This came to me while I was at brunch with my friends and got a little tipsy!! Basically, if you went out to brunch with your girlfriends and got a little too drunk and texted Jack to pick you up, and your friends get jealous!
We need more yearner/ loverboy Jack Abbot fics, like I know that man gets down bad for his woman!!!! lowk feel like the ending is rushed, but i hope you enjoy anyway!!
more of my works here!
WC: 1.2k
You didn't plan on drinking so much, but you were with your besties and the conversation was flowing, and the drink kept coming. One of your friends was telling you work drama, because that's always fun. After all, it's incredible how adults act in the workplace sometimes! You didn't realize that you were that drunk until you stumbled to the bathroom and smiled at yourself in the mirror the whole time you were washing your hands.
There was one thing on your mind, your lovely and handsome boyfriend, Jack, who so graciously offered to drop you off and pick you up whenever you were ready. You'd sat back down at the table while one of your friends was telling a story about how she thinks her boyfriend is gonna propose, but she's not ready yet, and you were absent-mindedly listening while you pulled out your phone to text Jack.
You were completely in your own world texting Jack until one of your friends called your name
"Are you texting Jack?" Mira asked, raising an eyebrow
"Maybe," you said sheepishly
"Oh my god, is he coming?" Camille said, wiggling her eyebrows
"Also, maybe," you said
"'Maybe' my ass." Sloane giggled.
You laughed, setting your phone face down on the table. "He said he'd be here in like... fifteen."
"I swear that man appears out of thin air every time you text him," Nadia said, leaning back in her chair.
“He was already out,” you said
“Doing what?” Mira questioned
“Grocery shopping,” you said, taking a sip of water
She stared at you.“…He’s grocery shopping on a Saturday?”
“Mhm.”
“And he’s leaving to come get you?” she asked
“I mean… yeah.” You shrugged.
“You didn’t tell him to.”
“I didn’t have to,” you shrugged again. There wasn’t anything else to say. If you texted Jack because you were ready to go home, he'd come get you.
If you mentioned on a Tuesday that you were craving cinnamon raisin bread, it'd somehow end up on the kitchen counter before the week was over. If you forgot your lunch on the counter before work, he'd text you a picture of it five minutes later with, turn around, I'm in the parking garage.
It wasn't something the two of you talked about. It was just Jack.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again…” Nadia pointed at you with her fork. “I hate how cute you two are.”
It's actually kind of annoying," Mira muttered.
"What is?" you asked.
"The way you two make everything look so... easy."
"It isn't easy." You frowned.
Everyone’s eyes landed on you.
"I don't know..." You laughed quietly. "It's just... we've been together long enough that none of it feels like a big deal anymore."
"What do you mean?" Camille asked.
You shrugged. "I know he'll answer if I call and I know he’ll come get me” .You smiled to yourself. "He knows I can't fall asleep unless the fan's on."
Another shrug. "I don't know. We stopped keeping score of who does what for who a long time ago."
Nadia tilted her head. "So all that stuff just... happens?"
"Yeah."
"Nobody's trying to impress anybody anymore."
You shook your head. "I mean, I'm sure we still are."
That earned a few laughs.
"But it doesn't feel like that."
"It just feels like..."You searched for the words before smiling. "...coming home."
Sloane smiled. "I want that."
"So do I," Mira admitted.
You laughed, suddenly feeling a little shy. "It sounds way deeper than I meant it to."
"No," Nadia said. "I think you actually explained it perfectly."
The conversation carried on for another fifteen minutes. Your friends ordered another basket of fries for the table, and someone else started talking about a coworker who'd accidentally had their mic on during a Zoom call while complaining about a manager.
You were laughing so hard your stomach hurt when your phone buzzed against the table.
here
His truck was parked at the curb. "He always parks in the same spot," you mumbled more to yourself than anyone else.
One of your friends laughed. "You sound so happy."
"I am."You stood, slinging your purse over your shoulder.
Immediately, one of your friends reached over. "Nope."
"What?" you asked, brows furrowing
"We're coming," they said in unison
"...Why?"
"We wanna see him," Sloane stated
"You've all met him," you sighed, looking outside at Jack.
"Not after four mimosas," Camille corrected.
"I had three." Everyone looked at you. "...And a half."
"That's what I thought."
You rolled your eyes, unable to stop smiling as the five of you walked toward the front of the restaurant.
The little bell above the door chimed as you stepped outside.
Jack looked up from where he was leaning against the passenger door. His sunglasses were pushed on top of his head, grocery bags still sitting in the backseat behind him.
You walked straight over until you were standing right in front of him. "Hi."
"Hi, baby." His hand found your waist before he leaned down and kissed the top of your head. "You have fun?"
"So much fun," you said
He reached over and slipped your purse off your shoulder. "I got it." You watched him tuck it into the backseat with the groceries before he closed the door again.
"You bought groceries," you commented
"I did," he said, rubbing your waist
"What'd you get?" you said
"You'll see when we get home,"
"I wanna know now." You pouted.
He laughed quietly.
Behind you, one of your friends cleared her throat.
"So..."
The two of you turned around.
Jack smiled politely. "Hey, guys."
A chorus of hellos answered him.
"We have a question."Nadia folded her arms.
"What'd you tell them?" Jack looked at you.
You gasped. "I didn't tell them anything." "They've been interrogating me for twenty minutes."
"Is he always like this?" She pointed between the two of you.
"Like what?" Jack frowned slightly.
She gestured vaguely. "The purse, the pickup, the groceries, the forehead kiss."
Jack glanced over at you before looking back at her. "I don't know."
He shrugged. "That's just... us."
You smiled. "See?" "I told you."
Your friend looked at you in disbelief. "He doesn't even realize he's doing it."
"I know," you said, looking at him and then back at your friends.
"Am I missing something?" Jack looked between the two of you.
You laughed, slipping your hand into his. "No."
"You sure?"
"Mhm."
"You girls figure it out?" he said, squeezing your hand
"I think so," Camille said
He nodded once as if that settled it.
"Good."
You gave his hand a little squeeze. "Babe?"
"Hm?"
"I'm hungry again."
He smiled. "I had a feeling." He reached into the backseat and pulled out one of the grocery bags. "I stopped by the bakery while I was there."
You looked inside. "...You got the rosemary focaccia."
"You said last week you were thinking about it," he said, smiling at you.
Your jaw dropped a little. "I forgot I said that."
One of your friends let out the longest sigh.
You smiled to yourself before looking back at your friends. "I told you."
"What?" Jack asked
"It just feels normal," you said
Jack reached over and opened the passenger door. "You ready to go home?"
boyfriend jack abbot who always lets you touch but never lets you come. not unless he’s around to give you the express permission or to force it out of you. says he likes the sounds too much. the squeaks and the whines and the nails digging into his shoulders when you repeat his name. his not name, too. the begging and the pleading, the muffled ‘daddy, daddy, daddy’ as he fucks into you, your pussy sloppy and wet, your burning face hidden against the curve of his neck.
he makes the argument that waiting is the very least you can do. ‘for me,’ he says, his thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone, leaning down to press warm, knowing kisses to your mouth. ‘just want you to try for me.’
so you agree, hesitant at first but also excited. like the prospect of denying yourself orgasm is a shiny new toy that’s been dropped in your lap, ready to be turned over and inspected for possibility, for layer and depth. you touch yourself when he’s not around and you don’t let yourself come. let yourself teeter on the edge and text him sweet, vague nothings, like ‘miss you’ and ‘thinking of you’ and ‘can’t wait to see you later.’ and he responds in kind, when he can, when he’s not elbow deep in traumas.
over time, the messages grow bolder, less vague. messages he has to hide his screen to read lest his ears and the back of his neck flush bright red. and that makes it even better, you think, of having a dirty little secret. of being one too. jack abbot’s needy, desperate girlfriend who can’t go a single day without him giving her an orgasm. who has to bother him at work like a child would their guardian. ‘can i go to the park? can i watch a movie? can i come in our bed thinking of you?’
