Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
SUMMARY: Determined to make sure your birthday isn't a complete write-off, Jack comes over with dinner and wine. You tell yourself he's just a friend being nice, just Jack being Jack. Until you end up in his lap...naked.
WARNINGS: brief mentions of the stalker situation from the first part, alcohol consumption, lots of flirting and tension, more internalised angst, swearing, kissing, dirty talk, p in v, nipple play, praise kink, and Jack losing his fucking mind
A/N: I promised smut so I have delivered, this is my first ever smutty Jack piece but I had so much fun writing it! It was also my 26th birthday yesterday so this is entirely self-indulgent (and also why its a day late) lmao. Not yet proof read but I hope you enjoy <3
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Reader
WORD COUNT: 5.5k
PART ONE
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
When Jack said later, he meant it.
A little after six-thirty, he’s outside your apartment door; two bottles of white wine in one hand and a takeout bag of Italian food in another. Your head tilts as you smile at him with a pout, doing everything you can to ignore the thumping of your heart against your ribcage.
His scrubs are long gone now, replaced with a pair of dark wash jeans, boots, a pale grey t-shirt and an overshirt unbuttoned. Casual, intimate. It’s not like you've never seen him out of his scrubs before because you have. But this is different. He’s in your apartment, your space.
Your gaze locks on the bottles of wine again, you try to fight the way your mind wanders at the sight. At his fingers wrapping around the necks, at how effortless he somehow carries them both in just one hand.
You clear your throat, purse your lips, will your stupid psyche to remember this is anything but a date. Just dinner between friends. Nothing more.
You step out of the way to grant Jack access into your apartment and he softly closes the door behind him. “Got your favorite from Niko’s Italian,” he says in a way of greeting, following you toward the kitchen and taking a moment to drink in your space.
The apartment is mostly open-planned, the small hallway leading to the open kitchen-lounge and an open door leading to the bathroom just to the left of the refrigerator. It’s dimly lit, no big lights on. Just golden hues from lamps, books scattered on and around the several bookcases you have.
It’s cosy, with mismatched, incoherent furniture that someone works well enough that he doesn’t question that one couch is fabric while the other is leather. The entire space is overwhelmingly you.
The kitchen is modern enough, white marble counters and dark brown or green appliances. There’s plants in almost every corner, some fake and some real. Your home is lived in, clean, warm. It startles Jack at how comfortable he already feels, how intimate the lighting makes you look in what he supposes are your pyjamas.
An oversized university shirt, a pair of cotton shorts peeking out beneath the hem. It took all his strength not to let his eyes dart down to your legs when you opened the door. He’s not doing well now that he’s inside and placing the takeout bag and bottles of wine in the counter.
Jack forces his eyes away from your figure as you stretched on painted toes to reach two wine glasses and deep bowls from one of the cabinets. “It’s homey here.”
You turn at the sound of his voice, a sheepish smile on your cheeks. You’re thankful it’s the evening and that only small rays of sunset peek through the gaps of your windows, that they don’t illuminate the blush that’s likely sitting heavy on your cheeks.
“I forget you’ve never been here before.” You lie as casually as you can.
You most certainly have not ever forgotten that.
He offers you a crooked smile, taking the wine glasses from you by the stems. Quietness falls between you as you dish up the pasta and Jack pours the drinks. There’s a heaviness to it, one that neither of you have ever experienced with the other before.
You purse your lips, grabbing two sets of cutlery. “Paige stopped by earlier,” you say, handing him his.
Jack raises a brow as you sit opposite him at the island, the faint hum of the television echoing in the background from whatever show you were watching before he arrived. “Not with another bouquet of roses, I hope.”
You huff a laugh at that. “No, she just stopped by to apologize again. And that her girlfriend will make sure to send things under Paige’s name next time.”
He hums, taking the first bite of pasta when he notices the balloons and gift bags form work on your coffee table behind you, unopened.
“You haven’t opened your gifts yet?”
You follow his line of sight and look back at him. Your heart rate picks up. It’s too domestic, romantic, if you weren’t being delusional with yourself (which you usually were). You take a long gulp of your wine and bite into your pasta again.
“Not yet. I showered and slept when you dropped me back. Then I was rotting on the couch until you showed up.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience.” Jack teases.
You try to purse your lips to hide your smile but it’s no use. You thought you’d be used to this by now; the teasing and prolonged eye contact, the secret smirks that creep on the corners of his mouth, the wiggles of eyebrows and inside jokes. But you’re not. Not even close. Every time you look at him it’s like seeing him for the first time again.
You’re not sure when the silly work crush began to transpire into something deeper but it has. It’s wedged its way beneath your skin, solidified itself within the neurons in your brain. Imprinted his face on the back of your eyelids, stained your tongue with his name.
After hours of eating and drinking, you’re onto the third bottle of wine and cosying up on the couch. Jack sits on one end, shoes kicked off now and cradling his glass.
He’s managed to convince you to finally open your gifts and you sit at the other end of him, gift bags between you as he watches intently.
Tickets to your favorite band from Mel.
A fifty dollar gift card to your favorite coffee shop from Frank.
A hand-crocheted Highland cow from Whittaker and Santos with wonky eyes, and a bunch of hand written ‘coupons’ that you could cash in. They consisted of things like a free shift swap, a late night coffee order, lunch for a shift, a free drink on your next night out…
Dana got you a gift card to your favorite clothing store.
Javadi and Mohan unironically got you the exact same sweater.
Robby tucked a hundred into a card and a promise to take you for lunch the next time your days off coincide.
And when you pull out a bright pink dildo from Princess, Parker and Perlah, your face turns a deep shade of red while Jack’s eyes widen and lips form into a soft shape of an O.
“Well, that’s one way to ensure a good time.” The joke is slightly breathless, a little wanton as an embarrassed laugh bubbles up your throat and you shove the toy back into the bag.
You groan as you push it aside and fight the desire to cover your flushed face with your hands. You’re not exactly the frigid type. You’re open about sex and toys and all things wet dreams with your girlfriends. You’re not a prude. But you’re not exactly eager to discuss those things so casually with Jack fucking Abbot.
“I could fucking kill them,” you joke, unable to meet his gaze as you reach for the last gift bag.
It’s just as big as the others, though slightly heavier. When you peer inside, you immediately understand why. You pull out the bulky folder, filled to the brim with paper. You frown as you look at the cover, your initials embossed in the fine leather.
No note, no card. But when you open the folder, you recognise the handwriting immediately. Pages and pages of handwritten notes and nuances, facts and case studies. You blink as you flick through the pages carefully, eyes welling with silver.
“Everthing you’d need for the board exams are in there.” Your eyes flick up to meet Jack’s intimate gaze. “I’m serious about you becoming an Attending, Y/N. You are a…phenomenal Doctor, I have watched you pour yourself tirelessly into that hospital for the past eight years. And I want you by my side as an Attending on nights. Not as an R4, as an equal.”
His words wrap themselves tightly around your heart, the thought of him wanting you as an equal, of him using his own time to encourage it. You look back at the folder, fingers ghosting over the pages of his notes, blinking back tears before looking back at him again.
“You handwrote all of this?” Your voice comes out small.
He shrugs a shoulder, like he’s brushing off how meaningful the gift is. “My therapist said I needed another hobby that wasn’t SWAT.”
A laugh bubbles out of you, watery and grateful. You don’t allow yourself to fester on how long this must’ve taken him, or how many hours he sat hunched over a desk to write this for you. With a sniffle, you gently push the folder to the side and lean forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
He stills for a moment, barely noticeable before his arms are wrapping around your middle, palms on your ribs as he gives them an affectionate squeeze. You bask in the touch of him, his scent and warmth and have to force yourself to pull away from him.
Jack’s smile is fond when you wipe away your tears with a laugh, looking back at the notes with something swelling deep within your chest. “Thank you.” It’s all you can think to say. If you let your mouth open for anything else you worry you’ll end up confessing every thought that’s occupied your mind for the past eight years.
He dips his head in acknowledgement of your gratitude, a warmth in his gaze that burns slightly hotter than it ever has before.
You sniffle again, untangling your legs from beneath you to stand. You’re a little overwhelmed by it, hands on your hips as you awkwardly try to assess where to go from here. Jack seems to notice as much and gestures a hand haphazardly to the pile on the couch.
“At least your birthday isn’t a total write-off.”
You laugh at that, nodding. And when you reach to grab the gift bags to put them back in the kitchen, Jack moves to help you. The sunset that was once leaking through your windows has now shifted to silver streaks of moonlight. A testament to the hours you’d spent in one another's company, time slipping faster than either of you noticed.
He places the bags back on the counter as you begin to pour another two glasses of wine. Your vision is still a little distorted through tears, a splash of wine on the floor and a tipsy giggle following from your lips.
You move to grab a cloth when you slip but Jack catches you, arms around your waist and your hands pressing against his firm chest. Your bodies tense, reality catching up to you, breathless and entirely too close for friends to be.
“You okay?” he whispers.
The sound of it goes straight between your legs, lashes fluttering as you nod—a movement so brief but Jack catches it anyway. “Yeah, good catch.” You dare to meet his gaze and he’s already looking at you.
But his eyes…they’re darker now, glazed over with something you recognize as lust. The alcohol drains from your system at the sight, thighs clenching together as your breasts ache. His jaw clenches, mouth twitching like he’s fighting himself from saying something he shouldn’t. From doing something he shouldn’t.
It makes you swallow thickly, averting his gaze. When you try to move your hands from his chest and step back out of his space, Jack’s arm around your waist tightens, his hand coming to caress your wrist, to keep you against him.
Blinking up at him with parted lips, he exhales heavily through his nose. You can hear your blood pumping in your ears, can feel your nipples pebbling beneath your shirt and he can feel them. He's pulled you closer than you were before, your hands trapped between your chests.
There’s a charge of electricity that floats within the small space between you, the tip of his nose ghosting the slope of yours as he bends his head down.
“Jack—” you whisper.
“I know.” His voice is low, nothing you’ve ever heard before.
It’s wrong. It’s so fucking wrong for you to be pressed against him like this, for him to be keeping you there. Yet neither of you move, not even an inch. Jack’s head dips lower as yours lifts—slowly, subtle, a whisper of movement.
But his mouth is an inch away from yours, his breath on your lips, his nose caressing yours. You can feel his heart beating sporadically, the uneasy rise and fall of his chest.
You feel the tenseness of his body, how his muscles strain against the urge to kiss you. It makes your head dizzy, pulls you under the false sense of security that your late night fantasies might be reciprocated.
But then his head ticks slightly to the side and his eyes squeeze shut. You feel him pull away mentally before he physically removes his hands. A coldness replaces his warm touch, sinks into your skin and wraps tightly around your bones.
When he steps away, your heart sinks to your stomach. You were so close, right on the precipice of him. You felt his need, his hunger and instead he pulled away to right himself. To deny you both of whatever the fuck is between you.
Has it always been there? Have you been blind to it? Jack flirts with everyone but he’s never outright made you think he meant any of it. Does he? Or is this refusal a sudden clarity of his judgement. That he was about to make a terrible mistake.
He swallows, refuses to meet your gaze. “I should go.”
His voice is so quiet that you almost miss it. But he doesn’t stay. Jack steps around you, the smell of regret following as he passes and reaches the couch for his shoes.
Your gaze is stuck on the floor as you desperately try to understand what’s just happened. You’re not a fool. You know lust when you see it. Hunger and need and a forbidden desire for something you believe you can’t have. You know it well because you live in it.
He wants you. You don’t allow that nagging voice in your head to tell you otherwise. Jack wants you.
Your head slowly turns to gaze over your shoulder where Jack sits on the edge of the couch, untying his shoes to slip them back onto his feet. His gaze is too focused on the task at hand that he doesn’t notice you follow him. Not until your pink-polished toes meet his line of sight on the rug.
His motions stop, and while his head remains lowered—granting you nothing but a view of his salt and pepper curls—he lets his eyes trail over the length of your smooth legs, halting at the hem of your shirt for a moment before trailing all the way up to your face.
You step forward, movements slightly unsure, just close enough to stop before his parted knees. Jack’s head lifts slightly, enough that he can meet your gaze properly.
“Don’t go.”
He rasps your name like a prayer and a warning. A mixture of something so demanding and yet reserved at the same time. You move closer, between his thighs and Jack drops his shoes to the ground, hands instinctively moving to your legs, cupping the backs of your thighs.
A shaky exhale tumbles from your lips at the contact of his skin on yours. Rough palms skim up and down your warm flesh; tentative, cautious. “Stay,” you whisper. “Please.” It comes out as a plea.
His chest heaves at the sound of you, how needy and pliant your body and tone are for him. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong but Jack can’t bring himself to stop. Not again.
The palms on the back of your legs press deeper into your skin and when you raise one bent knee, he shuffles back on the couch. Jack’s eyes keep yours captivated as he guides you into his lap; knees at either side of his hips as you rest on his thighs, your own palms sitting on broad shoulders.
Jack lets his hands wander to the front of your thighs this time, blunt nails tracing the smooth skin. They roam higher, take a moment to sit at your hips before feeling their way up your waist, higher until his thumbs brush across the bottom of your breasts above your shirt.
You squirm at the contact, a breathless whimper of his name forming on your mouth when he moves higher and lets his thumbs flick briefly against your pebbled nipples.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is wrecked and you squirm again, your crotch brushing his.
He keeps his eyes on yours, like he’s waiting for the moment you change your mind. For you to realize he’s too old for you, too much. But you’re too locked into him to think anything like that. Not now. Not ever, you don’t think.
“Everything,” you breathe.
His hold on your stills momentarily before he moves. It’s slow, almost predatorial in how he sits up just enough for his nose to brush yours. It’s like you’re back in the kitchen, breaths mingling and lips ghosting.
When his lips finally meet yours, your eyes flutter closed. It’s gentle, cautious, in how he kisses you. Just a peck, and then another. Until your fingers are intertwining with the curls at the nape of his neck. Until his hands move to caress your back and tuck you into his chest.
Your lips part when his do, tongues swiping and licking. He’s intoxicating. Tastes like wine and everything you’ve wanted for the past eight years. Small, echoed groans fall from his mouth and you swallow them whole. The kiss turns hungry, desperate, like any restraint that Jack once had is long gone.
He devours like you a man starved, those magical hands now cupping the sides of your head, keeping you in place so you can’t move even if you try. You won’t. You don’t ever want to be out of his hold. Don’t ever want to go back to not knowing what his tongue feels like swirling against your own.
Your hips begin to gyrate, rolling against his crotch; the noticeable bump in his jeans causing friction through your shorts. It makes you hungrier, needier. You tug on his greying hair, rubbing yourself against him desperately.
Jack begins to pant, starts to suckle your bottom lip into his mouth, lets his lips travel down your neck, nips and bites at the junction just below your jaw like he just can’t fucking get enough of you. His stumble scratches deliciously at your skin, sets your blood ablaze.
Your head rolls back, ecstasy beginning to creep its way into your senses. You’ve never felt anything so electric in your life, never experienced a heady make-out session to be so sensual and erratic. It’s a carnal desire that burns between you and after tonight there will be no denying it.
Your fingers fall from his hair, trail down the hard expanse of his chest before falling on the waistband of his jeans. Rolling your head back down, you watch with lust blown eyes as he sits back again, his own hands trailing back down your body to toy with the hem of your sleep shirt.
“Tell me what you want,” he says again.
You roll your hips in answer and let your fingers begin to unbuckle his leather belt. “I want to ride you.” The admittance comes out as a breathless moan and you watch the way his expression hardens.
Jack’s hands grab your wrists to stop you. You let him guide them to your shirt, let him curl your fingers around the hem of it. “Take it off for me,” he rasps, fingers dipping beneath to tug at the waistband of your shorts. “All of it. Take it all off.”
You don’t hesitate. You think you’ll do anything he asks of you.
It’s barely considered graceful how you clamber off his lap to stand between his thighs again. You don’t allow yourself a moment to reconsider, to think twice about the repercussions of what you’re both about to do. Because the second he reaches for his belt and begins to unclasp it, you’re shimmying out of your shorts.
They drop to your feet at the same time he shoves his jeans and boxers down, just above his knees. Your mouth salivates at the sight of him—of his hand wrapping around his cock. Thick, long, and achingly hard. You stare as he pumps himself, his eyes never once breaking their contact from yours.
Not until you reach for the hem of your shirt and pull the clothing over your head, baring yourself to him entirely.
Jack doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. His eyes rove over you like something animalistic is taking over him. Like he doesn't know which part of you he wants to worship first. Your breasts, your hips, your pussy…
His knuckles almost whiten around his cock, the sound of a mixed groan and whimper rumbling from the back of his throat. You consider sinking to your knees and taking him down the back of your throat until you’re sobbing and he’s coming on your tongue. But the look on his face suggests he won’t be able to last long enough to experience that as well as fucking you senseless.
With your eyes still on his, you step out of your shorts and climb back into his lap. Jack’s hand abandons his cock in favor of your face once more and he brings your lips to his. He licks into your mouth with years of experience and the hunger of a man who has denied himself of his deepest craving for far too long.
His cock nudges against your clit, a whimper flowing out of your mouth and into his. Your fingers resume their place in his curls, tugging and pulling, blunt nails scratching at his scalp. He’s more vocal than your fantasies ever allowed you to imagine. Breathless whimpers and soft moans that slip from the back of his throat.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Jack manages to choke against your lips.
Your hips move again, his cock sliding between your slick folds. He can feel how wet you are, how your arousal coats his length and glides effortlessly. It makes his head spin, has him gripping your hips to steady himself, his head resting against your chest for a moment's composure.
“Jesus Christ, you’re soaked.” He says shakily, nosing at the swell of your breast. “That all for me?” he mutters against your breast, sucking a nipple back into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth while his tongue rubs deliciously against it.
You’re nodding your head dumbly, humming and whimpering as your nails dig into the fabric covering his shoulders. He pulls off your breast, chases your gaze so he can see just how fucked you are for him.
“Tell me what you want.” It’s a demand this time, not a request. Like he’s desperate to hear the filth slip from your tongue.
It’s entirely too erotic to be sitting naked on him while he’s still fully clothed. Something about it reminds you of the power imbalance both in this sense and your careers. You don’t have the time to be shameful when your lips part and you speak. “I want your cock inside me. Jack, please.”
“Fuck,” he groans shakily, leaning back to admire the sight of your body in his lap. “Take it, baby. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
You don’t miss a beat. Raising to your knees, you reach for his cock, stroking your wetness across the length of him, relishing in the rapid rise and fall of his chest as you touch him. You shuffle closer, one hand still on his shoulders as you look down and line him up with your pulsing cunt.
The head of his cock slices through you as you slowly sink down on him. Jack watches every second, can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of your pussy swallowing him. A wanton moan tumbles from your mouth as you take him inch by inch, sinking lower and lower until you’re flush against his pelvis and you feel him nudging at your cervix.
His eyes are on your face, watching it contort with pleasure as you adjust to his size. It takes everything in him not to bust his load there and then. It’s a wet dream come true. Your tits in his face, your cunt clenching tightly around him, your lips parted and eyes rolling at the feel of him.
“That’s it, baby. Slowly.” He coaxes you gently, palms caressing your waist.
You’re overwhelmed. Stuffed so full and your senses on overdrive as he caresses your clammy skin, as his voice guides you and praises how fucking perfect you look taking his cock.
Your hands find his on your waist, fingers intertwining as you bring them to the back of the couch, to his sides. Elbows bent, Jack holds your hands tightly, lets your nails dig into the skin between his knuckles, lets you take his hands for leverage.
You move slowly, lips parted as your nipples brush his still clothed chest with every small movement you make. “That’s it,” he praises. “Just like that.”
The praise and gravelly tone goes straight to your head, has your cunt clenching around him as you begin to pick up your pace. Still slow, still adjusting. Jack holds your hands as tightly as you hold his and when you finally open your eyes, he’s already staring at you.
His pupils are blown wide, lips parted in pleasure. There's a slight knot between his brows, nostrils flaring with every move of your hips. But he lets you set the pace, lets you use his cock for your own pleasure until you finally find your rhythm.
Your breasts bounce as you begin to move faster, the alcohol you consumed earlier now turned into a molten desire you fear you’ll never find with anyone but him.
“Fuck…” he barely manages to drawl out. “Look at you.” Jack’s words are threaded together, like he doesn’t want to waste a breath in separating them, like it’ll somehow take his attention and focus away from you.
“So good,” you whine. “You feel so good.”
“Yeah?” he whispers, squeezing your hands as his biceps tense. “Let me touch you.”
He doesn’t ask politely. No manners, like it’s too urgent to say please. You don’t argue about it. The thought of his hands all over you while you fuck yourself silly on his cock is far too appealing.
You unwind your fingers and he moves quicker than you thought possible. His hands are everywhere. Your hips, thighs, waist, pinching at your nipples, kneading at your breasts. It’s almost too much to have him like this. Unrestricted. Unrestrained.
They settle again on your hips, forceful enough to influence your movements, light enough to not bruise. You wouldn't complain if they did, would bask in the reminder of how he’d touched you.
The coarse hair at his pubic bone rubs deliciously at your clit, stimulating your nerves into an impossible burst of desire.
Jack’s breathing is heavy, hands forcing you to move faster, eyes drinking in the sight of your sweat-slick body above his. It’s borderline orgasmic, the way your tits bounce, how your hips roll, when your head rolls back to expose your slender throat to his hungry gaze.
He’s stuck in a state of shock, unable to comprehend that this is happening. That you’re riding your cock like he’s dreamt about it. Jack lets himself pretend that he’s not the only one to have late night fantasies. Lets himself believe that you’ve pictured this, too, with your hand stuffed between your thighs as you touch yourself to the thought of him.
“Jack,” you whine, hands fisting the shirt on his chest. Your thighs begin to quiver, hips stuttering in their once rhythmic movements. Your cunt clenches around him, tight and eager and desperate for a release.
Jack’s chest moves faster, his hands moving you more to help pick up the slack. “Oh, fuck,” he moans, his own hips shifting beneath you in attempt to get you where you need. “You gonna come for me?”
A cry leaves your lips at the sound of his tone, at the filthy words you’ve only ever dreamed of hearing him say. Your eyes squeeze shut as you feel the pressure beginning to build at the base of your spine. It snakes its way around your waist, down your pelvis where it sits in your core like a tight string ready to snap.
The breathless sound of your name pierces through your ears. Jack’s breathless moans and whimpers caress your mind like a symphony. You force your hips to keep moving, a rush of adrenaline just long enough to chase the high to the precipice of an orgasm.
The hands on your waist tighten.
“Eyes on me.” Jack commands, a sound that reverberates in your chest and your cunt. Your eyes snap open, heavy-lidded and thick with lust. Jack watches with blown pupils, salt and pepper curls dishevelled from your ministries, shirt crumbled as you continue to fist it.
His lips are parted, brows drawn tight, a look of ecstasy on his gorgeous face that has you toppling over the edge. He coaxes you through it as you come around his cock, praises and encouragement.
That’s it.
Good girl.
C’mon, baby. Give it to me.
Just like that.
“Ah, fuck. Oh my—fuuuck.”
You move off him the moment you feel him twitch between your sodden walls, falling to your knees and wrapping your lips around him. You taste yourself on his cock, only for a moment, and then Jack’s come is filling your mouth, trickling down your throat as you suck him dry, lips stretched around his length.
It’s only then that he struggles to keep his eyes on you. His head falls to the back of the couch, hands waving helplessly at his sides as you swallow around him, savoring every salty drop as he bucks his lips and whimpers. You pull off with a gentle heave of breath, drool and come smearing your lips but you’re quick to wipe it away with the back of your hand.
Jack reaches for you blindly, palms wrapping around your wrists to pull you back into his lap. He finds your mouth eagerly, cupping the sides of your head to kiss you. He licks into your mouth again, insatiable despite already being spent. Not caring for the taste of himself on your tongue. Something he once might’ve grimaced at that he now finds entirely too erotic to not want to do again.
You pull apart but only for a breath. Jack’s forehead rests against yours, chests heaving as you both struggle to come down from your overwhelming highs. Your pussy rests on his still-hard cock, slippery and sore and deliciously ruined.
“You okay?” He asks you through a breath, voice husky in a way that will haunt your every waking and sleeping moment from here on out.
You nod with heavy eyes, fingers back at the nape of his neck as you play with the curls there. His palms move closer to your face, brushing away the sweaty strands of hair to get a look at you better.
You blink at him, somewhat lazy, quite a bit sheepish. You’ve just fucked your superior. Sat on his cock and rode him until you were coming uncontrollably before shoving his cock down your throat to taste his release.
Warmth rises to your cheeks, sobering up as the bliss of your orgasm begins to diminish. Jack catches you spiralling before you truly realize that you are.
“Don’t do that.” He commands it in a rough voice, one wrecked from sex and something else. “I don’t regret it.” He promises.
The reassurance does something to your chest that it shouldn’t. Gives you hope. And yet you find yourself swallowing before verbalising the same sentiment.
Jack smiles something secret, leans closer to kiss you again. Tender this time, soft and saying everything that he won’t. You relax again under his touch, let your body mould against his.
He pulls away enough to look at you, to brush more damp hair from your flushed face. “Are you gonna let me take you out on a real date now?”
You blink at him, the pieces forming together like a soft click of understanding. That Jack didn’t come here as a friend. That Jack wasn’t just a flirt. When he invited himself for dinner it was a date. Guised under the excuse of making sure your birthday wasn’t completely wasted. Worried that if he verbalised it was a date, you’d say no.
You suck your bottom lip into your mouth in an attempt to hide your growing grin. A sheepish nod is the only movement you offer as an answer.
A crooked smirk pulls on the corner of his mouth, that usual flirty lilt returning and you’re completely mesmerized when he brushes his nose against yours again.
“Happy birthday, baby.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Feedback is always super super appreciated!! I would love to know what you thought!! Thank you for reading <3
SUMMARY: Working a double shift on your birthday was a fine idea until you come to the realization that you have yourself a little stalker situation on your hands… and Jack is less than pleased to learn about it.
WARNINGS: mentions of a stalker and panic attacks, inaccurate medical reportings (by me lol), protective Jack, brief mentions of mental illness, non-established relationship, some light flirting and lots of internalised "he'll never want me how I want him" angst
A/N: hehe I had a dream about this and started writing immediately...it did turn out pretty long so I had to split it into two parts, I do apologise BUT I am aiming to have the second part out by the weekend (which I promise includes smut)!!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Reader
WORD COUNT: 8.5k
PART TWO
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The walk from your apartment to PTMC is usually one you take the time to appreciate. Twenty minutes of undisturbed, allocated music time. And more often than not, your only daily intake of fresh air and occasional sunshine.
This evening however, you’re having no such luck. You’ve forgotten to charge your AirPods—your only set of portable audio equipment—so music is out of the question, and the second your feet hit the pavement, the heavens above open up and rain down on you.
Not the most ideal start to your double shift, you know, but it could’ve been worse. At least you always keep a spare change of clothes and shoes in your locker and with any luck, the Pitt will be calm enough for you to savor a coffee while conducting shift change.
You hurry through the automatic doors at the ambulance bay in an attempt to find some warmth inside, and when you do, it’s in more ways than just the physical sense.
“Happy birthday!”
You blink at the scene before you. The central hub is littered with gift bags, balloons and banners. Half of your colleagues and friends are gathering around, beaming at you and a grin stretches across your soaked face when Santos pulls the string on a party popper.
Mel’s feet quickly bring her to you, her smile wide as she awkwardly wraps her arms around you from the side and pulls away with an overly ecstatic grin.
“Happy birthday,” she repeats again and you mirror her expression, though yours is slightly more softened.
“Thanks, Mel,” you breathe, turning back to the central hub.
You purse your lips together, can feel your eyes welling with unshed tears. In the eight years you’d been at PTMC, you’ve always managed to book your birthday off. And while they’ve always made an effort to plan a birthday meal or drinks to celebrate with you, you’ve never walked into something like this.
It makes your heart swell, makes it ache. You’ve had a few casual jobs before here, while you were in college and even before, but never once have you felt like you belong. Not like they make you feel.
You sniffle and wipe your eyes, smile still wide, and the rainy, music-less walk to work is suddenly completely forgotten about. Approaching the nurses desk, you take in the scene properly through a slightly distorted vision.
At least seven gift bags are scattered across the top section of the desk, two bouquets of flowers, three helium balloons and two large banners.
“You guys are so cute,” you coo as you inspect the bags. That’s when you notice the open white box and your eyes widen even further. A cream frosted cake sits neatly in the box, the words ‘Happy 30th Doc!’ are piped on in a green icing calligraphy.
You’re slightly overwhelmed at the amount of love they’re outright showing you.
You hear a clap of hands and turn to find Robby standing in front of you all, a fond smile on his lips when he looks at you and dips his head.
“Alright, you’ve all seen your favorite Doctor. Now, respectfully, fuck off and go home. It’s been a long day and the majority of you are back here bright and early tomorrow morning.”
Mel is the first to give you a hug goodbye, excitement still evident in her body as she bounces on her feet slightly. Then Santos, which is more of a pat on the back, and Whitticker hugs you like he’s still a teenager that hasn’t ever touched a girl before.
Langdon almost crushes you when he wraps his arms around your shoulders, Javadi opting to wave goodbye and Dana pressing a kiss to your cheek and smoothing down your wet hair.
“Have a good shift, doll. Enjoy the cake.” She grins as you blow her a kiss goodbye.
You feel the weight of Robby’s hand on your shoulder and turn to face him and the rest of the staff you’ll be working with tonight.
Only a few familiar faces looked back at you. Shen, Boone, Ellis, Mohan. Nurses flitter about but your eyes land on four new faces you haven’t yet seen.
Robby looks at them expectantly and you notice the way they shift to stand a little straighter.
The young blonde clears her throat and plasters on a smile. “Amelia Crovinch, MS3.”
The second is a short man, probably early thirties with a ginger stubble and a podgy stomach. “Ricky Perkins, MS2.”
The third is much taller. A man in probably his late twenties, dark hair, dark eyes and you would be stupid to not admit that he’s attractive. He grins at you, eyes flirty. Fucking fantastic. “Charlie Holloway, MS3. Happy birthday, gorgeous.” He winks.
You turn away from him to the final one, trying to hide your grimace at the wink. A woman who looks to be in her mid twenties, expressionless and far too snooty for your liking. “Karen Molloy, MS4.”
“Perfect.” Robby claps his hands together. “This is Dr. Y/L/N, R4, though hopefully soon attending. If Dr. Shen and Dr. Abbot are otherwise busy, this is who you will go to for a typical attending clearance.”
“But she’s not an attending,” Molloy argues.
Fantastic, you’re sure you’re going to get along just superbly with her.
You raise a brow, turning away to look back at Robby. “Jack’s working tonight?” You ask instead, hoping you hide your excitement well enough.
Robby nods, opens his mouth to speak when another voice does it for him. “Happy birthday to my favorite R4.”
Jack approaches swiftly, that crooked yet flirty smile on the corner of his mouth. Your stomach flips at the sight of him, the sound of his voice. It’s pathetic really, the amount of affect he has on you over something as trivial as speaking.
You roll your eyes fondly. “I’m your only R4.”
Jack stops just short of you, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “And if there were more, you’d still be my favorite.” He says it lightly enough for it to be perceived as a joke but you know better.
You know you’re Jack’s favorite. If his behaviour toward you compared to others is anything to go by. He taught you most of what you know, advocated for you to sit in on new things and take control when more authority was needed. Jack believes in you, respects you wholeheartedly, and he has never been afraid to show it.
It’s made you giddy for years, makes you silly enough to believe you’re his favorite something else, too. But Jack is a flirt, he gives eyes to everyone he speaks with and since you started working here eight years ago, you’ve had to remind yourself of the fact every day.
His gaze is still on you, one that lingers just a second too long. When he moves his eyes to look at Robby and most probably send him home, you take the moment to address the students with a kind smile.
“It’s nice to meet you all, night shifts can be a little crazy but we all try to work together as a team to get through.”
Another set of hands meet your shoulders as a presence looms over you from behind. His scent consumes you, warm and enticing, familiar in a way it shouldn’t be, in a way you want it to be more. It takes every ounce of composure you have to not allow your face to betray you.
“I am going to get our birthday girl up to speed…Dr. Ellis, Cravinch, do you mind moving all of this to the break room, please?” Jack gestures to the gifts and balloons on the nurses station.
Ellis nods, reaching for your arm and smiling wickedly. “Happy birthday, baby.” You grin at her, offering thanks and telling everyone to help themselves to cake whenever they want it.
You salute Robby playfully as you pass him, heading toward the lockers to rid yourself of your damp jacket and backpack and change your shoes. You can feel Jack following close behind you, can hear his soft steps before he leans on his crossed arm against the lockers, body facing you.
“Robby said you’re working a double?” You break the silence as you stuff your damp sneakers and jacket into the locker, toeing on your dry pair of spare converse. You side-eye him playfully. “Aren’t you getting a little too old for that shit now?”
