpled cotton pads into the bin beside the sink. “They always told me that I was the reason we couldn’t afford to do anything. ‘Cause apparently feed and clothing me was such a burden to them— as if I asked to be here.”
“Your parents were just assholes, babe.”
“The crazy thing is, they were actually pretty nice…” you sigh, bare feet padding softly across the floor as you trudge to bed, plugging your phone into its charger on the nightstand. “Just not to me. Like I ruined them or something.”
Jack’s chest flares with a white-hot warmth that makes his eyes sting. “You know that’s not your fault, right?”
You don’t answer him with words. You just bounce your brows and tilt your head, though he struggles to tell if it’s an agreement or not. He shifts on the mattress when you pull the fluffy comforter down to slide into bed beside him, brows lowered as he keeps his unwavering stare locked on your face.
“Is that why you don’t want kids?” he wonders gently. “Because you think you’ll end up like your parents?”
You scoff, kneeling on the mattress until you settle into place next to his reclined form. “Isn’t everyone terrified of ending up like their parents?”
“Sure, but… You’re nothing like them. I mean, I saw you with that Jane Doe today— You were perfect.”
“Well, you have to say that.”
“No, I don’t,” Jack scoffs. “If I thought any differently, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. But I know you’d be a great mom because I saw that today— Saw the rest of my whole goddamn life in that place…”
He trails off with a faraway look in his eyes.
You watch him with a suspicious glint in yours.
“…You really mean that?” you murmur, halfway shy, picking at pills of cotton on the blanket thrown over your legs. “The part about me… You know, being a good mom, I mean?”
“Of course I do,” Jack laughs like it’s obvious, eyes glittering as he peers up at you. “And it’s not like I expect you to change your mind right now— or ever, if that’s what you want. It’s just… Something to think about, you know?”
“Well…” you tilt your head and trail off with a mischievous sort of lilt in your voice. “They do say the best part of having kids is trying for one.”
Jack grins up at you, brows raised to his hairline. “Do they?” he hums lowly.
“Mhm,” you nod.
“Should we test that theory out, you think?” he teases, all giddy like a teenage boy.
You shrug lazily, t-shirt sleeping off your shoulder, pretending to remain uninterested despite the excitement flaring red-hot in your chest. “Well, what the hell else are we gonna do?”
Something about your indifference makes Jack ravenous. It always has. It makes him feel like he’s got something to prove. And there’s nothing he loves more than watching your mask slip, than watching all your attempts to tease him fade into moans you couldn’t hold back if you tried.
You melt for him first, when his long fingers slide your pretty panties to the side, dragging an orgasm from you with an expert hand — and then further when he presses his mouth to the wet spot in the thin cotton, drinking the honey you leak from him until he licks another twitching orgasm from your buzzing body.
Jack’s wearing your slick down to the silver scruff on his chin when he crawls back up your trembling form, massaging his stiff cock through his boxers. “You’re not too sensitive, are you?” he wonders gently despite the proud smile sitting crooked on his face and the honey still coating his tongue.
Your hips buck on their own accord, chasing a pleasure you’re not entirely sure you can take.
“Fuck a baby into me,” you plead in a half-drunken slurs, etching scratch marks long his back in an attempt to ground yourself. “Wanna make you a daddy, Jack— Want feel you leakin’ outta me…”
“Jesus Christ,” Jack huffs, like you’ve just punched all the air out of his lungs. “You can’t talk like that, baby— I’ll cum before we’ve even started.”
He knows it’s just the previous two orgasms talking, ‘cause you’re still on the pill after all — having a baby now is pretty much out of the equation even if you really wanted to. But Jack isn’t in the business of depriving you of what you want. So he gives you all he has for the time being.
He folds your knees to your chest with a pair of wide, calloused hands, keeping your drooling pussy spread for him as he pierces you slow. The head of his cock, glowing red with need, disappears inside your pulsing confines. His throaty groan entwines with your quiet whimpers as your cunt suckles him further in. Once he’s sheathed fully inside, he stills just against you, with the greying thatch of coarse hair above his cock nestled against your sensitive clit.
“Yeah, you feel that?” Jack croons with a breathy laugh, which turns into a moan when your nails rake down his muscular chest. “You’re so full of me, aren’t you, baby?”
Your heavy head nods lazily against the pillow, eyes bleary and wet with desire. They squeeze shut a second later, when Jack’s hips drag back, until only the head of his cock is left inside you. Then he slides back into you, slow enough that you feel every ridge and vein of his cock, and smiles when your back arches off the mattress.
“I’ll give you a baby one day, honey, I promise,” the man babbles, choppy between his measured thrusts. “Fill you up so much it’ll be leakin’ outta you for days—”
You whine, hips bucking into and away from his cock all at once.
“Yeah, that’s it… I’ll get you all round and full… ’Til you’re walking around the E.D… Showin’ everyone what I did to you— how good I make you feel…”
“Please,” you whine.
“Yeah?” Jack coos sympathetically, beneath the wet schlick, schlick, schlick sound of his thrusts inside you. “That what you want?”
You nod, head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut, though the pathetic “please, please, please”’s continue spilling from your kissed mouth.
“Take it then, baby— Take it.”
He buckles down over you, punching into you with shallow thrusts that slowly start to lose their rhythm. He talks you through every inch of your orgasm, which hits you so hard it makes tears swell in the corners of your eyes.
“That’s it, honey. Let me have it,” he murmurs in your ear as your body starts to twitch beneath his muscular one. “Give me all of it, baby. That’s it.”
Your stomach pools with heat a second later when Jack tenses on top of you, burying his groans in his neck as his jerking cock spits thick ropes of warm cum inside of your pulsing confines. He deflates on top of you when he’s finally spent, sticky body melting with yours, until both of you are melting into the tousled sheets below.
“You okay?” Jack asks through panted breaths, muffled into your sweat-slick neck.
You nod wordlessly, swallowing hard as the high fades, and shoving lazily at his bare shoulder. “Get off— I gotta go to the bathroom,” you huff.
Jack slides off your body and falls heavily onto the other side of the mattress. He watches with lidded eyes as you hurry to the bathroom with your thighs clenched together. You clean yourself up inside and return some minutes later to Jack having wiped himself off and tucking his soft cock back into his grey boxers.
“Do you wanna… talk about all that?” he asks with a knowing squint in his eyes.
“Remind me tomorrow,” you sigh, feet heavy as you trudge back into bed.
Jack scoffs a laugh, knowing you’ll likely tell him the same exact thing tomorrow, and flips off the lamp on the nightstand. The golden bedroom delves into a midnight-blue darkness.
His limbs entwine with yours on nothing short of muscle memory when he slides back into bed with you. His long legs slot with yours beneath the covers as he throws a heavy arm over your stomach, folding his free one beneath his head.
Quiet settles over the dark bedroom like a blanket.
“Actually,” you blurt into the silence, catching Jack right before he falls asleep.
“Yeah?” he mumbles, warm breath fanning over your shoulder.
“It’ll probably take about— I don’t know, three or so days for all the results to come back. You know, for Baby Jane Doe’s workup,” you murmur, half-shy. “And we’ll be back to work by then, so… I was thinking maybe we could… Never mind, it’s stupid.”
Jack lifts his head before you can shrink back into yourself, eyes flitting across your shadowed profile. “No, what is it?”
You roll onto your back to meet his darkened gaze with a far more sheepish one. “Maybe we could take her, you know? Just foster her on an emergency basis until we can find her family. Or someone who can foster her long-term. Like a…”
“A trial run?” Jack finishes for you with an audible grin. “Yeah, that’s definitely one way to pitch it, honey.”
You grimace, hiding your burning face behind your hands. “I told you, it’s stupid,” you whine, muffled behind your palms.
“It’s not stupid,” Jack assures you with a quiet laugh. He pries your hands from your face with gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist. “I think it’s a great idea. We can, you know, taste the waters about the whole baby thing and help a kid in need at the same. Sounds like a win-win to me.”
“Yeah?” you hum with a soft wince.
“Yeah,” he nods. “We can look into it when we get back.”
Your chest swells with a sunshine sort of warmth when he settles back into bed beside you, tossing a muscular arm over you to tuck you back into his bare chest. It’s a pure, unadulterated feeling of overwhelming happiness that weirdly makes you feel like crying. ‘Cause only Jack would agree to foster an abandoned baby you found at work not even a day ago; only Jack would see all of you and still love you completely, for a reason you still can’t name.
“I hate when you’re supportive,” you grouse on instinct as you bury your head back into the pillow, even though you mean the exact opposite.
Jack knows this, too, so he just grins into your hair and jokes, “Yeah, I know. It’s definitely my worst quality.”
summary: when jack abbot runs into you at a bar after your shift on the fourth of july, he teaches you what it means to unwind and you teach him what it means to feel loved again. (6k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity and mel at karaoke, baran al-hashimi
contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, jealousy, age difference, power imbalance, so much yearning, jack abbot hasn't had sex in eight years confirmed cw for mentions of trauma and grief, and smut 18+ (MDNI)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
The bar pulses like a living thing with a heartbeat. The buzzing of a hundred different conversations and the wailing of a distant guitar sting overhead presses hard on either side of you. If you concentrate real hard, you think you can still hear Mel and Trinity butchering another Alanis Morissette song back in the private karaoke room — which isn’t nearly private enough, considering the way their drunken devotion bleeds out into the main hall.
You left them a while ago to order a drink, which melts slowly in the sweaty glass between your fingertips now. You bring it to your lips and try to take a sip, but something in your throat refuses. The taste feels wrong; the burn feels wrong. Actually, the more you think about it, everything feels wrong — like your body is still calibrated to the relentless rhythm of the ER, to the work you can never quite seem to leave behind.
Even now, as your eyes meet your reflection in the mirror behind the liquor bottles, you look like something you don’t quite recognize — dressed in a velvet red number pulled from Trinity Santos’ closet instead of your usual scrubs; with your hair done instead of carelessly shoved back. It’s like looking at a stranger wearing your own face.
“Long time, no see, Doc—” A masculine voice cuts in, so familiar that you wonder if you’ve been thinking about the PTMC so long that you’ve begun to hallucinate your coworkers.
Your head snaps over your shoulder. Your tired eyes widen at the sight of your attending sliding in beside you. Jack Abbot is still donned in his scrubs, you find, as he leans against the bar — black uniform, brown undershirt, and navy pants — like he dressed himself in the dark before he came into work. His freckled biceps strain against the short sleeves as he folds them across the polished wood.
There are two glasses half-full of amber liquid before him. He lifts one in his right hand and eyes you over the top of it. “How long has it been?” he quips with narrowed eyes before taking a quick sip.
You blink away the shock of seeing him here, all casual, like he wasn’t just elbows deep in a trauma with you.
“About…” You lilt and glance at the clock behind the bar. “Half an hour ago, I think?”
His mouth curves with a slow, suspicious smile as his steady gaze refuses to waver. “What are you doing here all by yourself, huh? Gotta hot date I don’t know about?”
You scoff a quiet laugh and turn away, looking down at your untouched glass as you spin it in an anxious hand. “Yeah— If that’s what you wanna call watching Trinity and Mel butcher Alanis Morisette’s entire catalog…”
Your head tilts to your shoulder to flash him a lazy grin, which falters at the edge when you catch his unflinching stare. You clear your throat, remember that you’re talking to an attending, and stammer out, “Uh, what— What about you?”
Jack bounces a lazy shoulder and lifts the glass in his right hand. “This was the nearest place to get a good whiskey, so…” he trails off before taking another sip.
His eyes never leave yours as he peers at you from over the rim of the glass, studying you almost, analyzing you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.
Your nose scrunches in protest of his staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you wonder through a breathless chuckle.
“I don’t know…” he admits, quieter now. “It’s just the first time I’ve seen you out of your scrubs…”
His light eyes flicker over your form again — from your bare shoulders and exposed chest, to where your dress clings to your ass and stomach.
“It’s different…” he hums. “A good different…”
Heat crawls up your neck. You turn away on instinct, finding it very suddenly difficult to meet his stare, as a disbelieving laugh slips from your mouth.
“What are you laughing at?” Jack presses with a chuckle of his own.
“Nothing,” you dismiss with a shake of your head. “I just… I think you might be a little tipsy there, Dr. Abbot…”
“This is only my second glass, I’ll have you know,” he argues, playfully offended. “What? You think I can’t handle my alcohol.”
He straightens slightly and takes a step closer. Still leaving several inches of space between you, though it takes a lot of strength from you not to slide off your bar stool entirely.
“No! I just—” You stumble over yourself as the words tangle on your tongue. “I just feel like you probably wouldn’t be talking to me like this otherwise.”
“I talk to you every day,” he scoffs.
“Well, yeah, but you don’t flirt with me every day.”
His brows raise as something short of amusement flickers across his face. “Oh. So you think I’m flirting with you?”
An awkward silence drops like a leaden weight upon you, like an anvil in one of those ancient cartoons. It knocks the breath out of you accordingly.
“…No,” you answer after a few long moments. “Of course not.”
Your grip tightens on your drink as you turn away from him again. You hardly think twice before bringing it impulsively to your mouth, downing two long sips of the watered-down gin and tonic. Your face screws at the bitter taste and at the burning sensation on your tongue, which turns into a dull sparkle when it settles in the pit of your stomach.
“Well, I was, so…” Jack quips, too casual for his own good. “I guess I’m gonna have to try a little harder now, aren’t I?”
His eyes cut to you, expecting you to laugh at him, or to stammer out another one of your painfully shy replies. You forget to respond entirely, though, too focused on the way the alcohol singes your tongue. (You spend a long moment debating whether or not it’s numb or swelling in your throat with a thousand-yard stare.)
Your silence is not reassuring.
“Unless—” Jack’s voice tightens slightly as he clears his throat. His charming resolve slips as he stammers, “Unless you don’t want me to. Obviously. Then I can just, you know, fuck off—”
“No, it’s not that!” you blurt. “It’s just…”
He leans in, just slightly. “Just what?”
You hesitate for a moment, calculating the words, though they seem to slip off your tingling tongue before you can stop them.
“I feel like I haven’t… learned how to be a real person yet, you know?” you confess with a sheepish, lopsided grin. “Like… People my age are supposed to go out for drinks, and sing karaoke with their friends, and flirt with cute guys—”
You don’t notice your slip-up, but Jack does, and he hides his smile behind his glass.
“But I think I’ve just been working so much that… That I don’t know how to do anything but work, you know?”
“Yeah…” he hums softly. “Trust me. I know the feeling—”
There’s a distant call of his name. A faint “Abbot,” half-swallowed by the thrumming music and surrounding conversation. Your head turns in the direction of the sound to find Dr. Al-Hashimi appearing from the crowd. Her fluffy brown curls are out of their usual clip, languishing now at her shoulders. Her lavender jacket is gone, too, to reveal her lean body beneath her slim scrub top.
You blink owlishly at her for a few moments, unused to the sight of her outside the white walls of the E.D.
“You were supposed to be bringing me a drink,” the woman quips drily, smiling as she reaches for the touched whiskey next to Abbot. “Not holding it hostage.”
“Shit…” Jack exhales. “I’m sorry. I-I got distracted…”
“Dr. Al,” you greet with a waver in your voice. “I… I didn’t know you were here.”
“Yeah, well…” she shrugs. “I heard this was the best place to get a glass of whiskey, so…”
You nod slowly, suddenly unsure of yourself — of what to do with your hands, your voice, with Jack. You swallow hard as your eyes flit wildly between the two attendings standing before you. You struggle to shake the feeling that you’ve interrupted something.
“I’ll, uh— I guess I’ll get out of your hair then…”
You muster an artificial smile and abandon your gin and tonic as you slide off the bar stool.
Jack calls your name, but it gets lost in the crowd that swallows you whole as you disappear out of sight.
You stomach through one and a half more songs that Mel and Trinity shout into the void of the private karaoke room. They take a quick break from “You Oughta Know” to sing a strikingly heartfelt rendition of “Head Over Feet” that very nearly brings a tear to your eye.
It’s not their sloppy singing, exactly, but rather the reminder of how alone you feel just now — the only audience member on the pleather sofa, bathed in the strobing neon glow from the overhead lights, watching the fun from afar while your friends forge an unlikely bond.
While Jack and Dr. Al laugh over drinks together—
You rise abruptly and catch them between verses to tell them you’re heading out for the night. Their protests come wrapped in song.
“But we’re having so much fun!” Trinity whines in drunken slurs, then locks in when the chorus hits. “You’ve already won me over, in spite of me! So don’t be alarmed if I fall, head over feet—!”
The song follows you the entire way out of the bar, where the night air outside washes over you like fine silk. You catch yourself humming the tune as you shrug on the brown bomber jacket you borrowed from Trinity’s closet — just in case you felt the need to hide. You falter when your fingers brush something in the front pocket.
You reach in with a pensive twist to your features, surprised to find a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter shoved inside. You stare at it for several long moments and wonder briefly what it would feel like to smoke one. (You’re unable to shake the impulsive thought from your brain until you’ve done it.)
You pull one cig free and stick the orange filter between your lips. You flick the lighter three times before it finally strikes. You hold your free hand over the flame like they do in the movies and inhale when it finally lights.
You regret it instantly.
Grey smoke billows from your mouth as you cough. You double over on the worn sidewalk like a total loser, eyes watering and chest burning as your lungs rebel against your very poor life choices.
“Those things kill, you know—?” Jack’s voice cuts in again.
(He has a way of finding you in the most embarrassing situations, it seems.)
You blink away the tears in your eyes and turn to find the older man standing just a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. He watches you attentively, with something close to amusement twisting his scruffy face.
“I can tell—” you rasp as your coughing fit ebbs. “There’s no way this is enjoyable for people.”
“Eh,” he shrugs. “It’s not so bad when you get used to it.”
His sneakers scuff the cracked pavement as he saunters over to you, holding his hand out with a glittering look in his eye. “Can I?”
You don’t think twice before passing him the lit cigarette.
“By all means...”
Jack pinches the stick between his thumb and forefinger. He places his mouth around the filter, inhales once, holds the breath, and exhales through his nose a second or more later.
You can’t seem to stop staring at the silver hair on his tilted chin; or the tendons in his corded neck; or the singular vein in his freckled forearm when he snuffs the cigarette out on the brick wall. He drops it into the receptacle there when he’s done.
“So…” He exhales the remaining smoke from his mouth, which leaves in grey wisps that hang in the air between you for a few lingering moments. “I guess you’re headed out now?”
“Yeah…” you sigh. “Guess so…”
He observes the empty sidewalk for a moment before wondering casually, “Want me to walk you home?”
“No, it’s okay,” you shrug. “You’re busy, and I… I only live, like, a block down the road, so—”
“So, then, it’ll be quick?” Jack presses with raised brows.
Your eyes narrow. “…You’re not gonna take no for an answer here, are you?”
Jack shakes his head, lips smoothing into a knowing grin. “Not this time, kid. No.”
The walk back to your place feels borderline suffocating, though you can’t exactly place why. The air is made of thick satin as the heat of the day washes away, leaving something silken and breathable in its wake, as the wind ripples in your dress. Everything smells very distinctly of summer — of dewy grass, and gunpowder from distant fireworks, and the faint sweetness of something that’s just been barbecued.
You can hear the fireworks crackling somewhere in the distance, though you struggle to see them from the buildings overhead. You can feel each thundered boom in your chest, along with the heavy bass of a passing car playing music far too loud as it barrels by.
There’s something oddly peaceful about it. Intimate, even, as your shoulder brushes Jack’s broader one with each step. The silence is not particularly awkward, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should say something. You rack your brain for a conversation starter, and end up blurting out the one thing you didn’t want to say out loud—
“So…” you lilt, tripping over the conversation like a loose wire. “You and Dr. Al…?”
“…Are very good coworkers, yeah,” Jack nods, silver curls turning gold beneath the amber streetlights. He catches your uncertain gaze and shrugs. “She had a tough first day, you know? Figured I’d treat her to a few drinks.”
“That’s nice…” you murmur with an averted gaze.
“It was nothing,” Jack assures you.
Your apartment building comes into view around the corner, painted a garish canary yellow with vivid orange doors, aptly named Sunset Tower. It used to be a motel, you assume from the layout, probably before you were born; and was renovated into an apartment complex likely not too long after you were born.
You don’t think twice before starting up the rusty staircase to your third-floor apartment — not until you notice the slight hitch in Jack’s step as he follows behind you, favoring his prosthetic limb more than he realizes. It must be hurting him, you figure, after being on it for hours at the PTMC.
“Shit,” you huff. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
“Told me about what?” Jack scoffs despite his grimacing as he swings his leg another step. “I can handle a few stairs…”
“I can’t make it up on my own, if you—”
“Hey,” he snaps, a little harsher than he means to, as he glances in your direction. A far-off firework glimmers in your gaze, soft and sympathetic around the edges in a way that makes his chest ache. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me, alright?”
You continue the ascent despite your better judgment, despite the way Jack’s steps lose rhythm just beside you. You catch him stumbling in the corner of your eye when he steps up a beat too early. His prosthetic twists unnaturally, angering the already raging skin of his amputated knee.
You’re at his side without blinking. Your hands reach for his arm, steady him with your fingers cradling his wrist and elbow.
Jack nearly protests, but stops himself short.
You hold onto him the rest of the way up.
Your place is exactly how he imagined it would be — not that he’d been picturing what the inside of your apartment looked like, of course, because he’s not a total creep. He just finds a very apt representation of you wedged with the quaint walls of the old, old building. It’s cluttered but not messy; with numerous blankets and books and potted plants strewn about. There are half-used candles littered on just about every surface, filling the air with a sweet scent of musky-vanilla-raspberry.
The grass green couch pushed against the wall caves under his weight when you ease him down onto it. It smells like a mixture of your perfume and the side of the road you must’ve pulled it from when you moved in.
“Wow…” Jack hums, if only to conceal his wincing as he adjusts himself on the cushion. “Nice place…”
“No, it’s not,” you scoff an awkward laugh and stand to full height above him, adjusting the skirt of your dress from where it had ridden up. “Do you, uh— Need anything?”
“No. I’m good.”
“‘Cause I have some first aid supplies if your prosthetic is bothering you—”
“Really. I’m good,” he echoes. “You don’t mind if I take it off, though, do you?”
“Of course not!” you blurt. “I’ll, um… I’ll go get you some water.”
You scurry the short distance to the kitchen. The hissing faucet pervades the silence as you fill two glasses at the sink, along with the soft clanking of the heavy prosthetic as Jack unscrews it from the limb. You find him massaging the scar when you return.
“Do you— Do you need me to call you an Uber, or…?”
Jack tilts his chin to smile up at you. A playful laugh tumbles from his mouth. “Wow… Trying to get rid of me already, huh?”
Your face floods with horror. “No! O-Of course not! I just— With your leg, I— I don’t want you to walk all the way home, you know?”
“I think I can make it, sweetheart,” he tells you, and only vaguely notices his slip-up. “I just needed a second… Thank you—” He nods in appreciation when you set the water down on the coffee table in front of him.
You keep several inches between you on the sunken couches as you sit gingerly at his side — very palpably tense, like you’re a stranger in your own home. You wring your clammy hands together in your lap as a long silence stretches thin between you.
“And I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to… kick you out. Or anything,” you add, softer now.
“I know, kid,” Jack assures.
“Good…” you breathe a sigh of relief. “‘Cause I— I don’t want you to leave… Wait, that sounded weird— I just meant that… I like your company. I’m not, like, trying to hold you hostage or whatever, I swear.”
Another awkward laugh spills from your mouth.
Jack’s lip quirks with a smile as he sits up straight again. “I wouldn’t mind it if you were, to be honest…” he hums, only halfway joking. “But unfortunately, I do have SWAT early in the morning, so… If you could free me around 6 a.m, that’d be great.”
“Oh, right,” you scoff and bring your water to your mouth. “The side hustle where you get shot at for fun?”
“It’s good to have a hobby,” Jack shrugs and leans back against the sofa, throwing a strong arm around the back of it, as he studies you with narrowed eyes. “What do you do for fun, hm? Outside of work, I mean.”
You think for a long moment, spinning the glass between your fingers. “…I once watched Love Island for thirty-one straight hours. That was pretty fun.”
Jack snorts. “So what I’m hearing is, you don’t have any hobbies?”
“Work is my hobby.”
“So what do you do to… unwind?”
“…Have panic attacks in the supply closet at work,” you confess. “What about you?”
“Get shot at,” Jack quips in the same gritty tone.
“Well, at least you get to do something outside of the E.D…” you monotone with a far-off stare. “This is the first time in months I’ve been somewhere other than here and the PTMC. I mean, I have my groceries delivered now— I’m too boring to even go shopping...”
“What do you mean?” he scoffs. “You’re young— You should be going out every weekend.”
“Well, I don’t…” you huff mournfully and slouch back against the sofa. The thin sleeve of your velvet dress slips off your shoulder, giving Jack a brief glance of the top of your breast before you adjust it back over your collarbone again.
“What about dates?” he presses with his chin to his shoulder. “You don’t go on any of the apps?”
“Well, first of all, no one calls it the apps. And second of all, god no,” you laugh drily, then flash him a sheepish look from the corner of your eye. “What about you?”
“Nah…” Jack shakes his head. “I haven’t been on a date in about… Eight years—”
“Eight years?!” you blurt before he can properly get the words out, leaning forward with wide eyes. “Jesus. How does a guy like you go around without getting hit on for eight whole years?”
(You’re starting to think those three sips of gin from before are getting to you now.)
“Well, it’s a lot easier than you think,” the older man deadpans. ‘Cause it’s not like he was actively avoiding dates; he just wasn’t exactly seeking them out.
He lost the urge to after his wife died, and then, when the urge to live came back around, he’d catch himself flirting every now and then, but never wanting to do much more than that. Then he blinked, and eight years had passed without him noticing.
Eight years with nothing but his own hand to get himself off — though, it only starts to seem pathetic when you look at it that way.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” you scoff. “The last time a guy showed even a modicum of interest in me was… in med school, probably.”
“Okay, well, that’s just not true,” Jack argues. “That vitrectomy patient from earlier definitely had a crush on you.”
Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint. “He was drunk. With half a bottle rocket stuck in his eye. That hardly counts.”
“Well, I’ve had… About a whiskey and a half,” Jack calculates. “Do I still count?”
The air thins in an instant, or maybe his words have just knocked it all straight out of your lungs.
Your skin burns red hot beneath the dress that feels suddenly way too tight, ‘cause you think he must be joking — that taking the piss out of your obvious crush on him is his idea of playing around.
“That’s not funny,” you tell him with a wavering smile.
“I’m not trying to be funny,” the man insists with a scoff. “I haven’t been funny since 1994.”
