APARTMENT SEVENTEEN — Pt. 2
SUMMARY: A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter.
WARNINGS: quite heavy mentions of partner loss, some swearing, mentions of dead-beat parents, mentions of very slight sexual content, Phoebe's huge personality and an entire scene for her bowel movements (don't ask just read lmao)
A/N: We are finally getting into the story of them!! It's likely that chapters now will be around this sort of length because I have so much to say and so many ideas. I'm super excited for you to start seeing more of Phoebe's personality and Jack's reaction to it hehe
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 7.3k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Tom has an extremely punchable face.
Handsome, sure. Defined facial structure, pillowy lips, chocolate brown eyes and dark lashes. But he’s smug, arrogant. The type of man who believes the world owes him something. Far too entitled for his own good and way too narcissistic to ever consider how his actions affect those around him.
He likes to think of himself as the man of any woman’s dreams. And sure, maybe he is. If you’re into pompous pricks who care more about their hair and eyebrows than having a relationship with their child.
Tom’s mouth is moving again, the droning sound of his voice not interesting enough for you to really listen to what he’s saying. You find yourself wanting to gouge out the eyes you once got lost in, pluck every single one of those spindly eyelashes and break every bone you once found beautiful in his repulsive face.
You really find yourself fighting back that urge when he snaps his fingers in front of your face and stares at you expectantly.
“Did you even listen to a word I just said?” He has the audacity to look offended.
Your lips press into a firm line. “If you ever snap your fingers in my face again, I will break every single one and shove them so far up your—”
“Daddy!”
Your jaw clenches for a moment before a smile is plastered on your face for the sake of Phoebe. She crashes into Tom’s legs, wrapping herself around them like a koala. Tom reaches down for her, palms under her armpits to lift her to his chest, enveloping her in a squeeze.
The smile drops from your face the second her back is to you and you’re back to glaring at Tom, a look he’s more than happy to reciprocate.
“Hey, sunshine. How you doing?” His hand rubs across her small back, her face tucked into his neck.
Phoebe’s response is muffled into his skin, but whatever it is gets a chuckle out of the prick. You reach for her overnight bag, extend your arm for Tom to take it. It’s something that you still think is an absolute joke. You shouldn’t have to pack anything for her to go to his house. And yet, he still has nothing for her. No clothes, overnight diapers, toiletries…
“Alright, give Mommy some love.” Phoebe unwraps herself from Tom to reach for you, squeezing you with all of her might as if it’s the only way she can convey how much she loves you.
You squeeze back, gentler but just as much lovingly. “Be good for Dad and have fun, okay?”
Phoebe hums, wiggles out of your hold to stand on her feet. You watch with a chuckle as she smoothes down her outfit; a baby blue tutu and a long sleeved Bluey shirt.
You gave up fighting her on outfit choices a long time ago. No one really warned you that parenting is about picking your battles. You prefer to save yourself a headache by letting her wear what she wants most days.
You wanted her to grow up strong and independent. Instead you’ve created a stubborn little fashionista monster.
Phoebe takes Tom’s hand, an act that hurts and warms you both the same and waves as they leave the threshold of the door.
“Love you, Diva!” She calls out, skipping in a pair of battered booger-green Crocs that she refuses to part with.
“Love you, bestie.” Your reply echoes down the hall until they’re both out of sight and you’re completely alone.
It’s when the door closes that the silence envelops you. Quiet and eerie in a sense that you don’t really know what to do with yourself. The apartment feels off-kilter without her massive personality invading every wall and crevice.
A pout forms on your lips when you look at the mess she’s left. Toys, books, arts and crafts… you consider leaving it out all afternoon and night so you have some semblance of her chaos with you. But the moment your barefoot steps on a piece of LEGO, you’re quick to change your mind.
Only when you’re scooping the evil little pieces of plastic into the box do you realize your mistake. Eyes snagging on a bright pink purse by the front door, you scramble to your feet.
The last time Phoebe forgot her purse, it ended up in a forty-five minute long meltdown. The fear of Tom having to bring her home or not knowing how to handle it is strong enough to make you ignore the pain in your foot when you stand on plastic again.
Your feet move fast as you scoop up the diamante pouch and race down the hall. Phoebe usually forces Tom to take the stairs so she can race him, so if you’re lucky, you’ll catch her just before they make it to the car.
You have a good shot at it, until you’re colliding with something solid and the purse is dropping to the floor at the same time a dark blue backpack does, both contents spilling across the carpet.
“Shit—fuck, I’m sorry, are you okay?”
