the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
Pairing : Beau Maxwell x fem!reader Warning : fluff, mutual pining, late night intimacy, insomnia, one bed trope, soft beau, kissing... word count : 6.2k
Summary : After another sleepless night during finals week, Beau lets you stay in his dorm “just this once” but sharing a bed with your best friend starts feeling a little too real.
Being Beau Maxwell’s girlfriend was exhausting.
Not because Beau himself was difficult — quite the opposite, actually.
The problem was that your boyfriend was:
the starting quarterback at Briar,
best friends with the hockey team,
and physically incapable of acting normal around you.
Which meant everyone knew exactly how obsessed he was with you.
Especially Dean Di Laurentis.
“Maxwell,” Dean groaned dramatically from across the cafeteria, “if you stare at her any harder, I’m calling campus security.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
Beside you, Beau didn’t even look embarrassed.
“She’s pretty,” he answered simply.
Dean slapped a hand against his chest. “Oh my God. I’m witnessing real love.”
“Shut up,” you mumbled immediately, face burning.
That only made Beau grin wider. God.
This was the issue. You were naturally quiet, shy around most people, the type who avoided attention whenever possible. Meanwhile Beau acted like loving you was his favorite hobby. He walked you to every class. Held your hand constantly. Kissed your forehead in public like it was instinct. Looked at you like you personally hung the stars in the sky. It should’ve embarrassed you. Instead, it made your heart feel dangerously full.
“You’re blushing again,” Dean pointed out smugly.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“Unfortunately,” Beau added, stealing fries from Dean’s plate.
Dean gasped dramatically. “Betrayal.”
You laughed softly despite yourself, and Beau immediately looked at you like he’d just won the lottery.
The entire table noticed.
Dean gagged loudly.
“You two are disgusting.”
Finals week hit Briar like a truck. The football team was stressed. The hockey team was stressed. You were especially stressed. Mostly because no matter how exhausted you felt, your brain refused to shut off long enough to sleep. Which was exactly why you were awake at one in the morning sitting alone in the student center wrapped in Beau’s hoodie. Your eyes burned from exhaustion. At this point, you honestly felt miserable.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
Your head lifted immediately.
Beau stood a few feet away wearing sweatpants and a Briar football hoodie, hair messy like he’d just gotten out of bed.
Your chest softened instantly.
“How did you even find me?”
He shrugged casually while walking closer.
“You stopped answering my texts.”
You blinked.
“Oh.”
Concern immediately crossed his face.
“Baby.” His voice softened. “Have you slept at all?”
You looked away. That was enough of an answer. Beau sighed quietly before crouching in front of you. His hands settled gently on your knees.
“You should’ve called me.”
“I didn’t wanna bother you.”
The second the words left your mouth, Beau frowned.
“You could never bother me.”
Your heart squeezed painfully. He said things like that so naturally. Like loving you was the easiest thing in the world.
“I just can’t shut my brain off,” you admitted quietly. “Every time I try to sleep, I start thinking about exams and papers and—”
“Okay.” Beau stood suddenly before grabbing your bag from the floor. “You’re coming with me.”
You blinked rapidly.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“To your dorm?”
“Yeah.”
Your stomach flipped nervously. Beau noticed instantly. His expression softened.
“Hey.” He tilted your chin gently upward. “You know you’re always safe with me, right?”
God.
How was anyone supposed to survive a man like him?
You nodded quietly.
“Okay.”
Beau’s dorm room felt warm. Comfortable. A complete contrast to the cold panic that had been sitting in your chest all week. Football hoodies were thrown over his desk chair. His playbook sat open beside an unfinished protein shake.
It smelled like his cologne.
Which honestly made things worse.
Because you were already too in love with him.
“You can sleep here tonight,” Beau said softly while fixing the blankets on his bed.
Your pulse skipped.
“You don’t mind?”
He looked up immediately.
“Baby.” His expression turned almost offended. “I literally sleep better when you’re here.”
Your heart melted instantly.
“You say things like that way too casually.”
A grin appeared on his face.
“Only because I know it makes you blush.”
You hid your face in the sleeves of his hoodie while Beau laughed quietly. Cute. Your giant football-player boyfriend was ridiculously cute. Nobody would ever believe it. Especially because most people on campus only saw Beau Maxwell:
quarterback,
flirt,
sexy athlete.
But you saw the version of him nobody else really noticed. The soft one. The one who kissed your knuckles absentmindedly while studying film. The one who held your hand under tables.
The one who texted you:
did you eat today?
every single afternoon without fail.
“You’re staring again,” Beau said suddenly.
Your eyes widened.
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
He stepped closer slowly, amusement glowing in his eyes.
“What were you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Heat flooded your face immediately. Beau smiled softly before brushing hair away from your face carefully. The gesture was so gentle it almost hurt.
“You’re tired,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“C’mere.”
Before you could react, Beau pulled you gently against his chest. Your entire body relaxed instantly. Safe. You always felt safe with him. His arms wrapped around you securely while your cheek rested against the fabric of his hoodie. And suddenly all the anxiety in your chest felt quieter.
“You okay?” he murmured against your hair.
You nodded slowly.
“Better.”
“Good.”
Silence settled between you both. Comfortable silence. The kind that only existed when two people knew each other completely.
Then, A loud knock hit the dorm door. Beau groaned immediately.
“Go away.”
The door swung open anyway. Dean Di Laurentis walked in carrying snacks. Then paused dramatically.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.
You immediately stepped away from Beau, embarrassed. Dean pointed accusingly.
“Did I interrupt football boyfriend cuddles?”
“Dean,” Beau warned.
“This is insane.” Dean looked genuinely emotional. “The quarterback is whipped.”
Beau rolled his eyes. “She hasn’t slept in days.”
Dean’s expression changed immediately. “Oh.” He looked at you softer then. “You okay, sweetheart?”
You nodded shyly. “Just stressed.”
Dean placed the snacks on Beau’s desk.
“Well.” He pointed at Beau. “This idiot has been worried all night.”
Beau groaned. “Dean.”
“No seriously.” Dean ignored him completely. “He literally almost fought someone earlier because they said you looked tired.”
Your eyes widened slowly.
“What?”
Beau looked suddenly very interested in the floor. Dean burst out laughing.
“Oh my God, you didn’t tell her?”
“Tell me what?”
Dean grinned wickedly.
“Our quarterback here is obsessed with you.”
“Okay, get out,” Beau snapped immediately.
Dean backed toward the door dramatically.
“You’re welcome!”
The door slammed shut. Silence. Then you looked up at Beau carefully.
“You almost fought someone?”
He looked embarrassed now. Which almost never happened.
“He was rude.”
A soft laugh escaped you.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Beau muttered while stepping closer again. “But you love me.”
Unfortunately for your emotional stability… He was right. Your fingers curled lightly into the front of his hoodie.
“I do love you.”
The words came out quieter than expected. Real. Beau froze instantly. Not because you’d never said it before. But because every single time, it still affected him. His entire expression softened like you’d just handed him the universe.
“Come here,” he whispered.
Then he kissed you slowly. Soft. Careful. Like he wanted you to feel every ounce of love behind it. One of Beau’s hands settled against your waist while the other cupped your cheek gently, keeping you close. And somehow, kissing him always felt like peace. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“You’re sleeping here tonight,” he murmured. “And I’m gonna hold you until you finally get some rest.”
Your chest ached.
“How are you real?”
Beau smiled lazily.
“Quarterback privilege.”
You laughed quietly while he guided you toward the bed. A few minutes later, you were curled against his chest beneath warm blankets while his fingers traced slow patterns against your back. The room was dark now. Quiet. And for the first time all week, your body finally started relaxing.
“You sleepy?” Beau whispered.
“Mm.”
“Told you I could fix you.”
You snorted softly. “You’re so annoying.”
“Yeah,” he said proudly. “But I’m your annoying boyfriend.”
Your eyes drifted closed while Beau pressed one last kiss against your forehead. And honestly? Maybe being loved by Beau Maxwell was the safest thing in the world.
A/N : Here's my second imagine one off campus about the cute and pretty quaterback Beau Maxwell , best friend of Dean Di Laurentis!
Hope you like ! Don't forget to Like, share & Subscribe !!!
Next is gonna be Dean Di Laurentis !! If you have any idea, the request on this tv show are open !
It cracks me up that Joy Kwon, an American Korean who Western media loves to slot into that duty‑driven overachiever and tireless‑workhorse stereotype, be the one to triumphantly claim her right to clock off on time.
Daryl learns that you don't think you're pretty (have low self-esteem). It breaks his heart a little. It also confuses the crap out of him.
The first time Daryl Dixon realized something was wrong, it was over a damn mirror.
Not a dramatic breakdown. Not tears. Not even a conversation.
Just a mirror.
The prison had become almost comfortable by then, as much as a place full of concrete cells and chain-link fences could be. People had routines. Jobs. Small rituals that made surviving feel less like drowning and more like floating.
You were standing in one of the empty cells with the tiny cracked mirror someone had scavenged months ago propped against the wall. The afternoon sun came through the narrow window, catching dust in the air. You didn’t know Daryl was there.
He’d only come looking for you because Glenn said you’d taken one of the last clean towels after helping Carol wash blood out of the kids’ clothes.
Instead, he stopped in the doorway.
You stared at your reflection for a long moment before grimacing slightly and looking away.
Not in vanity.
Not in disappointment over some tiny flaw.
More like the sight itself hurt.
Then quietly—so quietly he almost thought he imagined it—you muttered:
“God, you look awful.”
Daryl frowned.
You rubbed at your face like you could erase it somehow.
“Pathetic.”
The word hit him strangely hard.
Before he could think better of it, his boot scraped against the floor.
Your head jerked up instantly.
The expression vanished so fast it startled him. You smiled instead, easy and familiar.
“There you are,” you said. “Glenn send you?”
Daryl just stared.
You tilted your head. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
Lie.
His chest felt weird.
Tight.
He looked at the mirror, then at you.
You noticed the glance and immediately stepped in front of it casually, arms folding.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
But for some reason it did.
A lot.
That night, Daryl couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Which pissed him off.
He was supposed to be on watch, not sitting on the edge of the catwalk replaying your voice in his head.
Pathetic.
The hell was that supposed to mean?
You were… you.
Everybody liked you.
Kids followed you around like ducklings. Carol trusted you. Maggie called you family. Even Michonne smiled more around you.
And Daryl—
Daryl looked for you constantly.
He noticed when you laughed before he even saw you. Knew your footsteps from everyone else’s. Knew how you hummed under your breath while cleaning knives. Knew you tucked your hands into your sleeves when cold.
Knew your smile could knock the air from his lungs.
Pretty wasn’t even the right word for you.
Pretty sounded small.
You were warm sunlight after weeks of rain.
You were soft hands patching wounds.
You were safety.
And apparently you thought you were ugly.
The idea genuinely confused him.
He leaned forward against the railing, scowling into the dark yard.
“How the hell…” he muttered to himself.
“What?”
Daryl nearly jumped out of his skin.
Carol stood nearby holding two mugs of weak prison coffee and looking entirely too amused.
“Quit sneakin’ up on me.”
“You were brooding loud enough for the walkers to hear.”
He grunted.
Carol handed him a mug anyway.
“What’s got you twisted up?”
“Nothin’.”
“Mhmm.”
Silence stretched.
Then Daryl muttered, “She said somethin’.”
Carol immediately looked interested.
“She?”
Daryl ignored that. “Caught her talkin’ to herself earlier.”
Carol waited patiently.
“Said she looked awful.”
Carol’s expression softened instantly.
“Oh.”
Daryl frowned harder. “What d’you mean ‘oh’?”
Carol leaned against the railing beside him.
“She’s always been hard on herself.”
“What for?”
Carol looked at him carefully, like he’d just asked why the sky was blue.
“You really don’t see it?”
“See what?”
“She doesn’t think much of herself, Daryl.”
His brow furrowed deeper.
“That’s stupid.”
Carol barked out a laugh.
“Not stupid. Sad.”
“Well, she’s wrong.”
Carol smiled faintly into her coffee.
“You should probably tell her that.”
Daryl looked horrified.
“Hell no.”
You noticed Daryl staring at you more after that.
At first, it was subtle.
You’d glance up during dinner and find him already looking.
You’d catch him watching while you talked to Beth.
Or when you laughed.
Or while you braided Judith’s tiny wisps of hair.
Every time you caught him, he’d look away immediately like he’d been caught committing a crime.
It was oddly endearing.
Also deeply confusing.
“You got something to say?” you finally asked one afternoon.
Daryl, crouched beside his motorcycle with grease on his hands, blinked up at you.
“Huh?”
“You keep staring at me.”
“I ain’t starin’.”
“You absolutely are.”
He squinted suspiciously.
“You complainin’?”
Your lips twitched.
“No.”
His ears turned pink.
Cute.
You leaned against the fence beside him. “So what is it?”
“Nothin’.”
“Daryl.”
He went back to fiddling with the bike aggressively.
You watched him for a second.
Then softer, “Did I do something wrong?”
That got his head up immediately.
“No.”
The answer came fast. Firm.
You looked surprised.
Daryl swallowed hard.
“You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
Something vulnerable flickered across your face before you covered it with a smile.
“Okay.”
But you still looked uncertain when you walked away.
And Daryl felt like the world’s biggest idiot.
A week later, everything got worse.
You were helping Maggie sort clothes in one of the cells.
Daryl hadn’t meant to overhear.
Honestly.
But he’d been walking past when he heard your voice.
“…this one’s cute,” Maggie said.
You laughed softly. “Not on me.”
“It’d look good on you.”
“Nah.”
“Why not?”
There was a pause.
Then your voice, quieter now.
“I’m not exactly the cute one around here.”
Daryl stopped cold.
Maggie looked genuinely baffled.
“What are you talking about?”
You shrugged, focused on folding shirts.
“It’s fine. I know what I look like.”
Daryl’s stomach twisted unpleasantly.
Maggie started arguing immediately.
“You’re gorgeous.”
You snorted.
That sound.
Not amused.
Disbelieving.
Like the idea itself was ridiculous.
Daryl hated it instantly.
“You do realize half this prison’s in love with you, right?”
“Please.”
“I’m serious.”
You shook your head like Maggie was being ridiculous.
Daryl walked away before he heard more because something hot and angry had started building in his chest.
Not anger at you.
At whoever taught you that.
Because people didn’t just wake up one day hating themselves.
Daryl knew that better than anybody.
That night, he found you alone on the outer platform watching the sunset.
Orange light painted the prison yard gold.
You looked peaceful.
Until he got closer and saw the exhaustion in your eyes.
You smiled when you noticed him.
“There’s my favorite grump.”
“Hmph.”
He leaned against the railing beside you.
Silence settled comfortably.
Usually Daryl liked silence with you.
Tonight it felt too full.
“You okay?” you asked eventually.
“Yeah.”
You gave him a look.
“Liar.”
Daryl huffed quietly.
“You?”
Your smile dimmed slightly.
“Yeah.”
Lie.
He recognized that too.
He stared out over the yard for a long moment before speaking.
“Why d’you talk like that ‘bout yourself?”
You went still.
Daryl immediately knew he’d hit something sensitive.
“What?”
“Heard you talkin’ to Maggie.”
Your face flushed instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“She said you’re pretty.”
You groaned softly and covered your face with your hands.
“Please forget that conversation ever happened.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s embarrassing.”
“Ain’t embarrassin’.”
“It absolutely is.”
Daryl frowned at you.
“What’s wrong with you?”
You blinked.
“…Excuse me?”
“I mean—” He grimaced. “Why d’you think that?”
Your expression closed off immediately.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters.”
“No, it really doesn’t.”
“You think you’re ugly.”
The words came out almost accusing.
Not cruel.
Confused.
Heartbroken.
You stared at him.
Daryl stared back stubbornly.
Then you laughed.
And it sounded awful.
“Daryl—”
“No, I don’t get it.”
Your smile vanished.
“You don’t have to pretend.”
“I ain’t pretendin’!”
His voice echoed louder than intended.
You flinched slightly.
Instant regret punched him in the gut.
Daryl lowered his voice immediately.
“Ain’t lyin’ to you.”
You looked away.
“People say stuff to be nice.”
“Nobody’s nice no more.”
That startled a tiny laugh out of you.
Daryl pressed on carefully.
“You’re…” He struggled visibly for words. “Hell, you’re you.”
You blinked at him helplessly.
“That is not a description.”
“It is in my head.”
That made you laugh again, softer this time.
But your eyes still looked sad.
“You really don’t see it?” he asked quietly.
Your throat moved.
“No.”
The honesty in that answer nearly wrecked him.