Another laugh sputters from your mouth. A real one this time — not the fake ones you’ve been giving him just to fill the silence, or to try to seem less nervous than you really are. It makes him smile wider than he probably realizes.
“There you go…” Jack hums with a proud nod.
“There I go, what?”
“You’re unwinding…”
You scoff, still grinning wide despite yourself. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” he hums. “And you’re doing a great job so far— a solid B-minus.”
“B-minus?” you echo. “I’ve had a 4.0 GPA since I was in fourth grade.”
“Well…” Jack shrugs with a knowing grin. “Better step it up then, kid.”
Something inside you tips in that moment. It’s his teasing, maybe, or just the way he’s looking at you. Either way, you catch yourself leaning forward before your brain has properly thought it through. You close the distance between you in a flicker — brushing a chaste kiss to his mouth before pulling away just as fast.
You can feel your pulse pounding in your throat as you quip, “What does that get me?”
Jack blinks for a second, momentarily caught off guard. He fights the urge to lick his lips, to try and actually taste you. “Probably a couple HR violations?” he jokes after a few moments.
Your stomach drops. You find yourself praying that this old couch swallows you whole, or that the world would just end altogether, because even that would be a kinder fate than this.
“Oh. Shit. I-I thought that— I thought we were... Fuck, I totally misread this whole thing—”
You turn away entirely and drop your face in your hands, utterly mortified.
His laughter doesn’t make it any better.
You feel the sofa caving beneath you as Jack shifts to your side. His hands are warm and softly calloused as they cradle your wrists in a firm and gentle grip, urging them downward so he can see your face again. He ducks his head to meet your wet eyes and flashes you a reassuring smile.
“You didn’t misread a damn thing,” he assures you with a shake of his head, voice lower and smoother than honey. “Of course, I want to kiss you— I always want to kiss you.”
The mournful twist in your features never wavers. “Then why don’t you?”
“Because it’d be wrong,” he shrugs. “I’m your attending. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking that I— that I pressured you into something.”
“Well… We both know you didn’t, right?” you argue softly, eyes glittering with hope as they dart back and forth between his. “And, I mean… It’s not like anyone else would have to know. We’re not getting married, we’re just… unwinding. Right?”
“…Yeah,” Jack hums, softer now, with something mischievous squinting his gaze. “Right...”
You’re not making it easy for him.
Jack’s trying not to cum in his pants before you’ve ever even touched him, and you’re making it damn near impossible.
He drags you into his lap when you lean in to kiss him again — for real this time, licking sweetly into his mouth so he can taste you truly — and you knee him right in the thigh before you can straddle him properly. You pull away with a smack when he groans in pain against your mouth.
“Shit…” you pant with his spit still on your lips. “I’m sorry.”
Jack shakes his head until the words catch up to him. “It’s okay,” he assures through uneven breaths, knotting his fingers in your hair to pull you into him once more. He kisses you again, hard, like it’s muscle memory for him — from a life he hasn’t let himself live in a long, long time.
He cradles one hand over the crown of your head and the other just over your spine, where your dress dips down in the back. He keeps your warm weight pressed flush against him while the kiss turns languid and heavy, full of tongue and teeth and spit. You curl your fingers into his greying curls to keep him impossibly close all the while.
You feel his chest hitch with a startled breath beneath you when you grind down over his lap. Your velvet dress rises over your hips from the angle as you move down his thighs and up again — you can feel the ghost of his erection hardening beneath his scrubs with every pass.
There’s a noticeable hesitance in the way you move. It’s not graceful or entirely practiced. It’s laced with a palpable uncertainty, rather, as you struggle to navigate the honeyed moment you’ve stumbled so suddenly into.
And Jack can hardly take it. ‘Cause hasn’t let himself want like this in years; he hasn’t let himself reach out for anything other than his grief or his work. For so long, his life has been defined by restraint and the careful art of not needing anything. And now you’re here, moving clumsily on top of him, completely undoing him.
It hits him all at once, how suddenly sensitive he is, after so long ignoring the touch of another. The friction, the pressure; the smell of you, the taste of you. It’s all too much. He knows he won’t last long if he keeps going this way, so he pulls back.
And he hates himself for it.
“Hey—” He clears his throat when the word comes out a little rough. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His glassy eyes dart back and forth between both of yours as he peers up at you through a layer of honey. “Hey, you… You have condoms, right?”
You blink back at him for a long moment, slightly dazed at the sight of your spit on his rosy mouth. You nod with a stuttered breath. “Uh, yeah. Yeah— I think— Somewhere…”
(There’s an unopened box collecting dust under the sink in the bathroom, but he doesn’t need to know that.)
He mourns your warmth when you slide off his lap, rushing off down the hall with your dress still caught around your hips. The sight of your plain cotton underwear cradling the curve of your ass makes his chest tighten as you disappear down the dim hallway. You toe off your shoes halfway down, and the sound of your padding footsteps echoes in the quiet.
“Jesus Christ…” Jack huffs and slouches further into the couch.
He drags his hands down his face and tries to regulate his breathing, tries to think of anything other than the aching erection in his pants. He stares up at the ceiling and attempts to will his body into something resembling composure when you return.
Your dress has fallen back down over your hips, but the right sleeve is still slipping down your shoulder when you stand before him. You’re not sure what to do with the condom in your hand, so you toss it to him over the coffee table. Jack catches it against his chest.
“Take that dress off…” he tells you with a voice like honey. “I wanna see you.”
You try and fail to reach for the zipper, which Mel had helped you with at Trinity’s place before you left for the bar. So, instead, you worm your arms out of the sleeves and shove the fabric down your hips with trembling hands. It hits the floor around your bare feet with a dull thud, leaving you in a heart-patterned bra you’ve had since high school and a pair of plain pink panties.
You’re hardly a thing worth looking at, really, but Jack didn’t seem to get that memo.
He beckons you forward with heavy eyes. “C’mere…” he murmurs.
You take slow, tentative steps towards him.
His calloused hands are warm and slightly trembling when they curl around the backs of your thighs. He leans in to press his mouth to the silk bow in the middle of your underwear, and his mouth waters at the wet spot gathering in the center of the cotton.
His scruffy chin brushes your stomach when he turns to look up at you, lidded eyes glimmering with a desire you didn’t know you were capable of drawing out of a person.
“I wanna make you cum with my mouth,” Jack murmurs. “Can I?”
You nod wordlessly, and can’t shake the feeling that you’re dreaming when his pointer finger hooks through the hem of your panties. You feel a little cold when he slides the cotton to the side, only for him to press his warm mouth there a second later.
Your knees threaten to buckle when his tongue slots through your silken folds, and Jack doesn’t miss a beat. He braces your ass in one wide hand while his other slips down to the bend of your knee, urging you to prop your foot on the couch beside him. Your moan swells throughout your empty apartment at the new angle, which allows him to lick at your sensitive clit with greater precision.
He forgets to take things slow with you, too busy trying to make up for this time. He drags an orgasm out of you like the world’s soon to end, and the last thing he wants to do on this earth is to taste you on his tongue.
You cum on his mouth with your head tipped back and with your fingers knotted in his hair. He’s wearing your glittering slick down to his chin when he’s done with you.
You fall gracelessly into his lap when your legs turn to jell-o. You straddle his waist, ball his shirt into your fists, and bury your burning face into his neck — still whimpering as your high is slow to ebb.
Jack cradles you against him the entire length of your comedown, running his warm hands up and down your spine. His scruff brushes the delicate skin of your shoulder when he presses a chaste kiss there.
“That wasn’t too much, was it?” he pants into your ear.
You shake your head until the words catch up to you. “No… No, it was— It was good…” you stammer through uneven breaths, and pull just far enough away to meet his eyes. “I wanna ride you now… Is that okay?”
And who is Jack to deny you of a damn thing?
You brace yourself on his shoulder with one hand and use your free one to line his bulbous tip at the entrance of your weeping pussy. His cock drools an embarrassing amount of pearly precum — he can feel it all underneath the condom — and he’s momentarily grateful that you can’t see any of it.
You exhale a wavering, punched-out breath as you sink down over him and take a long moment to get used to the distant stinging sensation.
Jack’s grateful for that, too.
His jaw hardens to choke down the groan that rumbles in the bottom of his throat. He tilts his head against the back of the couch and squeezes his eyes shut to fight away the overwhelming desire to explode entirely. He holds you in place when you try to move again, with fingers that threaten to leave bruises on your thighs.
“You okay?” you pant, eyes darting wildly over the pained twist on his scruffy features.
Jack nods, jaw clenched tight. His words come out half-strangled.
“Yeah, yeah. I just… I wasn’t lying about the whole eight-year thing.” He exhales a hard breath through his nose that’s supposed to be a laugh, though there isn’t really a smile to accompany it. “I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna cum too soon, you know? I wanna— make it good for you. That’s all.”
Your fingers brush over his temple and through his silver curls, in a touch so gentle it nearly makes him cum right then.
“It’s already good for me,” you assure him. “I want it to be good for you, too.”
You grind over him with the same hesitance from before, down his thighs and back again, slowly finding your rhythm. Jack’s hands grip hard at your hips, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He can just barely find the strength to keep his eyes open to watch you chase your orgasm on top of him.
His eyes flit from your blissed-out features to where his cock disappears inside of you. The thatch of curls above his cock glistens with your honey — he can feel it wetting the hem of his scrubs from where they’re shoved beneath his heavy balls. You’re bound to cum just as quickly as he is, no doubt.
He can feel it in the way your pussy flutters around his twitching length — in the way your pacing falters slightly on top of him.
“Nuh-huh. Don’t run away from me,” Jack mutters in your ear as he shifts underneath you, slouching further to hit somewhere deep inside of you. He cradles your head with one hand and grips hard at your ass with another, helping you move on top of him.
Your whine gets buried in his sweat-slick neck.
Jack smiles into your hair. “Yeah. There it is, honey. There you go…”
He feels a little proud of himself when he manages to hold off just long enough to feel you cumming around him, twitching against his chest and tugging hard at his silver curls. He follows right after — going rigid underneath you a second later as his cock jerks wildly within your fluttering confines.
His groan mixes with your whining as you milk him of his orgasm, in a sinful symphony that swells throughout your silent apartment.
Then the room goes quiet, with only the sound of your heavy breathing to fill it. You rise and fall with each of Jack’s panted breaths beneath you. Your limbs are loose and borderline boneless; tension ebbs from your body like an unwinding thread. You think you’d turn into a puddle on top of him without his hands smoothing up and down your back, molding you back together again.
It’s the only way Jack can stay anchored, really — with his hands on you, and with your weight settled on top of him. It’s foreign and familiar all the same: the strange absence of urgency he feels underneath you. The way his body, usually wound tight with panic, dissolves in time with yours. For the first time in eight years, he feels his heartbeat finally steady.
Until a far-off firework rattles the walls and sends the two of you jerking against each other.
The honeyed moment shatters in an instant. Jack holds you tighter when you flinch on top of him, laughing through a grumbling moan as you clench instinctively around his softening cock.
“You okay?” Jack mumbles against you, before pressing a brief kiss to your temple.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you nod, half-breathless, as you pull away from him for the first time in several minutes.
You blink away the haze of your dwindling orgasm while Jack swipes drool from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. You lean instinctively into his palm and exhale a breathless laugh.
“I just… I don’t know what normal people do in this situation…” you confess through uneven pants. “Like, I feel like we should… high-five or something.”
Jack scoffs a tired breath but doesn’t say a word.
There’s a fleeting moment, then, where you worry you’re maybe being too much. Your stomach aches with it, too, because you think your stupid half-joke would’ve ruined the moment for anyone else. Anyone other than Jack. His hand slips from your back and lifts lazily for a high-five without a second thought.
You cage your bottom lip between your teeth and clap your palm against his.
Your breathless laughter fills the quiet apartment.
“We make a good team, don’t we, Doc?” Jack hums with heavy eyes.
“Well, you make a good teacher…” you answer sheepishly, pulling at a rogue thread in his scrub top. “You know, helping me unwind, or whatever…”
“Right, well…” Jack trails off, mouth curling into a sly half-smirk as his eyes narrow into thin slits. Your stomach pools with red-hot warmth once more at the look he gives you, then, and at the words that spill from his lips like honey. “I think I still got a few more lessons in the chamber, sweetheart…”
summary: Jack Abbot was still wearing his wedding ring the night he kissed you at your apartment door. Widowed and still learning how to want something again, Jack turns the best date you’ve had yet and one charged goodnight into something neither of you is ready to walk away from—and for him, wanting you is one thing, but letting himself have you is another entirely.
wc: 5.3k
a/n: I want this man to fuck the mario coins outta me. not beta read.
warnings: piv, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, oral/nipple play, praise/dirty talk, canon widower Jack Abbot, grief, emotional vulnerability, first time, age gap-adjacent vibe, couch sex, spit/tongue kissing, body worship, breast play, established relationship (if a few dates counts)
MASTERLIST
Jack Abbot was still wearing his wedding ring when he kissed you.
It had started innocently enough, if anything involving Jack Abbot could still be called innocent after the last few weeks. A late dinner that turned into drinks after because neither of you had been ready to call it a night. A table tucked into the back corner of a low-lit restaurant where the candles guttered in their glass holders and threw amber light over the lines of his face, catching in the silver at his temples and the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The place smelled like charred citrus and expensive liquor and rain drying off the pavement outside every time somebody opened the front door.
He’d looked unfairly good all night.
Not in a polished, trying-too-hard way. Jack never looked polished. He looked lived-in. Worn in all the places that mattered. Dark button-down with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, broad hands around a whiskey glass, wedding ring still on the finger he never seemed to think about until you caught him turning it once with his thumb when the conversation went quiet. Hair a little mussed by the end of the evening, not styled so much as left alone, with that slightly unruly way it had of falling however it pleased. Tired eyes that missed absolutely nothing. A mouth better suited for dry remarks than pretty ones, which only made it matter more when he said something gentle.
Especially tonight.
Tonight he’d been quieter.
Not cold. Never that. Jack’s silence had texture to it. It had weight. It lived between you in the pauses after a joke, in the way his gaze rested on you a beat too long before he looked down at his drink, in the warm press of his hand at the center of your back when the hostess led you to your table. He listened like he always did—completely, with that unnerving kind of focus that made you feel not just heard but studied—but there had been something else under it tonight, something steadier and darker and impossible not to notice.
Want.
It ran beneath everything like a live wire.
By dessert you’d been so aware of him you could barely taste what was on your plate.
By the second drink you’d stopped pretending not to know what was happening.
By the time you stepped back out onto the sidewalk, the city had gone glossy and dark around you, the street damp from an earlier shower, the air cool enough to wake up the skin at your throat. Traffic hissed past. Somewhere half a block over, music thumped behind a closed door. Jack stood beside you while you got your coat settled, one hand low and brief at your waist to steady the fabric, and that simple touch hit with such clean force you nearly lost the thread of whatever you’d been saying.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
His mouth tilted at one corner, not quite a smile. “You good?”
“Fine,” you said, and heard how unconvincing it sounded.
That earned you a soft exhale through his nose, almost a laugh. “Yeah?”
You should’ve been embarrassed. Instead you found yourself smiling back at him, warm all over and a little breathless in a way the cold air did nothing to fix. “Don’t start.”
“Wasn’t starting anything.”
That was the problem. He hadn’t had to.
The walk to your building wasn’t long, but it felt stretched thin with awareness. Your shoulders brushed once at the crosswalk, then again half a minute later, and the second time neither of you corrected it. His stride was easy despite the slight unevenness that was more apparent on longer walks, a detail you never stared at because you knew he’d hate that, but one you were always aware of all the same. He carried himself with that same unshowy competence he brought to everything—like whatever hurt, whatever history he hauled around with him, none of it got to dictate the terms.
He asked if you’d had a good time in that low voice of his, the one that always seemed to land somewhere below your ribs.
You told him the truth. “I had a really good time.”
His glance flicked to you, then forward again. “Yeah.”
“Just yeah?”
“That was me agreeing.”
You laughed softly. “You’re a real charmer, Abbot.”
“I got you out with me twice, didn’t I?”
“More than twice.”
“Then I’m doing better than I thought.”
It should’ve been easy, that exchange. Light. Harmless. But something in his tone kept it from floating away. He said things dry, understated, almost like he was trying to throw a layer over them before they could mean too much. The trouble was, he meant everything.
At the entrance to your building, he reached past you to get the door before you could, his sleeve brushing your bare wrist. The clean scent of his cologne—cedar, soap, the faintest trace of something smoky—slid through the cool night air and settled into your head. You stepped inside first, and he followed you into the quiet of the lobby, where the overhead lights were dimmer than they ought to have been and the old tile floor clicked faintly under your steps.
Neither of you said much in the elevator.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was the opposite. It was crowded.
He stood beside you with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders loose, looking at the changing numbers over the door like he wasn’t acutely aware of you standing there in a dress he’d spent all evening trying not to stare at. You could feel the heat of him beside you. Feel your own pulse ticking faster with every floor.
When the elevator opened, he let you walk ahead of him down the hall.
At your door, you turned, keys already in hand, and that was where everything slowed down.
There was the hallway, quiet and softly lit.
There was the muffled hum of somebody’s television behind a neighboring wall.
There was the jangle of your keys going still in your hand.
And there was Jack in front of you, close enough now that the details sharpened all at once—the tired set of his eyes, the crease beside his mouth, the shadow at his jaw, the way he looked at you like he’d spent all night being careful and was running out of room to do it.
“Thanks for dinner,” you said, because somebody had to say something.
“Yeah.” His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then came back up. “Anytime.”
He should have left then.
You felt it—the point where the evening could still split into two different endings. One where he kissed your cheek, maybe, or touched your arm and told you to get some sleep. One where he walked back down the hall and the two of you did this again another night, and another after that, stretching the tension until it frayed you both raw.
Instead he stayed where he was.
So did you.
“Jack,” you said quietly.
He inhaled. Held it for half a beat. Let it go.
There was something almost brutal in the restraint of him. He wasn’t a young man fumbling his way into impulse. He wasn’t careless. He looked like somebody standing on the edge of a decision he’d spent a long time refusing to make.
When he finally lifted a hand, he did it slowly enough that you felt every inch of the movement. His knuckles brushed a loose strand of hair back from your cheek. The touch was rougher than it should’ve been, callused, warm. It left your skin tingling in its wake.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he said, voice quiet enough to disappear into the hall, “and I won't trust myself to be a gentleman."
The line should’ve made you laugh. It nearly did. But the way he said it—worn and honest and a little wrecked around the edges—sent a pulse of heat right through you.
“Maybe I don’t need a gentleman tonight.”
Something flickered in his face. Not surprise. Not exactly. More like the last brace of restraint giving under pressure.
He kissed you then.
Not tentative. Not careless either. Just deliberate in a way that made everything in you go still before it all rushed back at once harder than before. His hand moved to the side of your neck, his thumb settling just below your ear, and his mouth covered yours like he’d thought about it too many times not to do it well. There was no rush in it at first. Just heat. A long, deep first taste of him that had your keys slipping against your palm and your free hand catching at the front of his shirt.
He made a sound—low, rough, barely there—and kissed you again like that sound had gotten away from him.
The second one broke something open.
You felt him step in, felt the wall cool against your shoulder blades, felt the shift in him as the carefulness started to burn off. His mouth moved against yours with more urgency now, still controlled, still precise, but the control had stopped being distance. It had become intensity. His hand slid from your neck to your waist and held there, firm enough to make your breath hitch.
When you kissed him back harder, he answered at once, a low sound catching in his throat as his tongue swept into your mouth. The kiss turned deeper, hotter, messier in the span of a breath, all that hard-held restraint giving way to something far more dangerous. You tasted whiskey and heat and the sheer force of how badly he’d been trying not to do exactly this.
That was maybe the most dangerous part of him, the responsiveness. The fact that for all his steadiness, for all the hard-earned discipline in him, he felt everything. Every small shift. Every shaky breath. Every press of your fingers into his shirt.
He pulled back only far enough to look at you.
For a second all you could hear was both of you breathing.
His forehead rested lightly against yours. His eyes stayed closed, then opened. You saw it then, plain as anything—the want, yes, but also the other thing beneath it. The hesitation. The knowledge of what this was.
His hand at your waist tightened once.
“I was trying to take this slow,” he said.
You swallowed. “Maybe slow is overrated.”
That almost-smile touched his mouth and disappeared again. “You say that now.”
“I mean it now.”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, not speaking. You knew enough about him by then to understand that silence wasn’t emptiness with him. It was effort. It was him sorting through what he was willing to say, what he was willing to let you see.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Lower. Stripped down.
“You have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”
The truth in it went through you even faster than the question itself.
You could have made a joke. Could have eased the pressure, given both of you an out. Instead you said, just as quiet, “Probably the same thing you’ve been doing to me.”
His eyes shut briefly, as if that landed harder than he’d expected.
When he opened them again, there was less distance in them than you’d ever seen.
“I haven’t…” He stopped, jaw working once. Started again. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”
Not dramatic. Not overexplained. He didn’t say her. Didn’t say wife. Didn’t have to.
The history was there all the same, a shadow laid carefully at your feet.
Something in your chest ached.
Your hand came up to his face almost without thinking, palm against the rough warmth of his cheek. He leaned into it before he could stop himself. Just a little. But enough.
“I know,” you said.
He let out a breath that might have been a laugh in a different mood. “Do you?”
“I know this isn’t casual for you.”
“No,” he said, and there was nothing dry in his voice now. “It’s not.”
The hallway seemed to narrow around you.
You could feel the next moment waiting. Could feel the choice still sitting there between you, changed now but not gone.
Jack stepped back a fraction, not far enough to leave, just enough to give you room if you wanted it. His hand slid from your waist but didn’t leave you entirely, fingertips skimming your side once on the way down.
“Tell me to go home,” he said. “I’ll go.”
The generosity of that nearly undid you.
He meant it. Even like this. Even with his mouth still pink from kissing you, his breathing heavier than before, his whole body carrying the strain of holding himself in check. He would go if you asked. He would walk away from this and take it with him.
You fumbled the key against the lock on the first try and heard the tiny metallic rattle it made. Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand. Then lifted slowly back to your face.
“Jack,” you said, opening the door. “Come inside.”
The look he gave you then was enough to make your knees go weak.
Not triumph. Nothing so easy. Something deeper, denser, almost disbelieving in its intensity.
The door swung inward. You stepped back into the apartment, and he followed you in.
The click of the door shutting behind him sounded louder than it should have.
Everything changed with that sound.
The apartment was dim except for the lamp you’d left on in the living room before the date, its warm light spilling across the hardwood floor and the books stacked on the coffee table and the throw blanket half-fallen from the couch. Familiar space, ordinary space. Except not anymore. Not with him standing just inside the door, shoulders squared beneath the dark shirt, looking at you like crossing that small distance had cost him something real.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then Jack dragged a hand over the back of his neck and gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Christ.”
“What?”
He looked around once, like he needed somewhere to put the force of what he was feeling and found nowhere for it to go. Then he looked at you again.
“You ask me in here,” he said, “I’m not leaving anytime soon.”
Heat bloomed low and hard in your stomach.
“Good.”
That did it.
He crossed the room in two steps and kissed you again, not careful this time. Still controlled—he would always be controlled, even like this—but no longer pretending he wasn’t half out of his mind with wanting you. His hands found your waist, then your back, then settled hard at your hips as he walked you backward until the backs of your knees met the couch. He stopped there only long enough to look at you, chest rising under your palms, eyes dark and fixed on your face like he was giving himself one last second to think better of this.
Then he kissed you again.
Deep. Hot. Devastatingly thorough.
His mouth slanted over yours with enough force to make your breath catch, and when you opened for him, he took full advantage, tongue sweeping into your mouth in a way that felt far filthier than it should have, all heat and intent and hard-won control fraying at the edges. A wrecked sound broke from him when you clutched at his shirt, and he answered by pulling you closer, one hand spread wide at the small of your back, the other still locked around your hip like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. The kiss went molten in seconds—slow nowhere, urgent everywhere—until the room, the lamp, the whole apartment blurred at the edges and there was nothing left but the drag of his mouth on yours, the press of his body crowding you into the couch, and the staggering relief of finally being touched by him the way he’d clearly been denying himself all night.
This close, you could see the tiny shifts in him. The effort. The disbelief. The sheer force of everything he’d spent the whole evening packing down until it had nowhere left to go.
“Still want this?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I want this.”
His eyes held yours another second, confirming, grounding, making sure.
He kissed you again, slower this time, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened back up for him. The sound he made was low, almost pained, and it undulated through you. His hand slid from your back to your hip, his fingers pressing into the curve there, pulling you closer until you felt the hard line of his erection against you stomach.
He didn’t lay you back against the couch, instead turning you both, sitting first then pulling you into his lap so you straddled him. The position was intimate, decisive. Your dress rode up your thighs, the worn microfiber of the couch scratchy against your bare skin.
His hands settled on your hips, holding you there. He looked up at you, his eyes dark in the lamplight. The grey at his temples was silver now. He was studying your face, reading every shift, every breath.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He reached for the first button on his own shirt. His fingers, usually so steady, fumbled for a second. He got it open. Then the next. He pushed the fabric apart, revealing the taut plane of his chest, a dusting of dark hair. He didn’t remove the shirt, just left it hanging open.
His hands returned to you, sliding up your sides, over the dress. He found the hem. Gripped it. Lifted it slowly up your body. The cool air touched your stomach, your ribs. He pulled it over your head, letting it fall somewhere behind the couch. You sat before him in just your bra and panties, exposed in the soft light.
He didn’t move for a long moment. His gaze traveled over you—the slope of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts above the lace, the softness of your stomach. It wasn’t a leer. It was an inventory. A remembering.
“Christ,” he breathed, the word full of awe.
He leaned forward and put his mouth on the skin between your breasts. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. You felt the scrape of his teeth, the wet stroke of his tongue. Your back arched, a silent plea.
His hands went to the clasp of your bra. It gave way. He peeled the lace down your arms, letting your breasts spill free. His control was a visible thing, a tightness in his jaw as he looked at you. Then he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.
You cried out. His tongue was rough, his suction relentless. He lavished one breast, then the other, until the peaks were hard and wet and aching. His free hand cupped the weight of you, his thumb circling the neglected peak, and the dual sensation made your thighs clamp around his hips.
“Please,” you heard yourself say, not knowing what you were asking for.
He understood. His hand slid down your stomach, over the front of your plain cotton panties. They were already damp. He pressed the heel of his hand against you, and you rocked into the pressure.
“Is this okay?” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot.
“Yes. God, yes.”
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drew them down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, and then you were bare, straddling him, his open shirt the only fabric between you. The head of his cock, trapped within his dress pants, pressed insistently against your damp heat.