‘so empty, it hurts,’ you text him with one hand down your pants, and, ‘i almost came, but i didn’t! didn’t want to disappoint you. but now my pillow’s all wet :(’ and once, memorably, because he calls you almost directly after, ‘i need you to take care of me, daddy, where are you?’
a cute, flirty little game that makes the distance apart more bearable. connects you through space and time and a digital footprint that should most definitely be wiped clean before you die. it evolves into slow, delicious torture over the course of the relationship. as you find it exceptionally more and more difficult not to come on the days you’re ramped up, near impossible during ovulation.
days like today when you’re at home, naked in your bed, the past who knows how many hours spent with your hand between your thighs, rubbing mindless circles around your clit and thinking of jack. of his voice and his hands and the thick circumference of his waist you absolutely adore, that you love to wrap your legs around when he’s deep inside of you, holding onto him with all four limbs like a koala.
you still stop when you get too close, breathing fast and hard and squeezing your thighs together at the achy, empty feeling but you hate it, think you might actually vibrate out of your skin soon if he doesn’t come home and take care of you. in an act of desperation, you send him a voice note that he sees twenty minutes later, ducks into the bathroom to listen to, phone pressed to his ear.
it’s almost two minutes long. begins with the slick, wet sounds of your pussy he knows so well, realizes with a hot pulse of desire in his stomach that you’re fingering yourself and then your voice starts up, pleading. you sound wrecked, completely out of it, like your entire world has been shrunk down to your cunt and what you can fit inside of it.
‘i’m sorry—i’m sorry, i just need it so bad. need something inside me, 'cause you’re not here to—,’ you cut yourself off on a moan and then the slick sounds get faster, more urgent. ‘fill me up. i’m so empty, all of the time ‘n i need it, daddy, need your big cock inside me, stretching me open, oh—,’ a squeak then loud, audible breathing, the slick sounds of your pussy ending, ‘almost came. fuck, fuck, i almost came.’ there’s muffled rustling, the bed maybe, the phone, and then your voice again, sweeter, closer to the microphone, ‘i need you to come home and fuck me. i’m so wet, you have no idea. i'm getting the sheets all dirty. i would feel so good inside when you—,’ more shifting, a high, soft moan. ‘stuff me full. you wouldn’t even have to ask for permission. you could just bend me over and take what you want. nng—you could fuck me on the floor.’ you were touching yourself again. he could hear it, his own fingers white knuckling his phone. ‘in the hallway, and i w-would beg for it. beg for you to come inside me, so, so deep, daddy and—,’ you let out a delirious giggle as the slick sounds grow louder, ‘it would probably stick 'cause i’m—fuck—'cause i’m ovulating.’
jack is slowly but surely banging his forehead against the solid door to the bathroom.
‘don’t you want that? to become a real daddy? you could hold my legs open and make me take all of it. your cum, pump a load inside of me.’ he hears a squelch and then a moan. ‘you could stay like that until i’m pregnant. please, please, please, i’m made for it, made for you. jack—oh my god—,’ you make a guttural, unintelligible noise that abruptly cuts off as the message ends.
what the fuck?
jack pulls his phone away from his ear, breathing hard, and texts you. ‘did you come?’
you respond back almost immediately. ‘no >:( i stopped’
then he groans as an image comes through. fingers of your right hand spread apart, shiny, wet string connecting them. evidence of what they’ve been doing. and then another of your face, smushed cheek into the bed and beaded tears on your eyelashes.
fuck. jack rubs the aching skin on his forehead and hopes there isn’t a red mark.
‘good,’ he texts, ‘that’s really good, sweetheart. i’m proud of you.’
he receives back a long row of frowny faces that make him huff a laugh and then words. ‘i’m tired of being good. it hurts.’
‘i know, baby,’ he says, ‘but you’ll do it for me?’
a brief pause as three dots appear then disappear and then appear again.
‘yes, daddy, i’ll do it for you.’
he squeezes his dick as it pulses between his legs.
‘good girl. i love you.’
‘i love you too. home soon?’
‘home so soon, baby. just be a little more patient for me.’
and then jack spends the next five minutes splashing cold water on his face and the back of his neck, willing his erection to die down enough to leave the fucking bathroom.
making out with jack and he has to keep reminding you to slow down…
MDNI 18+
based of this perfect ask from my sexy hot mootie 🫶🏽
Jacks got you perched on his lap on his couch, his big hands resting on your hips, slowly guiding them back and forth on his bulky thighs. Your arms are draped over his shoulders, tangling in the curls that rest at the nape of his neck.
You’ve been making out on his couch for about a half hour now, and it’s agonizing. You’re sure if you were to get up there’d be a wet splotch on his jeans from how wet you are.
But every time you try to speed things up he’s slowing you down again. Both of your chins slick with saliva, you move your lips quicker against his, pushing your head forward to get impossibly closer.
But he’s raising a big rough hand to your chin, pinching it between his fingers and manually slowing down your movements. You can feel the sleazy smirk he’s wearing as you whine and your hips buck up once more, his hand finally sliding off your face back down your body.
“Stop whinin’” he’s growling roughly from the time his voice has been idle it’s gone a little raspy, “got all the time we want, promise I’m gonna make you feel good, just wanna kiss on you a little” he’s whispering against your mouth before sloppily licking his own saliva off your chin and shoving it back into your mouth with his tongue.
Every time you speed up, even if you don’t notice it, he’s grabbing you and easing your jaw, pulling it down as he licks into your mouth, and slowly pushing it back up to connect with his own lips to yours, setting a speed, a rhythm. He’s nodding when you finally catch onto the speed he’s content with “theeree ya’ go” you can feel his teeth against your lips when he smiles and lets out a little “you’re learning now hm?”
And you’re just nodding and whimpering, hips grinding harder against his jeans.
❀ thinking about how jack abbot would talk to you while helping you be more vocal in the bedroom... ❀
! mdni !
ughhh he’d be teasing you. rubbing his fat fingers through your wetness, gliding across nothing in particular that would give you any relief. he'd be all gruff, not taunting but teaching, “cmon honey, use your words. gotta tell me what you want, yeah? know you can do it."
you're squirming beneath him, legs spread wider then you're comfortable with due to being pinned beneath his heavy thighs. but you'd need him sooo badly that you'd forgo the insecurity and whine, “please jack! touch me- please!”
he'd hum, circling two fingers on the sensitive spot that had you gasping and clawing at his shoulders. and you thought that was it, that your older boyfriend was done instructing. but then you needed more. needed to be filled. when you tried to push his fingers inside you wordlessly with a grip on his muscular forearm, jack would chide, "want em inside you sweetheart? yeah? i know you do. tell me how many."
you'd whimper at his ridiculous yet dirty command. but cowering under his intense stare only had him pausing his movements. you'd panic at the loss, mustering enough courage to raise your voice barely above a whisper, "need- need two please…"
much too satisfied with himself, jack would slide his thick fingers into you easily due to how worked up he got you, “gooood job. such a good girl. that wasn't so hard, was it munchkin?” you'd shake your head as you grow warm with pleasure. all the embarrassment washing away as jack works his fingers how he knows you like before making you beg him to let you come <3
summary: another anniversary spent alone makes you spiral. jack comes home and is faced with how his neglect is ruining you.
cw: heavy angst, alcohol intoxication, vomiting, small injury (glass cut), implied depression/(brief) suicidal ideation, non-sexual nudity
wc: 2.4k
a/n: not beta-read yet, we die like, uhh, robby’s will to live
now playing: begged – Olivia Rodrigo
All that I want
Is to sit here silently
And watch movies on TV
What a shame you're not here
Here to witness my devotion
And my endless well of needs
I'm an anchor in the ocean
You know I could never leave
So I'm patient, you're learning
Pretend it's not hurting
And they say it's a virtue
To not let good love slip away
Your makeup has faded. Black mascara smudges around your lash line, having bled from tears that fell like gravity itself demanded it.
