Happy 1K !!!
requesting to share secrets: (lmk if I did this wrong haha!)
but dad/uncle!jack abbot being a dad in AND out of the bedroom !!
him brushing reader’s teeth, cooking r’s breakfast as he’s just come back from work…
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, f!reader, implied age gap, casual dominance, dom / sub dynamics, use of dad / daddy, pet names.
at the end of the day, jack’s pride and joy is being a provider. whether that means buying whatever your little, sugar coated heart desires or babying you until you barely know what to do on your own.
preferably a fair mix of both.
it starts off with the little things. ordering your food for you when you go out to eat, holding your hand everywhere and having you cling to his arm so he can see you, making sure you’re eating and sleeping enough. and then it becomes giving you a bed time and a list of rules to follow when he’s at work, it becomes reminders to mind your manners and always ask him for help even if it feels silly.
he’s molding you into the perfect daddy’s girl, and you don’t seem to mind. especially when he leans down and ties your laces before you leave for the grocery store, adjusting your cute socks that peek over your sneakers. or when he stands behind you in the mirror, holds your toothbrush in front of your face and says “open wide, baby cakes— let me help ya.” he sees the way your lips purse, all bashful and sweet.
the first time her refers to himself as dad, your eyes glaze over. it’s the confirmation he needed, you’re into it as much as he is.
“such a good girl for dad, hm?” he murmurs, holding you in his lap as you melt against his chest and take in his warmth. you’re wearing one of his old hoodies and cotton shorts, exactly what he helped you into last night while getting you ready for bed. it’s still stupid early in the morning for you— he got home an hour or so ago, eager to see his baby all sleepy but still bright eyed just for him. you stare at him as he speaks, taking in the tenderness in his eyes and the way his lips move.
“i never have to worry about you. i always know you’re makin’ the right choices even when i’m not here.” he continues the praise, squeezing one of your bare thighs while you nod at his words because he’s right. you have yet to break a rule.
“you’ll get your reward later,” the edge to his voice tells you that whatever he has planned might be more than just a few extra kisses and touches. he ignores the needy sound you make and the way your lips part, already itching to ask what your reward is going to be and break him down until he gives it up.
“nuh-uh, quit whining. you know the drill— we need to get some breakfast in you first, little lady.”
synopsis – when meds start disappearing from the er and your best friend langdon becomes responsible for it, your name gets dragged down with his. and your boyfriend, jack, decides to take care of it before it reaches any higher.
c/w – drugs and mention of drug use !! medical inaccuracies !!
a/n - first time writing since last month so sorry if this sucks! also this is my first time writing for the pitt so again sorry if this sucks
angst
—can we talk?
you looked back over your shoulder, caught off guard by the tone more than the interruption itself. jack was behind you, standing there with his jaw tight, shoulders straightened, eyes fixed on you like whatever he had to say couldn't wait another second. mel noticed too. the shift in the air was immediate.
—uh... yeah, —you say slowly, studying him, —let us just finish this...
—now.
you blinked, thrown off, but jack didn't show a flicker of hesitation. if anything, he looked like he had already decided how this goes. mel was looking between you two, but your eyes were still locked on jack, trying to read him and find something familiar in his expression.
—i'm asking you as your superior.
the words hit harder than they should. not because of the authority but because he used it with you. you swallowed, trying to hide a reaction. you finally turned to mel, she was looking at you, just as confused as you were. you showed her a little smile, not your usual one, just enough to smooth things over and hit her with an i'll be back in a second.
—come with me, —jack said, and started walking leaving you behind. you gave mel one last glance, surprised by the fact that he didn't even wait for you. you did a little run to catch him.
—can you tell me what's going on?
jack ignored you and opened one if the er rooms, pushing the door open. he stepped aside to let you pass and, even though you hesitated, searching his face for anything, he still won't meet your eyes. jack followed immediately behind you and closed the door behind his back.
the room was empty, except for you and jack and all the medical supplies. but there was something else. a cart with a tray containing a couple of syringes, small labeled vials, and a jar for urination.
—sit, —jack said, pointing at the stretcher with his head.
you hesitated. you weren't liking his tone, much less the fact that he was ignoring you, —not until you tell me what all of this is about.
jack reached for the glove box and pulled two out. he slid one glove on,—your friend langdon left, —your eyes opened wide. without looking up, jack slid the other glove, flexing his fingers once, adjusting the latex, —well, he didn't actually left. robby kicked him. wanna know why?
—what do you mean kicked him? —you asked, a hint of panic slipping through.
jack looks at you for a second too long before answering.