He looked down between your bodies, watching as your wetness darkened the fine wool of his pants. A muscle in his cheek jumped. He brought his hand back, his fingers glistening now with your arousal. He didn’t break eye contact as he brought those fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean.
The groan that left him was raw, unfiltered, your name leaving his lips in a breathy exhale.
His hand returned to your, his fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit. He circled it once, twice, a slow, maddening tease. Then he pushed two fingers inside you.
You gasped, your head falling back. He was deep, his knuckles pressed against you. He curled his fingers, searching, and brushed a spot that made your vision blur. A wet, squelching sound filled the quiet room as he began to move his hand, a slow, thorough fuck with his fingers.
“You’re so wet,” he said, his voice wrecked. “So fucking wet for me.”
He added a third finger, stretching you, and the fullness was exquisite. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing in tight circles in time with the thrust of his hand. The coil in your belly pulled tight, too fast, too soon.
“I’m close,” you warned, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open, met his gaze. His face was a mask of intense concentration, his eyes locked on yours as he worked you with his hand. He saw the exact moment you started to come. Your cunt clenched rhythmically around his fingers, a pulsing, milking grip, and a broken sound tore from your throat. He kept his hand moving, drawing the orgasm out until you were shuddering and limp against him.
He slowly withdrew his fingers, slick and shining. He brought them to his mouth again, his eyes holding yours, and licked them clean with a slow drag of his tongue.
“My turn,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
His hands tightened on your hips, lifting you just enough. The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet room.
He freed himself, his cock springing hard and thick against his stomach. The head was flushed dark, already drooling pre-come. He guided you with a firm pressure, the tip of him nudging against your soaked entrance.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice strained.
You dragged your eyes from where your bodies met, finding his. His gaze was locked on yours, unblinking, as he began to lower you.
The first inch was a stretch, a slow, burning fullness that made you gasp. He stopped, his whole body rigid, letting you adjust. His breath shuddered out.
“Okay?”
You nodded, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “More.”
He lowered you further, another excruciating inch, and the wet, tight slide drew a groan from deep in his chest. He was thick, filling you completely, and the sensation was overwhelming. You felt every vein, every pulse.
He didn’t move, just held you there, impaled on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. A fine tremor ran through his arms. His forehead dropped to your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin.
Your name was a broken moniker on his tongue.
He lifted his head, his eyes glassy. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking you cheekbone. Then he kissed you, deep and slow, his tongue mirroring the join of your bodies below.
He began to move you. His hands on your hips set a deliberate, rocking rhythm, lifting you almost off him before pulling you back down. The drag was exquisite, a wet, slick friction that made you whimper into his mouth.
The sound of your bodies repeatedly meeting was obscene—a steady, squelching slap of skin on skin, your wetness coating him with every rise and fall. He broke the kiss to watch, his eyes dark with a kind of ravaged hunger.
“See that?” he rasped, his gaze fixed on where he disappeared into you. “See how you take me?”
You looked down. The sight of his length, glistening with your arousal, sliding in and out of your swollen flesh, made you clench around him. He groaned, his hips jerking up to meet your next descent.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Just like that. Keep squeezing me.”
His control was fraying. The measured lifts became more urgent, his thrusts upward harder, deeper. The couch creaked beneath you both. He found an angle that made you cry out, a spot that sent sparks up your spine.
“There?” he gritted out, chasing it.
“Yes—yes. Right there.”
He hammered into that spot, his rhythm turning relentless. The wet slap of your bodies filled the room. Sweat gleamed on his chest. His open shirt was damp, sticking to his skin.
You felt the coil tightening again, a fierce, fast build. “Jack, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Come on my cock.”
It shattered you. Your cunt clamped down in rhythmic pulses, milking him, and you sobbed his name as the waves tore through you. He watched you fall apart, his expression one of awe and agony.
His own release followed, triggered by your clenching heat. He drove up into you one last, deep time and held there, his body bowing against yours. A guttural sound ripped from his throat as he emptied himself, pulse after hot pulse filling you. You felt the warmth spread deep inside.
He collapsed back against the couch, taking you with him, still joined. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close. His heart hammered against you ear. His breath was ragged in your hair.
When the both of you finally came apart, it was slowly, reluctantly, like neither of you was quite ready to break the spell of it. You stayed where you were for another minute, straddling his lap, foreheads nearly touching, both of you breathing hard, before you shifted off him and onto the cushion beside him, legs unsteady and skin still warm everywhere he’d touched.
The apartment felt quieter than it had before, though nothing outside had changed. The same distant traffic moved below the windows. The same lamp burned in the corner, casting soft gold over the room. Somewhere in the building, plumbing knocked faintly in the walls. But inside the cocoon of your living room—couch cushions displaced, throw blanket dragged half to the floor, both of you breathing easier now—everything had settled into that strange, suspended calm that only came after something long anticipated had finally happened.
Jack sat at the edge of the couch for a moment, elbows on his knees, one hand covering his mouth while he caught his breath.
The sight of him undid you in a wholly different way than before.
Hair a mess now. Shirt hanging open, damp with sweat and pasted to his skin. Head bowed slightly, broad back rising and falling, the hard lines of him softened not by weakness but by exhaustion, by release, by the fact that he wasn’t trying to be anything except exactly what he was. When he finally lowered his hand, he stared down at the floor for a beat, then scrubbed both palms over his face.
You smiled despite yourself. “You okay?”
His laugh was short and rough. “Ask me in ten minutes.”
“Bad sign?”
He turned his head to look at you then, and something in his face gentled so completely it made your chest tighten. “No,” he said. “Pretty much the opposite.”
You shifted closer, pulling the blanket up over yourself. He noticed at once and reached for the edge of it automatically, tucking it around your legs with absentminded affection before leaning back into the couch. The movement was so instinctive, so quietly caring, that it hit even harder than it should have.
Jack looked tired.
Not in the everyday way you’d seen before, not the end-of-shift version of him with that brittle edge to it. This was different. Looser. A little stunned, maybe. As though some locked room inside him had finally been opened and he wasn’t yet sure what all the fresh air in it was going to do.
You touched his arm. “You got real quiet.”
“That surprises you?”
“No.” Your fingertips traced once over the coarss hair on his forearm. “Just trying to figure out if I should be nervous.”
His brows drew together faintly, and he turned more fully toward you. “About what?”
“That you regret it.”
The answer came so fast it was almost sharp. “No.”
You believed him immediately.
Not because he’d said it quickly. Because of how he’d said it. Clean. Certain. Like the idea itself offended him.
Jack exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment to where your hand still rested on him. When he spoke again, his voice had gone softer.
“I don’t regret you.”
The simplicity of it made it land harder than anything more elaborate could have.
He was quiet another second, then added, “I think maybe I’m trying to catch up to the fact that this was a terrible idea.”
Your heart sank for exactly half a beat.
Then his mouth twitched.
“Terrible,” he repeated, “because now I’m not gonna be able to think about much else.”
You laughed, relief bright and immediate, and he finally smiled properly—small, tired, devastating.
“There he is,” you murmured.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
He shook his head, but there was no argument in it. Only that faint lingering disbelief, like he still couldn’t quite accept that this night belonged to him now too.
For a while you sat there in the warm quiet, tucked against his side, his arm along the back of the couch behind you. Not rushing. Not filling the silence for the sake of it. It was one of the things you had learned fastest with Jack: the right kind of quiet could be its own form of closeness.
At length, he tipped his head back against the cushions and looked at the ceiling.
“I should probably go,” he said, without sounding like he meant it.
You angled your face up toward him. “You should?”
“No.”
“Good.”
That drew a softer laugh from him. He turned then, lifting a hand to brush his thumb over your cheekbone, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it almost made you stop breathing. His eyes searched yours for a moment, not guarded now exactly, but open in a way that felt rarer than anything else he could have given you.
He looked less haunted like this.
Not healed. Not transformed. Nothing that false. Jack Abbot was still Jack Abbot—still a man built from long nights and hard choices and grief he carried with practiced silence. But some of the strain had eased from his face. Some old brace had loosened.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
You went without hesitation, folding into him, his arm coming around you with a firmness that made the whole world outside the apartment feel irrelevant. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then rested his cheek there, and the intimacy of that nearly outmatched everything that had come before.
No performance in it. No seduction. Just the truth of him.
After a minute, you felt his mouth move against your hair.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
He sighed, caught. “I said this date got out of hand.”
You smiled into his chest. “In the best way.”
“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Yeah.”
The room was warm. The lamp cast everything in honey-colored light. Outside, a siren wailed somewhere far off and then faded, taking the city back with it. Jack’s hand moved once, slow and absent over your back, then stilled there as though he’d found where he wanted it.
If you’d looked up just then, you thought you might have seen it plainly on his face—the knowledge settling in, undeniable now.
Not that he’d wanted you.
That part had been obvious for weeks.
No, the more dangerous thing.
That he was already in much deeper than he’d ever meant to be.
Series Summary:
Jack came back to Boston shattered. His leg was gone, and he was dumped by his girlfriend, who was unable to handle his new reality. Suddenly... he’s alone, grieving the life he thought he’d return to, and wondering if he's even fit to be a doctor anymore. And then he meets you...his annoyingly persistent physical therapist who refuses to let his bad attitude scare you off.
Warnings: Smut (18+MDNI), slow burn, language, mutual pining, flirting, sexual tension, medical trauma, mentions of war, angst, family dysfunction, mentions of infidelity (not between reader and jack), any additional warning will be listed in each chapter
A/N: This idea is stuck in my head. I sort of teased this story when I described how Jack met his wife in this one-shot. I view this as the prequel, and it will be told between two major timelines:
2016 - The "present" time in this story
2006 - When you and Jack meet
content warnings: 18+!!!! Gets quite smutty, fluffy, jack abbot invented YEARNING, age gap!!!, no use of Y/N
notes: i know this one sounds kinda depressing but i promise its fun and funny and flirty and it’s my favorite one ive ever written!! also debating on making an ao3 account - should i?
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack Abbot was unfortunately intimately familiar with the 5 Stages of Grief. Depression, Bargaining, Denial, Anger, Acceptance.
He grieved his leg at the ripe age of 31 - courtesy of an IED in the desert of Afghanistan.
He began grieving his late wife the following year at 32 - courtesy of an arrogant, misogynistic emergency medicine resident.
At 33, he grieved the life he thought he was going to have while he started a new one. No longer a husband, but a widow. No longer an army medic, but an Emergency Room attending at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Sometimes when he would come back to the empty home he bought at 34, the ghosts of that life were louder than any silence he thought he could drown out with the police scanner.
Jack Abbot knew the 5 Stages of Grief like the back of his hand.
In hindsight, he didn’t know how he didn't realize the 5 stages in which he fell in love with her were quite similar. A mirror of his grief refracted through a lens of unconditional love.
depression
If someone would have asked Jack at the time, he wouldn't have admitted he was depressed. He truly didn't think he was.
He didn't need therapy to deal with his trauma. His wife passed away a decade ago. His leg, or lack thereof, the constant reminder of the time he gave up while he had her on this earth - was physically healed. As much as it was going to be anyways. So therefore he was mentally healed. As much as he thought he was going to ever be anyways.
He'd been running on autopilot. It carried him from but mostly to the emergency room at PTMC. It's what made him stop at the unfamiliar sight of Gloria in his ED. This was why he didn't work the day shift. He never wanted to deal with all of the bureaucratic administrative bullshit. The only business Jack Abbot was ever interested in was the one of saving lives. Gloria hadn't even opened her mouth and Jack already knew that Robby was going to owe him one.
"Dr Abbot! Wonderful timing. I have a residency interview waiting in Robby's office for you."
Now Robby really owed him one. "Doesn't Robby usually..." Jack scratched at the back of his neck, still confused as to why Gloria had involved herself, and now him, in a residency interview, "...facilitate those?"
Gloria gave a curt nod before glancing around them, as if checking to make sure they would not be overheard. She lowered her voice as she spoke, "Yes but I specifically scheduled this one when I knew you were covering. She is the best candidate we have ever had and probably ever will. I cannot risk Robby running her off."
Right. The Adamson of it all. There was a joke in there somewhere about Jack being considered the stable one in the ED. He guessed he must be. He had become fairly good at presenting an even keeled, calm front. He still had kind of felt like a mess in every other area of his life but the ED was the one place he was the furthest from one. It's where he solved the mess instead of becoming it.
She shoved a printed resume into Jack's hands before she was off. Back up to her ivory tower. He took a look as he strode over to Robby's office. Full ride to Stanford for both her undergraduate and medical degree.
For once, he agreed with Gloria. What the hell did this candidate want to do with PTMC?
He asked her as much as he sat across the desk from her, brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. Residency interviews usually went one of two ways. The candidate was either far too cocky or so nervous they barely got a complete sentence out.
She struck the balance. She was confident. More so than some of his residents who had been out on the floor that day. She wore a dark gray wool sweater and maxi skirt set. The monochrome was only cut by the deep maroon of her belt, tights, heels, and purse. Her long hair was slicked back into a simple pony tail and her makeup was minimal, if any.
It wasn't the typical look of a medical student on a residency interview. Still completely appropriate, but far less stuffy and much more self assured.
Jack wouldn't know good style if it had slapped him in the face but he did know what hers revealed to him about herself. It was the kind of style that someone who knew who they were had. Who had spent time getting to know what they liked. Whether it was what they were reading, listening to, watching, or doing. Her style wasn’t an afterthought but she carried it with a quiet confidence that let everyone know she was not overcompensating for anything either.
It was a demeanor and style that was derivative of having a life outside of medicine - which was quite uncommon for medical students and residents alike. It was completely foreign to Jack. It intrigued him. She intrigued him.
Her body language was relaxed but respectful. One leg crossed over the other as she leaned back into the wooden chair that was probably older than she was, hands clasped in her lap. Jack doubted her heart rate had reached over 65 the whole time she had been in there.
She took a beat to answer his question which also intrigued Jack. She was not rushing to answer just to fill space. She seemed to be comfortable with the time silence gave her to craft intentional responses. Why PTMC?
A ghost of a smile that looked like it might be haunted by one appeared on her face, "My family is here."
"That's it?"
"Do you want the practiced professional answer that every other interviewer has gotten or do you want the real one?"
Jack bit back a grin at her bluntness. Ignored the stirring in his stomach that made him feel special that she may share something about herself with him that she hadn't with anyone else. He tells himself to Get. A. Grip.
"I am sure the absolute best residencies in the country are foaming at the mouth to land you and you want to come here because of your family? Give me the real reason." He let his smirk slip through as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, "I'm a captive audience after all."
The airy laugh that he got out of her almost knocked him out of his seat. What was wrong with him? He had a feeling she didn't just hand out a laugh as ethereal as that one. That she was not the kind of woman who just giggled because it was the part of the conversation where she'd been socialized to appease the man speaking that he was funny. She seemed far too smart for that. For probably everyone in the building. For him, especially.
"I have already been away in California for eight years. I could have fifty years left with my dad and my brothers and my sister in laws and my nieces and nephews or they could be gone next week," she uncrossed and recrossed her legs before continuing. Didn't rush before speaking again, "I don't want to build an unguaranteed future alone and then have no one to share it with when I get there. I wanna spend time with them now."
Jack's adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His eyes burned as he fought to hold back tears. It must have been some kind of cruel joke that right then his phantom limb pain wanted to shoot up through his thigh. Like a reminder of the time he spent wasting while he had his wife alive.
He had joined the army to become a doctor debt free. Then he had spent all of their marriage overseas, saving money for a life they never even got to spend together. He had borrowed time from the future that didn't even exist. And all he had to show for it was ironically - more money - monthly life insurance, disability, and veteran affairs checks. Oh and one and a half legs.
He blinked rapidly. He was not about to cry at work. Nevertheless while he was conducting a residency interview. He diverted the conversation away from himself, "You didn't mention your mom."
"She died. When I was a teenager, about ten years ago. After coming here actually," She coughed out a dry laugh that sounded like she dragged it up through her throat, kicking and screaming. Awfully different to the one Jack had floated out of her moments prior, "She was pregnant and they sent her away without so much as a full consultation. Just chalked her symptoms up to pregnancy and she died from an aortic dissection later that night."
Jack wanted to vomit at the almost exact recountance of how his wife had died. He was so focused on not emptying his breakfast onto Robby's desk that a tear slipped - the first in probably years.
"Oh, Dr Abbot. I didn't mean to make you emotional. I can go back to the professional answer any time you want." Another scoffed laugh, her eyes full of compassion but no tears, "Trust me - it's probably easier for both of us."
Jack really never talked about his late wife anymore. He liked to tell himself he was healed. He most definitely didn't talk about it at work. But he found himself wanting to then - with her, "No it's just - my late wife - she died the same way, about a decade ago. I was away on a stupid bachelor party trip and she didn't want to worry me so she didn't call me about it and then she, uh, never called again."
"Jesus - I am so sorry, Dr Abbot."
He noticed, appreciated, the way her head didn't tip and her eye contact didn't waver. She was not expressing her condolences out of pity or not understanding but of exactly the opposite. She knew exactly how he felt. He ignored the way his heart jumped out of his chest at the thought.
God, Robby really owed him one.
"Thank you - I am sorry about your mom. I am just impressed you still wanna work here. I could never work in the hospital that did that to my wife. The couple years after she passed - I could barely work here."
"Well, the other option was becoming one of those weirdos who swears off doctors and hospitals and science."
Jack tilted his chin at her in consideration, rubbed at the scruff there, and let out a sputtering laugh, "Are you sure that is the only other option?"
He pulled another light chuckle from her and he exhaled. Truly exhaled. For the first time in maybe ten years - like he had been underwater for so long he had forgotten what fresh air felt like.
"This is my way of letting her live on through me. To do something about what happened to her rather than using it as an excuse to sulk through life. I wanna see life as something that comes from me and not at me."
She picked at the lining of her purse that was perched in her lap. The first sign of potentially any nerves. The first time he realized that he was getting the true her. Not the front she must put up for interviews. It didn't seem much different - just a little more vulnerable.
Jack could talk. So much so he had a reputation for it in the ED. He was no stranger to being on the receiving end of a 'God do you ever shutup?' so he was a bit stunned that she had managed to shock him into silence.
He hugged his crossed arms closer to his chest as if that was even possible and just stared.
She cracked a smile, back to what was seemingly her calm and confident self, "Too esoteric for a residency interview?"
"Oh no. Not at all. I just..." Jack couldn't seem to find the right words to tell her that she had just reframed his entire outlook on his life and his grief in one sentence so he settled on, "...I uh never really thought of it that way."
"Me neither. But I have an excellent therapist."
"I will have you know, if you choose to do your residency here, I do not make it a habit of trauma dumping on my residents like I did on you today."
"I think I started that, Dr Abbot. But since I made you cry - does that mean I am in?"
That earned a genuine cackle out of Jack. A cackle. A kind of sound he wasn't even sure he was capable of making anymore but the bright, beaming smile she reciprocated made him want to do it for the rest of his life.
Maybe he owed Robby one.
Jack tried not to think about her as he got the old laptop down from his hallway closet later that night. He may never even see her again. He ignored the fact that that thought made him sick to his stomach.
Tried not to think about how Gloria had never ever personally been the residency candidate welcome committee until today while he googled 'Veteran, disabled, widower therapists near me'.
He tried not to think about how she looked the best anyone has ever looked in that emergency department as he murmured to himself, "God, that's a depressing search."
He tried not to think about how she had the most beautifully intriguing brain of anyone who had ever stepped foot into that hospital, potentially his entire life, as he booked his very first therapy appointment.
bargaining
"Remember when you told me you didn't make it a habit of trauma dumping on your residents?"
Jack didn't even have to look at her to know there was a huge smirk plastered on her face. She had been his resident for a little over a year. Although, it had taken much less time for the ribbing to start.
"Telling you about how Shen won't stop calling me 'Unc'," Jack had put air quotes around the Gen Z slang term as he continued, "is not trauma dumping."
"You seem pretty traumatized by it. You've only brought it up 85 times this shift."
"And to think - I was gonna ask you to a research breakfast after this." Jack nudged his shoulder gently with hers, tried his best to stave off the grin that played on his lips.
"And to think! You're going to anyway, old man." She nudged him right back, a little less gentle causing him to turn his shoulders and gaze towards her, feigning shock and offense.
That got the exact reaction he was fishing for - a big bright smile, loud laugh, and a second or so more of eye contact that he wouldn't have had a reason to justify otherwise.
What can he say? When it came to her - he was greedy.
"You two! I would prefer to get the hand off completed before you're both back on shift tonight. I swear you're like young and dumb medical students after shift sometimes." Dana chastised them but not without a hint of a smile.
Dana had known Jack for over ten years at this point. Seen him in a lot of different moods; but never as happy as this.
"Well, I'm young." She emphasized the 'I' with a smirk and pointed the finger that she had aimed at herself over at Jack, "He is just being dumb."
Jack barked a laugh. A sound that was no longer so foreign to him. No longer so foreign to everyone else in the ED.
He didn't miss the knowing glance Dana shot his way, a grin fighting to appear on both of their faces. He did his best to give Dana a look that said that he wasn't hopelessly infatuated with his resident. That he enjoyed spending time with each of his residents equally. He was not entirely sure he convinced Dana. He wasn't even good at convincing himself.
He could take her to breakfast if it was to help her with her research. It was most definitely not to see how many times he could pull a laugh from her. Bonus points if he got a nose scrunch or an accidental spit take of the orange juice that was already half way down her throat.
He could bring her a coffee every shift if it was to ensure his best resident was energized for her shift. It was not because of the way she looked up at him with her bright, big eyes through her lashes and said "Thank you, Dr Abbot!" like it was some sort of melody. If he started buying coffee for Dr Ellis and Dr Shen as well to make his affection less obvious - what was the difference?
He could let her do a pericardiocentesis way before anyone else her year probably should have if it was to improve her education. And because she truly was ready. He'd have bet his entire career that she was better at it than all of the surgical residents upstairs. Which meant it wasn't so totally obvious that he was staring at her in awe all of the time. Because when she was doing shit like that - everyone was. Being able to guide her hands through a procedure was just a bonus. Even if there were latex gloves between them.
He could bring extra food to shift, knowing she was going to eat half of it, if it was because he wanted to ensure his best resident was properly fueled and empowered to do her job to the best of her ability. He kept it to himself that he drove to a grocery store thirty minutes out of his way to get the specific kind of candy he knew she liked.
He could drive her home if it was to ensure his smartest resident got home safe. It was totally not because he got to spend more time with her. He definitely didn't take the long way to her apartment and he went exactly the speed limit because that was what was safe. Not because it meant extra time with her. No one else needed to know that he went at least fifteen over when she wasn't in his passenger seat.
No one also needed to know that he bought an aux cord just for her because he loved to hear what kinds of songs she liked. He definitely didn't have a playlist compiled of them all that he listened to at home now instead of his police scanner.
denial
She had been his resident for a bit over two years now and the ED was Q word tonight. No one had said it but the combined time they had all spent fucking around at the hub proved it.
Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night. He thought he was being inconspicuous about the amount of time he had been spending with Javadi but his new found interest in the social media app gave him away. Jack couldn't really say anything to his new junior attending about the dangers of falling for someone that you were the superior to without blowing up his own soft spot for a certain resident.
So Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night and he had roped her in.
Jack thought he knew all of her secret talents by now but he watched from behind her, amused and hands tugging at his stethoscope looped behind his neck, as Shen played various Britney Spears songs to see how quickly she could guess them.
She hadn't needed more than 3 seconds for any of them.
Then they were busy for an hour or so. A couple drunk twenty somethings with some concussions and laceration repairs - nothing too crazy. And then they were back at central. The quiet was interrupted by a gasp from Dr Shen. Which was quickly followed by Dr Ellis looking over his shoulder at his phone and then both of them dying laughing.
"I don't even want to know." Jack threw his hands up in surrender.
"Oh, yes you do! You're going viral for being hot!" Shen exclaimed.
"I don't know what viral means if it’s not to do with an infection and I already know that I’m hot thank you very much." Jack didn't even glance up from his charting as he spoke.
“For being hot and being hopelessly in love.” Ellis clarified.
That got Jack's attention. He got up, snatched Shen's phone out of his hand as he muttered, “I am not hopelessly -" he didn't even want to give the accusation a real denial to validate it, "-let me see that.” He pressed play.
It was ironic that he had been telling himself he needed to start schooling his expressions when it came to her when the same dopey smile and enamored eyes he had going in the video were on his face as he watched the video.
He knew Shen and Ellis were monitoring his reaction closely but he couldn't help but let out a laugh at the part of the video where he had guessed the song 'Lucky' before she had.
She had whipped around in the spinning chair so fast - her hair had stuck to her glossed lips, "How the hell do you know that?!" she asked surprised, a wide smile taking over her face.
Jack shuffled around in his wide stance, large hands going from the ends of his stethoscope to clasped behind his back, his chin tilted up at her as he spoke with a drawl, "I let you play your music when I drive you home, don’t I?”
In the moment, Jack had missed what was caught on camera - the knowing smirk Dr Ellis had leveled at Dr Shen off camera as she said, “Oh, I’m sure you do.”
Jack's rebuttal hadn't even had a chance to leave his mouth before Shen and Ellis were reading the comments aloud, taking turns as they went.
"WHOOOO DAT IN THE BACK!?"
"Paging Doctor biceps in the back"
"Close enough. Welcome back Lexie grey and mark sloan"
"What in the greys anatomy"
"Do the two doctor sexys know that age gap august is upon us"
"If she doesn’t wanna bite on his biceps I will"
"Does that girl know she has 30mins to claim that man before I do"
"He does not play about her!"
"A man who YEARNS is a man who EARNS"
"Dr sexy is down bad for the other doctor sexy"
"Where is this emergency room at … for research purposes"
"I want Doctor sexy to look at me like that"
"Okay, I don’t look at her like anything!" Jack hissed low in a whisper, hoping to a god he did not believe in that she was still busy with the drunk college kids and was not hearing any of this.
"Well, you definitely don’t look at me like that." Shen laughed, sucking on his Dunkin straw even though nothing had been left in his cup for hours.
"I look at you all the same." Jack deadpanned. He sat back down at his computer. An attempt to get back to charting. But not before taking a sweep of the ED and making sure she was nowhere within earshot. Not that Shen and Ellis were making it easy with their hysterics.
"Bro - if you looked at me like that I would call HR. She's just into it."
“Into what?" She asked monotonically, not even looking up from her iPad as she approached the rest of the night shift crew at the hub.
“Nothing!” Jack barely got out, grumbling and exasperatedly running a hand through his silver curls as he got up from his computer and went to chairs.
He didn't miss the raise in her brows as she looked at Shen and Ellis, silently asking 'What the hell is up with him?'.