Daryl looked at you for a long moment.
Then said roughly, “That’s fuckin’ crazy.”
You barked out a startled laugh.
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “Makes no sense.”
“You’re sweet.”
“I ain’t sweet.”
“You kind of are.”
“Nah.”
“You brought me three rabbits because I said I liked stew.”
“You were hungry.”
“You fixed my flashlight.”
“It was busted.”
“You gave me your poncho during winter.”
“You were cold.”
Your eyes softened impossibly.
Daryl suddenly felt very exposed.
“You do sweet things, Daryl.”
“Don’t mean nothin’.”
“It means something to me.”
That hit him directly in the chest.
Hard.
You looked down at your hands.
“I just…” you started quietly. “I don’t know. I’ve never been the girl people look at like that.”
Daryl almost interrupted immediately because that was objectively untrue, but you kept talking.
“There’s always someone prettier. Someone easier to love. I guess after a while you just stop expecting anyone to see you differently.”
Daryl’s heart broke a little more with every word.
Because you sounded so certain.
Like this belief had lived inside you for years.
“You think nobody sees you?” he asked.
You shrugged weakly.
“Not like that.”
Daryl stared at you like you’d lost your damn mind.
Then before fear could stop him, he said:
“I do.”
Silence.
You looked up slowly.
Daryl suddenly wanted to fling himself off the prison roof.
But he kept going anyway.
“Always do.”
Your lips parted slightly.
“You’re pretty as hell.”
You looked genuinely shocked.
Not flattered.
Not coy.
Shocked.
Like nobody had ever said it and meant it before.
Daryl felt rage again at whatever people had failed you so badly.
“You got this smile,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes now. “Makes everybody else smile too. An’ your eyes—”
He stopped abruptly, embarrassed beyond belief.
But you whispered, “My eyes?”
Daryl swallowed hard.
“Yeah.”
Your face had gone soft and fragile in a way that terrified him.
“You really mean that?”
The question sounded so small.
Daryl answered instantly.
“Course I do.”
You stared at him for so long he started panicking internally.
Then very quietly:
“I don’t know what to do when people are kind to me.”
Jesus Christ.
Daryl’s chest ached.
Slowly, cautiously, like approaching a wounded animal, he reached for your hand.
When you didn’t pull away, he threaded his rough fingers through yours.
“You ain’t gotta do nothin’,” he said.
Your eyes filled suddenly.
“Oh no,” you laughed shakily. “Don’t make me cry.”
“Wasn’t tryin’.”
“You’re very bad at comforting people.”
“I know.”
You squeezed his hand tighter anyway.
And Daryl realized with startling clarity that he would spend the rest of his life trying to make you see yourself the way he did.
It didn’t magically fix everything.
Daryl learned that quickly.
You still hesitated when compliments came your way.
Still deflected praise.
Still looked confused when people called you beautiful.
But slowly, things changed.
Little things first.
You stopped insulting yourself out loud.
Then one day Daryl caught you looking in the mirror without grimacing afterward.
That felt like winning a war.
And Daryl—
Well.
Daryl became relentless.
Not in loud ways.
Never in grand speeches.
That wasn’t him.
But he showed it constantly.
Saving the last good strawberry for you.
Resting his hand on your back absentmindedly.
Looking at you like you hung the moon.
Calling you beautiful under his breath when he thought you couldn’t hear.
You always heard.
Every single time.
Months later, after the prison, after grief and blood and miles of surviving together, you found yourselves sitting beside a campfire beneath a cold sky.
The others slept nearby.
Daryl sat close enough that your shoulders touched.
You leaned into him naturally now.
Like it was instinct.
Maybe it was.
“You know,” you said softly, “I still don’t really understand what you see.”
Daryl looked over immediately.
Moonlight silvered your face.
To him, you looked unreal.
“I see you,” he said simply.
You smiled faintly.
“Yeah, but—”
“Ain’t just your face.”
You fell quiet.
Daryl stared into the fire.
“You’re good,” he said roughly. “Even now. World’s gone to shit an’ you still care about people. Still kind. Still make everybody feel safe.”
Emotion thickened your throat.
Daryl continued quietly:
“You walk into a room an’ everythin’ feels lighter.”
Your eyes started watering again.
“You gotta stop doing that.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Making me emotional.”
“Hmph.”
You laughed softly.
Then after a long silence:
“I love you.”
Daryl looked at you immediately.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Just truth.
“I know.”
You rolled your eyes. “That is the most obnoxious response possible.”
He grinned slightly.
Rare enough to steal your breath.
Then he leaned closer and pressed his forehead against yours.
“Love you too,” he murmured.
And this time, when he looked at you, you finally—finally—started to believe him.
Summary : How Jack married her, and their life with the kids.
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 12,2219
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3.
More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist
The Morning She Left For Japan
The room was quiet in the way hospital rooms always were — not peaceful, just suspended. The kind of quiet that existed between emergencies.
Jack was propped against the headboard, a book open in his lap, though he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. Across the room you were closing your briefcase. The suit was on. The schedule was running in your head.
He watched you check the briefcase clasp twice.
"You said I'm your priority," he said.
You looked up. Not guilty — you never looked guilty — but something close to it. "I've been here for three days. Besides, the doctor said you're fine. Also the President asked me directly to go with him."
Jack opened his mouth. Closed it.
The President.
He couldn't fight that. There was absolutely no universe in which that was a reasonable argument to counter. He looked back at his book. "Fine."
A knock at the door saved both of you from the silence that followed. It opened without waiting for an answer — Robby's particular brand of entry — and he leaned against the frame with the expression of a man who had been looking forward to this moment.
"Look at that," Robby said, taking in Jack flat in the hospital bed, book in hand, thoroughly stationary. "The most restless man I know, horizontal and staying that way." He shook his head with theatrical sadness. "Adrenaline junkies really do crash hard."
"Tell him," you said, already sliding your phone into your jacket pocket. "Oh, it feels good not being a patient this time. "By the way, Robby, do you want new medical tools? Japan has a lot."
Robby blinked, he looked at Jack. Then looked back at you. "It's your call."
"Great." You pressed a brief kiss to Jack's temple, your hand resting on his shoulder for just a second. "I'll bring more toys."
And then you were gone. The door clicked behind you. The room resumed its suspended quiet.
Robby stayed where he was, listening to the sound of heels on the corridor floor until they faded. Then he turned to Jack with a specific expression. "Did she realize Japanese medical equipment runs to millions?"
"Don't," Jack said. "That logic doesn't resonate with her."
Robby huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off the doorframe, pulling a chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the amusement settling into something more genuine. "She never left your side," he said. "Three days, Jack. I had to practically order her to sleep."
"I know," Jack said.
He did know. He had woken up twice in the night and she had been there both times — not hovering, just present. Working quietly on her laptop or simply sitting, like being nearby was something she had decided and didn't need to explain. He had watched her for a moment each time before closing his eyes again. He hadn't told her he'd noticed. He wasn't sure why.
Robby huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off the doorframe, pulling a chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the amusement settling into something more genuine. "She never left your side," he said. "Three days, Jack. I had to practically order her to sleep."
"I know," Jack said.
He did know. He had woken up twice in the night and you had been there both times — not hovering, just present. Working quietly on your laptop or simply sitting, like being nearby was something you had decided and didn't need to explain. He had watched you for a moment each time before closing his eyes again. He hadn't told you he'd noticed. He wasn't sure why.
Robby reached into his coat and pulled out a folded set of papers. "Speaking of which." He held them out. "Administrative update. Everyone's redoing emergency contacts and next of kin. Yours are blank."
Jack took the papers without comment.
Robby stood, patting the back of the chair. "Oh — and before I forget. You're not allowed to work. Not for at least three weeks."
Jack looked up from the papers. "Hmm."
"I thought you'd fight me on that."
"I promised her I wouldn't work for a while," Jack said. "And I'm going to try golf again."
Robby stared at him. "You hate golf."
"Yeah," Jack said simply. He looked back down at the papers.
Robby shook his head slowly. "She's done something to you, Abbott." He said it without any edge, just quiet observation. "Something permanent."
He left without waiting for an answer.
Jack sat with the papers in his lap for a moment. Then he uncapped his pen and started filling them out. Name, position, department — the routine information moved quickly. He turned the page.
Next of kin.
He stopped.
The line sat there, blank and official, and he looked at it for longer than made sense. He thought about the hallway outside the OR. The way Robby had said your girl is here and the words had reached him through the fog of blood loss like something physical — a rope thrown into dark water. He thought about the limits that existed because of what you weren't, technically, legally, on paper.
If something happened again — another callout, another surgery, another night where it all went wrong — you would be back in that hallway. Waiting. Powerful enough to move governments and helpless in the one moment it mattered because there was no form with your name on it.
He looked at the blank line.
Your name should be here, he thought. Your name should be the first one written.
He finished the rest of the form. Left next of kin blank for now. Folded the papers and set them on the nightstand.
Outside the window Pittsburgh was gray and ordinary and moving without him. Somewhere above it, a private jet was climbing toward Japan.
He picked up his book. Didn't read it.
He had three weeks and a golf course he hated and a next of kin line he couldn't fill in yet.
He thought about that for a long time.
The next morning Robby appeared in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
"She bought the Pitt a hinotori system," he said.
Jack looked up from his book.
"Japanese surgical robot," Robby clarified. "Medicaroid. The director got the shipping confirmation an hour ago. He's been sitting very still ever since." A pause. "And an AI endoscopy suite. For the ER specifically."
Jack said nothing.
"The endoscopy system isn't even widely available in the US yet," Robby continued, with the measured tone of a man reading from a fact sheet he was still processing. "She apparently went directly to the manufacturer. In Tokyo." He paused. "While accompanying a head of state."
Jack looked at him for a moment. Then back to his book. "She mentioned the equipment there was good."
Robby stared at him. "That's what you got from that."
"Robby."
"Yeah."
"She bought it for the ER," Jack said quietly. Not a question.
Robby was quiet for a second. "The endoscopy suite, yeah. Specifically." He watched Jack's face. "She didn't tell you."
"No."
"Hm." Robby pushed off the doorframe. "You should probably figure out that next of kin form."
Jack didn't answer. He looked back at his book.
He didn't read it.
**********
When He Helped You Make A Business Deal
Jack had been following you around for two weeks.
In those two weeks he had probably covered more ground than most people did in a year. Singapore on Monday, back by Thursday, Dubai the following week, and somewhere in between a twenty minute video call conducted from the back of a moving car that apparently closed a nine figure deal. Your schedule was insane. He worked twelve hour night shifts in a trauma bay and your schedule made his look leisurely.
But Greg had pulled him aside on day three with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose prayers had been answered. "The schedule is better since you've been here," he said. "There's time to eat now. Actual meals. And she slept eight hours last Tuesday. Eight. I almost cried."
Jack had said nothing. But he started showing up earlier.
He also learned quickly that almost none of your real business happened inside an office. The office was for paperwork and appearances. The actual work happened elsewhere. Golf courses, private clubs, invitation-only dinners where the menu was secondary to the conversation. Your world operated on proximity and leisure dressed up as relaxation.
Like today.
"I hate this," you said, looking at the building in front of you.
Jack looked at the sign above the entrance. A private shooting range. Clay shooting, from the look of the equipment visible through the glass. "Why? I thought you liked hunting."
"I don't."
Greg appeared at your other shoulder without looking up from his tablet. "She can shoot you dead with a balance sheet from three continents away. With an actual gun?" He tilted his head toward the sky with the expression of a man searching for diplomatic phrasing. "I believe the last bullet she fired is still out there somewhere. Wandering. Lost. Looking for purpose."
"Shut up, Greg," you said.
Jack looked at you. The specific look of a man filing away new information with great interest. "That's why you mentioned the hunting week with the King of Britain."
"I'm bad at sports," you said, with the dignity of someone refusing to elaborate.
"Most sports," Greg murmured.
"Greg."
"Yes, boss."
You turned to Jack and pointed through the glass at a broad, silver haired man already positioned at the range, waiting. "That man has been making fun of my aim for three years. Every single time." You looked at Jack. "Could you do it for me?"
Jack looked at the range. Then at you. "Of course." He straightened slightly, something shifting in his posture. "Let's shut him up."
The three of you walked in together.
Your business partner turned at the sound of the door, his face opening into a wide, familiar grin when he saw you. He was the kind of man who filled a room without trying, the sort that had shaken hands with presidents and still preferred to conduct business outdoors. "Ah. Trying to beat your previous record?"
"Not today," you said smoothly. "I hurt my fingers." You held up your hand as evidence, the picture of regret. It was an absolute lie and everyone in your immediate vicinity knew it. "My boyfriend will be shooting for me."
Your business partner's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. He looked at Jack with the assessing curiosity of a man who had spent years wondering what kind of person had managed to become important to you. "So. Finally I meet the famous surgeon boyfriend." He extended a hand and Jack shook it. "I heard they're good with their hands." He held out the gun with a grin. "Show me what you've got, doc."
Jack took the gun.
He checked it first. Quietly, efficiently, with the automatic habit of someone for whom this was never casual. He tested the weight, checked the sight line, settled his stance. Not performing. Just preparing.
"One at a time to start," your business partner said to the operator, nodding toward the clay trap machine at the far end of the range.
"Throw five at once," Jack said.
The range went quiet.
Your business partner looked at him. "I'm sorry?"
"Five," Jack said. "At once."
Your business partner looked at you. You looked back at him with an expression that said you had absolutely no idea what was about to happen either, which was the truth.
"You're sure," the operator said.
"Do it," Jack said.
The operator shrugged and reset the machine. Everyone took a small, instinctive step back.
Five clay discs launched into the air simultaneously, scattering across different angles and heights, the mechanical crack of the trap cutting through the quiet of the range.
Jack fired.
Five shots. So fast the sound bled together into something almost continuous. Clean, precise, no hesitation between them.
Five fragments rained down.
Nobody spoke.
Greg started clapping. Slowly at first, then with genuine enthusiasm. "New record. And that concludes our portion of the meeting."
You stared at the empty sky where five clay targets had been approximately four seconds ago. Then you started clapping, and you were not a person who clapped easily.
Your business partner let out a laugh that came from somewhere genuine. He turned to you with an expression of absolute delight. "What kind of surgeon is he?"
"He's a war veteran," you said.
The man stopped laughing. He looked at Jack with an entirely different quality of attention. Then he stepped forward and shook Jack's hand again, slower this time. "You should have told me that before." A pause. "That is genuinely impressive. I mean that."
"Thank you," Jack said simply.
Your business partner shook his head, still smiling, and turned back toward the range. "Alright. I'll admit it. I'm not following that." He glanced at you sideways. "Your fingers healed fast."
"Remarkable recovery," you agreed.
He laughed again and waved you both toward the seating area. "Come on. Let's talk business. Your boyfriend just bought you at least an hour of goodwill."
You fell into step beside Jack. Quietly, low enough that only he could hear: "Thank you."
Jack handed the gun back to the operator. "You owe me a vegetable at dinner."
You gave him a look.
"One," he said. "Your choice."
You considered this. "Fine."
Greg, two steps behind you both, looked at the sky again. This time with an expression of complete peace. Then he leaned slightly toward Jack and lowered his voice. "You just helped close a billion dollar deal."
Jack stopped walking.
You were already three steps ahead, already in conversation with your business partner, already working.
"What?" Jack said.
"One clean shot at this range means ten minutes of his time," Greg said, with the calm of someone explaining a rule everyone else already knew. "That's the tradition. He established it years ago. Nobody gets more than that unless they impress him." He paused. "You shot five in one go. Nobody has ever done that." Another pause. "Ever."
Jack looked at you across the room. You were laughing at something the man had said, easy and genuine, the meeting already moving at a pace that suggested it would run well past ten minutes.
"So that's why she wanted me to shoot," Jack said.
"She didn't know it would go like that," Greg said honestly. "She just didn't want to embarrass herself again." He straightened his jacket. "The billion dollar part was you."
Jack stood there for a moment.
He had thought it was a simple favor. A business lunch dressed up as a day at the range. The kind of thing her world did instead of conference rooms. He had picked up a gun because she asked him to and because shutting up a man who made fun of her for three years had seemed like reason enough.
He had not considered that five clay targets might be worth a billion dollars.
**************
The Time He Met Your Family (He Hates Them)
It wasn't planned.
The private jet had just landed in London, the car moving through the grey afternoon toward the hotel, when Greg looked up from his tablet with the specific expression of a man who had been waiting for the right moment and had decided this was it.
"Your cousin is getting married tomorrow," he said.