The voice is rushed, a groan when they lower closer to the ground to rustle through the mix of lipsticks, hair ties and actual male belongings. You blink at the voice, looking up as you finally register it’s a who that you’ve collided with instead of a what.
Jack squats a bit awkwardly in front of you, shoving a water bottle into the backpack unceremoniously. He’s dressed in scrubs again, brows slightly pinched and you finally notice that the green in his eyes is more prominent than the brown in the light of the hall.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again, another groan as he returns to his full height. “I really have to go. There’s an emergency at the hospital. Are you sure you’re okay?”
You blink, rising back to your feet again and nodding. “Yeah. No, I’m fine. Go, I’m so sorry.”
He nods once, offering you a very brief but effective once over, as if he’s double checking, before he’s rushing down the hall and straight for the stairs.
A stab shoots up your foot when you move to walk, a groan slipping past your lips as you grip the purse from its dainty handle with eyes squeezed shut.
“Fuck my life.” You groan.
You know there’s no point in trying to catch up to Phoebe and Tom now. They’ll be long gone down the street and the sole of your foot is refusing anything but the idea of some slippers and a glass of wine.
It’s begrudgingly that you return to your apartment, throw her purse on the kitchen counter and disappear for an hour to soak in the tub. You spend half of that time scrolling mindlessly through TikTok and Instagram reels and the other half scolding yourself for almost knocking a forty-something-year-old man over.
A very fucking attractive forty-something-year-old man.
It’s almost three in the afternoon when you finally decide to stop wallowing in your embarrassment and loneliness. With a bottle of wine—it’s five o’clock somewhere—and frozen chicken tenders for a late lunch, you’ve managed to set up somewhat of a work station on the kitchen island.
The blank word doc mocks you, cursor blinking with every moment you don’t type a single letter. You let your gaze roll away from the screen, take a moment to admire the stacks of hardback books that litter the rest of the counters.
You’re capable. You’re successful. You’re a talented writer and you have the creative capacity to start the final instalment of your trilogy. Yet when you look back on the screen, all you can do is groan.
You have no motivation to write, your foot still feels sore from the LEGO assault and you miss Phoebe. Your eyes drift across the counter to her little pink purse, a pout forming on your lips.
You could call her, just to check in. But you know it’s not worth the hassle of Tom trying to berate you for being a suffocating mother. Stupid prick.
You settle for reaching for her bag instead, grinning at her little plastic lipsticks and fake keys. You dig deeper and still when you find a black wallet instead of a bright pink one.
There’s no chance of it being Tom’s and you don’t have a wallet like that. Retrieving it with a bit more caution than curiosity, you flip it open and smack a hand over your mouth at the same time. The ID is the first thing you see.
Dr. Jack Abbot.
Oh, fuck me.
He’s staring at the camera with a blank expression, but his eyes are anything but emotionless; gleaming with something flirty and mysterious. He looks younger in it—perhaps a shot from five or so years ago—smaller traces of gray in his dark hair. You truly can’t help the way your heart rate picks up. He’s handsome in his ID photo but this man was made to be middle-aged.
There’s no phone number on his ID, nor on any receipts or healthcare cards. You try your hardest to ignore the black card tucked between two debit cards when you finally find a business slip with a number on it.
For the second time tonight, you’re left speechless.
Tactical Emergency Medical Support.
SWAT Physician, Dr. Jack Abbot.
You blink at the flimsy piece of card. Once. Twice. What the fuck?
There’s a number in blocky font on the back, an email address that he likely only uses for SWAT enquiries. Drafting a text to the number is fine until you realize how invasive you’ve just been to his privacy.
Still, your finger only hovers over the send button for a moment before pressing it.
Hey, Jack. It’s Y/N. I’m so sorry but I think I accidentally picked up your wallet instead of Phoebe’s when I bumped into you in the hall! I can come by the hospital and drop it off?
With a sigh, you drop your phone to the counter and slide his SWAT card back into the pocket of his wallet, only allowing yourself thirty seconds to imagine Jack in a full camo set-up. Your fingers brush over the fine leather fabric for a moment, and you don’t mean for it to happen, don’t mean to stumble across it. But your thumb slips against something tucked far behind the cards and a small, folded photo slips out.
It’s worn around the edges, frayed from what you can only assume is his tender touch. A woman. Middle aged and incredibly beautiful and staring something meaningful into the camera as she raises her hand to point at her finger. You realize quite quickly what you’re looking at.