He couldn't tell you the last time he voluntarily went out to chairs but he was hoping his fair Irish skin would be finished betraying him with the pinkness in his cheeks, ears, and neck by the time he made his way back to central.
He knew it was only a matter of time before Shen and Ellis showed her the video and he did not want to be there when they did.
So he missed the flush in her cheeks, ears, and neck that had been identical to his.
And her slightly embarrassed, definitely exaggerated, "You guys stop - he is literally our boss."
"But you're not not into it?" Ellis had pushed. If anyone was getting it out of her, it was Ellis. They had been attached at the hip since their residency began.
"It doesn't matter if I'm into it. He is our boss! He is not into it."
"God, for someone so smart you are so stupid sometimes."
Jack had waved Shen off when Shen had come out to chairs to tell him about that interaction, practically vibrating with excitement. Or maybe that was the caffeine. Jack had parroted her, tried to make a joke of it all. Said something along the lines of, "I know you guys like to pretend otherwise but I am your boss."
But once Jack was home, black out shades drawn and snug in his bed, he couldn't wipe the huge, stupid grin off of his face.
anger
Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. Very few things on this earth made him genuinely angry - one of them being the annual hospital gala. Every year they were trotted out as show ponies to raise money that the ED would never even see. You can't save patients with empty compliments and an open bar.
He had managed to avoid it the past couple years - always worked instead. So when he saw he wasn't scheduled to work the night of this year's gala, he printed out the schedule and marched right over to Robby's workstation to rectify what was surely a mistake.
"Why am I not scheduled to work tomorrow? I didn't even check the schedule until now because I just assumed that my friend would do me a solid because he owes me one-"
"Because you have to go to the gala, man." Robby interrupted Jack's rambling.
"What part of 'you owe me one' did you not understand?"
"Did you happen to see who else is not scheduled?"
Neither of them had to say anything for them both to know who's name Jack was scanning that piece of paper for.
Robby clapped him on the back, satisfied with a smile on his face as he walked away, "Go home and rest, Romeo. You got a big date tomorrow night - you’re welcome!"
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
So again, Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. But he had decided to add a new line item to the short list of things that made his blood absolutely boil. The thing being every single young, conventionally attractive, rich, tall surgeon working in his hospital hitting on his resident at this stupid fucking gala.
They hadn't even made it to dinner yet and he was sure she'd been approached over ten times. Jack had to step away after the most recent one - under the guise of getting a drink.
Jack unfortunately was very familiar with this particular suitor of hers. She was well into her last year of her residency and it had not been an uncommon occurrence for Dr Harvard from cardio thoracic surgery to make any and every excuse to come down and consult when she was on shift.
Jack made a conscious effort to forget his name. Shen and Ellis loved to remind him of it.
They'd tease him about it. They'd say that there was a plus side to it all. They never had to wait long on a cardiac surgery consultation anymore. But selfishly, Jack would wait fucking years if it meant he was chatting her ear off instead of Mr Harvard.
Jack wasn't naive. She was practically glowing. She always was. She always looked beautiful. Before tonight, he basically only ever saw her with no makeup on, hair a mess, wearing hospital issued scrubs and he still thought she was the most gorgeous person alive.
But tonight. Tonight, Jack was surprised he did not end up as a patient in his ED the first moment he had laid eyes on her. Her hair was carefully curled, framing her perfect face that was painted with just the right amount of makeup. Her lashes were more prominent than usual, her cheeks more flushed and her lips a bit more pink and a lot more glossy.
And then her dress. That damn dress. It was vintage because of course it was. Of course, she found time to vintage shop on top of the grueling hours she put in at the ED. Even in her last year of residency, she had never lost sight of being her own person both in and outside of work.
The dress reminded Jack of something from the prohibition era - celebratory. He was trying not to be so obvious in his celebration of how the structured seams of the powder blue silk created a corset shape that wasn't too tight for a work function but definitely was tight enough to have his imagination wandering.
With delicate lace panels towards the bottom of her dress and the swooping off the shoulder neckline with draped cap sleeves - Jack was being a sap but she looked like she had stepped out of a romance movie. Or off of a runway.
It was the kind of dress that reminded him of when they first met. He loved getting glimpses of her like this. Of who she was outside of the ED.
She had said she found the dress at a second hand shop on consignment. After that he had spent most of their evening dreaming about what it would be like to hold her hand and watch her shop.
Get to see the process of how she selected what she liked. Get to bring her hand up to his lips and kiss it - knowing that he was one of those things that she liked. Maybe even loved. And of course, buy everything her gaze lingered on even when she insisted not to. Especially then.
So Jack was not naive. He knew she was absolutely, positively stunning. He knew even beyond that - she was kind and funny and fucking whip smart. Smarter than anyone he had ever met and in so many different ways. If he could move into her brain - he would. So he was not naive enough to think other men wouldn't flirt with her. They would be fools not to. He just wished he could be the reason they wouldn't.
He sipped his old fashioned and did his best to pretend like he was looking anywhere but at her and Mr Harvard. He can't imagine that he was very successful. A ding from his phone took him out of his misery.
From Shen: Yo - i know you hate that gala shit. Kinda bogus robby made you go. Thought you guys were friends. Anyway, can you come help? Ellis has got a hot date. Or so she says
Jack had never been more thankful to receive a weird text from Shen in his life. He replied with a quick 'On my way' before taking one last glance over at her.
He sighed at the sight of her digging through her purse for something. He couldn’t see her expression but he sure could see Mr Harvard's. Dude couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. Jack wished he could do it for him.
Okay chill, he reminded himself. As much as he wanted to, he figured it would be rude to interrupt her to say goodbye. She probably didn’t want her old attending cock blocking her anyways.
Jack set his half finished drink on the bar counter along with a $20 tip and turned on his good heel. He had his hands on the cold metal of the event venue's door when he heard his favorite voice behind him.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Jack turned to see her and the sight made him melt. Arms crossed over her chest, brow furrowed, and lips in a stern line that was slowly slipping into a pout.
"Shen and Ellis need a cover."
"And when were you planning on telling me?" Her hands moved to her hips. Jack's hands flexed at his sides. All he wanted to do was kiss the sass out of her. But he couldn't. She was still his resident. And probably not even interested in him.
"You seemed busy. We haven’t even eaten dinner yet." Jack's response earned an eye roll out of her.
Before he could even blink, her arm threaded under his own - grabbing his bicep, "I'm coming with you."
Who was Jack to argue with that?
"How'd you get out of your conversation with Mr Harvard?"
Another dramatic eye roll. He loved it. Then the prettiest little smile he had ever seen.
"Told him my mean, scary boss said we had to leave."
He couldn't decide his opinion regarding the short walk to his SUV in handicapped parking. One part of him was thankful. He wouldn't be shocked if he had burnt holes in his suit jacket from the way his skin had heated up under her feather light touch. The blush was sure to creep up into his cheeks any moment now.
On the other hand, he could walk for miles if it meant she was touching him the whole way. She stopped at his passenger car door and turned to look at him.
"Mean, scary boss huh?" was all Jack could get out while he was under her gaze. It sounded like he had dragged his words through gravel on their way out. But with the way her eyes still shone in the moonlight and the fact that they were solely trained on his own - he was lucky he managed to get any words out at all.
"The scariest." she winked. She fucking winked. Jack had never been more thankful that he had metal for a leg because if he didn't - his legs were sure to have wobbled out from beneath him right then.
His hands were stuffed into his slack pockets. He didn't trust himself for them to be anywhere else. Her hands had given him a moment of reprieve. No longer lightly squeezing his bicep. But now they trailed up his chest, stopping to pretend to fix his tie even though Jack knew it was perfect. Military habit. Didn't matter - she could do whatever the hell she wanted if it involved touching him.
His breath hitched at her touch. He hoped she didn't notice.
"He cleans up nice though - makes up for all the mean and scary."
"Did your mean, scary boss mention you look beautiful tonight." Jack kept his hands in his pockets but took an experimental step forward. Was this really happening? Was she really hitting on him?
It was almost as if she had heard his inner monologue. Wanted to make her intentions clear as she looped her arms around Jack's neck and absentmindedly threaded her fingers through the curls at the nape there.
Ever since she had started fiddling with his suit, her eyes had dropped to anywhere but his face. Typical Jack would have dipped his head, forced eye contact but Jack right now was just trying to stand up right.
Her gaze snapped to him and this time he hadn't even tried to hide the palpitation in his heart or his breathing, "No." was all she said. Barely a whisper but Jack heard her loud and clear.
His hands immediately fell to her hips. He filed away the way she seemed to sink into his grip. Exhaled a little. Like it was muscle memory from a past life.
Her fingers circled their way higher up onto his head, fully tugging on his curls and lightly scratching at his scalp. Jack had to bite back a groan as he squeezed at her hips and pressed her fully back onto his unopened car door.
"Jack." She murmured out low somewhere between a moan and an airy breath, head tilted back in pleasure at the pressure of his fingers on her hips. Jack was fucked now that he knew what his name sounded like falling off her lips without inhibition.
The expanse of her neck now available to him was like a siren song. The past four years had felt like a siren song and he couldn't help himself any longer. One of his hands found the back of her head, gently cradling it back up for her to look at him. His other hand rubbed at her jaw in sweeping strokes of his thumb.
Neither of them could rip their gaze from the others' lips - their panting chests just a mere centimeter apart. He was finally going to do it. He was finally going to kiss her.
Until he wasn't.
Until a loud bang of the door opening broke them apart. A slew of hospital administrators spilled out behind it looking for their next smoke break. Had Jack mentioned that he fucking hated the annual hospital gala?
They flew off each other at what would have been a rather impressive speed if it hadn't felt so agonizing. What was Jack thinking? That he could make out with his resident against his car like they were a horny teenage couple while all of the people in the building a few feet away from them could have her fired for it in a heartbeat? He had to be better. At least until her residency was over with.
He had to get it together - for the both of them it seemed like. Jack cleared his throat and ran a hand over his stubble to hide the smile threatening to take over his face at the realization that she had wanted to kiss him. The way she had said his name with so much...want. Need, even. Maybe this thing wasn't so one sided after all.
He got out of his own head just in time to stop her closing of the passenger door. He wrapped his hand around the top of the door, held it open and waited for her to look up at him after she had buckled up. But the buckle clicked and her gaze stayed trained on her lap.
"Hey." He whispered softly. They both knew the eye contact he was seeking. She slowly turned her head in his direction, gazing up at where he was standing in front of her.
"You look absolutely breathtaking. You always do."
She sucked in a breath and then there she was - big bright smile, shoulders no longer slumped, no more fiddling with her purse strings just to avoid the space between them. She was back to herself.
"Just for that I'll order pizza to the hospital." His favorite.
"Thank you." He probably should have shut the door by now. Should have probably already been on their way to the hospital. But he couldn't stop fucking staring at her. What's new?
"Don't thank me. I still have your card in my DoorDash account." She giggled and all Jack could get out was good before he shut her door.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
They ate their pizza in their gown and tux at the hub with Ellis and Shen.
Ellis raised the polaroid camera that Dana kept at the hub desk and signaled for them to get together for a photo. Jack hooked two fingers under her rolling stool and tugged her over into his side.
"Woah! Old man still has moves!"
Jack ignored Shen as he wrapped his arm over her collarbone from behind her, pulling her closer. Her head instinctively leaned toward his and her fingers delicately held his wrist as they smiled for Ellis's camera.
Jack didn't miss the look Ellis had given her. Maybe he was delusional or maybe she had gotten her best friend Ellis's advice on making a move on her attending at the gala and now Ellis was checking in on the results.
Jack also didn't miss the way her cheeks heated up and the subtle shake of her head at Ellis. As if to signal that they would talk about it later. Probably, when Jack was out of earshot.
Shen tried to get them to pose like they were going to prom. When they both refused citing unprofessionalism, Shen threw a bit of a hissy fit. Mumbling something along the lines of "Oh, now we are being professional!"
Ellis settled on writing ‘Gala Girlies' as the caption for their polaroid before taping it onto the hub counter with the rest of the pictures that had accumulated over the years. This one was definitely Jack's new favorite.
He knew exactly what Robby was going to say when he saw it tomorrow morning, “You owe me one, brother."
He was so fucked.
acceptance
Jack was bored. He never thought he'd say that but this hospital without her was straight up boring with a capital B. He worked here without her for ten years and now - the ten days of PTO she had taken before her first day as a junior attending - felt like the longest of his life. And he was only on day 6.
He wasn't even supposed to be there right now. He had come in after a Tactical EMS job gone bad. His buddy had already gone up to surgery. Before Jack could leave, Robby had roped Jack into joining him on the new day shift attending, Dr Al-Hashimi's, welcome tour.
He was waiting on a text from her. She was spending the day with her family and then she and Jack were supposed to go watch the fireworks together - alone. It was the Fourth of July after all. He had it all planned. He had practiced how he was going to profess his feelings to her in the mirror like a dork more times than he cared to admit. He had long accepted that he was in love with his resident. Now his colleague. He could work with that.
He checked his phone again. No luck. He ignored Robby's inquisitive glance. Jack had never been so interested in his phone like he had been today.
They stood at the hub as Robby droned on and on about day shift procedures that Jack was so thankful not to have to know too much about. Jack just admired the polaroids on the desk in front of them. He was still plotting a way to inconspicuously steal the one of him and her from the gala for his wallet but it had become a fan favorite in the past few months.
Dr Al-Hashimi directed her next question to Jack, pulling him out of his thoughts. She held up his second favorite polaroid with a raised brow, "Am I going to have the pleasure of meeting..." Dr Al-Hashimi squinted to read the writing below the picture, "...Abbot's Angels?"
Jack couldn't help but laugh. The photo had been taken over a year ago. Shen had begged him to take it. Handed the camera over to Jack as he maneuvered himself between the two girls. Both her and Ellis's backs to Shen. All three of them holding up finger guns to their lips with faux serious expressions.
As if her ears were ringing, Dr Ellis appeared behind Jack at the hub. Clapping him on the shoulder and extending a hand out to greet Dr Al-Hashimi, "Don't bring it up to him. He is going through withdrawals because his favorite is still out on PTO."
"Parker - I do not have favorites. You guys aren't even my residents anymore." Jack muttered in defense as he checked his phone again.
Dr Al-Hashimi clocked him, "Dr Abbot - I am good to go here and I am sure I will be seeing you. You should go. It's your day off and a holiday. I am sure you have plans."
"Yeah, what are your plans, Dr Abbot?" Ellis teased. She must have known her best friend's plans were with him for the night. Ellis was enjoying herself. Jack shot her a glare.
"I think his plans just showed up!" Robby clapped his hands together, sputtered out a laugh at the coincidence.
"Brother - I am not taking another case! I am leav-" Jack looked up from unscrewing his water bottle to follow Robby's gaze.
He spotted her mid sip and he genuinely choked on his water in a way he thought only happened in cartoons. He was ready to send Ellis out to chairs when she patted his back like she was burping a baby and suggested that there was a cooling room in North 5 if he needed it.
She was simply glowing. Wavy hair, bright eyes, sun kissed skin donning a short jean skirt and a white halter tank top that accentuated the tan lines over her collarbones left by her bikini.
"Well if it isn’t the prodigal princess of the pitt herself!" Robby goaded, grabbing a clip board and rounding the hub.
The man she was pushing in the wheelchair piped up at that, "You guys actually call her that? Seriously? I thought she was making that up. Please stop - her ego is big enough as it is."
"What do you got?" Robby asked. Jack was still staring. Who the fuck was this guy?
"Idiot male. 37 years old. Broke his ankle trying to relive his glory days coaching youth soccer practice," She was leaned over, pushing the wheelchair with all her might, "and could stand to lose a few pounds."
That pulls an almost relieved huff from Jack. Whoever this guy was - she must've not been that fond of him.
"Hey -" the man reached behind him and tugged on her hair "-my arms still work!"
Oh hell no, Jack thought. Ellis must have noticed he was about to step in and she stopped him before he could, "At ease, soldier. That is her brother."
"Well your brain clearly doesn't" she whacked him right upside the head.
Her brother imitated her, high pitched while she made a show of dramatically handing over his wheelchair to Robby so he could take him away for X-rays.
She thanked Robby as she made her way over to the hub, introducing herself to Dr Al-Hashimi and grabbing the bag of candy that Jack was offering out to her.
She looked him up and down and nodded her head at his camouflage pants, "Really? What is with the GI Jack get up? I thought you were gonna get a hobby.”
"And I thought you said you were gonna stop stealing my food."
"And I thought you said you were gonna stop buying t-shirts one size too small."
"From Walmart." Dr Ellis added.
"You guys, I told you - I do not shop at Walmart."
She giggled and gently nudged her shoulder into Ellis's, "Oh yeah Parker, how could we forget? He shops at Costco!"
"They send good coupons in the mail!" Jack defended himself
"Bro - you're a disabled, widowed veteran who makes more than half a million dollars a year. I think you can afford real clothes." Ellis deadpanned.
“Any other comments from the fashion police about my outfit?”
“Don’t threaten us with a good time.”
Jack cocked his head towards her, smirk widening. He couldn't hide how happy he was to see her. It had been a long couple of days, "And to think I was just starting to miss you."
"Just starting to!?" She raised her eyebrows in challenge, feigning offense while her eyes practically sparkled up at him. He could feel the weight of Ellis's knowing smile on them. He didn't care.
He was debating how obvious it would be for him to pull her into a hug until Dana beat him to it.
"Dr Al, you have just met one of our finest," Dana squeezed her harder, "Except you probably won't see her much because Abbot is always hogging her on nights."
She was released from Dana's grip just enough to clap a light hand on Jack's shoulder, giving him a squeeze, "He needs someone to keep him sharp in his old age."
Jack grimaced the second her hand had made contact with his shoulder and dread washed over her face. Dana fully released her now. Letting her turn all of her attention onto Jack.
“Jack…”
“I’m fine.” He avoided her probing stare and that was exactly how she knew he was not fine.
“Really?” She asked - not buying what he was selling.
“Yes!" She applied light pressure on his shoulder again and he wriggled out of her grasp with a sharp and hissed, "- ah!”
“The room right there is open. Go patch him up.” Dana pointed to the room across the hall. Shooing them in there before Jack had a chance to protest.
Jack sat on the bed as she shut the door and pulled the curtain. Her back was still turned to him as she said, "Take off your shirt."
"At least let me take you to dinner first." Jack tried to pull a laugh from her. It didn't go over well.
"Jack." She warned. Now turned toward him with her arms crossed, “What happened?”
“I was intubating in open fire and a bullet grazed my vest. I’m fine.” He shrugged as he pulled off his shirt. As if what he just said was a completely normal and frequent occurrence.
“You were shot!?” She hurried over to him, standing in between his legs as he sat on the bed.
“Shot…at."
She tilted her head at him in annoyance. Pausing her opening of the various utensils she was preparing to clean his wound.
“What?” He asked.
“Can’t you just take up tennis or golf or literally anything else? Like a normal person?”
“What fun would that be?” Jack insisted upon keeping it light. She shouldn't ever have to worry about him. That was his job.
She lathered some kind of ointment onto his open wound that was on the front of his chest, right above his collar bone. Jack was too distracted by how close they were to care and see what kind.
“There is nothing fun about me coming to work one day and finding out you’re dead because you wanted an adrenaline rush.”
“That isn’t gonna happen.”
“You don’t know that. You think you’re invincible and you’re not.”
“Is that an old joke?”
“Jack-“ her voice cracked and Jack was immediately on his feet, cupping her face in his hands.
“Woah, woah honey okay - I thought we were kidding. I’m fine.” He cooed, one hand stroked her cheek bone making sure not one tear fell while the other steadied her at her hip as she stood between his legs.
“Look at me." He tilted his chin down while he tilted hers up, holding her gaze with his own, "I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere."
“I won’t survive you dying, Jack. I can't.” Her voice sounded wrecked as her chin wobbled. Jack felt horribly responsible. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Naturally, like they had been in this position a million times before. He murmured into the side of her hair, “Okay forget the SWAT thing. Although, you should’ve seen me earlier in my full uniform I looked pretty sick”
Jack huffed a sigh of relief as he felt her laugh vibrate through him. He pulled her back with his hands on her shoulders to get another good look at her, "There's my girl."
She wiped a sniffle with the back of her hand and lightly pushed him back down to a seat. His hands never left her. Just slid down her body until he rested them on the outsides of her upper thighs - a safe distance away from the hem of her jean skirt.
She worked in silence for a moment until Jack piped back up, “I’ll pick up tennis or golf like a normal person. I promise.”
“You don’t have to do that, Jack. I just want you to have a little more regard for your life okay? Can you please just do that for me?”
“I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for you.” Jack didn't even think that was an exaggeration.
“Except for wearing the correct size shirt.”
He teasingly pinched her leg and she swatted at his good shoulder, laughing. She was done helping him but they hadn't moved. Neither of them really wanted to.
“That’s for you too. Don’t think I don’t see you staring at my biceps.”
Her eyebrows rose in faux surprise as she dragged a hand down his freckled arm.
“Oh you wanna talk about staring? I must have picked that up from someone.”
“This is a teaching hospital.”
“Could’ve mistaken it for a staring one.”
“Come on - you’re always performing medical miracles while looking like that. I can’t help it. Cut a guy some slack.” Jack's hands felt like they were on fire, practically kneading her thighs. God, she really had to wear this skirt today of all days.
“You’re a flirt, you know that?”
“Only with you.”
They had about a second to jump apart at the sound of a knock on the door before the curtain was pulled back to reveal Dr Al-Hashimi.
Jack rubbed at the back of his neck. Both him and her were looking anywhere but each other. Jack wasn't planning on getting excited but he was thankful he had placed his shirt over his lap to cover himself now that they were no longer alone.
Dr Al-Hashimi cleared her throat, obviously picking up on the fact that she had interrupted something, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.”
Dr Al-Hashimi handed Jack a piece of paper and then turned to her, "You have a visitor from cardio thoracic surgery outside."
Jack groaned. Could Mr Harvard have any worse timing? She shot Jack a glare and stepped outside. Jack could see the shadow of Mr Harvard who he knew was down here pretending he'd have something to do with her brother's ankle surgery just to flirt.
He caught the end of her dismissing Mr Harvard's valiant attempt at being her knight in shining armor. Jack smiled to himself as he made his way back to the hub to catch up with her. He was explaining a procedure to Whitaker as he walked, "You're gonna have to start with your finger. And then slowly over a few minutes as the wetness gathers, go deeper. All the way to the back of the knuckle."
Whitaker nodded in understanding and was on his merry way. She turned right on Jack the second he was in her vicinity.
"What the hell is your problem?!"
"Problem?" Jack asked, genuinely perplexed.
Her voice pitched down, she whispered, "Why do you have to say everything so unnecessarily slutty? You wanna ask Whitaker out too!?"
Now that - Jack was not expecting. He quirked his eyebrow up in surprise. Also in confusion.
"Ask Whitaker out? What are you-"
He was cut off by a little girl screaming her name and running right into her arms, "Look! Look! Your work is on my new soccer jersey!"
The girl couldn't be older than five. Jack recognized the little girl as her niece from photos she had shown him. He noticed who must have been her sister in law a few feet away, talking to Robby presumably about discharge instructions for her brother as he awaited surgery that he would probably have next week once the swelling went down.
"What are you talking about? Lemme see that." She plucked the jersey from her niece and examined the PTMC logo on it.
Jack knew his cheeks were ruby red. He could see the gears in her head putting it all together as she stared at the small jersey with the ironed on PTMC ED patch. A couple weeks ago, she had told him offhandedly that her niece's soccer league was going to get cancelled since they had no sponsor. So Jack called up the park district and paid for it himself. Under the guise it was the PTMC ED. It was no big deal. If her niece was happy, she was happy.
She put her niece down next to her on the ground as her eyes looked up to Jack, softening, "We don't have the budget for this."
"I know. But I do."
She opened her mouth to say something but her niece cut her off, climbing into her dad's lap on his wheelchair as he, her sister in law, and Robby joined them at the hub, "Auntie, is this Dr Sexy?"
Jack's lips immediatley preened, quirking up into an amused smirk, Dr Ellis and Robby doubled over in laughter.
"No baby - this is Dr Abbot." She tried to recover, her eyes blown wide, mouth agape and her cheeks beet red. She couldn't even look at Jack.
"But you always call him Dr Sexy when you are talking to mommy. What does sexy mean?"
"OKAY-" she said loudly, still looking anywhere but at Jack. She turned her gaze on her brother as she clapped her hands together, "-it is time for you all to leave."
"Only if Dr Sexy walks us out." Her brother teased.
She groaned, putting her head in her hands as Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She hid in the crook of his neck, "I am getting a new job."
"Oh no you're not."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack met her at her car after he helped her family to theirs. “Dr Sexy, huh?”
“Shut up. I'm trying to be annoyed with you and you’re making it damn hard”
“Why are you annoyed with me?” Jack steadied himself with a wide stance, crossed his arms over his chest as she turned to look at him, leaning against her car door.
“Seriously?"
Jack just raised his eyebrows back at her in question.
She mirrored his stance, crossed arms over chest, "So you go on dates now?”
“What are you talking about? Is this about tonight? If you don't want to go anymore we don't have to-”
She imitated him and Dr Al-Hashimi from earlier, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.” She emphasized the word.
Jack rubbed his hand over his face, stopping at his scruff and trying to mask the smirk that was threatening to take over his face, “Are you…jealous?”
She scoffed, trying to sound nonchalant but Jack knew her too well for that, “Me? Jealous? No, Jack I just think it’s wildly inappropriate. This is our workplace.”
“Well that’s a damn shame because I didn’t ask Dr Al on a date. I’m setting her up on one. With my army buddy actually."
Her lips formed a barely there oh, "Well…now I just feel like a bitch."
Jack laughed and stepped closer, shaking his head in refute to her statement. He let his hands find purchase on her car, caging her in.
His voice came out far more groveled than expected, "But I’ve been wanting to ask you on a date for going on, oh I don’t know almost five years now, but if you think it’s so wildly inappropri-"
“I don’t!”
“You dont? But I thought-“
He earned himself an eyeroll and a stern, “Jack.”
“You just said-" He couldn't help the huge grin spreading across his face.
“I know what I said.”
“So - let me get this straight - it’s only wildly inappropriate if it’s a date with anyone but you? Is that stated somewhere in the HR handbook or-”
"God, do you ever shutup?" And then her lips were on his.
His whole body felt like it was on fire. Her hands on each side of his face, his squeezing at her hips and pressing her up against the car. Just like that night at the gala. Except this time he actually got to kiss her. He was kissing her.
His head spun at the way her fingers circled around to the nape of his neck, tugging at his curls. He cradled her jaw in one strong hand and grabbed her waist with the other, hand pushing up the white tank she had on to make contact with her bare skin. They couldn't possible get any closer but it still didn't feel close enough.