You looked up from your phone. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because if I told you earlier you wouldn't have come," Greg said simply. "And your father would have called me. For a long time. Loudly."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you exhaled the sigh of a woman who had lost this particular battle before it started and knew it. "My aunt. Is she going?"
"She said she'll attend if you do," Greg said. "I've already ordered the dress. Doctor Abbott's suit. My suit." A brief pause. "And the makeup artist is booked for eight."
You looked at him.
"I also confirmed your seats at the family table," Greg added, returning to his tablet. "Next to your aunt. Away from the three cousins you don't like."
"Which three?"
"All of them, technically, but I've narrowed it to the worst three."
You hummed and looked back at your phone. The matter apparently settled in your mind, one way or another.
Jack watched this exchange from the seat beside you. He waited until Greg had gone back to typing. Then he asked, quietly, "Is this normal?"
You glanced at him. "Greg planning my life without telling me?"
"Greg planning your life without telling you and you accepting it."
You considered this for a second. "He's been doing it for four years. I just write the cheque." You turned a page on whatever document you were reading. "He always wins."
From the front seat Greg said, without looking up, "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment," you said.
"I know," Greg said. "Thank you anyway."
Jack looked out the window at London moving past. Grey skies, familiar chaos, the kind of city that felt like it was always in the middle of something.
"Your father's side," he said.
"Yes."
"You don't like them."
"Most of them."
"But you're going."
You were quiet for a second. "My aunt will be there." Something in your voice shifted, just slightly. The professional register dropping a degree or two into something more honest. "She was close to my mother. She's the only one from that whole side who ever." You stopped. Started again. "She shows up. That's all. She just shows up."
Jack nodded. He didn't push.
The car moved through the city. Greg typed. You read. Jack watched the streets and thought about a woman who flew across the world for business without blinking but needed a reason — one specific aunt who showed up — to walk into a room full of her own family.
"What do I need to know?" he asked.
You looked at him.
"About the family," he said. "Before tomorrow."
Something crossed your face. Not quite surprise. Something softer than that. You lowered your phone.
"How long do you have?" you said.
"We're twenty minutes from the hotel."
You looked at Greg. "Greg. Brief him."
Greg straightened with the energy of a man who had been waiting for this exact assignment. He turned slightly in his seat, tablet already open.
"Right," he said. "So. The father's side. Here's what you need to know."
Jack settled back in his seat.
It was going to be a long twenty minutes.
***********
At The Wedding
The church was beautiful in the way that only old money could produce — flowers along every pew, light coming through stained glass in warm fractured colors.
You and Jack sat toward the middle. Close enough to see clearly, far enough from both sides of the family to breathe.
At the altar your cousin stood in white, holding the hands of the man beside her. You studied him briefly. Steady. Unhurried. Different from the others. You had lost count of the engagements somewhere around the fourth one. But this felt different.
Good for her, you thought. Finally.
Beside you Jack went still in a specific way. You recognized it immediately.
Then, from three rows back, just loud enough to carry:
"Three months, I'm telling you."
"I say eight. He looks committed."
"Committed or not, fifty says they don't see a second anniversary."
"I'll raise you a hundred. One year maximum."
Quiet laughter. The sound of money changing hands during a wedding ceremony.
Jack turned to you slowly. "Did they just make a bet?"
"Yes," you said.
"On how long the marriage lasts."
"Yes."
"During the ceremony."
"It's tradition," you said. "It started after my father's third wedding." You kept your eyes forward. "I hate it."
Jack looked at the group once more. Then back at the altar. His jaw had that specific set to it — not anger exactly. Just a man filing something under wrong and leaving it there.
"The Pitt makes bets," he said quietly. "Not like this." He found it disrespectful. Making bets on someone's wedding day, in the middle of the ceremony, while the couple stood at the altar believing the people behind them were there to wish them well.
He Meets Your Family
At the wedding reception, Jack met your aunt from your mother's side. Warmer than your father's family but with a different kind of intrusiveness — the kind that wraps nosiness in affection so you can't object without seeming rude.
She takes both of Jack's hands when she meets him, which visibly surprises him, and looks at him with the searching intensity of someone conducting an evaluation.
"So you're the doctor," she says. "She never brings anyone. Not once. Not in years."
"Auntie—" you start.
"I'm talking to him." She doesn't release Jack's hands. "Do you love her?"
The question lands in the middle of the conversation like a dropped glass. Around you, a few nearby relatives go slightly quiet.
Jack doesn't hesitate. Doesn't perform. Just looks at the aunt steadily and says "yes."
She studies him for another long moment. Then she releases his hands, pats them once, and says to you: "Keep him."
She walks away. You stare after her. Jack watches her go with something like genuine respect.
"I like her," he says.
"She's the only one," you looked at your aunt back. She actually doesn’t want to come here, but she’s here because of you.
********
He saw your aunt really nice, but only her. Because the rest of them are… He saw why you don’t want to come within the first ten minutes.
"Is that really him? The doctor?" A short scoff. "I thought she was smarter than that."
You had heard it. Jack could tell by the specific quality of your stillness as you stepped into the corridor. You walked toward your cousin with an unhurried pleasant expression that didn't reach your eyes.
"Cousin," you said warmly.
He turned. Smiled. "I was just—"
"I know." You stopped in front of him. "I was thinking about you recently. About the race car team."
The smile began its retreat.
"Ten million," you said, conversationally. "No conditions. No timeline. No expected return." You tilted your head. "Do you know what I recorded it as internally?"
He said nothing.
"Charity," you said. "I watched ten million dollars finish fourteenth and filed it under charity and never mentioned it again. Not because I forgot. Because I decided you weren't worth the conversation."
You stepped closer. Your voice dropped.
"I have a favorite hobby. Finding a business that deserves to be taken apart and doing it so quietly the owner doesn't realize what happened until there's nothing left to sell." You held his gaze. "I have never pointed that at family. Family is a courtesy I extend by choice." Another step. "So the next time you want an opinion about who I bring into my world, ask yourself whether your current ventures could survive my full attention."
The corridor was very quiet.
Your cousin looked at Jack. Really looked this time. Not the dismissive scan but the look of a man recalculating everything. Jack sat with his coffee, watching with the calm of someone who knew exactly how this ended.
"I'll watch my words," your cousin said. Smaller than he intended.
You patted his shoulder once. Light. Final.
"Good. Very good."
But, it seems like your warning to stop looking down at Jack is still not clear enough. Your uncle found you during the cocktail hour, glass in hand, with the particular energy of a man who had been waiting to say something and had decided now was the moment.
"So," he said, looking Jack over with an undisguised assessment. "He's the one who made you cancel the meeting with the Prime Minister."
"Because he's my top priority," you said simply.
Jack heard it land before he had time to prepare for it. Something moved through his chest, quiet and immediate. You had said it the way you said everything that was simply true — without ceremony, without softening, without looking to see how it was received. Just a fact you had already decided on.
He kept his expression neutral. But he felt it.
Your other cousin found Jack near the drinks table forty minutes later.
He was the kind of man who wore his ambition loudly, the sort who treated every social event as a pitch opportunity and every new face as a potential investor. He had a startup. He always had a startup.
"I'm developing an AI system," he said, sliding into the space beside Jack with rehearsed casualness. "Hospital efficiency. Faster processing, smarter scheduling, reduced overhead." He smiled the smile of someone who had given this speech many times. "The kind of thing that could transform how a place like the Pitt operates."
Jack went still in a specific way.
Your cousin read the stillness as interest. He leaned in slightly, already calculating. If Jack was interested then perhaps you would be interested. The investment practically walked itself in.
"The ROI projections are significant," your cousin continued. "We're talking about real transformation. Smarter systems, better data, faster throughput—"
"Throughput," Jack said quietly.
"Exactly, faster patient—"
"You're not saving time," Jack said. His voice was level and unhurried, the voice he used when he had already assessed a situation completely. "You're clearing the schedule so the board can push five more patients into every shift. That's not efficiency. That's how you burn out a doctor."
He tilted his head slightly. "And the patients? They're already being squeezed by insurance on every side. Now you add licensing fees on top of that. Then the hospital spends a fortune on cybersecurity to protect the database your system runs on." He paused. "You get richer. The hospital looks efficient on paper. And the patient gets a bill they can't afford at the end of it." A beat. "Don't call it care. It's just better math."
The space around them had gone quiet.
Your cousin stood very still with the expression of a man whose rehearsed speech had been taken apart with surgical precision and handed back to him in pieces.
Jack picked up his drink and took a calm sip.
You had caught the last half of it from three feet away. You looked at Jack with an expression you rarely wore in public. Genuine, unguarded surprise.
"How do you know all of that?" you said.
Jack glanced at you. "Being with you twenty four hours a day teaches you things."
From your left your aunt appeared, materializing the way she always did, at exactly the right moment. She looked at Jack. Then at your cousin's retreating back. Then she leaned close to your ear.
"He's a doctor," she whispered. "He understands business. And he just made that smug boy very quiet." A pause. "I like him."
************
The Kids
You didn't see them coming.
Suddenly there were small hands grabbing your dress and a chorus of voices saying your name with the shameless urgency that only children under ten could produce.
Three of them. Your cousin's kids. Dressed in miniature formal wear that was already coming undone — a loosened tie, a flower crown slightly sideways, a jacket abandoned somewhere entirely.
"Auntie!" The oldest grabbed your hand with both of hers. "We didn't know you were coming!"
"Auntie, Star cleared the oxer last week!" she continued, squeezing your hand. "Papa said she might be ready for junior circuit next year."
"She better be," you said. "I didn't pick that bloodline for leisure riding."
The middle one tugged your sleeve. "Can we get another one? For competitions?"
"Let's see if you can stay on the first one before we discuss a second."
All three erupted in protests simultaneously.
Jack leaned toward you. "Star?"
"I bought them a horse," you said simply, patting the oldest one's head. "He joined equestrian. Wants to be in the Olympics."
"Yes!" The youngest grabbed your arm and started pulling toward the dessert table. "They have the little cakes. Come on, come on!"
You looked back at Jack over your shoulder. The expression on your face was something he had never seen in a boardroom or a hospital. Pure and unguarded and completely unaware of itself.
Jack held up a hand. Go.
You disappeared into a wave of small formal wear.
He watched you go. The woman who had once calmly asked if hackers should be neutralized was currently being dragged toward a dessert table by a five year old and letting it happen. Willingly. With something that looked unmistakably like joy.
He stood there with his drink and thought quietly that there were entire rooms inside you that most people never got to see. The world knew the shark, the CEO, the woman who made boardrooms go quiet. Almost nobody knew this.
He wanted to be the person who always knew this.
"The doctor."
Jack turned. Your father had materialized beside him with the unhurried ease of a man who moved through rooms on his own schedule.
"The father," Jack said.
They stood side by side. A silence settled between them, not hostile, just two people deciding how much to say.
"I heard you were shot," your father said.
"I survived."
Your father looked at him properly, with the measuring gaze of a man who rarely updated his conclusions. Something in it seemed to satisfy him. "You have more balls than any man in this room." A short genuine laugh. "No wonder my daughter likes you."
Jack said nothing. He took a quiet sip of his drink.
Across the room you reappeared from the dessert table, the three kids still orbiting you like small overdressed satellites. The youngest held a miniature cake. The oldest was telling you something with elaborate hand gestures. You were listening with the same full attention you gave boardrooms and crises.
Your father watched this. "Where is their nanny," he said, less a question than an observation.
You rolled your eyes without looking at him. The gesture was clearly decades old.
Your father glanced at Jack and tilted his head toward you. "This is why the children have no respect for her."
The kids shuffled immediately behind your back, using you as a shield. The youngest peered around your hip at your father with enormous eyes.
"And this," you said pleasantly, "is why they're afraid of you."
"They need structure," your father said. "A proper nanny. Boarding school when they're old enough."
"That's how you did it," you said. "And look how well that turned out."
"I will hire help when I need it," you continued. "But I am not sending my children to boarding school."
"Your children."
"Hypothetically."
"You're already decided."
"That's why I turned out more human than the others," you said quietly. "Because my mom was there for me."
The words landed with the weight of something long overdue.
Your father went still. Not the boardroom stillness. Something older. He looked at his glass for a moment, then at you. The sharp edges of his expression shifted into something that looked briefly like a man confronting an accounting he had been avoiding for years.
"She was," he said finally. Just that.
It wasn't an apology. You both knew that. But from him, in this room, it was the closest thing to one you had ever received.
"Regardless," he said, voice returning to its usual register. "You cannot run a company and raise children without proper structure."
"I didn't say it without help," you said. "I said without shipping them off so I don't have to look at them."
"That is not what boarding school is."
"It's exactly what it is for people like us and you know it."
"It builds character."
"It builds distance. I've seen enough of the results to know the difference."
"You are so."
"Like you," you finished. "I know."
He pointed at you. "That is not the compliment you think it is."
"It wasn't meant to be one."
Greg appeared quietly behind Jack, materializing from nowhere the way he always did.
Jack looked at him. "How long are they going to argue like this?"
Greg considered this with apparent sincerity. "Oh, this is actually them getting along."
Jack stared at him.
Then he looked back at you, still holding the youngest child's hand, still squaring up to your father with complete calm, the other two kids peering around your back like you were a personal fortification.
Jack thought about the blank line on the next of kin form. He thought about it for the rest of the evening.
**************
After The Wedding
The car was quiet on the way back.
Jack was looking out the window, and you recognized the particular quality of his silence. He was processing. Filing things away in the careful methodical way he processed everything that mattered to him.
"I realized something tonight," he said finally.
You looked at him.
"It's not just your father who talks down to you," he said. "It's most of them."
You were quiet for a moment. Outside the city moved past in the dark. "They have loose mouths," you said. "Always have."
"How did you live through that?"
You considered the question honestly. "Spite," you said. "My spite toward them fueled me to be better. Every time one of them wrote me off or talked over me or bet against me, I went back to work." You shrugged one shoulder. "It was useful."
Jack crossed his arms slowly. "It'll destroy you."
"It already destroyed my appendix," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back at him with the calm of someone stating a simple fact.
He shook his head. Then he reached over and pulled you into him, his arm coming around your shoulders, steady and certain. You let yourself lean in without making a thing of it.
"I don't like it here," you said against his shoulder. "But with you here it's bearable. A bit."
Jack rested his chin lightly against your hair. "Next time just send Greg."
********
The Proposal
After months of traveling, Jack finally came back to the Pitt.
He found Robby between cases, the way he always found Robby, leaning against the nurse's station with a coffee and the expression of a man with five minutes before the next thing arrived.
Jack told him everything.
The wedding. The betting. The cousin and the ten million dollars and the way you had dismantled him in a corridor without raising your voice. Your father and the conversation that was somehow both a confrontation and a consolidation. The kids grabbing your hand at the cocktail hour, dragging you toward the dessert table, and the look on your face when you let them. The way you stood at the back of the reception watching the couple on the dancefloor with something quiet and unguarded in your expression.
The way you had said, almost to yourself, "somewhere like that."
Robby listens to all of it. Then sets down his coffee.
"Marry her."
Jack is quiet.
"You already know," Robby says. "You've known for a while. So stop thinking about it and do it."
That's it. That's the whole conversation. Jack doesn't argue because there's nothing to argue. Robby is right and they both know it.
He goes home that night and calls Greg.
******
The Night He Asked
It was quiet on the drive home.
That was the first sign something was off. Greg was never quiet. Greg filled silence the way other people filled paperwork — efficiently, continuously, without being asked. But tonight he drove without commentary, his eyes on the road, his tablet conspicuously closed on the seat beside him.
You looked out the window. The road wasn't the way home. "Where are we going?"
"There's a firework event," Greg said. "At the park."
You checked your watch. At least half an hour to spare. You didn't want to keep Jack waiting too long at home. "There's time."
Greg had been driving you here for years when the pressure built past a certain point. You didn't always ask him to. He just knew. The walking helped. The trees helped. The fact that it was a place with no conference rooms and no agendas helped most of all.
He pulled up to the entrance and you got out without waiting, already feeling the tension in your shoulders beginning to ease just from the smell of the air. Grass and evening and something cooling after a long day.
You walked.
The park was quieter than you expected for a firework event. The path was lit softly, small lights threaded through the trees on either side, and you followed it without thinking, letting your mind go through its usual process of unwinding. A problem here, set it down. A meeting tomorrow, noted and released. The accumulated weight of the week, item by item, left on the path behind you.
Then you stopped.
Ahead of you, where the path curved toward the open space near the water, there was a flower arch. Your favorite — white and soft and full, lit from within by small warm lights that made the whole thing glow against the darkening sky. More lights were strung between the nearby trees, catching the last of the evening and turning it into something else entirely. A small table. A musician sitting quietly to one side, an instrument in his lap, not yet playing.