A married woman. Jack’s married woman. His wife. You suddenly feel sick to your stomach for invading his privacy like this, for being so fucking nosy. Most importantly for secretly thirsting over a married fucking man.
You try to remember ever seeing a ring on his finger, cipher through your memory for any hints and flickers of silver or gold in passing. You find none, though that doesn’t mean anything. Perhaps you just never noticed a ring. Or perhaps he wore it around his neck…
It doesn’t matter. Your findings are enough of a reality check to have you gently easing it back to its rightful place, but not strong enough to quell the question of why the photo is kept so discreetly hidden. Not your place to wonder. Perhaps he’s a private person. Perhaps he’s experienced the issue of an accidental wallet swap before and doesn’t want a photo of his precious wife to fall into the wrong kind of hands.
You push the wallet to the far end of the kitchen island and struggle to focus on your original task at hand. Outlining the final book in your trilogy.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Jack enjoys chaos that can be controlled. Whether it’s infiltrating a scenario with SWAT or commanding a trauma room, he thrives on the need to be needed. A natural leader, yes. But also a very lonely man that tends to seek his validation in the form of a slight hero complex.
Emma is still visibly shaken, even an hour after the altercation with an extremely uncooperative patient. Young, fresh, eager-eyed and extremely overwhelmed from the events of her rather unfortunate first day.
Jack was the first one in the room when the code word was shouted breathlessly from Perlah’s lungs. Robby had shuffled close behind, restraining the patient while Jack had tended to the nurse, encouraging her to breathe and checking her over for injuries.
She’s yet to fully snap out of the shock, which Jack promises is normal and perfectly okay to experience. Robby’s been watching her like a hawk, worried she may crumble under the events or freeze up on a patient at the most critical time.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” He asks her gently, quiet enough for the others around the nurses desk not to hear.
Emma shakes her head, forcing a polite smile on her lips. But the way she wrings her hands out and picks at the skin around her thumbs suggests otherwise. “No, it’s okay. Sorry, I just—is it always like this?”
Dana smiles, tipping her glasses to the bottom of her nose. “Not always. But, hey, at least you’re initiated, kid.”
A smile cracks at the corners of Emma’s mouth at Dana’s words, a relationship similar to one of a mother and daughter. It reminds Jack briefly of you and Phoebe.
“Alright,” he sighs. “How about a coffee run, then? A bit of fresh air, sunshine… My treat.” Jack reaches into his pocket for his wallet, keeps his tone casual enough that Emma would be doing him a favor by going on a beverage run.
A win for everyone, really. She gets a break without feeling guilty for it and everyone gets a pick-me-up after a long half-shift.
But when Jack retrieves his wallet, he’s met with more amusement than excitement. He frowns, following Santos’ tickled stare down to his wallet. No. Not his wallet. Because Jack’s wallet is sleek and black and leather. And the thing in his hands is bold, fabric and bright fucking pink.
“What the fu—”
Bubbles of laughter surround him and the nurses station, something he’s not quite used to being on the receiving end of. It’s been at least two decades since he was teased so openly and broadly by colleagues. This is the first time it’s been by his subordinates.
“Okay, Diva. Didn’t know you had it in you.” Santos’ words bubble out of her in bursts of breathless laughter, her face turning a pinky shade as she struggles to keep the amusement in check.
Jack turns the wallet in his hands, taking note of the large DIVA in stark white diamontes. He blinks, looks at his fellow doctors, then back down at the wallet again. “Well it’s obviously not mine.” Jack almost squeaks the words of defense, opening the wallet to find a twenty dollar bill and neat handwriting faded into the inside.
PROPERTY OF DIVA PHOEBE Y/L/N.
An exasperated laugh slips from him before he can stop it. It’s bad enough that he’s been unable to keep the two of you from infiltrating his mind over the past few weeks, now Phoebe was following him into work?
Too busy digging into his other pocket for his phone—which, yes, is his—Jack misses the curious glances at the fond expression that creeps its way onto his features. There’s a single text from an unknown number on his locked homescreen. A time stamp of three hours ago, no preview, but he doesn’t need to unlock it to know it's from you.
Robby watches in amusement when Jack snaps the wallet closed and shoves it back into his pocket, swiping up on his screen to open his messages. Robby’s head cocks to the side slightly as he tries to hide his smirk. “So… Do you have another hobby that we’re not aware of?”
“Yeah, I also do Drag on the weekends.” Jack replies dryly, only offering him a brief and expressionless glance.
“Alright, Abbot.” Dana chirps through a lopsided smirk.