Jack’s brows rise comically high at your comment, his own mouth curling into a smirk. He rolls his shoulders, not moving from his position leaning against the lockers. “I’m forty-seven.”
You nod slowly, lips pursed as you shut your locker and turn to face him, mirroring his body language. A playful look gleams in his eyes and you have to force your thighs not to clench together.
Jack is a flirt.
He does this with everyone.
You are his favourite R4 and nothing else.
“I didn’t think you were working tonight.” he comments and for a brief moment you let yourself be deluded enough to believe he keeps tabs on your shift pattern.
You sigh. “I was supposed to be in this morning but apparently there was a scheduling error, so instead I’m spending my birthday in my favorite place.” You grin at him sarcastically and the corner of his lips kicks up in a smile.
It makes your pulse thunder. You need to get a fucking grip.
You take a step away from the lockers and Jack follows, his arm brushing yours as you adjust the stethoscope around your neck. It’s comfortable and professional as he walks you around the ED, filling you in on the current patients, what they need, what they’re waiting for.
And Jack also makes a point of letting every patient know it’s your birthday and to be on their best behaviors. It makes you laugh, blush and cringe every time they offer birthday wishes, but it made you beam when a seven year old girl with a broken wrist sang to you. You promised to bring her a fat slice of cake for it.
“This is the last one. Caleb Dawkins, thirty-three year old male who has been persistent to the day shift that he is unhappy with their lack of diagnoses and insisted on waiting to be seen by a different doctor on the night shift.” Jack mutters to you as you both stop just short of outside the curtain.
You sigh, plaster on a smile and walk into his private sector.
The patient on the bed is quite attractive. Dark hair, long lashes, bright eyes that remind you of Langdon’s. His skin is tan, patchwork tattoos across his arms and absolutely no reason for his shirt to be off with no motoring equipment attached to him.
“Hi, Mr Dawkins, I’m Dr Y/L/N, what brings you in today?” you poise it as politely as you can but you really don’t have the energy tonight for someone coming in and wasting time and resources if there’s nothing wrong with them.
Caleb stills when he sees you, a smile breaking across his lips when he realises you’re a doctor that hasn’t yet seen him. “Hey Doc, I got some pain in my chest,” he grunts, rubbing at his sternum.
You frown, reaching for his chart and reading over the notes. You feel Jack’s presence behind you, looking over your shoulder at the notes and you bite the inside of your cheek.
“Caleb, your EKG and bloodwork came back all clear.” Jack tells him—which you feel like isn't for the first time with the huff that follows—and takes the chart from you as you approach the patient.
“Lay back for me, just gonna have a listen.” You recline his bed back, pressing the cool metal of the stethoscope to his bare chest. You keep it there for a few moments, eyes focused on the wall opposite you.
You pull away. “Your heart rate is perfect. Have you experienced any vomiting, fever, dizziness…?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been feeling hot and cold on and off.”
You hum and reach for the thermometer, guiding it to his ear and checking for a fever. It beeps, flashing green and you place it back, side-eyeing Jack who stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed.
You turn back to Caleb with a friendly smile. “Your temp is fine, but I can get one of the nurses to come back and run some more bloods, see if there’s anything we missed.”
“Can’t you do that?” he argues.
You make a pout and let out a breath. “Our nurses are very capable and I have a lot of patients to check on, but I will be back soon when I have your blood results, okay?”
You don’t wait for him to reply before following Jack out of the section and loosening a breath. “He is going to be here all night isn’t he,” you mutter and he hums in agreement as he guides you both to the break room.
You corner Princess on the way, asking if she can run another lot of bloods for Caleb before the smell of coffee washes over you and Jack is handing you a cup, his fingers ghosting against yours for a brief moment.
The break room is filled with your gifts and balloons and cake. You smile at it all, that warmth in your chest returning. “Seems pretty calm out there, why don’t you take a look at what you got?” Jack says over the rim of his polystyrene cup.
“I’ll go through it when I get home.” You wave a hand, picking up the card in the flowers to read the note.
A bouquet of pink and white tulips from Robby. A bouquet of pink and blue hydrangeas from Whittaker and Santos, and a large bouquet of red roses with no note. You turn to Jack, pointing at them. “Do you know who those are from?”
He shakes his head, approaching to look at them. “Dana said they got delivered for you this afternoon, no card on them, though. Maybe Collins?” he suggests.
You laugh loudly at that. “Yeah, because Collins is going to get me roses for my birthday.”
That stupid fucking smirk spreads across his mouth. He shrugs again. “I don’t know then. Are you…seeing anyone?”
Your gaze snaps to his then, and you must be seeing things because you’re almost certain the smirk on his face is fading as he asks. You swallow, tongue swiping across your lower lip as you look back at the roses.
“No, I haven’t even been on a date in like…forever…” Realisation of the fact crept up on you and a crushing weight began to settle its way beneath your ribcage. While you haven’t been on a date in a hot minute, you have seen these exact roses far too often recently. Something that no longer feels like a coincidence.
For the past six weeks, every Wednesday, this exact bouquet has been left sitting on the steps to your apartment building. Something you never truly acknowledged much of before. There on a Tuesday, gone by Wednesday. But now, they are here. Left at the nurses station. A delivery for you.
It makes your blood run cold, a daunting fear that begins to wedge its way beneath your ribcage. You’re not seeing anyone, there is no reason for you to be receiving roses.
The stillness of your shoulders doesn’t go unmissed by Jack. It concerns him slightly, piques his interest. He takes a step closer, frowning at the roses then frowning at you.
“What—”
Jack’s words are cut off when one of the med students—that you’ve already forgotten the name of—calls out to you for assistance.
You take a breath, grab the roses and shove them into the trash in the corner of the break room. Jack watches with raised brows and confusion swimming in his eyes. He’s about to speak again when another call for help shouts across the ED, Jack’s name tagged onto the end of it.
He grabs your wrist and gives it a squeeze. “We’ll talk about this later.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The next five hours of your shift is chaos incarnate.
No coffee, no breaks. Three cardiac arrests, two addicts who had overdosed, three critically injured in a car accident and a guy who was stupid enough to attempt to breath fire after watching a four minute long youtube tutorial and ended up with third degree burns in his throat and across his face and neck.
You haven’t been on your game. You mind has been distracted, stuck on those fucking unsolicited roses.
And by the time it gets to 2am and you sneak off to the break room for at least a sip of coffee, all of your birthday cake has been eaten and the coffee pot is empty. It’s typical for you to be interrupted the second a fresh pot finishes brewing.
“Um, your phantom chest pain guy is refusing to speak to a doctor that isn’t you.” Amelia mutters apologetically.
You close your eyes for a moment, blindly pouring coffee into a cup and pressing the lid on. “I can come with you, assert some male dominance.” Charlie suggests, like it was an offer that would do you a favor.
You find yourself wishing it was Charlie that passed out at the sight of blood and got sent home instead of Perkins.
You look at him with a bored expression, brow quirked at the audacity. You wonder how far up his ass his head really is. A hand lands on his shoulder—one you’re too familiar with, one you fantasise about late at night.
“I am going to pretend I didn’t just hear you say that.” Jack speaks low, eyes peering into yours but you avoid his gaze.
He’s been trying to speak with you since your little outburst in the break room at the start of shift but you’ve been avoiding him. You don’t feel like admitting your little situation aloud to anyone—least of all to him. You won’t be able to handle the disappointment on his face when you also admit that you’ve been oblivious to it for weeks.
“Shen is about to perform a chest tube thoracostomy in Trauma Room 3, great learning experience,” he mutters to the students.
When you sneak another glance at him, he’s already looking at you, Charlie and Amelia rushing to the action. He jerks his head to the side. “Walk with me?”
You huff but relent, shoulders low and feet scuffling. “You gonna tell me what's going on?” he presses softly.
You keep your eyes ahead. “If I make it through this double shift, sure—Mr Dawkins, I heard you were asking for me, what’s going on?”
He sits up in his bed, still not attached to any monitoring equipment because it still isn’t needed. You truly don’t know how much longer you can keep your patience with him. You raise your brows expectantly when you’re ignored and follow his line of sight to Jack who remains close behind you.
“You her guard or something? She not capable of doing anything on her own?” Caleb’s voice is harsh as he addresses Jack and it gets your back up immediately.
You whirl back to look at him with raised brows. “I asked Dr Abbot to assist me. We’re at a loss here, Caleb.” You sigh as you take a seat on the swivel stool beside his bed. “Your bloodwork is coming back perfectly normal, your heart rate is steady, no temperature. You have no bruising or swelling, no abnormalities when we’ve checked over your chest.”
Jack watches with crossed arms from the curtain.
“So what are you saying?” he asks you softly.
But before you can even open your mouth, Jack is speaking. “We’re saying we don’t think you’re really having chest pains.”
Caleb’s face grows angry, expression furrowed as he sits up in the bed, all frustration directed toward Jack. You stand immediately.
“You’re saying I’m making this shit up?”
“No! No, we are not saying that,” you reassure as calmly as you can, palms in the air in a futile attempt at surrender, an offer to calm him. You sit back slowly on the stool when Caleb lays back in the bed.
You chew on your bottom lip, shifting closer on the stool and trying to keep your expression friendly and open. “Caleb, are there any…mental health illnesses within your family?”
He blinks at you, slowly before a brow raises just an inch. “You think I'm insane?”
You smile as you shake your head. “No, but I think you think you’re feeling sensations that aren’t there. We’ve run many tests, Caleb, and nothing is coming back to suggest that what you’re feeling is physical feeling.”
You let the words hang in the air, let him stare at you as he processes what you said. For a brief moment, you think he might lunge for you, so does Jack by the way he takes a careful step closer to your back.
Caleb blinks again. “My dad has uh…he has schizophrenia.”
With pursed lips, you nod. “Okay, I’m going to put you in for a CT scan so we can see if there are any enlarged ventricles or cortical atrophy. They can sometimes be a sign of schizophrenia, but not always. We have a social worker in the ED, her name is Kiara. I can get her to come down and speak with you if you’re open to it?”
Caleb shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to speak to anyone that isn’t you.”
You swallow with a nod, forcing a kind smile. “Okay. I won’t be able to take you for the CT but I will come and check on you when you’re done.”
You stand to leave, palms clammy as you approach Jack when Caleb calls your name again. Turning to face him, he smiles at you, kind, flirty. And not at all worried about the possibility of having schizophrenia. Figures.
“Happy birthday, baby.”
You nod a thanks a little hesitantly, irked by the nickname and with a hand on your lower back, Jack guides you to the nurses station. “Happy birthday, baby.” He mimics playfully in a low voice and the repetition of the nicknames makes your shoulders tense.
Because it doesn’t irk you when it’s coming from Jack’s lips. It sets your body alight in excitement and wonder. Baby. Oh God, you’ll be playing this moment in your head for weeks to come. Your mind is already storing the nickname and tone away into your mental Rub Hub.
Despite his attempt at lightening your mood, you can feel Jack’s eyes on you as you sit at a computer to chart, to book in that CT. You feel him hovering and while you’ll usually bask in the attention, this time you rear away from it.
The questioning is coming, you know that. But if you can avoid it until at least the end of the night shift, you will.
“You want me to make a call to Psych?” Jack asks and you sigh. “Would you mind? I know a CT isn’t a definite way to pick it up but at least it could rule out a mass or tumor in the meantime.”
“Hey, this got delivered for you about ten minutes ago.” Boone calls, pushing a brown take out bag in your direction.
You look at the bag, then her, your brows furrowed. “I didn’t order anything.”
She shrugs a shoulder as you open the delivery to inspect the contents. “Maybe someone on day shift wanted to surprise you.”
The smell of sushi hits you immediately and your stomach churns. Not because you don’t like it, but because it was your favorite and no one on day shift would be awake at midnight to send you sushi.
Anger burns your blood and Jack watches it happen. You scrunch the bag up, stand from your chair and throw the food into the trash with as much force as you can muster. You don’t look back to see wide eyes and confusion following your retreating form. Nor do you see the increasing worry that’s taking over Jack’s face.
You have a stalker. Someone following you. Who knows where you live and where you work. Who knows you’re working tonight. Who knows it's your birthday. It’s with that heavy and dizzying thought that you’re locking yourself in the restroom and bursting into tears.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Jack Abbot has a way with women. Well, not just women, he tends to have the same effect on people despite their gender.
Strong eye contact, lazy smiles, low tones. He’s sure, confident, assertive, nice. But right now he’s growing more and more pissed off by the second. He has no energy for lazy smiles or undisturbed eye contact.
Worry is beginning to wedge its way deep into his bones with every moment that passes, every slight behavioural change you display. Your outburst with the roses was one thing, but when it happened again with the take out delivery, the entire team was then beginning to notice.
On top of that, you’re avoiding him. Which in your eight years of working at PTMC, you have never done. Jack doesn’t like it. Not one bit.
“Who shit in her birthday cake?” Molloy mutters from her position where she charts, her distasteful eyes following you across the Pitt as you assist on a head trauma.
McKay gives her an unimpressed look before stepping up beside Jack to watch you through the glass window. “She doing okay?” she asks quietly, the concern evident in her voice.
Jack’s mouth scrunches slightly to the side, a barely noticeable movement of his head following. “Yeah, I think she’s just got a lot on her mind. Keep an eye on her for me?”
Mckay nods, not quite convinced at the way he tries to vouch for your mental state but she doesn’t press, it’s not her place. “You’re on a double right? It’s almost 4am, why don’t go for your break, we’ll be okay out here.” she offers.
Jack hesitates, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep even if he tries. But ultimately, he knows McKay is right. He still has another fifteen hours ahead of him and his leg is fucking killing. Jack relents with a sigh, running his hand down his face as he nods.
“Yeah, okay. Make sure she goes for hers when she’s done.” he nods his head in your direction and Cassie nods hers.
It takes twenty minutes for Jack to even begin to feel comfortable on the small couch in the break room. An unofficial designated space for staff to get at least an hour's shut eye if they were on a double. His leg is aching, the pathetic massage he gave the stub doing little to ease it. But his mind is the one thing he can’t shut off from.
Something is wrong, bothering you to the point that it’s affecting your work. Your patience is wearing thin, your smiles are forced and tight. He’s never seen you like this; so out of your element to the point that you’re snapping at people for the smallest things.
Everyone is used to you being a ray of sunshine. Someone who laughs hard at things that aren’t that funny, who believes everything is a learning experience, who takes what is thrown at them with your head held high.
Tonight it looks like you’re barely swimming above water. And your outbursts with the roses and the take out bag…he can’t stop thinking about them. Jack has come to the conclusion that perhaps you have been seeing someone—a thought that sours his expression no matter how much he’ll try to deny it—and they are wanting another chance you aren’t willing to give.
But you told him earlier that you haven’t dated in a long time.
His mind is a mess of jumbled thoughts over the situation. It takes another twenty minutes before sleep finally begins to catch up with him. It’s short lived, though. It always is. Not even an hour later he’s blinking himself awake, his mind racing back to you as if he never even slept.
By the time he sorts himself out and grabs a cup of coffee for him and a chamomile tea for you, he’s back at the nurses station. The Pitt still seems as lively as it did before he retired for a nap, but everyone seems to have everything under control.
He notices you immediately, slumped on a chair as you no doubt chart for probably the hundredth time tonight. Jack approaches you steadily, body still slightly stiff from cramming himself on that small couch. He doesn’t speak at first, just places your tea beside your hand and waits.
Slowly, your eyes trail up his arm and chest before settling on his still slightly sleep-ridden face. Your hard expression softens just an inch and Jack’s shoulders relax briefly at the sight. “Thank you,” you whisper, eyes not leaving his.
Jack pulls a swivel stool to his legs, takes a seat beside you. He opens his mouth to speak; to tell you he’s worried, that if something is bothering you he will listen, he will help in any way he can. But he doesn't say that. You’re starting to soften and he doesn’t want to make you tense again.
“Why don’t you take your break,” he suggests instead. “We’ve still got another shift ahead of us.” Your shoulders droop at that, a heavy and exhausted sigh slipping past your pretty lips. A groan is soon to follow, your hand coming up to rub at your face.
“I’m so tired but I don't think I could sleep if I tried.” Your voice is defeated but Jack can’t help the soft smile that threatens to pull on his lips.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It took me a little while.”
You hum, eyes still on him. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t dare. Jack has always thought you were incredibly beautiful, those gorgeous eyes and pillow lips… he knows it’s inappropriate, but he’s never acted on any of those dirty thoughts that creep up on him in the middle of the night.
He’s too old for you, and you’re too good for him.
“I’ll keep an eye on your patients,” he promises.
You smile wider at that but a sleepiness overtakes your features. Jack doesn’t think you've ever looked so…soft. He wonders if that’s what you look like every night, when you’re settling yourself to sleep in your big, empty bed. He wonders if that’s what you’d look like if he woke you up to his head between your—
“Go,” he cuts his own thoughts off, jutting his head slightly to the direction of the break room. “Couch is already set up for you.”
You blink slowly at him, leaning in just a bit closer to playfully flick his knuckles with your finger. “You’re too good to me, Jack Abbot.”
His heart—he doesn’t want to think about the rhythm of his heart right now. Instead his lips turn downward to hide his grin as he shoots you a wink. You don’t offer the same restraints as a grin stretches across your mouth. Your hand meets his, squeezing in silent thanks before you stand with your tea and excuse yourself to the break room.
“Oh, by the way, phantom chest pain guy? He’s with Psych now, thank you.” you call back to him over your shoulder.
Jack watches you retreat, the sway of your hips, the heaviness on your shoulders. He’ll get to the bottom of whatever is bothering you. He won’t let you suffer alone.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Your nap is short lived, much like Jack’s. Barely an hour of sleep before you’re waking with a groan and a kink in your neck.
You have to push the fear of your crippling situation way deep down if you’re going to get through the last half of your double shift. You’re a doctor for fucks sake, you can’t not afford to not be on your a game.
So you do. You push it down, you ignore it. You complete your rounds, treat your patients, write up your charts and do everything in your power to avoid the questioning stares from Jack.
Until the time reaches almost 7am and another delivery is made. A cup of coffee from the coffee shop across your apartment and another bouquet of red roses.
The delivery man calls out your name but you’re frozen in place behind the nurses desk. Boone looks at you, a little spooked at your pale complexion as she thanks the delivery driver and takes them from him.
Everyone seems to still around you as Boone places them on the desk in front of you, your change in behaviour causing an uncomfortable shift in the air.
You approach the roses and coffee as if you’re on the brink of death; slow, hesitate, fearful. And when you grow close enough to see the note tucked between the buds, your blood runs ice cold and you snap.
Jack walks toward the central hub just as you pick up the drink and flowers and hurl them into the trashcan, shoving your foot into it to crush the flowers, the drink almost exploding under the force of the kick.
You turn to everyone with wide eyes, your chest heaving and tears welling your eyes. “If I have one more delivery, you put it straight in the fucking trash.”
Jack watches with wide eyes as you storm outside through the ambulance bay, not missing the confused and startled looks everyone gives your retreating form. Fuck this, he can’t wait for you to come to him. Jack doesn’t think twice before following you outside, and what he finds almost cleaves his heart in two.
You’re crouching on the ground, head almost tucked between your knees and you sniffle and sob to yourself. He’s quick to rush to you, bending at the knee despite the ache of his leg protesting.
He pulls you into him and lets out a breath when you don't argue. “You need to tell me what the fuck is going on, sweetheart.” His tone isn’t mean but firm.
You can barely catch a breath and he knows what a panic attack looks like. He pulls your hands off the back of your head, lifts your face with his palms cupping your wet cheeks and angles you upwards, allowing the air to hit your face.
“You’re okay. Just breathe, I’m right here, you’re okay.” He coos at you, suffocating his own anxiety at the slightly frightening sight of you.
You try to focus on the feel of his skin on yours, his warmth, his scent. You make it a focal point, something to try and ground you, to coax you out of your spiralling mind. Jack feels you shake in his hold, and even though your breathing begins to slow just slightly, he can’t let go of the pure look of fear in your eyes.
He doesn’t speak again until you have calmed to a more manageable state, offering quiet coos of comfort, large and steady palms soothing up and down the length of your spine. He calls your name, quietly so as to not startle you but loud enough to hear over the ringing in your ears.
Turning to him, your dry lips part and silent tears continue to slip down your flushed cheeks. You look away, can’t stomach the concern in his eyes. A friend that’s worried about you and your strange behaviour. That’s all.
You rise to shaking feet and take a step away from him in an attempt to regain your bearings. Jack doesn’t push, he waits—impatiently—as you take steadying breath after steading breath, hands shaking out at your sides.
“I think I have a stalker.” Admitting the words aloud causes more silver to line your eyes. You refuse to look at him, can’t subject yourself to his disappointment.
But his silence is deafening and when you cast a cautionary glance toward him through your peripheral, you wish you didn’t. His face drains of color, lips parted in what you could only assume is shock.
“What?” he breathes in pure disbelief, brows knitting. “A stalker? Is that what those deliveries are?”
You nod shakily, blowing unsteady air through rounded lips as Jack takes a careful step closer to you. “How long has this been going on for?”
You shrug, hands reaching for your hair and loosening the stands at your roots. “I think like six weeks.”
Jack can’t control his eyes, how they widen and blink rapidly, has no control of his head bobbing and rearing back as though you’ve just physically assaulted him. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” His voice raises.
You cringe, squeezing your eyes shut as you close the distance between you, your palms now cupping your own face in an attempt to shield yourself from everything. You shake your head rapidly, tears streaming down your face. “No, it's not—it’s not like that. It just—look I didn't know until today!”
Jack appears even more bewildered. “What does that even mean?”
You huff; angry and scared. “About six weeks ago, I started seeing a bouquet of red roses outside my apartment building. Every week. I didn't think anything of it, why would I? And then last night, those red roses were left here—for me. The same florist, the same bouquet… its– its never happened at work, I never even considered the flowers outside the building were—”
“Okay, okay, breathe.” His voice softens, palms stretching for you to rest on your shoulders. Warmth radiates through your scrubs and into your skin, you try to focus on his touch, his proximity without being swept away in it.
“And then there was the sushi delivery, from my favorite place, the coffee from the coffee shop across the road from my apartment that I go to every morning… then just now with another fucking bunch of roses—”
“And the note. I’ll see you soon, my love.”
Your eyes are screwed shut tightly. “Jack, I’m freaking the fuck out.”
He hates this. His blood is roaring beneath his skin, veins threatening to burst at just how tightly wound he is. You have a fucking stalker. “Alright, okay. We're going to the police. Right now.”
You shake your head. “I—we can’t, we both have another shift ahead of us before—”
“Fuck the next shift. You have a stalker, sweetheart, that's not something that can be pushed aside to deal with later.” He argues gently but his tone is firm, booking no room for argument.
You scratch feverishly at your scalp, tugging on the roots of your hair to inflict anything but fear. Something else to focus on, something to take it away. Jack grabs your wrists, warm palms soothing against your skin as he guides them away from your head.
“What’s your locker code?”
You rattle off the string of numbers, barely registering the question. But when you realize he was going to retrieve your things for you, you wipe your face and make your way back inside. You can’t just leave, you at least need to get someone to watch your patients while you are gone.
The fluorescence of the Pitt sting your swelling eyes, concerned glances following as you approach the nurses desk and lean down to Ellis. She watches you carefully, brows knitted and lips parted in worry. You shake your head before she can ask. You don’t want to get into this with anyone else.
It’s bad enough that Jack knows.
“Do you mind including my patients on rounds with day shift? I need to step out for an hour or so.” You ask her quietly and she nods quickly, eager to help.
Your eyes flitter up as day shift begins to trickle in. Many of them liked to show up twenty minutes early to get a head start, find the rhythm of things. You avoid their gazes, looking to the right instead where Jack stands with your bags, lips a thin line on his worried face.
Robby whistles as he strolls in, Jack moving closer toward you the same time Robby does. He eyes you both with raised brows. “You both look like shit.”
Before either you or Jack can even make a sound, your name is being called softly from across the Pitt, followed by a birthday wish. You smile weakly as Paige approaches, a nurse who typically favours a position in triage. She’s only been here a few months, but in the off shifts that you’ve worked with her, you very much enjoy her company.
“Hey, have I had any deliveries today?” she asks Boone as she grows closer, arms folded over the top of the nurses station, resting her cheek on her palms.
“No, don't think so hon, what were you expecting?” Boone asks softly.
She blushes a bit. “Oh, my uh my girlfriend said she’d dropped off a few things but I haven't gotten anything. Unless they’ve been delivered under her name instead of mine. It was uh, roses, sushi, coffee, her name’s Y/N.”
You blink.
Once. Twice.
All eyes turn to you but yours meet Jack’s. It’s in synchronicity that your lips part, eyes widen, shoulders sagging. You turn to Paige, your face pale and red-rimmed eyes staring at her with so much guilt she looks a bit scared.
“I am so sorry.”
“Oh, thank god.” Jack rubs his hands down his face.
“Um. You have had some deliveries, and we all assumed that when delivery guys have been bringing things in for Y/N, that they meant me. And I have been…throwing everything in the trash because I thought I had a stalker.” You explain the last words slowly, carefully.
Embarrassment flares bright on your cheeks, blood rushing down to your toes and you almost feel frozen in place. You can live with the embarrassment, right now the most overwhelming feeling is pure, unbridled relief.
Robby looks at you in complete bewilderment. His eyes dart around the E.R in a state of pure confusion before he blinks it away and shakes a hand by his head. “Not even going to ask.”
“Paige, I will pay for everything. I—” She laughs softly as she approaches you, arms out with a tender expression before embracing your frozen form in her arms.
“No, it’s okay. Are you alright? That must’ve really freaked you out, I’m so sorry.” You finally manage to will your body to move, arms wrapping around her lightly as you return the hug. You laugh against her shoulder, pulling back to rub at your eyes with a groan.
“I need about a gallon of coffee if I'm going to get through this next shift.”
“Oh, you didn’t get the email?” Robby speaks over the rim of his beverage.
“What email? You frown.
“You’re not down for the day shift, you’re not in ‘til Saturday,” he looks behind you to Jack, pointing a finger that’s wrapped around the paper cup, “Neither are you. Scheduling error.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jack huffs at the same time you do, the pair of you rubbing hands down your faces in something akin to telepathic synchronicity. It causes Robby to raise an amused brow.
“You two need to go home. I don't know what the hell happened on this shift, but I’m sure Shen and Ellis can handle change over.”
Neither of you argue with Robby’s offer. You silently take your bag from Jack and haul it over your shoulder. “Come on,” Jack nods his head toward the break room. “We’ll get your birthday gifts and I’ll take you home.”
You don’t argue on that offer either. Don’t acknowledge the butterflies in your stomach at the thought of being in such close proximity to him for a ten minute ride home. You’re too tired, head far too fuzzy.
You need a pint of wine and a fucking nap.
Retrieving your things from the break room is done on autopilot. You take the balloons and two bouquets of flowers while Jack takes your gift bags. It’s a no brainer to offer the flowers as a peace offering to Paige on your way out, a plethora of apologies once again tumbling from your lips.
You don’t stay long enough to let her refuse them, feet rushing you out through the ambulance bay and toward Jack’s car. Right. His car. The vehicle he drives. A vehicle that you’ve never been in, only ever seen in passing. Black and sleek, simple yet clearly expensive.
You feel him approach from behind and swallow as he opens the trunk and gently places your gifts inside, reaching an arm toward you for the balloons. He nods his head to the passenger side silently, your heart rate picking up at the simple command.
It's wordless when you open the door and settle inside. It smells like him. Something rich and manly and a hint of coffee that somehow kisses every unexposed nerve ending. The seats are leather, durable and good quality. It’s modern, with a CarPlay screen and heated seats. You don’t know enough about cars to understand the logo in the center of his steering wheel.
You watch him get in effortlessly, clipping his belt and starting the engine. You watch as he gets comfortable, readjusting the rearview mirror before pausing to look at you. He catches your staring but doesn't say anything.
And when neither of you make any attempt to look away, a tired yet fond smile kicks up at the corner of his mouth. He leans toward you and your breathing stops, the hairs on your skin standing tall. Jack’s arm reaches to your side and only when you hear the faint zipping of the seatbelt being pulled do you realize that he was waiting for you to put it on.
Embarrassment crawls up your neck as he clips the belt for you instead. “Sorry,” you whisper breathlessly, quickly clearing your throat. “My head’s a little all over the place right now.” You excuse your foolishness the best way you can as Jack cracks open a window.
He offers a huff of a laugh as he pulls out of the staff parking space slowly. “I’m not surprised after the night you’ve had.” He reassures, his hand reaching out for the screen. You watch with deft attention as his long fingers tap on the GPS, waving that finger at you and then back at the screen again.
You get the hint, lean forward just enough to be able to type your address in, only a ten minute journey that's mapped out for him.
Jack raises a brow as he pulls out of the hospital. “Swanky area,” he comments.
You can’t help but scoff at that. “Not really. It’s my Uncle’s apartment, he just rents it out to me.”
He hums, non committal. The drive is silent, not suffocating or uncomfortable but…needed. Jack doesn’t push for conversation, doesn’t ask if you’re okay, doesn’t comment on your stupid mistake of thinking you had a fucking stalker.
He lets you bask in the quietness, lets you have these ten minutes for your body to begin to relax. It isn't until he pulls up outside the apartment building that one tiny flaw in the stalker situation arises. Because there, on the front door steps, is another bouquet of red roses.
It hits you the same time it hits Jack, both of your bodies stiffening at the sight of them. But the stiffness is quickly replaced with another overwhelming sense of relief and exhaustion when you notice Paige again, walking up to those doors and retrieving the flowers with a gentle smile before going inside.
Your hands rub at your face. “I forgot she lives in this building.” you admit, words muffled by your palms but your body tingles at the sound of Jack’s breathy chuckle.
“You definitely need some sleep.” He unbuckles his seatbelt, then reaches to unclip yours before opening his door. “Come on, I’ll walk you up.”
He doesn't let you carry the balloons or the gift bags as he walks beside you up two flights of stairs. Guilt gnaws at you for it, you know his leg must be hurting, but Jack always hides it well.
When you reach your apartment door, you slow, bashful almost. You've been friends for eight years, yet you’d never been in his car before tonight, he’s never been in your apartment building. The whole thing feels…different…intimate.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “For the shift, driving me home…walking me up.”
Jack shrugs a shoulder, handing you your things before stuffing his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t say anything, just looks. Like he’s assessing. It’s not scrutinising, but it’s not the fond look you’ve grown accustomed to, either.
It’s new. It sends your pulse racing.
You wait, anticipating something else, something more. But it doesn't come. Jack takes a step back as you unlock your front door, he turns toward the stairs as you push the door open. But when you take your first step inside, he turns back to you again.
“Hey, are you doing anything tonight?”
Your heart stops. Beats. Skips a beat. Then it stops again.
“Other than crying that I didn't get a slice of my own birthday cake? No, nothing.”
That earns a breathy laugh. Jack looks at you, soft and a little sleepy. “I’m sorry you had such a shitty birthday.”
You shrug. “Believe it or not, I've had worse. Besides, it wasn't that bad, Shen could’ve forgotten his iced coffee again. And it turns out I don't have a stalker, so a win is a win.”
He laughs a bit louder at that. “I'll tell you what, I’ll come over later. I’ll bring dinner, we’ll try and do a redo for your birthday.”
You smile, swallow down the eager yes! that wants to desperately crawl out of your throat. “You don't have to do that.” Is what you manage to settle for.
Jack makes a sound of disagreement. “Actually, I do. As your attending, you should consider this a work-place incident check-up.”
You might be exhausted but you’re not deaf. You pick up on the change in his tone, the underlying yet silent suggestion that’s hidden within his words.
Still, you don’t let yourself get your hopes up. He’s a friend. You’ve had a bad day. He’s being nice.
You roll your eyes with affection. “Can’t exactly say no to that.”
Jack grins, untamed and wide. “I’ll come back a little later.” It’s the last thing he says before descending the stairs.
And when you step inside your apartment and close the door behind you, you realise this little crush on Jack is becoming something much deeper. And the idea of having dinner with him tonight has you sick, horny and completely out of your element.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
PART TWO
Feedback is always super super appreciated!! I would love to know what you thought!! Thank you for reading <3
synopsis jack really wants to take care of you, you're really not used to that feeling, but when an accident has you in harms way and rattles jack more than you, you have little choice but to accept how he feels about you. (I want to take care of you- it's rotten work- not to me, not if its you) type.
warnings, fluff and angst but with a happy ending. guns. insecure reader. reader is described with hair long enough to braid. insecure reader. angst with happy ending . younger reader though not a massive plot point. miscommunication/misunderstanding
authorsnote uncle pee-paw i'm growing very fond of you. sometimes i get so in my head about how things preform on tumblr and i completely forget that fanfic is so self indulgent so as long as i'm happy with it but i'm so happy with the love these pitt fics are getting they really do mean a lot
Pitt masterlist. Jack Abbot fic!
