i love, i love, i love you

irda (she/her) || 24 || i just write to write || 18+

[haztory]

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[haztory]

i’m having musings about ex husband jack abbot who is not really your ex husband yet because he won’t sign the goddamn papers

[haztory]

i think if jack abbot needs some blood drawn for him to fulfill some orders for his annual assessment with his primary care doctor, he makes you do it.

yeah he can draw his own blood, has done it on himself before, could even go to the lab in the hospital and have the phlebotomists do it, but it’s more fun to make you pull him into an empty exam room to do it.

[haztory]

he stares.

always stares. is never not staring. hazel eyes drawn to your face, studying as you mechanically wrap a tie around his bicep. your own gaze pointedly steady on your ministrations.

you wipe an alcohol pad on the surface of his skin. “i should be working.”

“you are working.”

you peer up, giving him a hard look. “this is not the work i should be doing.”

his brow furrows, “you’re too good to take blood?”

“i have patients to attend to. slight pinch.” you mutter, sticking the needle into his vein. it’s said out of habit and less out of concern for him. he blinks at you, hardly phased. you grab the vial and push it into the stopper, watching the blood pool into the container.

“and i’m one of them.”

“you’re purposefully being obtuse.”

he whistles, “big word.”

“why don’t you get one of the nurses to do this for you?” you ask, popping out the first tube and putting in the second, placing the filled one into the basket beside you.

he shrugs, “i have you.”

“could have a nice nurse.”

“i prefer you.”

you huff, letting the noise provide explanation enough about your feelings on the matter. you tap off the second vial then push the third in, with little complaint from the man.

“you have good veins.” you say to him after a moment.

“is that all you like about me?” his smile slants and you roll your eyes. you push in the final vial, watching it fill before pulling it out and taking out the needle. you push a cotton ball over the puncture and wrap blue medical tape around his elbow.

“you’re all done.” you tell him, taking off your gloves and grabbing the basket of vials, shoving it towards him. “take these to the lab. or are you going to make me do that too?”

he smiles tilting his head to the side as he pushes off the examination bed and stands before you. “is it so bad that i wanted to have you for a moment?”

“like you don’t have enough.” you scoff.

he takes the basket from you as he stands. then, he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your lips that you softly return. can’t help but melt into.

“thank you, dr. abbot.” he says sweetly, parting from you with a grin.

“whatever.” you turn away from him, hiding the smile that threatens to pull across your face. feeling it widen when you feel his hand tap your ass.

you open the exam door, blending back into the night shift with the other dr. abbot behind you.

[haztory]

i think if jack abbot needs some blood drawn for him to fulfill some orders for his annual assessment with his primary care doctor, he makes you do it.

yeah he can draw his own blood, has done it on himself before, could even go to the lab in the hospital and have the phlebotomists do it, but it’s more fun to make you pull him into an empty exam room to do it.

[haztory]

i’m not saying jack abbot is into watersports, per se—

i’m just saying that this is a man that knows the body clinically and intimately. he’s aware of how it all works, seen all different facets of secretions and discharges and gushes in different circumstances. he knows what’s normal and what’s not. he also knows what’s involuntary and what’s not. and usually, when it’s involuntary, it’s because something is forcing the leakage to happen.

he quite likes knowing that it’s him that’s forcing this to happen.

that he’s making you feel so good that your body spasms and twitches, that he’s making your hand push against his stomach and causing your voice to pitch higher. that he’s the reason you feel a pressure push between your legs in tandem with your pleasure that makes you whine, “waitwaitwait, jack!”

and that’s he’s making you release.

a stream and a squeal that splashes against his stomach. makes him grin and keep his pace steady as you struggle to come down from your high and grapple with the fact that you may or may not have squirted all over him.

a mantra of mortification falls from your mouth. “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

jack just smiles. stupid and wide as he halts his movements, leans down, and presses a hard kiss against your lips.

“it’s all good, baby.” he says, parting from you and pressing his forehead against yours. “‘s normal. let it happen.”

“jack,” your voice dips in embarrassment as you feel the wet sitting between your flushed bodies. “you made me—“

he shushes you gently, his lips pressing to the column of your neck as you feel his hips pick up their pace, insistent on trying to make you do it again.

“it’s just me making you feel good.”

[haztory]

i’m not saying jack abbot is into watersports, per se—

i’m just saying that this is a man that knows the body clinically and intimately. he’s aware of how it all works, seen all different facets of secretions and discharges and gushes in different circumstances. he knows what’s normal and what’s not. he also knows what’s involuntary and what’s not. and usually, when it’s involuntary, it’s because something is forcing the leakage to happen.

he quite likes knowing that it’s him that’s forcing this to happen.

that he’s making you feel so good that your body spasms and twitches, that he’s making your hand push against his stomach and causing your voice to pitch higher. that he’s the reason you feel a pressure push between your legs in tandem with your pleasure that makes you whine, “waitwaitwait, jack!”

and that’s he’s making you release.

a stream and a squeal that splashes against his stomach. makes him grin and keep his pace steady as you struggle to come down from your high and grapple with the fact that you may or may not have squirted all over him.

a mantra of mortification falls from your mouth. “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

jack just smiles. stupid and wide as he halts his movements, leans down, and presses a hard kiss against your lips.

“it’s all good, baby.” he says, parting from you and pressing his forehead against yours. “‘s normal. let it happen.”

“jack,” your voice dips in embarrassment as you feel the wet sitting between your flushed bodies. “you made me—“

he shushes you gently, his lips pressing to the column of your neck as you feel his hips pick up their pace, insistent on trying to make you do it again.

“it’s just me making you feel good.”

[haztory]

i know you probably have ask me and I’ll be there mapped out with how they’re gonna share their feelings but shawn at the gotham awards is making me think of a scenario where there’s a hospital gala and they’re both looking 1000/10 and the want is astronomical… and it comes out there

oh anon.

sweet, sweet, anon.

thank you for sharing this, you have doubly contributed to the lore more than u know

only over you (aka the gala request)

— masterlist | previous part | — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), slow-burn, FLUFF! HUMOR! more old man and city girl dancing around their feelings but kind of getting on the same page but also not! medical conferences, galas, more yearning, more wanting. this ask and this pic have singlehandedly helped in writing this — pic creds from @kendallxlily on X — word count: 4.7k

It’s a forced measure enumerated in the hospital’s strategic plan and institutional assessment to utilize the fiscal budget in achieving proposed administrative goals. 

The gala. 

Two physicians are chosen—sentenced— every year to attend the American Medical Association’s annual conference and gala to maintain PTMC’s reputation as an educational hospital with a priority on advancing physician’s careers. Or whatever. You have less reservations about the requirement than the rest of those on the floor. A free flight and board paid for by the hotel is worth the fate of faking smiles and dealing with insufferable egos for a few days. Paid vacation, even if the location is less than savory. Langdon and Walsh got stuck in Milwaukee for four days two years ago, McKay and Shen were punished last year in Cleveland for five. But you can still account for the fact that the effort of going is enough for the paid vacation to seem more burdensome than average.

The email hit staff inboxes at five in the morning on a Monday, notifying you all that the selection process was in full swing. It rings like a bell tolling of incoming death. Night shift is on high alert, whispering about it quietly. It all comes to an end on the following Thursday when Gloria descends from her high tower at the change of the shifts to bestow the happy news.

“Congratulations.” Gloria finds you at the lockers, your effort of shoving your backpack into the container halted at her sudden arrival. “PTMC has selected you to represent the hospital at the AMA’s Inaugural Conference and Gala this year.” 

Her smile stretches across her face, excitement palpable. Clearly impassioned about this kind of honor she has given and either blissfully unaware or purposefully ignorant at how opposite the staff feels about it. You bite your lip, the effort to share in her joy falling flat within you. But you try, nonetheless.

“Oh!” You give, woefully short. A sideways glance spared as you finish pushing your backpack in and closing your locker. “That’s… great!”

Gloria gives a tilt of her head that is all but humble. “Just a token of our appreciation for your wonderful service here at PTMC.”

You’d prefer a raise but you think she has enough of those gripes on her desk as it is. So you give her a polite smile and ask, “Who’s my war buddy?”

“Dr. Abbot.” Gloria raises a brow. You are late to realize that a face must be curdled into your features by her next question. “Is that a problem?”

“No!” You quickly respond, because it’s not. You and Jack are fine. Mostly. Things are calm, footing being found once more. A routine that was once disjointed is finding its way back but still has jagged edges and torn sinews that don’t necessarily find their spots as easily as they used to. 

Smiles are shared more frequently, teasing has come back to the floor like a slow-rolling tide. Creeping onto the sands of your shores, unsure of how far it can go. Still, he keeps a safe distance. Only comes forward when you ask him to, a deep understanding resounding through him that apologies don’t just magically fix things. Trust needs to be rebuilt, maintained, earned.

I want it to be you. Only you. 

His words were the disruption of the ice, the shattering of barriers, the bridge to the unknown. It was—it is— a good thing. Something that needed to be said that no longer made you feel like an other to him. You always let him in, always, even when he awkwardly lingers around, tentatively asks about your day in the lulls of the shift or in the quiet conversations in your shared walks leaving the ED. It isn’t as though apprehension doesn’t resound in you, either. Unsure what exactly could be a tipping point to have the hermit pulling back into his shell. But the ground is coming back, slowly. You’re getting there, the both of you. Rediscovering your ways back to one another, settling back into the routine that once was but still teetering around the potential discomfort. 

This, however, feels like a leap into the deep end of waters that you and Jack have both been carefully treading on. 

Three days. You and Jack. Across the country. In a paid hotel room. Alone.

There’s a word on the tip of your tongue that could describe this whole thing that is pointedly escaping you. The fault entirely of the sudden whiplash you feel. 

“No problem at all.” You tell Gloria with a carefully patched smile, wiping any residue of uncertainty you may have felt flutter your heart.

“Good.” She nods, smoothing her hands down the panels of her blazer, “He’s already been notified of his selection and of the expectations on this trip.”

It's your turn to raise a brow, “Which are?”

“Show our other colleagues the strength of our two physicians. Build relationships and represent to them what it means to be a good team. An intimate one.” She clenches her fist in emphasis. “Physicians committed to one another perform the best for patient care.”

You blink at her. Your smile held still and blank on your face as the word you were seeking suddenly jumps out

Intimate.

“Right.”

—

You find Jack at the airport mid-morning on a Monday.

He’s standing at the terminal; one arm crossed across his chest while his other dutifully holds a small handheld tablet in front of his face. His lips are pulled in a fine line, his hair neat and recently trimmed, and a pair of black framed glasses sit neatly on the bridge of his nose. Even from a far you can see how he takes a periodic break from whatever he is reading on the tablet to gaze at the passing crowds as they depart or board their flights. Vigilant, like a sentinel, unable to turn off the need to maintain his watch. A camo bag is strapped to his back, bulky and filled to the brim; a matching army green carryon by his feet. A soldier ready to depart on his mission. 

Handsome, undeniably. You let yourself think that without punishment. 

You manage to crowd up behind his turned figure silently. “Boo.” 

He turns his head, breaking from his gaze on the tablet to peer at you over his shoulder. Arms still held firmly across his chest as he spares a soft glance towards you. Curiosity piqued.

“About time.” He says. 

“I was grabbing us coffees.” You reach around his figure to hand him his drink. Surprise etches on his face, something you manage to keep doing to him. That familiar uncertainty that seems to follow him in your interactions rears its head, miring the color of his features briefly. He decides something in a quick second. Entirely unnoticeable had you not been looking. 

He takes the drink appreciatively, fingertips lightly brushing yours. “You almost missed the flight.”

“That's dramatic.” You chide, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “I’m not that late.”

“Could have been.” He tilts his head to the side, cocky and charming. Your eyes draw over the sharp angle of his jaw, the relaxed lines on his face, a lightheartedness in his eyes. The soulful song serenading about a good mood. Admiration is too simple of a word for the survey your gaze performs on the man. “You need to leave enough time for errors. What if the plane took off?”

