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bite the bullet

pairing: Jack Abbot x surgeon!f reader summary: when Jack arrives in the ER in his SWAT uniform, he is surprised to see a new surgeon. and right away, he takes a liking to your brazen tone and notices your skills. he finds you intriguing. except, you hate everything about his hobby, and you aren’t afraid to let him know.

warnings: ACAB! her attitude gives enemies-to-lovers vibes, but Jack is mostly flabbergasted; mentions of a shootout, deaths and guilt; some hurt/comfort (while he’s shirtless...), PLOT TWIST. also, I added one slur (to indicate that the character is racist, not because I would ever use that word irl). P.S. please don’t get offended on Jack’s behalf. he’s fictional, he can take it. / words: 7K / author’s note: guys, I know no one asked for this... but it came to me in a dream. it was also fuled by the rage I feel daily bc I have to work with men. and yes, I love it when Jack is touch-starved and yearning ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST

Sweat tastes like salt, and gunshots smell like fireworks, and the loud sounds still echo in his head. Jack takes deep, measured breaths. The car shakes as it takes a turn, but he is staying calm. Collected. He keeps his hand on the bag valve and presses rhythmically to force more air into Hiro’s lungs. His gaze is focused on the deep wound on his neck, the bandages soaked through.

Blood is just blood.

Wet, warm, staining the skin with crimson.

The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.

Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.

Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —

Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.

“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.

Abbot feels Hiro’s pulse — it’s slow, thready. “Not great. He’s getting harder to bag.”

“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”

“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.

“Got it, Sarge!”

The engine roars.

The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.

They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.

And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.

“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”

“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”

“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.

Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.

Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.

Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.

“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.

“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.

“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.

Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.

The monitor goes off.

“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.

A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.

“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”

“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.

“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.

It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.

The beeping doesn’t stop.

Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”

“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”

Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”

“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”

“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”

Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.

Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.

Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.

“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.

This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.

“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”

“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”

“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.

“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.

“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”

“Mine would be to sit and wait.”

“That’s just lazy, man.”

“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”

They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”

“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”

“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”

“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”

The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.

And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.

“Do you ever take breaks?”

“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”

Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.

The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.

“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”

“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”

“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”

“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”

“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”

Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.

Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.

His heartbeat stutters.

But you don’t say a thing.

You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.

Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”

“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”

“Is it the beard?”

“Among other things,” you chuckle.

Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.

But you’re a natural at multitasking.

You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.

“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.

Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.

Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.

You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”

Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”

“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”

“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.

Like he is following a pull.

You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.

But for the second time, you don’t.

And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.

He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.

His tension slowly eases —

Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.

“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”

Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.

Robby first looks at you.

He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.

“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”

“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”

“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.

And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.

Levington doesn’t.

“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”

“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”

For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.

And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.

“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.

The sats drop down to 91.

“I got it,” you say in the same second.

Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.

“I’m in. Balloon up.”

The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.

“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”

But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:

“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”

That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.

The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.

Hiro’s voice booming.

“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”

Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.

Hiro gets hit.

His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.

There are two dead bodies left behind.

The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.

Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.

“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”

He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.

“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”

You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.

“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”

Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”

“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.

He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.

And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.

But why?

“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.

“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.

“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”

“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.

Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.

“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”

Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.

“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”

“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.

“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:

“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”

You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.

It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.

Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.

And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.

“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”

There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.

“Do they really?”

His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.

“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”

The room goes silent.

Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.

Correction: you aren’t fighting it.

“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”

“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”

The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.

You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.

“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”

His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.

His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.

“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”

“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”

“Shooting at people is.”

“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”

“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.

“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.

“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”

Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.

“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”

You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.

“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”

Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.

“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”

There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.

“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”

“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”

“You ever heard about self-defence?”

“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”

“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”

“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”

An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.

“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”

There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.

“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”

“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.

Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.

“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”

The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.

“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”

“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”

It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”

“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.

“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”

“They don’t —”

But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.

He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.

For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.

“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”

It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:

“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”

Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.

“Are you a therapist now too?”

“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”

“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.

You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.

Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.

“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”

Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.

Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)

He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)

Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”

Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.

“What’s the plan?”

“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.

“How soon can they take him?”

“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”

“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.

And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”

It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.

He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.

The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.

“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.

“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”

Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.

“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”

Jack can’t argue with that.

He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.

Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:

“She did get under your skin, huh?”

Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.

“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”

“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”

“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”

“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.

Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.

This time, the pain in his back lingers.

And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.

Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.

Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.

“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.

Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”

He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”

She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.

“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”

“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”

Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.

“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”

“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”

Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.

“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”

“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.

You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:

“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”

Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.

He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.

Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.

And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.

To find that you’re already looking at him.

Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:

“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”

Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.

“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.

“He’s doing alright up there?”

“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.

Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.

You don’t.

Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.

Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.

Jack goes rigid all over.

You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.

That’s not what happens.

Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.

You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.

Hoping you’ll stay for longer.

Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.

You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —

and then you’re done.

Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.

“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”

His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.

Still, he asks:

“Three what?”

“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”

You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.

His guilt stays.

He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.

It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?

Should he keep doing it?

Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”

Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”

“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”

It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”

“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”

Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:

“She’s my half-sister.”

He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.

“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.

That is one way to put it.

Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.

He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”

“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”

There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.

“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.

She flips him off on her way to the elevator.

His phone vibrates.

Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.

Levington:

You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.

The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?

Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.

So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.

Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.

He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.

It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.

The hardest will be trying to talk to you.

If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.

Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.

Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.

And somehow, he craves both.

✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?

the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).

✧ dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune; ⏩ PREV FIC / ⏩ MASTERLIST ✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!

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