“ You need a ride? ”
When you'd called Jack to tell him you were going to be late into your night shift because the buses you relied so heavily on to get you to and from work weren't running due to some strikes or something, you really were only calling to let him know you'd be late. Not to subtly ask for him to give you a ride.
“No- no. I just didn't want you to think I was not turning up, I'll be there.”
“ What's your address again? ”
“It doesn't matter, I'm walking- running- running in,” you said breathless down your phone, busy stuffing your bag with whatever you'd need, none of which was food for the shift. You'd recently ran out of the energy bars Jack had recommended.
Everyday you said you'd prepare something nice, some risotto or something and take it in. Every morning you collapsed from exhaustion and ran out of time to make anything that resembled a 'meal'.
“ I've got it here, I'll be around in ten, ” Jack said.
Your bag slid down your shoulder as you paused. “Got it? Got what?”
“ Your address. ”
“How do you have my address?”
He chuckled down the line. “ Remember I ubered food to yours, two weeks ago? You've probably still got leftovers in your fridge. ”
Ah. You remembered. One of those times you let slip your terrible routine and he sort to fix it, sending you over prepped meals that- he was right- were still littered around your fridge.
“Right, yes. You should delete that.”
“ Comes in handy, sometimes. In emergencies, ” he said. “ I'll pick you up in ten, bye. ”
There was no time to argue as the call ended promptly after that.
Jack Abbot was a caring man. Something you were learning the hard way. You knew he'd given Ellis his spare room when she was evicted from her apartment, he'd even let her re-decorate, got her fresh blankets and sheets. You knew that Shen's favourites snacks were always stocked up in the lounge. You always knew that he was first to spot Lena getting tired and was always there with a coffee.
It was just like you knew he knew all those little things about you too.
He knew when your bus got in across from PCMT, always there to escort you over the road and back again at the end of the shift. No matter how long or gruelling it had been he would wait with you, rain or sun. He knew you had a bad sleeping habit so he told you herbal remedies in teas and even brought some for you. Annoyingly they worked and every time you had one you were forced to think of Jack.
You knew that if he said he was picking you up- he was.
There was nothing wrong with his affection.
You just didn't know what to do with it.
The night shift was still new to you. You'd only joined since their nights had gotten wilder, even too wild for the 'weirdest and wildest' to handle so you'd made the swap six months ago to help out. You were used to Robby's ways of doing things: of his careful watch over his residents with happy thumbs up or disapproving shakes of his head.
Jack trusted in his residents to take care of patients, but didn't when it came to themselves.
You rushed around, finding your pens and stethoscope and phone that you'd just put down for a second. Soon enough Jack had texted saying he was coming up (he somehow already had the code to your apartment complex).
His knuckles rattled softly and you rushed to grab the last of your things, including a book marked with 'Abbot, J' that you had yet to get round to reading.
“Hi,” you greeted.
You'd expected he'd come up just to be a gentleman, figuring the two of you would just head back down.
Jack squeezed by your attempt at baring him from your place and walked into your small and cramped apartment. “Hey.”
You tried not to be surprised, shutting the door behind him. “I've got everything, we- we can go.”
“I jussss wanna check-” the kitchen was just to the right and he opened your fridge door, grinning. “I was right. Still got the leftovers.”
There were many containers stacked, some full, others emptying. All marked in his handwriting from his meal prep he shared with you.
“Yeah, I haven't got round to sorting it,” you said. “Sorry, I didn't get around to eating everything. It's really good though.”
Jack smiled, reaching into your fridge like it was his own. “Hey, I made you a lot, didn't expect you to eat everything. Just wanted to make sure you had a choice. Did you like the Linguini? I tried a new recipe.”
Jack moved around your kitchen like he'd been living in your space forever. He was confident as he re-arranged your food, throwing what had gone out of date away and washing his hands in your sink, taking a towel hanging up by a cupboard like he knew it was there and drying.
“Er, yeah, it was nice, we can go, you know,” you said.
“You started reading it?” Jack asked, gesturing down to the book in your hands. “What do you think of it?”
“Oh, er, no. I haven't had the chance to start it. I was gonna give it back to you,” you said.
Jack shrugged. “It's yours, keep it.”
It was not yours. It was his. It was one of his favourites if the several dog-eared pages and annotations were anything to go by. It was a title he'd recommended to you and handed you a month ago but you'd only managed to flick through and get a vague understanding of the characters names only.
“But I mean- I don't know when I'll get round to reading it,” you said, loitering outside your kitchen.
“It's okay, I've read it a thousand times, keep it till you do.”
Wasn't he worried you may never get round to reading it and he might not ever get it back?, if your forgetful memory was anything to go by.
Jack finally abandoned your kitchen, passing by you. “Shall we?”
“Thanks for the lift. You really didn't have to,” you said as you left your apartment building, the sky already darkening and where others came in from their long days of work, yours was only just beginning.
“It's on my way,” he shrugged.
“It's out of your way,” you pointed out, knowing Jack was a complete different way to PCMT then you.
You saw his eyes roll as he opened the passenger door for you, nodding for you to get in.
“Just take the lift.”
“Thank you.”
“Word is you and Abbot arrived together,” said Dana.
You groaned.
There was a lot to like about the night shifts. It felt more of a team work than day did sometimes, you loved working with everyone just as much as you did day and you liked how still it got in the night sometimes. But you missed Dana who watched out for you like a mama bear. Still, she made time to always check in with you before she headed out.
Her jean jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her hair pinned back neater and keys in hand but she still greeted you like it was the start of the day.
“He gave me a lift, the buses are on strike.”
She smirked. “Nice of him.”
“I've told him not to do it again.”
“Oh yeah, how'd he take that?”
He'd shook his head and laughed, constantly brushing off every thanks you made and offer of any aid you could give. He seemed wholly un-bothered by the inconvenience you'd caused.
“Jack's a good guy,” said Dana.
“That he is.”
“You deserve someone like him.”
You weren't sure where Dana got that idea. You also didn't know why you couldn't believe her. Why every time Jack turned up when things were going bad, or why every time he showed he cared you felt scared.
And you'd never really had the time to un-pack that.
You looked up to Dana, folding your arms over on the counter. “And what about what he wants?”
“Well for that you'll have to ask him,” she said with the all knowing look in her eyes. Her hand was gentle on your shoulder as she squeezed. “I'll see you in the morning.”
“Night.”
You thought you'd have a chance to view the patient charts that were swapped over to night shift but Jack was next, standing in Dana's space.
“What did mamma bear have to say?” he asked.
“Oh you know, the usual,” you said. “Trying to give me life advice that I won't follow.”
He huffed a chuckle. “I could've told her that, saved her the time.”
“I listen to your advice-”
He levelled his gaze onto yours.
“- I try to.”
His brows rose up. “You brought anything in for food tonight?”
You were about to answer, ready to prove him wrong, finally.
Jack interrupted you. “Anything other than that caramel coffee you like?”
He could read you like a book. You don't know how he found the time to know so much about you, to observe such things you wouldn't even notice unless he pointed them out.
Your silence was an answer.
“I brought extra, we'll have it later.”
He said it so confidently, leaving little space for any arguing on your end.
“Will we?”
“Yeah,” he said, stretching out on the counter. “I'm thinking a midnight picnic, trauma two? Might even get lucky with a GSW as company.”
You laughed and when you looked at Jack he was smiling. It was a soft kind, the sort that smoothed his face and made him seem younger and lighter. The kind that you took home with you and re-played as you fell asleep slowly.
You would never admit how long Jack spends in your mind. Somehow it felt like he already knew.
“You, um, you didn't braid your hair today,” said Jack, straightening up and drumming his knuckles on the counter. His gaze only faltered on yours for a second.
This was something you knew you did, carefully creating a routine for washing your hair that meant you didn't have to do it every day after work. Enough baby powder or dry shampoo meant you could get away with two washes at best.
“No, I guess I didn't.”
“It's gonna annoy you, being in your face all day.”
“I'm sure I'll manage.”
Jack didn't listen. He picked up your wrist- the one you kept a hair tie around- and slid it onto his own before going behind you.
“Jack, what are you doing?” you asked.
“Helping you.”
“You don't have to, I'll shove it up.”
Jack grumbled. “Let me work.”
His fingers grazed your neck as he brushed back your hair, the callouses on his hands rough against you, eliciting some sort of warmth in your body. Thankfully he was behind you and couldn't see the blush absolutely coming to your cheeks.
Jack took care of those around him, but he'd never touched anyone else's hair, never stood in the middle of the nurses station where all could see to braid someone's hair.
You felt him work, the weight of his gaze on the back of your head and his fingers moving through your hair like a cool summer evening breeze.
Across the way, Lena peered over her glasses at you with a smile.
“Lena's staring,” you said, unable to focus on any work till Jack's fingers were out of your hair.
Jack hummed. You knew that concentration from the amount of times you've seen him focused. “Lena always stares.”
You noticed Crus and Matteo passing by, both watching and pointing. You were sure Crus made some obscene make-out gesture and only hoped Jack didn't see. You were sure, if anyone else had asked he'd have done the same.
Though you hadn't technically asked.
“I'm sure you have far more important things to do than braid my hair, Abbot.” The lights in the Pitt seemed brighter, burning down on you like spotlights.
“Nothing more important right now.”
Your neck stretched as Jack pulled at your hair lightly to get it all in place. Curiosity ate at you, wondering where he'd done this before but the idea of knowing- like you had any right to- shut you up before you could speak.
Eventually he finished and his hands fell on your shoulders.
“There. Ready to be a hero?” he asked, spinning you around to him.
Your feet scuffed along the floor. “What? Am I the Robin to your batman?”
His lips quirked up and he moved his head side to side like weighing up his options. “More like the Lois to my Super-man.”
You sadly weren't versed enough in comic to know if that was a good or bad thing.
Jack was attending to a young girl when you walked in. Honestly it was starting to get comical how you turned up around him or he you. Some would call it magnets and as you met Jacks gaze as you stepped in you knew the ‘people’ meant Jack.
He looked at you, taking a quick note of the fact you still had your braid in even hours into the night. Jack smiled.
“Miss mermaid this is who I was telling you about,” said Jack.
The young girl- maybe five, maybe six- looked up at you as Jack slowly pulled at the thread bringing the skin of her knee together.
The chart had told you she'd taken a nasty fall on the playground and her teacher had brought her in, still trying to get in contact with the parents while Jack kept her company, cleaning her scraped knees and the gash just below.
“Hello,” the little girl waved. There wasn't even any tear marks on her cheeks but there was a small mark of blood at her little lip and her hair was falling out around her face.
“Hello miss mermaid,” you greeted, realising quickly the name came from her little mermaid top she wore.
“We were just talking about you,” said Jack, glancing quickly at you.
You blushed, wondering what Jack had to say about you to a small child. “Oh?”
“You and Crus played mermaids that time at the beach, remember?”
The girl giggled and Jack smiled over her shoulder at you.
“It wasn't- it wasn't mermades,” you excused.
That day was one of sweltering heat and lingering gazes. The night shift had took a trip to the beach on one of the hottest days of the year, enjoying the day for the day-shifters that couldn't. You'd gotten a lift with Matteo who'd brough Victoria Javadi along as she had the day off anyhow.
There was sand in places you didn't know sand could get, beach balls that somehow were pierced before you could even blow them up and gazes shared with Jack.
Maybe it was the bikini you wore that was so different from the scrubs. Maybe it was the fact Jack was un-characteristically insecure about his prosthetic leg being exposed to all and you'd told him nobody cared, that everybody cared more that he couldn't enjoy himself. Something had changed that day, settling in you like a pebble at the bottom of a lake thrown from a great height.
Since then, you and Jack had never looked at each other the same way.
But you and Crus hadn't been playing mermaids.... exactly. You swam around a lot and sort to collect more sea shells than the other. You just didn't call it mermaids.
“Will I be able to play mermaids again?” asked the little girl brushing hair out of her face with clumsy hands.
“Absolutely,” said Jack with great enthusiasm.
“And run faster than all the boys in my class?”
Jack chuckled, so did you. “Of course, but you'll have to rest up first.”
“Give the boys a chance to catch up, huh?” you suggested, plucking a leaf out of her hair.
“I like running fast,” she said.
Jack worked on the stitching, back to concentrating.
You sat down on the other side of the bed, gently reaching over to pluck bits of leaf and dirt from her hair. “So do I but sometimes we got to take things slow to not get hurt.”
You hadn't realised the meanings of the words until Jack halted his movements, glancing at you.
So you supposed there was a double meaning.
Jack's gaze was heavy.
“Tell you what, miss mermaid, Doctor Abbot here is better at braiding hair than he is stitches,” you said after a clear of your throat.
“Rude,” Jack mumbled.
It took a little convincing but you managed to swap places with Jack, gloving up and taking the tread he'd started at. He took your space on the bed and gently worked the child's hair into something neat while you carried on her stitches, close enough to being finished.
The both of you worked in silence as you each concentrated on your separate endeavours. All the while the young girl sat in between you hummed to herself, some Disney song.
“That's my favourite,” said Jack half way through when he must have realised what song she was humming.
You were still trying to understand it when part way through they changed to 'Under the sea'. You had to all but hold her leg from swinging as she sang loudly, causing you to laugh.
“Why not singing?” asked the girl.
“Yeah, why not singing?” Jack asked
You shook your head. “I don't know the song.”
Jack made a 'pfft' sound like he didn't believe you and 'little miss mermaid' did the same, blowing a raspberry.
Eventually you finished up the stitching, coincidently the same time Jack finished with his braiding.
A nurse- Bridget- walked in with the young girls teacher, eying the two of you between her. “You braiding Matteo's hair next?” she teased with a glint of wicked amusement in her eyes.
Jack moved up from the bed just as you also stood, discarding of the tools you'd used. “Only if he asks nicely.”
“Her parents have been informed they're on their way,” said the girls teacher.
“Perfect,” said Jack, holding either end of his stethoscope slung around his neck. “We are going to leave you in the very capable hands of Bridget who knows many more Disney songs than we do. Don't go without giving me another song.”
The girl laughed, her new braid slung over her shoulder. “I won't.”
Jack smiled and held the door open for you as you left with a small wave and him trailing behind you.
Lena was at the nurses station, answering calls and dishing out work while others walked around the two of you, busy with their own nights that existed by itself in the Pitt.
You hadn't realised you and Jack were heading for the break room till his arm stretched out and he pushed the door open over you.
“Are you really telling me you didn't know the song she was singing?” he asked.
“Of course I knew the song. I wasn't going to sing and embarrass myself,” you said, pulling out the mug you always used and Jack's favourite, finding the coffee pot newly brewed.
“Like I'm any Phil Collins,” scoffed Jack as he pulled out two containers from the fridge.
You frowned, sitting at the table. “Who?”
Jack looked at you, swinging the door shut. His brows rose high, crinkling his forehead. “Phil Collins? Turn it out again.... In the air tonight... The music on Tarzan?”
“Is he the dad of Lily Collins?”
Jack slid into the seat across from you. “Who?” He passed you over a full container of some sort of quinoa. It wasn't just left overs, it was a carefully calculated portion to match his.
You stared down at it like you were trying to decide if it was poisoned while Jack had already had a spoonful of his own.
It felt strange, to be sitting in a secluded room of the chaos and eating with him. Though at work, it felt oddly domestic. It felt- annoyingly- like the right thing to do. You wanted to eat from his container and wash it, hand it back to him. You wanted to know where he kept all his Tupperware, the kind that fell from cupboards at every open of the door.
“You cooking for me now?”
Jack shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “It's quinoa. Hardly cooking.”
You took a careful spoon.
Like he'd been discreetly watching as soon as you swallowed he spoke.
“You like it?”
“It tastes... kind of...”
“Healthy?”
You looked at him, feigned aghast.
Jack smirked, jaw working as he ate his food. “Come on, if it weren't for me you'd still be living on pizza's and take aways. At least this way you save a couple bucks and eat good. For a doctor you should know how important that is.”
“What are you so worried about what I eat for?” you mumbled, more wondering to yourself.
“I like to take care of you.”
He admitted it softly, a slight shrug to his shoulders like it was nothing. Like looking after you, a simple colleague- maybe a friend if you were lucky enough- was a simple feat. As if you didn't struggle to take care of yourself. Jack worked the same shifts, even more as an attending and cooked for himself, did yoga in mornings and even went out as a SWAT team member.
“Why?” You pushed the grains around in the tub.
“Why what?” he asked.
Daring to glance at him, you found Jack looking at you, arms rested on the table, his freckled biceps pulling at his scrub top.
You shook your head, taking another spoon of the food.
Any other time some emergency would be called to save you. Nothing as such when you really needed it. Of course you were glad nobody was being rushed in hurt... but still.
“Why do I like looking after you?” Jack repeated. “Because it's you.”
At that, you smiled. Not through happiness, more sympathy. “Because I can't look after myself?”
You knew you slept a lot, didn't take as good care of yourself as you could have. There were healthy and easy meal ideas sat in a folder in your phone, gathering dust. There was always laundry in a pile, dirty and clean, to go to their respective homes. There were friends waiting to make arrangements you never got around to making. You weren't easy but you didn't think you were so bad someone else had to come in and save you.
Jack paused, his face falling. “That's not what I meant.”
“Sure it is, you can admit it,” you shrugged, the food he's kindly shared turned to ash in your mouth. “I know I might seem like a mess to you, to someone so put together and... older, but I really do have my life managed. You don't have to add me to your to do list.”
“Woah, woah, woah, I never said that. That's not what I meant at all.”
You laughed. It felt better than feeling so embarrassed. “It's okay-”
“- no, no, that's not what's supposed to be going on, I... ”
Jack cared for people, you knew that. It was just apart of himself.
So you were almost distraught inside when you realised he didn't like you anymore than Shen or Ellis. He just looked out for you cause it was something he had to do.
“I'm not actually very hungry right now,” you said, pushing the lid back on and leaving it for him.
Jack was just as quick as you were to his feet. “No, no, wait- wait, hey-”
His pushed the door closed as you only just opened it an inch.
You looked at him. Your stomach was tight, uncomfortably so.
“Let me- let me try again, okay? I didn't think this through.”
“There's nothing to think through, just wait-”
Shen appeared at the door, trying to get in but Jack was surprisingly strong in keeping the door barred. “I need my coffee.”
“Give us a minute, Shen,” said Jack with all his attending commanding voice.
“But-”
“- a minute!”
You caught sight of Shen looking to you for help before walking away, head down and probably with his bottom lip jutted out like a kicked puppy. “Shen won't get far without his coffee.”
“Shen can wait till we're done now listen,” he said and leant against the door, watching you close. “I like taking care of you, I do, I really do. Not because I think you're not capable of looking after yourself, you are, I know you are it's... I just...”
You waited.
There was nothing.
Jack looked at you with all wide eyes and tension held in his arms. It's like he wanted to say something but ... couldn't.
One more minute and Shen would tear the place apart for coffee.
“You're a nice guy, Jack, you just don't have to be that nice.”
Jack let his arm fall from the door and you evacuated.
The sun had started to rise and you were so close to getting out the door, so close to running from the day's problems. Day shift had turned up, somewhat bright eyed and bushy tailed to take the days stresses though you weren't sure they could take Jack's insistence to talk to you away.
You were inches away from leaving when Jack called for you.
There wasn't the desperation to talk to you, it was the sort he used in traumas, only.
“I need you, GSW to the chest!”
The both of you ran in, gowns pulling on and gloves next as you pushed through the doors.
It was all the usual to you: too many doctors in one room, so much talking and orders it fell on your ears like music you knew all the words to.
“Woman in her twenties, multiple GSW's,” Robby called out. “Pulse ox eighty!”
The doors shut behind and the team of you all took your roles like a practised routine.
“Three... two... one- move!”
All together you lifted her over.
There was blood blooming on her shirt, a tear in her jeans. There was a black eye and what looked like a broken nose if the cut over the bridge and the slant of it was anything to go by.
You'd seen enough of these to know when they were accidents and when they weren't.
Her back hit the bed and the sharp beep of life being lost echoed.
“We've lost her pulse!” shouted Robby.
Without being told you climbed up, hands coming together and hammering down on her chest. For a split second you felt the ghost of Jack's hands, helping you up before they were gone like a summers breeze.
Looming over her you could see the injuries better. And worse.
“GSW, right-sided, she needs a central line,” you announced.
Jack moved around you and the patient, already preparing himself for the central line before you'd called for one.
“BP's dropping out! Pulse Ox is eighty-five!” Robby called.
“She's got tension pneumo,” said Jack without shouting and everyone heard. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recognised that authority he demanded with the simple sound of his voice.
“Crash cart,” said Robby. “Charge to one hundred.”
You waited till you heard the buzz of the cart and felt the heat of the panels before moving.
“Clear!”
The sound of her pulse was quiet and the rhythm was odd but it was there, slight bumps in a green line.
You climbed down, landing next to Jack as he readied with a fourteen needle.
“BP's seventy Ox,” said Jesse.
“Day shifters trying to cramp our style,” said Jack as he slid in.
Robby tutted. “Trying to make sure you don't get all the fun.”
Jack straightened next to you. “Ok, I'm setting up the chest tube, you're gonna set me up with a thirty-two French. Get a mig of atropine and a need a unit of O-neg.”
Two units were hooked up.
“We need to get the chest tube in and stop the bleeding.”
It was all a flurry of hands and tools as the chest tube was in, as the chest was packed with gauze at the right flank where the bullet had tore through her chest. It was a close one, but the sort you could save with nimble hands and careful concentration.
“Okay,” Jack uttered as the both of you loomed over her. “I know we're fighting and I don't like that-”
“We're not fighting and now's not the time,” you said.
Robby was on the other side of the bed, giving the two of you a look. “I agree.”
Jack waved him off, focusing on you. “I'll strike you a deal, we save this woman's life. You get breakfast with me.”
You glanced up, wondering if anyone had heard, though you were sure by now Jack's attempts at asking you on a date was one of the worst kept secrets.
Robby was watching from the other side, arms over his chest and his brows raised.
“You strike a hard bargain there, Abbot,” you mumbled.
“May as well say yes, either way you're saving lives.”
“Why cause you'll die if I say no?”
Jack looked at you. As usual there was nothing giving away if he was joking or not. “Yeah.”
It would have been a pretty poor time to joke.
Five minutes later she was stable.
Blood bags hung slowly draining, rags and gauze of blood littered the ground and torn off gowns were thrown haphazardly around. The patients pulse was steady and beating with the promise of years of life ahead. There'd be challenges, you don't get shot and not have to face even more hardship.
But there was life.
And that was the most rewarding part of the job.
“Good job,” said Robby, peeling of his gloves. “I'm gonna get some air.”
“Then go home, right?” asked Jack as everyone slowly moved away.
Robby only made a rude gesture as the doors closed and left you and Abbott to peel away the blood stained gowns and gloves.
Jack turned to you, un-fazed at the life he'd saved. “You want to go from here or do you want me to drop you off at yours and let you change first?”
You stared at him.
It was almost unfair, his charisma in spite of it all. You didn't stand a chance. When Jack said he was going to save a life, he was going to do just that. It was an added bonus to take you on a date.
Your head was shaking but your lips were curling up.
Jack backed out of the room, leaving you with a thumbs up.
You didn't know why you lingered with the body. You were a resident who had one patient on the go, you should've picked up another. You should've left the trauma room for the surgical consultation.
Yet you wanted to start a chart, wanted to find a name for the girl.
As you walked over, checking her BP which sat safe at one hundred over sixty, her eyes fluttered open, dry lips parting and murmurs exiting.
“Hey,” you dropped your voice gently. “You're safe now, you're at the hospital. Can you hear me?”
You held her head steady as her eyes fluttered but didn't open wide enough to meet yours.
“Can you tell me your name?”
You listened close but got nothing from the grunts.
The doors to the trauma room pushed open.
A small girl stood there, early twenties or even late into her teens. She wore a hoody, blood soaking up the sleeves. She didn't introduce herself, instead, she stared.
“Is she alive?” she asked.
Beyond the broken nose you could see the resemblance in the unconscious on the bed and the one that stood ahead of you.
“Do you know her?” you asked.
“She's my sister.”
“Well your sister was shot in the chest, she's lost a lot of blood but she should make it-”
You heard the gunshots before you saw the gun.
Jack had stripped off the gown stained with blood and pulled off his gloves next, trashing them in a bin.
“That was some way to ask a girl out,” chuckled Robby as he followed his movements in yanking anything with blood on him off.
Jack shrugged. So far nothing that he'd planned the day had gone to plan, asides from saving lives yet that was his plan every day. When you'd called he was already at the hospital but you'd said about the buses and he put his keys back in at once. He thought finally. He'd been waiting for a sign to try to take you on a date, seeing's as the food and books and recommendations and days out weren't enough.
Now, he'd saved a life and got a date.
“So what's next?” asked Robby. “You perform a resuscitative thoracotomy and ask her to marry you?”
“If you have one let me know and I'll see.”
Robby chuckled, patting him on the back when three gunshots rang out.
Everyone ducked.
People screamed.
Where suddenly dozens of people stood everyone was down in lumps, covering heads and ducking for patients.
Jack hovered, not quite down but ready to move. Gun shots were nothing, enough to lull him to sleep. These shots were like any other but they echoed in his ears and richoeted in his heart.
They came from behind him.
From the room he'd just left.
“Where'd that come from?” he asked. He knew.
Robby's hand pushed at his chest, already moving past him. “Trauma two!”
You.
“No!”
The two of them took off toward the room.
A lady exited. It wasn't you. It wasn't the patient. It was a third un-familiar party.
She turned at the sound of heavy footsteps and rose her gun at the two.
“Gun!” someone screamed.
Robby was still holding onto Jack as the two of them skid to a stop in front of her. Somewhere someone was crashing and Jack couldn't see you or hear you.
There were three shots.
He knew three shots were enough to kill.
Jack raised his hands, showing he was harmless and helpless. “Please,” he begged. “Is she alive?”
The girls eyes were hard and full of hatred. The gun was steady in her hands. She was calm, completely but there was no doubt the gun shots were hers. “Not anymore.”
“Oh god-”
“Woah-Woah-” Robby caught Jack with one strong arm as his knees gave out.
You were dead? Some girl- hardly an adult- shot you? Why? To tear out his own heart?
It was already gone.
“Jack? Jack, brother, listen to me,” Robby was trying to talk to him but nothing was going through to him, like a signal lost.
The girl turned and left quickly, making sure everyone knew she had a gone when they all knew she wasn't afraid to use it. The shots must have rung out through the entire hospital.
Robby helped Jack up and as soon as the doors leaving the Pitt closed they rushed in.
The harsh sound of beeping was bouncing off the trauma walls where blood was splattered and a pool of that same blood dripped down into a puddle under the patient.
“Oh my god.” Jack found you at once, using the walls as a crutch as you stumbled your way through the room. He was at your side at once, arms around your trembling body and holding you- moving with you even as you tried to walk.
There was blood all over you and you'd paled dramatically.
Jack coaxed you into staying still, grabbing your cheeks to get your attention. He ignored the pain in his leg that had come from the run, the giving out and now as he crouched to get a look at you. “Hey, hey, hey, look at me- let me look at you. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you?”
Robby had already rushed to the patients side, what doctors and nurses that had gained control over themselves joining him in trying to save her life again. “Ah shit, looks like PEA! Amp of antropine, amp of Epi!”
Your eyes darted over to where the chaos ensued, even as Jack tried to get you to look at him.
“You won't ... won't get her back!” your voice was shaky and hoarse from a scream he hadn't heard. “Blew her god damn brains out.”
“Come here, okay, let's-let's-” Jack's arm was around your shoulder and he was moving you out, trying to help pulling off your bloody gloves while keeping an arm on you.
There was blood and something else on your gloves. Blew her brains out. And you'd tried to scoop them back in.
When the bright lights of the hospital met you your body grew still in his arm.
Jack was familiar with trembles, with blood and PTSD. He wasn't used to any of it in you. In everything he'd learnt about you, he hadn't learnt the subtle art of comfort. “Let's get you some air, let's get you cleaned up-”
You pushed out of Jack's arms, pulling and tugging at your scrub top soaked in blood and all but ran into the women's bathroom.
He heard retching as the door closed.
Jack shook his head, ready to follow you when Dana appeared in front of him, hand on his chest.
“Take it easy, take it easy, I'll check in on her.”
He could still hear you throwing up when Dana slipped in.
The sun was high in the sky, casting the roof of PCMT in an orange glow. The sky burnt in its colour but all you saw was red.
One moment the girl had been crashing, the monitor still beeped in your head. Her body had jerked up to the sky before you got a rhythm back and then- just as you did with any patient- you got hopeful. It seemed in the clear to do so, you'd helped patients come back from worse and you always had hope.
Nobody that worked in the ED could live without it.
Then- it had took three bangs for you to drop to the ground but not before being smeared in blood. You didn't even know what was happening as the ringing ran out in your ears. You'd met the ground with a hard thump to your head. When your vision cleared you saw the shoes rush out of the room.
Your guiding as a med student was doing no harm, saving lives and you'd dropped and put your life ahead of your patients.
What kind of doctor did that?
The cowardly type- you.
“You're in my spot,” said a voice coming closer.
Jack.
His voice soothed the nerves in your body that had been on edge since the accident. Everything made you jump, but him.
“It's a nice spot,” you said as loud as you could, knowing your voice still wasn't back. Or loud enough.
“Yeah,” he said, getting closer. “But usually I like to be on the other side of the rail. And on my feet.”
You were sat on the edge of the roof, not on the edge close enough for anyone to worry but apparently that didn't stop Jack.
He huffed, behind you now. “Please, I'm an older guy, my heart can't take it. Can you come over?”
If your feet weren't like weights pulling you down maybe you could have but you were struggling to feel any part of you.
You admitted as much, quietly. “I can't move.”
You'd moved quick when faced with the gun, dropping to save your own skin. Since then moving had been difficult, like you'd used every muscle in your body to push yourself and now you were locked.
Jack moved in a blur as he ducked under the rail and slowly set down next to you. He was silent, only his breathing calming you. “Did you get checked over with Robby?”
You nodded. “The ringing'll go away in a day or two.”
“Yeah.... it always does.”
You looked at him and Jack was looking at you. The grey stubble of his beard never looked greyer and his eyes were dull, small half moon bruises of sleep marked there. His hair was ruffled and he smelled dully of hospital.
This was a man that had saved more lives than you could count and severed in tours ... and he was taking time to check on you.
“I'm sorry,” you didn't know you had cried till Jack's arm was around your shoulder, bringing you in.
“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his arm tight on you. “What are you sorry for, huh?”
“I didn't save her, I-I should've tried. Should be reasoned with the shooter and I just-I just dropped down and you-” your breathing was ragged, the cries frequenting. “-you've done so much, lost your leg for damn sakes and I just dropped.”
“Hey,” he snapped. It wasn't un-kind. It was stern in ways he had to be in the as a night attending. “You did everthing you could.”
You looked at him. He really meant that though. “I dropped down!”
“You saved your life,” he reminded you. Jack's arm was still tight on your shoulders but his other hand held your cheek, making you focus on him. “You acted on instinct. If you hadn't your patient still would've shot and you-” Jack's breath caught. His eyes were glossed over. You'd missed the redness around his eyes. “- you'd have been shot and I couldn't live with that. I-I couldn't.”
Jack wiped away his tears, wiping yours next. He chuckled dryly at the both of your tears.
“I lost my leg in a tour,” said Jack. “Where guns and shooting is part of the job. It's not in a hospital. You did what you could.”
It still didn't feel right. It still felt like the cowards way of doing things.
“Look at me, look at me-” he nudged your gaze to his. His eyes were wide and implored you to look at him. Really look. “You did what you could and I know a patient died and I know-I know it's hard but...”
He sniffed.
“But what?” you mumbled. How could there be a but in any of this?
He held your cheeks tighter, smudging your cheeks just that little more. Jack let out a shaky exhale. “But I am so happy you're okay. I am so fucking glad.”
His dimples were hardly there as he gave you a sorry smile.
Your head fell into his chest and he brought his arms around you, holding you, shushing you as you cried. Cried for your patient, for the shooter, for the way you dropped. None of which maybe could be forgiven but all of which were valid.
Somewhere in the crying Jack held you tighter and moved the both of you back away from the ledge. You let him, even helped in scuffing your feet and pushing away till the railing hit both your backs.
“You're okay, I got you, I got you.”
I got you. He'd always had you, if he hadn't had you today what would you have done? Nothing crazy but you might have stayed up on the roof all day, be dead on your feet by the night. Jack had always had you and when he did you'd all but told him not to.
“I'm sorry.”
His hand ran over your hair. It had come lose but still remained in the braiding. “You don't have to be sorry, you don't.”