This is hardly the first anniversary you’ve spent alone. Far from it, actually.
Anniversaries, birthdays, holidays, Christmases—you name it. There is a story to be told about each one of them, a story of how you sat on the couch, nursing a glass of wine while waiting for Jack.
If he wasn’t saving lives in the ER, he was risking his own. It doesn’t matter that you’ve knelt in front of him, the hardwood cool and unforgiving, as you pleaded for him to take a day off. Just one.
There is always something. A colleague who has children and needs that day to take them to Disneyland. Or a patient who only trusts him. A shift he just has to cover.
You’ve heard nearly every excuse possible and smiled like it didn’t matter, like you didn’t matter, because maybe you didn’t.
When you and Jack first started dating, he warned you that surgeons are the worst kinds of doctors to date because of their pretentiousness. He seemed to have forgotten to mention that ER doctors came in second on that list.
It wasn’t the desire for fame or hubris that made Jack so careless about your feelings. It was his devotion to everyone but you.
Sure, he’d kiss you and make you feel special—on a day when he could afford it. When he wasn’t chasing the high of being needed by strangers who’d maybe not even remember his name once he had saved them.
You know the placement of every freckle on his body, and still, it doesn’t change anything.
The third glass of wine doesn’t taste as bitter as the first. You don’t particularly like this brand or year or anything about it—you just know that Jack had bought it for today, back when he was still telling himself that he’d be home to celebrate with you.
As the cap of the bottle dances between your fingers, the metal now warm from your body heat, you glance at the clock.
Three hours and twelve minutes.
God, you’re a fucking loser.
Maybe it would be a different story if you were married. Maybe you could forgive yourself for your desperation, your constant attempts to convince yourself you mattered to him as much as he mattered to you. If there were a little bit of proof of his commitment, you’d be able to look into the mirror without feeling sick with shame.
But there is no ring on your finger or the promise that one will come one day. Jack doesn’t want to get married again. He says you two don’t need that.
Three hours, thirteen minutes.
You slosh the wine in your mouth while the darkest of thoughts creep in. It’s just a little fantasy you’ve curated and perfected over the years, and it’s an insane one, but you love to lose yourself in it every now and then.
Jack comes home. The house is quiet. Too quiet. Goosebumps creep up his arms and neck as he calls out your name. When no answer comes, he runs up the stairs and finds the bathroom door ajar. Light seeps out under it, along with a small pool of water tainted light pink.
Fine. You’re a little melodramatic. Maybe Jack’s neglect has driven you to regress into your teenage self who also fantasized about this whenever her dad yelled at her.
Once the fourth hour starts, the wine bottle is empty, and you’re so drunk it feels like time has stopped. The tears certainly have. They’ve been replaced by this hollow laugh that echoes through the house while you watch the trashiest TV show you could find.
While the alcohol courses through your veins, your eyes zero in on the women’s lip and cheek fillers. It stands out to you like black ink on white paper.
You wish Jack would’ve been a plastic surgeon instead. You wouldn’t care that he sees women’s naked breasts and gives BBLs on a daily basis if that meant that he was home in time for dinner.
Once you stand up to get a new bottle, you feel all the blood rushing to your head. Your legs are unsteady, and your forehead and nose feel so heavy, like they’re pulling you forward.
You find out just how firm the fridge is when you knock against it.
It’s not like you feel it anyway.
The next bottle of wine is closed with a cork stopper. You’ve seen Jack open this kind of bottle with that metal apparatus that looks like you could find it in a gynecologist’s office. You have no idea how to use it. So you take a knife and start hacking away. You only miss your fingers by pure, dumb luck.
That luck runs out when you try to pop out the cork stopper by hitting the bottom of the wine against the kitchen counter.
What used to be the bottle is now a bunch of shards and a cold, wet feeling seeping through your socks.
You laugh hysterically and drop to your knees, not half as careful as you should be. Something pierces your big toe, but you don’t care.
The front door opens. Jack steps inside. And his eyes widen. If anything, Jack has always had one hell of a timing.
You’re a fucking mess.
“Jackie,” you slur.
You try to get up, but your muscles protest.
“Jesus, what the fuck?” he hisses.
He is by your side in an instant, stepping over the glass carefully. It crunches underneath his boots when he picks you up by your underarms and puts you down on the counter.
“Baby, what the fuck happened?”
You giggle. You fucking love it when he calls you baby.
“Oopsie,” you whisper.
Jack stares at you with disbelief. His fingers catch your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his.
For a second, his mouth opens, and you await the lecture that never comes. Instead, his eyes dart over your face, taking it all in—the smeared makeup, the heat radiating from your cheeks, the glassy, far-away look.
“Are you drunk?” he asks, his voice trembling slightly.
You try to bite back a smile as you reply, “As a skunk.”
He lets go of your chin and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair.
You let yourself slide off the counter, trying to close the distance again.
“Stop,” Jack yells.
His arm snaps forward, pushing you back. For a moment, you stumble. Your back hits the counter, and you look up at Jack with a hurt expression. Then your eyes follow his, and you realize that you almost stepped into the glass. A stupid smile spreads over your face.
Jack’s expression falls.
“Hey,” he says sharply. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you doing, huh?”
He grabs you by your biceps and pulls you away from the sharp mess on the floor. You only feel the closeness as his fingers dig into your skin.
“I missed you today,” you murmur dreamily.
Even to you, your own voice sounds far away. Or maybe only to you? You can’t tell.
Jack stares at you, his eyes searching for something. Anything.
“Talk to me,” he demands. “What is going on? Why are you wasted on a fucking Thursday?”
Oh, that one blows.
On a Thursday. Yes, a random Thursday.
You giggle so hard your throat hurts.
“You’re never gonna believe this, but—” As you pause dramatically, Jack’s eyebrow twitches, “—it’s kinda an important Thursday. Like… really important.”
It’s almost visible how the wheels in Jack’s head start turning. They spark, creak, and squeak as he searches for the answer that’s written all over your face in the runny mascara and that look bordering on insanity.
His face falls when the wheels come to a stop.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
As his eyes dart to the calendar pinned to the fridge, you feel your stomach turning.
“Yeah,” you say.
Your mouth feels dry now, and nothing’s quite as funny anymore.
Jack looks at you, but you don’t meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
You believe him. That’s the worst part. But it doesn’t matter how sorry he is, because you’re sorrier. To the little girl you once were who thought she’d be happier than her parents ever got to be.
You shift your weight and wince softly.
Jack’s eyes widen.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
His voice comes out rough.
“No,” you murmur.
Jack pats you down anyway, his hands searching alongside his eyes as he inspects your legs. At the end, he finds a small shard of glass stuck in your big toe.
You're holding onto Jack’s head as he looks at your foot. His ears have grown red.
“You are hurt,” he mumbles. “I—Lemme…”
Torn between another apology and his worry, Jack picks you up. His arms slide under your back and your knees. The room tilts dangerously—you had almost forgotten that the contents of an entire wine bottle were coursing through your veins.
“Rollercoaster,” you whisper.
He shushes you as he carries you to the upstairs bathroom where you keep the first aid kit.
The bright, white light flickers to life and hurts your eyes, making you groan. Jack only glances at you with more concern before he sets you down on the bathroom counter.
“Hold still,” he instructs.
His arms keep you in place for a few seconds, like he is trying to show your body how to keep balance.
“Don’t fall, please,” he adds, a little gentler.
Then he crouches down, grunting a little as his knee pops. Somewhere through the haze of the wine, you remember that he just worked for sixteen hours. But then again, it’s your anniversary, and your empathy for his exhaustion is outweighed by your own misery. By far.