You stood there for a moment just looking at it.
You had wondered why the firework event felt romantic. You understood now that it was not a firework event.
And then you saw Jack.
He was standing at the center of it, under the arch, in a suit you recognized because you had watched Greg pack it three weeks ago and hadn't thought anything of it at the time. He was watching you with the expression he used when he had made a decision and was completely at peace with it.
Your feet carried you toward him before you consciously decided to move.
"You did all this," you said. It came out quieter than you intended.
"Greg helped," Jack said.
You looked around at the arch, the lights, the musician, the table set for two. Then back at him. "Greg helped," you repeated.
"Significantly," Jack said. "He cried twice during the planning process."
"He cries at everything."
"He cried at the flower selection," Jack said. "Specifically."
A breath of a laugh escaped you. Unexpected and unguarded, the kind that came out when your armor was already gone without you noticing. You looked at him and felt the full weight of the moment settling around you like something physical.
"Jack," you said softly.
"I know you don't need anything I can give you," he said. His voice was steady but there was something underneath it that you had never quite heard before. Something he was choosing to let out. "I know that. I've always known that. You have everything. You've built everything. You don't need someone to take care of you financially or professionally or in any of the ways people usually talk about when they talk about partnership."
He paused. Not because he lost the words. Because he was choosing the next ones carefully.
"But I've watched you carry things that nobody else sees," he continued. "The weight of your name and your father and a company you've been fighting for your entire life. I've watched you sit in hospitals and boardrooms and cars and planes and I've watched you hold all of it together without ever once asking anyone to help you hold it."
His voice dropped slightly.
"You came back from Japan when I was in surgery," he said. "You left a head of state. You sat in a hallway where they wouldn't tell you anything because you weren't family and you stayed anyway." He looked at her steadily. "I don't want you to ever be in a hallway again where you're not family."
You were very still.
"I can't give you what you can give yourself," Jack said. "I know that. I'm not going to pretend otherwise." He took a breath. "But I can give you somewhere to put it down. All of it. I can be the place where you don't have to hold anything. Where you don't have to be the CEO or the shark or your father's daughter or anyone's successor." He held your gaze. "I can be your person. Permanently. Legally. Completely."
He reached into his jacket pocket. The ring caught the light from the arch as he held it out — and you recognized it immediately. Your mother's ring. Your grandmother's before that. The one that had never belonged to your father's story.
Your hand came up to cover your mouth before you could stop it.
"I went to your aunt," he said simply.
"She cried," you managed.
"Twenty minutes," he said. "Before she said yes."
You let out a sound that was almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. Your eyes were doing things you would never normally allow in front of anyone. Jack had seen them before. He was the only one who had.
He went down on one knee.
"You're the most capable person I have ever met," he said, looking up at you. "And you deserve someone who sees every part of you. Not just the part that runs rooms." A pause. "I see all of it. I want all of it."
A beat.
"Marry me."
Not a question. A statement of intent from a man who had already decided and was simply informing you of the facts, the way he always did, the way that had somehow always worked on you more than anything else ever had.
You looked at the ring. At him. At the ring again.
Your aunt had kept it all these years. Jack had found it. He had gone quietly and carefully and found the one thing that connected you to the version of love that hadn't been ruined yet, the version that existed before your father made a mess of everything, and he had brought it here and gotten on one knee in your favorite park under your favorite flowers and said the truest thing anyone had ever said to you.
You took the ring from him. Slid it onto your own finger, which made him exhale something that was almost a laugh.
"Yes," you said. Your voice was steady. Mostly. "Obviously yes."
Jack stood. He took your face in both hands, careful and certain, and kissed you once. Quiet and complete.
Behind you, at a distance he had calculated to be respectful but not so far he couldn't see, Greg lowered his phone from recording position. His other hand was pressed flat against his mouth. His shoulders were shaking.
The musician began to play.
Somewhere above the park the first firework went up — a real one, as it turned out, because Greg had arranged that too — and the light broke open across the sky in a wash of gold.
You didn't look up at it.
You were already looking at Jack.
*******
The Preparation
It started with a question, the way most things between you did.
Jack had been leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, watching you work through your morning emails with the focused efficiency of someone who had already mentally scheduled the next six months. He waited until you looked up.
"Where should we have the wedding?"
You went quiet. Not the thinking quiet, not the calculating quiet. Just still for a moment, like the answer had been sitting there already and only needed to be collected.
"Pittsburgh," you said.
Jack raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
"We could do it abroad," you said. "But it would take a lot of work. And I want the Pitt crew there." You looked at him. "I want people who will actually wish us well. Not people who will bet on how long we last."
Jack was quiet for a second. Something moved across his face that he didn't try to hide. You had said it simply, practically, the way you said most things. But the fact that his people, his second family in their scrubs and their chaos, were the ones you wanted around you on that day, that you had chosen Pittsburgh not for convenience but for them. It settled in his chest like something permanent.
"There's a hotel we own," you continued, already reaching for your phone. "I'll have Greg reserve it for three days. Full building."
"We?" Jack said.
You looked up. "You own my business, Jack Abbott." A small, certain smile. "You married into this. No turning back. Welcome to the board."
He stared at you. "I didn't sign anything."
"Greg will send the papers."
"Of course he will."
You were already typing. "Have you told your family?"
"Yup. Have you told yours?"
You didn't look up. "I only want my father and my aunt. That's it."
"Perfect," Jack said. He picked up his coffee. "I was this close to preparing sleeping pills for the rest of your relatives anyway."
You looked at him.
"Medically appropriate dosage," he said pleasantly. "Nothing they wouldn't wake up from."
"Jack."
"They'd miss the wedding. Feels terrible about it. Send very expensive gifts out of guilt." He took a sip. "Everyone wins."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then you looked back at your phone. "I'm pretending I didn't hear that."
"That's probably wise," he agreed.
The Wedding
The guests arrived through the afternoon.
There were not many of them. That was the first thing people noticed. No sprawling guest list, no industry names, no faces borrowed from a networking spreadsheet. Just people who actually knew them. The room felt like breathing space rather than performance, and everyone in it seemed to understand, without being told, that this was intentional.
The Pitt crew arrived together.
This was not a surprise. They had carpooled from the hospital with the coordinated chaos of people who spent twelve hour shifts in close proximity and had stopped pretending they needed personal space. They came through the hotel entrance in a cluster, still mid-conversation, and then stopped collectively as the lobby registered.
Mateo turned a slow circle, taking in the ceiling, the floors, the fresh flowers arranged at every surface. "She rented the whole hotel," he said. "For three days."
"Yeah," Shen said.
"The whole hotel."
"That's what three days means, Mateo."
Ellis was already moving toward the front desk with the focused energy of a woman who had been promised a spa and intended to locate it immediately. "We have free rooms," she said, mostly to herself. "Free spa. I cannot wait to see my room." She paused at the desk and looked back at the group. "Do you think the robes are the good kind?"
"They're her hotel," Dana said. "They're the good kind."
Mateo found the coffee machine in his room twelve minutes later and sent a photo to the group without comment. The photo was of the machine. Just the machine. Centered. Well lit. It required no caption.
Shen sent back a single word. Same.
*******
Down the corridor, in the room set aside for the groom, it was considerably quieter.
Jack was standing at the window in his shirt and trousers, jacket hanging on the back of the chair, tie not yet on. He was looking out at Pittsburgh with the stillness of a man who was not anxious exactly but was feeling the full weight of a moment.
Robby came in without knocking, which was his way, and closed the door behind him. He looked at Jack. Jack looked at the city.
"You good?" Robby asked.
"Yeah," Jack said.
Robby crossed the room and stood beside him. They were quiet together for a moment, the way they were quiet in the Pitt between cases, comfortable and unhurried.
"She reserved the whole hotel," Robby said. "For the crew."
"I know."
"She didn't tell anyone. It was just ready when we got here."
"That's how she does things," Jack said.
Robby nodded slowly. He looked at Jack's profile for a moment. "You nervous?"
"No," Jack said. Then, after a beat. "Maybe a little."
"Good," Robby said.
*************
Upstairs, in the suite at the end of the east corridor, the morning had been considerably more emotional.
Your aunt had cried three times before the makeup artist finished the first eye. She had been escorted out gently but firmly after the second round of damage, still dabbing at her face with a handkerchief, still trying to say something coherent through the tears, and told that she could come back when she had collected herself.
She had not yet collected herself.
The room was quiet now. You stood in front of the mirror in your dress and looked at yourself for a long moment. Not checking. Just looking. The person looking back at you was the same one who had walked into a trauma bay years ago clutching her stomach, refusing surgery, convinced that stopping for even a day would mean losing everything.
She had been wrong about that. It had taken a night shift doctor and a plastic chair and a prescription slip to show her how wrong.
A knock at the door.
"Come in," you said.
Your father stepped into the room. He was dressed impeccably, as always, not a detail out of place. But he stopped when he saw you and something happened to his face that you had seen perhaps twice in your entire life. The careful architecture of his expression simply came apart for a moment, undone by something he hadn't expected to feel this strongly.
"What?" you said.
"You look beautiful," he said. Quietly. Like the words surprised him on the way out.
"Thank you," you said. The two words came out softer than you intended.
He moved further into the room. He looked at you the way people looked at things they knew they were about to let go of, taking inventory, trying to hold the image.
"Is he the right one?" he asked. "There's still time. If you have any doubt at all."
You turned to face him fully. "You should have asked yourself that question. Approximately three marriages ago."
He had the grace to absorb that without deflecting. "I went through it," he said. "Those were my mistakes. I know what they cost." He paused. "You're my only daughter. I don't want you to go through any version of what I put your mother through."
You had not expected that. Not the words and not the look that came with them, something tired and honest and stripped of the usual performance. He was not making a point. He was not positioning. He was just a father standing in a hotel room looking at his daughter on her wedding day and meaning what he said.
"He's the one," you said.
Your father was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded once, the nod of a man who has updated a position and will not revisit it. "Good," he said. "I believe your judgement. I always have. Even when I made it harder than it needed to be."
He offered his arm.
You looked at it for a second. This man who had turned your inheritance into a competition, who had made you fight for every room you walked into, who had driven you to a hospital bed and a stranger's plastic chair and accidentally, unknowingly, to the best thing that had ever happened to you.
You took his arm.
It had never once crossed your mind that you would walk down the aisle with your father. Too much history, too many rooms where you had stood on opposite sides of everything. But here you were, his hand over yours, moving together toward the doors at the end of the corridor.
"You're not going to cry, are you," you said.
"Absolutely not," he said.
A pause.
"Your aunt has cried enough for both families," he added.
"She has," you agreed.
The doors opened.
The hall was warm and full of light, flowers arranged along every surface, candles burning in rows that turned the whole room golden. And the faces. You saw them before anything else. The Pitt crew, cleaned up and dressed in their best, looking like a completely different set of people from the ones you usually found in scrubs over a trauma bay. Mateo in a suit that actually fit. Ellis with her hair done, sitting straight and bright-eyed. Shen looking quietly emotional already and trying not to show it. Dana watching the door with an expression she would later describe as composed and which was not composed at all.
Your aunt in the front row, handkerchief already raised.
Greg, three rows back, recording everything on his phone with the focus of a man documenting history.
Lilly, standing at the front, who had been holding herself together all morning and was now very clearly not holding herself together.
And Jack.
He was standing at the altar in his suit, hands clasped in front of him, and he was watching you walk toward him with an expression that had nothing held back in it. No clinical neutrality, no careful composure. Just him, fully present, completely undone in the quietest possible way. His jaw was tight. His eyes were bright.
Robby, standing beside him as best man, noticed. He leaned slightly toward Jack and pressed a folded tissue into his hand without a word, with the efficiency of a man who had come prepared.
Jack took it without looking at him.
You kept walking. Your father's arm steady under your hand, the room warm around you, every face you passed a person who had genuinely wished for this.
When you reached the altar your father stopped. He looked at Jack for a moment. The two men regarded each other with the particular understanding of people who had already said the hard things and arrived somewhere on the other side of them.
"Take care of her," your father said. Not a command. Not a warning. Something quieter than either.
"I know," Jack said.
Your father took your hand and placed it in Jack's. Then he pulled you into a brief, firm hug, the kind that said more than he would ever find words for, and stepped back to take his seat.
You turned to Jack.
He was looking at you the way he had looked at you in the ER the very first time, like you were the clearest thing in the room. Like everything else was background.
"Hi," you said softly.
"Hi," he said.
His thumb moved once across the back of your hand. Steady and certain and very him.
The priest began to speak.
The room settled into a hush, warm and full and held by everyone in it. Outside Pittsburgh moved through its ordinary afternoon, entirely unaware that in a hotel ballroom two people who had found each other in an emergency room were making it permanent.
Inside, it was everything you had said you wanted.
Small. Real. People who knew you.
The rest of it, the rings and the words and the moment the priest said what he said and Jack looked at you and you looked back at him, that part belonged only to the two of you.
Some things don't need an audience to be true.
They just need to happen.
And this one did.
*************
The Reception and The Morning After
The reception was everything a wedding should be and nothing it didn't need to be.
The food came out in waves, each one better than the last, the kind of meal that made people stop mid-conversation just to acknowledge what was happening on their plate. The DJ read the room perfectly, pulling the energy up and letting it breathe at exactly the right moments. A singer came on after midnight and the dancefloor, which had started cautiously, became something genuinely joyful.
It was loud and warm and real in the way that only happens when every person in a room actually wants to be there.
But the moment that made the hotel truly erupt was later.
When the guests finally made their way upstairs, full and happy and slightly overwhelmed by the evening, they found their rooms waiting. The coffee machine they already knew about. The massage gun they had discovered earlier. But on the desk beside them was something else. An envelope. Inside, a cheque.
Each one different, each one specific. Some covered rent. Some cleared medical school debt that had been sitting quietly for years. Some handled bills that people had stopped mentioning out loud because mentioning them had stopped feeling useful.
The calls started within minutes. Room to room, corridor to corridor, voices spilling under doors and through walls. Mateo's laugh was audible from two floors down. Someone, nobody admitted who, started crying in the stairwell. The hotel, which had been built for quiet luxury, handled the noise with grace.
Greg, sitting in the small office he had commandeered near the lobby, listened to the sounds traveling down through the building and allowed himself exactly one minute of satisfaction before going back to his tablet.
******
The next morning the hotel restaurant was warm and unhurried, sunlight coming through the tall windows, the kind of breakfast that had no agenda attached to it.
You and Jack came down together.
The crew was already there, spread across two tables that had been pushed together at some point without asking permission. They looked up when you walked in and the table got louder immediately.
Dana stood first. She crossed the room and hugged you before you could say anything, properly, with both arms, the way Dana did everything when she decided to do it. "Thank you," she said quietly, close to your ear. "For all of it. The room, the cheque, everything." She stopped. Started again. "Just. Thank you."
Ellis was next, which surprised you because Ellis expressed warmth in precise, careful doses. She took your hand in both of hers and looked at you with the direct, steady gaze she used when she meant something completely. "You deserve every good thing," she said simply. "Both of you."
Mateo bypassed formality entirely and hugged Jack first, which Jack endured with the expression of a man who had accepted that this was happening. "Best wedding I've ever been to," Mateo said, pulling back. "And I've been to eleven. This was the best one. It wasn't close."
Shen raised his coffee cup from across the table without getting up, which was entirely Shen. "Congratulations," he said. "Long marriage. Many years. And please keep the coffee machine coming."
Then Robby stood up.
The table went quiet on its own, the way it always did when Robby had something to say. He was holding an envelope in one hand, different from the others, thicker. He had not opened it at the table. You knew he had opened it last night, alone in his room, because Greg had told you so in a single text message. Just the words: he sat with it for a while.
He looked at Jack first. "You're the best doctor I've ever worked with," he said. "And I've worked with a lot of doctors. Most of them insufferable." A beat. "You're only occasionally insufferable. That counts for something."
Jack said nothing. But something in his face shifted quietly.
Then Robby looked at you. He held up the envelope slightly. "Round the world tickets," he said. His voice was steady but carrying something underneath it. "For two." He paused. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," you said.
"She mentioned she wanted to see more of the world," Robby continued, and you knew without asking that he meant his girlfriend, the cardiologist who had borrowed your jet and changed everything. "I don't know how you knew that."
"She mentioned it to me," you said simply.
Robby let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He looked down at the envelope for a second, then back at you both. "I've watched a lot of people come through the Pitt," he said. "Patients, staff, families. You learn pretty quickly who people actually are when things get hard." He looked at Jack. Then at you. "You two are the real thing. Anyone who's been paying attention knows that." He raised his coffee cup. "Long marriage. Many years. And maybe some kids who inherit her bank account and his patience."