You push. “You've got your nose in a tablet—"

“Kindle.” He corrects.

“What if you missed the announcement for boarding?”

“I’m paying attention. Richard Kinnaman was just called to the help desk to verify his ticket, airline needs four people to check their carry-on into baggage, Flight 1411 to Cleveland just did its final boarding call, and I’m almost finished with this case study.” He holds up his Kindle for you to look at. “POUNCE Syndrome. You would like this.”

You look at the medical journal on the screen thoughtfully. Eyes scanning across the text that reads Pediatric Opioid Use-Associated Neurotoxicity with Cerebellar Edema Requiring Suboccipital Craniectomy with a Favorable Neurological Outcome. “Send it to me.”

“Already did.”

You hum, appreciatively and the extent of his good mood plays out on his face. Settles in the easy curve of his smile. The sight of it is sweet and you find yourself lingering on his features in fondness. 

“I’m just saying,” He continues with his previous teasing, “Planes wait for no one."

“Jack, we have thirty minutes until boarding.” You rebut.

“It takes off—" He continues, suddenly seriously. “Then what?” 

“Do you do this often?” 

“Every time.” He cocks his head, “Then what?” 

“I’d go and get it rebooked.”

He shakes his head in faux dismay. “You’d lose a whole day.”

“One less day rubbing elbows. Win-win, to me.”

“That’s your plan?”

“What do you want me to say, Jack?” You ask with a laugh. “I’d run on my two feet to catch up with the plane if it took off without me?”

“See, that’s better.” He takes a sip of his coffee, nodding approvingly, “More prepared.”

You find your body leaning in closer to his without much effort. A magnet pulled closer, a plant turning its stem towards the sun. You pull back slightly when you realize your chest is brushing against the back of his arm. 

You roll your eyes at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’d do it.” He wouldn’t. But the pretense is fun. He’s enjoying it, lively and loose, and you’re keen on not shattering the easy flow of conversation that’s been weaved. 

“You are also part machine. And that’s without the leg.” You assert and he huffs.

“So, I’m the exception.”

“On most things, old man.” You grin. “You’re like a freakazoid. Physically and mentally.”

His smile teeters the line of amused and aghast, “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means only you would think it important to grill me about my Plan B when I’m looking directly at my plane.”

“Well, that’s different. I do that for the love of the game.”

“Just say you don’t want to have to brace the horrors of sunny San Diego on your own.”

“It’s less about California and more about the snobs and elitists.” A chill runs down his spine that he tries to roll out of his neck, the thought of the interactions enough to have him already apprehensive. “That’s the true horror. I don’t want to deal with them.”

“Ah, the truth comes out. You don’t want to do this alone.”

“I think you misheard me—“

You rub his back comfortingly, hand smoothing over hard planes of muscle and steel. You do very well to reign in your quiet shock at that. Truly, it’s not that surprising. You’ve seen Jack’s arms. Overheard and may have partaken in the hallway conversation a time or two about the kind of iron Jack pumps in order to look like he does. Muscular, strong, thick. 

For a man of his age, his physique remains a thing to be marveled at. And marveled at, it is.

You also do well to actively try to not memorize the feel of him beneath your hand. All of your previous studies of his figure from a distance are being realized at this very moment. 

“Don’t worry, old man. I’ll be there to protect you. I’ll do all the schmoozing while you look pretty.”

He glances back to you over his shoulder, a smirk—small and enticing—gracing his face. “Is that a promise?”

“Whatever makes you happy, princess.” You grin at him. An announcement rings over the terminal, information about your flight and the ask for passengers to check in carryon luggage capturing both of your attentions. 

You move forward to stand beside Jack, in direct line of sight of the terminal doors. You take a sip of your own coffee. “I want the window seat, by the way.”

“Sure.”

You raise a brow at him. “That’s it?”

“What?”

“No grilling on Plan B in case the window busts out mid-flight?”

His dismissal of your tease is blase, almost offensively. As though it were obvious for him to not inquire further about it. “I’ve already got that one down for us.”

“Oh?”

“Army. I’ve jumped out of enough planes.”

“No way.” You gape at him. 

“Way.“

You nod, slowly. Then, catching onto his words, you ask. “For us?”

“I’m sitting next to you, aren’t I?” He says simply. 

“Flying won’t trigger your PTSD, will it?”

He shrugs with a hung smile, appreciative of not being treated delicately considering everything. “Let’s find out.”

You huff at him and shrug your backpack higher on your shoulder. “If you get triggered and decide to get grabby, avoid the neck. I’m not into choking and I really don’t want to have to subdue you.”

Jack tilts his head at you. Curious. You can see it as it’s happening. The cracks of the foundation, the bubbling of magma as a remark—his best one yet, the most cathartic for him— is thought of, then connected from brain to mouth and is formed on his tongue. 

“Is that a Plan B I hear?” He asks, smug and vindictive. Sounding entirely like a man who feels his point has been made effectively. However asinine its origin may have been.

“Shut up.” You groan.

“Crazy how useful those are. Who would have thought?”

You playfully push your palm into his face in dismissal. The lines by his eyes crinkle in his smile. He gently pushes your hand away, looking firmly at you.

“Don’t worry, if I get grabby, I’ll go for your hand.”

In all of your teasing and tentative touches since your conversation on the roof, the permission to blur lines, this is the most overt he’s been. And it’s…nice. Light and warm and sets an easy smile on your face that’s sparked by the fuzzy feeling in your chest when he looks at you like that.

—

The flight and landing are unremarkable. No aircraft panels imploding and sucking you both 30,000 feet into the air on the six hour flight. Only you and Jack crammed next to each other, a movie where earbuds were shared, a power nap, and the low discussion of his war stories as you prodded further about what it was like to jump out of airplanes. 

San Diego is beautiful. Sunny and warm and it’s hard for him to feel any kind of dread or cynicism at being forced to this conference when the warmth touches him gently. Feels loving on his skin, comforting. A quick glance to you shows that your chin is tilted up, your eyes closed, soaking in the sun with all the shameless indulgence one could have. 

How fitting, Ellis’ moniker for you ringing loudly in his ears. 

Sunshine.

After a quick lunch and a swipe of a thumb to retrieve an Uber, you both retire to your respective rooms at the hotel. Agreeing to rest for a few hours before you’re both summoned to officially begin the first evening of the conference—the gala.

Jack doesn’t rest. Can’t, really. He unpacks spartanly, puts the local news channel on and lets it be the hum of his background. He showers, takes out the button-down shirt the dress code requires him to wear and irons it. He shaves, sits down, then stands up, then decides to get ready an hour and forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. Not that there’s much else for him to do.

He’s clean, dressed tidily. Pomade is styled into his curls, and cologne is smattered across his neck. In his restlessness, he’s made the excursion down to the bar in pursuit of a drink, shooting you a text of his plan, wholeheartedly convinced he needs at least three in order to feel some kind of ease in having to mingle with the high brows and the specialties that swarm this hotel like ants in a hill. 

It’s not anxiety that spurns this on, more so dread. He’s never enjoyed these things, much less appreciates being forced into a crowd of people that are academically smart but lack much of the intelligence that he actually appreciates. 

At least you’re here. That thought flicks into his mind quietly. If not to take the brunt of the conversations away from him, to at least give him something to be entertained by. 

He returns to his room fifteen minutes before the official starting time of the event, keen to sit on the loveseat and surf through the channels until the bell is rung forcing him out of the comfort of his room. He’s caught in the twilight zone of eyes glazed over watching a documentary about humpback whales when the alarm chimes loudly— a text from you lighting up his screen.

6:49 PM - "S.O.S.”

It takes him only a second to spring to action. Exiting his room and crossing the threshold of the hallway to yours directly across from him. He knocks, hears the sound of your chaotic shuffling behind the door, the muffled call of your voice as you say, “Coming!”.

Jack shuffles awkwardly on his feet, only slightly curious as to what could be ailing you. He spares a glance down the empty hall, interest piqued by the sound of the ice machine turning on, turning expectantly when the click of the door resounds in front of him.

And—

He’s seen you outside of the scrubs. In jeans and sweatpants, with your hair natural and face done up or down. In the normal course of life. Plenty of times. Not enough to be considered intimately known, but enough for him to at least be familiar. But this—

This is—

An elegant strapless red gown adorns your figure, complimented by a red sash that hangs flowy around your neck and drapes across the back of your bare shoulders. The color is made for you, accentuating the tone of your skin, the sparkle of your lips, the twinkle of your eyes. This is a done up he hasn’t seen before, makeup soft, and glowing, and blushing and beautiful. 

There’s a lot of cliche in religiosity and Jack himself is quite familiar with the woes and ineptitudes in falsely attributing human coincidence to divine interventions. Lives and breathes a job where it's practically embedded. But—if there was an argument to be made about it, the truth and validity of that kind of existence, the deliberate choice of God to make himself known in a singular moment, in a singular effort, it would be here. 

Staring at you, all the time wondering what it was all for starts to make sense. And he’s known—always known. Made himself to be a complete idiot because of how much he knew—but it’s here where truth punches him in the gut and demands that he do little else but pay attention. 

Divine intervention. God's pointed finger shining a light on the blessed creation he's put in his path, saying— look.

His mouth is dry. His palms are sweaty. 

He needs another drink.

Relief colors your face at the sight of him, one hand holding up the edge of your dress and the other holding open the door. 

“Thank God you’re here.” You nod him in. He notes the irony in your comment and the contrast to his own thoughts. He quickly steps in, taking over your hold on the door and shutting it behind him. “I need help zipping.” 

You turn to him, giving him the full sight of the length of your bare back. Smooth skin down to the top of your sacrum exposed to his view. The problem in question shown to him. The zipper, caught jaggedly on of its teeth towards the bottom of your spine.

He moves quickly, stepping into action behind you and placing a hand on a respectful place to undo the catch of the zipper. It fumbles, resists a little before he manages to undo it and zip it to the top with little issue, with even less hurrah from him. He’s attracted to you—entranced, fixated, practically devout at this point—but he’s not weird about it. He’s done harder things with less effort; but he can’t deny that he lingers, caught on to the smell of your perfume, clean and expensive; the faint yet knowing feel of the softness of you. 

A sudden twitch finds his fingers. An ache settling in the tendons, drawn like a magnet to the skin right in front of him. It shoots a pulse of that ache through him. He takes a slow step away from you.

“There.” He says quietly. You turn to face him, the hem of your dress flowing with your movements.

“Thank you.” You smile, lips glassy with your gloss. Your eyes flick down the length of him and he inadvertently finds himself sitting up straighter. “You clean up nice.”

He clears his throat, ridding himself of any noticeable emotion. “I was told I could be eye candy on this trip.”

“Mission accomplished, Dr. Abbot. You look very pretty. Did you get your drink?”

He nods, hand finding his chin and rubbing the recently shaved skin back and forth in an attempt to stifle the craving. “I did.”

You turn and push deeper into your room, scouting for the finishing pieces of your jewelry. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” He says tightly, unsure how he’s supposed to eloquently say that now he does. 

You pout at him in sympathy, misconstruing his curt response as anticipatory dread at mingling. “One hour max, then we’re out of there.”

“We can stay however long you want to.” He gives, watching you bend over the end table beside your bed and pick up two dangling earrings. His eyes glide over your figure. “You should try to have some fun at these.”

“I don’t know how much fun we’ll have brown nosing.” You snort, focused on the task of clasping your earrings. 

“Regardless, I want you to have a good time.” 

Your eyes dart up to him, finding the quick snap of irises meeting yours. Not caught, but aware. The gaze holds. You straighten your posture, holding firm as the distance between you two feels warm.

“You deserve it.” He tacks on after a moment. Quiet and honest. 

“We should get going.” Smoothing out the stray wrinkles on your dress, you grab your clutch strewn on your bed. You tilt your head at him and heave a breath of anticipation, presenting yourself. “Do I look okay?”