Jack didn't want to ever stop the exploration of his hands along her body. He grabbed at the flesh on the outside of her upper thigh, hiking it up slightly around his hips. She ground herself down onto his bulge and the gasp she let out was heavenly. Jack took the chance to swipe his tongue into her mouth, as she ground down again, slower this time. Jack couldn't keep his moan from tumbling out.
He pulled back ever so slightly, their lips still practically touching as their chests heaved, "Baby, where are your keys?"
"My keys? That is what you care about right now?" She went to grind on him again but Jack's hands grabbed her hips, halting her.
"If you keep doing that I am going to come in my pants in the hospital parking garage and I would much rather come somewhere else in the comfort of my own home. I've been thinking about this for a long time. I want to take my time with you."
"How long?" She asked as she slipped her keys into Jack's front pocket.
"Inappropriatley long. Now get in the car so Dr Sexy can drive us home."
"I am never gonna live that down, am I?"
"Absolutely not."
"I hate you."
Jack grabbed her chin and peppered her face with kisses, ending with one on her lips as she giggled. Kissing her hard because he could do that now, "Somehow, I am not convinced."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack's left hand flexed hard on her steering wheel. His right hand preoccupied with a steady grip on her upper thigh. Her left hand played with his curls as he drove.
"What are you thinking about?"
"How after the gala last year I went home and touched myself. Imagined my fingers were yours." Jack choked on nothing at her words.
"Jesus Christ - I am trying not to cause a mass casualty event, honey. Can you please just wait till we get home."
She groaned his name in frustration and squeezed his fingers between her thighs, trying to find friction anyway she could.
"You're that needy?"
"Yes, Jack."
"Show me then." His voice was gritty and low as he knocked her knees apart. He batted down the sun visor on her side, sliding the mirror cover up and aiming it perfectly to reflect her lap.
She whined at the loss of contact as both of his hands now gripped the steering wheel. Her eyes screwed shut and her chest lifted, breathing heavy. The way her hard nipples were peaking through her tank top was enough to make Jack scared he was going to crash the car.
"Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me. You think you can handle that for me, baby?"
His words seemed to hit her all at once. Demanding in the way it was when he was ordering people around the ED. The tone went straight to her core as she hiked her jean skirt up over her hips and slid her small lacy black thong down her legs. She stuffed it in one of the pockets of Jack's camo pants, lightly squeezing his bulge as she did. All Jack could murmur out was a hissed fuck as she angled her center to the mirror above her, giving him a perfect view of her absolutely soaked core.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes, yes I can handle it. I promise." She rushed her words out in one run on sentence, out of breath as her chest heaved.
"Good girl, baby. Show me how you touch yourself."
She nodded as she began to rub her clit, her voice shakey as she spoke, "I start like this and I think about everything you said to me that day. When you tell me good job after a prodecure or how you order everyone around or how-"
A tumbled moan falls from her lips, cutting herself off.
"Do you play with these pretty tits?" Jack reached over and gripped the nape of her neck, tugging at the string of her halter top and letting it fall. He pulled it down, her tits spilling out as he tweaked a nipple, kneading it after with his palm.
He thought she squeaked out a soft uh huh with a nod that trailed into a moan as her right hand slipped two fingers into her center. The sound was obscene as she pushed in and out, her head falling back and her chest pushing forward into Jack's hand.
"Jack!" She was getting louder now, the pace of her fingers moving quicker. The tone of her voice filled with unabashed need.
"What else, baby?"
All she could do was babble in response. Jack's hand fell from her nipples to her pussy, giving it a slap before grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at herself in the mirror, "Do you see how pretty your pussy is? What was that you said earlier? That I say everything so slutty? Look who's the slut now."
They both saw the way her pussy contracted around her two fingers at his words. The way her already dripping core somehow managed to get even more wet at the filth he was spilling.
"Oh you like when I am a little mean, don't you?"
She could barely nod, her chest hitting her chin as her breathing became more rapid the closer she inched towards her finish line.
"You wanna come for me?"
"Please." She panted. Jack smirked to himself as he grabbed her wrist, pulled her hand from her center before she could even think about finishing, and pressed her fingers into his mouth - licking them clean.
Her head lolled against the seat, she groaned his name. A mix of frustration and want as she dazedly stared at him.
"I've waited almost five years to taste you, honey. You can wait five more minutes till we are home, yeah?"
She huffed out an, "I hate you."
"Somehow, I am not convinced." He chuckled as he placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack held her hand gently as he tugged her into his house. She was practically bouncing on her heels behind him. "I'm gonna shower first and then-"
"Like hell you are." She snipped. Now she was pulling him. Through his foyer and straight to his couch where she perched herself on his lap, bracketing his hips with her thighs and grinding down on his bulge that was dying to spring out of his pants.
He pushed her skirt back up her hips and rubbed her upper thighs as she rocked her bare pussy down on him, her hands steadying herself on his neck as she leaned into press her mouth to his.
Jack's chest was heaving, "Baby, I'm all sweaty and gross from TEMS."
"I couldn't care less, Jack. You might be patient enough to wait five years but I sure as hell am not. Please touch me."
"Like this?" His fingers rubbed her clit, her head falling back in relief at him finally touching her where she needed him most.
"God, you were dripping all over your car and now you're soaking my couch? Who's got you so worked up?" She gasped as Jack entered two thick fingers in her, kissing up her neck as he did. Nipping at her jaw line as he pulled her tank top down so he could swirl his mouth around one of her sensitive nipples.
She pulled his shirt off over his head, flashing him a mischevious smirk before, "Dr Harvard from cardiac surgery."
Jack's fingers stopped immediatley. She whined and writhed in his lap at the loss of contact. Jack wrapped his other hand around her neck, squeezing slightly, "I thought you were gonna be good for me?"
"I will, I will. I am." She begged. Jack didn't know what he did in a past life to get her begging like this in his lap but he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Atta girl." He cooed, adding a third finger and plunging back into her tight core, "I am gonna ask you again - what's got you so worked up?"
"You, Jack! Your voice and your arms and your curls and these stupid fucking pants."
"Oh my girl likes my uniform, yeah? Is that what had you so bratty today? Want me to fuck you in it?"
"Please." she huffed. Sweat beading at the top of her forehead as she began to rock her hips, riding his fingers.
"Come for me first."
"Yeah, thats it." Jack hissed, trying hard not to imagine what it would feel like to have his cock where his fingers were. That would surely lead to an early curtain call, "That's it. My good girl."
"Fuck, Jack" She let out a shakey laugh as she came down from her orgasm, riding it out on Jack's fingers as she threaded her fingers in his hair.
"The uniform really does it for you, huh?"
She kissed him hard, "You do it for me. The uniform is just a bonus."
Jack readjusted her in his lap, pushing her legs open further over the expanse of his thick thighs. She whined at the stretch, "Come here, baby. you're doing so good for me. Wanna take my time with you."
"You can take your time with me later. I need you to fuck me now."
"Yeah? That needy, huh?"
"Yes, Jack please." She murmured as she undid the belt on his camo pants.
"You're the boss." Jack winked. He may have been her boss at work. She may have liked him bossing her around in bed. But she was the boss in every other sense of the word.
"Funny."
"Glad you think so." Jack hissed as she wrapped her hand around his hard length, preening with pre cum at the tip. She pushed his pants and his boxers down in one go, his erection immediatley slapping up against his stomach.
Jack's head fell back onto the couch as he let out a moan, her fingers rubbing the precum from his tip down his shaft and back up again. She spit into her hand and repeated the same movement. Jack thought he might come right then and there.
"Wanna ride you, please. I'm clean and have an IUD. Need to feel you."
Jack couldn’t even get words out. He was too busy trying not to come from a handjob like a horned up teenager, "Same. Mm clean, too" He managed to get out, eyes fluttering shut as another wave of pleasure wracked his body, "Fuck, baby."
She sunk down on him in an instant, relishing the stretch and sending them both into a fit of whimpered moans. Jack used one hand on her hip to guide her motions, the other rubbing up and down her back, eventually landing in her hair as he tugged her forward into a blistering kiss. Now that he knew what her lips felt like he was never gonna go long without kissing them.
"Fuck!" She rocked down hard on him again, "You feel fucking phenomenal. So tight, So. Perfect." He emphasized his praise with kisses, "Taking me so well. Like you were fucking made for me."
He took the hand from her hair and placed it on her clit, rubbing it as she started to rock quicker. He could tell she was close again. He was in danger of spilling over at any second, "You have no business being so good at this. Fuck, I'm not gonna last long baby. Fuck, look at you." Jack brought the hand from her hip up to her mouth, pushing his thumb into her mouth, moaning as she immediatley began to suck on it.
"All these years. Had a feeling you'd get off on praise. Knew you'd wanna be so good for me. Knew you'd be such a good slut just for me, yeah?"
"Yeah, please. Just for you, I promise." Jack didn't know how he had managed to keep himself from finishing with the way she was riding him. She steadied herself on his shoulders, brought herself all the way up and then slowly rocked herself back down, taking all of him and making sure he felt every fucking inch of her velvety walls.
"If you keep doing that I am not gonna last long." He managed to grunt out.
"Then don't. Come in me, please. Want you to fill me up."
Those words alone did it for Jack as he spilled his warm release into her, continuing to rub her clit. "Give me another one baby. I know you can do it. You can do anything. You're fucking brilliant. Your brilliant fucking brain. C'mon, I feel you clenching. Let go. Come on my cock, please."
She tugged hard on his hair, mixing her own release with his as she came. Panting into Jack's mouth as he whispered, "Good girl."
Jack cradled her cheek as she rode out her orgasm on his cock, whispering praise as she did. He swiped two fingers through the mix of their arousals and brought them to her mouth.
Jacks eyes watched, mesmerized, blown out with arousal as she sucked on his fingers, released them with a pop and then, "The second I saw you in that uniform I wanted to drop to my knees in the middle of the hub and suck the soul out of you."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, laying her bare chest over his and nuzzling into his neck, peppering kisses there as he scratched her back. His laugh vibrated through her, "Jesus Christ - you can't say shit like that when I'm still inside of you."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
He eventually gently cleaned her up. Once she agreed to finally get off of him. He had to bribe her with kisses. He didn't mind one bit. He dragged her to the shower which lead to him having to clean her up again. Again, he didn't mind one bit.
He was at the stove now. Donning only a pair of gray sweatpants as he cooked dinner and watched her pad around his kitchen in only his tshirt and some basketball shorts with probably the dopiest smile of all time on his face.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking herself into his side. He used his free hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer, pressing kisses into her hair. She behaved for a moment until he felt a pair of soft lips pressing kisses across the side of his chest that was accessible to her.
He turned the burner down, dropped the spoon he had been using to stir the pasta on the counter and then grabbed her hips, trapping her against his kitchen island, "You're going to make me burn dinner."
She put her finger to her lips, pretended to think about what he had to say and then with a quick kiss to his lips she muttered against them, "Mmmm, don't care!"
He dug into his pocket, unlocked his phone and put it in her hands, "Put on music. It is already hooked up to the speaker system,"
He picked her up by her hips, causing the cutest squeal he had ever heard, and plopped her down onto his counter. He rubbed a gentle thumb against her cheek, the other against her hip as he stood between her legs, "You need to eat, baby."
She grumbled a fine. She knew when it came to taking care of her - Jack would not budge. She scrolled through his Spotify - she wanted to find something both of them would like but first she was gonna stalk what he already listened to. Of course her curiosity was gonna get the better of her.
A quiet gasp fell from her lips - causing Jack to look over from his spot in front of the stove, "What?"
She turned his phone screen to him, already spotting the flush creeping up on his chest. He recognized the playlist almost immediatley. Made up of all the songs she had played while he drove her home these past couple years - simply titled with her name. There was hundreds of songs on there.
"Did you make this? Do you listen to it?"
Jack figured now was as good a time as ever to lay out all his cards onto the table. Even if he was so embarrassed he couldn't even look up from the dinner he was cooking. He spoke fast, "Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I replaced the police scanner with it?"
"Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I am so beyond in love with you?"
Jack's head snapped up from the dinner. He'd never moved so quickly in his life. He was back to standing in between her legs, holding her face - just staring at her with a huge smile. The same expression was being mirrored back to him. It made his heart soar.
"You do? I mean, you are?"
She laughed, "Where have you been the past couple years?”
"Waiting for you to realize that I've been hopelessly in love with you."
"Are we the dumbest smart people alive?"
"Potentially. But doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Only you. Only us." He kissed her now. Slotted his lips over hers like the perfect final piece of a puzzle. His stomach fluttered at the sensation of her fingers finding their home in his curls. He couldn't believe that this was real. That she loved him. He already knew that the astronomical amount he loved her was very, very real.
"God, I love you." Kiss, "So much." Another kiss.
"Say it again." Jack whispered against her lips, smiling like a little kid.
"I love you, Jack."
He pulled back just a bit. Just enough to murmur how much he loved her and get a good look at her face, "Remember when you were so jealous earlier?" He teased.
"I was not-" She began to deny it but Jack leveled a look at her, "I hate you!" she giggled, swatting at his shoulder that was not bandaged up.
"Somehow, I am not convinced." He preened.
"Mmmm, good." She was kissing him again. He could do this forever. He will do this forever - if he has anything to say about it.
The ding of her phone was what made him pull away. But not by much. They both looked at the cause of the disruption, Jack planting kisses up and down her neck, jaw, and chest as she unlocked her phone.
From Robby: Doing scheduling. Can you pick up a shift next Tuesday night please? Shen needs off. You'll get to see your doctor sexy🤪
They both let out a cackle. Jack took her phone and took a selfie with his middle finger up. He sent it to Robby along with a message that read, 'Stop texting my girlfriend.'
"Girlfriend, huh?"
Jack rubbed up and down her thighs as he spoke, "Figured you might think I was insane if I said wife after just one day but trust me that is part of the plan."
"What else is in the plan?”
“Maybe a kid or two? Or four? Or zero. Really as many or as little as you’ll give me. I’m just happy to be here.”
She chuckled, kissed him while lovingly stroking his face, “I like that plan.”
“Yeah?” He asked, brimming with hope.
She nodded as her phone went off again, a message from Robby flashing across the screen. Jack kissed each of her cheeks, her forehead, and then her lips before reading it out loud - sending them both into a fit of giggles.
Description: New city, new hospital, new job. You give yourself one last day to be free before your first shift, and happy hour ends with a stranger on your bed. The real problem starts the next morning, when he shows up in the same ER answering to “Dr. Abbot.”
Tags/warnings: second year resident fem!reader, smut, sleeping with the boss (?), porn with plot, Jack talk ‘em through it Abbot, clit stim, oral m receiving, p in v, hotel sex. ER cameos, mentions of a minor head injury, and banter.
Note: New man who disss 🤭 This one’s dedicated to my dear @nexxen24, who got me into The Pitt, and also gave me the idea for this lol. Enjoy! 🤍
Masterlist
And I could see you being my addiction
You can see me as a secret mission
Jack Abbot needed something sweet.
That was the excuse he gave himself today, anyway. The truth was, he found himself at the hotel bar a few blocks from the hospital more often than not, because it was quite dark, even in daytime. Dark enough that he could sit at the corner of the long counter and just exist for a couple of hours.
Sometimes he came for a beer. Sometimes a sandwich. Sometimes just to swap stories with the bartender until it was time to go back to real life and drown himself in someone else’s blood.
Today, he came for a very specific thing: Chocolate cake. A slice of expensive, moist, and obscenely sweet cake. He was sure his imminent descent to madness was the root cause of these…cravings. Girl whatever.
He slid onto his usual stool at the far end of the bar, in a black shirt, and some joggers, badge and scrubs stuffed away in his backpack.
He looked up at the bartender, but it wasn’t his usual guy. Instead, a girl with the darkest hair in a ponytail, walked up to him with a tired expression. There was a small white pin that said ‘Lisa– TRAINEE’ clipped to her uniform.
“Evening, sir,” she greeted.
“Afternoon, and just Jack, please,” he corrected with a small smile, glancing at the fancy clock on the wall. 4:43 pm. He still had a few hours off duty.
“Oh yeah–sorry! I get a little lost in here sometimes. Ugh, the only thing getting me through this shift is knowing I’m off tomorrow for the PittFest,” she said, making him chuckle.
“Trust me, I get it. I’m also looking for something to help me get through mine,” he shrugged. “Festivals are not my thing, though. I’ll leave that to the ones with healthy knees.”
“Mm, that’s fair,” she said, chuckling back. “So what can I get for you, ‘just Jack’? Gin? Old fashioned?”
“No drinks, but can I get a slice of that infamous chocolate cake?”
The girl looked at him like she wasn’t necessarily expecting that, but you know what? Hell yes, old guy.
“Sure.”
She walked round the bar, to a discreet door that led toward the kitchen, and asked for the cake to be served before stepping back to the bar again.
“Thank you, Lisa,” Jack smiled, finally letting his shoulders loosen.
You needed a stress reliever.
You weren’t stressed now, but you knew that in less than 24 hours it would become your new normal…again. You are meant to start your first shift at PTMC as a second year resident tomorrow.
New city, new program, and still…no apartment. But at least your hotel room was nice and ready for you to make it an early night, slightly tipsy and relaxed for your last blissful hours of freedom. Which is why at four something, you decide you’re going to treat yourself to be first in line for the hotel’s happy hour like the responsible adult you are.
The hotel lounge is large and dimly lit. A couple takes one of the single couches, curled into each other with matching martinis. The rest of the space is almost empty, aside from–
Wait. That man is cute. Wait again. You have to do a double take.
An attractive–no, very attractive man is sitting at the far corner of the long bar, waiting for his order. Simple outfit, camo backpack resting by his feet. He looks a little worn to be honest, but then again, don’t we all?
Huh. Guess someone beat you to happy hour.
You take the opposite corner, leaving about six empty stools between you, when the bartender approaches you.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Hi, Lisa,” you smile. “I don’t really know what cocktail to get. Can I just get whatever your favorite is?”
“Oh–yeah I can do that,” she shrugs with a smile, turning back to her inner counter to mix the drink.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket so you pull it out, checking the payment notification from the guy who’s buying the festival tickets you’re selling. You text him to confirm he has to pick them up at the hospital tomorrow, hoping you get a spare minute to walk out the ER, when someone walks out a hidden kitchen door and slides a plate in front of you.
“Chocolate cake,” the guy announces politely, but before you could even say that’s not yours, he turned around and disappeared into the kitchen again. You shrug, turning to the bartender who’s handing a drink to the man you saw when you came in.
“I didn’t order this,” you both say at the same time.
His head snaps toward your voice, and your eyes meet across the row of empty stools. He sees the generous slice in front of you, and with a not so subtle up and down look at you, a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. Something flutters in your chest, so you break eye contact first, dropping your gaze to your phone and pretending to read another message.
Come on, play it cool.
“No drinks for me, Lisa. Remember?” you hear him say playfully, turning back to the counter.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” she rushes out, reaching for the drink in front of him. “I’ll switch them right now, I–”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, stopping her by wrapping his hand around the glass. “I got it.”
Your thumbs froze over your phone. He got it?
From the corner of your eye, you see him stand up, and duck down to scoop up his backpack. Your heartbeat does something very stupid as you try very hard not to stare while he walks in your direction. Okay. Okay. This is fine. Silver fox is walking toward you. You are not freaking out. You are a doctor, you have seen actual organs on tables. You can handle an older guy with pretty eyes.
He slides easily onto the stool right next to you, setting the glass down with a soft clink. Fuck. Of course he smells good. You have no choice but to look at him properly this time, and up close, he’s even more handsome. Fluffy, wavy grey hair, with matching stubble (makes you wonder if the carpet matches too) and a glint of humor in his eyes that you know is trouble.
“I believe this is yours,” he says, nudging the cocktail close to where you’re still holding your phone for dear life.
“Then I believe this is yours,” you say, setting your phone with a smile and sliding the plate toward him.
He narrows his eyes playfully, looking between you and the cake. “Tell you what.” He leans in, and nudges it closer so it sits between the both of you. “I don’t mind sharing…do you?”
Oh. Okay. So that’s where this is going.
“I don’t mind a lot of things,” you tilt your head, leaning one elbow on the bar, deciding to match that dangerous glint in his eyes with your own. His smirk grows before turning to the bartender again.
“Can we get another spoon, please?”
“Oh, sure. Here,” she says, handing it over.
He takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’, then holds it up in front of you like an offering.
“I’m Jack, by the way. Don’t think I heard your name.”
You let out a small chuckle as you take the spoon, the tension in your shoulders loosening a little under his charming gaze. You tell him your name, his smile softening when he repeats it back to you.
“Nice to meet you, thanks for sharing my cake,” he says, finally digging his spoon into it.
“Thanks for bringing me my drink,” you reply, reaching for the glass. You definitely need some buzz if you intend to survive this interaction. “I guess we’re even now, Jack.”
“Not yet,” he says, getting the first bite of cake. He hums in delight, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “But we’re getting there.”
You divert your gaze to your phone once again, heat blooming your cheeks. He smiles triumphantly at your reaction, deciding to push you a little more.
“Well, aren’t you going to try it?”
You bite back a smile, nodding as you dig your spoon into the cake. He watches your every move like a hawk as you lift it towards your mouth. You mirror his hum when you taste it, instinctively running your tongue over your lips to get the sugary remains off.
Jack shifts in his seat.
“Great, isn’t it?” He says, “tried it once and never was the same.”
“Would’ve never thought to try it, to be honest,” you chuckle.
“Me neither, guess I just needed something sweet today,” he shrugs, still too calm and too smug, still making your heart rate go crazy without even trying. “Looks like I came to the right place, though,” he winks, digging his spoon again for another bite.
Yeah, no. He’s definitely trying.
“So, what brings you here to the land of cake instead of…I don’t know, a whiskey?” You ask, playing with the straw of your drink.
“No drinks for me,” he shrugs.
“Designated driver?”
“Designated something, I have to leave at seven,” he glances at the clock again. You follow his gaze, and see it’s just after five.
“What, you gotta catch a flight or something?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he grins.
His answers are vague, intentionally so. You recognize it instantly because you use that tone too about your own job, when you don’t feel like opening that door with a stranger.
“What about you? Are you celebrating something?” He asks, and you swear with every question he shifts a little closer to you.
“I’m making it an early night, tomorrow’s a big day,” you nod with a smile.
“Oh yeah? Festival?” he asks, you can feel the genuine curiosity under the smug tone.
“I wish,” you shrug. “I got tickets but something important came up, so…here I am, first in line for happy hour instead. Making the most of that hotel lifestyle,” you lift your glass, he lifts his spoon with a chuckle.
“You’re staying here?”
“Mmhm. It’s actually pretty great. Nice room, silk bed sheets, the works.”
“Decent cake, too,” he adds mocking seriousness. “Too bad someone stole it.”
“Excuse me,” you protest playfully, “If it wasn’t for me you’d still be looking sad and lonely at the end of the bar.”
He laughs, catching the attention of Lisa who’s clearly not trying to eavesdrop. “Yeah. I’m glad I’m not, then,” he says quietly. “Company’s good.”
From there, the conversation just flows.
At some point, you realize you’ve barely touched your cocktail, or the cake between you. You can feel the tension building with every shared look. The way his gaze dips to your mouth when you bring the spoon to your lips. The way your knee kept drifting closer to his, the faintest brush when either of you shifts on your stool.
And that warm, electric buzz in your veins has very little to do with sugar or alcohol.
Your eyes flick instinctively toward the clock on the wall when you laugh about something he said, and see it’s a few minutes past six already.
This is the moment where you could let him go, say goodnight and head upstairs alone. But you feel like you haven’t gotten your fix yet. That good moment of pure bliss before you go back into charts and monitors and reminding yourself you love the career you chose.
Some people do drugs or caffeine, or apparently, sugar as a stress reliever. The poison you chose today was supposed to be alcohol, but maybe you have something better sitting right next to you.
Huh. Sometimes dick does the trick too.
You turn your gaze back to him, lashes half lowered and innocent, catching him watching you already.
“It’s getting late,” you say casually, “but I think you still have time to walk me to my room.”
For a split second, the words just hang in the air. Clear and irreversible. His expression doesn’t change much, because he’s already been giving you bedroom eyes this whole time, but you notice the way his jaw tightens slightly, before that unmistakable smirk reappears.
“Yeah, I think I do,” he rasps.
Cake be damned. He’s got a sweeter dessert right in front of him.
He straightens on his stool and lifts a hand, catching Lisa's attention with a small wave, then reaches for his wallet. You press the button to pay with your phone, but he puts his hand over yours to stop you.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” he says, sliding his card over the counter before you can protest.
You’re not sure what exactly made your heart almost jump out of your chest again, the gesture or his electric touch on your skin. Maybe both.
You distract yourself by looking at your glass, still more than half full.
“Thank you. I didn’t even finish it…”
“I don’t think we’re going to miss it,” he looks at it, then back at you amused.
Your face warms–again–at the implication.
The girl gives him the receipt, and the way his arm flexes on the counter when he signs it with a quiet ‘thank you’, makes your thighs rub in anticipation. He slips a final twenty over the receipt as a tip, before turning fully toward you. He stands up first, grabbing his backpack with one hand, and helping you out of your stool with the other. His hand finds its way to your lower back, settling there as you walk.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
By 6:10 pm the door of your room clicks shut.
Jack drops his backpack somewhere to the side, one hand finds your waist, the other cups the back of your head before he pins you against the wall, and his mouth finds yours in an instant.
You gasp into the kiss, immediately grabbing him by his white shirt, dragging him impossibly closer. His gray stubble scrapes your skin in the best possible way, burning along your jaw as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. You slide one hand up to his hair, it’s softer than it looks, and he makes a low sound when you tug it just enough to angle his mouth where you want it.
His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, rough palms spreading over your back. You can’t keep your hands to yourself either when you get past his shirt, running them through firm muscle and chest hair. Your hands can’t help but wander around his strong back, nails scraping against his skin when he starts kissing down the line of your jaw, scraping his beard along your throat in a delicious burn.
“Jack…” you breathe, tightening your grip in his hair.
He smiles against your skin, dragging his lips and stubble slowly across your neck, sending sparks all the way down to between your legs. When he sucks a particularly sensitive spot, the sound that slips out of you is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
“I got you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to tug the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?”
You nod quickly, and soon enough both of your shirts end up somewhere on the floor. You’re left in your bra, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath, but it’s hard when his gaze drops to your chest and lingers there.
So you ogle him too.
He’s built like a brick wall. Solid, toned chest dusted with hair, and framed by broad shoulders. And those arms? Oof. God, you can’t wait to feel all that strength he hides under those tired eyes and easy smiles.