"Hear hear," said Mateo immediately.
"Strongly seconded," Ellis added.
You looked at Jack. He looked back at you. "I told you," you said. "I told you they would wish us well." You felt it settle in your chest, warm and certain. "Not a single bet. Not like my family."
Jack pressed his lips together. Something in his expression shifted in a way you recognized.
"Jack," you said slowly.
"Hm."
"They're not making bets."
A pause. Brief. Telling.
"Jack Abbott."
He leaned toward you and lowered his voice so it landed only at your ear. "The bet," he said carefully, "is on how many kids we're going to have."
The heat reached your ears before your brain finished processing the sentence. You turned to look at the table. Mateo was studying the ceiling. Shen had become very interested in his orange juice. Dana had her coffee cup raised high enough to cover most of her face. Ellis was the only one who met your eyes, completely unashamed, with the expression of a woman who had put money on a specific number and felt good about it.
The laugh came out before you could stop it. Sudden and real and completely unguarded, the kind that turned heads at the neighboring tables.
Jack watched you laugh with the quiet, settled expression of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.
"How much?" you managed finally.
"The pot is considerable," Jack said.
"Who started it?"
Everyone at the table found something else to look at simultaneously.
"Greg," Jack said.
*********
The Abbott Kids
Just like the Pitt crew had wished, you and Jack had two kids. Robby, Dana, and Ellis won the bet. Their names were Nora Abbott and Leo Abbott.
By the time Nora turned six and Leo turned five, the Pitt staff had collectively accepted that the Abbott children were simply part of the hospital's ecosystem now.
Nora was yours in every way that mattered. She had your energy, your confidence, and your absolute refusal to accept any situation she hadn't personally approved of. She walked into rooms like she already owned them or was actively considering the purchase. She could negotiate her way out of anything and expressed her opinions with a directness that made grown adults briefly reconsider their positions. She was six years old and she already had a preferred table at two restaurants in Pittsburgh.
Leo was a different story.
He had Jack's eyes. Jack's quiet. Jack's way of standing slightly apart from a situation and watching it fully before deciding to enter it. He followed Jack to the Pitt on weekends with the focused dedication of someone who had already picked a direction and was simply gathering information. He was five and had already correctly identified two ear infections and one case of strep throat among the neighborhood kids. Jack confirmed all three without comment, but something in his expression each time suggested he was filing it away carefully.
They were nothing alike. Except that both of them were completely certain of themselves.
Jack said this was good. You said it was inevitable. You were both right.
************
Leo had been following Jack around the Pitt since he could walk fast enough to keep up.
He was quiet about it the way Jack was quiet about everything. He watched the nurses with careful attention, sat at the station with a juice box and said very little, but his eyes moved constantly. The staff had adopted him completely. Mateo taught him card tricks. Ellis let him listen through her stethoscope. Shen had made the mistake of explaining blood pressure readings and now Leo checked his own wrist with two fingers every morning at breakfast.
He was five and the Pitt already felt like home.
Which meant he had opinions about it.
"Dad," Leo said, falling into step beside Jack between bays, small legs working double time. "You could be the director."
"No thanks," Jack said.
"Mom doesn't officially own the hospital. But you're her husband. You have authority."
"I've seen your mother run things," Jack said. "I know what it costs. No thanks."
Leo considered this for two seconds. "Then why stay if you could have more power?"
Jack stopped. He looked down at his son and gave him the real answer, because Leo always knew the difference.
"Because the director gets nervous when I'm around," he said. "And I find that extremely entertaining."
Leo stared at him. Then came the slow quiet smile — Jack's exact smile.
Robby appeared from around the corner. He looked at Leo. Then at Jack. "What kind of vocabulary are you teaching him?"
"His kindergarten is already teaching him to buy gold," Jack said.
Robby looked at Leo. "Is that true?"
"Next week we learn about stocks," Leo said seriously.
Robby patted his head slowly. "Good job."
Leo accepted this with a small dignified nod and kept following Jack down the corridor.
Robby watched them go and shook his head.
"He's going to take over this place someday," he said to nobody.
From the nurse's station Ellis didn't look up. "He already knows which attending to avoid and where the good coffee is." A pause. "He's halfway there."
*************
Nora had been following you to work since she was four.
It started because you had a breakfast meeting, the nanny called in sick, and Greg said with complete confidence that it would be fine. It was fine. Nora sat at the corner of the conference table with a juice box and a coloring book and didn't make a single sound for two hours. Three board members commented afterward that she had better meeting presence than most of their junior executives.
She was six now and Greg had stopped pretending she needed supervision.
She walked beside you through the office with the proprietary ease of someone who had decided this was also her domain. Occasionally her small hand would reach up for yours in a crowded corridor, but otherwise she moved with complete independence.
"Greg," she said, passing his desk without stopping. "The eleven o'clock ran over yesterday. It shouldn't run over."
Greg looked up from his tablet. Then at you. Then back at Nora. "You're right," he said seriously. "I'll adjust the buffer."
"Thank you," Nora said, and kept walking.
You looked at Greg over your shoulder. He was already typing, completely unbothered.
You caught up to Nora. "You're six," you said.
"The meeting ran over," she said simply.
You had nothing to argue with that.
The harder moments came at family events.
Your father's side had not entirely adjusted to the fact that you were no longer available to be pressured into financial decisions. Most had learned this the hard way. But there were always one or two who tried again at gatherings, convinced that the presence of children would soften you.
They had not accounted for Nora.
At a family lunch one of your cousins cornered you near the drinks table, already three sentences into a pitch, when Nora appeared at your side.
She looked up at him. He looked down at her with the instinctive softening people had around small children. First mistake.
"My mom is busy," Nora said.
"I'm just having a conversation—"
"She's busy," Nora said again. Final.
He looked at you. You looked back with the neutral expression of a woman genuinely curious how this would resolve.
He tried again. "I just wanted to discuss a small opportunity—"
Nora's face crumpled. Carefully. Gradually. The lip wobble, the glassy eyes, one single tear tracking down her cheek with impeccable timing.
"I just wanted to spend time with my mom," she said, at exactly the frequency that activated guilt in every adult within ten feet. "But someone always takes her away."
Your cousin looked like he had committed a crime. He muttered something about catching up another time and retreated quickly.
Nora watched him go. The tears stopped with the efficiency of someone turning off a tap.
You looked down at her. "Where did you learn that."
"Learn what?" she said.
You studied her face. It gave you nothing.
Later you stood in Greg's doorway. "Did you teach my daughter to fake cry."
Greg maintained eye contact with the composure of a man who had prepared for this. "I taught her that emotional intelligence is a valuable tool in high pressure social situations."
"Greg."
"She asked," he said simply. "She was very specific. I provided educational support."
You stared at him. Then left without responding because you didn't entirely disagree.
That night at dinner Jack watched Nora and Leo eat their vegetables unprompted. Unlike you, they like to eat veggies.
"What did she do?" he said quietly.
"Made a grown man feel guilty for existing," you said. "Using tears."
Jack looked at Nora. Nora looked at her plate. The picture of innocence.
Jack looked at Nora. Nora looked at her plate. The picture of innocence.
"She took it seriously," Jack said.
"It was you?.”
"I told her to guard you when I'm not there," he said simply. He picked up his fork.
You turned to Nora. She looked up and caught you both watching her. She smiled. Your smile, arriving with complete confidence, knowing exactly what it was doing.
"She's yours," Jack said.
"She really is," you agreed.
*********
It started at the dinner table, the way most things in the Abbott household started — without warning and with complete commitment from both parties.
"Doctors don't make as much money as CEOs," Nora said, with the casual authority of someone stating a fact she had verified personally.
Leo looked up from his rice. "Doctors save lives."
"CEOs create jobs," Nora said. "Which also saves lives. Indirectly."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's related."
Leo put his chopsticks down, which in Abbott family body language meant he was taking this seriously. "Dad pulled someone back from a flatline last week."
"Mom pulled three companies back from bankruptcy last month," Nora said. "That's three sets of employees who still have income. Which means they can afford healthcare." She tilted her head slightly. "Which means they can afford doctors."
Leo stared at her. "You can't put a price on saving someone's life."
"You can't run a hospital without funding," Nora said. "Who do you think pays for dad's equipment?"
A brief silence.
"Mom," Leo said.
"Exactly," Nora said.
You and Jack had stopped eating approximately thirty seconds into this exchange. You were both sitting very still in the way of people who had recognized something extraordinary was happening and did not want to interrupt it.
Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack.
Leo picked his chopsticks back up, regrouped, and tried a different angle. "Dad works nights. He misses sleep. He misses dinners. He does it because people need him." He paused. "That's noble."
Nora considered this genuinely, which you recognized as a dangerous sign. It meant she was about to say something that would end the argument.
"Dad is noble," she agreed. "Mom is powerful." She picked up her glass. "Noble people make the world better. Powerful people make it possible for noble people to do that." She took a sip. "They need each other."
Leo was quiet for a moment.
Then he looked at Jack. "Dad."
"Yeah," Jack said.
"She's right."
Jack picked up his chopsticks. "I know."
"That's annoying," Leo said.
"Yeah," Jack said again. "Get used to it."
Nora said nothing. She returned to her dinner with the composure of a woman who had made her point and saw no need to elaborate.
You pressed your lips together very hard.
Jack nudged your foot under the table without looking at you.
You nudged back.
Above the table your two children ate their dinner in the temporary peace of people who had reached a conclusion and were already, quietly, preparing for the next disagreement.
After a moment Jack leaned slightly toward you. Low enough that it stayed between the two of you. "Noble and powerful," he said.
"She's six," you said.
"She quoted supply chain logic at dinner."
"She learned it from me."
"She applied it correctly," Jack said. "That part was her."
You looked at Nora, currently eating with perfect posture and the satisfied energy of someone who had filed the evening under completed business. Then at Leo, who was asking Jack something about blood pressure with the focused intensity he brought to everything that interested him.
"We made interesting kids," you said quietly.
Jack considered this for a second. "Terrifying kids."
"Same thing," you said.
Jack picked up his glass. "Yeah," he said. "Same thing."
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader (starts as R4, ends as attending)
warnings: talks of suicide, suicidal behavior. Honestly it's pretty fluffy.
Jack Abbot had never really thought about jumping from the PTMC roof. Frankly, that sounded like more effort than he wanted to put in at the end of a shift. No, he pictured something simpler, like just stepping forward and letting himself fall. Quiet. Effortless. Final. Perfect.
He stood at the edge, hands in his pockets and watched the city coming to life below him. Every sound a reminder that life went on without him. Perfectly fine. A click announced the access door closing. He didn’t bother to look back, knowing it was Robby coming to save Jack from himself, just like clockwork. Jack exhaled, bracing himself for the familiar plea.
Instead, an unexpected voice called from behind him. “Robby said to tell you to at least wait until it’s not his shift.”
Jack looked over in surprise to find you walking toward him. His brow furrowed as he tried to place you. There was a vague sense of familiarity as if he’d seen you only in passing.
He snorted and turned back his view. “He’s sending med students after me now? Can’t be bothered to come himself?” It figured that he’d finally pushed the other attending too far with his bullshit.
“He also said that Gloria caught him right inside the door. Rather than bringing her along for the meeting, he sent his favorite resident,” you said, sounding slightly amused.
He glanced at you again and said your name. “That’s you?”
You grinned. “So, he does talk about me.”
Jack huffed a laugh. “Yeah, kid, he talks about you. Why haven’t I seen you on nights yet?”
“I start the end of next month,” you said and stepped closer. “But Robby said you could have me early if you come down without giving me a hard time.”
That made him smile. “That’s the kind of bribe I like.” He came back to the right side of the railing and really looked at you for the first time. Shit. Robby was right. You were a knockout.
“Anything going on between you and Robby?” Why the fuck did he ask that? Even if there was it was none of his damn business. Great first impression there, Abbot.
He was expecting you to call him out on his shit, instead you snorted. “God, no. Robby’s just…Robby, you know,” you said with a shrug.
His brows lifted as his lips twitched. “I am in fact aware that Robby is himself, yes.”
You gave him a cheeky grin. “You’re not nearly as grumpy as he said you were.”
He shoved off from the rail and he guided you toward the stairs. “Just wait until you’re on nights with me.”
True to his word, Robby signed off on you moving to night shift the next week. He sent Jack a text your first night.
Don’t fuck this up Abbot or I’m taking her back.
“Ass,” Jack muttered.
It took him exactly three hours to discover why Robby was so attached to you. Everything he had said about you was 100% accurate. You were smart, skilled, respectful. Jack thought you were too sweet for this shift—that nights were going to chew you up and spit you out. That was until he watched you with Shen.
“Hey, newbie,” Shen said as he leaned on the counter beside you, arm almost brushing yours.
“I have a name, Dr. Shen.” You didn’t look up from your tablet as you finished your charting.
He grinned. “Yeah, I know that but you’re also the newbie. And there’s no need for titles. We’re not so formal around here.”
You turned and gave him a deadpan stare. “Okay, Shen. What can I do for you?”
He inched closer, lowering his voice. “We should go out after our shift.”
Irritation crawled up Jack’s spine, but he stayed quiet. He wanted to see how you handled yourself without his intervention.
You tilted your head and gave the other man a little smile. “Do you do that often?”
Shen’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”
“All of you going out together after a shift. That must be great for team building. Day shift has beers across the street but 7am is a little early for that, so I assumed you didn’t.”
With every word that came out of your mouth, Shen’s confidant smile dropped just a little more. “Uh…no. I meant just you and me. We could grab breakfast somewhere.”
Your eyes widened. “It’s rude not to invite everyone, Shen. That’s not very nice.”
When you turned to leave, Jack swore he heard Shen sputter behind you. You saw Jack watching and winked.
He let out a surprised laugh. “You’re going to fit in just fine around here, kid,” he said as you passed.
A month later, Jack found you on the roof for the first time. It was just after midnight when they’d rushed in a fifteen-year-old with a self-inflicted gunshot wound. There wasn’t anything you could do to save him. Hell, it was a miracle he wasn’t dead before he got there. After a brief pause, you got right to work without missing a beat, but there was something off. Jack could tell. As soon as your gloves were off, you’d disappeared.
When he couldn’t find you anywhere else, he hurried up the stairs, heart pounding until he saw your silhouette on the right side of the railing. “You’re in my spot, kid.”
You snorted. “You and Robby don’t have a monopoly on rooftop contemplation, Abbot.”
“Sure, we do. Benefits of being attendings.” He moved beside you, leaning his back on the railing. He didn’t press. He just let the night breeze fill the silence.
You didn’t look at him, just kept staring at the city. “I had a friend. Travis. Met him when I was twelve. We just synced, you know. Became inseparable. We went to the same undergrad. Even shared an apartment.”
There was a pause as you swallowed past the lump in your throat. Jack listened in silence. “When I was an MS3, he told me he was in love with me. I told him I didn’t feel the same. He said, I owed him. That I’d led him on all those years.”
Jack’s chest tightened but he didn’t interrupt.
“A week later was my first rotation in emergency. He called 911 asking for an ambulance because he was going to shoot himself. Put a bullet in his chest. He was unconscious by the time he made it to my ED. Never woke up. EMT said the only thing he said when they got to him was, ‘it’s her fault. She’ll see’. His sister called me and told me I wasn’t welcome at the funeral. Said it was my fault he’d shot himself and then I couldn’t even save him when he got to the hospital.”
Rage coiled in his gut. Rage at Travis, at his shit of a sister, at a world that could be so cruel to you. “Jesus Christ, kid. That’s horrible. No wonder you’re fucked up.”
You nudged his side. “Takes one to know one, Jack.”
He nudged you back. “You know none of that shit is true, right?”
“After many, many hours of therapy, yes I do know that.” You shook your head. “Doesn’t mean it hurts any less when I think about it though.”
“Yeah,” he said in agreement, knowing exactly what you meant.
You sighed before smacking the rail and turning to your attending. “Let’s get back to it, Abbot.”
He grunted but followed you to the door. “Liked it better when you called me Jack.”
The next time he finds you on the roof was more of a surprise than the last time. He’d gone up to find Robby after Dana said he was getting some air. He did not expect to find you up there with him, sitting on a blanket, eating pizza and…were you drinking? You giggled when you saw his face, actually giggled. Which made Robby laugh as well and toast him with his fucking glass.
“Seriously?” Jack asked in disbelief. He knew for a fact you were on tonight. He always knew when you were on.
“Calm down, doc. It’s sparkling grape juice,” you said, still laughing. At him.