“Blowin’ me out of the water.” Jack mutters slowly. He stares at you. Does nothing but stares. Drinks you in, lets liquid courage seep into his veins. Low and soft, with eyes focused on you, the words tumble out with little reservation. Spoken like a psalm, reverent and true—

“You look beautiful.”

Softness encompasses you. Features visibly melting at his words. Bleeding into your own whispered response. “Thank you, Jack.”

He nods, then moves to the door holding it open for you. “Let’s show these bitches what’s up.”

Your laugh is gentle as you exit the room and he falls into step beside you. His hand falls onto the small of your back, guiding you to the elevator, then through the lobby and the crowd pushing into the ballroom. That ache of his is satiated, marginally, but fed further when you seemingly lean into his side the deeper you get into the ballroom.

His arm sits strewn on the back of your chair throughout the night, protective. You talk to colleagues animatedly, your hand landing softly on his thigh when you turn to bring him into the conversation. You both send knowing looks to one another when a podiatrist speaks ad nauseum about the difficulties of his day-to-day clinic operations. 

Close is how you two stay throughout the evening. Settling further into each other, loose. 

Intimate. 

—

It’s midnight.

Your red sash is hanging around Jack’s neck, his suit jacket is draped over your shoulders, your shoes are hooked on his fingers, and the elevator chimes with the passing floors. 

While you hadn’t intended to stay the entire duration of the gala and post-mixer, the open bar gave rise to another reason to stay. It didn’t take much convincing from Jack. The dip of his head at your silent question was answer enough. 

“You can go back to your room. I’ll be fine.” You told him as the current gaggle of MDs you were keen on exchanging information with set off to grab drinks for the table.

Jack shook his head, “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’d rather be here.”

Which leads to now. The two of you in various states of disarray, taking a leisure stroll down the hotel hallway as you both retire for the night. The walk is aimless, your door the objective, but no immediate rush to be found. Spurned on by the softness of the night, your voice holds a light and airy rhythm as you say, “I had a good night.” 

He nods, a small smile on his face that he can’t hide. “Me too.”

“See?” You tap his arm lightly, “Mingling’s not so bad.”

“Only have to do it for the next three days.” He sighs, “I can’t promise anything if I see that podiatrist again.”

“I know right—“

“What an asshole.” He shakes his head and you laugh. The door to your room faces you both, a sudden appearance that arrived quicker than either of you were expecting. You lean against it, exhaustion heavy in your body from the long day but still not entirely ready to go to bed.

Jack faces you, his hands shoved in his pockets. A happy plasticity settling on him. 

Your mind searches and grabs onto anything to keep the conversation going, to keep the moment lingering for a couple seconds longer. “What was your Plan B?”

“For tonight?” You nod. He gives a half-assed shrug, blows a raspberry with his lips in ponderance of your question. “Dunno. Fake a stomachache probably.”

“One too many whiskeys.”

“Seeing double, got to crash before the innards become outtards.”

“You could’ve.” 

“Didn’t need to. It’s a Plan B for a reason.”

The lip gloss you wore has long since been wiped off, but the grin that stretches across your face still glistens as though it were still there. “You liiiiiike me.”

He huffs. Looks to the side, avoids your stare. A small quirk of his lips graces his face despite it. “Something like that.”

You hum, satisfied. Your smile smug at knowing that if Jack had come to this conference with anyone else, his Plan B might have been deployed at the beginning of the night. It was only in your company, because of your company, that he stuck it out. Dealt with his dislike, managed to even enjoy himself. 

Because of you. For you. 

A pang courses through you. Familiar and deep-seated. A temptation funneled when the moment is soft and eternity seems to encompass the space of he and you. You want him to kiss you. To press you against the door and push his lips to yours. Meld all that has been sitting quietly and loudly and subtly yet obviously between the two of you and make it real. You want his hands to roam your dress, to explore and feel what he hasn’t felt before. To pull, and tug, and hug, and be.

It’s an unrealistic thought, one that’s jumping levels neither of you have discussed—but a selfish part of you protests loudly. Isn’t this how it happens? Spurned not by conversation but by the heat of the moment? When desire is high and the question lingers heavily in the air and courage—as fleeting as it may be—is given cause to sprout, even for a second? And that courage—should it come from you? Is it meant to? The last time you got courageous led to a cold war you aren’t keen to repeat. You want to go by his pace, need to go by his pace because pushing a man as formidable as Jack clearly draws him into retreat. You’ve learned that particular lesson and you won’t be made to seem like a foolish, naive girl again. 

You clear your throat. Disrupting the war of thoughts and deciding to end the moment when it’s still good. “I should probably go to bed.” You give lightly. 

“Yeah.” Jack nods, absently. Agreeing, but almost contemplative of something on his own. You wonder if he felt even a fraction of the conflict you did. His words on the rooftop affirmed that there’s something here—but the doubt has been sown enough within you to question the extent of that. “Well, I’m—uh, right across if you need anything.”

“I won’t be bothering you in your sleep.” You return gently. 

“You can.” He insists. 

Maybe there’s an answer in that. 

“Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight.”

He departs from you slowly, watching as you open your door and turn into your room, giving him one last parting wave before closing your door. He stares at it for a few seconds, thinking. 

Startled at how stupid he feels for wanting to have asked if he could kiss you. Startled even more at how stupid he feels for not having done it. 

a.n: i listened to that one part of champagne coast slowed and looped for this. this is also titled after the fleetwood mac song because of course it is.

as we get closer to the pivotal point of old man and city girl, i have to let you all know that so many ideas are coming to mind. i have many little blurbs that are needing to be established about these two. expect more.

finally, and as always, thank you for all of your comments and messages on this fic on here and on ao3. i read ALL of them, and you all are so special to me <333

[haztory]

part 4 was SOOO delish I audibly gasped when jack made her coffee and then immediately went to dump it after she showed up with her coffee with the hot newbie 😭😭 my heartttt. ty for updating!!! I am soooo excited for the next chapter <3333

I'M SOOO GLAD YOU MENTIONED HOT NEWBIE

i love a jealous trope. i think they're so fun especially when its so misread because unknown to you all, i was absolutely going to make the newbie gay and reveal it to jack in the fic but scrapped that for time purposes.

while this was minor and i don't intend to harp on it too much, i absolutely think that jack is quiet about his feelings UNTIL he's threatened. he's a guy, he's gotta make sure his territory is known. and i think its important to show the moments where he gets his own feelings hurt! like brother, you did this to yourself! but again, he's a guy.

anyway thank you for reading and leaving this lovely comment i'm so glad your here with me :)))

[haztory]

Omg i need to confess something. I’ve been following you since I read river of Styx on Ao3 like YEARS ago and I was just so absolutely SMITTEN with that fic and the way your portrayed the yearning between the charas that I was just. Obsessed. For like a good 2 weeks. Anyways today I decided to read your jack abbott series even though I genuinely know NOTHING about the show outside of the fact that it is a medical serie. simply because when I read the synopsis I was immediately reminded of the intense dopamine hit I got when I read river of Styx. I REGRET NOTHING because even though I have no knowledge of anything of that show, the intensity of the yearning you portrayed and the absolute depth of care and affection that is bleeding into a genuine love is actually so beautiful. I am enamored. I don’t even know any of the characters I’m functioning based solely on vibes but there’s such a genuine beauty and appeal to the way you write city girl and jacks relationship that I cannot get enough of. Genuinely I will start watching this show today just so I can understand the nuances behind your work better. I do not think words are enough to describe the appreciation and infatuation you have stoked within me LMAO but like the way they function so well together despite being in incredibly different stages of life??? And the way they know each other so intrinsically and intimately in a way that is still developing outside of a work context (but even so they’re still so in tune because of the nature of their work)????? And the way you convey the desire for something alongside the hesitation to be vulnerable??? Goddamn. There’s so much more that I find enticing about this fic but I am SO EXCITED for the next part. Tysm for publishing it and introducing me to such a wonderful dynamic. I hope the Pitt lives up to the hype you gave it with this fic, and I am DYING to read more about city girl and jack abbot I cannot even begin to articulate the chemical change you invoked in my brain with this one

hey so this has sat in my inbox for months because i genuinely could not read this without feeling so much emotion. not that im responding bc i don't feel any emotion anymore but because i think its rude that i havent responded to this lovely comment and you have no idea how much this means to me. especially because i think my old shit is BUNK. BUT ALSO I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING RIVER OF STYX AND THE FACT THAT YOU'RE MENTIONING IT IS SUCH A DEEP CUT

thank you??? for reading that??? and feeling a type of way about it to write this beautiful comment because i know people compliment authors works but i'm so cynical and i'm always like.....do yall tho?

anyway taking a shot on the other works of a writer when you have no idea who the characters are is so relatable bc i do the same AND I'M SO HAPPY YOU DID IT HERE. this is the validation i needed to know i'm doing it somewhat decent, so thank you.

did you watch the pitt though?? are you hooked??????

[haztory]

141 turn-ons:

kyle garrick - glasses

Your eyebrows furrow, impossibly, further as you scour through the array of emails on your desktop. The slew of to-dos and must-dos and won’t-dos piling up as you sort through them all. You fight the desperate urge to lay your head on the desk and avoid the responsibilities that are required of you, but doing so would only prolong the inevitable. You and Kyle both agreed that you would devote your Friday afternoons to the routine responsibilities for a much-needed relaxing weekend together.

So you resume, sorting through the muck and the mire to finish all that is needed of you. Clicking on an email marked IMPORTANT, you scan the contents in a quick skim before calling out through the open door to your office.

“Maintenance on the alarms on Monday!”

A groan quickly resounds from down the hall. “Christ, another one?”

“Yep.” You reply, unenthusiastically.

You hear the dulled sound of a heavy item being placed on the ground before the faint sound of his steps draws near to you. Then, Kyle appears at the threshold, shirtless in his grey jogging shorts accentuated by your pink rubber gloves going up to his elbows, looking equally as unenthusiastic. Whether that’s because of your recently shared news or the fact that he’s knee-deep in cleaning the bathroom has yet to be determined.

“How many times are they going to fix the bloody thing?”

“No clue. Something about recircuiting the systems. Whatever that means.” You shrug.

Kyle leans against the doorway, his chin jutting towards your laptop. “We gotta be out?”

You shake your head, doing another quick scan of the email for confirmation. “No, they don’t say anything other than to expect it.”

“Well, that’s good.” He mumbles and you hum in agreement. Silence befalls you two.

You expect him to make his exit, return to the bathroom from whence he came. Instead, he continues to lean against the threshold. His eyes fixate on you. You spare a glance from the computer screen up to him, eyebrow raising at the small smile on his face.

“What?” You ask.

“What?” He parrots.

“You’re looking at me weird.”

“No, I’m not.” He says simply and you huff.

“What do you want?”

Kyle smiles wider, a glint in his eyes. “Nothin’.”

“You definitely want something.”

“No. Just think you’re sexy, is all.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. Your hair is messy, your clothes are mismatched as a result of it being the last of your clean laundry, and it’s starting to reach that time of the day when you can smell yourself. And yet, Kyle stares at you like a man ready for a feast.

You sit back on your desk chair, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose as you survey him and a groan escapes his mouth. You laugh, “Are you ovulating or something?”

“No.” Kyle steps—stalks, more like—forward. He begins to tug the pink gloves off of his hands as he approaches you. Throwing them to the side, he places his hands on either side of the chair’s arms, caging you beneath his figure. “But I think you might be.”

You scoff up at him. “I’m not actually—”

“Just go with it.” He insists. He leans down, his lips finding your neck, and places a wet kiss on the column. A sigh tumbles from your mouth without much resistance.

“What’s got you in such a mood?” You ask breathily, your arms wrapping around his neck and tugging him closer.

“Your glasses." He mutters against your skin, tongue laving before he indents his teeth gently, "Got me feeling some things.”’

“You smell like bleach.”

“I can make us smell like something else.” He smiles.

“Ew, Kyle.”

a/n: might pop another one of these out for the other lads. idk

[haztory]

new faces in the dark.