“No about earlier, in the lounge,” you said, holding onto him. “You were being nice, you've always been nice and I... I was horrible-”
“- you weren't horrible, no-”
“- you've been so kind to me and I don't even say thanks-”
“- you have actually, quite a few times- ”
“- I don't know why you put up with me-”
“- well, it helps that I love you-”
If there was one way to shut your rambling up, it was that.
You still had a vice on his scrub top but you looked up to him. For the first time- you think ever- Jack had to look away from you.
“What?” you asked.
Jack's jaw ticked and he clocked his head. “I didn't mean to say that.”
Disappointment chocked you. Of course it would just slip out, heck Jack was comforting you, he'd say anything.
“Oh.”
“I do love you,” he said and you looked at him with something akin to hope as you moved your head away. “That's why I've been looking after you, that's what you do when your- when your in love. My... my wife taught me that. I was just scared you know cause.... I haven't been in love since she died.”
It wasn't often Jack talked about his wife but when he did he talked. He'd talk anyone's ears off about her and once or twice you'd been that person.
“I'm sorry.” This time you weren't sure what you were apologising for, you just were.
Jack looked at you with a mocked frustration.
You cringed. “Sorry, I should- I should stop saying that.”
He hummed and nodded along with you, a tiny smile on his lips, the chapped parts cracking from the salt of his last tears. “I never meant to make you feel incapable, I know you can look after yourself. But I want to.”
You laughed at yourself, wiping at your cheeks and snot. “Why? I'm a mess.”
Jack took your cheek in the palm of his hand. “No, you're not. Not to me.”
Jack kissed you so slow and sweet on the edge of the roof with the sun praising upon the both of you. He didn't push his feelings into you, he let you feel them in the gentle press of his lips and the hold of his hands.
SUMMARY: Working a double shift on your birthday was a fine idea until you come to the realization that you have yourself a little stalker situation on your hands… and Jack is less than pleased to learn about it.
WARNINGS: mentions of a stalker and panic attacks, inaccurate medical reportings (by me lol), protective Jack, brief mentions of mental illness, non-established relationship, some light flirting and lots of internalised "he'll never want me how I want him" angst
A/N: hehe I had a dream about this and started writing immediately...it did turn out pretty long so I had to split it into two parts, I do apologise BUT I am aiming to have the second part out by the weekend (which I promise includes smut)!!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Reader
WORD COUNT: 8.5k
PART TWO
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The walk from your apartment to PTMC is usually one you take the time to appreciate. Twenty minutes of undisturbed, allocated music time. And more often than not, your only daily intake of fresh air and occasional sunshine.
This evening however, you’re having no such luck. You’ve forgotten to charge your AirPods—your only set of portable audio equipment—so music is out of the question, and the second your feet hit the pavement, the heavens above open up and rain down on you.
Not the most ideal start to your double shift, you know, but it could’ve been worse. At least you always keep a spare change of clothes and shoes in your locker and with any luck, the Pitt will be calm enough for you to savor a coffee while conducting shift change.
You hurry through the automatic doors at the ambulance bay in an attempt to find some warmth inside, and when you do, it’s in more ways than just the physical sense.
“Happy birthday!”
You blink at the scene before you. The central hub is littered with gift bags, balloons and banners. Half of your colleagues and friends are gathering around, beaming at you and a grin stretches across your soaked face when Santos pulls the string on a party popper.
Mel’s feet quickly bring her to you, her smile wide as she awkwardly wraps her arms around you from the side and pulls away with an overly ecstatic grin.
“Happy birthday,” she repeats again and you mirror her expression, though yours is slightly more softened.
“Thanks, Mel,” you breathe, turning back to the central hub.
You purse your lips together, can feel your eyes welling with unshed tears. In the eight years you’d been at PTMC, you’ve always managed to book your birthday off. And while they’ve always made an effort to plan a birthday meal or drinks to celebrate with you, you’ve never walked into something like this.
It makes your heart swell, makes it ache. You’ve had a few casual jobs before here, while you were in college and even before, but never once have you felt like you belong. Not like they make you feel.
You sniffle and wipe your eyes, smile still wide, and the rainy, music-less walk to work is suddenly completely forgotten about. Approaching the nurses desk, you take in the scene properly through a slightly distorted vision.
At least seven gift bags are scattered across the top section of the desk, two bouquets of flowers, three helium balloons and two large banners.
“You guys are so cute,” you coo as you inspect the bags. That’s when you notice the open white box and your eyes widen even further. A cream frosted cake sits neatly in the box, the words ‘Happy 30th Doc!’ are piped on in a green icing calligraphy.
You’re slightly overwhelmed at the amount of love they’re outright showing you.
You hear a clap of hands and turn to find Robby standing in front of you all, a fond smile on his lips when he looks at you and dips his head.
“Alright, you’ve all seen your favorite Doctor. Now, respectfully, fuck off and go home. It’s been a long day and the majority of you are back here bright and early tomorrow morning.”
Mel is the first to give you a hug goodbye, excitement still evident in her body as she bounces on her feet slightly. Then Santos, which is more of a pat on the back, and Whitticker hugs you like he’s still a teenager that hasn’t ever touched a girl before.
Langdon almost crushes you when he wraps his arms around your shoulders, Javadi opting to wave goodbye and Dana pressing a kiss to your cheek and smoothing down your wet hair.
“Have a good shift, doll. Enjoy the cake.” She grins as you blow her a kiss goodbye.
You feel the weight of Robby’s hand on your shoulder and turn to face him and the rest of the staff you’ll be working with tonight.
Only a few familiar faces looked back at you. Shen, Boone, Ellis, Mohan. Nurses flitter about but your eyes land on four new faces you haven’t yet seen.
Robby looks at them expectantly and you notice the way they shift to stand a little straighter.
The young blonde clears her throat and plasters on a smile. “Amelia Crovinch, MS3.”
The second is a short man, probably early thirties with a ginger stubble and a podgy stomach. “Ricky Perkins, MS2.”
The third is much taller. A man in probably his late twenties, dark hair, dark eyes and you would be stupid to not admit that he’s attractive. He grins at you, eyes flirty. Fucking fantastic. “Charlie Holloway, MS3. Happy birthday, gorgeous.” He winks.
You turn away from him to the final one, trying to hide your grimace at the wink. A woman who looks to be in her mid twenties, expressionless and far too snooty for your liking. “Karen Molloy, MS4.”
“Perfect.” Robby claps his hands together. “This is Dr. Y/L/N, R4, though hopefully soon attending. If Dr. Shen and Dr. Abbot are otherwise busy, this is who you will go to for a typical attending clearance.”
“But she’s not an attending,” Molloy argues.
Fantastic, you’re sure you’re going to get along just superbly with her.
You raise a brow, turning away to look back at Robby. “Jack’s working tonight?” You ask instead, hoping you hide your excitement well enough.
Robby nods, opens his mouth to speak when another voice does it for him. “Happy birthday to my favorite R4.”
Jack approaches swiftly, that crooked yet flirty smile on the corner of his mouth. Your stomach flips at the sight of him, the sound of his voice. It’s pathetic really, the amount of affect he has on you over something as trivial as speaking.
You roll your eyes fondly. “I’m your only R4.”
Jack stops just short of you, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “And if there were more, you’d still be my favorite.” He says it lightly enough for it to be perceived as a joke but you know better.
You know you’re Jack’s favorite. If his behaviour toward you compared to others is anything to go by. He taught you most of what you know, advocated for you to sit in on new things and take control when more authority was needed. Jack believes in you, respects you wholeheartedly, and he has never been afraid to show it.
It’s made you giddy for years, makes you silly enough to believe you’re his favorite something else, too. But Jack is a flirt, he gives eyes to everyone he speaks with and since you started working here eight years ago, you’ve had to remind yourself of the fact every day.
His gaze is still on you, one that lingers just a second too long. When he moves his eyes to look at Robby and most probably send him home, you take the moment to address the students with a kind smile.
“It’s nice to meet you all, night shifts can be a little crazy but we all try to work together as a team to get through.”
Another set of hands meet your shoulders as a presence looms over you from behind. His scent consumes you, warm and enticing, familiar in a way it shouldn’t be, in a way you want it to be more. It takes every ounce of composure you have to not allow your face to betray you.
“I am going to get our birthday girl up to speed…Dr. Ellis, Cravinch, do you mind moving all of this to the break room, please?” Jack gestures to the gifts and balloons on the nurses station.
Ellis nods, reaching for your arm and smiling wickedly. “Happy birthday, baby.” You grin at her, offering thanks and telling everyone to help themselves to cake whenever they want it.
You salute Robby playfully as you pass him, heading toward the lockers to rid yourself of your damp jacket and backpack and change your shoes. You can feel Jack following close behind you, can hear his soft steps before he leans on his crossed arm against the lockers, body facing you.
“Robby said you’re working a double?” You break the silence as you stuff your damp sneakers and jacket into the locker, toeing on your dry pair of spare converse. You side-eye him playfully. “Aren’t you getting a little too old for that shit now?”
Jack’s brows rise comically high at your comment, his own mouth curling into a smirk. He rolls his shoulders, not moving from his position leaning against the lockers. “I’m forty-seven.”
You nod slowly, lips pursed as you shut your locker and turn to face him, mirroring his body language. A playful look gleams in his eyes and you have to force your thighs not to clench together.
Jack is a flirt.
He does this with everyone.
You are his favourite R4 and nothing else.
“I didn’t think you were working tonight.” he comments and for a brief moment you let yourself be deluded enough to believe he keeps tabs on your shift pattern.
You sigh. “I was supposed to be in this morning but apparently there was a scheduling error, so instead I’m spending my birthday in my favorite place.” You grin at him sarcastically and the corner of his lips kicks up in a smile.
It makes your pulse thunder. You need to get a fucking grip.
You take a step away from the lockers and Jack follows, his arm brushing yours as you adjust the stethoscope around your neck. It’s comfortable and professional as he walks you around the ED, filling you in on the current patients, what they need, what they’re waiting for.
And Jack also makes a point of letting every patient know it’s your birthday and to be on their best behaviors. It makes you laugh, blush and cringe every time they offer birthday wishes, but it made you beam when a seven year old girl with a broken wrist sang to you. You promised to bring her a fat slice of cake for it.
“This is the last one. Caleb Dawkins, thirty-three year old male who has been persistent to the day shift that he is unhappy with their lack of diagnoses and insisted on waiting to be seen by a different doctor on the night shift.” Jack mutters to you as you both stop just short of outside the curtain.
You sigh, plaster on a smile and walk into his private sector.
The patient on the bed is quite attractive. Dark hair, long lashes, bright eyes that remind you of Langdon’s. His skin is tan, patchwork tattoos across his arms and absolutely no reason for his shirt to be off with no motoring equipment attached to him.
“Hi, Mr Dawkins, I’m Dr Y/L/N, what brings you in today?” you poise it as politely as you can but you really don’t have the energy tonight for someone coming in and wasting time and resources if there’s nothing wrong with them.
Caleb stills when he sees you, a smile breaking across his lips when he realises you’re a doctor that hasn’t yet seen him. “Hey Doc, I got some pain in my chest,” he grunts, rubbing at his sternum.
You frown, reaching for his chart and reading over the notes. You feel Jack’s presence behind you, looking over your shoulder at the notes and you bite the inside of your cheek.
“Caleb, your EKG and bloodwork came back all clear.” Jack tells him—which you feel like isn't for the first time with the huff that follows—and takes the chart from you as you approach the patient.
“Lay back for me, just gonna have a listen.” You recline his bed back, pressing the cool metal of the stethoscope to his bare chest. You keep it there for a few moments, eyes focused on the wall opposite you.
You pull away. “Your heart rate is perfect. Have you experienced any vomiting, fever, dizziness…?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been feeling hot and cold on and off.”
You hum and reach for the thermometer, guiding it to his ear and checking for a fever. It beeps, flashing green and you place it back, side-eyeing Jack who stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed.
You turn back to Caleb with a friendly smile. “Your temp is fine, but I can get one of the nurses to come back and run some more bloods, see if there’s anything we missed.”
“Can’t you do that?” he argues.
You make a pout and let out a breath. “Our nurses are very capable and I have a lot of patients to check on, but I will be back soon when I have your blood results, okay?”
You don’t wait for him to reply before following Jack out of the section and loosening a breath. “He is going to be here all night isn’t he,” you mutter and he hums in agreement as he guides you both to the break room.
You corner Princess on the way, asking if she can run another lot of bloods for Caleb before the smell of coffee washes over you and Jack is handing you a cup, his fingers ghosting against yours for a brief moment.
The break room is filled with your gifts and balloons and cake. You smile at it all, that warmth in your chest returning. “Seems pretty calm out there, why don’t you take a look at what you got?” Jack says over the rim of his polystyrene cup.
“I’ll go through it when I get home.” You wave a hand, picking up the card in the flowers to read the note.
A bouquet of pink and white tulips from Robby. A bouquet of pink and blue hydrangeas from Whittaker and Santos, and a large bouquet of red roses with no note. You turn to Jack, pointing at them. “Do you know who those are from?”
He shakes his head, approaching to look at them. “Dana said they got delivered for you this afternoon, no card on them, though. Maybe Collins?” he suggests.
You laugh loudly at that. “Yeah, because Collins is going to get me roses for my birthday.”
That stupid fucking smirk spreads across his mouth. He shrugs again. “I don’t know then. Are you…seeing anyone?”
Your gaze snaps to his then, and you must be seeing things because you’re almost certain the smirk on his face is fading as he asks. You swallow, tongue swiping across your lower lip as you look back at the roses.
“No, I haven’t even been on a date in like…forever…” Realisation of the fact crept up on you and a crushing weight began to settle its way beneath your ribcage. While you haven’t been on a date in a hot minute, you have seen these exact roses far too often recently. Something that no longer feels like a coincidence.
For the past six weeks, every Wednesday, this exact bouquet has been left sitting on the steps to your apartment building. Something you never truly acknowledged much of before. There on a Tuesday, gone by Wednesday. But now, they are here. Left at the nurses station. A delivery for you.
It makes your blood run cold, a daunting fear that begins to wedge its way beneath your ribcage. You’re not seeing anyone, there is no reason for you to be receiving roses.
The stillness of your shoulders doesn’t go unmissed by Jack. It concerns him slightly, piques his interest. He takes a step closer, frowning at the roses then frowning at you.
“What—”
Jack’s words are cut off when one of the med students—that you’ve already forgotten the name of—calls out to you for assistance.
You take a breath, grab the roses and shove them into the trash in the corner of the break room. Jack watches with raised brows and confusion swimming in his eyes. He’s about to speak again when another call for help shouts across the ED, Jack’s name tagged onto the end of it.
He grabs your wrist and gives it a squeeze. “We’ll talk about this later.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The next five hours of your shift is chaos incarnate.
No coffee, no breaks. Three cardiac arrests, two addicts who had overdosed, three critically injured in a car accident and a guy who was stupid enough to attempt to breath fire after watching a four minute long youtube tutorial and ended up with third degree burns in his throat and across his face and neck.
You haven’t been on your game. You mind has been distracted, stuck on those fucking unsolicited roses.
And by the time it gets to 2am and you sneak off to the break room for at least a sip of coffee, all of your birthday cake has been eaten and the coffee pot is empty. It’s typical for you to be interrupted the second a fresh pot finishes brewing.
“Um, your phantom chest pain guy is refusing to speak to a doctor that isn’t you.” Amelia mutters apologetically.
You close your eyes for a moment, blindly pouring coffee into a cup and pressing the lid on. “I can come with you, assert some male dominance.” Charlie suggests, like it was an offer that would do you a favor.
You find yourself wishing it was Charlie that passed out at the sight of blood and got sent home instead of Perkins.
You look at him with a bored expression, brow quirked at the audacity. You wonder how far up his ass his head really is. A hand lands on his shoulder—one you’re too familiar with, one you fantasise about late at night.
“I am going to pretend I didn’t just hear you say that.” Jack speaks low, eyes peering into yours but you avoid his gaze.
He’s been trying to speak with you since your little outburst in the break room at the start of shift but you’ve been avoiding him. You don’t feel like admitting your little situation aloud to anyone—least of all to him. You won’t be able to handle the disappointment on his face when you also admit that you’ve been oblivious to it for weeks.
“Shen is about to perform a chest tube thoracostomy in Trauma Room 3, great learning experience,” he mutters to the students.
When you sneak another glance at him, he’s already looking at you, Charlie and Amelia rushing to the action. He jerks his head to the side. “Walk with me?”
You huff but relent, shoulders low and feet scuffling. “You gonna tell me what's going on?” he presses softly.
You keep your eyes ahead. “If I make it through this double shift, sure—Mr Dawkins, I heard you were asking for me, what’s going on?”
He sits up in his bed, still not attached to any monitoring equipment because it still isn’t needed. You truly don’t know how much longer you can keep your patience with him. You raise your brows expectantly when you’re ignored and follow his line of sight to Jack who remains close behind you.
“You her guard or something? She not capable of doing anything on her own?” Caleb’s voice is harsh as he addresses Jack and it gets your back up immediately.
You whirl back to look at him with raised brows. “I asked Dr Abbot to assist me. We’re at a loss here, Caleb.” You sigh as you take a seat on the swivel stool beside his bed. “Your bloodwork is coming back perfectly normal, your heart rate is steady, no temperature. You have no bruising or swelling, no abnormalities when we’ve checked over your chest.”
Jack watches with crossed arms from the curtain.
“So what are you saying?” he asks you softly.
But before you can even open your mouth, Jack is speaking. “We’re saying we don’t think you’re really having chest pains.”
Caleb’s face grows angry, expression furrowed as he sits up in the bed, all frustration directed toward Jack. You stand immediately.
“You’re saying I’m making this shit up?”
“No! No, we are not saying that,” you reassure as calmly as you can, palms in the air in a futile attempt at surrender, an offer to calm him. You sit back slowly on the stool when Caleb lays back in the bed.
You chew on your bottom lip, shifting closer on the stool and trying to keep your expression friendly and open. “Caleb, are there any…mental health illnesses within your family?”
He blinks at you, slowly before a brow raises just an inch. “You think I'm insane?”
You smile as you shake your head. “No, but I think you think you’re feeling sensations that aren’t there. We’ve run many tests, Caleb, and nothing is coming back to suggest that what you’re feeling is physical feeling.”
You let the words hang in the air, let him stare at you as he processes what you said. For a brief moment, you think he might lunge for you, so does Jack by the way he takes a careful step closer to your back.
Caleb blinks again. “My dad has uh…he has schizophrenia.”
With pursed lips, you nod. “Okay, I’m going to put you in for a CT scan so we can see if there are any enlarged ventricles or cortical atrophy. They can sometimes be a sign of schizophrenia, but not always. We have a social worker in the ED, her name is Kiara. I can get her to come down and speak with you if you’re open to it?”
Caleb shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to speak to anyone that isn’t you.”
You swallow with a nod, forcing a kind smile. “Okay. I won’t be able to take you for the CT but I will come and check on you when you’re done.”
You stand to leave, palms clammy as you approach Jack when Caleb calls your name again. Turning to face him, he smiles at you, kind, flirty. And not at all worried about the possibility of having schizophrenia. Figures.
“Happy birthday, baby.”
You nod a thanks a little hesitantly, irked by the nickname and with a hand on your lower back, Jack guides you to the nurses station. “Happy birthday, baby.” He mimics playfully in a low voice and the repetition of the nicknames makes your shoulders tense.
Because it doesn’t irk you when it’s coming from Jack’s lips. It sets your body alight in excitement and wonder. Baby. Oh God, you’ll be playing this moment in your head for weeks to come. Your mind is already storing the nickname and tone away into your mental Rub Hub.
Despite his attempt at lightening your mood, you can feel Jack’s eyes on you as you sit at a computer to chart, to book in that CT. You feel him hovering and while you’ll usually bask in the attention, this time you rear away from it.
The questioning is coming, you know that. But if you can avoid it until at least the end of the night shift, you will.
“You want me to make a call to Psych?” Jack asks and you sigh. “Would you mind? I know a CT isn’t a definite way to pick it up but at least it could rule out a mass or tumor in the meantime.”
“Hey, this got delivered for you about ten minutes ago.” Boone calls, pushing a brown take out bag in your direction.
You look at the bag, then her, your brows furrowed. “I didn’t order anything.”
She shrugs a shoulder as you open the delivery to inspect the contents. “Maybe someone on day shift wanted to surprise you.”
The smell of sushi hits you immediately and your stomach churns. Not because you don’t like it, but because it was your favorite and no one on day shift would be awake at midnight to send you sushi.
Anger burns your blood and Jack watches it happen. You scrunch the bag up, stand from your chair and throw the food into the trash with as much force as you can muster. You don’t look back to see wide eyes and confusion following your retreating form. Nor do you see the increasing worry that’s taking over Jack’s face.
You have a stalker. Someone following you. Who knows where you live and where you work. Who knows you’re working tonight. Who knows it's your birthday. It’s with that heavy and dizzying thought that you’re locking yourself in the restroom and bursting into tears.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Jack Abbot has a way with women. Well, not just women, he tends to have the same effect on people despite their gender.
Strong eye contact, lazy smiles, low tones. He’s sure, confident, assertive, nice. But right now he’s growing more and more pissed off by the second. He has no energy for lazy smiles or undisturbed eye contact.
Worry is beginning to wedge its way deep into his bones with every moment that passes, every slight behavioural change you display. Your outburst with the roses was one thing, but when it happened again with the take out delivery, the entire team was then beginning to notice.
On top of that, you’re avoiding him. Which in your eight years of working at PTMC, you have never done. Jack doesn’t like it. Not one bit.
“Who shit in her birthday cake?” Molloy mutters from her position where she charts, her distasteful eyes following you across the Pitt as you assist on a head trauma.
McKay gives her an unimpressed look before stepping up beside Jack to watch you through the glass window. “She doing okay?” she asks quietly, the concern evident in her voice.
Jack’s mouth scrunches slightly to the side, a barely noticeable movement of his head following. “Yeah, I think she’s just got a lot on her mind. Keep an eye on her for me?”
Mckay nods, not quite convinced at the way he tries to vouch for your mental state but she doesn’t press, it’s not her place. “You’re on a double right? It’s almost 4am, why don’t go for your break, we’ll be okay out here.” she offers.
Jack hesitates, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep even if he tries. But ultimately, he knows McKay is right. He still has another fifteen hours ahead of him and his leg is fucking killing. Jack relents with a sigh, running his hand down his face as he nods.
“Yeah, okay. Make sure she goes for hers when she’s done.” he nods his head in your direction and Cassie nods hers.
It takes twenty minutes for Jack to even begin to feel comfortable on the small couch in the break room. An unofficial designated space for staff to get at least an hour's shut eye if they were on a double. His leg is aching, the pathetic massage he gave the stub doing little to ease it. But his mind is the one thing he can’t shut off from.
Something is wrong, bothering you to the point that it’s affecting your work. Your patience is wearing thin, your smiles are forced and tight. He’s never seen you like this; so out of your element to the point that you’re snapping at people for the smallest things.
Everyone is used to you being a ray of sunshine. Someone who laughs hard at things that aren’t that funny, who believes everything is a learning experience, who takes what is thrown at them with your head held high.
Tonight it looks like you’re barely swimming above water. And your outbursts with the roses and the take out bag…he can’t stop thinking about them. Jack has come to the conclusion that perhaps you have been seeing someone—a thought that sours his expression no matter how much he’ll try to deny it—and they are wanting another chance you aren’t willing to give.
But you told him earlier that you haven’t dated in a long time.
His mind is a mess of jumbled thoughts over the situation. It takes another twenty minutes before sleep finally begins to catch up with him. It’s short lived, though. It always is. Not even an hour later he’s blinking himself awake, his mind racing back to you as if he never even slept.
By the time he sorts himself out and grabs a cup of coffee for him and a chamomile tea for you, he’s back at the nurses station. The Pitt still seems as lively as it did before he retired for a nap, but everyone seems to have everything under control.
He notices you immediately, slumped on a chair as you no doubt chart for probably the hundredth time tonight. Jack approaches you steadily, body still slightly stiff from cramming himself on that small couch. He doesn’t speak at first, just places your tea beside your hand and waits.
Slowly, your eyes trail up his arm and chest before settling on his still slightly sleep-ridden face. Your hard expression softens just an inch and Jack’s shoulders relax briefly at the sight. “Thank you,” you whisper, eyes not leaving his.
Jack pulls a swivel stool to his legs, takes a seat beside you. He opens his mouth to speak; to tell you he’s worried, that if something is bothering you he will listen, he will help in any way he can. But he doesn't say that. You’re starting to soften and he doesn’t want to make you tense again.
“Why don’t you take your break,” he suggests instead. “We’ve still got another shift ahead of us.” Your shoulders droop at that, a heavy and exhausted sigh slipping past your pretty lips. A groan is soon to follow, your hand coming up to rub at your face.
“I’m so tired but I don't think I could sleep if I tried.” Your voice is defeated but Jack can’t help the soft smile that threatens to pull on his lips.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It took me a little while.”
You hum, eyes still on him. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t dare. Jack has always thought you were incredibly beautiful, those gorgeous eyes and pillow lips… he knows it’s inappropriate, but he’s never acted on any of those dirty thoughts that creep up on him in the middle of the night.
He’s too old for you, and you’re too good for him.
“I’ll keep an eye on your patients,” he promises.
You smile wider at that but a sleepiness overtakes your features. Jack doesn’t think you've ever looked so…soft. He wonders if that’s what you look like every night, when you’re settling yourself to sleep in your big, empty bed. He wonders if that’s what you’d look like if he woke you up to his head between your—
“Go,” he cuts his own thoughts off, jutting his head slightly to the direction of the break room. “Couch is already set up for you.”
You blink slowly at him, leaning in just a bit closer to playfully flick his knuckles with your finger. “You’re too good to me, Jack Abbot.”
His heart—he doesn’t want to think about the rhythm of his heart right now. Instead his lips turn downward to hide his grin as he shoots you a wink. You don’t offer the same restraints as a grin stretches across your mouth. Your hand meets his, squeezing in silent thanks before you stand with your tea and excuse yourself to the break room.
“Oh, by the way, phantom chest pain guy? He’s with Psych now, thank you.” you call back to him over your shoulder.
Jack watches you retreat, the sway of your hips, the heaviness on your shoulders. He’ll get to the bottom of whatever is bothering you. He won’t let you suffer alone.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Your nap is short lived, much like Jack’s. Barely an hour of sleep before you’re waking with a groan and a kink in your neck.
You have to push the fear of your crippling situation way deep down if you’re going to get through the last half of your double shift. You’re a doctor for fucks sake, you can’t not afford to not be on your a game.
So you do. You push it down, you ignore it. You complete your rounds, treat your patients, write up your charts and do everything in your power to avoid the questioning stares from Jack.
Until the time reaches almost 7am and another delivery is made. A cup of coffee from the coffee shop across your apartment and another bouquet of red roses.
The delivery man calls out your name but you’re frozen in place behind the nurses desk. Boone looks at you, a little spooked at your pale complexion as she thanks the delivery driver and takes them from him.
Everyone seems to still around you as Boone places them on the desk in front of you, your change in behaviour causing an uncomfortable shift in the air.
You approach the roses and coffee as if you’re on the brink of death; slow, hesitate, fearful. And when you grow close enough to see the note tucked between the buds, your blood runs ice cold and you snap.
Jack walks toward the central hub just as you pick up the drink and flowers and hurl them into the trashcan, shoving your foot into it to crush the flowers, the drink almost exploding under the force of the kick.
You turn to everyone with wide eyes, your chest heaving and tears welling your eyes. “If I have one more delivery, you put it straight in the fucking trash.”
Jack watches with wide eyes as you storm outside through the ambulance bay, not missing the confused and startled looks everyone gives your retreating form. Fuck this, he can’t wait for you to come to him. Jack doesn’t think twice before following you outside, and what he finds almost cleaves his heart in two.
You’re crouching on the ground, head almost tucked between your knees and you sniffle and sob to yourself. He’s quick to rush to you, bending at the knee despite the ache of his leg protesting.
He pulls you into him and lets out a breath when you don't argue. “You need to tell me what the fuck is going on, sweetheart.” His tone isn’t mean but firm.
You can barely catch a breath and he knows what a panic attack looks like. He pulls your hands off the back of your head, lifts your face with his palms cupping your wet cheeks and angles you upwards, allowing the air to hit your face.
“You’re okay. Just breathe, I’m right here, you’re okay.” He coos at you, suffocating his own anxiety at the slightly frightening sight of you.
You try to focus on the feel of his skin on yours, his warmth, his scent. You make it a focal point, something to try and ground you, to coax you out of your spiralling mind. Jack feels you shake in his hold, and even though your breathing begins to slow just slightly, he can’t let go of the pure look of fear in your eyes.
He doesn’t speak again until you have calmed to a more manageable state, offering quiet coos of comfort, large and steady palms soothing up and down the length of your spine. He calls your name, quietly so as to not startle you but loud enough to hear over the ringing in your ears.
Turning to him, your dry lips part and silent tears continue to slip down your flushed cheeks. You look away, can’t stomach the concern in his eyes. A friend that’s worried about you and your strange behaviour. That’s all.
You rise to shaking feet and take a step away from him in an attempt to regain your bearings. Jack doesn’t push, he waits—impatiently—as you take steadying breath after steading breath, hands shaking out at your sides.
“I think I have a stalker.” Admitting the words aloud causes more silver to line your eyes. You refuse to look at him, can’t subject yourself to his disappointment.
But his silence is deafening and when you cast a cautionary glance toward him through your peripheral, you wish you didn’t. His face drains of color, lips parted in what you could only assume is shock.
“What?” he breathes in pure disbelief, brows knitting. “A stalker? Is that what those deliveries are?”
You nod shakily, blowing unsteady air through rounded lips as Jack takes a careful step closer to you. “How long has this been going on for?”
You shrug, hands reaching for your hair and loosening the stands at your roots. “I think like six weeks.”
Jack can’t control his eyes, how they widen and blink rapidly, has no control of his head bobbing and rearing back as though you’ve just physically assaulted him. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” His voice raises.
You cringe, squeezing your eyes shut as you close the distance between you, your palms now cupping your own face in an attempt to shield yourself from everything. You shake your head rapidly, tears streaming down your face. “No, it's not—it’s not like that. It just—look I didn't know until today!”
Jack appears even more bewildered. “What does that even mean?”
You huff; angry and scared. “About six weeks ago, I started seeing a bouquet of red roses outside my apartment building. Every week. I didn't think anything of it, why would I? And then last night, those red roses were left here—for me. The same florist, the same bouquet… its– its never happened at work, I never even considered the flowers outside the building were—”
“Okay, okay, breathe.” His voice softens, palms stretching for you to rest on your shoulders. Warmth radiates through your scrubs and into your skin, you try to focus on his touch, his proximity without being swept away in it.
“And then there was the sushi delivery, from my favorite place, the coffee from the coffee shop across the road from my apartment that I go to every morning… then just now with another fucking bunch of roses—”
“And the note. I’ll see you soon, my love.”
Your eyes are screwed shut tightly. “Jack, I’m freaking the fuck out.”
He hates this. His blood is roaring beneath his skin, veins threatening to burst at just how tightly wound he is. You have a fucking stalker. “Alright, okay. We're going to the police. Right now.”
You shake your head. “I—we can’t, we both have another shift ahead of us before—”
“Fuck the next shift. You have a stalker, sweetheart, that's not something that can be pushed aside to deal with later.” He argues gently but his tone is firm, booking no room for argument.
You scratch feverishly at your scalp, tugging on the roots of your hair to inflict anything but fear. Something else to focus on, something to take it away. Jack grabs your wrists, warm palms soothing against your skin as he guides them away from your head.
“What’s your locker code?”
You rattle off the string of numbers, barely registering the question. But when you realize he was going to retrieve your things for you, you wipe your face and make your way back inside. You can’t just leave, you at least need to get someone to watch your patients while you are gone.
The fluorescence of the Pitt sting your swelling eyes, concerned glances following as you approach the nurses desk and lean down to Ellis. She watches you carefully, brows knitted and lips parted in worry. You shake your head before she can ask. You don’t want to get into this with anyone else.
It’s bad enough that Jack knows.
“Do you mind including my patients on rounds with day shift? I need to step out for an hour or so.” You ask her quietly and she nods quickly, eager to help.
Your eyes flitter up as day shift begins to trickle in. Many of them liked to show up twenty minutes early to get a head start, find the rhythm of things. You avoid their gazes, looking to the right instead where Jack stands with your bags, lips a thin line on his worried face.
Robby whistles as he strolls in, Jack moving closer toward you the same time Robby does. He eyes you both with raised brows. “You both look like shit.”
Before either you or Jack can even make a sound, your name is being called softly from across the Pitt, followed by a birthday wish. You smile weakly as Paige approaches, a nurse who typically favours a position in triage. She’s only been here a few months, but in the off shifts that you’ve worked with her, you very much enjoy her company.