Robby smirked. “Which I still say is a damn shame. You deserve a proper celebration. You should let me take you out.”
“Celebration?” Jack asked as he swallowed down a sudden, irrational spike of jealousy.
The other man nodded, smile widening. “I think my favorite resident becoming my favorite attending is something to celebrate, don’t you?”
You laughed and shook your head. “I already told you that I can’t be your favorite attending. That’s Jack.”
Robby shook his head. “Not even close, sweetheart.”
Jack narrowed his eyes at his idiot of a best friend. Since when were you ‘sweetheart’? “She’s my favorite resident, not yours.”
“Not the important part of the conversation, Abbot,” Robby said, mirth shining in his eyes.
Oh. Right. He turned to you. “Congratulations. Never doubted you for a minute.”
You beamed at him and he suddenly had a little trouble taking a deep breath. “Thanks, Jack. The three of us should go out for a drink.”
Jack pursed his lips as his gaze moved between you and Robby. “If we’re going out, we’re going to do it right. Dinner first, then drinks. Our treat.”
Robby nodded. “All right. When?”
“The two of us are off Thursday. That work for you, Robinavitch?”
Robby blinked then grinned again. “Sure, Abbot. I’ll get Shen to come in early to cover. Seven sound good?”
You bounced a little and clapped your hands. “This is great. Thank you so much.” You turned to face him and your smile about knocked him on his ass. “You want some pizza?”
“Nah. I just came up to check on Robby here. I don’t want to intrude.”
You snorted. “There’s more in the breakroom. I brought enough for both shifts. We were just taking a moment. I couldn’t have done it without the two of you. Thank you.” You leaned over and gave Robby a hug before hopping to your feet. You kissed Jack on the cheek as you moved past him to the door. “I’m gonna go tell everyone else.”
He stood rooted to the spot long after you disappeared down the stairs.
Robby’s voice beside him was heavy with amusement. “You okay there, Jack?”
Jack cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”
“Uh huh,” Robby said with a dumb grin on his face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Accepting his word, Jack turned to go back downstairs. Robby’s voice stopped him at the door. “It’s just interesting that you know her schedule as well as yours.”
His face heated and he refused to turn around and give Robby the satisfaction of seeing it. “Are we going to do handoff or what?”
Thursday night, Jack arrived first at the steakhouse Robby had chosen. It had linen napkins, dim candlelight, the works. He tapped his index finger against the table waiting for one of you to show up. His phone buzzed with a text from Robby: don’t mess this up.
Before he could text back to ask what the hell he meant, you appeared in the doorway. His eyes trailed over you as he stood. You were stunning. You were always pretty, but on the rare chance he got to see you in something other than scrubs, you took his breath away.
“You look amazing,” he finally managed to get out as he pulled out a chair for you.
“Thanks,” you said with a smile. “Robby called just before I got here. He had to cancel. Shen’s sick or something. I offered to cover and he threatened to fire me.”
Son of a bitch. His text made a hell of a lot more sense now. Damn it, Robby. He didn’t ask for his help. Didn’t need it. He was quite content with the way things were, thank you very much.
“We can reschedule if you want.” Your voice was soft, small, and it gutted him.
“Absolutely not,” he assured, opening a menu. “Who needs Robby anyway?”
As dinner and conversation progressed it became really hard for Jack to remember that this was just a friendly meal between colleagues. That there was no way you wanted him even a fraction of the way he wanted you. The last thing he wanted was to be another Travis in your life, a guy that thought you owed him something because you were his friend.
After the meal, the two of you moved into the bar. It was halfway through the second drink when you confessed. “So, I should probably tell you something.” And you blushed so prettily when you said it.
Jack leaned closer, arm on the back of your chair, just loose enough to take the small risk. His lips twitched. “I’m all ears, sweetheart.”
“Shen wasn’t sick.”
He lifted a brow but said nothing. This sounded like a confession he should be getting from Robby, not you.
“I mean, I asked Robby to cancel.”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
You wouldn’t even look at him, eyes locked on your hands as they shredded a napkin as you huffed out a breath. “I wanted it to be just the two of us. Like—like a date.”
And suddenly everything in Jack just eased. When you didn’t look up or say anything else, Jack placed a finger under your chin to tilt your head back. His gaze ran over your face searching for any indication you didn’t mean it. Seeing nothing but sincerity, he leaned forward and brushed your lips with his. Once. Twice.
When he took you home, he walked you to the door and gave you another kiss. Or three. But he didn’t come inside. Not that night.
That came three dates later.
You and Jack had been dating for nearly a year when he took you up to the roof to watch the sunrise just before shift change one day. Robby was holding down the ED until Jack came back down for handoff.
You leaned on the railing and Jack stepped up behind you with a hand to either side, boxing you in. He rested his chin on your shoulder and you hummed in contentment. He kissed the side of your neck then spoke in your ear. “Honey?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna ask you something and I need you to give me an answer.”
“That’s usually how questions work, Dr. Abbot,” you teased.
He nipped your earlobe. “Behave.” His hands moved around until they were in front of you, one holding a black box. He opened it with a snap and you sucked in a breath as your eyes watered at the sight of the perfect ring nestled in velvet. “I was wondering your thoughts on being called Dr. Abbot, as well.”
You turned in his arms and cradled his face in your hands. You looked in his eyes and saw so much love, but you couldn’t miss the bit of worry there as well. As if you would ever turn this man down. “I think the med students are going to get really confused with two Dr. Abbots.”
“They’ll manage.” He leaned forward and kissed you, arms pulling you into him. When you separated, he moved back just enough to slip the ring on your finger. “Looks good.”
“Looks perfect,” you corrected and kissed him again.
He nudged you around to finish watching the sunrise and resumed his previous position with his chin on your shoulder only his arms were wrapped around you this time. You rested your hands on his arms, ring flashing in the sun.
Jack Abbot doesn’t think about letting himself fall anymore. He already fell. Quiet. Effortless. Final. Perfect.
I've seen a lot of ff writers apologize for their fic being "self-indulgent" which baffles me cause like is that not the entire concept of fanfiction?????
SAY IT WITH ME FOLKS, "FANFICTION IS SUPPOSED TO BE SELF-INDULGENT"
Summary: Three holiday seasons your path crosses with Dr. Jack Abbot, and the one where your paths converge.
A/N: Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and Happy Holidays to the rest of ya'! This is my first time writing anything for The Pitt, and for Jack Abbot, so have mercy on my soul hehe 🙃 I hope you enjoy this fluffy little 3+1 type fic, and I'll see y'all in the New Year ❤️
Word Count: 4k
Tags/warnings: age gap (Reader is late 20s early 30s, Jack is late 40s), brief talks of the Military Industrial Complex, mentions of trauma, put a former Air Force brat (child of an Air Force soldier) and an Army veteran (at least I’m headcanoning Jack as former Army, I haven’t seen his official branch affiliation anywhere else lol) together and get funky nicknames lmao, strangers to friends to lovers, no use of Y/N, reader is referred to as Chair Force, Blue Angel, Kansas and Sweetheart (feel free to let me know if i missed anything)
One
The first time you run into Dr. Jack Abbot is at the Southwestern Veterans' Center.
You made a point of establishing a volunteer routine in every city you moved to, and your heart had always been partial to any kind of Veterans organization. Growing up as a military brat gave you a better perspective when it came to military members and especially veterans. You were no worshiper of the military, frankly you hated it not because of the industrial complex (well, not entirely) but because of how they treated active duty members and veterans. The fact the richest and most funded military in the world had families struggling to pay rent, most filing for bankruptcy at least once in their careers (if not twice, like yours had), everyone getting on EBT or standing in line at the food pantry during government shutdowns… it enraged you. So you funneled that anger and rage into volunteering.
Having moved to Pittsburgh for work in August meant that there was just no way you'd be going back to the midwest for the holiday season. Hence why you were at the SWVC, dressed in an old Air Force themed Christmas sweater, volunteering and making crafts with veterans and their families. You hadn't noticed him at first, too busy helping a group of kids create ornaments for their veterans, but he sure as hell noticed you.
Jack Abbot had not stopped in his tracks at the sight of a person in a very long time; not since he had met his wife (rest her soul) all those years ago. But tonight, as he volunteered at the SWVC, he found himself frozen. In a faded blue sweater, with a B2 Bomber dropping presents stitched across the front, was an angel. He watched as you helped tie ribbons to ornaments, as you smiled gently at the children and snuck them extra candies, before waving them off as they ran to show their presents to their family members. He found himself drawn to you, your smile, the way the light seemed to dance in your eyes. Before he knew it, he was in front of your station.
"Hi, what kind of ornament would you li-" you looked up and felt your breath stutter in your throat. The man in front of you was hot. Hell, to be fully dramatic, he was the most gorgeous speciman you'd ever laid eyes on. "L-like to make?" You hurriedly finished, feeling the tips of your ears burn as you met his eyes. "I'm actually here to help you, ma'am." That's when you noticed the volunteer nametag on his sweater, and prompty told yourself you were going to dive into the local river as soon as you were able. "Oh my god, sorry, I'm just used to running crafts solo." You admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck. "No worries, chair force." He winked, and your brain short-circuited for the briefest of second, before the sass your mother gave you came barreling out like a horse at a race. "Better not be any, crayon muncher."
Jack's laugh sent warmth swooping through your body, and a grin broke across your face despite yourself. "Oh, I like you, blue angel. Now what can I do to help?" You stood and explained the different craft stations, discussed which needed the most hands-on help, and promptly saluted him as a group shuffled towards y'all, grinning and saying "Good luck, Captain Crayola."
By the end of the evening, your finger tips were covered in sharpie splotches and hurt slightly from all the paper folding; but best of all you had gotten to spend the night conversing with Captain Crayola, aka, Dr. Jack Abbot. Former combat medic, veteran, doctor, and a very kind man who made your heart skip a beat. The way he handled the children with such kindness, joked with the old gaurd, and showed tenderness to every person that came through the craft processional made your heart melt. That and his beautiful greying curls, his twinkling hazel eyes, his gruff and warm voice… God give you strength, you were always one to fall first and fast.
"Heading out?" Jack asked, watching as you wrapped a scarf around your neck. "Yeah, gotta go warm up the old beast and get home before my bed time." You joked, smiling at him with a warmth that spread down his spine. "I'll walk with you, if you don't mind." He offered, and felt a small smirk cross his lips at the shy look that crossed your expression as you nodded gently. You were adorable, and he liked seeing you blush. The two of you walked into the cold December air, a comfortable silence falling over the both of you like a blanket, as you approached your (hilariously or ironically) parked-right-next-to-each-other cars. "A blue car? I really shouldn't be surprised." He teased, and you rolled your eyes before shooting back a playful "And you with green? Not leaving much to the imagination, army." He smiled, a genuine, beautiful thing, that made your heart flutter. "Well, it's been fun working with you, blue angel, I hope to see you around." You grinned and gave a two-finger salute. "Right back at you, Captain Crayola. I'm sure our paths will cross again."
Two
The second time your paths cross during the holiday season is in the emergency room of what people affectionately (you think/hope) call The Pitt. Not for yourself, thank god, but for your colleague (and roommate) who got a liiiiittle too tipsy at the department holiday function nearby. That tipsiness led to them completely eating shit on some black ice, which led to you taking her to the local hospital, and sitting with her as she sobered up from the pain in her ankle. "Goooood this is not how I wanted to ring in the end of finals, Kansas." You rolled your eyes at the nickname. No matter how many times you corrected her, Josie would continuously call you Kansas, despite you being from Missouri. "Yeah, I know Jo, but life happens. At least we got in here quick, I've been in the ER for almost 12 hours with a friend before getting seen." You shrugged.
The curtain of the room was pulled open and the shocked "Blue angel?" that left Jack Abbot's lips made you want to melt into the floor. "Wait, did you call her- oh my god, Kansas, this is Captain Crayola!?" Your friend’s painful expression turned to delight, which made you want to evaporate into the air. "Oh my god this is a nightmare." You sighed, facepalming. "Did she just call you Kansas?" You looked at Jack, who was entirely too sexy in all black scrubs for his and your own good, as you felt your face grow hot. "Yes, nickname; I'm fine, why don't you focus on Josie, Dr. Abbot." You shoot back, trying to get the attention off of you as quickly as possible.
Nights in the ED close to the holidays had their own insanity to them, one that found Jack growing wearier and wearier the closer the snuck to December 25th. This new case, a twisted ankle from a very drunk partier, was just the cherry on top of that. When Jack opened the curtain, though, he found his heart skipping a beat as a familiar face greeted him from the chair. His blue angel sat there, wearing a very beautiful shimmery blue and purple dress that accentuated her curves, shaking her head at the patient on the bed. Then he heard your nickname for him come out of the patient's mouth, and felt himself preen a little. You talked about him. Just like he had talked about you (even if it was just to Robby, it counted). "Did she just call you Kansas?" The mirth in his voice could not be held back, nor could the mischief in his eyes go away as you deflected. Maybe this shift was getting better thanks to this twisted ankle.
You were staring at the vending machine as if it had personally wronged you. Josie was waiting on an x-ray for her ankle to make sure nothing was broken, and you were waaaay up past your bedtime (semester being over be damned, you had to pack for the flight back to Missouri); hence why you now perused the energy drink/coffee selection in the Pitt. "If you glare at it long enough, you might just break the glass sweetheart." You nearly jumped, swiveling to see Jack Abbot walk up beside you. You could almost feel the warmth of his body radiating off of him, and a shiver ran up your spine unbidden. "Well, if the Pitt had better options, I wouldn't have to glare so hard." You said, yawning towards the end. His gaze softened as he looked at you, and you tried not to read too far into it. "That's fair. Past your bedtime if I remember right."
Your soft smile further uplifted Jack's night. "Yeah, can't say I was expecting to end up in the ER, but there are worst things I suppose." You yawned again toward the end of the sentence and he had to hold back the urge to herd you to a quiet space so you could rest. The two of you had gotten the chance to talk more over the year, paths crossing often at the SWVC, but he rarely saw you this…tired. Vulnerable. And he wanted to protect it, protect you, and make sure you were hale and healthy. "Sorry I can't stop yawning, as soon as Josie is cleared to go, I'm getting an uber to take us home." "Us?" "Yeaaah, she's my roommate. God love her, but she cannot hold her liquor. Tonight being a prime example." He chuckled as you sighed dramatically. "You're a good roommate and friend…Kansas." He laughed at your groan. "I'm from Missouri, she calls me Kansas because all she heard was Kansas City—and everyone forgets it's a city in two states." You grumbled.
You settled on some vanilla coldbrew monstrosity in a can before walking back to the room with Jack. You continued to chat idly, ignoring the whispers from the nurses and the looks from residents as you chatted with their attending. You were friendly acquaintances, maybe even friends, so why were they being so extra about the two of you being close. When the X-Ray came back, you found yourself a little disappointed to be leaving Jack's company. "Alrighty, your ankle is not broken, just sprained; I would encourage using sports tape to help with walking. Otherwise, follow the PRICE method; Protect, rest, ice, compression and elevation." You made a mental note of this, knowing Josie was probably still too tipsy to remember the instructions. "Awesome, thanks Dr. Crayola." Again you wished the floor would open up and swallow you. Jack, good natured and kind, just chuckled and said goodbye. He lingered by you before leaving, leaning over to whisper a quick "Goodnight, blue angel.” before disappearing from the room. The scent of his cologne invaded your nose and followed him like a trail out the room. You nearly stumbled after him, but pulled yourself together as quick as possible. When you looked at Josie, she looked as smug as a cat who caught a canary. "Alright, you; time to get back to the apartment… You menace."
Three
The third time your path crossed Dr. Jack Abbot's during the holidays was at a bar in an airport. Your flight was delayed in Chicago, meaning you would be getting back to Kansas City incredibly late for Christmas Eve… if you made it at all. If you were lucky, you might be able to make it to Midnight Mass with your folks as a surprise, but you weren't feeling too optimistic. Instead, you sat at the bar nursing a hard cider, gazing wistfully out the airport windows. It was going to start snowing soon, and your flight may very well get cancelled, making your eyes burn with unshed tears. It had been four years since you were last home for the holidays (post the Josie incident), and this year you weren't going to be either…at least that's what you'd told your folks. This was meant to be a surprise, a joyful surprise in kahoots with your older siblings for your parents, but it seemed the weather had other fucking plans.