He finds the first aid kit and takes a pair of tweezers before he catches your foot with his other hand.
“It’s not too deep,” he says quietly. “Maybe that’s why you didn’t feel it until you moved.”
Yeah, you think to yourself, that’s definitely why.
“Spoken like the doctor you are,” you answer.
Jack looks up at you for a second, his lips pressed together. He murmurs something you don’t quite catch and then pulls out the shard.
You gasp as the pain shoots from your toe to your knee and pulls up high into your hip.
“Ow, what the—?” you hiss.
Jack keeps your leg still and rubs your shin slightly.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Not for that.”
The air in the room grows cold.
Jack straightens up, and his knee pops again.
“I’m sorry for today, too,” he begins.
He doesn’t get very far because you immediately hold up your hand.
“No,” you bite out sharply.
For a few seconds, you just sit on the counter, your legs swinging slightly. Jack watches, fumbling with his fingers as he searches your face.
“Can I clean your cut, please?” he asks.
You shake your head vehemently.
“It could get infected if I don’t,” he retorts.
You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come out. Instead, a wave of nausea hits you.
“’m gonna be sick,” you mumble.
Jack’s eyes widen before his hands land on your waist.
He half-carries, half-drags you to the toilet and makes it just in time as the wine comes back up, tasting ten times as bad as it did when it went down.
“Shit, baby,” Jack curses.
He gathers as much of your hair as he can save and rubs your back as you throw up once, then twice.
It’s all liquid, too, because you haven’t eaten in a few hours—you were planning on having a big dinner with your boyfriend after all, as one does on their anniversary.
As your stomach cramps, you think about the muffins that you ordered, lemon batter and raspberry icing.
The third time your tummy revolts, it’s just dry-heaving.
Spit dribbles down your chin, and your hands tremble. You’re somehow sweating and shaking simultaneously. Jack whispers and shushes, but you don’t want his comfort. You want to keep drinking until you pass out.
“Leave me alone,” you murmur, your hands flailing weakly.
“And let you knock yourself unconscious? No, thank you,” he replies. “You’re so fucking drunk, you’re lucky you haven’t given yourself alcohol poisoning.”
It’s clear he’s aiming for dry and sarcastic, but you hear the fear in his voice.
“Get out,” you rasp.
Your throat might as well be on fire.
“No,” he snaps.
“You don’t care if I crack my head open,” you accuse.
His grip on your arm tightens.
“Hey,” he says sharply, “That’s not true. I care very much.”
You groan and rest your chin on the toilet seat as your head begins to spin again.
“Then why are you never here?”
The silence that follows is only broken by your renewed retching.
Once you’ve emptied your stomach, Jack leaves you by yourself on the bathroom tiles for a few seconds. His eyes keep flickering back to you as he turns on the shower, testing its warmth with the tips of his fingers.
He returns to your side and flushes the toilet for you.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
You’re surprised at just how soft his voice is.
You shake your head. He doesn’t sigh.
Instead, he nods quietly and maneuvers you against the wall.
“Put your arms up, baby,” he instructs quietly.
Piece by piece, he removes your clothes. You feel how his fingers tremble as he unhooks the clasps of your new bra, all black lace and clearly bought for today.
Once you’re down to nothing, he starts undressing, too. He leans his prosthetic against the wall and then manages to get both of you in the shower.
The tiles are cold underneath you, but the warm spray from above keeps you quiet. Jack doesn’t say anything as he sits next to you, his grey curls slowly growing darker as the water hits. He doesn’t reach for you either, but his knee presses against yours.
“You love me?” you whisper.
Jack braces next to you. You feel the tension travel up from where his leg touches yours.
“I do,” he murmurs.
You swallow hard.
“Then why do you never choose me?”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
SNEAK PEEK! been listening to bridge over troubled water on repeat as i wrote this! i truly was born with melancholy… maybe it’s the depression #idk. this will be dropping monday lord willing
cw: f!reader, smut (mdni), like… watersports but tame (?), my first time dabbling with that, it’s really more bladder control, I guess? correct me if I’m wrong, daddy kink, forced orgasm (again, kinda?)
Jack can be so mean. So mean.
Whenever his fat cock is bullying your cervix, your slick walls molded to his shape, you always feel the pressure on your bladder with every thrust.
Today, he’s already drawn three or four orgasms from you, and your cunt feels raw. So sensitive that every pass of his fingers over your clit sets your nerves aflame and your hips buck wildly.
“Jack,” you gasp.
All you get in reply is him shushing you.
“Take it, baby,” he grunts, “you’re doing so good. Just take Daddy’s cock.”
One of his arms is planted next to your head, where he stabilizes himself. The thick cords of muscles work every time he rolls his hips towards yours. You’re so boneless by now that your head has lolled to the side, your eyes transfixed on his forearm. If you had a little more strength left in you, you’d bite down hard on the sun-kissed flesh just to have something of him between your teeth.
You’re ripped out of that daydream when Jack’s other hand suddenly presses down on your stomach. He only means to feel himself—the way his cock slides into you and slightly distends the ceiling of your lower tummy. But he presses a little too hard, too deep, and you squeal with surprise when you feel the pressure in your pelvic area.
Jack stops immediately, his brows knitting together.
“What? You okay, baby? Am I hurting you?” he asks hurriedly.
You feel your face heating up (even more) as you shake your head.
“No,” you stammer, “I… that… you’re gonna make me… that makes me feel like I have to pee.”
You can almost see how the information enters Jack’s ears and travels up to his brain, where it sits for a second before his eyes light up.
“Yeah?”
He grins and resumes his thrusts, his hand remaining on your tummy. He doesn’t push down yet.
The level of smugness on his face should be studied.
The heat between you rebuilds after the brief interruption, and you almost forget what had been one of the most embarrassing moments ever to you.
But to Jack? That was information worth millions.
He kisses your neck and hikes up one of your legs to aim even deeper into you, then watches your face. With your eyes closed, you don’t notice just how intensely he examines every micro-expression you make, including the light twitch of your brows when he goes particularly deep.
His palm is warm against your belly, grounding you—until it doesn’t.
Jack smirks as you squeal again while his hand presses down right above your pubic bone.
“Ja-ack,” you gasp, “stop it.”
He shakes his head and fucks into you deeper as he keeps up the pressure on your bladder.
“Just let go, baby,” he instructs, “c’mon. Make a mess for me.”
You shake your head, your face now uncomfortably hot.
“No, Jackie, please,” you beg.
Your plea falls on deaf ears.
He holds you down with that hand on your belly and keeps aiming his tip right at your G-spot. Your thighs tremble as you whimper.
“J-Jack, please,” you try again.
“That’s not your word, sweetheart,” he reminds you. “C’mon, trust me. Make a mess on Daddy’s cock.”
You whine and beg, torn between chasing the pleasure growing in your core and saving yourself from a huge embarrassment.
In the end, it’s not like you have a choice. Jack’s rhythm leaves you no other option but to cum, and the second he hears that high-pitched moan spill from your lips, he intensifies how hard he pushes down on your tummy.
When you cum, your juices spray everywhere. Jack watches with amazement, not quite letting up as you soak his cock and sheets, your wetness dripping everywhere. He twitches inside you as you keep squirting with every roll of his hips until you’re empty.
“Fuck, baby, that- that was amazing,” he rasps. “Can you do that again?”
summary: you saved jack abbot's life once, and now he insists on returning the favor. (6k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, trinity santos
contents: army medic!reader, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergence, not proofread cw for medical inaccuracies, heavy mentions of ptsd and grief, mentions of blood and gore, and allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
FIC #7 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You find Jack Abbot the same way you left him — covered in bright red blood — though it doesn’t seem to be his this time.