“Hey, have I had any deliveries today?” she asks Boone as she grows closer, arms folded over the top of the nurses station, resting her cheek on her palms.
“No, don't think so hon, what were you expecting?” Boone asks softly.
She blushes a bit. “Oh, my uh my girlfriend said she’d dropped off a few things but I haven't gotten anything. Unless they’ve been delivered under her name instead of mine. It was uh, roses, sushi, coffee, her name’s Y/N.”
You blink.
Once. Twice.
All eyes turn to you but yours meet Jack’s. It’s in synchronicity that your lips part, eyes widen, shoulders sagging. You turn to Paige, your face pale and red-rimmed eyes staring at her with so much guilt she looks a bit scared.
“I am so sorry.”
“Oh, thank god.” Jack rubs his hands down his face.
“Um. You have had some deliveries, and we all assumed that when delivery guys have been bringing things in for Y/N, that they meant me. And I have been…throwing everything in the trash because I thought I had a stalker.” You explain the last words slowly, carefully.
Embarrassment flares bright on your cheeks, blood rushing down to your toes and you almost feel frozen in place. You can live with the embarrassment, right now the most overwhelming feeling is pure, unbridled relief.
Robby looks at you in complete bewilderment. His eyes dart around the E.R in a state of pure confusion before he blinks it away and shakes a hand by his head. “Not even going to ask.”
“Paige, I will pay for everything. I—” She laughs softly as she approaches you, arms out with a tender expression before embracing your frozen form in her arms.
“No, it’s okay. Are you alright? That must’ve really freaked you out, I’m so sorry.” You finally manage to will your body to move, arms wrapping around her lightly as you return the hug. You laugh against her shoulder, pulling back to rub at your eyes with a groan.
“I need about a gallon of coffee if I'm going to get through this next shift.”
“Oh, you didn’t get the email?” Robby speaks over the rim of his beverage.
“What email? You frown.
“You’re not down for the day shift, you’re not in ‘til Saturday,” he looks behind you to Jack, pointing a finger that’s wrapped around the paper cup, “Neither are you. Scheduling error.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jack huffs at the same time you do, the pair of you rubbing hands down your faces in something akin to telepathic synchronicity. It causes Robby to raise an amused brow.
“You two need to go home. I don't know what the hell happened on this shift, but I’m sure Shen and Ellis can handle change over.”
Neither of you argue with Robby’s offer. You silently take your bag from Jack and haul it over your shoulder. “Come on,” Jack nods his head toward the break room. “We’ll get your birthday gifts and I’ll take you home.”
You don’t argue on that offer either. Don’t acknowledge the butterflies in your stomach at the thought of being in such close proximity to him for a ten minute ride home. You’re too tired, head far too fuzzy.
You need a pint of wine and a fucking nap.
Retrieving your things from the break room is done on autopilot. You take the balloons and two bouquets of flowers while Jack takes your gift bags. It’s a no brainer to offer the flowers as a peace offering to Paige on your way out, a plethora of apologies once again tumbling from your lips.
You don’t stay long enough to let her refuse them, feet rushing you out through the ambulance bay and toward Jack’s car. Right. His car. The vehicle he drives. A vehicle that you’ve never been in, only ever seen in passing. Black and sleek, simple yet clearly expensive.
You feel him approach from behind and swallow as he opens the trunk and gently places your gifts inside, reaching an arm toward you for the balloons. He nods his head to the passenger side silently, your heart rate picking up at the simple command.
It's wordless when you open the door and settle inside. It smells like him. Something rich and manly and a hint of coffee that somehow kisses every unexposed nerve ending. The seats are leather, durable and good quality. It’s modern, with a CarPlay screen and heated seats. You don’t know enough about cars to understand the logo in the center of his steering wheel.
You watch him get in effortlessly, clipping his belt and starting the engine. You watch as he gets comfortable, readjusting the rearview mirror before pausing to look at you. He catches your staring but doesn't say anything.
And when neither of you make any attempt to look away, a tired yet fond smile kicks up at the corner of his mouth. He leans toward you and your breathing stops, the hairs on your skin standing tall. Jack’s arm reaches to your side and only when you hear the faint zipping of the seatbelt being pulled do you realize that he was waiting for you to put it on.
Embarrassment crawls up your neck as he clips the belt for you instead. “Sorry,” you whisper breathlessly, quickly clearing your throat. “My head’s a little all over the place right now.” You excuse your foolishness the best way you can as Jack cracks open a window.
He offers a huff of a laugh as he pulls out of the staff parking space slowly. “I’m not surprised after the night you’ve had.” He reassures, his hand reaching out for the screen. You watch with deft attention as his long fingers tap on the GPS, waving that finger at you and then back at the screen again.
You get the hint, lean forward just enough to be able to type your address in, only a ten minute journey that's mapped out for him.
Jack raises a brow as he pulls out of the hospital. “Swanky area,” he comments.
You can’t help but scoff at that. “Not really. It’s my Uncle’s apartment, he just rents it out to me.”
He hums, non committal. The drive is silent, not suffocating or uncomfortable but…needed. Jack doesn’t push for conversation, doesn’t ask if you’re okay, doesn’t comment on your stupid mistake of thinking you had a fucking stalker.
He lets you bask in the quietness, lets you have these ten minutes for your body to begin to relax. It isn't until he pulls up outside the apartment building that one tiny flaw in the stalker situation arises. Because there, on the front door steps, is another bouquet of red roses.
It hits you the same time it hits Jack, both of your bodies stiffening at the sight of them. But the stiffness is quickly replaced with another overwhelming sense of relief and exhaustion when you notice Paige again, walking up to those doors and retrieving the flowers with a gentle smile before going inside.
Your hands rub at your face. “I forgot she lives in this building.” you admit, words muffled by your palms but your body tingles at the sound of Jack’s breathy chuckle.
“You definitely need some sleep.” He unbuckles his seatbelt, then reaches to unclip yours before opening his door. “Come on, I’ll walk you up.”
He doesn't let you carry the balloons or the gift bags as he walks beside you up two flights of stairs. Guilt gnaws at you for it, you know his leg must be hurting, but Jack always hides it well.
When you reach your apartment door, you slow, bashful almost. You've been friends for eight years, yet you’d never been in his car before tonight, he’s never been in your apartment building. The whole thing feels…different…intimate.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “For the shift, driving me home…walking me up.”
Jack shrugs a shoulder, handing you your things before stuffing his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t say anything, just looks. Like he’s assessing. It’s not scrutinising, but it’s not the fond look you’ve grown accustomed to, either.
It’s new. It sends your pulse racing.
You wait, anticipating something else, something more. But it doesn't come. Jack takes a step back as you unlock your front door, he turns toward the stairs as you push the door open. But when you take your first step inside, he turns back to you again.
“Hey, are you doing anything tonight?”
Your heart stops. Beats. Skips a beat. Then it stops again.
“Other than crying that I didn't get a slice of my own birthday cake? No, nothing.”
That earns a breathy laugh. Jack looks at you, soft and a little sleepy. “I’m sorry you had such a shitty birthday.”
You shrug. “Believe it or not, I've had worse. Besides, it wasn't that bad, Shen could’ve forgotten his iced coffee again. And it turns out I don't have a stalker, so a win is a win.”
He laughs a bit louder at that. “I'll tell you what, I’ll come over later. I’ll bring dinner, we’ll try and do a redo for your birthday.”
You smile, swallow down the eager yes! that wants to desperately crawl out of your throat. “You don't have to do that.” Is what you manage to settle for.
Jack makes a sound of disagreement. “Actually, I do. As your attending, you should consider this a work-place incident check-up.”
You might be exhausted but you’re not deaf. You pick up on the change in his tone, the underlying yet silent suggestion that’s hidden within his words.
Still, you don’t let yourself get your hopes up. He’s a friend. You’ve had a bad day. He’s being nice.
You roll your eyes with affection. “Can’t exactly say no to that.”
Jack grins, untamed and wide. “I’ll come back a little later.” It’s the last thing he says before descending the stairs.
And when you step inside your apartment and close the door behind you, you realise this little crush on Jack is becoming something much deeper. And the idea of having dinner with him tonight has you sick, horny and completely out of your element.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
PART TWO
Feedback is always super super appreciated!! I would love to know what you thought!! Thank you for reading <3
summary: jack has been trying to get the pretty pediatric caseworker from upstairs to fall in love with him for weeks now. the only problem is, you have no idea that he's even into you. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, dana evans
contents: sunshine!reader, slightly ditzy!reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, humor, fluff, not proofread :P
FIC #4 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
PEDES CONSULT — CENTRAL 14.
The message scrolls across your pager on the elevator ride down to the bottom floor, where the chaos of the E.D. hits you before the doors have even opened. A monitor wails from somewhere inside the trauma bay. A nurse rushes by with a crash cart rattling violently against the tile. Someone in triage is crying; someone else is swearing. A thousand conversations fill the air until they turn into a dull roaring in your ears.
You enter like a sliver of sunlight breaking through storm clouds, weaving through the chaos with a practiced sort of ease. A pale blue cable-knit sweater bunches around your wrist, while a flowing ivory skirt patterned with delicate forget-me-nots sways around the tops of your sneakers with each step. You’re made of much softer stuff than the sterile brightness of the E.R. — like springtime washing over a war zone.
Robby and Jack stand together outside the closed door of Central 14. Exhaustion sits heavily in the former’s bearded face, weighed down with the regret of not clocking out an hour ago like he should’ve when he had the chance. The latter flips through the chart in his pale hands, scruffy features screwed in concentration until you enter into his eyeline.
He straightens almost instantly, hardly able to stay casual when it comes to you. “Little Miss Sunshine…” he greets with a cool grin, tucking the clipboard under his strong arm.
Your polite smile widens a little at the nickname. “You paged?”
“We’ve got a three-year-old girl. Suspected meningitis,” Robby briefs in a monotone, each word coated in a thick layer of fatigue. “High fever, lethargy, neck stiffness— labs are ugly, too.”
Your features soften instantly. “Oh, poor baby…”
Your eyes dart to the window. You catch only a sliver of the family through the edge of the curtain — young parents, likely in their early twenties, faking teary smiles for their sick baby, who sits in a too-big bed in a too-big hospital gown patterned with so many cartoon puppies.
“Parents are freaking out, obviously,” Jack adds gently, never once taking his eyes off of you. “We thought you could walk them through the admission process before we take her upstairs.”
“Of course,” you nod, with a voice as gentle as you look.
Jack passes the clipboard over to you and allows his calloused fingers to brush your softer ones for a beat longer than probably necessary. Though if you notice it, you make no mention of it as you flip through the thin pages and follow behind Robby into the dim room.
The chaos outside muffles when the door clicks shut behind you.
A young mother — Nia, the form tells you — sits in a chair beside the bed with a wadded tissue clutched in her trembling hands. Her husband, Malcolm, sits on the edge of the hospital bed, wearing the long day all over, as his daughter curls lazily into his side. Ruby Turner is clammy with fever; her round eyes are heavy with it, too. And beneath her chubby arm, is a stuffed animal wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope around its long neck.
“Hi, there…” you greet in a gentle lilt, crouching beside the bed until you’re eye level with the toddler, who eyes your warm smile with a weary suspicion. “I have to say, that is a very serious giraffe you’ve got there, Miss Ruby.”
The girl blinks back at you with sleep-weary eyes; the same dark brown as her mother’s. “Pickles,” is all she can make out through her hoarse throat. The words came out like dry gravel, which rattles harshly in her chest when she coughs hard a second later.
Her dad pats her gently on the back with a wide hand and flashes you a tired smile. “She named him Pickles,” he clarifies.
“Pickles?” you gasp. “I had a dog named Pickles when I was growing up— He looked a little like that one there.”
You motion to the shaggy white dog on her hospital gown. The girl tilts her curly head down and begins pointing at each puppy herself, aptly naming each of them Pickles. It’s the first time the child has been moderately alert, or otherwise has been willing to engage, since she arrived some hours ago. Watching you work feels a little like watching a magic trick.
“Sorry. Hi. I should probably introduce myself,” you laugh warmly and rise to full height again, shaking both of the parents’ hands. “I’m one of the pediatric caseworkers upstairs— My job is basically helping families know what’s happening next. You know, all the boring insurance details, and making sure you guys aren’t going through things alone.”
The mother nods, wiping her nose with the crumbled tissue in her fist. “So what happens now?” she asks, voice teary and trembling.
You nod with a polite smile. “Yeah, so the pediatric unit is gonna start preparing a room for her upstairs, so our doctors can give her the full evaluation she needs— They’ll probably monitor her over the next few nights, too, just to make sure everything’s okay. And you’ll be able to go with her once transport comes, of course, we’ll just need to get everything squared away with insurance while she’s getting tested.”
“So she’s gonna be okay?” the father presses, half-strangled.
You never lie to families. Not ever. It was, as you saw it, the golden rule in any hospital. Jack noticed that about you, too — because he couldn’t help but notice everything about you. But he saw how hopeful you were without ever being dishonest, without ever making promises you knew you could not keep.
“She’s exactly where she needs to be,” you answer carefully. “And she has the best doctors I know taking care of her now. You guys made a great decision by bringing her when you did.”
The mother beside you sniffles. Her exhale leaves her mouth in a quiet sob, which she buries behind her hands before her daughter can see her crying. It’s not quite sad — certainly not as much as it had been earlier that day — but rather it’s a cry of distant relief; the first time all day she hasn’t felt like the worst mother on the planet.
Robby exhales quietly through his mouth behind you — scruffy cheeks puffing, obviously eager to leave. Jack, however, just keeps on staring at you, as you turn back toward the little girl with your voice now lowered in a feigned sort of seriousness.
“Now, Miss Ruby, I’m gonna need your professional opinion on this, okay?”
The girl blinks slowly back at you.
“…Do you think Mr. Pickles needs his own hospital bracelet, too?”
Jack sees the young girl laugh for the first time all day when you’re helping her wrap a plastic arm band around the giraffe’s stuffed leg. It’s basically your superpower, the way you make all the terrifying things feel halfway manageable. By the time you’re stepping back out into the hallway, with Jack and Robby at your side, the family is a little bit steadier than they were before you arrived.
Jack eyes you up and down for a moment, before leaning in to nudge your shoulder with his broader one. Your soft sweater grazes his bare arm, and he gets a faint whiff of your pretty perfume before he leans away again.
“When did you get so good at that, huh?”
Your head whips to the side. You blink like an owl up at him “…At talking?”
“Sure, yeah,” he laughs. “At talking people off the ledge.”
“Oh.” You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug, then reach to pull the neck of your sweater back up again when it slips off your collarbone. “I don’t know, I just… try not to sound like a hospital brochure, I guess.”
“Hear that, brother?” Jack quips, reaching behind you to clap Robby on the shoulder. “Try not to sound like a hospital brochure next time, yeah?”
The older man says nothing. He just lifts his hand and scratches at his temple with his middle finger, discreetly flipping him off.
You laugh under your breath and head back towards the elevator, pretty skirt swishing around your ankles. “Try not to traumatize anyone while I’m gone, alright?”
“Can’t make promises like that down here, Sunshine,” Robby calls back. “You know that.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to think we should just keep you down here permanently,” Jack says with a lazy shrug. His freckled biceps flex slightly when he crosses them over his broad chest, swaying back and forth on his feet. “You know, just— bring you into every room before the doctors go in. We’ll call you the Emotional Support Coordinator.”
“Oh, would you?” you scoff a faint laugh and hit the button for the upper floor.
The doors part with a soft ding a second later. You step in through the threshold and turn to face him once more, giving him a much better view of the smile on your face.
“I mean, it’d certainly make me feel better,” he jokes.
“Well, you’re not the patient, Dr. Abbot,” you retort with a devilish grin. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got a few more years before your geriatric assessment, right?”
“A few,” he echoes sarcastically, light eyes squinted. “My opinion still counts, though.”
You shake your head at him despite the soft grin still dancing on the edges of your mouth. “You’re funny, Dr. Abbot,” is all you say, as you press the panel on the inside of the lift. The doors whir when they slide shut; your grin remains visible between them until hatch closes just ahead of you.
Jack drops his head with a chest-deflating huff when you’re gone.
Robby tries and fails to choke back his laughter.
“You are officially 0 for 6, brother,” the man jokes. He claps Jack on the shoulder, hard, as his dark eyes squint under the weight of his smiling. “It’s honestly getting a little painful now.”
Jack turns to flash him a deadpanned look. “Shouldn’t you be clocking out now?” he wonders in a monotone.
“Not anymore,” Robby scoffs. “It’s just starting to get fun.”
The pediatric floor was quieter in the mornings, you found, after switching to the day shift some weeks back. It was never truly silent, exactly, but it was still a little bit softer, as the panic from the overnight patients faded into a calmer sort of quiet.
Cartoon reruns play quietly behind closed doors, while lively children’s music can be heard from further in the main area, down the hall to your right. A softer set of lullabies, meanwhile, plays more distantly from the nursery behind the double doors to your left. And, somewhere within the soft sanctuary of it all, a wailing baby is fighting a losing battle against taking their liquid medicine.
It’s all confetti to you, really, from where you sit behind the reception desk with three different charts open on the monitors ahead of you.
There’s a highlighter in your hand, a pen behind your ear, a paper cup of cooling coffee between your teeth, and approximately fourteen unfinished tasks glaring at you from the computer screen.
You have not yet properly woken up — the same way the sun has not quite yet risen over the horizon. Your hair has been haphazardly dealt with, for one. Your cherry-colored sweater is bunched awkwardly at your waist, for another, while the white button-up you wear beneath it sticks out over top of your plaid-patterned bottoms. You vaguely noticed that your socks were mismatched when you slid into your scarlet flats, but were much too tired to bring yourself to care.
You don’t even flinch when the phone rings beside you. You reach for it with your free hand without looking, missing twice before finally plucking the plastic from the hook.
“PTMC—” You falter when you realize you still have the paper cup between your teeth. You scramble to set it back on the desk with the hand not holding the phone. You clear your throat and try again. “PTMC Pediatrics— How can I help you?”
“Morning, Sunshine.”
Jack’s low voice crackles from the other line. You can practically picture him downstairs in the E.D. just now — leaning against the workstation with a computer glowing before him; with his messy silver curls, and his tired blue-green eyes, and that stupidly handsome half-smile he gets every time he talks to you.
You’re smiling at the thought alone before you even realize it.
“Dr. Abbot?” you answer. “Do you need something? What didn’t you just page me—”
“Weren’t you the one who said I can call just to say hi before you switched to the dark side?”
(The day shift, he means.)
You scoff quietly and lean back in your swivel chair. “Well, I guess, that is preferable to getting paged about sick babies, so… I’ll take it.”
“Wow…” Jack croons drily. “You always say the sweetest things to me, you know that?”
“Well, what can I say? I’m very charming before seven A.M.”
“I think you’re very charming all the time, Sunshine.”
You falter for a brief moment, unable to tell if he’s flirting with you or if he’s just being nice and you’re the weirdo for thinking otherwise. So you shake the thought from your head and change the subject entirely.
“You sound tired, old man— Isn’t it almost bedtime for you?”
“Almost…” His sigh crackles through the faint static of the landline. “But unfortunately, there’s this case manager upstairs who won’t stop distracting me…”
You exhale a frustrated huff, utterly oblivious as you begin to gossip with him under your breath. “Is Hastings bothering you, too? Because she’s been hounding me about clearing beds up here since I came in an hour ago.”
There’s a long beat of silence on the other line, filled by the sound of distant chatter from the E.D.
“…I’m talking about you, Sunshine,” Jack clarifies.
“Oh…” you trail off, face burning hot. Your brain scrambles further when the light starts flashing on your desk, another call waiting. “That’s, uh— Sorry. There’s— There’s just someone on the other line.”
“Oh.”
You tuck the phone between your shoulder and cheek, fingers whizzing across the keyboard as you type with practiced (only now slightly anxious) hands. “So if you wanna have a conversation, you’re gonna have to trek all the way up to pedes, unfortunately.”
“Damn…”
“Yep…” you hum absentmindedly. “It’s a real difficult journey. Very treacherous elevator ride.”
“Well, you’re making a pret-ty compelling argument here, Sunshine.”
“Goodbye, Jack,” you lilt with a big dumb grin on your face, that you hope isn’t as audible in your voice.
“See you soon, Sunshine.”
You think nothing of his words when you decline his call and take another. You hardly expect to see him now, not when he’s still wrapping up the long night and briefing the day shift that’s trickling slowly in downstairs. He’s about half an hour shy of going home and collapsing face-first into his mattress — and you’re hardly special enough to lose sleep over.
Jack, however, respectfully disagrees.
And so does Dana, who saunters into the workstation to start her morning, only to find the man hanging up the desk phone with a lazy grin hinting at the edges of his mouth.
“What’s that look for, huh?” she croons in place of a greeting, shrugging off the jean jacket she arrived in and spreading it on the back of her chair before her.
Jack looks up from where he’s shoving the phone back into its cradle. “What look?” he scoffs. “I don’t have a look.”
“Oh, you most certainly have a look,” she argues.
“I have a face, Dana.”
“Uh-huh,” the older woman deadpans, half-distracted, as she logs into the monitor ahead of her, with her glasses sitting low on her nose. “And right now, that face looks like you’re the main character at the climax of a Nora Ephron movie.”
“…What’s a Nora Ephron?” Jack wonders with furrowed brows.
The corner of Dana’s mouth lifts in a crooked half-smile as she peers at him over the top of her clear frames. “Go ask Little Miss Sunshine about it. She’ll tell ya.”
Jack’s light eyes narrow in a smug sort of look as he strolls slowly past her. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to go up there, Evans,” he quips.
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You were already on your way.”
There’s a newfound skip in his step, along with a faint limp in his prosthetic from the long shift, as he makes the elevator ride up to the pediatric floor — where he’s greeted instantly by soothing lullabies, children’s laughter, and reruns of old cartoons.
He’s swaddled instantly by the dim lighting and the soft warmth — both of which are rare to find in the cold, sterile chaos of the unrelenting E.D. just a few floors down. It’s like entering a whole new world when he steps out of the elevator.
Jack hears your voice, distant at first, but growing louder the further he treks down the hall. “No, I understand the policy, sir. You don’t have to explain it to me again—”
You exhale an annoyed sigh when the man on the other line prattles on, anyway, talking in a slow monotone as if you hadn’t understood him the first time. Despite your irritation, you perk instantly when Jack enters your vision, still in his black scrubs from the night shift, with a new exhaustion etched across his scruffy face.
He greets you with a tight-lipped smile anyway.
Your chest swells with a funny feeling accordingly.
“Sorry,” you mouth apologetically. “Just— one second.”
Jack waves a hand in your direction. “You’re fine,” he mumbles and turns away, idling awkwardly some feet away with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to hover. He marvels at the paintings on the walls, vivid scribbles from children of all ages, as he shifts on his weight — trying to relieve the distant pressure in his artificial limb.
You return to your phone call some feet behind him: “Yes, I get that. But this is a six-year-old going through extensive leukemia treatment— Delaying authorization for inpatient care would—”
You grumble an annoyed breath and drop your head into your hand when the man on the other line speaks over you once more. Jack glances over his shoulder at you, features softening instantly.
“—No, why should his parents waste their time fighting insurance, which should already be in place, by the way, when they could be spending it with their son? How is that fair?” you continue, obviously angry, but still so soft in your way. There’s a few seconds of silence as the person on the other line responds. You nod wordlessly to yourself at whatever they’re saying. “Yes, I will absolutely call back when your supervisor comes in— and every day until this is handled. Alright? Great. Bye…”
You set the telephone back on the hook with a huff.
“…Asshole,” you grumble around your breath, then get all sheepish again when your eyes find Jack’s. You cower under his softened stare. “Sorry… This insurance company’s trying to deny extended coverage for one of our oncology kids— because apparently compassion is illegal now, so…”
Jack musters a weak smile as he closes the distance between you. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”
“Hopefully…” you sigh, a little embarrassed now, as you shrink further in your swivel chair. “So, uh... H-How was your shift?”
“Better now,” the older man croons, folding his arms along the countertop ahead of you, and leaning in until you can smell the cologne lingering on his skin — a mixture of leather and sandalwood.
“You’re such a suck-up, Dr. Abbot,” you say with squinted eyes.
His face twists into a look of faux-offense. “Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone trying to invite you out for lunch, now is it?”
You brighten instantly. “Wait, really? That sounds so fun! Are Shen and Ellis coming, too— I haven’t seen them in ages!”
Jack’s smile falters slightly at the edges. “Well… Well, no, ‘cause I.. I thought, you know, it’d be just us. You know, you and me. Like a date.”
You blink owlishly back at him. “Oh…”
“Unless— Unless you don’t want to—” Jack stammers, quickly losing his ground.
“Of course I want to!” you blurt, a little louder and a far quicker than you mean to. “I just… I didn’t— I didn’t realize that you, you know, that you… liked me.”
His brows lower in confusion because, to him, it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was into you. He’d spent months tripping over himself to get your attention, including the time he ran into a crash cart ‘cause he was too busy staring at you to notice that it was in his way.
A chuckle sputters suddenly from his mouth accordingly. “I’ve been flirting with you for weeks! I mean, I’ve been calling up here just to talk to you since you changed shifts!”
“I thought you just liked bothering me!” you giggle in return, face burning hot.
“Yeah, well,” Jack tilts his silver head. “I do like bothering you, actually.”
“I like when you bother me, too…” you murmur sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s unwavering stare as you swivel anxiously back and forth in your chair. You catch yourself smiling wider than you realize when you tell him, “And lunch sounds great, by the way.”
“Great…” Jack exhales a breath he didn’t know that he was holding, that he feels like he’s been holding in for weeks now. “‘Cause Robby’s kinda been threatening to ask you out for me if I didn’t do it myself, so… Happy to save myself the embarrassment.”
Your eyes widen with a girlish sort of horror. “Wait— Robby knew?”
“Sunshine,” Jack grins. “I’m pretty sure the entire hospital knew.”
warnings/tags: age-gap, not really a power imbalance - but like it’s there, established-ish relationship, nicknames, fluff, medical descriptions, description of reader panic attack, protective jack bc GOD DAMN
wc: 1.7k
Summary: After Jack’s rooftop (kind of sort of) confession that Robby overheard, you are faced with a shift from hell, and have to deal with Robby watching your every move and judging your decisions.
Your honour, I love them.
This is a continuation of hold my girl, but you definitely don’t have to read it to understand this lil ditty.
“Is there anyone else able to draw blood? A Doctor, maybe,” the old man squawked in your face.
You stepped back and took a deep breath as you tried for what felt like the one hundredth time to draw this man's blood for his labwork.
“Sir, I can assure you I am more than qualified to take your blood sample. I do this every day, multiple times a day.” You faked your best smile at him, trying to coax him into letting you do your job.
“You know what, I think I would be more comfortable with a man. Can you run along and find one?” he said condescendingly as he sat up and moved further into his seat, away from you.
You bit your tongue to avoid lashing out at the eighty-year-old man who was complaining of abdominal pain, but conveniently had spent the last ten minutes arguing about your competency without complaints of any pain.
This had been the shift from hell. Between angry patients, Robby on your ass, and now, this misogynistic asshole belittling you. Shaking your head and leaving the room without saying another word, you looked for any of your male counterparts on the day shift, and were only able to spot Donnie talking to Robby. Sighing, not wanting to bring Robby’s attention to yourself yet again, but knowing your patient needed these labs, you swallowed your pride. You politely inserted yourself into their conversation, grabbing Donnie’s attention.
“Hey Donnie, when you have a moment, are you able to take Mr. Henderson’s blood in number four?”
Both men turned to look at you—one with a slight grimace, and the other with a friendly smile. “Yeah, not a problem,” Donnie smiled down at you. You thanked him profusely. Just as you were about to explain the situation to the day shift attending, his gruff voice interrupted your thoughts.
“So, should I tell Dana you’re unable to fulfill your job duties?” he said as he crossed his arms and stared down at you, eyebrows lifted, questioning your abilities.
You tried to hide your shock at Robby’s demeaning tone, which took you off guard. It seemed like he was after you all day, nitpicking every little thing you did, second-guessing your work, and now he was suggesting you couldn’t do your job. You felt your eyes widen slightly, despite your best efforts not to react negatively.
“No, no, that’s not it at all-” you started, trying to stay calm, until you were cut off by his voice, now a few decibels higher.
“All I see is a nurse delegating her tasks to her colleagues,” he scoffed and pushed off the counter to walk away. For the second time in minutes, you bit your tongue to save yourself from being fired.
Looking up at the ED, you noticed all eyes on you. You noticed your fellow nurses, Princess and Perlah, looking at the situation, shocked, and for once, not having anything to say. You bit your lip, refusing to cry in front of everyone, and made eye contact with Whittaker, who stared at you sympathetically across the station. Not being able to take the embarrassment, and not wanting to break down in front of everyone, you turned on your heel and rushed out of everyone’s view and to the on-call room, where you knew you would be able to get a few moments alone.
Closing the door behind you, you turned to the dark room and slid down the door, letting the tears you had been holding back fall, pressing your hand to your mouth to cover a sob. You take a moment to let the tears rush down your face, while blood rushed to your ears, and you put your face into your knees as you cried. You tried to focus on breathing normally and not hyperventilating when the lights flashed on, and you squinted as the harsh fluorescent lights attacked your sensitive eyes. You don’t realize what’s happening until you’re able to make out the blurry face of the night shift attending staring back at you. Jack crouched down and looked at you, his features laced with concern, noting your tear-stained face and ensuring nothing was physically wrong with you.
“Hey, kid, what's wrong?” He spoke softly to you.
Of course, he was in here. Why wouldn’t he be? As if the universe didn’t hate you enough and ruin your day with the shift from hell, it just had to make sure that Jack Abbot was in here to catch you mid panic attack.
“I’m sorry, I thought I was alone. I didn’t know anyone was using this room,” you sniffled and looked away from him.
His lips formed a straight line, and he stared down at you softly, “Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” He asked you softly as you wiped the trails of tears from your cheeks with the backs of your hands.
Your cheeks burned with your blush at the nickname. Ever since he met you, he called you ‘kid’, but after calling you ‘his girl’ during his rooftop confession, he had been using ‘sweetheart’ when the two of you were alone, and every time it made your face red, and your heart race.
You shook your head, avoiding his eyeline. He huffed in response. “Listen, my knees are killing me. Let me help you up.” He looked down at you, the concern not leaving his face, as he held out his hands and led you to the on-call bed, sitting down next to you.
Taking a deep breath and shaking your head, leaning it on his shoulder, “It’s stupid, Jack, it’s just been a really bad shift, and it just feels like it keeps getting worse.” You sniffled and looked away.
“Kid, I know you. I know you wouldn’t be having an anxiety attack in the on-call room if it were just a bad shift.”
You chewed on your lip, knowing how bad you had let this shift affect you. You sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to let it go. You looked up at the ceiling, trying to hold back any other tears from falling. “I just had an asshole patient, and then when I asked for help, Robby yelled at me in front of everyone. I guess I got overwhelmed.”
Jack immediately perked up at the mention of Robby’s name and felt his heart rate spike. He knew where this was coming from. After a bad case that rattled Jack, you followed him up to the rooftop, and he held onto you for comfort. Robby had shown up to his day shift early and seen the whole thing, dubbing it as proof that you two were doing more than just hooking up. While Abbot was still trying to figure out what he felt for you, Robby had made up his mind and, since then, had been questioning Jack's and his morals.
“He insinuated that I wasn’t competent enough to do my job, and that’s why I asked Donnie to draw a patient's blood. In reality, the patient was a misogynistic asshole who wanted a man to take his blood,” you hiccuped and wiped a tear as you recounted the embarrassing story.
“I’ll talk to him,” Jack huffed, the vein in his neck jutting out.
Tears filled your eyes again, thinking about Jack leaving and causing a bigger scene in front of everyone. “Please, don’t go. Just stay here with me,” your voice broke as you pleaded with him.
Jack’s face softened as “I’m not goin’ anywhere, I’m here.” He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and brought you into his chest.
You spent the next few minutes calming down and playing with Jack’s hand on your thigh. You looked up at him. “I’m glad you were here, Jack,” you mumbled softly. “But, what are you doing here?”
Jack felt his heart clench at your soft voice. “I was in the area and figured it didn’t make sense to head back to my place and come back - just figured I’d sleep in here until my shift tonight,” he said, furrowing his brows and staring back into your eyes.
“You thought you’d sleep better in a busy ED, with your prosthesis on, than in your quiet apartment?” You said, judgmentally, while noting his discomfort, his preference for his left leg, and his choice of sleepwear: a tight-fitting black tee and grey lounge pants. You looked up at him with raised eyebrows, clearly questioning his decision-making skills.
“It made sense in the moment,” he mumbled.