"Goddamn it all." You muttered, sipping the cider. "That's certainly a strong sentiment there, blue angel." Your head whipped to the side and met the warm hazel eyes of Jack Abbot. "Oh my god, Jack!" You laughed, a grin on your lips as you turned on the stool, and hugged the doctor. Jack chuckled and immediately wrapped his arms around you, cheek pressed to the top of your head. You bit back the contented sigh as the scent of Jack's cologne, and tried to ignore the warmth sliding down your spine at the feel of his arms around you. Over the last six years since you first met, you'd grown into easy friends with the doctor. Numbers had been swapped, a couple of outings together outside of volunteering at the SWVC a year were had, and more and more you were growing to like the good doctor as more than a friend. "What are you doing here?" You asked, pulling away somewhat reluctantly.
Jack sat in the stool beside you, flagging the bartender down for a whiskey neat, before turning his attention back to you. "Flying out to visit an old friend. I've got about two hours of a layover before my connection." You nodded, taking a sip of your cider. "What about you, blue angel, what's got you looking so frustrated and cursing the universe?" Jack watched as you sighed, tipping back the cider before answering. "It's a bit of a garbage fire if I'm honest; decided to surprise my parents for Christmas by coming home, planned it to the letter with my older siblings, but now… well. If the delays don't prevent me from getting home, then the incoming snow might." You trailed off at the end, feeling the lump in your throat grow. "I…I just wanted to surprise them, y'know? Haven't been home for Christmas in a few years—and they were practically begging for me to come home this year…"
Jack didn't hesitate to stand and wrap his arms around you as the tears fell. He rubbed your back in soothing circles as you cried into his shoulder. He tightened his hold slightly when you tried to pull away. "Jack, you don't have to, god, I'm sorry you don't have to—" your voice was wobbly, you peered up at him, eyebrows furrowed as he continued to hold you. His expression was one of empathy and . "It's okay, sweetheart, I've got you. You can let it out. I won't let go." He knew what it felt like to crack and break with no one there to catch you, and after the last few years of volunteering together and getting to know each other, he felt a protectiveness over you. He wouldn't let you break alone. He'd catch you. You leaned into his embrace and let yourself break.
"Passengers for flight 457 to Kansas City, your plane will begin boarding in ten minutes. Passengers for flight 457 to Kansas City, your plane will begin boarding in ten minutes."
"Looks like you've got a Christmas miracle, blue angel." Pulling away with a watery laugh, you wiped your eyes and looked up at Jack. "Grazie, Captain Crayola." Jack chuckled, reaching a hand up to brush your hair back from your eyes. His hand lingered, before cupping your cheek. Your breath hitched, and you blinked up at him with wide eyes. Jack's eyes shone with tenderness as his thumb brushed across your cheekbone. "Anytime, blue angel. Absolutely anytime." If you could melt, you would have. Instead you mirrored his action, gently cupping his cheek and smiling up at him. "I don't know what I did for our paths to cross, but I'm thankful for it." Jack's lips turned up in a slight smile, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. "Ditto, chair force." "Don't push it, crayon muncher."
Jack walked you to the gate, an arm around your waist as you maneuvered through the crowd towards your boarding group. "Well, I guess I cried for nothing." You joked, cheeks still warm from the mortification of crying in public, especially in front of the man you had liked since meeting (and who, it seemed, to like you just as much). "Oh no, no, no sweetheart. You're emotions on the situation are valid, and crying is just a way to purge the excess emotion. It certainly was for something and there is no shame in that." Your lips pulled into a grin as you both stopped at the gate. "I can see why so many of the vets love to sit with you, y'know. You make people feel seen, heard, and validated." Now it was Jack's turn to feel his face warm as a dusting of pink covered the apples of his cheeks. "You're pushing it, Kansas." Your noise of disgust made him laugh, and soon you joined him in his chuckling. "You're incorrigible, Jack Abbot."
"Now welcoming group 5, now welcoming group 5 for flight 457 to Kansas City."
You smiled, a little sadly now, at Jack. "That's my cue. Thank you for everything, Jack. I-I really appreciate it." "Like I said, sweetheart, anytime." Jack, somewhat reluctantly, let go of you and watched as you turned to leave. What he wasn't expecting was for you to turn right back around, march up to him, gently cup his face in your hands, and kiss him. His eyes widened slightly, before a smirk pulled at his lips and his eyes fluttered shut, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you close as he returned the kiss. For a long beat all that existed was this moment, with you wrapped in his arms, his lips caressing yours, and the scent of your perfume in the air. Pulling away for breath, you looked up at him through your lashes, and smiled somewhat sheepishly. "Happy Holidays, Jack." Jack grinned and pressed another kiss to your lips. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."
Four
"Home for the holidays, I believe I've missed each and every face; Come on and play one easy, Let's turn on the love lights in the place…"
The music flowed easily from the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen island as you pulled out a pan of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. A soft flurry of snow was swirling outside the kitchen window as you iced the rolls, humming along to the dulcet sounds of Kenny Loggins. It was the perfect Christmas Eve morning, and what would make it even better would be the person walking in the door in approximately five minutes; maybe seven if he was driving slow. You put the kettle on to make some decaffenated tea, pulled out the cream and sugar, and began cleaning up the dirty dishes from your baking adventure.
Jack was tired. The kind of tired that sinks into your bones and lingers long after you've gotten an adequate eight hours (well, four to six in his case) of sleep. The only way he got through the grueling Christmas Eve-Eve night shift was the thought of what was waiting for him at home. He smiled fondly at the memory of kissing you for the first time in the Chicago airport before you boarded your flight to Kansas City. It'd been a couple of years since then, and that new year the two of you had decided to give the relationship "the old college try" (you'd said with a wink, a joke at the fact you were a professor at the University of Pittsburgh) which brought you both to this holiday season. Your second as a couple, your first together on the literal holiday, and the first where you would be staying at his home. Robby had ribbed him at hand-off over how quickly he had moved to get out of the Pitt ("Where's the fire, Jack? Or should I say, whose the fire?" before he had softened and clapped Jack on the shoulder affectionately. "I'm happy for you brother, enjoy your holiday together.") but frankly, Jack couldn't bring himself to care. Not when his blue angel was waiting at home.
"Well, I'm finally here but I'm bound to roam, Come on, celebrate me home. Well, I'm finally here but I'm bound to roam, Come on, celebrate me home."
The sound of the front door shutting made butterflies flutter in your stomach. He was officially off from the Pitt until New Year's Day, meaning the kickstart of your holiday with the man you'd quickly fallen in love with. "Sweetheart?" His voice sounded a little rough, like he may have been yelling during the night. "In the kitchen!" You shouted, opening a cupboard and grabbing the bottle of local honey you'd bought at the farmers market before autumn had ended. It'd be soothing for his throat, especially in a cup of tea. Jack's greying curls more wild than usual thanks to the spiraling snow outside, his cheeks a bit pinker from the cold, and his eyes slightly tired. But they lit up when he saw you, and you couldn't help the feeling of lightness that filled you at that. "Happy Christmas Eve, I made my ma's cinnamon rolls, hope you don't mind orange flavored icin—mmmphm!"
Jack swept you up into his arms, lifting you to sit on the counter, and slanted his mouth against yours. You tasted of cinnamon, sugar, and a dash of citrus. You wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing back before breaking out in a dreamy smile. Jack pulled away with one last peck, leaning his forehead against yours. "Happy Christmas Eve, sweetheart. Missed you." You giggled, a sound that made him feel safe, and pecked his cheek. "Missed you, too. Though I was finally able to redo my syllabus for rhetorical theory without, ahem, anymore distractions." Jack cocked an eyebrow at you, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "Oh really? And what had been distracting you, blue angel?" Your breath hitched as he leaned down and began pressing kisses to your neck, his stubble scratching deliciously against your skin, making goosebumps rise up on your skin. “You know damn well what has been distracting me, Captain Crayola.” You gasped as he sucked on the sensitive spot at the conjunction of your neck and jaw, pushing lightly at Jack’s shoulder with a whine. “Jack, the cinnamon rolls are gonna get cold.” Acquiescing albeit reluctantly, Jack helped you down from the counter, and chuckled as you bumped your hip with his to get him to scoot over. "Now what kind of tea are you feeling this morning? And yes, you need a cup before you get some rest, with honey; you've got that gruffness that comes with yelling most of the night in your tone."
Sitting at the breakfast bar together, you and Jack drank your tea and ate cinnamon rolls in comfortable silence, letting the Christmas music float around the two of you. "I would not have thought to mix cinnamon rolls with orange flavored icing, but these are a damn good pair, sweetheart." Jack smirked as a blush covered your cheeks, you always responded to praise so sweetly, it made his teeth ache sometimes. "Oh hush, you can thank my ma for the recipe. Though I'm pretty sure she just stole it from a Pilsbury can." You reached a hand up and used your thumb to swipe some excess icing off the corner of Jack's mouth before licking it off. Jack's eyes darkened as you smirked at his reaction. Squeaking in surprise, you quickly wrapped your arms and legs around Jack as he swiftly lifted you off the stool and began walking back to the bedroom. "Jack! Your tea!—" "I'm thirsty for something else, blue angel, are you gonna deny a thirst starved man on Christmas Eve?" You laughed and hid your face in his neck, enjoying the smell of his cologne. "I guess you can have one Christmas present early… Captain Crayola."
⎯⎯“Darling,” he drawled, stepping into the study, “would you happen to know why my coat has been invaded by a miniature version of myself?
warnings: fluff
The first time he found one, he nearly crushed it in his hand.
A tiny crocheted wolf, tucked inside the pocket of his coat, its little paws stitched together as if it were sitting patiently. Klaus frowned, plucking it out and holding it between two fingers as if it might bite him. The little thing had button eyes, a soft grey body, and a barely-there embroidered smirk, as though it were mocking him.
He scoffed.
“Oh, for the love of—”
He turned on his heel, storming through the house, knowing exactly who had done this.
“Darling,” he drawled, stepping into the study, “would you happen to know why my coat has been invaded by a miniature version of myself?”
She didn’t even look up from her work, the soft clicking of her crochet hook continuing at a leisurely pace. “Oh? You found one?”
“‘One?’” Klaus narrowed his eyes. “You mean there are more of these abominations?”
She smirked, tying off a loop before setting the project down, eyes glinting with amusement. “That depends. How many coat pockets do you have?”
His lips pressed into a thin line, fingers tightening around the tiny wolf. She was toying with him. Of course she was. He should have expected nothing less. With a sigh, he shook his head. “You have far too much time on your hands.”
“And yet, you haven’t thrown it away.”
He had no response for that. Instead, he shoved the wolf back into his pocket and left, grumbling under his breath as she let out a victorious hum.
༊*·˚
The second one appeared three days later.
This time, it was in his desk drawer, right next to his fountain pen. Klaus pulled it out with slow deliberation, staring down at the tiny dragon, its wings spread as if ready to take flight. It was small enough to fit in his palm, its scales intricately stitched in shades of deep green and gold.
He clenched his jaw.
She had done it again.
“You are aware,” he said, stepping into the parlor where she sat curled up on the sofa, “that I am not a man easily toyed with.”
She didn’t even blink. “And yet, here you are, holding a crocheted dragon like it personally insulted your entire bloodline.”
Klaus exhaled sharply, stepping closer, dangling the dragon in front of her face. “You think this is amusing?”
“I think it’s adorable.” She grinned, reaching out to poke the tiny snout. “Besides, you have a bit of a hoarding problem. Might as well give you something cute to collect.”
His brows shot up. “A hoarding problem?”
She tilted her head, mock thoughtful. “Hundreds of years’ worth of stolen art, rare artifacts, priceless heirlooms…should I continue?”
Klaus clicked his tongue, tossing the dragon into her lap. “You are insufferable.”
She merely laughed as he walked away.
He did not throw it away.
༊*·˚
It became a game after that.
She never placed them anywhere obvious. No, that would be far too easy. She hid them where she knew he’d find them when he least expected it. A tiny fox nestled between the books in his library. A bat perched atop his liquor cabinet, its wings outstretched. A little owl tucked inside one of his boots, nearly making him crush it underfoot.
But the worst—the absolute worst—was the one she left on his pillow.
Klaus stood in his bedroom doorway, staring at the ridiculous creation that now occupied his bed.
A paintbrush. A damned paintbrush.
With a face.
A face that looked remarkably like his own.
He rubbed a hand down his face, debating whether to incinerate it on the spot. Instead, he picked it up, holding it at arm’s length as if it might explode. The bristles were soft, the palette stitched beside it colored with thread, and the expression sewn onto its ridiculous little face looked…smug.
“Oh, you are testing my patience,” he muttered under his breath.
A snicker from the doorway made him lift his gaze. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with herself.
“Something wrong?” she asked innocently.
Klaus let out a slow breath, fingers twitching. “You are far too entertained by this.”
“You should be grateful. I could have made a hybrid.”
His eye twitched. “If I find a tiny, stitched version of myself anywhere in this house, I will retaliate.”
“Oh?” She raised a brow. “What are you gonna do? Knit me a threat?”
His lips parted, then closed again. He had no retort for that. With a grumble, he tossed the paintbrush back onto the bed and stalked past her, muttering under his breath about insufferable women and their yarn-based warfare.
It was a little past eight when one of the ER nurses ran in, eyes wide as she shouted, “We’ve got an incoming bus from Presbyterian!”
Robby looked up, as did Jack and Dana, all sharing a look, the quiet, brace for impact, as they converged to the entrance.
“I thought all the buses had diverted to their routes by now,” Robby said, looking at the nurse.
“They did,” she said, breathlessly. “This one is on its way to Presby.”
“Then why’s it stopping?” Dana asked, trying to catch a look at whoever was coming in, prepping herself for another gruesome wound.
The nurse swallowed. “Radioed ahead. Said they were dropping off some hospital corpsman who was providing first aid on scene at Pitt Fest.”
At that, all eyes turned to Doctor Jack Abbot.
His heart gave a strange, hollow thump.
“They give a status?” he asked, his voice tight.
“Said they were fine, just needed a ride.”
The doors swished open and you stepped inside, high on the adrenaline still singing in your veins, eyes sweeping the ER until they met a familiar hazel.
“Dad,” you breathed.
Your bag hit the flood, slipping from your fingers, and spilled open. Evidence of a battlefield poured out, bloodied gauze and strips of elastic.
Jack was already moving, wrapping you in his arms so tight that your ribs protested.
“Christ, kid,” he whispered, hand at the back of your head like he’d done when you were a child. “You didn’t call.” He held on like he could physically keep the world from taking you. He pressed his forehead to yours. “You didn’t call,” he repeated, grief in his voice.
“Sorry,” you said gently. “Lost my phone in the chaos. Didn’t have time to find it.” Your throat worked. “There were too many wounded to worry about.”
He shook his head, tucking your forehead back into his shoulder as he squeezed you. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“I know. ‘m sorry. I just…I just couldn’t leave them behind.”
Robby crested over Jack’s shoulder, and you smiled tiredly at him. “Hey, Uncle Robby.”
He smiled, a mirror of your own exhaustion, and rubbed your back. “Hey kid. Glad to see you’re okay.”
Jack’s hand cupped the back of your head again, caressing softly. You leaned into him, that sense of security wrapping around you like a blanket.
And that’s when the adrenaline began to burn off.
Your lids went heavy, head pushing heavier into his shoulder as your body sagged against him, knees beginning to give.
“Kid?” Jack pulled away to look at your face. Your head tilted sideways, eyes unfocused and he wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you upright, the other settling at the back of your neck.
“Kid, look at me,” Jack urged and you tried, God you tried, but the world kept smearing at the edges. His voice sounded so far away. The fuzziness in your limbs began to leaden.
His thumb slid down, pressing into your jugular, and he inhaled sharply as your pulse stuttered and slipped.
Jack’s eyes went wide. “I need a crash cart!”
Your legs gave out beneath you, and he went with you, one arm under your knees, the other at your back as he carried you into a trauma bay, Robby and Dana on his heels as nurses swarmed.
Clothes fell away to the shears and Jack blanched, his stomach dropping out as he saw the blood seeping from the bullet wound in your left side, the dark, wet patch spreading beneath the makeshift dressing.
“Oh fuck,” he whispered, hands flying to your side.
Hot, slick crimson coated his palms, a steady horrifying thrum escaping between his fingers.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jack hissed, barely registering the flurry of hands as they slapped monitor leads and a BP cuff on you.
Dana’s eyes lifted to the monitor.
“Heart rate’s one-eighty! BP is sixty-four over thirty-one!”
“It’s shock!” a nurse called. “Breathing’s agonal!”
“Give me gram of TXA,” Robby snapped, voice cutting through the rising panic. “Find any O-neg we still have and get a transfusion going now.”
“Heart rate is crashing!” Dana shouted. “Dropped to sixty! Bradying!” her fingers dug into your neck. “Carotid is thready!”