— masterlist | part one | part two | part three — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, ANGST with a happy ending, escalation of tension, more yearning, more wanting, more old man and city girl dancing around their feelings, medical inaccuracies, jack getting jealous  — word count: 12k — summary: 'Something happened' is the story of you and Jack. Something happened, almost. Something happened, just enough. Something happened, and yet it is perfectly, frustratingly, endlessly unnamed. (Or: Jack Abbot is a storm. And you stand firm in the hundred mile winds.)

You’re convinced that your pushing of the man at karaoke night may have ruined things entirely. 

That, maybe, the tender garden of your friendship has been burned by your overzealousness. Fell alight in flames, fanned by the winds of his dry reticence and sparked by the quickened ending of the conversation. It must have, your anxiety whispers in your ear.

Friday night was beyond unprofessional. Not only were you drunk in front of your superior but you pushed said man, your senior by almost twenty years—a man who has lived through combat and grief and trials and tribulations far beyond what you know— into a stunned silence. All because you wanted him to talk about his feelings. As if you were entitled to know; as if you were someone who meant something to him.

You spend the entire weekend plagued. Head in your hands as the image of you poking and prodding at him plays over and over and over. Your neighbors must be concerned about you with the way you yell and groan as the realization of your mistake burns a scarlet letter into your skin. If there was an award somewhere, a categorical honor, for infatuated, young, stupid women your name would be inscribed on the plaque. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You scream into your pillow knowing that you’ll go into work on Monday and things will be awkward. His silence via the phone only furthers that particular dread. Realistically, there’s nothing more to do than bite the bullet and move on. It’s not like you and Jack text outside of work aside from the occasional response in the night shift group chat where shifts are exchanged. Even the brief, teasing send of sports news to one another is dry and sparse. Most importantly, it’s not like you and Jack are much of anything. 

Co-workers. Trench buddies, frequently. Friends, sure. 

There’s the occasional venture to breakfast, a shared drink after work. The knowledge of each other’s pressure points and cool down techniques and coffee orders is sacred, yes, but it’s also the benefit of working in close proximity to someone. You know how he shifts his weight to his prosthetic whenever he’s in the zone on a surgery, like he’s using the discomfort to focus. He’s more than aware of how strong your sweet tooth flares when you’re stressed, oftentimes the instigator behind the temptation. 

Friends. 

Which makes this all so dreadful. 

You clock into the night shift on Monday with a boulder pronounced in your stomach, beelining straight for the lockers and setting yourself up to steer clear from the attending’s line of sight. Fully subscribing to the belief that you can’t be humiliated of your bad behavior with man if said man never finds you. Checkmate. Foolproof, undoubtedly.

It’s a plan doomed from the start. 

Fifteen minutes into your shift you find yourself assisting in the transfer of a bed patient to the CCU. It’s against hospital procedures and not the most reasonable use of your time, but the floor is filled to the brim this evening with the aftermath of the Pittsburgh Pirates underdog win and you're a little more keen than usual to milk your alone time before officially taking on a caseload for the night. 

The transfer happens with little issue. Easy in, a quick report, then an easy out that has you back in the safety of the elevator within five minutes of arrival. With six floors to go down and approximately one minute and thirty seconds of reprieve, you heave in the easy air of the empty elevator and roll out the kink in your neck. Small joys, easy delights. Anything to alleviate the ball and chain of stress that’s been shackled to your ankles for the past three days. 

Then— the elevator stops on the fifth floor. 

The doors slide open. Your eyes flick towards the motion. The boulder that has made its home in your stomach becomes a prospective murder weapon. Suddenly held with two hands above your head, waiting to be dropped and crush you beneath its weight. 

Jack stands in front of you, mouth drawn in a thin line and his eyes meeting yours in equal time. 

“Hey.” You give. 

“Hey.” He replies, steadied, measured. Perceptibly normal. 

Only, he takes no step forward onto the platform with you. 

He hesitates—an ill fitting thing on a man like him. Unflattering attire, it drapes over him like loose clothing. Billows and sits askance on his figure, never having supposed to have been there in the first place. It’s wholly unbecoming for Odysseus, himself; mirrored in the way Jack just stares.

Your worst fears are confirmed then. Ego and integrity bludgeoned to death in an instant by the boulder that dangled so oppressively. 

It’s only when the doors of the elevator push to close in front of him that he moves. He steps in beside you, leaving no less than a foot of space between you two. Eternity fitting into the four walls, enveloping you in the void. 

This distance— thick and swallowing—is a foreign thing in the fabric of you and Jack. Fresh off the completion of your residency and start of your fellowship a year and a half ago didn’t bring this kind of frigidity. Even when he facilitated the initial mentoring, when he hardly knew your name or the way you liked your coffee, there was still something. 

A spark of likeness. A degree of familiarity, based on nothing but the kindred. Quiet but pronounced. A faint pulse. Fanned by a flame of mutuality when you felt it, spurned entirely when he did too. Seemingly smothered now by good intentions. 

The smell of singed embers and smoke wafts through the elevator as you come to realize that Jack has never felt so close and yet so far.

Seconds pass in a harrowing silence that chokes. Only the sound of the steady whirring of the elevator fills the space. You shift your feet awkwardly. He does, too. 

“Where were you going?” It’s spoken with all of the stilted gruffness he can be known for. His stare remains forward on the steel doors. 

“CCU. Helping with a transfer.” You supply, mustering some level of confidence to sound unaffected. It's unconvincing.

“That’s against procedure.” He hums, crossing his arms against his chest. If it’s a joke, it doesn’t land. Told so lamely, almost seriously, that you’re not entirely sure it wasn’t a scold. 

You nod slowly. “You?”

“Consultation with PACU.”

“Ah. Good stuff.”

“Hm.”

Silence befalls the elevator again. An unnatural phenomenon. You consider that a well enough reason to rip the band-aid. 

You turn your head to him, sincerity doused in your tone. “Listen. About Friday night. I was way out of—”

“It’s all good.”

Shock interrupts the previously steadied train of thought. Your mouth flutters in surprise. “Jack, seriously—” 

The doors open, then. The sound of the brewing storm that is the ED floods into the space. Jack finally draws his eyes to you. They’re lighthearted enough, hazel muddied with a mirth betraying the tension drowning both of you a moment ago. You know him enough to know that it’s a meticulously constructed look. 

“Don’t worry about it. Seriously.” 

He walks onto the floor, moving forward into the night. Leaving you and your attempted apology behind. 

You stand on the platform in disbelief. The boulder of anxiety stained with the residue of your bludgeoned morale. 

Maybe it’s a professional blessing disguised as faux nonchalance, you reason in the wake of your rejection. Maybe this is something you’ll look at as a gift in a few years, Jack having made the noble choice to not harp on what could be considered the greatest embarrassment of your career. Somehow, though, Jack not talking about it—avoiding it and you—is hurtful. But, your discontent with his avoidance is what got you here in the first place. If Jack doesn’t want to share, then he doesn’t have to. Your feelings about it are your own to deal with. He doesn’t owe you anything. 

You are co-workers. Friends, maybe. Nothing more, nothing less. Your supposition otherwise is of your own doing and the answer is made clear here. 

You swallow down the thorny pill of hurt. There’s no room for self pitying in the middle of a crisis and you have no desire to be seen as a liability in your workplace due to your own personal issues.

You step off the elevator and into the night with the resolve that you’ve learned, that you’re known for. Quick on your feet, quick into the night. 

Focused. 

—

“See, Ellis?” You smile with a heavy exhale. Out of breath from the rush of adrenaline through your body and the stretch of your back over the man on your operating tablet. You look over to the resident on your left, who stares back at you impressed. “Piece of cake.”

Ellis shakes her head, “I don’t want to know where you learned that.”

“No, you don’t.” You sing to her. You nod to Walsh who stands, arms folded, across the room. “All yours, Walsh.”

The surgeon scoffs with an eye roll, “You and Abbot with guerilla medicine.” 

The corners of your lips pull down. The mention of him a sudden curdle of your high spirit. A normal compliment any other day, yet all the makings of a pistol whip considering the odd tension that has been lingering the past few hours. You push the feeling to the side. 

Walsh corrals the now stabilized patient and escorts him up to the OR. A glance back to Ellis shows that she’s still slowly shaking her head in disbelief.

“C’mon. Admit it.” You muster a tease, snapping your bloodied gloves off and tossing them into the trash, “You're a little turned on.”

“Fix all my patients tonight and I just might be, sunshine.” Ellis tosses back and you chuckle. 

“Don’t tempt me with a good time.” 

The operating doors slam open, a skid mark practically left on the floor in urgency as Jack—Abbot, you correct yourself—enters the room. All of the makings of a storm, dark and electric. 

His brows are furrowed and his eyes search the room for the emergency. “What happened?”

Ellis smiles at him, crosses her arms against her chest. “Just missed it. Sunshine came in with the save.” 

It’s then that Abbot seems to recognize you’re in the room. 

(You know the man well enough to know his eight pairs of eyes saw you enter the room the minute help was called. It’s more fitting to say he’s only now designated it the proper time to acknowledge that you’re here. 

Maybe a nuisance, now, in his eyes. An afterthought.)

“You would’ve done just fine, Ellis.” You supply, quietly, keeping your gaze focused on your station.

A look settles in his eyes, unreadable. He holds on to you, before moving to Ellis. “I’m sorry I missed the page, I got caught in the MVC in two. Are we good?”

“Sunshine?” Ellis kicks over to you, blessedly unaware of the sour stinking the room.

You take a moment. Clear your throat. “Abbreviated laparotomy for a perforated bowel. We controlled the bleed and got him sent up to the OR for a full repair.” 

Ellis shakes her head. “She’s downplaying it. She tied off the stomach with string—“

“—it’s a simple ligation—”

“—held it up with clamps and tied it off in five seconds while I criked. I’ve never seen it done that fast.”

“Not my first rodeo.” You mutter.

Abbot stands quiet. The room settles into a stillness. Obviously unfamiliar, drastically out of place. Quiet doesn’t happen in the ED, much less ones dripping in an awkward weird. Embarrassment floods you knowing that new territory is made underneath sterile lights and while a bystander looks curiously at the cracking fissures of a once tender bond. 

Abbot shuffles in the pause before looking at you. Stilted and constipated, unnatural. 

“Good work.”

“Thank you.” You accept, short. 

Jack nods his head once, looking like he wants to say something else. He decides against it and takes his leave with little explanation.

Ellis’s head slowly rolls over to you, her face contorting into one of absurd confusion. It would be amusing if you weren’t at the receiving end of it all. 

“What was that?” She raises a brow.

“What?” 

“That.” She gestures a finger between you and where Jack was once standing. “That was weird as hell.”

You shrug. “Don’t know.”

It’s not wrong. You have an idea, relative to context clues and your own anxieties, but that’s it. You turn your focus on cleaning the examination room, pulling off your dressing gown and tossing it into the trash. Silence echoes behind you. 

Then, “Are you alright?”

“Fine. Why?” You can see the exact face of disbelief Ellis is pulling. You keep your eyes averted.

“Huh.” She tuts. “Okay.”

—

Five shifts go by. You become an expert at this game of weird. 

The rules may be new and ill-fitting, swallowing you whole until you’re drowning in nothing but awkwardness and discomfort, but you catch on quick. You both do. 

The work performance fortunately remains the same—seamless, efficient, a well-oiled machine. Two gears with convenient carve outs in the shape of the other, slotting together perfectly. Sorting through crises, handling the uncertainty. The regular onlooker has no idea that the two doctors reviewing a patient’s symptoms and slinging operational directions to the other have barely shared a few words more than the offhand greeting. 

The work remains picturesque; the perfect depiction of normalcy. But, something’s changed. It’s everything else that is slipped off the footing. 

Teases run scarce between you two. Where they were once frequent, batted back and forth all night, they’ve since lost their luster. If they’re spoken, they’re aimed toward a mutual interest: a nurse dropping a saline bag, a patient’s ungodly singing in the waiting room. The moment they begin, however, they end, met with terse silence and a quick exit.