You smiled and rolled your eyes, shaking your head. You wiped your face again. “Well, I should probably get back out there,” you said, standing up and wiping off your scrubs. “Thank you, Jack. Get some rest,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek, not bothering to think of the consequences for either of you. Both of you looked away with red-tinged faces as you walked out of the room, ready to face the judgmental stares and potential future attacks from Robby for two more hours.
Jack lay back down and spent the next 30 minutes staring at the ceiling. Groaning, he got out of bed, changed into his scrubs, put his badge on, and walked into the chaos of the Pitt. His eyes immediately found you, talking with Princess. His gaze was interrupted by the person he was looking for.
“Hey, brother, what are you doing here early?” Robby questioned, glancing up from a patient’s chart.
Jack glared daggers at him. “Listen, if you have a problem with me, you come to me like a man,” Jack mumbled, trying to keep his voice low and out of the ears of gossiping residents and nurses. “If I hear you treated her unfairly again, I’ll encourage her to take her complaint to HR against your ass.”
Instead of waiting for his reply, Jack pushed off the counter and caught your gaze, noticing you were staring at them. He walked over to the board and focused on patient names and rooms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you approach him and stand next to him to look at the board.
“I don't know what you said, but thank you,” you said quietly. “I’m off tomorrow - come over after your shift, and I’ll make you breakfast in the morning and thank you properly?”
He smirked, not looking over at you and still staring at the board. “How can I say no to my girl?”
you and jack finally get a second alone on vacation, so he bends you over the balcony and fucks you while everyone else drinks downstairs.
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted
PAIRING: jack abbot x fem!reader
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, smut, PWP-ish elements, unprotected sex??? kinda it's just not mentioned if there's a condom involved or not, praise kink, slight degradation, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism (potential), one brain cell between this two tbh
PROMPT: here!
WC: 0.8k
Jack makes a conscious effort not to dwell on the consequences of what, in hindsight, had been a truly abysmal series of decisions.
Best case scenario he’d be labeled as a pervert. Worse case, he’d lose his job and spend the rest of his life unable to show his face anywhere in the city of Pittsburgh without wanting to walk in traffic.
And honestly, it would all be deserving. There are very few respectable interpretations of having his subordinate bent over the balcony railing where anyone with functioning eyesight could look up and catch them in the act.
It’s made worse by the fact that every time his cock drives into you, another sweet little mewl spills out, each one louder than the next. It leaves him with a brutal urge to hear it again, makes him less careful than he ought to be. Makes the risk feel secondary.
He tells himself his coworkers on the patio are too drunk to notice. Most of them seem to be. They’d all been generously overserved at dinner, then even more generously self-served once they stumbled back to the Airbnb.
So drunk that he’s pretty sure Santos had Whitaker by the shirt at one point and shoved him straight into the shrubs bordering the patio while yelling something about George?
He hadn’t caught the rest. Hard to focus on much of anything when you’re clenching around him like the way you are now.
“Poor thing,” he says, leaning down close enough that his mouth brushes the soft shell of your ear. “You must’ve been so desperate for it to let me have you out here like this.”
You let out a weak little whine, head lolling against his shoulder.
“S’your fault.” Then, more broken on the next thrust. “Y-You made me like this.”
He has no rebuttal for that. He is responsible for the behavior you’ve displayed on this trip.
Desperate. Pent up, restless, a little spoiled from how thoroughly he tends to you when you’re home and no one else is around to interrupt. Usually, if you want him, you get him. In the kitchen. In the shower. Half asleep in his bed with his hand already between your legs before either of you say a word.
But this trip has been one long exercise in frustration. Coworkers roaming in packs. Thin walls. Doors opening without warning. Someone always needing something stupid, always shouting down the hall, always appearing right when he gets his hands under your dress.
So when you finally get him alone on the balcony, all it takes is one look. One kiss. You settling into his lap while he sprawls back in the chair, drink loose in one hand, the other already sliding up your thigh. After that, there’s no stopping it.
Now your panties are tugged aside, your dress bunched at your waist, and the obscene little sounds of him pushing into your soaked cunt disappear beneath the music and laughter below.
“Yeah,” he mutters. Soothing something he has no intention of fixing. “Know I did. Sorry, baby.”
Your fingers reach behind you for him, interlacing with the hand he has on your hip.
“Jack… please, ‘m so close.”
He reaches down through the slick heat between your thighs and presses two fingers to your clit, working you harder.
“That’s it. My good girl.” His voice drops lower. “Better be quiet unless you want everyone downstairs finding out just how good you take my cock. ”
And you do try. He feels it in the way your body tightens against him, in the way you bite down on the sound for half a second too long.
But then your pussy clenches hard around him and whatever noise you were trying to swallow slips free anyway. Such a pretty sound it nearly takes his knees out from under him.
Jack’s hand stays at the swollen bundle of nerves at your clit, working you through it because he’s selfish enough to want every shudder of your orgasm, every pulse.
He gives two more rough thrusts, maybe three, and then he’s done for too, climax hitting him hard and mean, his jaw going slack as he presses deep and rides it out inside you.
He stays folded over you after, chest heaving against your back, lips finding the strip of skin where your dress has slipped off one shoulder.
He tastes the coconut lotion there. Hint of tiare flower, half faded now beneath sweat and night air and sex. Summer in a bottle. It makes his head feel pleasantly blank all over again.
So he presses slow kisses there, then more, then drags them up toward the strap of your dress like he can’t quite stop.
His voice is still rough when he mutters sweet-nothings into your skin: Sweet girl. So good for me. Knew you could do it.
Then you’re turning in his arms as much as the angle allows, all wobbly and sweet, reaching back for his face. Your kiss lands crooked at first, more smile than anything, but he kisses you anyway, like he’s got all the time in the world.
It is, briefly, a perfect moment.
Then he opens his eyes.
Robby, down on the patio, tips his glass toward him.
Jack closes his eyes once.
Fuck.
this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!
summary: spending the night at aaron’s usually puts you at ease, but not tonight. A broken mug brings up old memories, but he still has a way of soothing away old hurts.
cw: implied/referenced past abuse
a/n: honestly idk i just wanted to write hotch comfort. this has been in my drafts since like day 1 of this acc
──────────────────────
⊹ .
It’s really stupid, in hindsight.
In the moment though, it was really, really scary.
It was late. This is mistake number one.
You were trying to quietly make tea and whatever odd hour it was. You can’t check the oven timer. It just keeps flashing 12:00.
Making tea quietly is hard, though. Every sound seems to echo and all the shadows seem to crawl. You’re this close to closing the living room curtains you can see from the corner of your eye. You don’t, though. Not being able to see would be worse.
Anyway. You’re trying to make tea quietly. You’re staying over at Hotch’s —Aaron’s, as he insists you call him when you’re alone— Jack is away at a sleepover. It’s just the two of you.
You couldn’t sleep. Usually, being with Hotch is the strongest sleep aid in the world. You tend to conk out the second your arms find his in bed.
But not tonight.
Tonight you slept in fitful bursts. Your skin prickled and crawled with restless anticipation- of what, you’re not sure.
Not wanting to disturb his sleep on such a rare day off, you got up. Tried to do what you did when you had nights like these before him. Only watching tv is too loud and you don’t have any books here.
Thus: tea.
It started raining a little while after you got up. The pattering of the droplets against the roof and the windows helps drown out the racket you’re making.
You’re not really making a racket, you tell yourself. It just sounds like you are because it’s night. This would all sound normal in the daylight.
It’s the mantra that keeps you going on nights like these. You’ll feel normal in the daylight. It’ll go away in the daylight. You won’t feel so haunted in the daylight.
In the daylight, in the daylight, in the daylight.
You get lost in your thoughts. It happens fairly often on nights like these.
Only Aaron’s stove is newer than yours. It heats up faster.
The teapot lets out a terrible, wailing hiss, shattering the fragile silence.
You lunge for the kettle, hands moving too quickly and too clumsily to move it off the burner. Your fingers slip. The side of the kettle slams into your forearm, and you don’t quite manage to stamp down the pained yelp that rips its way from your throat the second the searing pain registers.
Your nervous system reacts before you do. It jerks your arm to the right, away from the kettle.
And into your empty mug.
You watch in horrified slow-motion as the cup is swiped off the counter, falling to the floor in an explosion of porcelain.
Your arm is screaming in pain. There is boiling water and a hot tea kettle on the floor. There are shards of mug everywhere.
You hear a thump. The creak of a door opening that signifies Aaron coming out of the bedroom, Aaron being awake, Aaron coming to you.
For a moment, your brain just… catches. Sort of like it gets stuck in this web of fear-induced indecision.
The footsteps sound rushed. They come closer.
To compensate for the momentary freeze, your brain kicks into its highest gear.
You drop to your knees on the floor of the kitchen so quickly they crack on the linoleum. You can’t tell if the sting is from the fall or the boiling water. Would it still be hot? Is it still hot?
The footsteps stop. You scramble to get a hold of the pieces of the mug, shaking fingers grabbing, grabbing, grabbing. They’re clutched tight in your palm when you speak, words rushed and tumbling out of your mouth.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, please go to bed, I’ll clean this all up—“
A hand reaches out for yours and you flinch. Not a full body one. Just like what happened with the burn. Your nervous system reacts before your brain can process. Takes your hand away from the threat.
Only the hand stills. Stops, right where it is, and your entire body feels funny, and something doesn’t seem right.
Then you stop too. You don’t move. You don’t grab more pieces of the mug, but you don’t drop the ones you have either. Your knees are throbbing. Your arm is burning, stabs of stinging pain pulsing in time with your heartbeat.
The hand retreats and the person crouches down, and you recognize those pajama pants, that hand, those feet.
“Honey?”
You keep your eyes trained on the mess. On the wreckage.
“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks over the words.
“Shh,” He hums, and the hand reaches out again, slower, closes over your wrist and turns your hand over. A second hand pries your fingers apart and gently shakes your hand, the mug shards dropping to the floor, tinged scarlet. They mix with the spilled water, washing the kitchen floor a kaleidoscope of linoleum and sharp edges and pinky-red water.
He gently pulls you up to your feet, strong arm going around your waist. It doesn’t cage you, doesn’t box you in. Another hand turns your head away from the kitchen floor and all at once a switch flicks in your brain, and you remember. Where you are, who you’re with.
If Aaron notices your sharp intake of breath, he doesn’t say anything. He leads you to the bathroom, sits you on the toilet lid, and pulls out the extensive first aid kit he keeps under the sink.
“Can I see your arm?”
You hold it out to him, looking at his face only when he’s not looking at you.
He doesn’t look mad. You still have the vague urge to run.
He examines it carefully. “It’s only first degree, but it’s fairly big. We’ll need to run it under cool water for at least ten minutes, and then apply some burn cream and bandage it.”
He’s telling you exactly what he’s going to do. Talking you through all the steps. So you won’t be caught off guard by anything.
“Sweetheart,” He crouches down in front of you again, and you feel bad for his knees, “I’m going to need some sort of confirmation.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah,” Your voice is raw, “I think I bruised my knees when I— when I fell.”
Your pajamas consist of an oversized shirt —one of his— and a pair of pajama shorts. It’s helpful because he doesn’t have to roll up any pant legs to check your knees. It’s unhelpful because in the adrenaline crash, the bathroom is cold, and so is the toilet lid.
Your shivers of fear are replaced with ones of cold. A small but marked improvement.
He examines your knees, thumbs brushing deftly over the skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“Looks like you might’ve cut one of them on one of the pieces. It’s not too big, though. Better than your hands.”
You wince at the mention.
He stands, pulling you up with him.
“What hurts the worst?”
“Burn.”
“We’ll take care of it first.”
He turns the sink tap on, checking and double checking the temperature is to his approval before gently guiding your arm under the water. It stings on first contact, and you bite your lip through the pain. You’re sure you’ve made enough noise for the night. The pain mellows, relief following hot on its heels.
Aaron stands behind you, his presence a solid weight. One hand holds your arm in place under the water, the other hovers over the faucet, ready to make any adjustments to the temperature at your word.
You don’t make any.
You’re tired, abruptly. Your hand still stings and your knees ache, but without the sharp stabbing of the pain in your arm, the exhaustion of the past five minutes rushes into you all at once and you sag, like a puppet with its strings cut.
Aaron catches you, hand over the faucet leaving to place a steady hand on your waist.
“You’re not going to hit me. Or yell at me.”
He presses his face into the back of your neck, not so much as kissing your nape as just pressing his lips against the skin there.
“I’m not.”
“I know that,” you say, going for confident but tripping and falling into desperate, “I know that. I was just. I forgot. In the moment, and I got scared.”
The hand on your waist squeezes once.
“I was scared too, you know.”
“Why?”
“Because you were scared,” You can feel his chest vibrate as he speaks, “And you were hurt. And for just a moment, I didn’t know how to help you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing to be sorry for. I was scared for you.”
“I know, I’m just. I know how rare days off are for you, and I was trying to be quiet, so you could sleep but I—“
“Hey, hey. Slow down. Don’t work yourself up.”
He moves your arm back and forth under the water, slowly working the angles of the burn so it all gets evenly cooled.
“Sorry,” You say again, both for lack of anything else to say and just to make sure he knows that you are. Guilt pulses and pounds to the same beat as your heart, to the same rhythm as the pain in your knees and your hands.
“I know you are,” He murmurs, voice a gentle wash of concern and something tender. He always knows just the right thing to say, especially when you’re like this. “But you don’t have to be. I’m not upset.”
“I know,” You answer, and this time he doesn’t respond. He probably knows that your words weren’t for him.
He works methodically through applying the cream and bandages, and then as he fixes up your hands and knees. You’re careful to keep your eyes trained on his, focusing on the feel of his hands and not the fear that jackrabbits in your chest every time your focus slips.
Once finished, he guides you to your feet, and there’s still concern etched in the lines of his face, right in between his brows. That’s where he always keeps it— his worry.
“Do you want to go back to bed?”
You could. You should. He’s tired. He deserves to sleep in and you should be able to fall asleep again, because he’ll be there, and everything is fine, and you are fine.
But there’s still pieces of mug on the floor and you feel like there’s pieces of you stuck there too, and your mouth goes dry, and you never did drink that tea, and what’ll happen to the mess? What will things look like in the daylight?
Foolish? A foolish girl, yes— always overreacting.
“Honey?” He says for the second time tonight.
Your face crumples. “I’m sorry.”
He folds himself around you again, easily. His arms slot into place like a puzzle piece- always the right angle, the right feel, the right amount of pressure. He holds you together as you cry, frustrated and tired and all the things you’d tried so desperately not to let show.
“You’re okay,” He whispers, hand smoothing over your neck, your back. All those vulnerable places that itch. “You’re okay.”
He repeats the words as your cries quiet to sniffles, as you start to think he might be right.
You pull away, wiping your hands across your face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what— I’m okay now, I think.”
His eyes search your face, looking for any signs that isn’t true. “It’s okay if you’re not.”
“I know,” You say, and you really do believe it this time, “I just… it’s frustrating. That this still happens. That you still need to do this. It happened so long ago, and I don’t even think about it anymore, really. It’s weird, it’s just- the mug. It broke and I just… I don’t know.”
Aaron listens attentively to your rambles, no sign of being annoyed or exasperated or anything. “I understand. Healing isn’t linear, sweetheart. There are things that happened to me many years ago that I still think about.”
He dips down, pressing his lips to your forehead. “And I will always do this. Always.”
For the first time tonight, you believe him, fully.
summary: being in and out of the hospital all the time has never been an enjoyable experience. But after meeting a certain ED doctor who you can't seem to get away from, things just might start looking up.
warnings: probably inaccurate medical procedures (i’m usually unconscious or incapacitated when they do this stuff to me) past medical gaslighting (not from Jack ofc) Javadi is ur roommate idc that it’s inaccurate, unresolved sexual tension cause i don’t write smut
a/n: abbot said “is anyone gonna take care of her?” and didn’t wait for an answer. anyways me and my oomfie @leeknowpegger came up with this in the comments of one of my posts cause we both are in desperate need of this man
──────────────────────
"I’d rather take my whiskey neat
My coffee black and my bed at three
You’re too sweet for me.”
—Too Sweet, Hozier
──────────────────────
Being a frequent flier in lots of places gets you perks. Free coffee, rewards points, stuff like that.
Being a frequent flier in a hospital is just depressing.
You’re only about three or four months into your recent move to Pittsburgh when you get sick. And you’re one of those, special, lucky people who has the immune system of an un-vaccinated Victorian orphan, so despite having several hours worth of college assignments waiting for you, you’re currently lying on your bathroom floor, face smashed against the cool tile.
It is, genuinely, the only comfortable place in your shitty apartment. (At the moment.)
You pull the thermometer out of your mouth and slowly blink at the reading:
100.2 degrees.
Like you usually are. Just barely outside the normal range. Well, normal range can eat bricks because there’s no way having a mild fever is making you feel this bad. And you’re not being dramatic. Your throat genuinely feels like it’s on fire, and every breath is laborious and agonizing. Your face and head feel like they’re about to explode, and you’re pretty sure someone or something is stabbing you over and over again in your legs and lower back (which also feel like they’re on fire.)
Time passes in a weird way on the bathroom floor. Not really slow, but the pain and discomfort of each breath keeps it from moving too quickly.
You recognize, distantly, that you’re really sick. Really sick even for you.
There usually comes a certain point in the common cold that never fails to absolutely destroy you when it faces a fork in the road: get better or get much, much worse.
It’s fairly obvious which path your immune system decided to take.
There’s a large puddle of drool wetting your cheek because swallowing hurts too bad, and it’s not like you can breathe through your nose anyway. You don’t even have the energy to be grossed out.
You never really do.
Being sick is all about distracting yourself from how much pain you’re in until the worst of it passes, but right now you’re only getting worse. You can’t keep anything down, not even water, which means you’ve just been digesting snot for the past two hours which is bound to make you throw up (again.) No matter what kind of sickness you get, you always end up throwing up.
You measure how much time has passed by how large the puddle of drool grows. When it surpasses hand-sized, you attempt to haul yourself up, maybe take some more ibuprofen (you really shouldn’t, your liver is honestly toast at this point) but upon making an effort, you find that you can’t.
It feels like executive dysfunction. You want to get up. You need to get up. You cannot get up.
You’re so tired.
Alarm bells are ringing in your head. The same alarm bells that went off the time you had walking pneumonia and genuinely came to terms with dying in your sleep. It’s a spike of panic in your chest, a small dump of adrenaline and cortisol that’s just barely enough for you to haul yourself upright.
The action takes more energy than it feels worth, and you feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest.
You kind of feel like you’re dying. And honestly, with how bad you feel, you wouldn’t mind going to sleep and not waking up.
And that isn’t a usual thought to have when you’re sick, not to level of sheer apathy and exhaustion you’re feeling now, so you think that maybe it’s time to go to the Emergency Room.
You come to that conclusion about the same time that your roommate, who you aren’t quite friends with, comes into the bathroom and promptly screams when she finds you lying on the floor. (You don’t remember lying back down.)
“Hey,” She says, kneeling down and shaking your shoulder, “I think you need to go to the hospital.”
—
On another day, maybe when you don’t actually feel like death warmed over, you might be thankful that there is at least someone to take you to the hospital, to grab your hospital bag (you’d had to tell her where it was when you first moved in, and being a medical student herself, had understood your need for it) and to already have the route to the ED memorized. Probably because she currently works there.
“You’ll be fine,” Victoria rambles as she pulls into the parking lot with practiced ease, “I’ve worked with the night crew before, they’re great. They’ll make you feel better.”
Unlikely, you think.
Maybe you look particularly awful, or maybe it’s not that busy in the ED, or maybe you get some sort of special treatment as the roommate of a medical student, but before you know it, you’re shivering in a triage bed, still drooling uselessly into a wad of paper towels Victoria had been kind enough to shove into your hands.
It’s weird being in a hospital that doesn’t know you.
Nurses come and go, asking questions you barely answer and poking and prodding and you think, probably, that you should communicate that while on the worse end of the spectrum, this is still fairly normal for you. Being this sick from the common cold.
You think Victoria is talking to whoever is working on you, and then you’re in a wheelchair, and then they run more tests you don’t remember and then you’re in a bed.
“Dr. Abbot is gonna come see you,” Victoria tells you, looking mildly uncomfortable in a chair to your left.
She's honestly been so nice for this whole thing. Like, way too nice, considering that you guys aren't really friends (yet?)
“You should go home,” You tell her, speech really only possible because of the Toradol they gave you a few minutes ago, “You have work in the morning.”
She purses her lips and looks like she’s going to argue, so you painfully swallow and speak again.
“Go. I’ll be fine here. You said it yourself.”
It takes a few minutes to get the words out, and you have to pause more than once, which probably isn’t very reassuring, but logic seems to win out because she makes sure that you have everything you need before heading out.
And then you’re alone.
You attempt to pass the time by sleeping, to no avail. Discomfort, ever the unwanted companion, makes itself incredibly known. The Toradol helps, but since it’s basically just ibuprofen in IV form, there’s only so much it can do.
You’re just about to slip into a doze when a knock on the door frame rouses you. As the current pulls back, you have exactly one thought:
Victoria could’ve warned me that Dr. Abbot is insanely fucking hot.
“Hello there,” The man says, grabbing some hand-sanitizer which only served to extenuate the rippling muscles and veins of his forearms and biceps, “I’m Dr. Abbot. Javadi told me you weren’t feeling so good?”
Okay, focus. He can definitely see the heart-rate spike on the monitor. He’s just another doctor. You’ve had hot doctors before.
(Not like him.)
You shrug with the non-chalance of a twenty-something year old who has designated hospital clothes.
“Been better.” Kind of.
“Well, let’s see if we can’t get you better.”
He asks the same series of questions that Javadi helped you answer before since your brain still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but Dr. Abbot is patient and listens attentively while you stumble through answering every single one.
“Any pre-existing conditions?”
“Yes and no.”
He raises an eyebrow, finger hovering over the tablet in his other hand. “That sounds like a story.”
You wince. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”
“You’re totally fine,” He immediately soothes before you can continue, voice rich and smooth like high-quality chocolate, “You’re actually the nicest patient we’ve had so far tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yep. No screaming, no cursing, you haven’t asked a billion and one questions or needed anyone to explain every single thing we’re doing.”
He grabs one of the spinny-stools on the other side of the room and wheels it over, sitting down with his tablet in his lap.
“Now. About those pre-existing conditions?”
You slowly and painfully explain your situation— very obviously chronically ill to pretty much everyone except the doctors you need to diagnose you.
Dr. Abbot doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t defend the doctors you’ve seen, just dutifully jots down everything you tell him.
“Any history of heart issues?”
You nod. “I went to a cardiologist last year and did a few tests. Second degree AV block, um, I think Mobitz one? And mild diastolic dysfunction.”
Another eyebrow raise. “And your cardiologist didn’t decide to move forward with any sort of treatment plans?”
“Just diet and exercise. He told me to drink more water.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Your eyes widen. “Sorry?”
He sighs, looking up from his tablet. “I apologize, that was unprofessional of me. I agree that Mobitz one is normally benign, so long as you’re asymptomatic or old. But coupled with that ‘mild’ diastolic dysfunction and the fact that, from you’ve told me, you are experiencing symptoms means it’s something that should be addressed.”
Oh.
Dr. Abbot barrels on. “I’m going to give you a referral for a cardiologist I know. She’s good.”
“Thank you so much,” You croak, barely able to believe what’s happening. "I don't know how to thank you. Um. Other than saying thank you."
He gives you a tiny grin, like this interaction is some sort of secret you're sharing. Is he not aware of the effect he has on patients? On you?
"Don't worry about it, kid. Call it duty of care."
Kid.
The way he says it doesn't make it seem condescending or pitying. It's an acknowledgment.
It makes your skin feel hot.
(That might be the mild fever.)
He breezes through the rest of the preliminary examination, questions all answered and typed into his tablet, which just leaves the physical examination.
He has gloves on, stop freaking out. And there's like, no way he isn't married, and he's literally your doctor for crying out loud. Don't make this weird.
No amount of internal begging to keep your rampant issues under control actually keeps said rampant issues under control. At the very least, you hope it isn't too noticeable when you bask in the feeling of his blissfully warm (you're already running a fever, so really, it should be uncomfortable) hand as it palpates here and there. Checking for internal bleeding, probably. Or an inflamed appendix. Or something like that.
Palpating is likely one of the least sexy touches a human being can experience, and yet, presumably due to the fact that hospitals are actually nostalgic to you and palpating is an experience you go through more often than most other people, and, you know, your issues, you genuinely manage to get a little... hot under the collar.
Like, his hands are right there. Gloved, sure, and he's not actually touching your skin, just the battered band t-shirt you've been wearing since you got sick three days ago, so again, really not hot circumstances, but his deliciously freckled and really enticingly well-muscled forearms are right fucking there.
Can Toradol make you high? Are you having an allergic reaction to the fluids? Has the common cold finally decided to snatch your soul, leaving you the shuffle miserably off this mortal coil?
He glances up at the monitor.
"Bit of a heart-rate spike there."
Oh sweet mother of Christ.
Dr. Abbot gives you a little knowing smile, which does nothing but make you want to crawl in a hole and die, and finally finishes his palpating.
"So from the look of things, you really do just have the common cold--" He winces when you groan, "I know, I know. But you do have a touch of strep-throat, which I think might be contributing to your general awfulness and malaise. Your labs came back a little all over the place, so we're going to send you home with a prescription for some broad-spectrum antibiotics. Have you ever taken Azithromycin before?"
You shake your head no.
"The coarse is only for a week, and you'll take them twice a day. As for your cold symptoms, I'd have to recommend your basic over-the-counter cold medicine and lots of rest. Sound good?"
You nod. "Thank you so much."
Another heart-rate-spiking smile. "Anytime. I hope you feel better, but come back straight back here if you feel any worse, okay?"
You agree, and offer him another thanks and pretend like you're not going to be silently wondering if this is who your roommate works with every day.
—
A few days of antibiotics later, you're staring at yourself in the mirror after a late-night everything shower, and you think you might be cursed.
"Hey Victoria?" You shout through the door to where you know she's studying in the nearby living room. "What are the normal symptoms after taking Azithromycin?"
"Uh, none?"
"Thanks!"
Motherfucker. Who the fuck is even allergic to antibiotics? They're antibiotics.
You stare at the rash-slash-hives that's developed on your arms and legs (you convinced yourself it was razor burn the first two days) and wonder how life threatening it really is. Like, what could even really happen?
You skip lotion and throw on what was supposed to be a cute-pajama set, but now the striped tank-and-shorts combo serve to be functional— no fabric touching the sensitive skin where the rash covers and for ease of access, because of course you're going to run it by Victoria before you jump to any sort of conclusions about severity and allergic reactions.
Maybe this just one of those things. Like when doctors say "Just a little pinch" or "You'll feel some pressure" and then you go on to experience a level of agony previously only experienced by mafia traitors.
Like, maybe you won't even have to go to the ER. It might be a low-level twenty-four-hour-clinic type of deal.
—
So apparently between the rash, your flu-like symptoms (you thought you were just sick) and the fact that your heart rate has been all over the place since starting the antibiotics, Victoria does, in fact, insist that you go to the ER. Again.
At least this time you're lucid enough to drive yourself.
You've only just checked in, settling in the moderately-empty waiting room, cursing your existence when a familiar face walks in the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand.
It's pure coincidence that you happen to be sitting in like, the only seat in his direct eye-line as he glances down and then comes to a full-body stop. You shove down the shiver that threatens to overwhelm your body as a sharp, calculating gaze scans up and down your body before coming to rest on the visible rash on your legs.
He blows out a breath.
"Oh, kid."
Dr. Abbot leaves in the waiting room with the promise to return shortly after he clocks in and does his... whatever it is doctors do upon clocking into work. Rounds? Or is that a general medicine thing?
Before he walks through the door, he points a finger at you and says:
"Stay."
Like the loyal dog you are, you comply. First of all, where would you even go, (do patients jump ship often??) and secondly, like there is any universe in which you are arguing with that man.
YOUR DOCTOR, you mentally correct. HE'S YOUR DOCTOR. THERE ARE LITERALLY LAWS IN PLACE FOR THIS KIND OF THING. HE'S ALSO PROBABLY MARRIED. GET A GRIP.
It doesn't take him long to return to you, and like, isn't that unusual? Don't nurses and whoever usually get patients instead of like, the doctor on shift?
He gets the door for you (which is hot, even though he literally has to since it's only opened via staff-issued key-card.)
You feel kind of bad for skipping the line, cause there's other people in the waiting room, and surely some of them have more pressing medical concerns than your little rash?
You paraphrase this to Dr. Abbot as he leads you down the hallway towards one of the triage rooms, but he just snorts.
"You questioning my triage and risk assessment skills?"
Horror fills every aspect of your being.
"No no no no no, no, of course not, I didn't mean—"
Then he starts laughing.
"Relax, kid," He huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyeing you from the side, "I was just poking at you. I think it's very... sweet, that you're worried about the other patients, even if it's unnecessary. I promise, if someone else had a more pressing medical concern, they would get seen first."
You deflate a little at his reassurance, though you still feel thoroughly mortified.
"Besides," He continues, pulling back a curtain and gesturing for you to take a seat in one of the large triage chairs, "You're having a fairly serious allergic reaction. I'm guessing this started after you started taking the Azithromycin?"
You nod as you situate yourself. "Yeah, sorry. Um, it started—"
He holds up a hand, and you cut yourself off.
"Respectfully," He starts, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "What the hell are you apologizing for? And don't say being allergic to Azirthromycin."
"Um... For having to bother you again..? Right when you get on shift?"
"Kid," That shouldn't be hot, that shouldn't make your stomach flip-flop around, "Didn't I tell you to come back if you got worse?"
"Yes."
"And did you come back because you got worse?"
"...Yes?"
"Yes, you did. It was good that you came back," He says the second sentence slow and careful, like he's trying to cement it into your brain.
"It says on your intake form that you were experiencing fast and irregular heartbeats and dizziness accompanying the rash and hives, is that correct?"
"Yes. I thought I was just having a flare-up. And I kind of thought the rash and hives was just razor burn, but I don't shave my upper-arms, so."
He nods slowly. "...Right. I know that you've had a lot of unfortunate experiences with doctors and treatment in the past, but that's not going to fly with me, understand? There's a very real chance that if you'd ignored your symptoms you would've gone into anaphylactic shock. And while I trust Javadi to recognize the symptoms of a severe allergic reaction, I also know that she spends most of the day at the hospital or at lectures, meaning that if you had gone anaphylactic, there wouldn't have been anyone home to help you."
Dr. Abbot leans down when he notices you staring at your lap, sheepish, avoiding his gaze. "I don't say any of this to scare you. I just need you to understand the seriousness of your reaction."
He snatches the tablet off the cart. "You can't minimize your health issues. They're real. If you do, doctor's won't take you seriously. And you get enough of that without contributing to it or doing it yourself."
There's a few beats of silence while he types some things on the tablet and you digest his words.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."
He flashes you a grin, a little sharp. "Like I said before. Duty of care."
—
Victoria is happy that you had such a nice experience at the PTMC —"I told you they were great!"— and both of you are happy that the new antibiotics are working the last dredges of your cold are fading.
Since you finally feel (relatively) well, you decide to go to the coffee shop Victoria has been trying to convince you to go to for ages. Apparently, she loves their coffee so much she gets it there on hospital days and lecture days, despite it being much closer to the hospital than it is to the university. Thankfully, the apartment you share is fairly close to the hospital (a win both for your constant medical issues and for your roommates chosen career) so the coffee shop is within walking distance. Honestly, living in the city like this, there aren't a lot of things that aren't within walking (or bus, depending on the weather) distance.
You arrive to the cafe roughly around the time it opens, desperate to get as many hours studying and playing catch up as you can. Most of your professors were understanding when you explained your frequent health problems and the fact that you had to go the ER twice in the span of a week, and gave you extensions, but there's always a few no-nonsense hard-asses who think a 6,000 word paper can easily be accomplished from a hospital waiting room or bed, even when you explain how incapacitated you were. And to top it all off, in your endless wisdom, you hadn't thought to ask Dr. Abbot for a doctor's note that you could've held over the aforementioned hard-asse's head's, since they have to comply when you have actual evidence of illness, signed by a medical doctor.
So yeah. Lots of work, very little time.
You order yourself a gigantic coffee with several extra shots of espresso, heart-problems be damned, because there's no way you're accomplishing the amount of assignments you have without drugs, and since you can't do drugs, medically inadvisable amounts of caffeine is the next best thing.
Sure, the caffeine kind of makes your chest feel like it's floating, but the study work-flow you manage to accomplish is unparalleled.
With your headphones on and your eyes glued to your laptop screen your neck might as well be made of stone. Which means you don't really notice the man who's approached the table in the corner you've tucked yourself into.
"Do I even want to know how many shots you had them put in there?"