He nudges you away from the wall steering you backwards, mouth never leaving yours, until the back of your legs bumps into the base of the bed. He gently guides you to sit on the edge of the mattress. You look up at him, already dazed. His hair is a mess from your fingers, chest rising and falling quickly, that cheeky smile of his still on his face. He reaches for your jeans next, and you lift your hips to help him slide them off. The cool air of the room kisses your skin as he throws them somewhere in the room.
“You’re still too dressed,” you chuckle, left only in your underwear.
“You’re still too desperate,” he jokes, laughing when you gasp and slap his chest weakly. “Hmm. Harder next time, sweetheart.”
You probably shouldn’t have liked that as much as you did, but he seems satisfied with your silence. His hands go to the waistband of his joggers, barely grabbing the elastic when his hands suddenly stop. If you weren’t watching his face, you would've probably missed the way his confident smile faltered for a second.
“Are you okay?,” you ask, straightening up on the bed.
“Yes,” he says quickly, but his hands are still frozen on his hips. “Yeah, I am. I just–”
You notice the way he shifts as if to step away from you, but your body reacts before you can think. “Hey, wait–”
You hook your feet around his calves to stop him from pulling away, but your left foot feels something different than you expected. It’s not the familiar firmness of muscle, but the unmistakable sensation of metal where skin should be. You don’t really need to see it to know what it is.
His camo backpack and the vagueness of his answers suddenly click to you, but Jack is frozen in place, trying to read the expression on your face.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, you figure it’s the script he probably hates having to say but feels obligated to in situations like this. “I should’ve told you before we came up, it’s okay if you don’t want to–”
“Jack,” you cut him off, quickly standing up so you’re pressed against him, before he decides to step back again. You tilt your head back a little, pressing a hand to his chest. “You don’t owe me anything, okay? If I didn’t want this, you’d already be standing shirtless in the hallway,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
“You don’t…mind?” His hazel eyes scan your face, still trying to find the desertion you’re not giving him.
You can feel his heart racing under your palm, and it almost makes you laugh how the doctor in you wants to inject him with something to fix his tachycardia. Opting for a less aggressive approach, you slide your arms over his shoulders to play with the hair on the back of his neck.
“I don’t mind,” you say, as reassuring as you can. You liked him the second he shared his stupid cake. This? This just adds more to it. “But if you do, we can stop,” you add, slowly pulling away from him but he slides his arm behind your back.
“I don’t want to stop,” he rasps, pressing you tighter to him. The bulge digging against your skin agrees with him.
“Hmm. Then you better hurry, we’re running out of time…” you sing-song, grinding yourself against him.
He breathes out a laugh. Oh, how I love this girl. He halts the movement of your hips, his hands become sure and steady once again as they settle on your waist. He forgets about his pants for a moment, innstead, he decides to focus on you.
“Turn around,” he says, but you don’t move an inch, just blink at the sudden change in his voice. He chuckles, loosening his grip just a little. “Turn around, sweetheart.”
Now you’re the one who needs help stabilizing their heartbeat.
You nod, then do as he says, shifting so your back is to him. He closes the gap immediately, one arm around your shoulder to hold you while the other settles just above the hem of your panties, but he doesn’t slip inside. His hand drifts lower and lower, stopping right over the slick leaking through the fabric, making you gasp.
“There she is,” his pleased voice while he drags teasing circles around your clit–but not really there–makes a chill run down your body. “Thought I lost you for a second there.”
You let your head tip back onto his shoulder, prompting him to apply more pressure, or find the right spot, but he keeps you pinned right where he wants you. He keeps rubbing slowly, still over the fabric, still teasing, coaxing the smallest sounds from you.
“I know you said to hurry, but I gotta take care of you first,” he whispers right in your ear. “Think I can do it this way? Without really touching you?” He barely grazes the base of your clit, dragging his finger back down immediately just to hear you whine again.
“Jack I–fuck.”
He chuckles when the faintest additional pressure makes you squirm, but that's no issue to him, he easily shifts you into the angle he wants. His fingers finally skim higher, now properly rubbing your clit. A moan escapes your lips, the friction of the cotton against your most sensitive spot has you feeling embarrassingly needy, moving your hips to chase more.
“That’s it, right there,” he coos, encouraging you. “How does that feel?”
You make another sound that’s not even close to a word. He chuckles onto your hair, shaking his head but still moving his fingers quicker.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Feeling good?”
“Yes,” you manage to say between ragged breaths. “Really good.”
“Yeah?” He helps you move just a bit more, pressing his whole palm over your clit, before letting you take over. You start grinding his hand, clinging to his arm for support. “That’s it, just like that. You’re doing great.”
The praise lands harder than it should. You’re used to being talked at, ordered around on chaotic shifts, and occasionally complimented for a good job…but this is different.
You feel the pressure building in your stomach quickly with every buck of your hips, but what makes you see stars is feeling the outline of his hard cock rubbing against your ass with every grind.
“Shitshitshit I’m gonna–” you cry out mid sentence.
“It’s okay, sweetheart let go,” he coaxes, moving his hand faster.
When you finally break in a strangled moan, he stays wrapped around you, his firm body braced behind you so you can learn all your weight back, holding you together while you fall apart. He places a kiss on your shoulder when you shake under his grip, whispering praises you can’t make out as you ride your orgasm out. Jack finally takes his hand away when your clit twitches violently under him, squeezing your ass playfully.
“Breathe,” he reminds you, immediately inhaling and exhaling louder to show you just how. You instinctively match him, effectively grounding yourself. “Good girl.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck–
“Easy,” he says when he feels you tense again. “It’s okay, you were doing so well. Just breathe.”
Still panting, you tap his arm so he lets you turn around to face him. You meet those devilish eyes again, hazel overtaken by dark pupils, a smirk on his lips as he takes in your flustered appearance.
“You’re really…really bossy, you know that?” You chuckle despite yourself.
“I’ve been told,” he smiles, bringing you in for a peck on your lips. “And I’m about to get more bossy so why don’t you turn around for me again?”
There it is. That fucking tone again. Your mouth falls open, but you can’t bring yourself to say no. If anything, you turn around before he even tells you twice, slapping his arm behind you when you hear him mutter “eager.”
He stirs you toward the bed again, until your knees bump the mattress. You hear the shuffle of his joggers, but it doesn’t sound like he’s taking the leg off, instead letting the fabric fall and pool at his feet. You don’t turn to look, giving him the moment.
The whole thing only makes him feel more devastatingly real.
He leans closer to you, his palm traveling up your spine to gently bend you forward. You follow his guidance, hands sinking into the mattress, ass on full display. You feel his foot nudge your left leg, parting you open for him.
“There,” he says, giving you another playful slap.
Heat rushes to your face again, feeling completely exposed to him even if you’re still covered in your underwear. So, Jack takes this as his chance to finally drag your soaked panties down, slowly, and lets them sit at your feet just like his pants, leaving you just in your bra. He groans at the sight, your soft, glistening pussy dripping and ready just for him.
“God, look at you,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you.
The next thing to land over his pants are his boxers, freeing his heavy, swollen cock into his hand. He lines himself up, dragging just the tip across your wet folds, his pre cum mixing with your slick as he drags it up and down. After more whimpers from you, he pushes only the tip in, and you let out another moan that makes him groan.
“Deep breath for me,” he says, and at this point, you’d do anything he wants.
He makes sure to move with you, timing himself to your inhale. The first roll of his hips makes his cock slowly stretch you open, inch by inch. You gasp, fingers clutching the silk bed sheets. He groans as he watches himself disappear inside you, gripping your ass to help you find the angle he knows will have you seeing stars.
“Fuck me,” he hisses, skin meeting skin when he bottoms out.
“Please…” is all you whisper, he’s thick, hard, buried deep, and the stretch burns in the best way.
And you can’t wait for him to fuck all the stress out of you.
“Shhh, pretty girl. You’re okay,” he coos, slowly dragging out.
You clench around him before he leaves you completely empty, and he curses again, his hips jerking forward as yours slam back to meet him. He huffs a strangled laugh, stopping you by digging his fingers on your waist to take back control.
“There you go. Let me do the work, sweet girl,” he rasps.
The rhythm finds itself, fast and deep, skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off your hotel room walls. You’re still too sensitive from your previous orgasm, and you can’t stop moaning every time his hips snap against your ass. The bed creaks under you, and the sound of his cock dragging in and out is loud and filthy.
“Relax–fuck, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.”
You try to “relax.” You really do. But the angle, the rough rhythm he coaxes you into, the praises, are a lot. Your legs start to tremble, the effort of holding yourself up becomes a harder task with the pleasure building inside you.
He notices, of course he does. He tightens his grip to hold you better, barely slowing his pace. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”
“My legs…” you choke out in a breathless laugh.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he huffs out a chuckle. “Hold onto the bed, for me,” he instructs. You obey brainlessly, fingers fisting in the covers.
His hand wraps around your right leg first, just behind your knee to lift it, throwing away your panties in the process to make it easier. He places that leg up on the bed, then does the same with the other. The new position pulls another weak sound from you, both knees now on the bed, opening you up to him in a way that makes you miss him inside you. He presses you back into the mattress, not wasting time in pushing himself back in with a harsh thrust.
“There you go, that’s better,” he says, setting his rhythm again. The new angle is more comfortable for him as well, leaning his legs on the bed for support while he pounds into you.
You let the sounds spill out of you, choked off gasps and desperate little sighs. Every one of them seems to go straight to his cock. You can hear it in the quiet curses he mumbles, the way his hands find all the familiar places, your hips, your waist, slipping under your stomach to push down the fabric of your bra so he can watch your boobs bounce with every thrust.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans when you start pushing back, chasing more and more. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart.”
When your legs start to shake again, this time it’s not from strain, it’s from how fucking close you are.
“Jack–” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers clawing the sheets, little sounds spilling out of you that you can’t control. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and your body is about to snap.
“I know,” he says, quickly sensing your overwhelm. “Come here.”
You barely have time to think before his arm loops around your waist, pulling you up from your forearms. You gasp as he lifts you, slamming you back against his chest so you’re half kneeling, half suspended in his hold.
And then…his free hand comes up to cover your eyes. You gasp when your world goes pitch black, narrowing only to the sound of his voice and the feeling of his body behind yours.
“Shh,” he coos near your ear, placing delicate kisses all over your jaw. “Just feel, sweetheart. That’s all you have to do.”
Without sight, everything else slams into focus, the heat of his chest behind you, the roughness of his stubble on your neck, the tight grip of his arm keeping you upright. He starts thrusting again, chasing that sweet spot that makes your head go dizzy.
It’s more than enough now. It’s too much. You feel undone and held together all at once.
And to top it off, he decides now is the time to reach for the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with his free hand to hold you up by cupping your bare breasts. Your fingers reach back blindly, to his hair, his thigh, wherever you can reach. Jack just keeps his sweaty palm over your eyes, shielding you from everything but him.
“Fuck, you’re clenching,” he groans, knowing you’re almost there. “Let go for me, don’t think…just feel.”
You come with a shaky cry, your entire body shuddering in his hold. He keeps fucking you through every helpless little sound, feeling his own release building up.
After a few moments, when he considers your breathing has sort of stabilized, his hand finally slips away from your eyes, caressing the hair sticking to your face as he keeps pounding you from behind, still fast, still deep, but sloppier. You can tell he’s close by the way his cock twitches inside you.
“There you go,” he praises you, even if his breathing is ragged now. “That’s it. You did so good for me–shit–”
As your eyes adjust again, the post nut clarity hits you.
Your fucked out doctor brain freaks out. No protection, you’re very irresponsible, don’t let him. He seems to make the same calculation–pretty strange for a man–because he starts to pull back.
Fuck it.
Before he can deal with it himself, you wriggle out of his grasp to free yourself, and get off the bed. Your jelly legs barely hold you up before you sink to your knees in front of him. From there you get a clear view of all of him, the fact that the carpet does match the drapes, and even the leg he’d been hiding. He instinctively steps back, almost stumbling over the pants pooled over his feet.
“Hey, careful,” you coo, placing one hand on his thigh to nudge him forward, the other wraps around his glistening cock, making him curse. “Let me? Please?”
“Jesus,” he breathes. His hand holds the back of your head, managing a weak smile. “Atta girl, be good to me.”
Jack doesn’t have to tell you twice.
You don’t even have to do much, just a quick pump at the base of his length as you lean forward to place a teasing kiss on his leaking tip, almost sending him right over the edge. The sight alone makes him twitch, he was going to have to cover his own eyes if you kept looking at him like that with his cock on your mouth.
You wrap your lips fully around him with no warning, letting his cock stretch your mouth as you swallow every inch. Every strangled sound he makes encourages you to be as devoted to him as he was with you. Your head bobs up and down, guided by his firm grip on your hair.
“Fuck–you’re gonna kill me–” he chokes out, you take that as your cue to nod at him, mouth too full to tell him to let go. “Okay, that’s…I’m–”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because he’s already finishing inside you. He groans as he spills strings of hot cum on your tongue, fingers tangling in your hair a bit rougher, pushing his hips forward to fuck the last of his orgasm out. You choke just a little, holding onto his thighs, trying to swallow every drop he sends down your throat.
Jack pulls out with a groan when the adrenaline of it passes, dragging his thumb over your lips to wipe the remnants off.
“Pretty girl…” He praises, as you look up at him with swollen lips and glassy eyes.
“Atta boy, you did good for me,” you rasp, making him laugh.
“Come here.” He helps you get on your feet, then back to the bed.
“Thank you,” you mutter, tugging the duvet off to cover your body when you sit down.
He stays quiet as he hauls his joggers back up and finds his shirt somewhere by the door, until he can’t avoid looking at his watch anymore.
“Shit.”
“So…no cuddling?” You chuckle.
“Sorry,” he mutters, even though you both knew this is how your little hotel affair was going to end. He slings his backpack over one shoulder, and walks over to you.
He takes a moment to cup your cheeks, memorizing every feature, and you try to do the same. Your eyes trace every line of his face, the glint that never left his hazel eyes, the gray dust adorning his jaw.
God, he’s so handsome. How are you supposed to forget him?
Jack starts leaning forward, but you meet him halfway, closing the space between you. The goodbye kiss is not rushed like you expected, no, he still takes his time even if he’s gonna be late to wherever he’s headed. He pulls back with a smile, and a small, disbelieving huff of laughter as he licks his lips.
“What?” you ask.
“You taste like cake,” he says, clearly amused, then adds with a little tilt of his head, “and…something else I probably shouldn’t think about on my way out.”
“Oh, just go!” you laugh, shoving him away. “Before you’re late and whoever’s waiting for you files a missing persons report.”
“Yes, ma’am. They will,” he says, lifting his arms up innocently as he walks toward the door. “Good luck tomorrow with your…big day.”
“You too, with your…something,” you smile. God, you’re definitely going to need a good night's sleep after all of this.
He nods, and with a devilish wink, he’s finally gone.
You wake up feeling like you can take on the world.
With a pep on your step, you walk out of the hotel with clear scrubs and an even clearer conscience. Good sex? Check. Good sleep? Check. Daydreaming about the silver fox stranger you’ll never see again? Check check check.
You’re ready to kick ass and save lives.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is just a short walk away, but it gives you enough time to self regulate your emotions before you walk through those doors. You get there early, greet everyone politely and exchange a few words with some nurses before your shift actually starts. For a moment, you almost forget you’re the new kid, and you feel like you’re right where you belong.
You make your way through triage, mentally rehearsing how you’re going to introduce yourself to your attending, when your sneaker slips on something. You don’t know if it’s saline, or water, or spit, all you know is that one second you were walking and the other you’re losing your balance. Your hands desperately find the wall with a smack, saving yourself from landing flat on your ass, but your forehead still hits the edge of a door frame with a sharp little crack.
You see stars for a second there, the same kind you saw yesterday.
“Whoa, hey! Are you okay?” Someone calls.
You groan, but straighten immediately, because what else are you going to do? Sit down and let the tears from your eyes spill? Absolutely not. Not on your first day. You swipe your fingers over your forehead, hissing at the sting, and when you look at your hand there’s the smallest smear of blood.
Perfect.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I’m–”
“Absolutely not, come here.” A woman in black scrubs and a ponytail approaches you, holding your jaw to assess the wound. “I’m Dr. McKay, and you are?”
“I’m okay,” you say, trying to shrug her off. “Really, it was just a slip, it didn’t even hurt. I really need to go meet Dr. Robinavitch–”
“You slammed your head into a door frame, Robby can wait,” McKay says flatly.
You try to protest but she steers you toward one of the small triage rooms right off the ER entrance. You groan as she nudges you to sit on the bed. “I just need a band-aid, it’s just a scra–”
“A scratch, yeah, I heard you. You’ll get your band-aid after I make sure you’re not walking around with a concussion,” she says, then holds a finger up as if to say ‘wait’ and walks to the door, “Perfect learning opportunity, actually.”
Oh no.
“Hey! Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, come here,” she urges more people with scrubs. Great. “Consider this your first patient.”
You consider faking your own death.
All three of them clock your black scrubs and badge, and your bruised ego dies a little more when they realize you’re one of them. McKay just stands next to you like this is science class and you’re the classroom’s skeleton.
“We get all types of patients here. And today…” She pats your shoulder with the back of her hand. “It’s a colleague who discovered the floor is slippery on her very first day.”
Redacted.
“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Really. I just need a band-aid.”
“After we use you for educational purposes, now look up please,” she says, shining a light in your eyes to check your pupils. You resist the urge to slap her hand or lean away. “Headache?”
“No.”
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“You literally saw me since I hit my head,” you say, a little too aggressive, but McKay ignores your tone. “Sorry–no.”
“Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“No. I swear, I’m okay.”
“Alright. Whitaker, you’re up. What are your concerns when someone hits their head?”
“Um…we should ask what caused the fall?” He says, and McKay nods approvingly. He turns to you, “Did you feel dizzy before you slipped? Lightheaded?”
“No. There was just…something on the floor. I didn’t see it and unfortunately I slipped.”
“Good,” McKay says, more to them than to you. “No dizziness, no neuro complaints, no loss of consciousness, minor external injury that doesn’t need stitches.”
“And no reason for a CT,” one of the girls adds.
“Correct, Santos. So we’ll clean it, come on, you’re up.”
Your shoulders drop in the smallest relief. Now you have to survive the rest of the day after this humiliation, but adding unnecessary imaging on your first day would’ve ended you right there and then.
Mckay just smiles at you as Santos gloves on and prepares the stuff she’s gonna use. You look outside the door for a moment, trying to remember the confidence you’d walked in this morning, when a figure walking by catches your eye.
All you see is a flash of broad shoulders in a dark shirt, and a camo backpack slung over one arm. You make eye contact for a brief second as he glances inside casually, before doing a literal double take when he realizes who’s in there. He stops in his tracks, just as your heart stops inside your chest.
For a brief second you think you do need that CT, because there’s no way you’re not hallucinating talk-you-through-it Jack in front of you.
Here. In your ER. Wearing matching uniforms.
Jack, the man you let manhandle you last night–or afternoon?–whatever. The man who covered your eyes and told you to just feel. The man you sent you into orgasm oblivion and then kissed you goodbye tasting cake and himself on his tongue.
No. No way. Absolutely not.
You hiss when Santos presses something wet in your wound, and Jack decides that’s the best moment to step in and cause you a stroke on top of everything.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks casually, looking at you with the same glint in his eyes as yesterday.
You want to die.
“Abbot! Thought you were on your way out,” Mckay beams.
“I was, then I saw you tormenting the new blood. Didn’t want to miss the show,” he gives her a tired grin, shrugging, then looking around the room. “Morning, everyone.”
Javadi just smiles awkwardly, while Whitaker shifts on his feet and nods at him. At least Santos is having a blast enjoying the hell out of your tragic situation.
“Our colleague here decided to introduce her face to the wall,” she chuckles, shutting up when she realizes she only gets an unimpressed look from McKay.
“Hmm. Minor head trauma on the first day…that’s one way to make an entrance,” Jack jokes trying to lighten the mood, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves with a snap. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks you.
You hesitantly shake your head, and Santos barely steps back before he gets between your knees and you have to look up at him, and wow, that’s familiar. His fingers are gentle as he tilts your chin higher, focused on the small scrape by your hairline.
“It’s just a scratch,” you mumble under your breath.
He ignores it, and brings a penlight to your eyes, doing the same little routine Mckay did. Is this what your first day is supposed to be? A tortuous loop?
I might just fake a seizure right now.
“Any reason you might’ve tripped? Blurry vision? Sudden vertigo? Or…any specific memory that made you lose focus?”
It’s the way he drops his voice lower that makes you almost choke on your own spit. That exact same tone. That damn voice in your ear.
“We already asked those, Dr. Abbot. She said she slipped on a wet patch. No dizziness, no other symptoms,” Whitaker, bless his oblivious soul, chimes in.
Jack slowly turns his head to look at him, with an unimpressed stare that clearly says no one asked you to speak, white boy without using a single word.
Before anyone can torture you any further, a blue eyed doctor bursts in.
“McKay! We’re doing rounds.”
“Alright, meet us there once Dr. Abbot is done with you,” she says to you, ushering the others out. “Don’t forget to give her that band-aid she’s so desperate for.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” Jack replies, with an innocent smile.
The audience of your public execution finally leaves. And it’s great! Perfect. Exactly what you wanted: alone time. You don’t realize you’ve been holding onto the gurney for dear life until Jack–or should you call him Dr. Abbot now?–chuckles.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks, amused.
“I don’t know, you’re the doctor here, apparently. So you tell me, how’s my head?” you snap, in a mix of nerves and residual embarrassment.
He grins. Oh he grins like fucking devil. “I don’t have any complaints.”
Heat rushes to your face instantly, and suddenly it’s like you’re back flirting in that bar again, sharing a chocolate cake. You shake those thoughts away, clearing your throat.
“So um…your flight was actually a night shift…in this hospital,” you say.
“Yeah. And your ‘big day’ was starting your first morning in this same ER. Nice upgrade from anonymous hotel guest, I guess.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he chuckles, but you’re still looking at him skeptically. “Hey–it’s not that bad. People have done worse.”
“Worse than sleeping with an attending?” You say. “Like what–stealing medicine or secretly killing patients?”
“What? No–I hope no one’s doing that” he frowns.
This is the moment you start panicking for real.
“God, Dr. Robinavitch’s gonna kill me or worse,” you gasp. “He’s gonna fire me. Fuck–he’s gonna fire me and this is gonna be over before I even start my shift–“
“Whoa okay, no one’s getting killed or fired today. You just need to get out there, and focus on your work. Alright? Can you do that for me?”
That. Fucking. Tone.
“Stop talking like that!” You whisper shout, knowing nurses could be nearby. “This is my first day, and I already have to convince everyone I’m not a complete disaster. So yes, I can do that for you. Happy? I’d like my band-aid now, please.”
“Okay, okay. You’ll get your band-aid,” he says calmly. “You just have to be more patient.”
You shoot him a glare, but he just smiles, still unbothered. He walks to a cabinet, pulling out a bright pink box of band-aids with a huge “My little pony” printed on it.
“What is that?”
“Best we have in triage,” he shrugs, amused. He looks back inside into the cabinet, before smirking at you. “We got Spongebob too.”
“…My little pony is fine,” you mutter.
“Alright,” he nods, invading your space again. “Look up for me.”
You’re grateful you’re not hooked to a heart monitor. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and tilt your head up.
“Almost done, you’re doing great,” he drawls, smoothing the stupid band-aid over your life threatening injury with ridiculous care. “There,” Jack says, finally stepping back. “All done. You did so good for m–”
You snap upright from the bed so fast you almost cause yourself another injury by bumping into his big ass head.
“I have to go,” you blurt, already making your way to the door. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot. I hope we never see each other again.”
He peels off his gloves with a laugh, tossing them into the bin. This is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all week.
“No promises, doc,” he winks, “PTMC is not that big.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response or even to see the panic on your face. You practically launch yourself into the hallway, and start speed walking toward the ED with a My little pony bandaid on your forehead.
Best sex of your life.
Worst coincidence of your career.
And yet…you can’t wait till you see him again.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated ✨
this one-shot is inspired by lana del rey’s unreleased song velvet crowbar
javier peña x DEA!fem!reader
javi gif from @perotovar divider by @uzmacchiato
you came to Colombia from New York with a badge, a mission, and no intention of getting attached. but months later when you’re scarred, restless, and unable to forget what you and javier peña went through—you’re not sure what’s left to hold onto. until one night, he shows up at her door, and nothing feels like duty anymore.
masterlist | 7.8k words | photos do not depict what reader looks like | mentions drugs, canon narcos talk, javi has a real bad drinkin problem, allusions of violence, reader gets kidnapped, slooowww burn, lots of javi pov!, smutty smut smut, he loves suckin on tits sue me, munch!javi duh, surprise surprise they hit it raw (DONT DO THAT), soft sex lots of I love you's, little bit of javi receiving head, & riding
I was addicted to you but I didn't know it .✦ You were afflicted by booze .✦ You didn't show it huh .✦ Life is a velvet crowbar Hitting you over the head .✦ You're bleeding but you want more .✦ "This is so like you," I said “Put yourself on back to bed.”
Bogotá smells like rain and grit, like wet stone and burnt coffee and something darker that never quite washes away. You step off the plane in the thick of the rainy season, boots hitting pavement slick with oil, and you already know the city will not be kind to you.
You’re DEA. Five years in New York. Undercover buys, dead drops, informants with trembling hands and blood under their nails. You were good at it, good enough to get noticed. Good enough to be transferred. Now you’re here, knee-deep in the worst war on drugs the agency’s ever seen, and they’ve dropped you into it like you’re a match in a powder keg.
They told you you’d be part of something bigger. That your experience was needed. What they didn’t say—what they didn’t need to say—was that you were walking into a man’s world. A dirty, blood-slicked one that doesn’t make room for women unless they’re bleeding, bruised, or biting back.
Not that you’re entirely surprised. You came from the Big Apple after all.
They talk over you at meetings. Call you mamacita under their breath. Smirk when you offer suggestions. You learn fast that respect isn’t given here. It’s taken.
So you take it.
You drag a cartel runner out of a brothel in the south side of the city, in the middle of the bustling street, cuff him with his pants around his ankles, and drive him back yourself with a cracked rib and half your blouse stained red. The next day, no one calls you sweetheart. They still don’t like you, but they know better.
The job is constant. Always moving. Surveillance, raids, interrogations, bullshit. Colombia eats agents alive. You see it in the eyes of the rookies, the twitchy ones. They come in wide-eyed and go home in body bags or not at all. You’re not sure which you’ll be yet.
You hear about Peña before you meet him. Always just out of frame, the center of every whispered rumor.