Jack can’t help the laugh that he scoffs out. “It’s my neighbors—I mean her toddlers. Bumped into her on the way in, accidentally grabbed the wrong wallets. Guess coffee is on Robby.” He pats him on the back with a dead smile before walking away, fingers moving across the screen.
Hey, we definitely picked up the wrong wallets. Don’t worry about dropping it in, I’ll pick it up. Should be done in a couple hours.
Then another text.
Tell Pheebs Doctor Jack said he’s sorry.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You have a slight tendency of getting lost in the creative process of writing. The moment images and words begin to flow into sentences and ooze from your fingertips to the screen, you zone out from the world around you quite quickly.
So, it’s no surprise that you’re a little startled when the knocking on your front door sounds just after 8 in the evening. And it takes a moment for you to realize that you are expecting someone.
Jack stands with a tired smile when you open the door with eyes wide and apology on the tip of your tongue. He looks better than you would’ve imagined after a shift in the hospital, still in scrubs and salt and pepper curls slightly mussed, but you suppose he’s the type of man that just never looks like shit.
“I’m so sorry about this,” you rush out, opening the door wider for him to follow you inside, apologizing profusely for the mix up as you make your way toward the kitchen.
Jack follows slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He takes in your home, warmth and comfort consuming him at how cosy and loved and lived in your apartment is in just eight weeks of living here.
He was right, it is a mirror layout of his. But you’ve decorated with rich colours and mix-match furniture that shouldn’t look right but somehow does. It’s a blend of cohesive chaos, relaxing and comforting and yet overwhelmingly different.
Jack follows to the kitchen, leg aching from rushing on his feet for far too long without a moment's reprieve. He retrieves Phoebe’s wallet from his pocket, fingers tracing the diamonte lettering before holding it out for you as you hold out his.
“Nah, don't worry about it. But I do think I’m going to be called Diva by the Pitt for the next year at least.” He laughs.
You take Phoebe’s wallet from his grip with a laugh, no brush of fingers, no close proximity. It’s only then, because you’re looking for it, that you notice the silver band around his left ring finger.
“What’s the Pitt?” you asked instead.
“Oh, it's just what we call the E.D.” Jack explains, brief but his tone remains friendly. Borderline fond.
You’re tapping Phoebe’s wallet against the palm of your hand. “I had to go through your wallet to try and find your number. I’m sorry. But I found it on your SWAT card?” There’s a lilt in your voice, a little teasing, a bit playful. Enough for it to be perceived, not enough to cross a boundary.
Friendly. Like you’re trying to remind your brain to be when it randomly decides to think of Jack in the middle of the night.
He has the audacity to look a bit bashful at your comment. A feigned nonchalant shrug of his shoulder, a quirk in the corner of his mouth. “My therapist said I needed a hobby.”
“Ah, because the emergency department isn’t thrilling enough.”
Jack laughs at that, not loud but genuine. It’s as if he’s caught himself, eyes skimming across the open living space, noticing the quiet.
“I hope Phoebe wasn’t too upset."
You wave a hand. “She’s fine. She’s with her Dad for the night, so I’m sure she hasn’t even realized she doesn’t have it.”
Jack hums, like he’s taking note of the fact that you’re definitely single. No. No. Stop that. His gaze drifts behind you, lingering on the stuff all over your kitchen counter. Piles and piles of hardback books stacked up around a laptop, a notepad and a bottle of wine.
“So… you read about 80 books when you get a night off?”
You look at the books, back to him with your eyes closed and a pursed lip smile. “Um no, I sign them.”
Jack cocks a brow, a silent question.
You huff a bit self-depricatingly through your nose. “I’m an author.” You say it carefully, like you’re expecting the reaction you usually get.
That’s not a real occupation.
Don’t quit your day job.
Writing silly romances doesn't make you a real author.
For some reason, he’s the last person you want thinking of you like that.
So when a smile stretches across his face, your shoulders start to relax. “Oh yeah? That’s cool. Anything I would’ve read?”
You laugh as you lead him toward the kitchen island. “Um, unless you read a lot of romance, probably not.”
Jack shrugs, hands stuffed into his pockets as he peers at the copies. “I’m not opposed to trying new things. You any good?”
You grow warm, shrug a shoulder. Despite not really giving a fuck what most people think, this part always makes you feel a little nervy. “I have a couple New York Times Bestsellers.”
His head whips to you, impressed or shocked, you can’t really tell. But you watch as he picks up one of the hardbacks to examine it, and you don't miss how his eyes linger on the name at the bottom. “I go by a pseudonym.” You quickly add. “I don’t like the idea of my name and face out there. And I don’t want it to embarrass Pheebs when she’s older.”