You jump, launching yourself backwards and straightening, causing your skull to crack rather unpleasantly against the wall behind you. You hiss in pain at the same time that Dr. Abbot says "Shit."
"Sorry," He rumbles, stepping forward. "Can I see?"
He really didn't have to ask. He could've just told you that he was going to look and you wouldn't kick up a fuss. You'd like it actually, if he told you what to do. What's that line from Fleabag? “I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about." Yeah. Dr. Abbot could do all of that for you.
Still technically your doctor you depraved lunatic.
You must've nodded or made a noise of affirmation or something (or maybe he got tired of waiting for you to respond) but he steps forward and. Well. Okay. You had this idea, in your head about what him 'seeing' actually entails, and conceptually, you understood that it involves him touching you, without gloves or a sterile, anti-septic wall between the two of you, but actually feeling his large, warm hands (is he always this warm, then? You remember how warm they were at the hospital) cradling the back of your head, fingers rubbing along your scalp, checking for a bump or scratch or whatever is a completely different ballpark.
If you thought the palpation was difficult to endure, it doesn't hold a goddamn candle to him leaning over you, dressed in his own clothes that smell like him, hands bare (!!) and actually touching you, skin-to-skin. There's no rumpled band tee or blue latex gloves between you now.
"No bump," He affirms after a few (unrequited and one-sided) sexually charged moments. "Sorry about that."
"No, it's not your fault. Coffee makes me jumpy."
His eyes skate down to the large, mostly empty cup next to your laptop. "And I'm sure the quantity was helpful."
You smile, more than a little embarrassed. He's charted your medical history. He knows exactly how stupid it is for you specifically to be drinking a twenty-four ounce iced cold brew with five extra shots of espresso. Realistically, that is an unhinged and borderline masochistic coffee order for a normal person.
"Enlighten me," He starts, his head tilted to the side, eyes once again looking you up and down. But this time, his gaze isn't clinical. Maybe you're imagining it, making things up to feed your delusions and issues, but right now, it's almost like he's looking at you like he's... hungry.
"Why would little-miss-mild-diastolic-dysfunction be drinking a concentrated heart attack?"
Jesus H. Christ.
"—Little-miss—“
This is genuinely becoming a very serious problem. You might have to leave Pittsburgh forever. Forget your master's program. Maybe your professors will understand that you ended up with a giant, overwhelming, unhinged, and slightly insatiable and completely inappropriate crush on the ER doctor you are definitely going to be seeing a lot of.
That's it. You can never come back to this coffee shop. Or go to the ER again. Ever. You'll just die next time you have a health problem, thanks.
Oh, fuck. How long have you been just staring at him?
He's smiling at you, all teeth and a knowing sparkle in his eyes and you know what, you actually hate him, he's such an asshole--
"You know I'm willing to bet I'd see a spike if you were still hooked up to that heart monitor."
"Oh, fuck you," You laugh, your shoulders relaxing.
"She does bite back," He says, humor clear on his features. "Was wondering if I should start concussion protocol."
You roll your eyes. "If you must know, I have a mountain of homework to do and very little time to do all of it, so."
You gesture to your coffee cup. "Caffeine it is."
"You know, as your former doctor, I'd have to advise you against finishing that. Please tell me you at least ate something with it?"
"... I had a pack of fruit snacks from the bottom of my bag?"
Dr. Abbot sighs, looks heaven-ward and mutters "kids" under his breath and, in a mirror of the week prior in the hospital room, points one finger at you and says:
"Stay."
Again. You're not sure where you would go and you are very inclined to listen. Probably too inclined to listen. Whatever.
He returns after a few minutes with a large iced water, a ham-and-swiss croissant on a plate, and another coffee, this one hot.
Then, smooth and confident, he moves your laptop back to make room, and sets the plate and water in front of you.
"Eat that," He points to the croissant, then to the water. "And drink that. All of it."
Your eyes widen. "Dr. Abbot, you didn't have to--"
"Jack."
"What?"
"We're not in the hospital. And I'm not your doctor."
Your face feels so hot. It has to be on fire. Are you on fire?
“I really can’t—“
“You can,” He assures, self-confident and jeez-us there is no way you’re not thinking about that in bed tonight. Or like, maybe forever?
You want to fight him on this, maybe push back a little, because there’s absolutely no universe in which this means what you want it to mean, but—
There’s a certain temptation to give in. Plus, who knows what other downright sinful things he’d say if you kick up more of a fuss?
“Okay,” You acquiesce (it feels a lot more like melting, though.)
Dr. Abb— Jack doesn’t say anything as you dutifully sip the water and take a bite, he just—
Watches. It’s almost worst than anything that could come out of his mouth.
“There we go,” Okay, you take it back that is a million times worse, “You’d better finish that, you hear me?”
“I will. I promise.”
Jack hums, then pulls a pen out of the pocket of his hoodie and scribbles something on a napkin. He hands it to you, then says:
“Call me.”
And then he just. Turns around, and walks out the door, coffee in hand.
What. The. Fuck.
—
Two things occur after your interaction with Jack in the cafe. Well technically, don’t occur, since the first thing is that you don’t tell your roommate that her kind-of boss maybe possibly flirted with you a teeny bit and gave you his number?
There isn’t really a way to bring that up organically, so you just. Don’t.
The second thing is that after an embarrassing long time about what to even name him in your phone (you settle on Dr. Jack Abbot, keeping the Dr. part as if you’re going to forget) you do not, in fact, call him. Or text him.
So yeah, actually, two things do not occur. There is no occurring. There is a severe lack of occurring.
It’s not that you don’t want to text him (you really do) you’re just not sure how to go about doing so? Like, what does that first text even look like?
‘Hey, thanks for not medically gas-lighting me, wanna get coffee? Except you probably don’t want to get coffee with me, because you’ve seen first hand how neurotic coffee makes me. So, drinks?’
No. Not happening.
You mainly just try to focus on staying busy. Which is easy, because master’s programs are so incredibly good at making sure you never have a waking moment to yourself. It’s so great. (You’re dying.)
Weeks come and go in a blur of late nights, intense study sessions, and minor breakdowns over your workload that turn into major breakdowns about your life (you are now the not-so-proud owner of homemade nose piercing, courtesy of you, Victoria, and two bottles of rosé.)
Soo the nose piercing probably wasn’t the best idea, but now you’re kind of too scared to take it out and honestly it doesn’t even hurt. Victoria made sure that everything was clean and sterile, and honestly she did an amazing job with the placement, so no complaints there.
You just now have a semi-permanent reminder of why not to get drunk when you’re having a bit of a breakdown. At least you didn’t tell Victoria about Jack. You might’ve given yourself bangs.
As it stands, though, the whole “don’t get drunk when you’re having a breakdown” apparently didn’t stick, because a dark Wednesday evening has found you at a bar Victoria told you was great, nursing a a third or fourth beer you really don’t have the money to be drinking.
(It was the cheapest thing the bar sold, anyways.)
You stare at the ring of condensation on the counter in front of you, thinking about the un-texted and un-called contact that’s currently burning a hole in your pocket. For some reason, no matter how busy you get, you never really manage to forget that it’s there.
“Call me.”
God, you think to yourself, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, the memory of the low timber of his voice and how warm and nice it felt to be the center of his gaze; the center of his attention.
The memory makes your skin flush, so you throw back the rest of your beer so you can blame the heat on the alcohol.
It’s an unconvincing lie and a miserable action.
“Didn’t know you were old enough to drink.”
You really need to stop taking Victoria’s recommendations. Or maybe remember where she works.
You don’t bother turning to face him, because he sidles up next to you at the empty bar seat.
“I’m legal,” You mumble, the tiniest bit buzzed from the beer.
Glancing over turns out to be a mistake, because he’s wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up, which means that the arm he has propped on the bar is exposed in all it’s deliciously muscled and freckled glory.
And he’s looking at you. Eyes a little narrowed, tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He’s a bad idea, is what he is. Just like the sparkling stud in the side of your nose. Except that tiny piece of jewelry doesn’t look nearly as fucking good as he does.
You might be a little more than buzzed, if how much you want to kiss him is anything to go off.
“You stare more than you talk,” Jack says, curling his fist to prop his head up, absentmindedly waving the bartender over. “Always looks like there’s a lot going on in that pretty head of yours.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I’m not sure you mean them.”
The silence between you too isn’t really silence. Not with the dull sounds of bar chatter and shitty bar music and Jack telling the bartender to pour him a drink.
Whiskey, neat.
Figures.
“I would’ve told you that I meant them,” He tosses back the whiskey, almost all in one go. Leaves a tiny bit at the bottom of the glass, swirls it around before continuing. “If you’d called.”
More not-quite silence.
“I wanted to.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” You turn your body to face him, newly mirroring his position, “…I almost did. A few times.”
“Why?”
“Why didn’t I?”
“Why did you almost call?”
You swallow, nearly choking on the sudden lump in your throat. “Um.”
Very eloquent, you are. Truly, a master of poise and class.
“Need some liquid courage, sweetheart?”
“I’ve been drinking beer all night,” You say, sheepish. Sweetheart. God. It’s like he’s trying to torture you.
Is he?
“That’s not real alcohol. Come here.”
The next chain of events are much too sexually charged to happen in a cheap bar with a man who used to be your doctor.
It happens anyway.
You don’t move closer— frozen stock-still in something like apprehension or fear. But not necessarily the unpleasant kind?
The ‘Come here’ must’ve been figurative or metaphorical or something, or maybe he knows that you’re too nervous to comply (even though something in you desperately wants to) because he moves.
Jack reaches a hand up— slow enough that you could back up or push it away if you wanted to.
You don’t. You don’t want to, anyways.
His fingers ghost up your neck before settling on the edge of your jaw, his thumb pressed firm against your chin. He tilts your head back, just a slight angle, and then—
He takes his glass, the one with that little bit of whiskey in it (oh god, did he plan this? Did he leave that whiskey in there on purpose?) and raises the glass to your lips, letting the rum rest heavy against your mouth.
“You ever had whiskey before, kid?”
You shake your head no. You probably have, at some point, but relaying that would require a certain amount of effort and speaking skills— neither of which you are in current possession of.
“It’s gonna burn a little. Swallow it quick.”
What the fuck? Is—
He—
Then he tips up the glass, and you really don’t want whiskey on your face, so you part your lips enough to let the amber liquid be poured into your mouth, and he’s right, it does burn, and it kind of tastes gross.
You screw up your face at the flavor, but do your best to swallow it quickly, feeling the burn of it lick down your throat before settling like a warm, heavy weight in your stomach.
Like that was a normal thing to do, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened, he sits back onto his stool, releasing your face and resuming his position propped up on the bar.
“So. When did you almost call me?”
You don’t drink often. It’s honestly way too expensive, you despise hangovers (you have headaches and migraines all the time, why induce one?) and you don’t much care for the taste of most alcohols.
All of that to say. You are an embarrassingly easy lightweight. A cheap drunk, if you will.
“First time was two weeks ago,” You mumble, maybe not loud enough for him to hear over the shitty bar music, “Got a tea instead of a coffee to study with. Wanted to text you a picture.”
Jack has this easy, warm, but also simultaneously shit-eating expression on his face, which you take to mean that he’s aware of your incredible intolerance for alcohol.
“And what reason did you whip up in that pretty head of yours as to why you shouldn’t?”
You shrug. “Thought you wouldn’t care. Like, maybe you just want to hookup.”
“I do not want to hookup.”
“Oh.”
He motions to the bartender, who pours him more whiskey. What is it with men and whiskey?
“And the other time?”
This one you don’t really want to tell him, but with the alcohol burning away in your stomach and Jack’s equally burning stare, you give in.
“… Wanted to call you and ask you to yell at one of my professors. Cause he’s a dick and doesn’t believe in giving extensions or allowances even if you go to the hospital.”
He snorts. “And why didn’t you?”
You let your head flop onto your arm, halfway on the bar halfway off. “Didn’t wanna bother you. Seemed stupid. Plus, I managed to catch up on all my homework.”
Jack finishes the rest of his drink, then nudges your head off the bar and back onto your arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t lay on there. It’s gross.”
You whine. Your arm isn’t as comfortable as the solid bar top.
He didn’t really respond to your explanation (at least not in any normal way) so instead you decided to amuse yourself by just staring at his face. It’s a nice face.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Did you get me drunk on purpose?”
“No.”
“Then how come I’m drunk?”
“Because you’re a lightweight and whiskey has a higher alcohol content than beer.”
“Oh. Was that flirting? With the—“
You gesture vaguely to his glass and then to your lips. He just raises an eyebrow.
“Do you really need confirmation?”
“Yes.”
His face makes a funny expression. “Yes, that was flirting. The thing at the cafe was too.”
“Oh. That’s good to know. I wasn’t sure.”
“You weren’t sure?”
“Yeah,” Your neck is starting to hurt from lying there, so you prop it up with your hand. It’s only mildly more comfortable. “People don’t flirt with me very often.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe they are and you just don’t notice?”
“I would notice.”
“Kid, you just asked me if hand-feeding you my whiskey was flirting.”
You shrug, jostling your head and nearly slipping. “I don’t come to bars like, ever. Maybe that’s normal bar etiquette.”
“If you don’t come to bars, then why are you here tonight?”
You arm is too tired to keep holding your head up and your vision feels like it’s processing at a lower frame rate, like an old video game, so you put your head back on the bar top. Jack does a funny little huffing noise, and sticks the palm of his hand under your head right before it lands on the table, so you’re lying on his hand instead of the bar.
“Your hand is warm.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
His eyes catch on the piece of jewelry now adorning your nose.
“When’d you get that?”
“Last week. Got drunk with Victoria— uhm, Javadi.”
“I know what her first name is, thank you sweetheart.”
“Right. Anyways, she had some nose jewelry from her mom, and kept drinking rosé and crying about our workload, I mean, hers is like, definitely worse than mine, you know, medical student and all, but we were drunk and we thought why not? Like, she’s a doctor, she knows how to sterilize stuff and keep it clean. She chickened out and wouldn’t let me give her one. Which makes sense. Cause I didn’t give myself a nose piercing. I had her do it.”
“You been keeping it clean?"
“Mhm. Twice a day.”
“Good girl.”
Jack sighs a little, the thumb that’s pressed against your temple beginning to sweep back and forth.
“You don’t belong in a place like this, kid.”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay. I think I wanna go home.”
Jack just nods, still rubbing your temple. It feels too intimate for a bar, but it feels really nice, and you don’t really want him to stop.
“Do you have a ride?”
“No. Victoria went to sleep before I left. She has an early morning. She works really hard.”
He hums. “I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to,” You mumble, “I know you’ve got the. The leg.”
Some sort of unreadable look flashes across his face, the kind of look you probably wouldn’t be able to decipher even if you were sober and fully in possession of all your faculties.
“I know I don’t have to. But I’d feel better if I saw you get home safely with my own two eyes.”
You huff. “This isn’t some sort of sex thing, right? Like, you get me drunk so you’ll have to take me home, and then you know where I live, and then you take me to my room and then I’m drunk so i’m easier to coerce—“
“Fuck, no. Has someone ever tried that with you?”
“No. I’ve heard about it, though.”
“Look at me,” He raises your head a little with his hand, eyes searching your face. “You ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe, in any way, call me. I don’t care what time it is or if you think you’re bothering me. You’re not. Okay?”
That’s probably too intense for… whatever thing you guys have going on. But you’re not really normal, and it just sounds so nice, having someone to call.
“Okay.”
Jack nods again. “Alright. Let’s get you home. Come on, up we go.”
He manages to get you too your feet after a minor amount of stumbling on your part —“Jesus, kid, you are a lightweight”— and keeps one stabilizing arm around your waist as he helps you home.
“Your arm feels nice.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t talk very much except little mutterings here and there.
“Careful— there’s a big crack there.”
“Don’t walk into that trash can.”
“Keep your eyes open.”
“Almost there.”
The walk back to your house isn’t far, like most of the places you go to since moving to Pittsburgh.
“I can get up there myself,” You say, motioning to the stairs that lie in front of you and lead up to you and Victoria’s apartment, “Thank you, though. I’ll text you in the morning. I promise.”
Jack let’s go of you and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t forget to drink water before you go to bed. At least a full glass.”
You clasp your hands behind your back. “Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight, kid.”
—
Two days later finds you sitting at your tiny table, phone sitting face-up, Jack’s contact open and painfully empty.
You forgot to text him in the morning, because your hangover was fucking awful (You can’t even think about whiskey without getting nauseous again) and then you had school and… well. Now it’s been two days, and you still need to text him.
Victoria walks past you, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. She sets one down in front of you and sits down at the table.
“Still haven’t texted him?”
Apparently, Victoria had set an alarm on her phone to check if you’d made it home okay and ended up seeing you and Jack outside the apartment. She’d had the kindness to wait until the next morning before asking:
“So, you and Dr. Abbot?”
Vomiting had saved you from answering immediately, though you did end up telling everything that had happened after you finished worshiping the porcelain altar. Talking and throwing up don’t mix.
“No,” You answer her miserably. “I just don’t know what to say.”
“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s into you. Based on,” She winces, “Past evidence. I doubt a text is going to put him off. Probably?”
“I told him I’d text him yesterday morning.”
“In your defense, you spent pretty much all day yesterday dying, so. I’m sure he figured that might happen.”
You take a generous gulp of coffee. “Should I just say hi?”
“I’m really not the person you should be asking for romantic advice.”
You take her by the shoulders. “You’re all I have, Victoria.”
“Um,” She sets her mug down. “Maybe something like, hello? Say sorry for not texting?”
You hum, typing out the sentiment, then slide the phone over to her. “Does that sound awkward?”
“Again. I really do not think you want to ask me.”
You chew on your lip, drink the last of your coffee in one go, totally burn the shit out of your tongue, then send the text.
You promptly stand, your chair screeching loudly as it nearly tips over, and run over to your fridge.
“Fuck. Do we have any of that rosé left?”
“It’s seven in the morning?”
“Desperate times, Victoria.”
She leans over, glancing at your phone, then gasps. “He’s typing!”
“Already?!” You screech, running back over to the table and hunching over your phone. Sure enough, the little bubble is on your screen, little dots jumping.
“What’s he saying?”
“I don’t know! You read it!”
Victoria snatches your phone and stares at it with the same amount of focus that you’ve previously only seen when she’s an hour deep into some medical textbook.
“Oh my god.”
“What? What?!”
She shoves the phone into your face.
Don’t worry about it, kid. Thought you might be hungover. You could always make it up to me, though.
“Oh my god,” You repeat. “Is it weird that I think it’s hot when he calls me kid?”
“Like, in the grand scheme of things? No. But probably.”
You pick absentmindedly at your hangnails. “I’m gonna text him back."
You type out a quick message and hit send before you can chicken out.
How am I supposed to make it up to you?
The dots reappear for a few seconds.
Let me take you on a real date.
You slam your hands (and phone) onto the table and whip your head to Victoria.
“He wants to take me on a date!”
The apartment becomes filled with the shrill squeals and screams of hysterical joy.
“Say yes!” Victoria screams. “You have to say yes. Please. For both of our sakes.”
“Shouldn’t I play hard to get? Don’t guys like that?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t you like, already unintentionally done that? Plus, Abbot is a pretty straightforward guy.”
“You’re right.”
When are you free next?
Tomorrow. You?
I have class until 3 :/
I’ll pick you up at 5.
You squeal again, practically jumping out of your seat and running to your room, throwing yourself on your bed.
Victoria follows a few minutes after, though in a much calmer manner.
“I can’t believe this is happening. You’re going on a date with my boss—“
“Oh my god, don’t say it like that.”
“So we’re ignoring the age gap?”
“No.”
“No judgement here, I know some people think experience is quite the kink—“
“Shut up—“
She laughs, leaving your room but leaving your phone on the nightstand by your bed.
You’re actually going to do it. You’re going on a date. With Jack Abbot. He wants to go on a date with you.
You only manage to stop screaming into your pillow when the downstairs neighbors shout for you to stop.
—
5 pm the next day arrives in a whirlwind of panic, about two million outfit changes, desperate makeup application, and way too much deliberation over what panties to wear for somebody who never has sex on the first date. Or like, ever, really.
By the time Jack has arrived (bearing a bouquet of flowers. Not roses, not the cheap dyed ones, but the kind of selection that takes time to make and time to choose) you’ve worked yourself into a frenzy about possibly being both under and over-dressed at the same time.
All Jack says, however, when meet him downstairs is a sort of winded:
“You look beautiful.”
And then you’re off.
The date itself is actually relaxing and easy, like being in Jack’s presence usually is. He asks about your schoolwork and classes and actually listens when you tell him what you’re studying. He doesn’t belittle your major or make himself seem self-important, like his job and career are better than yours. He actually says that he’s impressed that you manage to balance your health and workload so well, to which you respond by pointing at your nose stud and say “Not all that well.” which makes you both laugh.
He glares at you when you even glance at the check, which kind of makes you want to punch him and kiss him senseless.
He walks you home and, when you hesitate to initiate, pushes you against your apartment door and kisses you so hard your lips are tingling when he whispers a breathless:
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
After that, Victoria bans you from speaking about anything beyond talking or hanging out that happens on your dates, because: “I still have to look him in the eye at work, and I really don’t want to hear about how good my boss’s tongue feels in your mouth.”
You can’t exactly blame her for that.
One date becomes two which becomes three, then four, and then you start staying over at his place a couple times a week because it’s way nicer than yours anyway.
One of the adjustments of your boyfriend (can you call him that? Are you guys dating? Or just going on dates?) being a doctor, and also apparently caring about you as a human being on a fundamental level, is that he actually worries about your health. Like, always.
“Put the ibuprofen bottle down, you’ve already had five today.”
“Are you tracking my medication usage?”
“Yes. Who else is going to stop you from giving yourself liver failure?”
Or:
“What’s your heart rate average been today?”
“…One-forty?”
“So do you think having an energy drink for breakfast is a good idea?”
“…”
“That’s what I thought.”
In some ways, it’s annoying. But in a lot of other, overpowering ways, it’s so… relaxing, to have someone around to think of you. You don’t really understand why or how he gets fulfillment out of helping you manage your life day-to-day, but he does, and does anything else really matter?
There are, of course, hiccups. There is the awkward moment where a two-week long flare sends you to the PTMC because you faint at school and school protocol requires they dial 911, and then even after the paramedics arrive and you explain to them that your body just hates you, your heart rate won't lower from the low 120's so then they insist they take you to the hospital, where Dr. Robby gets to meet you for the first time. And the entire day shift. It's about as awkward as it sounds.
Sometimes Jack has bad pain days too. He gets a little waspish, a little snappy, because being the man that he is (and just a man, at the end of the day) he doesn't like acknowledging that not having a leg means he has limitations. But just like he doesn't pity you or make you feel incapable when you hate your body or get sick for the thirty-millionth time, you do your best to make sure he knows that you get it, and he's still the ridiculously hot doctor you wanted to bang even with a 100.4 degree fever.
"It was actually 101.4," He likes to correct from the bathtub, steam curling around his neck and shoulders. "Your heart rate would spike every time you looked at me."
You bear through the reminders of your own awkwardness for his sake. Plus, it's hard to hate him for it, especially when he's always coming up with new and inventive ways to thank you for taking care of him (even though you insist he doesn't have to, because he's literally been taking care of you since the day you met.)
And, you know. There are worse ways to spend one's time.
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
—the cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: you’re the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jack’s characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear it’s just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: i’m not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”
“You like dark and dreary.”
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”
“I can be charming when I want to be.”
“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
—
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.
You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.
“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”
“No. You offend people on purpose.”
“True.”
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”
“Disturbingly so.”
“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”
“Do you really need me for this conversation?”
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”
“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”
Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.
“Should I talk to him?”
She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”
“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”
“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”
Now it’s your turn to glare.
“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”
You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, it’s just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)
(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
“Here, give me that.”
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
—
“He took your beer?”
“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”
“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”
“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”
You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”
“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”
“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”
“So? I know your type.”
You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”
“Hate sex is a thing.”
“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”
She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“
“Shut up Trinity!”
You both snicker.
“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”
“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”
“You’re not helping.”
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”
“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”
“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“
“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
She’s right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.
Easier said than done.
—
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.
“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.
“Did I do something wrong?”
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
“Why do you think you did something wrong?”
“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”
You pause. “And you took my beer!”
There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
He’s laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“
“How else was I supposed to take that.”
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”
He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
“You hate confrontation.”
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”
“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”
“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”
“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”
The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”
“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”
Jack just hums.
“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”
Your skin prickles again. “No.”
“Lying again.”
“Shut up.”
He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.
—
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…
…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”
‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”
It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“
“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”
You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”
“In the men’s bathroom?”
“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”
“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
“Clearly.”
You stumble forward. “I need to go—“
“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”
“There’s an attending’s lounge?”
“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”
“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”
“Ah.”
“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”
You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:
“Find another bathroom.”
“But I have to—“
“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.
You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
“That seemed a bit extreme.”
“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”
“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
“What am I going to do with you?”
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“
“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re drowning.”
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you don’t speak, he does.
“Did you think no one would notice?”
“No one has.”
“Am I no one?”
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
“You’re nosy.”
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”
“What, exactly, am I doing?”
“Pretending.”
You scoff. “Fuck off.”
“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”
“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”
You scrub a hand down your face.
“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”
Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”
“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.
“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”
Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”
You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Okay.”
You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.
—
Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(“You can’t send me home.”
“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”
“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”
“…”
“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
“Why the fuck are you still here?”
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
“How long until your bus gets here?”
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”
He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”
Jack just sighs.
“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”
You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”
He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”
“No…?”
He shakes his head.
“Come on. You’re coming with me.”
—
“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.
Probably both.
“Where did you think we were going?”
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.
“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”
“What would I even be writing you up for?”
“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”
“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”
“Yes…?”
“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”
“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”
The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.
He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”
“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“What?”
“Read your book.”
“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”
He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
“How did you even know I like diner food?”
“Because I pay attention to you.”
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”
It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
“Do you hate me?”
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
“No.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Okay.”
—
“You did what?”
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.
“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”
“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”
“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”
“No it doesn’t!”
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”
“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
“Oh.”
You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”
“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”
“What!?” You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.
“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”
“I don’t know!” You cry.
“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”
“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”
“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
“He asked what you’re doing today.”
Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”
“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“
“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”
“Just give me the fucking phone.”
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”
“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“
“There will be no wedding!”
“That’s just what you think.”
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.
“What’s he saying?”
“Go away!”
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo I’m fine i get them all the time
That’s not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
I’m not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”
“He said what?”
—
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”
“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”
“I take care of myself plenty.”
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”
“That’s different.”
“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”
“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”
You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”
“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”
“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”
Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”
“Mm.”
“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”
“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”
“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”
“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”
“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
“Like what?”
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”
“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
“Get going then.”
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
—
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
It’s bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”
“Mel asked.”
Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”
“What exactly are you asking me here?”
“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”
“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me.”
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
“You don’t look too good.”
“I’m—“
“Don’t say you’re fine.”
“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”
“Okay.”
There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”
“I don’t work tonight.”
You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”
Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
“What’d you do that for?”
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“
“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”
You nod once.
“Words.”
“Uh— yeah. Yes.”
“Good.”
Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
“Yes.”
Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”
The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.
“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”
What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.
“I know.”
“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”
It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
“You like being told what to do.”
Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”
You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.
“Makes sense.”
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
—
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what he’s doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
“What’s this?”
“A thank you card.”
You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.
“What for?”
“It says it in the card.”
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
—
It’s the card that does him in.
Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.
He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.
As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”
“No one’s heard from you in three days.”
You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”
“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”
“Jesus— I’m coming in.”
“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
“Do you have headache relief?”
You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”
“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”
“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”
“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”
“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”
“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”
“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”
“Mhm. I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”
“Of course you can.”
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
“Jack.”
“Yes?”
“Did you clean my apartment?”
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
You’re crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.
“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”
“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”
“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”
You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”
“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”
Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”
“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”
“Get used to it.”
You sigh, dramatic and long.
“I suppose I’ll allow it.”
“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”
“Well, aren’t I lucky.”
Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
“This is romantic, right?”
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
“Yes.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“You need confirmation?”
“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
summary: after a particularly long shift, you space out and let your intrusive thoughts win.
pairing: dr. jack abbot x resident fem!reader
content warning(s): brief mention of power imbalance, mutual pining / attraction, flirting, intrusive thoughts win y'all, no use of y/n.
word count: 1.6k
a/n: soo… every time i see Shawn’s arms, i literally stop thinking. and i thought that if i were to have seen jack abbot in that scene, I wouldn’t be able to keep to myself. (pulled inspo from peggy touching steve rogers chest after he got the super soldier serum lmao). anyway, enjoy my delusional thoughts. this isn't proofread lmao <3
masterlist. || read on ao3.
You should’ve just gone home, but here you were, the last person from the day shift still catching up on your charting.
You were seated at one of the make-shift desks, staring at the computer when both Robby and Jack approached you.
“You’re still here,” Robby said.
“Yes,” you muttered.
“Everyone’s gone home.”
“Not everyone. You’re still here,” you finally looked up at them both. Jack caught your eye immediately, gaze lingering just for a second longer before you turned your attention to Robby.
“You’re picking up my bad habits.”
“Guess you should lead by example then,” you said with a sigh.
Robby chuckled.
Jack looked at you, amused, with his lips curled into a small smile.
“I’m almost finished,” you continued. “Just want to make sure it’s accurate and detailed, that’s all.”
“That’s never an issue,” Robby pointed out.
“Good to know.”
Jack crossed his arms over his chest and your eyes flickered over to him, immediately glancing down at his arms. “Your notes are always very detailed. Makes it easy for continuity of care,” he finally chimed in.
“I’m on my last two patients,” you sighed. “I’ll try to get it done in the next hour.”
Robby sighed and glanced over at Jack. “Right then. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
“Night, Dr. Robby,” you called out, turning your attention back to the computer screen. The other man turned on his heel, leaving you alone with Jack.
You could still feel his presence, so you sat back in the chair and looked over at him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?”
“Nothing,” he answered.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m… observing.”
“And I’m trying to get this done,” you ran a hand over your face. “Trust me, I’d rather be home right now.”
“There’s gotta be another way to be more efficient,” he pointed out.
You scoffed. “Efficiency is not my issue.”
“Sure seems like it.”
You shook your head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“Aren’t we all?”
He chuckled. “Suppose we are, but I’d rather not have a straggler from the day shift bleed into my nights.”
“Why’s that?”
“It becomes my responsibility.”
“I’m just charting,” you said.
“And it’s the second time this week that you’re staying later than everyone else,” he pointed out.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re distracted.”
“I’m not your patient, Dr. Abbot.”
“No,” he shook his head. “Because my patients actually listen.”
Your lips parted in surprise.
He leaned against the edge of the desk.
“Finish your charts, then head home.” He said, softer this time. “You need rest.”
You watched him walk away, sighing quietly to yourself as your eyes lingered. Your crush on the older man was the reason why this was the second time you had stayed later than everyone else and you weren’t sure how it made you feel that he noticed it too.
Because he was right.
You were distracted.
And it was because of him.
“At this point, you should just join the night crew,” Ellis said, resting her elbows on the counter as she looked down at you.
“I don’t know if I can function,” you answered.
“Well, you’re here later than everyone else. I’d say you’ll be able to adapt.”
“I’d be distracted.”
“Aren’t you already?” She grinned.
You looked up at her and narrowed your eyes. “Trinity told you.”
“No,” she said. “I just have eyes and you… well, you don’t try to hide it.”
You gasped. “Do you think he notices it too?”
“He’s an observant man,” Ellis answered. “I’d be surprised if he doesn’t.”
“Great,” you sighed, finishing the last chart of your patient and standing from your seat. “And with that, I’m going home.”
“You know,” she said. “He likes you too.”
You furrowed a brow. “Doubt that.”
Ellis chuckled. “In denial… both of you.”
“He’s an attending,” you muttered.
“Doesn’t stop you from staring at him like you want to jump him though, does it?”
You rolled your eyes and stood from the computer. You hadn’t seen Jack since he told you to go home, but there was a small part of you that hoped you would get to see him before you left.
“I don’t stare at him like—”
“Stare at who?” Jack appeared behind you. It seemed like he appeared out of thin air.
Your eyes widened. You still hadn’t turned around. Ellis was smirking, glancing over your shoulder at Jack.
“Oh, gotta go!” She said.
“Ellis—”
“Duty calls!” She interrupted. When Jack moved his gaze towards you, Ellis gave you a quick wink and turned on her heel, leaving you with Jack.
“Stare at who?” Jack repeated. He felt closer now. His voice hovered near your ear.
Slowly, you turned around to face him. “No one.”
His eyes narrowed. “Uh huh.”
You were tired. Exhausted, really, and standing in front of him like this, so close that you could see the different shade of color in his eyes, the freckles along his face, the stubble on his chin, wasn’t helping.
“I finished charting,” you said, changing the subject.