You both manage to steer clear of one another for long stretches of time on shifts. An impressive feat considering almost every single one of your shifts is when Jack is scheduled. Even the ones you pick up on behalf of someone else. A fact you would have relegated as luck a few weeks ago. A noose, now. 

When you do run into each other, it’s a stilted dance. You step to the right, he steps to his left, staring at each other unsurely as you both teeter back and forth.

Endless side-stepping. Avoidance. Thick, like blackened tar. It’s not strict enough to be unable to stand in the same room as him, but the man with a staring problem suddenly can’t meet your eyes during debriefs and the team has caught onto it quickly.  

Ellis' eyes seem to track on you whenever you and Jack are in the same vicinity. Shen, at least, is nice enough to pretend he’s not looking. 

Your relative patience for any suspected hurt feelings is beginning to wane. Self-crucifixion for making the man uncomfortable has already been played out by your dutiful hand. You’ve repented, learned from your mistake. All you want is to fix it and move on. Even if that means that work stays like this for the foreseeable future. But now, this is punishment territory—a game of endurance and withholding that he’s playing, intentional or otherwise. Maybe this is his way of acknowledging your crush and firmly telling you it’s one-sided. Maybe this is his way of trying to prevent any hurt feelings on your end. 

It feels cruel. 

Yet, the small hopeful part of you yearns for it to not be done maliciously. Believing too much in the small instances of friendship between you and him for him to now suddenly be cruel and cold. Believing too much in what once was.

You’re half tempted to corner the man and force it out of him. Start the cycle again, a push and pull that will put you right where started. Those thoughts are stamped out, choked by your intentional hand. 

Jack is an adult, clearly with some adult feelings that he’s unwilling to share. If he feels a way towards you, he needs to be a grown-up and address it. 

—

In the midst of hell freezing over, a new resident enters the rotation. Jeremy Daugherty, fresh meat. Right off the graduation pedestal and into the dirt of the trenches. Tall. Relatively good-looking, your age. Nice smile. He’s the blessing in disguise, taking the low whispers and chatters off of the interdepartmental drama and onto him. 

You and Walsh catch the nurses ogling and chatting amongst themselves as he passes by a few times. 

“You want in?” You mutter to her. Offhandedly, teasingly. Without much thought.

“Nothing good comes from an attending messing with a resident,” Walsh mutters, prophecy on her lips. “A lesson few have learned.” She gives you a look before turning on her heels. 

You do what you usually do with Walsh’s comments and pointedly ignore it.

Daugherty gets assigned as your shadow. For all intents and purposes, he makes for a good moon. Never far behind, always orbiting around you. He’s decent on the upkeep, knowledgeable, a bit unsteady on the jump to action, but you attribute that to the fact that there’s still a light in his eyes. Give it two weeks and he’ll be broken in. 

Six hours into your Sunday shift and the kid is losing steam. His mind blanks in the middle of your questioning during an emergency appendectomy he’s leading. You see the sweat bead on his temple, catch the way that his hand shakes. 

“Deep breaths, Daugherty.” You guide softly, “You’re doing great.” He nods quickly, swallowing before cutting into skin. You guide him through all three hours of the procedure, assuring and reaffirming him as uncertainty creeps up on him. 

“Good work in there.” You tell him in the aftermath. After the patient has been transferred upstairs and you both stand outside of the room. Daugherty stands, shaking his head, sedulous hands finding his hips. 

He looks to you curiously, “Really?”

You bob your head from side to side, “Yeah. For the most part.”

Daugherty groans. “So I’m awful.”

“No.” You laugh, “You did well. Really. A little slow, but that’s to be expected. You’re dealing with a human, it’s good to be thorough.”

“Cadaver labs are so much different than the real thing,” Daugherty mutters. The smile on your face is inadvertent. Amused at the shock that courses through him. It’s a welcome feeling from the doom and gloom and the stilted unease that work has been for the past week and a half. 

“It gets easier. Give it some time. You’ll be doing emergency appendectomies with your eyes closed.” Daugherty nods, unsteadily. He leans down, all six feet hunched over as he puts his hands on his knees and hangs his head. You follow him cautiously, peering at the side of his face. It’s then that you notice his face paling. 

“I think it’s time we take a seat, hm? What do you think?” You probe softly. 

“God, this is so embarrassing.” He says. You place a hand on his back, patting him comfortingly.

“It’s okay, our first ones are always pretty bad.”

He peeks an eye at you. “Was yours like this?”

Your lips purse. “Mine was also an emergency appendectomy.”

“Did you get nauseous?”

Your voice lilts upwards, a wince on your face. “...um.”

“At least you’re honest.” He laughs. You laugh alongside him. 

“C’mon, let's get you some water.” Daugherty nods, stands slowly, and allows you to guide him to the break room. You feel something at your back, then. Piercing and digging. The distinct feeling of being watched. 

Turning around only reveals the continued chaos of the night. Ellis is pushing a gurney into an examination room, lively chatting to the patient in the bed. Maria and Hilly stand at the other side of the room, discussing a chart in the corner. Shen is by the front lobby, discussing with a patient who appears to have just been discharged. And in the middle of the floor is Jack, his forearms leaning against the surface of the nurse's desk, his eyes trained on the screen above him. His body faces towards you, but his attention is caught entirely on what’s above him. A pensive look marring the maturity of his features. 

You shake away the feeling. It’s the result of a long night, or maybe the wayward glance from a patient sitting in a bed in the hallways. Turning back to Daugherty, you continue your trek to the breakroom with him. 

The turn of your body—unintentionally perfect—hides the sudden snap of hazel eyes on your retreating figure. You miss it entirely, the way that they flick towards you; the way the stare remains unblinking and pointed. 

You miss, completely, the way that Jack’s eyes find you in the chaos and hold.

—

Tuesday is slow. Two cardiac arrests, a baby with a fever, one fender bender. 

Jack—Abbot, you scold yourself. Abbot, Abbot, Abbot— is still avoiding you. He haunts the north side of the ED, flitting in and out with an even pace and a head firmly looking anywhere but where you are. 

Your construction of an unbothered pretense is infallible. The night drags with a pronounced hollowness that you are quietly struggling to become accustomed to. The front desk is your home for the time being. Meagerly eating your granola bar in a relative peace that you’re trying to soak in. Beeps resound, chatter floats by, the clock trudges towards 3 AM, and Shen's patient becomes the focus of your entertainment. 

A man, late forties from what you can assume beyond the smudging of his obscene white and red clown makeup, is covered head to toe in glow sticks, sitting on a gurney in the hall. He makes an animal, one of many, from a seemingly endless stash of balloons in his pocket. The monitor cites a concussion as his reason for a visit. 

Magic trick gone wrong, Shen provided. You watch, bemused. Lost in the twilight zone of the slow passing time.

Call it fate, or kindred spirits, or the seemingly supernatural ability to know when he’s around, but you feel him before you see him. Like a specter, a hovering extension of you. 

You always feel him. 

He stands at the opening of the corridor from the other end of the unit. He’s halted in his approach, his stare fixed on that same thing that has captured your attention. Transfixed as the clown attempts to make a horse out of a green balloon. 

It’s uncanny the way he manages to exactly find you from a distance. His gaze meets yours across the floor, joined in the mutuality of restrained interest. It’s veiled. Undecipherable from behind the smokescreen. Heavy, but not unkind. Layered with things unsaid. A story wanting to be shared lingering on the tongue. Wafting in the air like a slow rolling mist, begging to be waded into. Marred with the swirling scent of hesitation.

A storm on the horizon. Begging to be unleashed. 

Then, the elastic pops. It draws your attention away in startlement, finding the cartoonish look of sadness befalling the clown’s face at his destroyed art.

When you turn back to find Jack—Abbot— he’s gone, and so is the moment. 

If you try hard enough, you can see the faint plumes of its residue hanging in the air. Dancing and dissipating into the stale air of the ED. 

The facade you have meticulously designed stays put. You chew slowly on your granola bar, but your appetite for it has gone, too. 

—

On Thursday, Abbot wedges himself behind you at the nurses' desk, close enough to feel heavy against you yet still distant. He moves you to the side of the nurse’s desk to make room for him to settle beside you, hands gently falling around your waist to guide you. Its light, sparse; thick fingers deft as they slide across the fabric of your scrubs. As soon as they're on you, their gone. Retreating back into the realm of respectful gestures. 

You don’t think it’s real for a moment. Think, that maybe, you’re in one of those dreams that feels too similar to real life; that you’ve accidentally dreamed that you got out of bed and ran your errands and came home to get ready for work and that Jack Abbot has suddenly forgotten about the embargo on your relationship and is now touching you. 

The spark of ice that runs up your spine, speaks otherwise. It jolts you awake from the stagnance that writing your notes had on you a moment before, your head shooting up to look at him beside you. He leans against the desk, elbows bracing against the surface and his gaze on the horizon of the floor. His jaw pulses with repeated clenches. You eye him, stunned at the change of tune. 

Any perturbation at your wide-eyed look is wholeheartedly ignored. 

“Thoughts on the newbie?” He says, light and airy. As though this were another evening, another meager discussion about your days, the weather, life. 

Your mouth opens and closes, then opens again. “He’s… fine.”

That earns you a sideways glance. A hurricane falls onto you. Stormy and violent and hazel, in the small room. As though you were the one acting out of turn, like he expected better from you. Like this was not the first time he’s looked at you intentionally all week.

“That so?”

You raise a brow in your confusion. Your words are stilted and unsure. “Were you expecting another answer?”

Jack shrugs, unphased. “I’ll take whatever you want to give.”

Your eyes narrow, a surge of annoyance rushing pushing to the surface. Atypical in respect to the man, yet you can’t help but feel stiffed at his words. His behavior these past few days says otherwise. You turn your head back to your notes, mood inflecting your tone. “He’s in his second week. He’s doing fine.”

“If you say so.”

“What does that mean?” You ask, standing firm in the hundred mile winds of his stare.

“You’re covering for him.”

“I’m not—”

“He’s been slow, sometimes sloppy. You’re conveniently leaving that out.”

"Did you come over here just to fight me? He’s figuring it out—”

“Call a spade, a spade.”

Your scoff is loud. It draws the attention of a few nurses passing by you, who stare rather curiously at the scene. You turn your attention down to your notes, pushing past the discomfort of being watched. “I don’t subscribe to the belief of punishing people who have made fixable mistakes. Unlike some.”

He thinks on your words, studies the side of your face as you pointedly avoid his stare. “You’re being soft.” 

“Is that a problem?” You finally look to him, a brow raised. “Some people think that’s essential in a doctor.”

It’s not a problem. Furthest thing from it. Even the insinuation burns his tongue. The implication is a scalding lie he couldn’t even attempt to believe. He doesn’t say any of that.

Jack stands to his full height, peering at you with a cool constructed confidence. “Just keep the flirting to a minimum.”

Your mouth gapes as you stare at the man. “What?”

“New eye candy on the floor. I’ve heard the chatter.” Jack shrugs, stands to his full height, suddenly detached. 

“That is none of your business.”

“Everything on this floor is my business.” Including you.

Shaking your head only conveys a fraction of the disbelief you feel.  “Real rich coming from the guy who keeps avoiding me.”

A flicker happens. Faster than you can perceive it. Assuming his figure, enshrouding his gaze, something you haven’t seen happen before. He looks—for a moment—embarrassed. It’s replaced as soon as it happens. Harsh features returning to the surface. It receives no answer from him, only a stern stare. “Any mess ups he has are on you.”

“Add it to my tab.” The retort feels hot on your tongue. “Are we done, Dr. Abbot?”

His eyes hold on yours. Fierce. Digging, even in the sting of your words. They dart around your face. Across your eyes, trailing the bridge of your nose, falling, finally, to your lips. Slightly glossy from your chapstick, turned downward in a half frown, almost pursed. As quick as they fall, they rise back to your eyes. 

The air grows heated in the charge of the storm. Fatal. Strangling. 

Wanting.

Jack nods his head, absently. “Yeah. We’re done.” He breathes out, turning on his heel and leaving the room before he falls apart at the seams. 