“Why would it embarrass her?” Jack asks with pinched brows, flipping the book in his hand to skim over the blurb.
You shrug. “Kids can be assholes. I don’t want her being teased because her mom writes steamy romances.”
Jack laughs at that. God, you’re starting to hate yourself for how much you love that sound.
“You’re a good mom.” He says it with mirth in his voice but the way his eyes bore into yours without an ounce of hesitation, you know he means it.
Your shoulders jab in another shrug, bashful and deeply moved by his comment. You know you’re a good mom, despite what anyone may try to say. But to hear it from him—someone older, successful someone who sees the worst and best in parenting every day…
“I try.”
His eyes remain on you as he smiles, softer now. Like he’s pleased with your response; that you know you’re nothing but the best you can be for Phoebe.
“Well, I will let you get back to your signing. As a Doctor, though, I must advise you to take breaks so you don’t end up with cramps or carpal tunnel."
A laugh escapes you at that, and you find yourself nodding and holding your hands up in surrender. An ache is already forming in your wrists. “Whatever you say, Doctor Abbot.”
He grins something playful, but before he can put the book down, you reach a hand out to stop him.
“Keep it. If you want, I mean. As an apology for the wallet mix up.”
He raises a brow at the offer but makes no attempt to put it down again. “Has it even been released yet?”
“No, so don’t be writing any book reviews until after the end of next month.” You point a finger at him accusingly, to which it’s Jack’s turn to hold his hands out in surrender.
After you see him out and say goodnight, you're left reeling with the realization of what you’ve done. You haven’t just given Jack a pre-release copy of your book. You’ve given him the book that is undoubtedly the most steamiest and unhinged novel you’ve written to date.
And he’s going to read it. He’s going to get an insight to your brain and the sex that your wild thoughts muster up. He’s going to have you in his mind when he gets to chapter 54 and the female main character is on her knees, choking on the first male main character's cock while the other is taking her from behind.
Oh, fuck.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Jack can’t sleep.
It’s midnight and his bed is calling his name, but he can’t sleep.
He escaped to the balcony an hour ago with a chamomile tea and the book you’d given him. In truth, he hasn’t been able to put it down since he opened it and read the dedication page.
To the women that have only ever been told they’re too much or not enough, Niko and Az are my gift to you. Happy vibrations ;)
The dedication alone was enough to have his eyebrows and heart rate rising. But when he began the first chapter, he found himself entirely immersed.
Jack can’t get enough of the way you write. The words flow together seamlessly on the pages, witty and flirty and playful in the most poetic and coherent way. Four chapters in, and he’s greedily skimming the pages to know more, to soak in the way your mind works, the way your heart beats for writing and creating.
Yet despite how descriptive and excellently you paint the scenes, all he can really think about is you. In the softness of your own home, the smile on your lips when he managed to make you laugh. Your teasing comments, and playful gaze.
Involuntarily, Jack’s eyes flit from the book up to the balcony across from his. Your curtains are still open, the door closed now but the kitchen light remains on. He watches the brief movements of you moving around inside; sitting at the island and typing, disappearing down the hall, sitting back at your makeshift workstation.
The thought of texting you has crossed his mind more than Jack cares to admit. Now that he has your number, it’s easy and accessible to just… talk.
He argues that he shouldn’t. It’s late and you’re working. But you are awake, and so is he. And he’s reading your book with so many thoughts and observations that he feels a need to be in some kind of contact with you.
As if he’s getting to know your mind and soul through your work, your art. He watches you sit at the island again, rub a hand down your face.
Fuck it.
Jack reaches for his phone and sends a text before he can really think twice about it.
It’s not everyday I get sucked into a book after four chapters. I understand why you’re a bestseller. This rocks.
He cringes at himself. This rocks? But the text is already sent and there’s not much he can do. By the time he puts the phone down, it’s already pinging with a reply.
Just wait until you get to chapter seven. Never too old to learn something new LMAO
He grins at that. Can only imagine what he’s yet to experience if the dedication is anything to go by. The bubbles appear at the bottom of the screen again until it’s replaced with another text from you.
While I have you, Doctor… What's the best thing for constipation?
Jack’s brows raise at the bluntness of your text. Another pings through quicker than he can blink.
For Phoebe, I mean. She’s been a bit uncomfortable so she came home earlier.