He’s the hotshot. The one who plays dirty, drinks harder than he sleeps, and somehow stays three steps ahead of Escobar’s men. Murphy says he’s bad news. Carrillo says he’s driven. Everyone else just says he’s dangerous—and not just to the people he’s chasing.
You try not to care. You’ve dealt with men like him before. Charisma surrounds him like smoke. Charm like a loaded gun. But the name lingers in your mind long after lights-out.
You see him for the first time at the embassy, late at night when the halls are empty and the fluorescent lights hum low overhead. He’s leaning against a doorframe, shirt wrinkled and stained with something too dark to be wine, tie hanging loose like a noose around his neck.
He looks at you like he already knows everything. You slow your steps, your gaze catching on the way his fingers twitch, like he’s halfway through lighting a cigarette that isn’t there.
“You’re the one from New York,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges.
You nod. “That’s me.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. Just let his gaze drag across your face, down to the holster at your hip, then back up. “Welcome to hell, agent.”
And then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the corridor like smoke curling under a door.
You stand there a moment longer, heart thrumming in your throat, before turning away.
Later, when you finally sleep, you dream of velvet and blood and a man with whiskey eyes who looks at you like he’s already seen the ending.
The first time you’re assigned to work with Peña, it’s a stakeout.
No briefing. No welcome. Just a sharp knock on your door at 6:12 a.m., and when you open it, he’s standing there coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, aviators hanging from the neckline of a sweat-damp shirt.
“Grab your shit,” he says. “We got a lead in Teusaquillo.”
You don’t ask questions. Not because you trust him—hell no—but because you’ve learned that here, time spent talking is time someone else uses to get away.
The ride’s quiet. Bogota unfolds around you in soft gray morning light, all crumbling walls and rust-stained rooftops. Peña doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at you. He just drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, a half-lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.
You steal glances. You can’t help it.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t care that you’re studying him.
You’d call it arrogance if it didn’t feel so... hollow. There’s something hollow in him. Like the violence carved out everything else and left a man made of leftover smoke and sinew.
He parks two blocks from a mechanic’s shop with boarded-up windows and an upstairs flat rumored to belong to one of Escobar’s lieutenants. You settle in. Binoculars. Radio. Notebooks. The usual. But the air’s heavy. The kind of thick that presses behind your eyes.
Four hours pass in silence. Five.
You learn the way he fidgets when nothing’s happening: thumb tapping his thigh, tongue pressing against his back molars like he’s chewing on words he won’t say. Every so often, he scribbles something in a small notebook. Names, maybe. Codes. You can’t tell.
Around hour six, you finally speak. “You always this quiet?”
Peña doesn’t look at you. “You always this nosy?”
You let the silence return, but this time, it hums with heat.
It rains at noon. Of course it does.
You shift in your seat and ask if he wants coffee, stretching your arms out, cracking your back. He doesn’t answer right away. He just exhales slowly through his nose, watching the rain hit the windshield, before he finally says, low, “Only if it’s black.”
You bring him a lukewarm cup from the vendor down the street. When you hand it to him, his fingers brush yours for half a second.
It feels like someone flicked a live wire against your skin.
He must feel it too. For the first time that day, he looks at you. Really looks. And you see it: the wreckage behind his eyes. The wear and tear. The man running on fumes and sheer defiance.
You think, fleetingly.
My baby’s on his eighth life, darling.
The thought disturbs you.
The bust happens fast. A kid leaves the upstairs flat with a duffel bag and nervous hands. Peña’s out of the car before you process the door slamming shut. You’re right behind him.
It unravels into gunfire in under three minutes.
You drop to one knee behind the car as bullets crack overhead. Peña’s already returned fire, teeth bared, eyes bright. He moves like he’s dancing with death, like he’s done this so many times it’s boring now.
Someone’s screaming. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s the kid with the duffel. You don’t know. You just fire and move and breathe until the world stills.
Three bodies lie crumpled in the alley. None of them are yours.
When it’s over, you’re sweating and shaking. Adrenaline still rattles in your bones.
You turn to him. “You good?”
He lights another cigarette with a trembling hand, breathes in deep. Then he mutters, almost absently, “You’ll get used to it.”
You want to scream at him.
Get used to it?
To the blood, the stink of it, the way your hands still feel the shape of the trigger even when it’s over?
But you don’t.
Because part of you, a dark, unspoken, shameful one is already used to it.
Maybe always was.
He walks off to talk to Carrillo. You stay behind, staring at the blood pooled in the gutter. Your hand still trembles as you try to light your own cigarette, but it slips between your fingers twice before you finally get it.
Peña doesn’t come back for you. He knows you’ll follow.
And you do.
That night, you can’t sleep.
You lie awake in your tiny apartment, sheets tangled around your legs, fan clattering in the corner. Your body’s sore. You smell like sweat and smoke and steel.
But it’s not the mission that keeps you awake.
It’s him.
His voice. The shake in his hands. The moment he looked at you like he saw every flaw and fracture and welcomed them.
Like he wanted to press his fingers into your broken places and call it comfort.
You roll onto your side and stare at the wall.
You don’t want to want him. You really don’t.
But already, it’s there. Rooting itself deep. Curling around your ribs like vines.
Javier Peña is a slow kind of ruin. And you—God help you—you’ve always been a sucker for a long fall.
It’s been four days since Peña showed up to work.
At first, no one blinked. He was known for disappearing—trailing informants or losing track of time in cartel dives but by day three, even Murphy was checking his watch more than usual. You tried not to care, tried to convince yourself that agents burn out all the time.
But when his informant turned up dead in the Zona Rosa and Peña didn’t answer his radio, something shifted.
Murphy looked up from his desk, jaw clenched. “Something’s wrong.”
He’s got one kid and another on the way. A wife who’s already half out the door. When another lead comes in at the last minute, he gives you the keys to the Ford Bronco and says, “Just check on him. Please.”
You don’t answer. You just drive.
His apartment’s in a building that’s seen better decades. Faded tile, dim hallway lights, a sour mildew smell that clings to the peeling walls. You knock once, wait, knock again—harder.
No answer.
You press your ear to the door and hear it. The dull clink of glass. The buzz of a radio left on some Spanish station, low and mournful. A body shifting against leather.
You don’t hesitate. You pick the lock and slip inside.
The place is dark, except for the gray-blue light spilling in through the window. A record’s spinning in the corner, half done. The couch is soaked. Not in blood—thank God—but in spilled bourbon and sweat. And there he is.
Javier.
Flat on his back, half-dressed, arm thrown over his face. There’s a bottle on the floor beside him and at least two more empty on the coffee table.
You stand there for a long moment, arms crossed, jaw tight. He doesn’t even stir.
Your voice cuts the quiet like a scalpel.
“This is your big plan, Peña? Drink yourself into a coma and hope Escobar turns himself in?”
He groans, low in his throat, like he’s just now dragging himself back to consciousness. Doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t move.
“Didn’t ask for a babysitter,” he mumbles, voice gravel-thick.
“No,” you snap, “you didn’t. But you stopped answering your radio. You missed the last two intel briefings. You didn’t even show up when Vargas walked.”
He shifts, turning his head toward the ceiling, one eye cracking open just enough to look annoyed. “Why do you care?”
That catches you. Harder than it should.
You don’t answer right away.
Because the truth—the real one, the one pressed up against your ribcage isn’t for him to know. That you do care. That you haven’t stopped thinking about him since that goddamn stakeout. That every part of this job makes you feel more numb, more wrecked, more like him.
You move closer, but not enough to seem gentle. You kick an empty bottle out of the way, hard enough to make it clatter against the wall.
“You don’t get to disappear, Peña. Not now. Not when people are counting on you.”
He laughs dry and mean. “People don’t count on me. They tolerate me.”
You crouch down in front of him, low enough that he has to look at you.
“Murphy’s worried. Carrillo wants you benched. And me? I walked into this apartment half expecting to find your rotting corpse.”
He flinches. Just barely. But you see it.
His voice is quieter now. “Then why the fuck are you still here?”
You pause. Let the air thicken between you. Then say, soft but sharp, “Because I didn’t want you to drink your own regrets alone.”
That lands.
His face tightens. The mask he wears that’s cool, untouchable, cynical slips, just for a second. Enough for you to see the exhaustion underneath. The guilt. The part of him that knows he’s falling apart and doesn’t care enough to stop it.
You stand again, dragging your gaze over the mess he’s let himself become.
“I’ll be back in an hour. If you’re still here when I return, I’m dragging your ass into a cold shower and then straight to Carrillo. You’ll wish you’d died when I found you.”
You walk to the door.
Just before you open it, he says your name.
Quiet. Hoarse. No apology in it. No plea.
Just your name, the way someone might say it in the dark to remind themselves they’re not alone.
You don’t look back.
You just say, “Sober up,” and leave the door open behind you.
It’s been a week since you found him in his own personal graveyard of booze and guilt. A week since he said your name like it was something sacred, then disappeared into silence.
He came back to work the next morning clean-shaven, wearing a shirt that didn’t smell like whiskey, hair combed and expression unreadable. Murphy gave him shit, Carrillo gave him orders, and you gave him nothing.
Not even a nod.
It wasn’t punishment, it was survival. Whatever passed between you in that apartment, it’s a crack in the wall neither of you knows how to patch. So you kept the silence and he respected it.
But he’s different now.
Not better. Not worse.
Just... watching.
You feel his eyes sometimes. When you walk past. When you speak in meetings. When you laugh, when you don’t. He’s not hitting on you he never did. It’s not sleazy or careless. It’s quiet. Careful. Like he’s waiting for something.
Like he’s still thinking about the fact that you didn’t look back.
You’re in the records room when he finally speaks to you again.
It’s late. The embassy’s mostly empty, the halls hushed. You’re surrounded by heat-stained files and the buzz of a dying fluorescent light. You’re tired, sweating under your blouse, hair tied back with a pencil you forgot to remove.
The door creaks behind you. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him.
He doesn’t say your name this time.
“Didn’t think you were the type to stay late.”
You slide a folder back into its drawer. “Didn’t think you were the type to come back.”
He huffs something like a laugh, quiet and sharp. Then, softer, “Touché.”
You don’t face him. You just keep filing.
“You want something, Peña?”
“Just saw the light on,” he says, “and thought—”
You cut him off. “If you’re about to say something stupid like ‘thanks,’ don’t.”
Silence.
Then: “Wasn’t gonna.”
But he doesn’t leave. He steps into the room and leans against the metal cabinet nearest you, arms crossed. His shoulder brushes the edge of yours—just enough contact to feel it, not enough to call attention to.
“You ever wonder why we do this?” he asks after a beat. “Why we stay?”
You glance at him, frowning. “Because if we don’t, Escobar wins.”
“That’s the company line.” He meets your gaze now, his own unreadable. “I mean you. Why you stay.”
You should shut it down. Should tell him to get out and take his existential bullshit with him.
But instead, you say, “Because I’m good at it. Because it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not wasting space. Because when it’s quiet, I start thinking about all the people I didn’t save.”
It’s too honest. It slips out raw.
You don’t meet his eyes again. You just move to the next drawer.
But Peña doesn’t flinch. He shifts closer. Not enough to crowd you—he never does—but enough for you to feel the warmth coming off him.
“I think about that night,” he says. “You kicking my bottle across the room like you wanted to kill me with it.”
You smile despite yourself. “I still might.”
“You could’ve reported me. Could’ve let Carrillo have my badge. Would’ve been easier.”
You close the drawer. Turn to him. “Would’ve been cowardly.”
His expression softens. Just barely. The hard angles of him blur under the soft buzz of the dying light.
“You scare me a little, you know that?” he says, voice low.
You blink. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s supposed to be the truth.”
You let the silence stretch this time. Let it sit.
There’s something simmering between you now. Not fire. Not yet. But heat. Potential.
He reaches past you, grabs a file he has no reason to touch, lets his fingers brush yours as he does.
This time, you don’t pull away.
And when you finally speak, your voice is quieter. Thicker. “This changes nothing.”
He nods once. Serious and firm. “I know.”
But he doesn’t move. Neither do you.
He can’t stop thinking about her hands.
That’s the thing. Not her mouth, not her ass—though God knows his brain’s tried to go there out of habit. But no. What keeps looping through his skull at night, in the dark, is the way her fingers looked pressed against his chest that night on the couch.
The callus on her trigger finger. The precise anger in her grip when she shoved the empty bottle away from him like it insulted her personally. The way her hand shook, just once, when she thought he couldn’t see.
It’s pathetic. He knows it. But he thinks about her hands when someone else’s are on him.
The woman in his bed tonight smells like coconut oil and cheap cigarettes. She’s some informant’s cousin—or maybe she said she worked at the bar in El Cartucho. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t ask.
She moans his name like she means it, like she knows him.
She doesn’t.
He’s already halfway gone.
He rolls off her when it’s over and lights a cigarette he doesn’t want. She tries to cuddle. He gets up and shrugs his jeans back on, muttering something about early meetings. She doesn’t press. They never do.
By the time he’s back in his car, windows rolled down, sweat drying on his skin, he’s already thinking about her.
Not the woman he just fucked.
Her.
The one who hasn’t so much as smiled at him since she landed in Colombia. The one who walked into his filth-stained apartment and looked at him like he was still worth saving.
He’d rather be punched in the face.
He’s seen it happen to other men—DEA guys who get that wide-eyed thing about one of their own, fall into bed with someone who carries a badge and a temper, only to get left holding the guilt when the mission takes her out first.
Not him. He keeps his women outside the building, off the books, out of the way.
Except... Now he doesn’t want any of them. Not for more than a night.
And he doesn’t want her either.
He wants her gone. Out of his head. Out of his space. But every time she walks by—blouse clinging to her spine in the Bogotá heat, voice calm and sharp in meetings, he finds himself holding his breath.
And when she leaves the room, he has to exhale.
He watches her sometimes. He hates himself for it.
From the breakroom. From the side of a hallway. From the back row of a briefing.
She doesn’t even glance at him anymore. Not since the records room. Not since she looked him dead in the eye and said this changes nothing.
He believed her.
But it had. It changed everything.
He still flirts with the receptionist. Still lets his fingers linger when passing intel to the blonde who runs field logistics. Still makes some dumb comment when the ambassador’s wife brings lunch to the office.
But he never touches her.
Never jokes. Never asks if she’s free Friday. Never offers her a light for her cigarette when she’s outside, leaning on the brick wall like she’s holding the building up by herself.
Because she’s not like the others.
She’s the kind of woman who makes you want to quit drinking—not because she asks you to, but because you suddenly want to deserve to be seen by her again.
And that’s the most dangerous thing in the world.
He dreams about her sometimes. In the dreams, she never says a word. Just looks at him the way she did that night—tight-lipped, furious, afraid.
In the dreams, he always wakes up sweating. Alone.
Sometimes it’s the best part of his day.
He hangs on to all those little moments that occur during the day.
Like when she passes him a manila folder one morning during briefing—fingers grazing his knuckles, just barely. He feels it like a fucking static shock. He doesn’t flinch, but it coils deep in his stomach.
Later, he’ll forget what the folder even said. But he won’t forget the brush of her hand.
Another day. It’s hot. She’s got her sleeves rolled to the elbows and a smear of dirt across her cheek from a bust in the jungle. He watches her gulp down lukewarm water from a dented thermos, her throat flexing, eyes closed.
He has to look away.
When he lights a cigarette, she asks for one. Doesn’t look at him when he hands it over. Doesn’t thank him, either.
Still, he holds that image like it means something.
He dreams of her in that records room.
Not naked. Not moaning his name.
Just standing there, arm crossed, and sweat on her brow.
He wakes up hard anyway.
She starts wearing her hair down. Probably not for him. But maybe.
He watches it stick to the back of her neck. He thinks about moving it aside. He thinks about kissing the skin underneath. He thinks about what she’d do. How she’d slap him, shove him against the wall, maybe kiss him right back.
He doesn’t do it.
A month passes like that. And then, everything breaks.
It’s supposed to be clean.
In and out. Intercept a delivery. Get the courier. Bring him in before breakfast.
They don’t even get a scream on the radio.
Just static.
Then Carrillo’s voice: “We’ve lost eyes on the second vehicle. Peña, respond.”
He’s already grabbing his vest before the words finish.
She was in that car.
The wreck is still smoking when he gets there. Blood on the ground, no bodies. Signs of a struggle. Boot prints. Drag marks. Her weapon on the gravel, clip half-ejected, as if she’d tried to reload mid-scramble.
He finds a smear of blood on the passenger door.
Too much to ignore. Not enough to prove she's gone.
He doesn’t wait for backup.
He doesn’t wait for anything.
He just starts hunting.
Three men die in an alley within the hour.
He doesn’t even ask the first one a question—just shoots him in the kneecap and watches the others panic. The second gives up a name. A warehouse. East end. Off the grid.
He doesn’t thank him.
He doesn’t feel anything.
The warehouse is rotting, windowless, stinking of rust and piss. He doesn’t go in there quietly.
The first two men barely have time to look up. The third draws a gun. Javier shoots him in the throat.
He’s breathing like an animal now. Can’t hear anything over the pulse in his skull. His blood feels radioactive.
Then he sees her.
Tied to a chair. Hands behind her back. Duct tape on her mouth. Blood crusted at her temple.
But she’s breathing.
And she’s looking right at him.
He moves like he’s underwater. Crosses the floor in seconds but it feels like years. Drops to his knees in front of her, pulling a knife from his belt.
Her eyes are wide. There’s no fear in them.
Just recognition. Relief. And something else.
Something fragile.
He cuts the tape from her mouth, and she gasps in air, voice ragged: “You came.”
He can’t speak. He just cups her face, thumbs brushing dried blood, trying to convince himself she’s whole. Her cheek presses into his palm like it’s the only thing holding her up.
“I thought—” she starts, then chokes on it.
He shakes his head. “No. Don’t.”
“I thought I’d never see you again.”
And now he’s the one breaking.
“I would’ve burned this whole city down,” he says, voice shaking. “I would’ve leveled it.”
She closes her eyes, leans forward until their foreheads touch. Her breath fans over his lips. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
The others arrive twenty minutes later.
He doesn’t let go of her until the medics make him.
Even then, his hands hover—like he might need to grab her again. Like she might disappear.
She doesn’t.
She looks at him over her shoulder as they load her into the van. And for once, she does smile. A small one.
Not wide. Not flirtatious.
But real.
And it guts him.
He goes home that night, covered in blood—some hers, some theirs, some his.
Lights a cigarette.
He doesn’t sleep.
He doesn’t dream.
Just stares at the wall and thinks of the way she whispered You came, like he wasn’t the one who needed saving.
She didn’t mean to start thinking about him.
It wasn’t part of the plan. Bogotá was supposed to be all work. Just another station. Just another hunt. Get in, track Escobar, do the job.
She’d dealt with worse than this before—misogynists, cartel hits, bad coffee. She could’ve handled it.
But not him.
Not Javier Peña.
It started small. The cigarette passed between my fingers. The quick glances over briefing reports. The way his eyes found you across rooms he had no business being in.
At first, you thought he was just another man trying to get under your skin.
Then he stopped trying.
And it got worse.
Before the mission, you’d dreamed about him. Not even a sex dream. Just a quiet one. His shoulder against yours on a bench. His hand on your knee. The kind of domestic nothing you didn’t let yourself think about anymore.
You woke up unsettled. Then got in the SUV. Then got taken.
And the whole time you were being dragged through that hell, wrists zip-tied, head pounding, all you could think was: I’ll never see him again.
Not your parents. Not Murphy. Him.
It should’ve scared you more than it did.
Now it’s three days later, and your apartment feels like a jail cell.
You’re healing. Bruised ribs. Scrapes. Nothing major, nothing deep. The medic said you were lucky.
You don’t feel lucky.
Your hands still shake when you’re pouring water. Your dreams are full of gravel and duct tape. And behind all of it is him..
Not the version from the office. The version who found you.
Bloody. Breathless. Eyes like thunder.
When he said I would’ve leveled this city, you believed him.
And you haven't been able to shake the way he said I didn’t have a choice.
It’s almost dark when the knock comes.
You don't expect it to be him.
You open the door anyway, and there he is. Standing in the hall like something scraped raw. His jacket’s slung over one shoulder. His shirt’s wrinkled. He smells like smoke, sweat, and aftershave.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Then:
“I should’ve called,” he says, voice low.
You blinked. “You don’t call.”
His mouth twists at that—something between guilt and a smile.
“I wanted to see if you were okay.”
“You saw the report,” you say, stepping aside anyway.
“I didn’t believe it.”
You stand awkwardly in your living room, hands stuffed in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. You’re in a pair of shorts and an oversized tee, hair damp from the shower, still smelling faintly of antiseptic.
“Did you come here to check on me,” you ask, “or because you needed to see it for yourself?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since the warehouse. Eyes tracing your bruises like they’re war maps. Stopping at the butterfly bandage near your temple. The tenderness at your ribs.
Then he swallows hard.
“I needed to see you,” he says.
You sit on the edge of the couch. He doesn’t.
The silence stretches.
Then you say softly, “You killed six men looking for me.”
“Seven,” he says. “One of ‘em just didn’t die right away.”
Your throat tightens. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“No,” he says. “It’s supposed to tell you I’d do it again.”
You finally meet his eyes.
And there it is.
That shift. The thing they’ve both been dancing around since day one. It’s not about sex. Not anymore. It’s about something bigger. Louder. More terrifying.
He cared.
And now they’re both stuck with that truth.
“You scared the shit out of me,” you say.
He nods. “Right back at you.”
“You shouldn’t have come alone.”
“I always come alone.”
You snorted. “Yeah, I know.”
He breathes out a laugh at that. Runs a hand through his hair.
Then: “Can I sit?”
You gesture to the space beside you.
When he sinks into the couch, the cushion shifts. Their knees touch.
It’s the first time they’ve been this close since that night in the records room. But it’s different now. Slower. Like every inch is charged with memory.
You turn toward him. “Why are you really here?”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.
“I’ve been trying to forget about you,” he says.
Your breath catches.
“Thought if I slept around enough, drank enough, worked enough, I’d stop.”
You stay quiet.
“I can’t,” he says finally. “I can’t stop.”
Your voice is just above a whisper. “You respect me too much to flirt. But not enough to stay away.”
He closes his eyes for a beat. “That about sums it up.”
And then he leans forward, forearms on his knees, head in his hands.
“I fucked this up,” he mutters. “I let you get taken. I—”
You grab his wrist.
Not gently. Not softly. Just firm.
He looks up.
“You saved me.”
He searches your face like he’s not sure he’s allowed to believe you.
“I didn’t come out of that warehouse afraid of you,” you say. “I came out knowing exactly who I’d trust to come for me.”
Something in him breaks open then.
He doesn’t kiss you.
He doesn’t touch you.
He just leans in until their foreheads rest together in the quiet.
They stay like that. Breathing the same air.
And maybe that’s all they need right now.
He’s been to her apartment more times in the last three weeks than he has to his own.
At first, it was to check on her. Drop off meds. Bring her dinner when she wouldn’t remember to eat. Make sure she wasn’t trying to get back in the field too soon.
Then she started teasing him about it. Called him Nurse Peña. Said he should get her a little bell to ring when she needed things.
And somehow—somehow—he didn’t run.
She laughs more now.
Not a lot. Not like it’s easy. But it happens.
The first time she laughed at one of his stupid jokes, he almost dropped the coffee mug he was handing her. The sound startled him. It was warm. Unforced. Real.
He didn’t think he’d ever hear her laugh like that.
Didn’t think he’d deserve to.
There’s a new rhythm between them now.
She gives him shit about his taste in music. He tells her she grinds her teeth when she reads case files. They eat on her couch and sometimes fall asleep watching badly dubbed telenovelas with the volume low.
It’s not domestic. Not exactly.
But it’s the closest he’s had in years.
He flirts with her now.
Just a little.
She rolls her eyes every time. Calls him a menace. But she never tells him to stop.
He brings her a sandwich one night after a long debrief. She’s got her feet up on the coffee table, bandage finally off her temple, a yellow legal pad in her lap.
When he sets the sandwich down, she glances up. “Will you always feed me when I’m injured?”
“Nah,” he says. “Only when you look like you’re gonna forget to eat.”
“Oh, so now you care about my nutrition.”
“Wouldn’t want you to pass out mid-briefing. Then Murphy would cry and I’d have to console him.”
She snorts. “I’d pay to see that.”
He grins. “I’d charge you.”
She tosses a crumpled sticky note at him, and he dodges it like a pro. “So rude,” she says.
He shrugs. “You like me rude.”
And it’s there—again. That flicker.
She looks at him a second too long. Then shakes her head and opens the sandwich.
He watches her take a bite and pretends it doesn’t do anything to him.
He doesn’t fuck around anymore.
No informants. No girls at the bars.
He doesn’t have it in him. Not now. Not since every time he closes his eyes, he sees her in that warehouse chair and remembers how empty the world felt until she looked up at him.
She’s healing.
Not just the bruises. The rest of her. He can see it. In the way she stretches without wincing. The way she walks like she owns the floor again.
But there’s still a mark on her. Something permanent.
He knows. Because he’s got it too.
She catches him watching her one night, and instead of brushing it off, she asks softly, “What?”
He almost says I thought you were gone.
He almost says I haven’t slept properly since.
He almost says Don’t get hurt like that again. I don’t think I’d survive it.
Instead he says, “Just making sure you’re alive.”
She blinks. That’s all. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t deflect.
She just says, “I am.”
And for the first time in weeks, he breathes like his lungs aren’t on fire.
She’s been cleared to return.
He knew it was coming. Could feel it in the way she moved it was less careful, more sure. The bruises had gone from purple to green to nothing. The bandages were long gone. Her eyes had that fire again.
But it hits him harder than he thought when she says the words.
“I’m cleared. Back in the field next week.”
He nods. Stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on her windowsill. Says something like, that’s good, or you ready?
She doesn’t answer right away.
Just stands in the kitchen, twisting the ring of condensation on her glass of water. She’s in one of his old shirts again—says it’s softer than hers—and it’s hanging off her like it always belonged to her.
Then she says it, quiet, like a sin:
“I never wanted to get better.”
He freezes.
She keeps staring down at the glass like it’ll forgive her for saying it.
“Not really,” she murmurs. “I mean—I knew I couldn’t stay like that forever. I didn’t want to be helpless.”
“But?” he hears himself say, voice low, unsteady.
She finally looks at him.
“But if I got better… I figured you’d stop showing up.”
He could laugh. He could make a joke.
But nothing comes out.
Because something’s burning in his chest now ugly, raw, relentless, and it’s got nowhere to go.
He crosses the room without thinking. Leans on the counter across from her. Close enough to feel her breath.
“You think I only came because you were hurt?”
“No,” she says. “I think you only let yourself come because I was.”
That wrecks him.
Because it’s true.