You’re a few hours on your first shift as interim attending when the man rushes in from the ambulance bay. The camo tactical gear sitting heavily over his muscular form is strikingly familiar to you, along with the sweat matting his curls to his forehead. The wild strands are a lot more grey than you remember, and the smile lines that weren’t there before have since etched themselves into the corners of his eyes. The years have been endlessly kind to him, by the looks of it.
“Intubated neck wound. Sats not great. We were diverted here— Is there a trauma room open?” the man rambles all at once, before he’s even glanced up from the plastic mask he squeezes in a gloved hand. He jogs alongside the rolling gurney with a faint limp from his prosthetic. His stride stutters slightly when his eyes finally lift to find you, rushing to the stretcher with Robby at your side.
There’s a faint twitch of uncertainty in his light eyes, like he’s trying to gauge whether or not he’s seen a ghost. You miss the look of flickering amusement entirely as you snap on a pair of blue latex gloves, gaze zeroed in on the blood gushing around the intubation tube in the unconscious man’s throat.
“What’s the story?” Robby asks, following in the man’s hurried stride.
“My buddy, Officer Hiro,” Jack answers immediately, through a series of panted breaths. “High-velocity GSW, warehouse robbery gone sideways. He’s getting harder to bag.”
The windowless trauma room swallows you whole as you wheel the gurney inside. The four walls swell suddenly with the scent of coppery blood and bitter chlorhexidine. Nurses rush to wake the surrounding monitors with a set of electronic chirps, while Jack escorts the officers he came with out of the room. “We’ll take care of him, I promise,” you hear the man say as you slide your stethoscope into your ears.
You press the chestpiece to the man’s bloodied sternum, bare from where his uniform had already been cut down to his waist and sticky with fresh blood. His heartbeat is weak and rapid in your ears, barely maintaining enough pressure to reach his brain.
“Pulse is thready,” you murmur and slide the diaphragm half an inch higher. “Diminished breath sounds on the right…”
Jack appears across from you, mouth curling into a familiar crooked grin. “We have got to stop meeting like this, Doc,” he jokes in a gritty deadpan.
“That’s crazy— I was thinking the exact same thing,” you quip and slip the stethoscope back around your neck. “Dr. Santos, let’s make sure these lungs are up.”
“You two know each other?” Robby wonders aloud. He glances between you and Jack with a pair of suspiciously narrowed eyes as he plucks a pair of scissors from the metal tray beside him.
“Yeah, you could say that…” Jack huffs with his eyes on the blade, which slices mechanically through the end of the endotracheal tube protruding from Hiro’s throat.“Pulling out,” the man announces before sliding the thing out through his mouth. “Bag.”
A silver-haired nurse, whom you’ve yet to come acquainted with, squeezes at the valve mask at Jack’s instruction. Air bubbles at the wound.
“He’s not moving any air,” you call to the crowded room. “Get me a neonatal mask.”
“Neonatal?” Santos echoes with furrowed brows.
“Yeah, we’re gonna put it over the wound to keep his airflow up while Dr. Abbot cuts a full-length tube and Dr. Robby shifts his trachea back into place,” you explain with a firm nod, smiling softly as you turn back to the attendings across from you. “Sound like a plan?”
Robby glances up at you from where he’s hunched over Hiro’s body, with two gloved fingers searching for his vocal cords. A faint smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Do you always explain procedures like you’re assigning homework?” he laughs.
“If you’re asking if she’s always been this bossy, yes, she has,” Jack quips with a crooked grin that widens at the edges when you roll your eyes, turning away to accept the neonatal mask a nurse passes from behind you. “And yes, it saved my life— Santos, cut me down a 6-0 ET tube, will you?”
“Oh, do tell…” Robby hums.
“There’s nothing to tell,” you huff and set the mask of the neonatal tube over the bubbling wound, helping the air move in and out of the unconscious man’s lungs. “It’s just the kinda stuff that happens when you’re an army medic— you win some, you lose some.”
“Oh, she’s just being modest,” Jack croons drily as he irrigates the wound with saline, washing away clotted blood until the displaced trachea emerges beneath the crimson. His gloved fingers move alongside yours as he rambles. “She had orders to leave me after I got hit by that IED… The rest of ‘em were pulling back— didn’t have much of a choice but to, really, but… She didn’t… She dragged me about… What was it? Two-hundred meters?”
Jack’s eyes lift and find yours have gone strangely distant. Your gaze zeroes in on the neck wound below; your mind wanders against your will.
The freezing A.C. of the emergency department grows sweltering in an instant, burning like the familiar desert heat that feels like dry fire in your lungs. Black smoke threatens to fog your vision all at once. The antiseptic smell turns suddenly to burning fuel. And the blood on your hands becomes darker, fresher, running over your fingers like an open faucet.
Your hands start to tremble the same way they did when you tied the tourniquet around Jack’s wounded limb, made of nothing more than exposed nerves and tendons from the knee down. You feel your legs weaken the same way they did when you dragged Jack’s weight across unforgiving ground beneath earth-shaking explosions and whizzing bullets.
Jack apologized through his guttural screams — because, even now, he swears the pain from the tourniquet hurt more than losing his leg — as you sat him up behind an unmanned tank.
“Shut. Up,” you commanded, covering his mouth with your bloodied hand. “Or I swear to god, I will kill you if we make it out of here— Do you understand?”
You made it out. And it became a funny story everyone told back at the VA — that time you threatened the life of the man you were saving — though you still struggle to laugh about it even still.
“…Right, Doc?” Jack presses, head ducking in an attempt to catch your eye.
Your hands remain firm over the small mask pressed to the wound in Hiro’s neck, but your face has emptied into an expressionless sort of look. It takes a long moment for your brain to will your eyes to blink, and only then does the sun-bleached desert in your mind return to the hospital where you plant your feet — buzzing fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, blinding white walls. You list everything you can see until your brain recalculates its surroundings.
Your wide eyes flit across the unblinking stares looking back at you, each of them waiting for a response. Your heart lurches in your chest. Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to recall the last thing you’d heard.
“Uh, n-not quite two-hundred,” you stammer with a trembling smile. “We had a team find us before then, I’m pretty sure.”
“See what I mean?” Jack hums with a surer smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His softened gaze remains fixed on you, studying you despite all your attempts to hide. “Modest.”
The automatic doors of the ambulance bay sigh open and shut every few seconds behind you. Each mechanical breath exhales waves of freezing air into the thick July evening, which smells overwhelmingly of hot asphalt, cigarette smoke, and gunpowder from far-off fireworks.
You stand next to Jack beneath the overhang, with summer wind whipping through the thin fabric of your tied isolation gowns as you wait for the incoming trauma together — roughly five minutes out, Dana had said.
“So…” you start slowly, wringing the loose pair of gloves in your anxious hands as your eyes fall to the man beside you. He’s still wearing the baggy camo pants he’d arrived in, though he’s since traded his heavy plate carrier for the fitted black t-shirt underneath it, which clings ardently to his muscular torso. “…SWAT, huh?”
“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” he jokes with a lazy shrug. “And, turns out, I suck at golf, so… I chose the next best thing.”
You shake your head and turn away, exhaling a quiet laugh in response — perhaps your first real one since the unforgiving shift started. The corner of Jack’s mouth lifts into a grin, proud of himself for having heard the pretty sound. He hadn’t thought to miss it until now.
“…How long has it been, you think?” he wonders suddenly, with a pair of squinted eyes.
You draw a deep breath through your nose. Your eyes scale the milky pink and orange skyline beyond the ambulance bay, where a molten gold sunset streaks across the sky. “A while…” you settle on after a few long moments.
“Anything new with you I should know about?” he asks, rocking gently to ease the weight on his prosthetic.
You scoff like it’s funny — maybe because you can’t remember the last time anyone other than your therapist was asking after you. “Nope…” you sigh. “Unfortunately, I am still the exact same person you knew back then…”
“Doesn’t seem so unfortunate to me,” he insists, brows furrowed, like he’s half-offended by your own self-degradation.