He considers the message with a frown. Jack knows it’s normal for children to have a preferred parent when they’re sick. But constipation is usually only discomfort. He can’t help but wonder why Phoebe wouldn’t feel comfortable enough to stay with her father. He supposes you’re her comfort, no matter the problem.
I can come over and check her out?
There's hesitation. A bubble of dots that appear and reappear. As if you're fighting yourself.
I would actually really appreciate that, thank you!!
Do you have a callout rate? I can venmo you 💗
Jack doesn’t dwell on the heart. You’re young, you’re bold. You only mean it in a friendly way. But he does make it clear in his final text that he has not and will never charge for doing what he is trained and qualified to do.
It’s fifteen minutes later that Jack’s got his leg back on, a first aid kit in his hand and knocking on your apartment front door. You answer in a similar manner as you did earlier; slightly wild eyes, messy hair and a tiredness that’s sitting deeper beneath your eyes as the night has gone on.
You pull the door wide enough for him to enter, a flurry of, “Thank you. She’s in bed. She’s never been constipated before,” slipping from your lips as you guide Jack down the hall and toward Phoebe’s bedroom.
He watches you tap on the doorframe, a gentle offer of privacy for the toddler. “Hey, baby. You have a special visitor.”
Phoebe grumbles from her curled position in her toddler bed, but when she sees Jack peek his head into the doorway, she almost bursts out of bed.
“Doctor Jack!” The shriek is loud enough to almost shatter an eardrum, but it only makes Jack grin wide at her. It’s been a while since anyone’s shown him that sort of excitement to be in his presence.
“Hey, kid. Mommy said you’ve got a tummy ache?” He speaks softly as he slowly approaches her bed.
Jack sits a bit awkwardly on the edge, knee protesting at the low angle but he manages and takes a split second to take in the decor of her room.
It looks like Phoebe’s mind threw up. The walls are multicoloured; not pastel but not bright. She’s got her toddler bed against the wall by the door and opposite is a white teepee tent filled to the brim with stuffed animals.
Her drawings are taped to the walls, a small kids vanity in one corner and a large toy box overspilling with dress-up outfits and two Nerf guns. There’s bookcases stuffed to the brim, pink dressers on either side of her closet and a One Direction poster above her bed.
Jack doesn’t quite know what to make of the girl's interior design choices.
Phoebe nods with a pout. “I need to poop but it’s stuck. I think it’s a monster poop, Doctor Jack.”
Jack breathes out a laugh, keeps a fond smile on his face. He can feel you watching from the doorway that you lean against.
“Hm, let’s see what we can do about this monster poop, then.”
Phoebe watches intently when he opens the first aid box and picks up a pair of blue gloves. She frowns, scrunching her little face up in what Jack can only assume is distaste.
“I don’t have cooties, you know.” She states it like she’s offended.
Jack stifles a laugh. “Oh, I know. But I have to wear gloves so I can check your tummy. Can you lift your shirt up a little bit for me, Diva?”
The frown morphs into a grin at the nickname and she nods, laying back against her pillow and tugging her shirt up to expose her tubby little belly.
Jack feels around her abdomen softly, searching for anything abnormal. Her stomach is slightly harder than it should be, but it doesn’t seem to cause her anything but mild discomfort when he presses down on her skin.
“What are her eating habits like, Mom?”
You blink when you realize he’s speaking to you and push off the doorway to move closer, forcing yourself out of the daze you had found yourself in.
“Oh, you know. If she had it her way it would just be cake and pasta forever. I have to sneak veggies into her meals most of the time, homemade fruit smoothies…” Your voice drifts off into something quieter, like you don’t want Phoebe to know you’ve betrayed her.
Jack hums, feeling at the toddler's sides. “Does she drink sodas or anything like that?”
Phoebe shakes her head before you can answer. “They rot your teeth! I only like water, milk and sometimes mommy’s smoothies.”
Jack grins, pleased with her answer and turns back to the first aid kit to dispose of the blue gloves. He reaches for the hem of Phoebe’s shirt and pulls it back down to cover her tummy again.
“What did you eat and drink at your daddy’s?”
She makes a sheepish look at you. “Daddy gave me candy…and those chocolate milkshakes that you don’t let me have.”
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Of course he did.”
Jack notices the annoyance in your body language immediately. “If they’re not foods she usually has, it’s not uncommon for it to cause a little constipation. Do you have any prunes?”
You blink, brows knitting. “Um, yes, actually.”
“Try her with two prunes and a glass of water. Hopefully it’ll get things moving by morning.”