Jack’s gaze never left his hands. He couldn’t look at your face. He didn’t dare to. If he saw your eyes, he wasn’t sure he could keep his head.
Your heart rate dipped lower as meds were pushed and blood was hung. The hiss of fluids, the beep of machines blurred around the wet warmth under his fingers.
Dana’s brows knit together, her fingers digging in harder. “I’ve lost pulse!”
The lines on the monitor went still, a siren in everyone’s head who remembered a kid with scraped knees and a too big ballcap running around the ER pretending to be a doctor.
“Asystole!”
“Starting compressions!” Jack barked, his elbows locked as he put them on your sternum and pumped.
“Epi’s in,” Robby said, watching the monitor and Jack.
Jack stared at his own hands as they hammered down on your chest, his shoulders moving with each brutal thrust.
“You are not doing this,” he snarled at you. “I did not get a full head of gray at twenty-five just to lose you twenty-four years later, do you understand me?”
His throat burned and he swallowed hard against it and kept going.
“I did not spend eighteen months learning patience by listening to you scream in my ear all night only to lose you this quietly.”
A crack vibrated beneath his palms. He didn’t stop.
“Made me drive all the way to Las Vegas to see the Eagles live for your twenty-first,” he growled. “Puked on my new shoes from too many vodka crans and I didn’t kill you then—”
“Rhythm check,” Robby called.
Jack froze, panting, eyes locked on the monitor.
“Asystole, resume compressions. Another CC of epi. Six minutes and counting.”
Jack continued, ignoring the burn in his arms as he set his jaw.
“Argued with me about joining the military,” he said, his voice fraying. “Told me you were going to do whatever you wanted and I could stick it up my ass. God, I’d never wanted to tan your hide so bad in my entire life.”
Tears dripped down his nose, landing on your chest.
“But then I stood there at graduation in fucking Chicago of all places, and you looked so proud of yourself. And I was too. God I’m so fucking proud of you.” he shifted his head, wiping his nose on his sleeve mid-compression. “I tell everyone about you. I never fucking shut up about you.”
“Hold compressions.”
He stopped, the room holding its breath with him.
Flat. No QRS. No flicker.
“Asystole,” the nurse whispered.
Robby’s jaw worked. “Resume compressions. Give bicarb, one amp. Check potassium. Keep the blood going.”
Jack’s arms screamed. He didn’t care.
“I promised her I’d keep you alive,” he rasped. “I promised her we’d be two old assholes sitting in a goddamn VA hospital arguing about shitty coffee and terrible admin.” He couldn’t fight the tears anymore as his voice broke. “You do not get to leave me like this. Not because you were too goddamn stubborn to get into a fucking ambulance.”
“Going on fifteen,” Dana managed shakily.
They went another cycle. Another epi. Another blood unit. Another minute of Jack’s life into your chest.
“Rhythm check.”
Nothing.
Robby felt something heavy and cold settle behind his ribs.
“Jack,” he said quietly. “Jack, it’s time.”
Jack clenched his jaw; he shook his head.
“No.”
“Jack,” Dana whispered.
Tears flooded his vision. “No,” he choked out. “I promised her. I promised.” He finally looked at you, at the stillness in your expression. The room tilted around him. “You don’t get to make a liar out of me.”
Robby laid a hand over his. “Jack, it’s time.” He looked at his watch, his throat tightening. “Time of death, twenty-fifteen.”
Jack stared at the monitor like he could intimidate it into changing, then he sagged against the bed, one forearm rested behind your head, the other hand curled against your cheek, brushing the skin softly.
Then a sound tore out of him.
A sound no one had ever heard Doctor Jack Abbot make, even when he’d buried his wife.
It wasn’t a cry, not at first. It was something older and uglier, dragged up from somewhere deep in his ribs, a raw, animalistic noise that had the nurses flinching and turning away as if they’d seen something they weren’t supposed to see.
Grief so profound, it felt holy.
He caged your head and neck in his arms, laying his forehead to yours as the grief tore out of him; his face crumpled beneath a future he prayed he’d never live.
Jack stared at your face, the face that came into the world pinched and howling on a NICU vent, the face that had rested in his chest even till this day.
His fingers brushed your cheek, trembling and weak.
“I’m here,” he whispered to you. “I’m here, kid.” His lips wobbled. “’m right here. ‘m not leaving.”
Robby closed his eyes against the flood of warmth; Dana raised a hand to her mouth, tears dripping down her cheeks.
He’d been there in the NICU when you were born. Made Jack swear that he’d never tell a soul that he’d cried like a baby when Jack asked him to be your godfather. He’d taught you to ride a bike, made it to every after-school program you’d guilted him into. He’d driven with Jack to see you graduate from boot camp.
He was not supposed to watch you die.
“Jack,” he murmured. “They’re gone.”
Jack shook his head, face crumpling. “No,” he moaned. “No.”
“Jack, there’s nothing more we can do,” Robby said, laying a hand on his shoulder.
The touch broke something.
Jack’s entire world collapsed in the span of a millisecond.
The sob that came out of him then was excruciating. Loud, sharp, and broken, ripping through the room and ricocheting around the glass. He curled over you, his shoulders convulsing as he buried his face against the side of your neck like it could make it all go away if he stayed there.
Dana turned her face into Robby’s bicep and sobbed. He pressed his free hand to his mouth, blinking hard, fighting to keep it together for Jack when everything in him wanted to fall apart too. He’d lost too many tonight. This was the one that had finally, finally, broken him down to nothing.
The nurses stared at their feet, tears dropping onto the floor between their shoes, their hands anchoring as they tried to keep each other from falling apart in front of the person who’d probably saved more lives than anyone else did tonight.
The room sat silent besides Jack’s sobs, the monitor a stillness.
It felt like a trick of the room.
A glitch.
A blip even.
It was so soft, it barely registered.
Dana’s head snapped up from Robby’s shoulder.
“Did you—”
“Probably artifact,” one of the nurses whispered, voice thick with sadness. “Movement.”
But the room had gone very still.
On the screen, the perfect flat line twitched. Just once. Just enough.
Then again, a little more definite. And again.
It gave another. Slow, far apart, like a heartbeat dragged up from the bottom of the ocean.
Robby blinked hard, lowering his hand and focused on the monitor.
HR – Twenty-one.
His own heart stuttered.
“Hang on,” he breathed, stepping closer. “Hang on.”
Another blip. Another drag through the sea.
HR – Twenty-six.
“That’s…that’s organized,” Dana breathed. “That’s a rhythm.”
“Check for a pulse,” Robby said, voice sharp. “Now. Carotid. Femoral.”
Dana moved, fingers pressing into your neck, then your groin.
Her eyes went wide.
“I’ve got something,” she blurted. “It’s faint, but it’s there. It’s there.”
“Jack,” Robby said, his hand laying on Jack’s shoulder again. “Jack, look at me.”
Jack didn’t move, still folded over you, breath ragged and wet.
Jack froze and looked up, his face wrecked. Eyes blazing red, cheeks wet, his jaw slack.
Another complex sauntered across the screen, stubborn and ugly and beautiful.
HR – Thirty-two.
BP, weak and hesitant at sixty-four over thirty-eight.
Jack’s lips parted, a broken sound escaping him.
“Come on,” Robby said, the plea bleeding through now. “Come on, kid. You made it this far. Don’t half-ass it now.”
“Get the norepi going,” he barked. “Low dose, titrate up. Keep the blood running. Dana, keep ventilating.”
“On it,” she nodded, a wet laugh cracking in the middle.
Jack’s hand found yours where it laid limp on the sheet; he threaded your fingers with his, squeezing like he could anchor you back to life by sheer force.
“You come back,” he whispered in your ear. His voice trembled, but it was steady enough to carry. “You’re not done yet. You are not done yet.”
He swallowed the pain in his throat, looked at Robby, and said, “We need an OR booked.”
“Already on it,” he replied.
***
You’d somehow managed to mostly cover your ass as you slipped outside PTMC.
Very carefully.
Still very drugged.
Still very much alive.
And pulling the shitty, metal IV pole with you.
Your side ached with a fierceness, your chest burned with each breath, but you blinked hard until the group came into view on the benches beside the fountain.
They were laughing, relaxing and trying to remember how to be human after hell had visited and left a few new nightmares.
Mateo saw you first.
His beer slipped from his fingers and hit the concrete, foam sloshing his shoes.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “Holy shit. You should not be up.”
Heads turned, the conversation died and Jack fumbled to put his prosthetic back on.
You waved Javadi off, stubborn as a mule, as she moved on instinct to steady you, shuffling until you could ease yourself down between your dad and Robby. Your face screwed up with the flare of pain in your chest but you made it.
Jack stared at you like you’d grown a second head.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded, his voice too sharp to hide the fear underneath it. “What is wrong with you? You need to be—”
“Will you shut up,” you wheezed, swiping the beer from him. “Jesus, you die one time and suddenly everyone thinks you’re fragile.”
You managed half a sip before Robby plucked it neatly from your fingers, ignoring your noise of protest.
“Yep, nope, not that,” he said. “Not mixing that while on narcotics.”
“I’m fine,” you griped. “I earned that beer.”
“You are not fine,” Javadi blurted, her eyes wide. “You literally died. You died. You should not be up.”
“Well, I am,” you replied pointedly, wiggling the IV pole still connected to your arm. “And I want to go home.”
“Absolutely not,” Robby and Jack snapped in unison.
Jack finally got his prosthetic settled and levered himself to his feet. “Up. Now. You’re going back inside.”
You sighed heavily and laid back on the bench. “Dad. Just…sit down.”
“No, you are going back—”
You took his hand and guided it to your sternum.
The world seemed to stop for him in that moment.
“I’m here,” you said quietly. “I need you to be here. So sit your old ass down and be here with me for a minute before I go back inside.”
Jack’s jaw worked, his eyes misting, but he sat down again, then immediately wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against his side.
He turned his head until his lips were next to your ear and he whispered harshly, “Don’t you ever, ever, die in my goddamn ER again.”
You let out a snort that dissolved into a groan as your sternum protested the art of laughing. “I’ll go to Presby next time.”
“Hell no,” Robby said. “There will be no next time.”
“Yeah,” Mateo added. “Maybe next time get on the damn ambulance first?”
You hummed. “Too many wounded. I had time they didn’t.” you inhaled as deep as you could manage. “I gave them time I didn’t.” Your eyes stung. “I gave them hope I didn’t. I wasn’t going to waste it.”
“You almost wasted yourself,” Donnie said softly.
Everyone fell silent at that. Jack’s fingers clenched in your gown at your shoulders.
You nodded, looking up at the sky. The stars were faint tonight. A calm compared to the tragedy and horror that had occurred earlier.
“I did,” you nodded. “I’d do it again.”
You swallowed, your throat thick.
“Our days are counted on this planet.” You looked down at everyone, then to Jack and you smiled. “I didn’t take a single breath you gave me for granted. Even at the end.”
Jack’s eyes filled with tears and he reached up, cupping your head, pressing his temple to your forehead. “I love you, kid. You know that, don’t you?” he whispered.
“I do, dad,” you choked.
He nodded once, hard, like he was sealing it, then he stood, helping you up. “Come on. We’re getting you back inside.”
You groaned but you let him, leaning heavily into his side. You paused for a moment, to look at everyone who had gathered. The faces that had saved your life. “Thank you,” you said quietly. “For saving my life.”
Robby caught your hand and squeezed, thumb brushing into your pulse, just to check that it was still there and still strong. “Hell of a comeback, kid. Don’t try to one up it, okay?”
“No promises.”
“Absolute promises,” Jack muttered. “You’re dying old and decrepit in a VA hospital twenty years after I do.”
“‘kay, old man,” you joked, bumping your head against his shoulder as you both walked back towards the hospital.
Jack adjusted his stride to match yours, taking as much of your weight as you’d let him.
It’s Biscuit’s world, mate. Simon’s just living in it.
Biscuit is her dad’s shadow. Follows him around whenever she can. Simon’s on the toilet? Biscuit is lying in his boxers. Simon’s at the sink shaving and doing everything else in preparation for the day, Biscuit’s at his feet watching. Simon turns to her, asks, “Well, pup?” Her tail wags in approval. He thinks. Her tail is always wagging.
She loves to sleep on his head, on his face, or anywhere in the vicinity of her papa. Simon puts her on the bed, makes himself comfortable for the night, and now his routine is no longer complete without Biscuit plopping down on his pillow and making herself comfortable. Guess she likes his snoring because every time he wakes up, there she is, a tiny furry ball right next to his face. Or resting her head on his face. Yeah, something like that.
Why have an alarm clock when you can have Biscuit? The pup makes sure to wake Simon up for her morning walk. Or for cuddles and scritches. But really for her morning walk. After cuddles and scritches. Sure thing, pup.
It’s an off day? Simon’s chilling in his flat. He’ll knit, let the telly be background noise, or whatever the fuck. He just needs to rest. He sets Biscuit on the couch, goes to grab his cuppa, and he hears whining. And barking. Oh, bloody hell, not again—“Daddy’s coming, Biscuit.” Nope, not fast enough, dad. Biscuit is telling Simon off because he’s supposed to be here. On the couch. With her.
And when he does sit down? What does she do? Jump in his lap. She also likes to lay inside the shirt he’s wearing. Yep, there’s his little furbaby wrapped up in a ball on his stomach. He can’t move for shit, though.
He’ll deny it, but Simon spoils her. Unfortunately (not really) for her papa, Biscuit has become a bit of a celebrity with his neighbors. Which means that she’s spoiled even further. The one elderly lady two doors down? Margaret (she’s a bloody sweetheart)? She always has a treat or two for Biscuit. And for Simon. Good scones, that. The family that lives across the hall? The kids live for Biscuit. The couple’s young daughter has made it her mission to adopt his girl into their family. Heh. Kid’s got guts and Simon thinks it’s cute.
There’s also the Scottish terrier a couple doors down that’s made a friend out of Biscuit. Name’s Barney… or is it Fergus? Fuck, he forgot. Anyway, that’s Biscuit’s little boyfriend. The two have play dates all the bloody time. Has dog sat a couple times for his owner, too. M’hm. Simon’s gonna need to have The Talk with his pup.
And let’s not forget how much the rest of 141 adores her. Soap carries her like a baby in his arms which she loves. Thanks to Kyle, she has an endless supply of toys and gourmet dog treats (where the hell did he get those?) and the less said about how she has Price wrapped around her tiny paws the better. Matching hats, Cap’n? Bloody hell, how can he parent in peace when everyone spoils Biscuit? Him included?
Simon never heard his father say sorry, or please, or thank-you, or I love you.
In their house, when his mama would put down hot, heavy casseroles, her skin damp with sweat, eyes darting for some sweet words, his father never said one word of thanks, let alone 'some'. Only waved his thick, impatient hand.
His father never took the plates to the sink. Never noticed when she stayed up at night to sort the screws by size and purpose—organizing the chaos he left behind just to find one damn hammer.
His father never said ‘please can you—’ only grunted with that bitter mouth, glared with those unkind eyes when he needed something.
Simon never heard him say I love you. And he couldn’t believe his eyes the day his father plucked out his baby brother from his mama's arm, and didn’t spare one glance for his Ma. She didn't deserved that, did she? Her weak frail body, cracked murmuring lips — she should be celebrated with adoration, comfort, love.
Love, and an infinite of it.
His father never sat beside her just to drink tea. Never told her about his day. Never asked about hers — what she did, or liked, or wanted. Never reached out his thumb, however calloused it was, to wipe away the sprout on her chin. That he was grateful she's next to him, that he loved her.
So when life happened, and Simon was left to pick up his pieces and place them in a way he wanted to be—he thought whomever he will be, anything, but his father.
Anything but him.
And then life happened again but this time it arranged itself in beautiful ways. Because you came with it this time. You and all your silly lovely ways, you who kissed your knee before resting your chin, you who cheered up catching up with fridge' light switching off, you so beautiful, so kind, made up of sundust. His sunshine — lighting up his world.
And God, he was so, so grateful. Every moment, every day !
“I love you,” he’d say the moment he wakes up next to you. Pressing his love on your lips, on your shoulder, on your neck.
“I love you,” when you spill milk in the morning daze and stare at it like it might disappear.
“I love you,” when he wipes your chin and kisses your forehead.
“I love you,” when he takes your hand in his and rubs it between his palm, why ? Because he'll spend his whole life keeping your hands warm than anything else.
“I love you.” because he loves, loves, and loves you so much that it hurts, so much that it heals, so much that it's everything sweet ever happened to him.
“I love you.” for all the ways his father failed, and Simon too, as a son, as a brother — failed to save his mama and lil' brother. I love you, because in loving you he is allowing himself to be loved.
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