Wholly aware that he’s being unreasonable. Entirely knowing that he’s inadvertently loosened the leash of a dog he’s kept chained tightly. A dog green with envy, drooling in an unfounded jealousy. 

Unreasonable. And yet—his throat constricts, blood rushes ferociously through him. 

Irked that you didn’t deny the existence of something with the newbie.

—

“What’s going on with you and Jack?” 

Cassie McKay is an unlikely friend. She’s cosmic radiance, steadied ground with the streak of a youthful wild that still comes out to play. A breath of fresh air after a long day. She’s the voice of reason, the good laugh, and blessedly, not on the same shift schedule as you. It’s become a part of the self-care routine to squeeze in a day with her. 

Today, though, you’d consider this less of a Friday girl’s day out and more of a criminal interrogation. 

Her question is casual, albeit pointed. Her head rolls to you lazily. You groan. Apparently unsafe from the prying eyes and ears of the dayshift crew, either. 

Your head thumps against the back of the pedicure chair. “Not you, too.”

“C’mon, you know my lips are sealed.” She pries, leaning over the side of her chair to dig further into you. Her feet splash in the basin of water as she turns. 

“Nothing.” You insist, solemnly. Your pedicurist continues her dutiful painting of your toes the shade of Flash n’ Flirty. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“No late-night phone calls? Quickies in the supply closet?”

“Cassie—“

“Third base?”

“What—“

“Second?”

“No—“

“Oh my God, first?”

“Nothing is going on.” The disbelief on her face almost forces a laugh out of you.

“Okay… then follow-up question.” Cassie draws out slowly, chewing her words as though you were a skittish animal. “What changed?”

You stare blankly. “What do you mean?”

“Rumor mill says things are tense.”

If your eyes could roll any harder, they’d get stuck. “Well, can the rumor mill come to me for an answer next time instead of spreading things across crews?”

“Don’t take it personally.”

“Kind of hard not to, Cass.” You pick up the remote of the chair, flicking quickly through the different massage options for one that would suffice as a good attempt at beating the shit out of you. There are few things less enticing than discussing workplace drama where you are the center of it.

“It’s juicy!” She shrugs, “An attending and a resident. Both hot, both badass with crazy amounts of bedroom eyes. What’s not to love?”

“I’m not interested in being the butt of everyone’s joke.”

“No one is making fun of you.” She says soberly, teasing tone rid altogether. Replaced with a motherly attempt to pacify. “Why would you think that?”

Maybe because the truth is obvious and stamped across your forehead for everyone to see. 

Affection for the man, unrestrained and stupid and girlish, is practically a harrowing anthem wherever you go. Your mistake and his retreat now the fodder for departmental entertainment, all predicated on the fact that you wanted something from him. His closeness, his truth, a sliver of reciprocated hope for the things that burn deep within you to find sparked likeness in him too. 

Now the butt of the joke, the iced out fellow on a team small enough to practically be incestuous, watched by the entire department because you were silly enough to have a crush. 

Maybe Jack had the right idea all along. Ignore until the problem goes away. 

“Things are fine.” You say instead.

Cassie raises an eyebrow. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay.”

The faint sound of the Top 40s hits fills the empty space of your conversation. 

“So… is it that you think his jokes aren’t funny anymore or—“

“Jesus, Cass.”

“Half of the team thinks you guys fucked and it got weird, and the other half thinks you’re in the middle of a marital fight. Which is it?”

You roll your head to the woman, “We’re coworkers.”

She stares at you expectantly. “Coworkers fuck.”

“We’re just coworkers.”

“Does he know that?”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh c’mon.” Cassie’s laugh is sharp as it is exhausted. Witness to the sight of your bluff, the woman’s features scrunch in disbelief. She’s seen it all, heard the stories of the interactions thus far. Your display, as cute as you’re trying to be about it, is little more than an insult to the honor of her working eyes and an obstacle to the stack of money she’s pledged in the day-shift’s betting ring. “The man’s got a reputation for edge but this is something different. No way just a coworker could do that to him. Something happened between you two.”

‘Something happened’ is the story of you and Jack. Something happened, almost. Something happened, just enough. Something happened, and yet it is perfectly, frustratingly, endlessly unnamed. 

Jack is all man. Steady, quietly loud. Takes up space and leaves an imprint unintentionally. Smells of lightning and warmth, feels like thunder on the horizon. Broad and impending, you feel the loss of him just as much as his nearness. 

You straighten in your seat, uncomfortable. Wondering if there was anyone to tell about the situation, she’s not a bad contender. 

Finally, you give. “We’re just… not on the same page right now.”

“What happened?”

“Karaoke night.” 

“What about it?”

“I think I pushed him too hard.”

“How?”

You sigh. “I was drunk. He showed up when he said he wasn’t going to. We were all having fun and… I told him he came for a reason and that he’s allowed to want things. And that I was glad that he came. Then he drove me home, and since then he’s been off. Avoids me, can’t look at me. So, here we are.”

Cassie stares at you, her lips pulled thinly. 

“...that’s it?”

You bob your head from side to side, a grimace pulling to your face as you wonder if you’re overreacting. “Then there’s the Daugherty thing.”

Cassie raises her brow, “Oh?”

“Grilled me about his performance. Told me to keep the flirting to a minimum. Whatever the hell that means.” Cassie nods slowly, as if the final piece of the puzzle has come together. She lets out a disbelieving laugh.

"Who would have thought that Jack Abbot was the jealous type?" She scoffs, then mutters underneath her breath. “Men.”  

“You don’t think that.” You chide lightly.

“I absolutely think that. You confronted Jack about feelings, he got nervous, then a new guy threatened his territory and now he’s peacocking. God, I couldn’t have imagined this being any better.”

“What is there to be jealous of? This is clearly his way of trying to draw boundaries when I overstepped. We’re coworkers, nothing more, clearly. And that’s fine.”

“Normal co-workers don’t just go quiet when the other says that they’re happy they showed up and bring it with them to work. Normal coworkers just agree, maybe even say the feeling is mutual and go on with their life. You know, like normal people with normal relationships.” Her voice drops with the emphasis of her meaning. “You and Jack aren’t normal. Everyone sees that.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why he’s uncomfortable.”

“Look, I’m not saying I know the guy. I’ve worked with him a few times, but I get the vibe that he’s the guy of all guys. He’s a storm. Doesn’t lose face, pushes through. I can imagine that if there’s something… tender going on, he’s going to be the last one to admit it. Rooftop adventures and all. But he shows it.” Cassie pushes herself into your line of sight, eyebrows raised high. “Maybe it's not discomfort but… I don’t know, maybe he’s just trying to figure out how to do it right. And a new, younger guy isn’t helping his case.”

It’s your turn to laugh in her face. “Do what exactly? Be friends? Feels like the boat’s kind of sailed on that, don’t you think?”

 “Do you want it to be more?”

Your face turns owlish. Wide and blank and the exact answer Cassie was looking for. She delights at the corner she’s got you in, the sudden quiet that befalls you. 

“That’s not—there’s nothing to say on that because it’s not happening.” Word fumble out of your mouth, some mediocre construction of a something you pretend to believe in. 

She hums, knowingly. Her eyes bounce quickly between yours, something configuring in her brain before she nods resolutely. “I think he realized something and he’s dealing with it the only way he knows how. Doesn’t make it right, but I think he’s avoiding because he doesn’t know what else to do.”  

You shake your head. “Even if that’s the case, if he doesn’t want to talk then that means nothing is going on. I’m not going to bend over backwards to get him to talk to me and I won’t be collateral for him. I apologized and I meant it, all I can do now is be mindful and do my job.”

“I agree with you there.” Cassie sings, shrugging her shoulders and returning her attention to the massage remote beside her. “Men,” She sighs, closing her eyes and relaxing into the steady, repetitive beats of the chair. “They wouldn’t know what’s good for them if it hit them across the face.”

You hum, turning your own attention to your chair. Mind wandering, halfway caught between reality and the endless swirl of unruly thoughts. You breathe in the finality of the conversation, the descending quiet. Uneasiness settles within you. There’s comfort in disclosing worries to a friend, but yours still sits heavy on your shoulders. 

Cassie’s voice cuts through the quiet once more. Simple, but pointed. 

“If he apologized, would you forgive him?”

The answer comes to your head faster than you would have liked it to. 

“We’ll find out if we even cross that bridge.” You say, instead.

—

This is what he knows. 

The bad habit. 

He’s aware that it’s made a mess of things. It's the consequence of personal affinities for men like him—spoken with all of the self-deprecation able to be mustered. 

Distance. A learned vice; the pacifying defense when the live wire sizzles frenetically in the conclave of his soul. Nerve endings sparked like live wire, spine set aflame in the face of the trigger. Endless pacing in the hollows of his skin until it's worn down and made of nothing more than dried leather that even the thickest of balms fail to heal. When Jack feels exposed, he retreats into himself—or so Dr. Mott pathologizes. He finds shadows and hiding spots. Dark corners, beneath the rocks. Burrowing into depths until the strain of the sun feels less like a brand upon skin. He watches, waits, until the threat subsides. Then the war of attrition on himself begins.

It was fruitful in the military. Eighteen and enlisting because his father did it, and his father’s father did it; scared shitless but needing a way out. Shipped off to buttfuck nowhere where the heat licked the curve of his spine and the air of sweat and vomit became home. The easy detachment. An uncanny ability to triage whatever found itself bouncing around in the sharp corners of the rigid mind to push forward.

Run, keep running, cut, assess, run, learn a name, forget a name, see past the blood, ignore the smell—run, run, forget what the sight of exploded skin and bullet-addled bodies looks like, endure. Two tours of the same song and dance. Until he could no longer run. 

(He remembers it like yesterday. The weight of a medical bag strapped to his shoulder and the burn of dust in his eyes as he and his partner tried to get to the new kid in the unit downed by the spray of an ambush. He remembers the sound of the explosion then the launch of his body. Clouds of dirt filtered his vision but he could make out that the world was once vertical and now horizontal. 

He remembers the faraway realization that the blood staining the floor was his and the burning pulse of pain in his leg was more than what he could see.)

Like everything else, he endured. Packed shame and frustration and his prosthetic into the neat box of compartementalization and forged forward. Did it all on his lonesome because that’s who Jack is. He’s always been better by himself. Being depended on, being needed, is easy but the forging of oneself with another, the call to depend on someone else, he’s never been good at that. 

Even in his marriage two years after his discharge—tied body and soul to another until her inevitable death that Jack also packed into a neat box wrapped with a ribbon in her favorite color—he always found comfort, ease, in detaching. 

(It was the dogged, repeated fight. He pulled, she chased. Never-ending, never remedied; filed away for the fateful later. 

A harrowing loss when later never came.)

All of that—trauma, Dr. Mott continues to call it, ignoring the way Jack’s eyes twitch at that—is what he’s good at handling. He knows how to dig into the split seams of himself and stitch it back up. Can pry his fingers into the depths of the open wound of life and weave the skin back closed with makeshift thread until it's sturdy. Pat it dry, move on, detach. 

Endure. 

“That isn’t handling, Jack.” Dr. Mott says to Jack on Thursday. 

“Then what is it?”

“Coping.”

Jack scoffs. Shifts uneasily on the couch from across the man. “Sounds like the same damn thing.”

“Well it isn’t. One makes you feel better. The other makes the situation better.” Dr. Mott crosses his leg over his knee, staring a benign interest into Jack. His voice carries all the levity needed as though this were a meager conversation about baseball. “You avoid to make yourself feel better. Not to make this situation better.”

A dry chuckle escapes—there’s no humor in it. Knives shred his throat when he says, “What am I supposed to do then?”

Dr. Mott’s eyes gleam with an amusement that fills the man with an embarrassment that coats him like oil. He wants to sink into the depths of this cushioned sofa. 

“You could talk to her. Tell her what’s bothering you.” 

“I’m not bothered.”

The therapist raises an eyebrow. “So it shouldn’t be a problem resolving this, then. Hm?”