You nod, loosing a breath and running a hand over your face. If you weren’t already pissed at Tom for constantly letting Phoebe down with visits, you most certainly are now that he’s fucked with her bowel movements.
Jack waves you off as you excuse yourself to grab some water and prunes, and takes the moment to turn back to Phoebe with a playfully somber expression.
“I don’t know if your mom told you, but I bumped into her in the hall earlier and I accidentally took your wallet to work today instead of mine.”
Her eyes widen, a giggle falling from her lips. “That’s silly.”
He hums, stretching his prosthetic out. “Yeah, now all the doctors are calling me a diva!”
She laughs at that, harder than he’s heard before. A giggle that’s made of pure happiness and sunshine and Jack finds himself realizing that he should’ve fought harder for a child of his own.
“Mommy says we’re all divas deep down.”
He grins, tries to mask the ache that’s beginning to wedge itself back in that crevice in his heart. “Yeah, guess your mom’s right about a few things, huh.”
You re-enter the room with a grin of your own as you hand Phoebe a small plastic dish with two prunes and a cup of water.
“See, Pheebs. Doctor Jack says Mommy is always right.”
She grimaces when she eats the fruit but doesn’t put up much of a fight under Jack's gaze. You have to stifle your own laugh at it. Like she's cursing her new favorite person with just a look. Phoebe animatedly juts her arm out for you to take the offensive dish from her and replace it with the water, which she guzzles down to try and rid herself the taste of the prunes.
“It’s better now!” she declares and Jack has to look away to hide his laughter.
You’re better than him, already mastered the art of suppressing your emotions for the sake of your child and when Jack stands with a grunt, you take his place on Phoebe’s bed to tuck her in.
“Alright, Diva. Bed time for real now, okay?” Your tone isn’t stern but it doesn’t exactly hold any room for argument.
Phoebe huffs as she gets comfortable, reaching for her whale stuffy as she blinks at you. “Can Jack stay for song time with Mr Grasshopper?”
He doesn’t question why the whale is named a grasshopper, something he’s starting to learn not to do when it comes to Phoebe. But he nods, remains just by the door as you pull the covers up to her chin and kiss her forehead.
“What song would you like tonight?”
Phoebe hums, pretends that she’s thinking about it before ultimately deciding on one of her favorite bedtime songs. “The all night long one, mama.”
Jack thinks he’s unfamiliar with all kinds of lullabies. Until you begin to gently sing a familiar tune to her and he quickly realizes that it is in fact not a lullaby and is instead You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC.
It takes absolutely every ounce of self control that Jack possesses to not bark out an obnoxious laugh at the sight before him. Because despite how amusing he finds it, she's drifting into a state of sleep before you’re a minute in.
“Night, bestie.” You whisper as you press a ghost of a kiss to her forehead and slowly stand from her bed.
Phoebe makes a noise that’s a mix of a sigh and a snore, gripping Mr Grasshopper tighter to her chest as she mumbles a muffled “night night, divas,” when you’re sneaking out of her room.
The moment the door closes and your eyes meet Jack’s, there’s a silent agreement that it’s acceptable to laugh at what Jack has just had the pleasure of experiencing.
“I can honestly say that’s the first time I’ve heard a three year old ask for AC/DC as a lullaby.” Jack chuckles as you lead him back down the hall.
Heat licks at your cheeks. “What can I say, she’s got my music taste.”
Jack dips his head as he grins. “Well, it could be worse. She could like screaming music.”
You throw your head back at the joke, the opinion that Phoebe made very clear when she first met Jack two weeks ago. You’re shocked he even remembers that.
“Forgive me if I’m overstepping but I get the vibe you don’t get along with her dad very much.”
You laugh again but it dwindles into a groan. “Is it that obvious?”
“Not to her.” He reassures.
You sigh on a heavy breath, a look of annoyance and exasperation at the very mention of him. “He’s just a… douche. When we first got together I thought his cockiness was… I don’t know— attractive I guess? Then he got controlling and way too egotistical. He knocked me up when I was twenty-three. Told me he didn’t want a kid, disappeared. Came back when he realised I’d made something for myself, had a career.”
Jack almost bristles at how casually you summarise it. Like it’s something you’ve just had to get on with and tolerate. It rubs him the wrong way.
“And now?” He knows it’s not his place but he can’t help the slip of the question.
He watches you chew on the inside of your cheek, notices the way you roll out the tension in your shoulders like agitation is beginning to fester there. “He picks and chooses when it’s convenient for him to see Phoebe. There’s no fatherly bone in his body, not really. He treats her like an inconvenience. But when he does show up, he acts like the fun parent that gives her whatever she wants.”