He should say something else. He doesn’t.
Not for a full minute. Just lets the silence sit there between them, thick and humming like power lines in the heat.
She breaks it first, whisper-soft: “It’s been nice. Having you.”
And that’s it. That’s the moment.
That’s when the thing he’s been swallowing for weeks claws its way up his throat and refuses to die quiet.
“I love you.”
Her eyes widen.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
He steps back, like it’ll soften the blow.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You did.”
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I did.”
She still doesn’t speak. Just walked closer to him.
Stops in front of him.
And when she reaches out, he thinks she’s going to slap him or shove him or say something final.
Instead, her hand lands flat on his chest. Right over his heart.
Her voice is wrecked. “Say it again.”
“I love you.”
She closes her eyes. Like she needs it to settle. Like it hurts.
Then:
“I love you too.”
He doesn’t kiss her.
He could. He wants to—God, does he want to—but something tells him this isn’t about that. Not yet. Not tonight.
Instead, he pulls her in.
Arms around her. Her face against his neck. Her hand fisting in the back of his shirt.
He holds her like a man holding the thing he almost lost.
Like she’s air and blood and whatever’s left of his soul.
And she doesn’t pull away.
They stay like that for a long time.
No words. No next steps. Just the heat of skin against skin and the quiet promise: this is real now.
And when he finally leans back and presses his forehead to hers, he says, “You’re going back in the field. I can’t stop that.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know that too.”
And somehow, that’s everything.
And when she pulls back enough to meet his eyes, her voice is barely there. “Stay tonight?”
He nods. Doesn’t even pretend to play it cool.
“I was already going to.”
He didn’t mean to fall asleep. But her body was warm beside him, curled into the crook of his arm, wearing his shirt and nothing else. And for the first time in years, his chest didn’t feel tight. For the first time ever, he wasn’t running.
So he let go. Just for a moment.
And when he wakes—it’s to her fingers tracing his chest, lazy and slow.
“Javi,” she whispers.
He blinks, meets her gaze in the low light. Her voice is hushed, but her eyes are wide awake. Wanting.
“I don’t want to wait anymore.”
She’s over him before he can speak, thighs slipping around his waist, mouth already on his.
And it’s soft at first. Like every kiss they almost shared. Like every moment that made him ache.
He wraps his arms around her waist, palms splaying across her bare back. She’s not wearing panties. Just his shirt, hitched up around her thighs.
And she smells like sleep, vanilla, and him.
“Baby,” he breathes against her lips. “You sure?”
“I’ve been sure,” she says. “Since the first time you bled on my floor and tried to leave without saying thank you.”
He huffs a laugh. And then he kisses her like he’s starving.
She peels the shirt off slowly. Her nipples are already hard, pebbled from the air and his gaze. He sits up, chest to chest, and buries his mouth between them.
“I dreamed about this,” he murmurs against her skin. “Fucking dreamed about your tits in my mouth.”
Her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently as he suckles at her breast, teasing the other with his thumb. She gasps when he scrapes his teeth lightly across her nipple, then soothes it with his tongue.
“I’m gonna take my time,” he says, looking up at her. “You deserve that.”
She lies back when he pushes gently at her waist, guiding her onto the sheets.
And he gets between her legs like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged.
Her thighs fall open for him without hesitation. And she’s soaked—slick and glistening, flushed with heat and arousal. He doesn’t touch her right away. Just presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, then higher—
“Javi—”
“I’ve waited too long for this,” he whispers, breathing hot over her folds. “I’m gonna taste you, baby.”
And he does.
Tongue dragging slow through her heat, lips wrapping around her clit like a kiss. She cries out—his name on her lips like a plea. He groans into her, drunk on her, grinding his hips into the mattress as he eats her like a man half his age.
She fists the sheets. Her back arches. He flattens his tongue and devours, letting her ride his mouth, letting her fuck herself on his face.
“You taste so sweet,” he groans. “Fuck, I could live here. Come for me, cariño. Give it to me.”
She does—with a sob, legs trembling, body shaking against his tongue.
And he doesn’t stop until she begs.
He’s on her before she can catch her breath. Mouth bruising hers, hand stroking his cock between them.
“Condom’s in my wallet,” he says roughly.
“No,” she gasps, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I want you. All of you.”
He nearly comes right then.
He pushes into her slow. So slow. They both groan—hers high and broken, his deep and reverent.
This masterlist contains works exclusive to Cregan Stark, with both readers, original female characters, as well as canon characters.
HotD General Masterlist ❅ Cregan works on Ao3
— ONESHOTS
The Princess and the Wolf
Cregan x Targ!reader ❅ 7,270 words ❅ love at first sight, smut
Two decades after the Dance, Cregan Stark journeys to the capital to see his old friend King Jacaerys and unexpectedly fall in love with you, the king's eldest daughter.
Winter Will not Linger Long
Cregan x Targ!reader x Jacaerys ❅ 4,745 words ❅ threesome, angst
Distressed by the harsh reality of war and battle, you spend a night of respite and pleasure in the arms of your betrothed, Cregan Stark, and your twin brother, Jacaerys.
Fate Guides the Willing
Cregan x Tyrell!reader ❅ 4,630 words ❅ angst, sexual tension, happy ending
Eager to ally your House to their respective side, both Prince Aemond and Lord Stark send a proposal of marriage. However the prince does not wait for an answer, taking you for himself and prompting Cregan to rescue you.
As the Harsher Winter Holds
Cregan x warrior!reader ❅ 4,460 words ❅ jealousy, smut
Growing up as Lord Rickon's ward, you developed a close bond with his son Cregan. Separated by duty in adulthood, you reunite with him when your banners are called to fight and you find yourself at his side on the battlefield.
Winter Yields to Spring
Cregan x Targaryen!reader ❅ 2,710 words ❅ angst, domestic fluff
Upon flying to Winterfell with the goal of convincing Cregan Stark to pledge his banners to your sister Rhaenyra, you did not expect to fall in love with the Northerner. As war separates you and you are taken prisoner, Cregan leads his armies south to rescue you.
To Build a Home sequel to Winter Yields to Spring
Cregan x Targaryen!reader ❅ 5,280 words ❅ domestic fluff, breeding kink
After the birth of your fourth child, Cregan vows that he will never put you through the struggle of childbirth again, despite his ardent desire to see you round with his babe again. Unbeknownst to him, you yearn to be filled with his love again.
An Ode to Softness
Cregan x Targaryen!reader ❅ 3,100 words ❅ romantic tension, fluff
Cregan Stark was not expecting such a delicate princess as you to fly North to negotiate with him. Upon your arrival he found himself inexplicably taken by your softness, and determined to smooth his rough edges to approach you.
Spoils of Surrender
Cregan x Lannister!reader ❅ 3,490 words ❅ arranged marriage, smut
As the Lannister armies are defeated by the Northerners and Rivermen, your father Lord Jason surrenders and pledges your hand to Lord Cregan Stark, to seal his change of allegiance.
The Embrace of Victory sequel to Spoils of Surrender
Cregan x Lannister!reader ❅ 3,485 words ❅ sexual tension, smut
The war comes to an end and your husband calls you to King's Landing to join him. After months of longing, your reunion unfortunately gets interrupted by his duties, but you are not one to contain your desires.
As you find yourself a young childless widow, your House is quick to arrange a new marriage for you, to Lord Cregan Stark. You are afraid that he will mistreat you as your first husband did, but your wedding night instead soothes your worries.
Into the Woods
Cregan x wife!reader ❅ 5,110 words ❅ hunter/prey sex game, rough sex
Noticing how tense your husband Cregan has been as of late, you lead him into the woods for a special hunt, where you are both his prey and his reward.
Warden of the Queen
Cregan x Jace's twin!reader ❅ 3,435 words ❅ angst, arranged betrothal
As the war of succession tores through the realm and your family, you find solace and strength in your betrothal to Cregan Stark, despite his priority for duty and the cruel twists of fate.
Salt the Night with Silence
Cregan x Northern!reader ❅ 2,390 words ❅ friends to lovers, smut
Orphaned, you were taken to ward by Rickon Stark and raised alongside Cregan, forging a strong bond of friendship with him. As he becomes Warden and seeks to marry, your mutual feelings finally come to the surface.
Sons of the Wolf
Cregan x Targryen!reader ❅ 2,280 words ❅ hurt and comfort, mild fluff
On your way to Dragonstone to visit your sister Rhaenyra, you find yourself in labor during your stop in King’s Landing. Cregan protects you from Alicent’s intrusiveness.
Home is Where the Heart Is
Cregan x wife!reader ❅ 3,280 words ❅ smut, mild breeding kink
After almost two years of absence, your husband Cregan finally returns home from war. The two of you spend a long, heated night rediscovering each other's body.
Amidst the Ruins of War
Aemond x wife!reader, Cregan x Aemond's wife ❅ 3,420 words ❅ angst, infidelity
As your husband Aemond kickstarts the Dance of the Dragons, you escape to join your mother's faction. During the two years of war, you find comfort in the arms of Cregan Stark, only to face the consequences of your actions when the Greens come out victorious.
Fire on Fire
Cregan x wife!reader ❅ 3,130 words ❅ smut, semi-public sex
You and your newly wedded husband Cregan slip away from your wedding feast to enjoy a heated moment.
The Wolf's Embrace
Cregan x betrothed!reader ❅ 1,710 words ❅ smut, grinding
As you visit Cregan in his tent during a hunt held in celebration of your betrothal, passion overwhelms the both of you and you cross the line of propriety.
The Wolf's Den sequel to The Wolf's Embrace
Cregan x wife!reader ❅ 2,040 words ❅ wedding night, p. in v. sex
On the night of your wedding, you finally enter the wolf's den, ready to be devoured.
— SERIES
Blood Upon the Snow
Cregan Stark x Jacaerys Velaryon ❅ 27,060 words ❅ complete
Upon learning of the death of Lucerys, Jacaerys seeks comfort in the arms of Cregan for a night. As the war comes to an end and Cregan is appointed Hand by Queen Rhaenyra, both men must reconcile their feelings and their duties.
The Silver Princess
Cregan Stark x Rowena Targaryen (OC) ❅ 57,455 words ❅ complete
In the hope of maintaining a united realm, King Viserys arranged the marriage of Cregan Stark with Rowena, daughter of Daemon and Lady Rhea Royce.
— HEADCANONS
Smutty Cregan Headcanons (1)
Smutty Cregan Headcanons (2)
Dividers by @zaldritzosrose.
Comment if you want to be added to the Cregan Taglist.
summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”
Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”
“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”
Your frown deepens at his joke.
“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”
“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
“I just gotta go now. Okay?”
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”
Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.
You don’t move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.
“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”
“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.
“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”
“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”
Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.
“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”
“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.
“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”
“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”
“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”
“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.
You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”
“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”
“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”
“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”
“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”
You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.
“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”
“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.
You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”
You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”
You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”
“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”
“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.
“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”
“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”
“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.
“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”
“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”
“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”
“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.
“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.
You nod once.
“What about a headache?”
“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”
“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.
“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.
“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”
“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Can I ask you a stupid question?”
“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”
“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”
You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”
“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.
“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”
“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”
“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”
“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”
“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”
“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”
“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.
“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
“I’m sorry about, Louie—”
“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
“Do what?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”
Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.
“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”
“I didn’t bail on you—”
“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”
“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”
“It wasn’t.”
“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.
“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”
“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.
“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”
“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”
“Because you aren’t acting like it—”
“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”
“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”
“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.
“What?”
“Honey.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”
“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
“Ow,” you whimper.
“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”
“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”
“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 - ongoing
Everybody had warned you against marrying another doctor - from your med school friends, to your mom, even Jack himself.
"You'll never see each other-" "Neither of you will be up for the housework - that'll grate on you eventually." "What about kids?"
As evidenced by the sparkling diamond on your ring finger, you ignored them all. And to wonderful results. You get to work with your husband on the night shift, and spend almost all your time together. It's perfect.
Even when it's not. When you've been trying for a baby for the better part of a year, with nothing to show for it but negative tests - Jack stays your absolute constant.
warnings: implied unspecified age-gap, explicit sexual content, 18+ only mdni! mentions of infertility, she blames herself. it's a little bittersweet, but they're still cute and flirty. unprotective pinv, oral (f receiving). sex with the intention of baby-making, use of stoplights, w/c - 3.2k
There are very few downsides to working with your husband. As unethical as it may be, you're guaranteed the very best teaching, from the very best attending in Pittsburgh (in your personal opinion).
HR hadn't been very impressed initially - concerns of favouritism, power imbalances, you'd heard it all. You're pretty sure Gloria was praying on your downfall from the get go, hoping that it was just a fling between resident and attending.
Unfortunately for her, it only takes eighteen months for you to get a ring on your finger, and a further two months for Jack to get a ring on his, as the Pitt gains a second Doctor Abbot.
The wedding had been a quiet affair - the two of you at the courthouse with Robby and Dana as witnesses. No fuss, no frills. Just like him. Just like you.
Your first six months married had been spent on opposite shifts, catching an hour with each other at the tail-end, before being ripped apart for twelve.
Not exactly the ideal environment for fostering a lasting relationship, you'd come to an agreement - you would swap to the night shift for now, and once you had kids, you'd both look into switching back to day.
One year of nights, for Jack, and then you'd start trying for a baby. You could manage that.
Except you're almost eighteen months into actively trying, with zero progress.
Nothing seems to be working. Tracking your cycle, sneaking off for quickies when the ER is quiet, losing a little bit of weight, and still zero progress.
Every time your period is late, all you're greeted by is a negative test and blood within forty-eight hours.
You don't know what's wrong with you. Why you can't seem to do this single thing that's so deeply ingrained in your biology.
Jack had suggested testing - for both of you, but you haven't quite come round to the idea yet. You're not sure your heart can take confirmation that you're the problem. That Jack could have a baby with anyone he wanted, and you're the barrier in this equation.
If you make it to two years with nothing, you'll make the appointment. Until then, you're running on blind hope.
Night-shift has been a tough adjustment, one you're not sure you could've, or would've, made without Jack. It tilted your entire world on its axis, and reduced your social life to only the most crucial of people.
It's not all bad. The shifts are quieter than days, and he makes it as easy as possible.
Whenever there's a lull in the department, he makes sure there's a coffee pressed into your hand, and a steady arm round your waist as he urges you to get some rest.
If a patient starts getting handsy, he's immediately on edge. He doesn't intervene straight away - he knows you can handle yourself. That you're more than capable. It's one of the things he loves about you.
But as soon as that muscle in your jaw twitches, grip tightening on the hospital bed, he's by your side.
His de-escalation tactics deserve a Nobel Peace Prize.
Quite where he gets the energy from, you aren't sure. He sleeps just as little as you do, and yet he approaches the night shift with an almost fervour, while you don't consider yourself fully awake until ten.
Sometimes you feel like your relationship is built on inequality. He does so much for you, he takes care of you in every conceivable way, and you consider it a win if he lets you drive. Even the driving has been a recent development - you know it hurts his leg, with the sudden adjustments and movements.
Whenever possible, you try and force him to the passenger side, ignoring every grumble about him being alright.
It's the least you can do.
Tonight is no different. You're only a few hours into the shift, and he's already tried to get you to nap.
"You never nap," You point out. "Besides, I've got procedures to get signed off. Can't nap in case something comes through."
"You know I'll sign off whatever you need-"
"Pretty sure that's illegal, Jack. We have the same last name - I think they'd catch on."
He hums slightly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your temple. "Robby would co-sign."
"No he wouldn't-"
"Yes he would! He was Best Man at our wedding-"
You scoff. "That doesn't mean he'd commit fraud."
As Jack goes to reply, the doors to the ER burst open, and a patient is wheeled in. He shoots you a glance, pausing for just a second before the two of you snap into work-mode. "You wanted a case, Doctor Abbot. Here you go. You're in charge."
*****
The next hours are full of stress, of you and Jack darting between trauma rooms as you try and deal with a pile-up on the freeway. It isn't until most of them head up to the OR that you finally get a minute to breathe.
Despite the stressful environment, it's been a good shift. You've gotten to do some interesting procedures, with Jack guiding you at every step.
There's just one problem.
"Jack? Can I talk to you?"
He nods, guiding you to the supply closet, hand settled on your lower back. "What's wrong?"
"You know how we agreed that 'kid' should be a home-only nickname?"
That had been a discussion early on in your relationship. Both of you are aware of the age gap, sometimes more than you'd like, and didn't think you needed to draw any more attention to it in work. You'd gotten enough of an earful from Gloria about Jack being your direct superior after she found out you were hooking up. It had taken some direct intervention from Robby to get her off your backs.
"Yeah?" He nods, arms crossing as he looks at you curiously.
"Well uh, I think we should maybe add 'good girl' to that list too." You glance away, suddenly unable to meet his gaze as the embarrassment washes over you. At the fact that you've been with Jack for almost four years, and the simplest bits of praise still leave you with clenched thighs and a spinning head.
It's pathetic, and if Robby or, god forbid, Langdon ever found out, you'd die.
"Why?"
When your eyes snap to his, you can see amusement written across his whole face, and groan. "Come on, don't make me explain it-"
"I'd really like to hear your reasoning, honey."
"God, I can't believe you're making me say this out loud. It's... distracting. Especially during procedures."
Heat is rising steadily to your cheeks, and you can tell Jack's enjoying every second as he steps forward, closing the distance. Head dipped a little, his lips brush across yours. "So you don't want to hear that you're my best girl? Or that I love nothing more than watching you in your element, saving lives-"
The whine that slips from your lips is almost obscene. "Jack. You're being mean. Save it for after the shift, please."
In an attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity, you press a quick kiss to his cheek and detangle yourself. "The people of Pittsburgh must be suffering without your expertise."
Before he can torment you further, you slip out of the closet, and head for the board, deciding that your suturing skills could use a refresher.
Patients float through, nothing like earlier, and soon you're at the halfway mark.
You can tell he's nearby. Hovering. Just like he always is when he's not with patients. All that focus, channelled directly into you.
Humming slightly, you lean over the desk further as you frown over your paperwork. The melody of George Michael's 'Father Figure' gradually takes form, floating out across Central to where Jack is currently perched.
It takes a single moment for him to manoeuvre round the desks, suddenly taking great interest in the stack of iPads beside you. You shoot him a grin, song getting a little louder.
"I will be your preacher, teacher, anything you have in mind-"
You're cut off by Jack's hands landing on your waist, his front pressed to your back. "You're trouble, you know that?" He murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
Letting out a small snort, you drop your hand to cover his, thumb tracing the gold wedding band that's adorned his finger for the past two years. "Thought you'd know that by now, Abbot."
"Interesting that I'm not allowed to tease you, but it's fair game for you to tease me?" His breath fans across your cheek, and you have to fight back a shiver.
"You're stronger willed than I am," You murmur.
"I'm not so sure about that, sweetheart." A quick glance around to make sure nobody's paying attention, and he's taking your hand, dragging you across the ER. The supply closet door shuts behind you, and you're pressed up against it, his thigh slipping between yours.
"W-we're not supposed to fraternise at work," You manage, breath escaping in sharp huffs as he works along your jaw.
"Since when do you care about the rules?" Jack retorts, hands circling your waist, barely pausing.
"Since-"
"We have a Ms Tyler, thirty-three weeks, fully dilated, ready to give birth now." The voice of the paramedics cuts through your conversation with Jack, and you turn. "Unless someone from OB can get down here right now, this baby's coming in the ER."
"I can take this," Jack says, but you shake your head.
"I need to get a birth signed off, remember?"
"Sweetheart, you don't have to-"
You know where his concern is coming from. For the last six months, you've developed quite an aversion to the youngest of the ER's patients.
It's a debilitating fear for an emergency physician to have. This deep-rooted need to avoid anything pregnancy or baby-related. Especially when it's something you can't even discuss with other people.
Initially, you and Jack hadn't shared that you were trying - it wasn't anybody's business but your own. And now, over a year down the line, there's just shame.
There's no diagnosis, no final verdict - just time, hope, and a string of 'not yet's. Every pregnant woman you pass in the hall, every newborn you see in the arms of its mother, tugs at something inside you - part longing, part fear that it might always be out of reach.
"I'm okay," You insist, following the paramedics into the trauma room and offering Jack as much of a smile as you can muster. "Promise."
You both introduce yourself to Margie Tyler, and get to work.
The room seems smaller than usual. Closer. The lights are harsh, and the smell of antiseptic bothers you in a way it normally wouldn't. You brace, muscles anchored to the gurney. You can do this. You just have to focus.
Jack stands at the top, supporting Margie's leg, alternating between murmuring softly to her, and calmly to you.
Everything progressives so quickly that OB don't manage to send someone down before you can see hair.
The head crowns, and your pulse thuds in your ears as you try and manoeuvre the baby out.
A glance up at Jack, just for reassurance. To know he'd be doing the same thing you are, if the positions were switched. He nods, and you turn your attention back to the baby.
It takes one final push, before silence fills the trauma room. Where there should be sighs of relief, a baby's cries, there's nothing. Heartrate spiking, you carry the baby over to the incubator - Jack's already over, an oxygen mask ready. "APGAR five," You mutter.
"He's a little early - might just need some help."
Hands trembling, you nod, and let Jack take over. It takes a minute or so, but finally the baby cries, and you let out a breath of relief. "He's doing well, Ms Tyler. Do you want to hold him now? We'll need to take him up to our Neonatal Unit for a couple of hours of monitoring, but as soon as you're signed off by OB, you can sit with him."
When you scoop the baby into your arms, cradling him against your chest as you cross the room, you catch Jack's gaze.
To anybody else, he looks focused. To you, he looks heartbroken.
Because it should be you.
Morning comes slow and hollow. Five hours of a shift feel like fifty. Your feet drag, your back aches, and you just want to cry. Jack’s beside you, silent, but something in his posture makes you lean in. He hasn't said much, not since Margie got wheeled upstairs, but the air is heavy.
Robby appears at seven on the dot, coffee in hand and concern written across his expression. “Everything alright? You look like hell.”
You open your mouth to dismiss his worry, and insist that you're fine, but before you can, Jack catches his gaze. An almost imperceptible shake of the head, and Robby stalls for a second, before nodding. "You two head off, I've got things here."
"Thanks, brother."
*****
"You want to talk about it?" He finally asks, as the car pulls onto your street.
"Talk about what?"
It's a stupid question. Even if you didn't know Jack Abbot as well as you do, you'd know what he meant.
"The birth."
You shrug, slowing to a stop. "It's just part of the job."
His voice is soft. Impossibly so. "You know that's not true."
Grip tightening on the wheel, you bite your lip. Now is not the time to cry because of your lack of luck in the baby department. Every day, you see people going through the unimaginable - intense and searing pain, to devastating loss. You have a job you love, and a husband you love more. Things could be a lot worse.
A quick glance over at Jack destroys your walls. His eyes are so intent, so searching, that you're positive he sees every part of your thought process written across your expression.
There's no point hiding it from him. From yourself. Because he knows you too well.
Still, the sob that slips from your lips surprises you.
It's guttural, ragged, and tired.
Jack springs into action immediately, arms wrapping tightly around you. His comfort is wordless, an invite for you to speak when you want. If you want.
Instead, your fingers curl into his scrubs, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck. Heat radiates from your skin, and you take a second to breathe him in, trying to steady yourself. "I-I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Let's get you inside, okay? No good to have you cryin' out here in the street."
A pitiful nod, and you let him detach from you, before he slides out of the passenger seat, and opens your door. An arm slips round you.
"Jack, I can walk to the door."
"I'm not taking any chances, honey. Last thing I want is to be heading back to the Pitt with a fall."
Still sniffling, he takes your bag, and guides you to the couch, before dropping down beside you. Instinctively, you tuck into his side, lacing your fingers through his to fidget with his ring. "Tonight was hard."
His free hand settles on your waist. "I know. But it'll happen for us."
"Will it?" You wish you had half of his confidence.
"It will. Some way, or another."
The tears continue to trickle, and you can feel your lip starting to wobble. So much for pulling it together. "I want it so bad I think it might kill me."
He's shaking his head. "It won't. You're the strongest person I've ever met, sweetheart. And you'll get everything you want, someday soon. I promise."
"You can't promise that," You whisper.
"Are you doubting me, Mrs Abbot?" He murmurs, the smallest smile creeping onto his face.
"Never."
Another quiet falls, and Jack squeezes your hand. "What do you need from me?"
You think about the first time he ever asked you that. Your intern year, and your second shift in the ER. A gunshot wound had come in, already half dead, and you couldn't get his heart started again. After three rounds of epinephrine, it had still taken Jack a further ten minutes to talk you into stopping the CPR. Covered in the man's blood, it had been all you could do to stay upright, watching on in horror as they wheeled the body out.
Jack had kept you on your feet that night. Kept the terror from digging under your skin, and permeating into your very being.
He's been doing it ever since.
"I really want to forget about tonight."
"You sure?" He asks, and you nod. "Alright. But not here. I think my back'll give out if we do it here."
"You're such an old man," You tease, but you let him lead you upstairs anyway, as he sheds his shirt first, then yours.
It's methodical, precise, and so very Jack.
First he's pressing kisses down your naval, then your hip bone, and finally your inner thigh. Legs hooked over his shoulders, he makes you come twice just with his tongue before his own trousers come off.
By the time he works his way back up to your face, his curls are mussed, and you have to fight the urge to keep combing through them.
He's braced over you, hand curling round your neck a little tighter. It isn't a choke, or a strangle, or anything of the sort - just enough pressure to keep your gaze trained on him at all times.
"Colour?"
"Jack, we've hardly done anything yet." If your college self could hear you class two orgasms as 'hardly anything', she'd be shocked. But that's just the way Jack Abbot is. A giver to his core. In every aspect of life. He just arches an eyebrow, and repeats his question, as you sigh. "Green."
"Good girl. How do you want me?"
"On top," You mumble, and he nods, as if that wasn't what he was planning tonight anyway.
His lips are soft. Softer than you'd expect from his appearance, alternating between gentle kisses, and murmured praise.
No longer does he mention babies during sex. In the early months, he'd be prone to it. Back when you were sure it was just around the corner.
"Gonna give you a baby tonight, sweet girl. Won't stop until it sticks."
"Can't wait until we've got a little one on the way. You'll be such a good mom, sweetheart."
"Honey, I'll give you all the kids you want."
Not anymore.
Instead, he holds you tight against him, and sinks into you slowly, his hand grasping yours at all times. His movements are deliberate, each thrust conveying what he can't bring himself to say.
That he understands.
That he feels it too.
That he's scared. But it's okay. Because you're together.
You don't make a baby that night. Or the night after. There are more discussions of testing, as you continue to put it off.
Just one more month, you plead, and Jack always concedes.
Until December, when your period is a few days late. Then a week. Then two.
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