An angry pulse shoots through Jack’s nubbed leg. The idea of attempting to speak to you dredges up something untamed, erratic, personal within Jack. 

Shame, the same color as a fear of vulnerability rears its head. The thread holding the faded scars together frays with the inner turmoil. Unraveling at the shape and design of you. 

He doesn’t understand it (he does), can’t fathom how you could be his undoing (he can), there’s nothing special—nothing novel—about you to warrant this.

(There is, God, there is. 

Pages and pages on unvoiced thoughts that speak volumes of what he knows more than anyone else.) 

Fixing it, fixing this, is the acknowledgement of the open door that he’s been trying to close. He knows that if he discusses wants and feelings, you’ll be mixed into it inevitably, inextricably. Woven into the tethers of a tapestry not yet made, a quilt that he knows would easily fall in the image of you. 

The constant evasions are self-preservative. The fortifying of walls just as he feels them falter. This flagellation of himself is the safeguard against the disruption of everything. 

“Jack.” Dr. Mott breaks the whirlwind of Jack’s sudden sour tramplings. “What is it you dislike about this?”

Bile the same flavor as his past rises up his throat. A million thoughts rising to the surface. 

But instead, he says lamely, “She’s a kid.”

Dr. Mott stares unimpressed. Clearly unbelieving. “An adult capable of making decisions.”

“A subordinate.”

“About to be an attending, like you.” Jack’s eyes grow pointed and Dr. Mott shrugs, “Your words.”

“It’s… against the rules.”

Dr. Mott writes something on his notepad. Jack follows the pen, more bothered than usual at the mystery of his note. “Never pegged you as a man for the rules.”

“What do you want me to say?” Jack finally snaps. 

“Nothing you don’t want to.” The therapist pauses. He places his pen down with all of the weight of Jack’s fate. His hands fold on top of his notepad. “If you think there’s nothing here and you don’t want to pursue that, fine. Just say so. If there is something, you can say that too.”

Simple as the words may seem, they’re deafening. 

“What is it that you dislike, Jack?” Dr. Mott asks again. 

All of it. 

You walk by him these days and give him a curt nod. He returns it every time. Your paths barely cross for the next couple of hours until something brings him right back to you. Something always does and he’s never mad when it happens. Then the nights push forward in an axis clearly off its rotation. 

His eyes are fixed on you. Trailing after your figure when you aren’t looking, watching your movement from afar. He studies you now more than he ever did when you were near. Observes the course of your treatment on a patient, awaits for the gap, the sudden need, that he can step into—make himself needed. It doesn’t come often. 

Because you’re you—quick and confident and capable. Steady and measured, never needing him. Just—wanting him. 

It dredges everything miserable in him up. He hates it. He doesn’t know how to stop it. 

There’s a fear of stolen youth and the like. He’s not ancient, but there’s a gap. It’s odd, he knows what people will think. Even if the gap feels pointedly absent when he’s with you and he could give two shits about what anyone thinks—it’s there.

Then there’s the worry about who he is, how he is. Especially when you seem so pointed in being there, in anticipating needs before he even knows he needs it. That’s what started this all, wasn’t it? Your interest in him, your questioning of why he’s incapable of just accepting a good thing. Noticing the way that he operates, the way that he skirts wants and happiness because too much of that always brings the other end of the hammer. He’s not good at sitting in the light, he prefers the dark. And you, sunshine, eager to put the spotlight on him, eager to see him—you’ll get tired of him quickly. His wife, the saint that she was, did. 

And his wife—God, his wife. It's a betrayal of the highest form. Guilt eats at him in all directions, makes raw a man already fraying at the rope for even thinking about another woman when she’s six feet in the ground. She was a good thing, a wonderful one. Men like him don’t get lucky twice. And even if—if—he did, you would be stupid if you didn’t try to run the minute that door opened. You couldn’t possibly want all of what that entails. The guilt, the grief, the shrouding black cloud that hovers over him on her birthday, her death day, every Christmas. 

Then there’s the new guy. Young, more your speed. Would you even—could you even want battered goods when there’s something better for you?

He dislikes it all. 

So he’s trying to hold the feelings, tourniquet them at the root, stop the pulsing, pouring bleed. Detach, avoid. 

Endure. 

“What feelings?” Dr. Mott probes. 

Jack's eyes narrow. “Take a guess.”

“I need you to tell me.”

Interest. Kindredness. Similarity. Want.

Hope.

A door that’s been open, beckoning him forward. Taunting him into something. Into you.

“Are you fearful that you’re feeling something? Or that it has the potential to be reciprocated?”

Jack stays silent but the answer rings loudly.  

“Try, Jack. Take a step through the door. Give hope the chance to surprise you.”

—

He takes the man’s advice. 

Sunday, almost three weeks into the awkward, Jack decides to resume the routine. Tilt the axis upright through sheer force.

He’s at the ED early for his shift. Not necessarily for this attempt at reconciliation, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t factor in. He heads straight to the breakroom and finds your mug with ease. The one decorated with pastel flowers on the white surface, a chip in the mug’s handle. The one he’s been telling you to replace before it falls apart, the one you usually hold against your lips as you hide your smile from him.

He brews a fresh pot, pours the coffee into your mug, and douses it in cream and sugar the way you like it. 

He doesn’t have a plan. Give it to you, push a decent apology to the forefront, rekindle a friendship that may have been lost in the drought. Repent for the severity of his behavior. 

Not that he deserves it. But he’s leaning into it. Into the feelings. 

Blind to the knowing looks, Jack carries the mug towards the front of the ED. Discomfort is swallowed, breath still, as he walks into the hope.

Then, you come in. 

Through the ambulance bay doors, you step into the ED with that new resident, whatever his name is. A laugh is shared between the two of you, a melodious, reminiscent sound that dances in the air with the whir of the doors. Jack’s eyes fix on the curve of your smile, the line of your jaw. Studying the familiar sight of your laugh.

His eyes glance down. In your hands, you hold a carry-out drink, the logo of the coffee shop at the corner of the street. Daugherty holds a matching cup in his hand. 

Jack is on his heel before you can even notice him. Back in the breakroom, dumping the mug, washing it, and gently returning it to its rightful place. He gets on with the night like he’s always done, giving you the curt nod when you pass by. Dutifully ignoring the way his leg throbs. 

But not you. He continues his lonely watch of you from afar. Unable to turn it off even if he tried—and he’s tried. 

—

It follows him around like a haunting whisper. Unsurprisingly. Found in the peak of someone’s laugh, the squeak of wheels along linoleum tiles, the distant call for help. Heard in the space of beeps as the EKG monitors a patient’s heart rate, in his own head as he finds himself watching the sea of moving bodies on the floor.

Your name.  

It’s pitiful the way he’s attuned to it. Interest etching in the direction of wherever you are called, faint or otherwise. It makes getting over this obstacle—his feelings, pathetic and sour and invasive as they are—herculean. 

There’s reprieve in the weekly administrative meeting held on Wednesdays between the heads of the units, words he never thought would find themselves in the swirl of his thoughts. It’s a momentary distraction, away from the chaos of the night and into the granularity of administrative burdens that he could not care less about. But of course, it is so gratingly like you to flow in through the seams of the doors, the cracks of conversations, and take up space. Permeating like a rolling mist, swallowing his ankles, creeping up his spine. Intertwining, weaving, swallowing him.

You infiltrate rooms and conversations you aren’t even a part of. A curse to him.

Gloria stands at the head of the conference room speaking ad nauseam about procedural shifts and patient satisfaction scores. Data is displayed on the projector behind her, colorful graphs about the hospital’s ratings and processing times. Robby sits to Jack’s left, a decent albeit false construction of interest settled on his face. Jack’s is less careful, the internal distaste reflected in the scowl on his face. She begins a slow dissection of patient comments. Robby’s name pops up favorably a few times. Jack’s does as well. Langdon gets a ding for hasty movements making patients feel like an afterthought. Mohan is mentioned once. Ellis is, too. 

Then, Gloria clicks a button on her remote and switches to a slide displaying images of multiple comments side by side, filling up the entirety of the slide. Your name is mentioned in each of them. 

“Your fellow has many comments citing positive interactions, Dr. Abbot.” Gloria smiles. “This is the kind of feedback leadership likes to see.”

“She’s still new. Enough time to break her.” Robby teases. 

“If New York didn’t break her, I hardly doubt Pittsburgh will.” Gloria rebuts. 

A breath is exhaled, Jack fighting the urge to shake his head. It’s annoying to know that if you were in the room, the amount of vindication you would feel would have the room bursting in a prideful glow. Your smile wide as you would say the exact same damn thing. 

He sees it without having to imagine it too hard.

“Are you planning to offer?” Robby asks, curiously.

“When she completes and passes the boards, yes. We can’t afford to lose good talent. Especially not ones with these kinds of patient scores.” Gloria nods, “Do we have your stamp of approval, Robby?”

Robby shrugs, having worked with you enough times when you’ve graciously covered for day shift crew to have an answer quick on his tongue. “No objections here.”

Gloria smiles approvingly. She turns her gaze to Jack. “And you, Jack?”

Startled, Jack’s eyes draw up to Gloria’s expectant ones. His brows furrow. “What do you need my approval for?”

“You’re her direct overseeing attending. We will need to work it into the budget and provide justification for the salary. I have these comments to help with that, but I’d like to know if it’s worth it to advocate for her inclusion, in your opinion.”

It’s a stupid question.

His approval means nothing, realistically. Robby’s the Chief. His opinion holds weight on its own. Even more than that, your work stands out on its own, case in point. Whether he gives an affirmative or otherwise has no standing on whether the hospital will or will not pursue you. 

And, why wouldn’t they? You run circles around brilliance. Excellence is practically carved into your name. Despite his recent frigidity, there’s no question about the extent of his respect for your work. How smart you are. How capable you are. The dynamite that fuels your soul and the kindness that warms your heart that has old men like him watching you in awe. It makes his behavior these past two weeks all the more shameful. 

You’re worth more, deserve more, than a hospital filled to the brim with bodies yet vacant of souls willing to commit, no matter how much they want to. The same rotating field of injuries, and people who refuse to listen, and leadership that will always take you for granted. 

A hospital that will drag you down into the depths of an unyielding earth that screams for help but pushes good away because it simply doesn’t think it needs it, doesn’t know how to accept it.

A hospital that’s been through the same thing before and saw exactly how it ended. A hospital that hardly deserves a good thing anymore. 

(Selfish in its acknowledgement that despite it all, it still wants—craves, looks, finds you in the muck and the mire. Sees you everywhere and wants more—ignores you for the sanctity of his peace of mind lest things become personal.

This isn’t about a hospital, is it Jack?)

“Jack?” Gloria probes. 

Robby’s eyes find Jack’s, his gaze curious.

“Yeah.” Jack breathes, his voice lost somewhere in the wake of the magnitude and goodness of you that bites at his soul, shreds him apart. 

Wrecks all that he thought he hid safe in a tucked away corner with the door shut tightly.  

“She’s worth it.” 

—

An incoming four car pile-up has the majority of the night shift gathered in front of the nurses desk as he briefs the crew on Thursday night. He’s steady at the helm, relaying the details given to him to the team that stands watching. In various stages of dress as they all assume their positions. Assisting one another in tying dressing gowns and gloves. 

“We need eyes on everything.” He speaks to the crew, meeting each of their stares with a firm toll. “We move and touch as quick as we can. Communicate with each other so we can get the most urgent of repairs upstairs. Call if you need help. I’ll run point on our first two vehicles, Shen will run the last two.”

Shen throws a thumbs up from his place by the ambulance doors.

“Aside from us, you have a senior fellow and a resident.” Jack’s eyes fall on you and Ellis, addressing the two of you candidly from your place at the nurse’s desk. “Use them, they can help with the heavy where we can’t. And if they bite, pretend you like it. I’ll take complaints later.” 

A few chuckles ring out at that, your own lips tilting upward. He’s burned the sight of your smile into memory, practically sees it when his mind wanders too far. It pales in comparison to the real thing. 