Jack’s cheek twitches. He would’ve given anything to have been a father, to have had a child of his own with his wife. Men like that make Jack angry.
“She’ll learn for herself when she gets older. Who was actually there for her, who wasn’t.” He offers the same statement your parents have done for years. You know it’s only meant to be comforting, but it does nothing to make anything better.
“Yeah, but I don’t want that for her. You know? She’s an amazing kid. Just wish I could protect her from it forever.”
It’s something you’ve admitted out loud several times and the statement never feels any less loaded than the time before. Phoebe does deserve better.
When you reach the kitchen and catch sight of the darkness outside, you remember just how late it is and how tired Jack must be and Tom is out of your mind as quickly as he was placed there.
“Thank you, Jack. And I’m so sorry for this. Please apologize to your wife for me.”
You don’t miss the way he falters for a brief moment, how something akin to pain flashes across his usually warm eyes. You watch in real time as his shoulders stiffen, when he instinctively reaches for his ring and blinks down at it.
Jack swallows, finds himself realizing that you’ve noticed something he often forgets about. For a split second, he wonders if you might’ve seen the photo of his wife when you rummaged through his wallet for a way to contact him.
“Oh,” He almost chokes on his word, twisting the silver band before he forces himself to stuff his hand into his pocket, the other gripping the first-aid kit. “No, that’s— she’s—she passed. Six years ago.”
Horror slams into like a freight train. Your lips part, eyes widen and you’re suddenly cursing every God and deity for your stupidly big mouth and stupidity. “Jack…I am so sorry! I just—your ring— I assumed—“
“Hey, no.” He waves a hand to cut you off, stuffing it back into his pocket. “It’s fine. It’s okay. I still wear it, so… what’s anyone supposed to think.”
You watch him softly, the stiffness that remains in his shoulders at the topic of conversation. It burns you a bit, that you’ve caused him such discomfort. You know the feeling all too well. When you’re caught out and have no choice but to explain something you’d rather keep close to your heart and bury away from the rest of the world.
Maybe it’s the understanding of the fact that has you reaching into the collar of your shirt to pinch at the silver chain you keep around your neck. Jack’s gaze follows the movement, and when the light catches on the small diamond ring that dangles from the silver, his lips part in a minute way.
“I was engaged before I had Phoebe.” You explain gently, that heaviness that he likely feels now making its way into your own heart. “Not to her dad, but someone else. We were far too young for rings but he—he passed, hit by a drunk driver. I still wear mine too.”
Jack’s shoulders sink as he hears the steady shakiness of your voice; how it holds firm but it’s your tone that wavers just slightly. He finds himself swallowing thickly, huffing out a sigh but selfishly relishing in the fact that you understand the pain of it.
He doesn’t offer an apology. If he’s sick of hearing it, he can only assume that you are too. Because sorry doesn’t bring them back. Sorry doesn’t erase the pain. Sorry is just a way to express pity. And Jack doesn’t want pity. Neither do you, he knows that’s not why you told him.
“It doesn’t get easier with time, does it.”
It’s not a question, rather an observation. Jack can only guess you’ve experienced your loss for around the same amount of time that he has. And while your situations may be a bit different—one being a young engagement and the other being a solidified marriage—it’s pain all the same.
When you offer a shrug, it’s not as unbothered as it might usually seem. It’s heavy and laden with grief that refuses to leave you. It doesn’t haunt, just lingers. In the crevices of your skin, in the hollow of your bones, in the shadows of your memories.
“Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just lets you grow around them.”
Jack festers on your words, something too deep and familiar within them. As he watches you tuck the ring back into your shirt, he lets your statement ricochet off the confinements of his mind. No part of his grief has healed, but he has grown. He’s learned to live life again without Moira, learned to find joy and love in the simplicities of life.
Keeping her in his heart doesn’t make him stuck in the past. He’s honoring her and the life they had, just like you are with your lost love. Because despite the loss, you’re both still living. Growing and learning and loving in whatever capacity that you can.
For the first time since he lost his wife, Jack doesn’t feel so alone in his grief anymore.
Neither do you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
OKAY, I am eager to hear your thoughts and what we think about Phoebe's very loud personality and her growing attachment to Jack!! I have the most fun writing her little scenes and I promise she will only get bolder and sassier!! Also I felt like the final conversation between reader and Jack is SUPER integral to their relationship. They've both experienced a profound loss and I think it's so important and healthy for them to acknowledge it both separately and together, even as early as now </3
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
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