“Well, you’d think after— I don’t know— a decade of pretty intensive therapy that I might be a little different,” you quip with an awkward laugh. The humor dissolves a second later when you realize how pathetic you sound. “But, uh… I’m still working through it, I guess...”
“Aren’t we all…” Jack trails off with a slow nod.
“I don’t know,” you lilt, eyes drifting unconsciously towards his hand, where a black wedding ring sits around his fourth finger. The sight of it makes your chest ache more than you’d like to admit — as if a not-so-distant part of you had expected him to be as single and miserably lonely as you, even after all this time.
Of course, someone loves him, you think to yourself, how could they not?
“You seem to be doing pretty alright for yourself, I’d say.”
Jack follows your gaze and, almost instinctively, clasps his hands behind his back as if to hide them. His anxious grip tightens on the blue latex he holds between them. “Yeah, uh—” He clears his throat, eyes fixed on the street beyond the overhang. “My wife, she… She passed. A few years ago.”
The humid summer air becomes harder to breathe in an instant. Your mouth parts with shock, though it takes a long moment before any words of apology fall out. “Oh— Shit, Jack, I— I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know,” he assures with a gentle smile, rubbing absentmindedly at the ring with his thumb from where it hides behind his back. “It’s my fault for still wearing the damn thing. I just— feel weird taking it off, I guess…”
You nod slowly to yourself and glance away. You’ve gotten well acquainted with grief and its tricky rituals over the years.
“What about you?” Jack wonders aloud, smiling a little wider when you turn back to face him with a pair of raised brows. “You seeing anyone?”
Your first instinct is to laugh. “No. God, no.”
“Oh, c’mon…” he croons. “It can’t be that bad.”
You flash him a cynical look and a sad sort of smile. “Yeah, well… I don’t think most people are looking for a girl like me, to be fair.”
“Yeah?” Jack hums, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” you scoff. “A girl who… works all the time. Who barely sleeps. Who can’t sleep if someone’s breathing wrong in the next room. Who… goes to therapy twice a week— three times if things are real bad— I mean…” A laugh sputters from your lips. “I’m a total nutcase.”
“Hey,” Jack argues, weathered face screwed in a playful offense. “Some guys are into nutcases, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh, really?” you hum drily.
“Me chief among them,” he nods.
“What?” you laugh. “Is that supposed to flatter me or something—?”
Boom! An explosion crackles across the evening sky. Your body reacts before your mind, going into panic mode in a flicker. Your shoulders jerk violently, your heart leaps into your throat, your eyes snap instinctively for cover. A red-hot spark rushes down your legs as though your body was telling you to run.
Your brain catches up a second later.
It’s a firework… It’s just a firework, you think to soothe yourself, and to ease your suddenly pounding pulse. But as the fear fizzles slowly away, the self-hatred comes next — the undeniable fact that your body will always belong to a war that ended years ago.
You force your shoulders to relax once more and pray that Jack hasn’t noticed any of it. But you can see his expression softening in the corner of your eye — first with concern, which flickers thereafter into a softer sort of pity.
At the very least, however, he gives you the dignity of pretending he hadn’t seen it at all as sirens rage in the distance — growing nearer and nearer until the red-yellow lights of the ambulance whip around the corner. The two of you snap your gloves on in tandem.
Jack steps off the curb first when it squeals to a park just in front of you. “You picked a hell of a day to come in, Doc…” he huffs and rushes towards the back doors.
“I’d rather be here than working,” you scoff and follow behind him. “It’s less depressing that way, I think.”
“Is it?” Jack quips with narrowed eyes.
You laugh through your nose. “Yeah, jury’s still out on the one, I guess…”
Fourth of July rages across the city. You pretend not to notice.
You stand in the muffled quiet of the breakroom, tucked away from the chaos of the emergency department, and watch the coffee machine in front of you sputter as it coughs up steam that smells like burnt grounds and vanilla creamer. You let the bitter stench singe your nostrils as the firework show begins in the heart of the city.
Boom!
A firework sounds off in the distance, closer than all the ones from earlier in the evening. You wrap both hands around the paper cup of coffee, letting the scalding warmth seep into your palms. The heat nearly burns you, but it’s half-grounding nonetheless.
Boom!
You swear it’s shaking the ground beneath your feet, and trembling the thick, concrete walls on either side of you. Though, with the way your day is going now, it’s impossible to tell what’s real and what lives only inside your head.
Boom!
Your fingers tighten around the cup to the point of trembling. You close your eyes and attempt to count your breaths — in for seven, hold for four, out for eight. Your brain tries to trick you — tries to convince you that the freezing cold of the emergency department smells like desert heat and metallic blood and burning gunpowder. It works.
“Counter…” you mutter aloud to yourself, despite how strange it seems, flattening your hand along the white laminate below, even as your shoulders jerk from another explosion in the city. You place your hand on the smooth curve of the cold sink next, and then on the rough cloth draped just behind it. “Faucet… Dishrag…”
Your attempts to anchor yourself to reality only halfway work. You opt to abandon your coffee on the counter altogether as your pulse continues to climb. You’re grateful to find the E.R. still waiting for you on the other side of the door, instead of a memory you can’t seem to leave.
“Oh, hey— I was just looking for you.”
Your head whips over your shoulder to find Jack strolling down the half-empty corridor with a tablet in his hands, now dressed in his dark black scrubs instead of the tactical gear he arrived in.
His shift has probably started now, or is about to, at least — which means you should be leaving with the rest of the day shift. But you fear what waits for you outside these walls and those automatic doors; the crushing certainty of solitude that always seemed to be waiting for you back home, to be more specific.
You exhale a trembling breath, falling into step with Jack when he walks by. “Where is everyone?” you wonder aloud.
“Day shift went up to the roof, I think,” he answers with most of his attention on the tablet as he scrolls absentmindedly through it. “Watching the fireworks and drinking beer, I’m sure… Lucky bastards.”
“Santos did invite me to karaoke today,” you tell him.
“A karaoke invite on your first day, huh? Impressive,” Jack croons, laughing softly through his nose when you lean to knock your shoulder against his broader one. He gets a faint whiff of the perfume still lingering on your clothes, beneath layers of antiseptic and hospital soap. He misses your warmth the second you’re gone. “You gonna go?”
Your shoulders sag with a sigh. “I don’t know… I’m kinda liking this adrenaline rush, to be honest. Might try and ride it ’til the wheels fall off.”
“Well, that always ends well, in my experience,” Jack quips with a lopsided smile as he slows to a stop in front of you, tucking the tablet under his bicep. He towers a few inches over you, close enough to make you lift your chin to properly meet his eyes. “But I do have something you could help me with, if you have a few minutes to spare…”
“Of course.”
“I, uh…” he trails off, turning to glance awkwardly at his left shoulder. “I took a hit… You know, in the field earlier… I’m pretty sure the vest caught most of it but—”
“You were—” You catch yourself before your voice can carry down the hallway. You take a step closer, lowering your voice into a harsh whisper as you scold him. “You were shot?”
“Shot at,” he corrects, with his brows raised to his hairline. “And it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. I tried to clean it up myself, but it’s pretty… inconveniently located…”
He rolls his shoulder in an attempt to ease the discomfort building there from his scrubs rubbing against the wound. His scruffy jaw tightens with a faint grimace, enough for you to notice the pain in his weathered features that he’d been pretending wasn’t there before now.
Concern flares white-hot in your chest. “Let me see it.”
The tone leaves little room for argument. It’s the same one you’d used on him all that time ago, when you ordered him to shut up and quit apologizing for bleeding out before the people trying to kill you could find you.
“Yes, ma’am,” he nods.
Jack leads you to the nearest empty exam room and slips inside while you gather the supplies you suspect you’ll need from the cart outside the door. You hold them to your chest when you return to the room, where you find Jack undressing, tugging his scrub top off by the collar.