He can’t tear his eyes away. 

The team disperses, scattering to prepare on their own. Ellis parts from you in search of a surgical gown. You move to follow, until you feel the burn of his weighty gaze. You turn and meet his stare curiously. He takes that as an affirmative of sorts, the sign to try again. 

Evening out his breath and steadying the frantic beat of a yearning heart, he meets you at the desk, standing on the other side and settling opposite of you. A shot of closeness after the withdrawal for so long. He hasn’t spoken to you, not directly, since the terse conversation in the examination room. It haunts the two of you, lying out in the open, waiting to be addressed.

“If there’s peds on any of these, I want you on it.” He says to you, low and testing.

You nod once in understanding, keeping your eyes fixed on your hands. Distant, but cordial. “Got it. Any reason?”

No. Not really. He shrugs, says, “I trust you with peds.”

“Heard.” You nod, simply.

The hum of the team fills the moment. He should take his leave, quit while he’s ahead and call this a job well done in the slow revival of a bond burned by his own bad behavior. He just… can’t. He can taste it on his tongue, the sweetness of you, your smile, your laugh. The promise of a rekindled honeyness is too tempting for him to ignore, so he plows on, stupidly. “I mean, if anyone needs anything, you know, help. But, I want any peds to be your priority.” 

Finally looking up to him you nod slowly, unconvinced. “Yeah. I got it.”

Jack nods, his mouth falling close. Waiting. Then it opens again, “It sounded like there was severe trauma on the radio. We need confirmation but if any parents are sound they’re going to be all over you. If you need anything—”

“Jac—” You interrupt him, brows furrowed, “Abbot. I know what to do.”

His sigh is bitter, then clears his throat. “Right.” 

Your stare is as curious as it is narrowed. You must see it in the way he stands out of his element. Hear the way that his tongue sounds swollen in his mouth as he attempts to chew words past the thick of it. Realization settles on your face. 

This is him trying. Lame and awkward, but it’s a way. His way. The only way he knows how. 

It’s frustrating how quick your resolve falters at the realization. Anger and contempt at his cold shoulder suddenly melting at the small offering of connection he gives you. You should stick to your morals, dish out what has been dished to you. But he looks at you softly, a quiet message sifting through the hazel that tries to reach you. A plea, an ask, a hope.

You give in, for no other reason than to beat out the pulse of a longing for the man you consider a friend. “If anything starts sliding, let me know. I’m an extra pair of hands.”

A small smile stretches, slowly. Slants on his face that compliments the ruggedness of his face. A familiar image. 

“I’ve got two.” He says.

“Could have four.” You shrug. 

He nods, lightly. “I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”

“Course.” You give. “Anything you need.”

It’s there. The faint pulse of tenderness and budding petals of a reunion. The bulge of an argument unresolved sits heavy, laden with the mantra of your care. The hopeful twine of your roots with his once more. His jaw pulses. Guilt eats him alive. Blood pounds loudly in his ears. The once beaten dead twinge of want finds its lifeline.

It tumbles out before he has any real thought about it. The words that have been hanging on the tip of his tongue falling without further preamble. 

“I’m sorry.”

You blink. Eyes wide and off guard. 

His voice lowers, not out of embarrassment or the potential for neighboring ears, but for aim. To speak directly, intently, to you. “I’ve been out of line. I was in my head and have been taking it out on you. It’s not fair, it’s not professional, and was definitely fuckin’ stupid of me. I know it doesn’t mean much or fix anything, but it won’t happen again.”

Your gaze bounces quickly between his averted one. “Abbot,” You breathe softly, understandingly. Rigidity melting off of you, “You don’t have to—”

“No I do. And you should know, I want you to know, that I—I don’t like to… need people. There’s too much bullshit. Too much—” His head tilts to the side, almost in pain. Quick movement on his hands shows that his thumb pushes at his wedding ring. You piece together quickly what he means. “You end up figuring out real quick what to do to just get shit done. You just do it. In and out, don’t think about anything or anyone. That’s what I’ve been doing for a while. The medicine. Just—focus on the medicine. Everything else is—it just doesn’t matter. It’s easy to do it alone and not need anyone.”

The low hum of the staff and floor seems to fade into silence behind you both. Drowned out in his vulnerability. Like much of everything when it comes to Abbot, your attention is caught only on him. “And then something comes in and forces you to slow down for a second—forces you to think about it. Think about everything.”

It doesn’t need a definition. You can surmise well enough what he’s talking about. Life. The great pantheon of it. The woes and heartbreak and the deep scar tissue that’s hidden beneath the black fabric of his scrubs and the armor of his farce. His eyes lift upwards, meeting yours. Raw and providential, Jack’s stare is the unraveling of the earthly desires. It unveils the shaky foundation, the depth in his fault lines.

“You made me think about it. Made me think about a lot of things.” 

“I’m sorry.” You say, genuinely. 

“No, it’s a good thing. I just don’t know how to stop looking a gift horse in the mouth.” He mutters and shakes his head, adamant. “I’ve been an asshole. This isn’t on you. I’m sorry I made you feel like it was. I’m sorry I messed all of this up.”

The smile that creases across his face is small. Humble and hardly reaches his eyes. A wryness stretching the smattering of his salt and pepper stubble at the realization of his hardness that has damaged more than he intended to. It tugs horrendously at the parts of you that you thought were brittle in ire. 

“You‘re a good thing.” He says, lowly. The white flag raises into the air, held deftly by his hand. The call for the ceasefire and the shattering of the ice that has been held so precariously between the two of you. 

“Jack,” A quiet sigh is exhaled from your mouth. Tongue and heart heavy with all that means to be said. Shock, mostly, and with no idea where to go.

Ambulance doors beat open then. Two gurneys falling in, one behind the other.

“Gotta go.” He defuses, turning on his heel. You follow behind closely, blending into the fray of the night alongside him. The emergency, the job, interrupts the moment. But it doesn’t feel ruined—not yet. Only paused. 

The door that’s been swinging on its hinges seems closer. Inched forward, this time by him. 

—

Night has turned to day. Adrenaline has run its course through you. Your walk back from the lockers is slow. Distracted. Mind and body torn into pieces from the amount of exhaustion that runs through you as you grab your things to close out the shift for the night. It’s divine intervention that you have the upcoming weekend off, both the Saturday and Sunday. 

As tempting as the upcoming reprieve is, it does nothing to settle the pulsing anticipation of this.

You know he wants to talk to you. It thrums in the air of an unseen pulse tethered from you to him. Barely there looks can hardly veil the desire to speak to one another. You desperately want to talk to him. A hundred questions, thoughts, wants, burning on your tongue. 

You’re a good thing.

It’s echoed through your thoughts like a heartbeat. Altered the course of your fate, settled the unnerved parts of you alight from the disconnect. 

Your slow trek has led you from the lockers to the fated elevator. 

Abbot stands in front of it, his arms crossed and head tilted downward in a studious gaze at the tile floor. You adjust your bag on your shoulder and clear your throat gently. Quickly, his head jolts up to find you. His face is tired, eyes mirroring the same dulled expression that you feel. But still, his features morph into a pleasant surprise, not expecting to see you again.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Anticipation sits heavy between you two. Heartbeats thundering on the tethered line of mutuality.

“Roof?” You ask. He nods, solemnly. You mirror the action. You shift on the balls of your feet, rocking gently. “Do you want some company?”

Jack gives a firm shake of his head. “Nah, you don’t have to do that.” 

It’s polite, you know that much. Can read that there’s no underlying need behind his expedition this time, more like routine. 

“I don’t mind.” You say. You hint.

Jack watches you for a moment. Hardly phased when the elevator doors ring of their arrival and open expectantly. He reads it loud and clear.

“Yeah. Please.”

The city spins, slow in its awakening. The sun lends warmth on your skin, a dewy taint from the novelty of night but soon it will crawl into the familiar lick from the boil of summer. The bubbling heat, the taste of sweat, the promise of kissed skin. 

You stand before the edge of the roof and watch the sun rise high into the sky and the heat push a fever in the air. Jack stands beside you, watching too. 

“I know you say it isn’t on me, but I know I was pushing you. And I shouldn’t have. Not when you’re you.” You say after a moment—five minutes of the silent surveillance of the world. After the inhale, the exhale, the swallowing of grief and anger. The acceptance of new. 

“Is that a compliment?”

You spare him a sideways look. “You’re not the easiest of books to read.”

He meets your gaze with a gentle one of his own. Humble and vulnerable. Amusement dwindled by his careful hand. “I know.”

“I’m just trying to be your friend.”

Jack nods slowly. “That so?”

“Key word, trying.” You gripe and he huffs, soft in amusement. 

“What for?”

“You don’t want me to be?”

“Didn’t know you were gunning for it.”

“Sorry, I thought my drunken monologue made that clear. I’ll be more explicit next time.” His smile slants, pushing the indents of his cheeks and the lines of his eyes further. A sigh leaves your mouth, burdened still with your doubt. “I was digging where I wasn’t supposed to. Boundaries are a good thing and I pushed you to open doors that you don’t owe to anyone. Not considering what you’ve been through. Especially not for me. I was wrong for that.”

“So was I.” Jack shrugs. “Doesn’t change what I said.”

“A good thing.” You repeat his words from before. They hang in the air with your skepticism. Your disbelief at his sincerity. Still caught in the intersection between believing this to be him placating you or burying a hatchet to make peace. “Do you… mean that?”

He stands, focused on the concrete of the floor as he digests. Chews your words, rolls the syllables around in his mouth, tastes how they feel. 

”Yeah.” He says, resolutely.

He figures that if there were any moment to acknowledge the open door swung open by your presence, it’s now. Standing beside you, only a polite space away because you both are hesitant as to the extent of reconciliation. Staring earnesty in its face as you watch him and he watches you and he only now finally lets all that he has shoved, and named, and shamed, and yearned for, finally be. He wants to say it. That you mean something to him, more than a pursuit of a friend but not quite where he wants you to be yet. Sitting in the sweet spot of the in between. Hopes that you want to be there, too.

“You can dig.” He says gently, after a moment. Quiet, but sure. Egged on entirely by the way your face remains frozen in shock as it did earlier. “If anyone can dig, it should be you.”

A gentle bell rings through the air, whistles the sweet serenade of an incoming change. Hazel eyes peer a remorse thick and lacquered into you. Glossy and shiny, novel and gripping. He takes a step through that door. Sincerity drips, practically bleeds, from his tone as he feels the warmth of a new path of comfort and connection he so strikingly kept himself deprived of, when he says—finally, finally—

“I want it to be you. Only you.”

a/n: hi friends. i present a behemoth to you. only onward and upwards from here ;)

[art-by-jas]

Pope's Back

[haztory]

to the anon that sent me their thoughts about jack and his kids— you are so fucking right and i swear im expanding on what you sent me, i just need it PERFECT

[milfsisyphus]

stop earning advanced degrees i need you to finish your fanfiction

[haztory]

THANK YOU MOMMA IRDA FOR SUCH A DELICIOUS CHAPTER!! 🙏

may your pillow always be cold

IM GLAD YOU LIKE IT!!!!!!! im always happy to feed my babies

[haztory]

shen is so real for dedicating i need a hero to abbot LMAO

FOR FUCKING REAL BROO like i know that man loves abbot and i know abbot loves shen

[haztory]

the tension and yearning in lonely fight was soooooo delicious i was giggling and kicking my feet the entire time reading. the parking lot convo at the end nearly killed me, them looking at each other's lips 🫠 and him shutting down and then spiraling at home whew! also i literally love mkgee so that connection was a treat! and lastly, just wanna sayyy that i think crystal clear by hayley williams could be an apt song for these two in the futureeee ... <3

PLEAAAAAAAAASE GIVE ME MORE SONG SUGGESTIONS FOR WRITING THIS IS SO HELPFUL

but omg i’m so glad you enjoyed the chapter!!! i hope it was well enough to further the plot while emphasizing where the two of them are in their relationship. i am a full truther in that jack sabotages good things and i LIIIIVE for the angst of it ehehehe