Then, he crossed his arms over his chest. Your eyes flickered to his arms, trailing his forearms up to his biceps that seem to bulge out from beneath the fabric of his shirt.
He cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” You asked, staring up at him now.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Right.”
Jack tilted his head. When you glanced back down at his arms, he let a faint smile line his lips. It gave him the chance to look you over once too.
“So, will I be seeing you again tomorrow night?”
“What?” You asked.
“When I come in for my shift, will I be seeing you again?”
“No,” you answered too quickly. “I don’t know.”
He let out a quiet chuckle. Took another step closer. “Hm.”
“What? What hm?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
“You ever think about moving to nights?” Jack asked. He was closer now.
“No,” you said. “I don’t think I’d survive.”
“I think you’d fit right in.”
Your lips parted in surprise. Was Jack flirting with you? “Nights aren’t for me.”
“Well,” he shrugged. “I know that nights would be more fun with you around.”
You felt your cheeks flush. Maybe you were tired and just hallucinating that the man you had a crush on was standing so close to you and saying things that you were sure you’d think about over and over again later.
“You think so? You wouldn’t tease me about my charting?”
Jack grinned. “Oh, no, that’s a given.”
“I’m just… detailed.”
“Sure.”
“I am.”
“Uh huh,” he said, eyes glinting with amusement.
Your eyes moved from his down to his lips, lingering for a moment before you moved your gaze to his arms. You were exhausted. You weren’t thinking straight. The fact that he was standing there flirting with you caused your brain to short circuit… or at least it felt like it.
Because you wanted to reach out and touch his arms. Squeeze those biceps that always seemed to press against the fabric of his shirt whenever he crossed his arms over his chest. You’d want to trace the veins along his strong forearms, wondering what else would be—
“Um…” he mumbled, looking down at you.
Your eyes widened.
Your hands were already on his biceps.
“Oh my god,” you said, pulling your hands from him quickly. “Shit. I—I’m so fucking sorry, Dr. Abbot.”
You needed to slip back into some sense of professionalism. He was an attending. You didn’t work directly under him, but he was still a superior at the Pitt. Your mind had drifted to the point that your intrusive thoughts about touching him won.
Jack gently wrapped a hand around your arm and pulled you into one the empty rooms. The door shut behind him, giving you both the much needed space away from prying eyes.
“That was…”
“Uncalled for,” you finished for him. “I’m sorry. I’m just—I’m tired.”
“You touch Robby like that when you’re tired?”
“No… Robby doesn’t have your arms,” you blurted out. “God, I need to go home.”
Jack smirked. “Oh, so it’s just me?”
“Can we just forget about it?”
“It’s going to be very difficult for me,” he teased. “You were practically… feeling me up.”
“I was not!” You shook your head.
Jack crossed his arms over his chest again.
Your eyes flickered to his arms. Almost like you had been conditioned to watch his muscles flex at the motion.
“You want to do it again, don’t you?” Jack smirked.
“No,” you answered, looking back up at him. “You’re teasing me.”
“So what if I am?”
“You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered.
“And what if… what if I said I liked having your hands on me?” Jack admitted. “Then, what?”
“I’d say you’re lying.”
He cleared his throat. Dropped his hands back to his sides.
You bit your lower lip as you kept your eyes on him.
He took a step closer to you.
You opened your mouth to say something before the door opened abruptly. Shen looked between the two of you with a furrowed brow.
“Jack, we got incoming. Multiple injuries from an MVA.”
“Got it,” he said. Jack stepped back and away from you. “I’ll be right there, Shen.”
The other man nodded and gave you a knowing look before he shut the door once more.
“I should head home and get some rest,” you said.
Jack sighed. “Can I take you out for dinner?”
“What?”
“Dinner. You and me.”
You bit back a smile. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
You nodded. “Yeah, Jack.”
He let out a relieved breath and nodded. Then, his own intrusive thoughts won because Jack leaned forward to kiss your cheek. When he pulled away, you noticed the redness in his cheeks.
“Have a good night,” he said.
“Good night, Jack.” You reached out and touched his arm, biting your lower lip as you squeezed his arm before he smiled down at you.
Then, he turned around and left the room.
You couldn’t help the large smile that lined your lips.
Jack liked you too.
And he asked you out on a date.
All because you made the first move. Unintentionally.
Summary: After leaving your boyfriend some little notes of love in his lunchbox, you became very famous throughout the night shift. But you didn't know this until you had to step into the ER trying to give Jack his forgotten lunchbox.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
Thanks to the anon who requested a part 2 for Little Notes of Love and illuminated my brain because this little fic wasn't meant to have a part 2.
Hope you guys love it just as much as the first part.
(Sorry that this took me more time than I planned to 🙃)
The ER wasn't a place you liked. Really, you didn't enjoy being at a hospital. Ironic, since your boyfriend is an ER doctor. There is nothing specific for you to dislike about the place, it's just a hospital, and no one really likes being there. But this time, you drove voluntarily to the place all because Jack forgot his lunchbox, and your concern about the rare times your boyfriend gets to eat at his job is more important than your dislike for the hospital.
You don't really know where to get in. You're not a patient, and you're afraid that the lady at the desk would not let you in, so even if you're a little embarrassed, you get in through the ambulance bay. Your plan is not to stay too long and to bother people as little as possible. It's a very busy place, and you don't want to get in anyone's way.
You stand near the place where a desk is (the nurse station), trying to find Jack through all the people moving from one side to another so quickly that you could get dizzy.
Someone taps your shoulder, making you turn around.
“Ma’am, is everything okay? You should go through the desk at the front door.”
She said calmly with tired eyes, but she still gave you a small smile. By Jack's description, you think it's Dr. Ellis.
You smile at her, letting out a relieved sigh.
“I’m not a patient, I'm fine,” you assure her. You lift the gray lunchbox in your hand, and by the expression she makes, you think she recognizes it. “I’m looking for my boyfriend, he's an attending here,” you explain to her.
“So you are the mysterious Lady Notes, huh?” she said, smiling widely, her eyes suddenly bright with interest.
Your cheeks burn because you never thought that Jack would show them the notes, or that they would see them.
“Guess I am,” you said, telling her your actual name, but something tells you that you're stuck with Lady Notes.
“I’m Dr. Parker Ellis,” she introduced herself by shaking your hand. “Follow me.”
You do. She guides you through the nurse station toward a nurse who looks like she is in charge, and by the look she gives you above her reading glasses and Jack's description, you think she's Lena. By her side, there is a tall man who looks completely relaxed and not even bothered by the rush of the ED.
“Look who finally visited us,” Parker said, too excited.
You stay a few steps behind, a little embarrassed by the attention the three of them give you, and again, they seem to recognize you the moment they see the gray lunchbox in your hands.
Lena gives you a full smile, looking really excited, while Shen just says:
“You are Mysterious Lady Notes?” he asked, taking a sip from his Dunkin' coffee, looking as surprised as he could.
Lena gave him a look that made him shrug.
“You are beautiful, hon,” she said, walking toward you. “I’m Lena, the charge nurse from the night shift.” She smiles at you, and you give her your best smile as you introduce yourself to her.
“I don't want to disturb you or anyone. Jack forgot his lunchbox, so I thought I'd stop by and give it to him,” you explain.
“You don't disturb anyone. We all have been waiting to meet the woman who has softened Abbott.”
And you can clearly see that because of how excited the three of them seem at your presence, and their reactions attract more people.
“I thought Jack was having hallucinations when he said he would take five minutes to eat the lunch his girlfriend made for him,” Shen told you from where he was standing a few steps back from Lena. He had been talking about something with Parker before. “I’m Dr. Shen.”
You tell your name again, giggling at his comment.
You told yourself it was going to be a quick visit: give Jack his lunchbox, a kiss, and then head back to your apartment to sleep. But twenty minutes later, you have said your name more times than in your entire life, introducing yourself to anyone who tells you, “You're the mysterious Lady Notes.” You get to know Nurse Mateo, Dr. Henderson, the student Nazly, Nurse Vivi, and you think that by that point, you have met everyone who works there.
“What is happening here?” a well-known voice cut through the crowd surrounding the nurse station.
Jack stood there waiting for an explanation when his eyes met yours, and realization quickly hit him.
“Okay, you guys, stop overwhelming my missus.” He walked toward you, placing himself by your side and resting one of his hands on your lower back as usual.
“I don't think you get to call her missus if you haven't married her yet,” Mateo said playfully, pointing to your bare ring finger.
Jack looks at the nurse, narrowing his eyes, and points at him.
“Careful, or you'll spend the rest of the night with the bad cases,” he warns while the rest of the people laugh.
“He’s right, Abbott. I have no idea how you haven't put a ring on that finger already,” Parker says, raising both eyebrows.
If your cheeks were warm before, now your face was burning hot. All the eyes were on the two of you, and everyone was supporting Ellis and Mateo's thoughts.
“Okay, okay, all of you, leave them alone. Go back to your jobs. There are sick people who need you all,” Lena commands with a tone of voice that actually scares you, and it is a warning for everyone because they all say goodbye to you and go back to work as soon as they can.
Jack guides you to an empty room. Your face is hot, but the wide smile is something nobody could get rid of no matter what they said.
“So I'm the mysterious Lady Notes,” you said, giggling.
He looks at you in that intense way that only he is able to do, that hazel gaze that makes your legs tremble like jelly and your heart race so hard that you can hear it in your ears.
He huffed, rolling his eyes at your words.
“They insisted on calling you that until they knew you,” he mumbled, trying to look irritated but failing because of the smile growing on his face.
His hands go instinctively to your waist, and your arms settle around his neck. There is not an inch separating the two of you. You brush your nose against his, which finally makes him give you that crooked smile you love so much.
Jack didn't wait. He kissed you, not caring that anyone could walk in and catch you.
“You forgot your lunchbox,” you said through the kiss.
He breaks the kiss but rests his forehead against yours.
“And you brought it to me instead of going to sleep when you have to work early,” he whispered in disbelief.
“Your shift is long. You need to eat, and I don't trust the vending machine,” you said as if it wasn't a point of comparison, and just imagining him eating something from the vending machine felt like a betrayal.
He shakes his head and lets out a little laugh.
“I love you.” He leaves a kiss on your temple and another on your cheek.
“I love you too,” you respond, leaving a short kiss on his lips.
You wanted to stay a little longer, but you saw that the ER was full and that you had already attracted too much attention and distracted several people. You didn't want to take up too much of the chief attending's time.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” You leave the lunchbox in his hands and another kiss on his lips. “Eat something,” you said, pointing at him with your index finger like a threat.
He just smiles at you.
“I will. See you in the morning.” He watches you disappear through the door.
He's quick to open the lunchbox, finding just what he wanted: a little Post-it note. It was white, and written on it was:
“Lovely grumpy doctor, if you ever forget your lunchbox again, you will be temporarily banned from these masterpieces that I put my heart into.
(I’m being very serious, please don't forget to eat like you forgot your lunchbox.)
Should I be worried about memory problems? They are very common at your age.
Your beautiful girlfriend ;)”
He lets out a laugh, shaking his head.
That one was going to his locker.
Jack keeps the Post-it in his scrub pocket after reading it a few more times before Parker finds him and tells him that they have an incoming trauma. She also tries to see what the note says, but he makes sure to hide it from her view.
It was just for him.
After the trauma and doing some rounds, he finally has time to sit and do some charts. But peace was something that never happened in the ER, and definitely after your visit, he would know no peace for a while.
“What?” he asked Lena, who was looking at him above her reading glasses.
She gives him a look that Jack completely ignores.
“What are you waiting for?” she said as if it were obvious. “She deserves that damn rock on her finger.” It was more of an order than a suggestion.
Jack goes back to his chart, but the last thing he was thinking about was the patient. He would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it, but it had only been a year and a half since the two of you started officially dating. He didn't want to scare you. Even though you didn't seem bothered by the comments his co-workers made, maybe you thought they were just kidding and trying to bother him.
There was nothing that he would like more than to call you his wife, Mrs. Abbott, seeing you stop signing your notes with “girlfriend” and replacing it with “your wife,” the title you deserve because there was nothing in that life that would make Jack let you go.
You were stuck with him for the rest of your life. What better way than to make it official?
Since your visit to the ER, your discomfort with the hospital has faded, and you have visited more often, dropping Jack off and picking him up, always making a little entrance to say hello and gossip a little with Lena, Ellis, and Shen.
Now you make sure to pack Jack more food than before and tell him specifically which bowls are for each nightcrawler: the dark blue one for Mateo, the red one for Parker, the green one for Shen, and so on with the rest of the crew.
He complains, telling you that you are spoiling them. But deep inside, he loves how you worry about all of them, so he gives them all the bowls, threatening that if they don't return them empty at the end of their shift, they will be stuck at triage for an entire week.
But something that keeps staying on his mind, and that everyone keeps telling him, even Dana and Robby, is about the ring that is missing from your finger.
It doesn't sound like a rushed step if everyone keeps telling him that he's been taking a long time.
I have to admit I was smiling like an idiot while writing this 😽
Summary: Jack has an accident at work, and you're called to the rescue.
A/N: Another post for you guys! I could write for Jack Abbot all day. Once again, this work is all mine and proofread by Grammarly.
The emergency department at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center never seemed to slow down, no matter the shift. People liked to think that nights would be quieter, that the chaos would ease once the city slept, but that had never been the case. The night shift liked to joke about the “nighttime crazies,” the ones who seemed to emerge only after dark while the rest of the city slept.
Jack Abbott was used to the chaos of nights. Being an army medic had trained him to handle all kinds of situations under pressure, and he welcomed the darkness and everything it brought into the ER.
Trauma, to Jack, had become muscle memory. He moved in and out of trauma rooms with practiced ease, calm and efficient, even when things were spiralling around him. His coworkers admired him for it, and the med students wanted to be just like them. Still, no matter how capable he was, he was only human.
This shift, though, felt like one straight from hell. Jack had been fighting a dull throb behind his eyes for the past couple of hours, the harsh fluorescent lights only making it worse. Even so, he was determined to power through it. There were only a few hours left in his shift, and he refused to slow down now.
“Incoming trauma!” Lena shouted. “GSW to the chest. Twenty-seven-year-old male, unstable vitals. All hands on deck, patience is critical!”
Jack moved instantly. “Trauma Room One, now,” he called out. “Ellis, get the chest tube tray ready. Jesse, start IVs, go!”
The patient arrived, panicked and blood-slick on the stretcher, and Jack was immediately at his side. “Hold him steady,” he instructed, pressing down on the patient’s side as Dr. Ellis started to insert an IO line. Blood was dripping down the stretcher, and the med student froze for a moment, unsure where to start.
“Bloody hell,” Jack muttered as he took in the entrance wound, high up on the right side of the chest. The bullet must have hit the superior vena cava, and blood was spurting far faster than many of them had ever seen.
“Pass me the suction,” he demanded, quickly glancing at the patient’s vitals, then back to work. He helped brace the patient’s chest as Dr. Ellis carefully inserted the chest tube.
A sudden drop in the patient’s blood pressure drew his attention. Jack leaned over, tightening a tourniquet while directing a med student to start another IV. “Faster! Fuck! Help me clamp it here!” he barked, moving with precision.
The team fell into rhythm under his guidance, and the med students finally found their footing amidst the chaos. Every move had been calculated, every instruction followed precisely. But even Jack, with all his experience in and out of the field, couldn’t make it feel effortless.
“OR the team is ready!” Lena called from the desk.
“Finally,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s get this patient to surgery.”
Dr. Ellis nodded. “He’s stable enough for transport. Good work, everyone.”
Jack exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. The adrenaline was slowly starting to wear off, and he could feel the exhaustion creeping in, along with that persistent ache in his head. He felt a small relief now that the patient was in safe hands.
“All right, we’re done. OR team has it from here.”
Jack tugged off his gown and gloves, tossing them into the nearby bin, and quickly sanitized his hands. The sterile chaos of the trauma bay was fading, the beeping monitors and rush of footsteps giving way to a brief calm.
Jack took a step back, ready to head to the nurses’ station to sign off on the patient. But in that instant, he felt a shift; his prosthetic leg, slick from the patient’s blood on the floor, slipped out from under him. One moment he was standing, the next he was pitching backward.
“Shit—” he barely got out.
His head collided sharply with the edge of the vital monitors, the metal frame hitting with a harsh thunk. Pain shot through his skull, and stars danced across his vision. Jack tried to steady himself to remain conscious, but the throb in his head intensified with every passing second.
From the trauma bay, Lena’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Someone call a code! Abbott’s down!”
Within moments, his coworkers were at his side, but Jack couldn’t tell who before everything went black, and darkness claimed him entirely.
The alarm clock on your nightstand reads three o’clock when your phone rings. It slowly pulls you from sleep, your mind still foggy and unfocused. The ringing stops, and for a second, you think you imagined it.
Then it starts again.
You groan, rolling onto your side and reaching for your phone on the nightstand. You answer without looking, still half-asleep. “Hello?”
“Hi… is this Jack Abbott’s partner?”
Your heart stutters.
You sit up quickly, suddenly wide awake. “Yes. Is something wrong? Did something happen?” you rush out.
There’s a pause, brief but heavy.
“This is Lena from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center,” she says. “Before anything else, I need you not to panic.”
Your grip tightens around the phone. “Yeah… okay. Sure.”
“Jack had a fall at work,” she continues. “He hit his head, so we’re checking him for a concussion. Other than that, he seems okay, but he’ll need someone to take him home.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“He’s awake and talking,” she adds. “He hasn’t been cleared yet, but he’s asking for you.”
“I’ll be right there,” you say immediately, already throwing the covers back and scrambling to find clothes. “I’m on my way.”
By the time you reached the hospital, your hands were only lightly shaking. The automatic doors slid open, flooding you with the harsh lights and the familiar antiseptic smell. You barely made a couple of steps toward the desk when a familiar voice called your name.
“Well, if it isn’t Abbott’s better half.”
You look up and see Dr. Ellis standing from her chair, coffee in hand, looking far too awake for this hour of the morning. Relief hits you instantly.
“Please tell me he didn’t cause any serious damage,” you say.
Ellis snorts. “Only to his pride and maybe his dignity. He got a head bump, a low-grade concussion, so we’re keeping him here until the end of the shift. Otherwise, he’s in one piece.”
“He’s going to love that,” you mutter.
Ellis gestures down the hall. “You know, for a man with a very expensive artificial leg, you’d think he would be graceful. Nope. He slipped like a baby penguin on ice.”
You snort, covering your mouth. “Oh no… he’s going to hate that.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Ellis says, already turning to lead you toward his room. “Fair warning: he’s a little loopy and defensive. But nothing we haven’t experienced before.”
You stop at the curtain, bracing yourself.
Ellis pulls it back.
Jack is lying in bed, arms crossed, jaw tight, an ice pack laid against his head. The moment he sees you, colour floods his cheeks.
“Was this necessary?” Jack glares at Ellis, his voice stubborn but faintly loopy.
Ellis doesn’t even flinch. She smiles sweetly. “Considering you’re on pain meds and just lost a fight with the floor,” she says mildly, “yes. Very necessary.”
You bite your lip, trying not to laugh as the two banter back and forth.
Ellis stopped, clearly enjoying herself. “I’ll give you two a moment,” she added, eyes flickering between you two, before pulling the curtain shut behind her.
The second she was gone, Jack let out a long, frustrated breath.
“Stupid… fucking… leg,” he muttered, staring up at the ceiling, jaw tight.
You couldn’t help but finally laugh as you stepped closer to the bed. “Hey,” you said gently. “It’s alright.”
He huffed, not looking at you. “It’s never failed me. Not once. Not in the field, not here.” His voice dropped, quieter now. “And then it picks now, at work, of all places.”
You reached out, careful, your fingers sliding into his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. He leaned into the touch without thinking, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.
“It didn’t fail you,” you said softly. “You slipped. That happens to everyone.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, eyes finally flicking to yours, “everyone doesn’t usually go down in blood after leading a code.”
You smiled, your thumb tracing slow, steady hearts against his temple. “You’ll survive the bruised ego, I promise.”
He was quiet for a moment, then let out a breath. “Please tell me you brought me something else to walk with.”
His gaze flicked toward the prosthetic resting against the wall, freshly cleaned by his coworkers. The sight of it only seemed to deepen his scowl.
You followed his line of sight, then looked back at him with a small smile. “Don’t worry, I remembered your cane on my way out.”
His shoulders visibly relaxed, tension easing from his frame. “This,” he said softly, looking back at you, “is why I love you.”
A couple of hours later, Jack had had enough of being the patient. He shifted on the bed, already swinging his good leg over the side like he was halfway out the door.
“I’m telling you, I can discharge myself right now. I don’t need to be here for more of an audience.”
You crossed your arms. “You gave yourself a concussion. You’re not leaving until another doctor says you’re cleared.”
“I am cleared,” he argued, pointing vaguely at his chart. “Mostly. And I don’t need Robby seeing me laid out like this.”
You snorted. “Oh, so this is about pride now?”
Before you could respond, the curtain rustled.
“Well,” a familiar voice drawled, “this is not how I expected to start my morning.”
You closed your eyes briefly. “Of course.”
Robby stepped in, brows raised as he took Jack half out of the bed, ice pack on his head, and a cane resting against the bed.
“Man,” Robby laughed. “Night shift really did a number on you.”
Jack groaned. “You were not invited.”
Robby grinned wider. “And yet, here I am. Heard you try to do a penguin impression.”
You shot Robby a look. “You’re not helping.”
Jack immediately straightened. “See? I’m fine.”
Robby chuckled. “She’s got a point, Abbott. Don’t make me laugh too hard.”
Jack groaned. “Unbelievable.”
“Cane,” you said, holding it out. “Let’s get you out of here before you try to fight the floor again.”
Robby grinned. “Try not to slip on the way, Abbott. You’re off duty for a week.”
Looping your arm through his, you helped steady him as he rose. Jack let out a soft sigh, a mixture of relief and gratitude, leaning slightly into you as he accepted your support.
“Thank you,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.
You smiled, gently brushing your hand over his shoulder. “Always. Now, let’s get you home and into bed.”
He nodded, leaning on you as you guided him toward the exit. The hospital lights faded behind you, the chaos left far behind, and for the first time that night, everything felt calm. Just the two of you, together, heading home, even if it involved a bump on the head.
Summary: Jack rushes his fellow officer to PTMC to save his life and ends up patches you up too.
A/N: I could probably write a part two for this, but who knows? If anyone has an reqeust, feel free to send it. Once again, this work is all mine and proofread by Grammarly.
Most operations with the SWAT teams were quiet.
Jack knew that he was there in case something happened. He was always off to the back of the group, helmet clipped, medical bag untouched in his hand, listening for radio updates that never quite turned into emergencies. He was there as a precaution—just in case.
Usually, the team cleared the scene, and someone cracked a joke to ease the high tension they experienced. Jack usually went home without ever unzipping his kit.
This time was different.
The call had gone loud fast. Too fast. One officer down, blood on the concrete, radio chatter overlapping until it was just noise. Jack did what he always did. He moved. He treated. He stabilized even if everything else was in complete chaos.
They arrived at PTMC in a rush of moments and noise, doors swinging, boots hitting concrete as they rushed the injured officer inside. Jack stayed locked in, hands steady as he worked alongside Robby and the rest of the team, shouting vitals, giving orders, and shutting everything else out.
For long minutes, there was nothing but focus on the patient.
When it was finally over, when the bleeding was controlled, and the officer was stable enough to be moved to surgery. Jack stepped back, he pulled off his gloves and took a breath, then another. He grounded himself before stepping out to face the rest of the team and give them an update.
They were all gathered outside the room, helmets off, tension still clinging to them as they waited for news of their fellow officer.
“He’s stable,” Jack said, voice calm but firm. “We got him here in time. He’s got a rough road ahead, but he’s going to make it.”
A collective exhale rippled through the group. Someone muttered a quiet, “Thank God.” Another clapped a hand on a teammate’s shoulder. The tension eased.
Jack nodded once, glad to deliver the good news, then turned to head back inside. That’s when he saw you.
You were standing off to the side of your teammates, half-shadowed near the lockers, one arm held just a bit too close to your body. Your vest was still on, but the way you leaned against the wall, putting most of your weight on one side, made something cold settle in Jack’s gut.
He frowned.
You caught his eye and straightened immediately, offering a small nod as if nothing was wrong.
Jack didn’t buy it. He’d spent enough time with this team to know their mannerisms.
He stepped closer, scanning you quickly and professionally. “You good?” he asked, keeping his tone casual, like any routine post-op check.
“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “I’m fine.”
Jack’s jaw tightened as he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Hey, why don’t you follow me for a second.”
You hesitated, glancing toward the rest of your team, then nodded and followed him into an empty treatment room.
The door closed behind you, muting the noise outside.
The moment it did, his calm expression cracked.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked, moving closer, eyes scanning you with practiced precision.
“Abbot, I told you, it’s nothing,” you huffed.
“Humour me,” he replied. “Turn around.”
You did, and that’s when he saw it—the tear in your gear. A faint smear of blood marked the back of your left shoulder where the bullet had grazed you. Not deep. Not fatal. But enough to matter.
Jack exhaled slowly. “You should’ve said something.”
“I didn’t want to pull focus,” you said quietly. “You were already working on him.” You shivered at the memory of shots being fired, of your partner Hiro hitting the ground, of knowing you had to get him out of there.
Jack shook his head once. “You’re allowed to matter too.”
He gestured gently. “I need to see the wound properly. Take a seat on the bed, and you’re going to have to take all your gear off.”
You raised an eyebrow but complied, unbuckling your vest and peeling off the layers until you were left in a black lace bra, delicate against skin that had just been under armour. It wasn’t flashy, but it was unmistakably pretty, the kind of thing no one ever saw beneath tactical gear. The room suddenly felt much smaller. If you’d known you’d be half-naked in a room with Jack today, you might’ve stayed home, if only to avoid dying of embarrassment.
Jack turned away out of habit, then faced you again, opening his medical bag.
And paused, just for a moment.
He’d treated dozens of fellow officers before and many more patients. This shouldn't have registered. But it did. Not because of the lace, because it was you. The one he always noticed without even trying. The one he pretended not think about on quiet nights.
His eyes flicked up for half a second, catching the contrast of black lace against skin before he forced them back to the wound. Professional. Focused. Still human. His hands were careful as he cleaned the wound, professional despite the closeness.
“Well,” he said lightly, “at least you came prepared.”
“Just in case I get shot and need to make a decent impression with the team’s medic.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him, easing the tension just a notch. “Guess I should thank you for thinking ahead for me.”
“Anytime, Doc.”
Jack nodded, finishing the dressing with practiced care. “It’s fine,” he said quietly. “Just a graze. You got lucky.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “Lucky’s kind of my thing.”
He huffed a soft laugh, then met your eyes, more serious now. “We keep this between us. No more paperwork for the team.”
“Agreed,” you said. “Our secret.”
He hesitated, then added, “But I’m not letting you skip a follow-up.”
You folded your arms. “Jack—”
“Tomorrow,” he cut in, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ll check it. Over dinner. At my place.”
You blinked. “Very clinical of you.”
“Extremely,” he said dryly. “I’ll even cook.”
You smiled as you pulled your gear back on. “Fine. But only if you promise to let me help.”
“I promise,” he replied, then paused, eyes flicking briefly back to you. “And maybe… wear another fancy one for me.”
You glanced back at him, already reaching for the handle. “Maybe,” you said lightly. “If you’re lucky enough, I won’t be wearing one at all.”
Jack froze for just a second.
Then you were gone, back to the team, leaving him alone in the room, shaking his head with a quiet laugh and already counting down the minutes until tomorrow evening.
Would u be down to do a fluffy john Logan request where he takes care of reader when she’s super upset? Maybe it’s just been a week of one thing on top of another, and finally she just hits her breaking point??
Break Point
Pairing: John Logan x Reader
Word Count: 1147
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
John could tell you were hanging on by a thread.
He just hadn’t expected the thread to snap the second you walked through the front door.
The week had already been bad. He knew that much. You’d been tired, quiet, and just a little too determined to keep saying “I’m fine” whenever he asked how things were going. John had learned by now that your version of fine often meant you were one inconvenience away from losing it.
When you came into the kitchen that night, he was at the stove making something halfway between dinner and a rescue mission. He looked over expecting the usual tired smile.
Instead, you stood in the doorway with your bag slipping off your shoulder and your face already crumpling.
John shut off the burner immediately. “Hey.”
You took one look at him and started shaking your head like you were trying to outrun your own feelings. “No. No, I’m sorry, I just,”
And then your voice broke.
That was all it took.
John was across the kitchen in two steps, pulling you straight into his arms as the tears finally came. You made a small, frustrated sound against his shoulder, like you were mad at yourself for not being able to hold it together one second longer.
“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”
You shook your head against him. “It’s not.”
“Yes,” he said, holding you tighter, “it is.”
You laughed once, but it sounded wrecked. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I had a terrible day.”
“I know.”
“And then I got home and my email was somehow worse, and my phone kept ringing, and I couldn’t answer it, and I forgot to eat until three hours ago, and I just,” You broke off with a shaky breath. “I’m so tired.”
John’s expression tightened with concern, but his voice stayed calm. “You don’t have to keep going.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes red and exhausted and furious at the world. “I feel ridiculous.”
“You’re not ridiculous.”
“I’m crying in your kitchen.”
“Yes,” he said, like that was the least important part of the conversation. “Because you’ve had a week from hell.”
The tears kept coming, but your shoulders loosened a little.
John brushed his thumb under one of your eyes, then the other, wiping away the tears with a care that made your throat ache.
“Talk to me,” he said. “What happened?”
You shook your head weakly. “Too much.”
“Start small.”
You looked at him for a second, then exhaled shakily. “My professor moved a deadline up without saying anything. Then two people at work called out. Then one of my friends got upset because I didn’t text back fast enough, and I felt bad, and then I felt worse because I felt bad about feeling bad.”
John let out a breath through his nose. “That is a lot.”
You laughed weakly. “I know.”
He guided you toward the couch, sitting down with you tucked close beside him. One arm stayed around your shoulders while the other rested over your hand, grounding you in a way that made your breathing start to settle.
“You could have told me sooner,” he said gently.
“I didn’t want to dump it on you.”
John turned his head to look at you. “You are never dumping on me.”
You sniffled and looked down. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He said it so simply that it made your chest ache.
After a moment, he reached for the blanket on the back of the couch and pulled it over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders with careful hands. Then he stood up long enough to grab the mug he’d been making and pressed it into your hands.
Tea. Still warm.
You looked up at him. “You made me tea?”
“No, I just enjoy standing around with a mug for no reason.”
A laugh escaped you through the tears, and John immediately looked relieved to have gotten even that much out of you.
“There you are,” he murmured.
You leaned into him again, exhausted by the effort of being upset. “I’m sorry.”
He frowned. “For what?”
“For ruining the night.”
John gave you a look that was both soft and very serious. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I was supposed to be normal.”
“You were supposed to come home,” he said, “and let me take care of you when you needed it.”
That made your throat tighten all over again.
John shifted so he could see your face more clearly. “You don’t have to hold everything together all the time.”
“I feel like I should.”
“Why?”
You looked at him for a long second and then shrugged, miserable. “Because if I don’t, who will?”
John’s expression softened in a way that made you want to cry all over again, which was deeply inconvenient.
“Me,” he said.
The answer was so immediate that it stopped you.
He looked at you calmly, one hand still at your waist. “I will.”
You stared at him.
His voice went quieter. “That’s what I’m here for.”
The certainty in it made something inside you finally let go.
You lowered your face into his shoulder again, and John held you through the next round of tears without saying a word, just rubbing slow circles into your back until the shaking eased.
When you finally pulled back, your eyes felt tired and your face felt hot, and John was still looking at you like you were something important he had no intention of treating lightly.
“Better?” he asked.
“A little.”
“Good.”
You took a shaky breath. “You’re very good at this.”
John’s mouth curved slightly. “At what?”
“Taking care of me.”
He looked almost shy for a second, which only made him gentler when he answered.
“I like taking care of you,” he said.
That made you go still.
Then, because he knew exactly what he’d done to you, he brushed a thumb along your cheek and added, “Especially when you’re pretending you don’t need it.”
You laughed weakly, finally. “I do not always pretend.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You texted me ‘I’m fine’ three times today.”
You made a face. “That is unrelated.”
“It is absolutely related.”
You smiled despite the exhaustion, and he seemed to relax a little when he saw it.
He kissed your forehead once, then twice, lingering each time until your shoulders stopped feeling so tight. “There,” he murmured. “That’s better.”
You leaned into him with a tiny sigh. “You make everything feel less awful.”
John’s arm tightened around you. “Good.”
You looked up at him, eyes still wet but much steadier now. “You know you’re going to have to keep doing this forever, right?”
He smiled, quiet and sure. “I was kind of planning on it.”
And for the first time all week, you laughed like you meant it.