The pale tendons in his back flex unevenly when he pulls the fabric off completely. The milky white canvas of his back is exposed to you then, along with the raging scrape glowing a bright scarlet along his left shoulder.
The door clicks shut behind you and garners the man’s attention. Jack turns to face you. You find he’s grown strangely broader with age. His stomach is full but toned, and his chest is filled out with a similar strength. Both are dusted with faint freckles and light colored hair that trails down from his sternum and disappears beneath his scrub pants.
He seems to mistake the subtle shock on your face for concern.
“I’ve had worse,” he assures you.
“I know, Abbot,” you deadpan, reaching for the glove dispenser on the wall with your free hand. “I was there.”
Jack settles on the edge of the exam table while you arrange the supplies on the metal tray before you — gauze, saline, antibiotic ointment, steri-strips. Your hands remember the motions before your mind has to. It comes to you as easily as muscle memory. You work with an effortlessness that only comes with years of experience; and Jack weathers the pain with an effortlessness that only comes with years of aching.
“You wanna know something funny?” he announces suddenly. The muscles in his back tense slightly when he twists to glance at you over his bare shoulder.
“You getting shot at and not telling anyone for half a shift?” you answer in a monotone.
He exhales a quiet laugh and turns back around.
“I had… the biggest crush on you,” Jack confesses in an achingly gentle voice, and pretends not to notice when your hands still suddenly behind him. He inhales slowly through his nose, as if he’d been sitting on those words for some time, and crosses his arms over his bare chest as if to shield himself from them in some way. “I was, uh… I was gonna ask you out, actually. You know, when we got back home, but… You disappeared before I could.”
His quiet laugh sounds much louder in the silence that settles heavily between you.
“I, uh— I’m pretty sure I still have the letter I wrote you, actually, when I figured out your address— in a box somewhere in the attic probably, but… It felt a little too stalkerish to send it, and… Then I met my wife, and I figured you moved on, too, and…” he trails off, struggling to find the right words. “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re here now.”
“It was probably for the best,” you tell him, and clear your throat when your voice shakes. You pretend not to notice your fingers trembling when you smooth down the edge of the bandage you press over his wound. “I wasn’t exactly… the best company back then.”
“You were always good company,” Jack scoffs. “Even when I thought I was gonna die, I was glad I was with you. I mean, I hated that you were gonna have to witness it obviously, but… I was still glad it was you— Even when you were threatening to kill me.”
You’re pierced almost physically by his words. You blink rapidly to clear the haze of them when your vision starts to blur, another memory threatening to drag you under. Memories you’d spent years and a shit ton of money working through in therapy, that are now eating away at you from the inside out.
His shoulder beneath your fingertips is covered suddenly in shredded camouflage. The bandage on his freckled skin stains red until it gushes once more with warm blood. His laughter turns to screams. The air turns to smoke. The fluorescent lights turn to a white-hot sun.
Jack frowns to himself when he feels your hands freezing once more behind him. He glances over his shoulder and finds that your eyes have gone empty again, fixed somewhere far away — the same way they had earlier that day. His chest pinches with an instant worry.
“You okay?”
His words sound like they’re muffled by water or light-years of space. You can’t hear them over the heartbeat whoosh, whoosh, whooshing in your ears, pounding harder against your pulse with every second that passes that you can’t catch your breath.
Another firework explodes outside like distant thunder. Your body jolts in response, and reality slams back into you a second later.
“I, uh…” You swallow hard, eyes flitting wildly around the room, like you’re struggling to place yourself inside it. “I-I’m all done here, I think.”
“Hey…” Jack coos and turns around to face you completely. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
You step back from him and rip off your gloves with two dull pops. You chuck them hurriedly into the bin, feeling overwhelmingly like the walls are closing in on either side of you.
“I, uh... I just need… I’ll, um…” You shake your head when the words don’t come out right. The next ones leave in a whimper when you try and fail to catch your breath. “I’m sorry.”
You rush out of the room, gone before Jack can gather his shirt.
“No…” That’s the only thing you can seem to make out as you hide yourself in the breakroom. The word scrapes against your throat, still too narrow to properly let air flow through. You wedge your pointer fingers painfully in your ears when the far-off fireworks become unrelenting gunshots in your skull. Your vision tunnels, the room blurs, every breath seems to catch somewhere in your chest. “No, no, no—”
The words dissolve into a half-strangled whimper in the back of your throat. You crouch slowly down in the center of the room and curl inward on yourself, forehead nearly touching your knees. Every muscle draws tight enough to ache. Your body makes itself smaller on instinct, as if it still believed that smaller targets survived the longest.
You vaguely hear the sound of your name coming from behind you — far away at first, like a voice carried underwater — and then much closer, when a pair of warm, calloused hands curl gently around your forearms. Despite the inherent softness of the touch, you flinch violently in the sudden hold.
“Hey… It’s just me,” Jack coos.
His voice cuts through the buzzing panic with a remarkable steadiness. Your head snaps in his direction. You find him looming just beside you, bent over at the waist. His face is slow to flood into focus. For a gutwrenching flicker of a second, he’s the same dark-haired, bloodied, and crying man that nearly died in your arms.
Reality settles in a moment later.
The silver threaded in his curls catches the buzzing fluroscents overhead. His light eyes, still so soft despite the carnage they’ve witnessed, dart over your features with a silent concern.
“It’s just me,” he continues. “You’re okay. Just keep looking at me.”
You try to until— Boom! Another firework crackles in the distance. Your eyes squeeze shut despite yourself. Your entire body recoils. “I can’t—” you whimper through a ragged breath that catches in your throat. Your chest sears white-hot accordingly.
“Okay. That’s okay,” he nods. “Just breathe with me. Don’t fight it, okay? Just breathe.”
Jack inhales slowly, drawing in one exaggerated breath until his chest rises beneath his scrubs. You try to mimic it, but it stutters painfully halfway through. Your lungs seize despite yourself. Your face twists into a pained sort of look.
“That’s okay. There you go,” he praises. The corner of his mouth lifts into the faintest hint of a smile. His thumbs rub softly along the buzzing skin of your arm. “I know it doesn’t feel good. Just keep trying for me.”
It takes several long moments for your breaths to finally even out. Jack holds you through every single one of them. Only when your hands slip from your ears and your shoulders stop trembling does Jack carefully guide you to your feet, with a pair of warm hands clasped gently around the outside of your elbows.
He keeps you stable on unsteady limbs as he guides you the short distance to the plastic chairs gathered around the breakroom table. You collapse into one. He pulls up another to be nearer to you — close enough for your knees to slot between each other’s and for his fingers to thread with yours when he reaches for you again. His palm is warm and gently calloused; a little like velvet as it glides against yours.
You rest your other arm on the table beside you, hiding your face behind the palm of your free hand. When you regain your breath, the first thing you think to do is laugh — a wet, brittle, exhausted sort of sound.
“What the hell am I doing here?” you ask within a weak chuckle, shaking your head at yourself. “The VA recommended me because I was supposed to be good at this, but… I’ve been here for one shift… And all I’ve done is make everything worse—”
“C’mon,” Jack hums. “You know that’s not true.”
“Look at me!” you laugh, gesturing helplessly towards yourself when you lift your head to meet his eyes. Tears glisten in your gaze, clumping your bottom lashes together. “I’m supposed to be taking care of people, Jack! I’m not helping anyone like this!”
The man studies you for a long moment. His eyes narrow with a careful curiosity. “Does this happen a lot?” he wonders gently. “These… spells?”
You shake your head, eyes fluttering shut. “No. Not in— years. I thought they were gone. I mean, I certainly pay my therapist enough; they should be gone by now, but…” You end your ramble with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know… I think… Seeing you, you know, for the first time since… Since we came back home, it just… Opened something…”
Jack’s thumb swipes across your knuckles. You expect him to be half-offended at your confession. He smiles instead.
“Well, you know how we fix that?” he asks, with something short of amusement on the edge of his voice. “We go get a beer tomorrow night. Or whenever you’re up for it. And we talk about all this shit. All of our— trauma or whatever. We just… We have it out.”
Something like sunshine threatens to swell in your chest. It burns out quickly, though.
“But what about everything else?” you wonder in a small voice, wet eyes drifting towards the closed break room door. “I can’t go back out there. Not like this. What if… What if I freeze again? Three seconds is enough to… to kill someone if they’re in critical condition.”
“We’ll make sure you have dual coverage— if you freeze again, you’ll have another attending to step in for you,” Jack answers with a firm nod and unwavering gaze, confident enough to soothe you. “But, for now, we take you upstairs to neuro. Maybe do an EEG since you’re having new symptoms, just to rule out anything structural. And then tomorrow, you book an appointment with your doctor, and I’ll drive you— I don’t care when it is. Just call me, alright? I’ll give you my number.”
You crumple under the weight of his tenderness, of his thumb running soothingly across the ridges of your knuckles. You shake your head, brows knitting softly together. “Why—?” you go to ask, but the words get caught halfway through.
Why are you doing this? you want to say. Why are you doing this for me?
“Well, you pretty much carried me through hell, in case you forgot,” Jack answers with a tired laugh. “And I spent a long, long time wishing I could’ve helped you the same way you helped me.”
Silence settles comfortably between you once more. Your wet eyes fall to your joined hands, where his larger one engulfs your own. His are warmer, slightly rough around the knuckles, and calloused at the palms. It’s hard to imagine, you realize, that the hands that once clawed desperately at the sun-hot desert when you tended to his leg are now reaching so gently out for you.
A series of voices race down the hall all at once, yelling over the buzzing wheels of a gurney. “—What do you mean he lit it in his mouth?”
“He thought it’d shoot out the opposite way—”
“Sir, please, stop trying to pull the bottle rocket out yourself—”
“There it is…” Jack huffs. “The annual reminder that fireworks are nature’s way of thinning out humanity.”
You exhale a quiet laugh through your nose, too weak for anything else, and follow Jack when he stands to full height. The distance between you is barely a step. You feel yourself closing it before your mind can catch up, sliding your arms experimentally around his shoulders and pressing your chest against his.
For the faintest fraction of a second, Jack goes still. His breath leaves him in a quiet rush at the feeling of having you so close. His arms raise slowly, wrapping around your waist with a tenderness that threatens to undo you all over again. One broad hand settles warmly between your shoulder blades, while the other spreads carefully along the small of your back.
You haven’t been this close to him since the day he almost died. In fact, the last time you held him, your hands had been slick with his blood — so much of it, that the dirt turned to sticky paste on your palms. But now, he no longer smells of the metallic blood and burning gunpowder and death that haunts your dreams. Instead, he smells of fresh laundry, expensive cedar cologne, and hospital soap. Like home. Like life.
You breathe in through your nose, inhaling him deep into your lungs.
“Thank you…” you hear yourself say, chin bobbing on his shoulder, words brushing over the fabric of his scrubs.
“Don’t thank me,” Jack scoffs humorously, though his hands drift up and down your spine with an unyielding tenderness. “I’m still paying off a debt.”
“What debt?”
“You’re the one who refused to leave me behind, remember?” he asks. “Well, now it’s my turn to make sure nobody leaves you.”
Outside, another firework climbs high into the starry summer sky and bursts into a thousand brilliant stars with another far-away explosion. Only this time, you hear it without hearing the war.
Summer softens slowly into autumn.
The relentless early-July heat gives way to crisp mornings and cool evenings. Dusk arrives a little earlier every day, spilling through the closed bedroom curtains in silvers of honey-colored rays. Outside, a late afternoon breeze stirs the trees until the copper-colored branches brush the window — tires buzz across the worn pavement while the streets fill with the comforting chorus of the early evening.
Life always has a way of finding its rhythm, you find.
You continued working at the PTMC even after Robby returned from his sabbatical, settling into permanent dual coverage on the night shift with Jack. Your symptoms subsided after that first shift — no more blank spots since you switched medications; no more nightmares since you started spending the majority of your nights in Jack’s bed. Your mind feels like home again.
You lay there, tangled in the rumpled gray comforter, the majority of which you had unconsciously stolen during the night, and listen to the man’s even breaths as he sleeps soundly just beside you.
Jack lies on his stomach with his strong arms folded beneath the thin pillow under his head, facing away from you. You watch the gentle rise and fall of his back from where the dark sheet has slipped around his waist, exposing the freckled canvas of his back — and the healed scrape along his shoulder, now a thin scratch of marred, pink skin.
Your hand wanders slowly beneath the blankets — finding his clothed hip first, then crawling up the familiar landscape of his spine, before settling in the strands of silver curled at the nape of his neck.
The man wakes with a sharp inhale and turns his wild head slowly to face you, still not quite awake.
“Jack…” you whisper to him, fingers still twisting in his curls. “Jack.”
“Mm?” he grunts without opening his eyes, brows pinching in protest.
“We gotta start getting ready.”
Your hand parts from his neck to reach for the phone charging on the other side of you. You don’t make it far before a large, warm hand catches your wrist.
“No,” Jack grumbles halfway into his pillow, voice still gruff with sleep. He tugs your hand back to the back of his neck. “Keep going…”
You exhale a quiet laugh but oblige him anyway. His shoulders deflate with a contented sigh when your fingers return to his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “Why is it you make me do this every morning, but when I ask you to scratch my back before bed, you’re asleep in two minutes?”
“I have a medical condition,” he slurs into his pillow, with his eyes still shut.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“Mm… Pretty sure that’s a HIPAA violation, honey.”
A laugh escapes you before you can help it. “You’re so annoying.”
“Here— We’ll do it at the same time,” Jack mumbles.
He grunts quietly as he twists on his left shoulder until his facing you properly. His right hand slithers around your waist, urging you closer until your knees bump beneath the blankets. His hand is warm and gently calloused when it slips beneath the hem of your oversized shirt. His dull nails scratch lazily up and down the length of your spine. Still without opening his eyes.
“See?” he hums. “Teamwork.”
You exhale a satisfied sigh, then joke drily despite yourself. “Your breath smells, by the way.”
He peeks a tired eye open at that. “Oh, yeah? And what do you think yours smells like, huh? Sunshine and rainbows?”
He leans in to kiss you anyway — a mere brushing of your lips for no longer than a second. But then the second lingers, and so does his mouth against yours. The kiss turns sleepy and slow, mouths gliding and tongues brushing.
Jack lifts himself onto the elbow of his free hand and urges you onto your back until half of his heavy weight is resting on top of you. The stiffness tucked in his boxers rubs against your thigh. A smile curls slowly on your mouth.
“We only have an— an hour to get ready—” You just barely manage to protest between his kisses. “You know that right?”
His mouth slides down to your neck to smear wet-hot kisses along your pulse. His hips flatten further against yours, pressing his hardening length more ardently against you. “I only need five minutes, honey. I promise.”
“Oh, trust me,” you scoff drily. “I’m well aware.”
Jack pulls off of you with the quiet smack of his mouth parting from your jaw. His sleep-swollen features twist in a feigned offense. Slumber clings stubbornly to every inch of him — curls flat on one side and wild on the other; stubble a shade darker on his jaw; pillow creases stamped along his cheek.
“Oh, you are just asking for it, aren’t you?” he squints.
“Clock’s ticking, Dr. Abbot,” you tease with a lazy smile, fingers dancing through his silver curls. “I’m gonna be in that shower in five minutes— With or without you.”
A flicker of amusement flashes across his face, right before he ducks back down to swallow you whole in a searing kiss. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