—because your friend langdon has been stealing medsfrom the er.
you shook your head, —langdon wouldn't...
—but he did. and you were too close to him.
—what's that supposed to mean?
he didn't answer right away. jack walked past you toward the cart instead, checking for something on the tray, —it means that when i was hearing about it, your name kept coming up.
your stomach dropped, the accusation finally coming to the surface.
—you covered shifts together, shared patients, shared logins a couple of times. sit, —he said again.
—that's how we work here, everyone does it.
jack nodded, —i know.
—then why are you saying it like it means something?
his jaw tightened, —because robby thinks it means something.
you let out a short laugh, dry and bitter as you slowly nodded. of course it was robby. you could practically picture it. robby standing in front of jack, arms crossed, building patterns out of coincidence because he never liked things that escaped his control. or maybe he never liked this thing you and jack had going on. maybe robby never liked you.
—right, —you muttered, —of course he does.
—he found discrepancies tied to controlled meds. not one. multiple.
—and now he's tying me to it because i'm friends with langdon. yeah, this is perfect. he's been waiting for a reason to come after me since day one.
jack shook his head, —i just need to run some test on you and all of this would be forgotten.
a wave of anger rose fast, you thought this was only about langdon stealing drugs and you helping him, but this took a completely different way, —you think i'm using?
his head moved to look at you, —no.
—but you need to test me.
—if robby pushes this higher, they're are going to...
—that's not whay i asked.
jack exhaled, jaw clenching, —i don't want to believe that, but...
you stepped back from him, shaking your head slowly, a soft wow was the only thing you could let out. jack rubbed his face out of frustration, mumbling a come on, don't do this. you huffed a laugh in response.
suddenly you started replying every interaction from the past days that could've make him doubt about you. the coffee you spilled because your hands shook slightly, the way you snapped at santos for repeating a question. it all felt human but now they looked like evidences.
—it won't take long, baby, and then all of this would be cleared out.
you scrunched your face when jack hit you with the baby. the sudden tenderness felt wrong, —don't call me that right now. not when you're accusing me of being an addict.
jack shook his head again, —please, —he said, —just sit down.
you stood for another second, staring at him. part of you wanted to walk out even though it would make you look guilty. the other part of you wanted to scream at him how unforgivable this felt. instead, you just reached for the sleeve of your scrub top as you shoved it up your arm. then you sat on the edge of the stretcher, refusing to look at him as you exposed the inside of your arm.
jack moved toward you and grabbed your arm gently, his fingers stretching the skin where your forearm met your upper arm, angling your arm toward the light as he looked carefully along the inside of it. looking for puncture marks. he was physically checking your body for signs of drug use. he who knew every inch of you, now examining your skin for evidences. your face scrunched again, now trying not to cry.
his eyes lifted to your face, —hey, —jack said quietly.
you looked away, —don't. let's finish with this, please.
jack nodded. he released your arm and moved to the other one, his thumb paused near the inside of your elbow. nothing. of course nothing. you swallowed, blinking fast as your vision began to blur. jack noticed and let your arm go. no marks, he murmured, professionally, more to himself than to you. you noticed a hint of relief there.
he stepped back toward the tray. you pulled down one of his sleeves while he took his time opening the blood draw supplies. when he came back to you with the needle and an alcohol swab, he paused before touching you again.
—left arm okay?
you nodded once without looking at him.
jack cleaned the inside of your arm, trying to be comforting, yet he no longer knew what would help the situation and what would make it worse. he tied the tourniquet around your arm and tapped gently along your vein.
—small pinch, —he murmured.
you almost laughed. those words pulled a memory too quickly. late nights during your residency when jack started letting you practice blood draws on him after you missed the vein twice on a trauma patient and looked so horrified. after that you nearly convinced yourself you weren't made for emergency medicine until jack found you hiding in an empty supply room. he walked in, dropped into a chair and rolled up his sleeve. alright, vampire, redeem yourself.
you winced when jack pushed the needle in.
the positioning was almost identical, but reversed. now you were the one with your arm exposed while he stood between your knees. you remembered the way he used to look at you during those nights, the way you fell in love with him, and now his eyes kept moving between the vial filling with your blood and your face, trying to hold together two completely different versions of you.
he slid the needle out, immediately pressing a gauze against the inside of your arm.
—i need you to... —he coughed, taking the small container, —i need a urine sample too. there's a bathroom connected through that door, —jack explained.
the blood draw had already felt like being stabbed. this was twisting the knife. it felt even more humiliating, more invasive. your face went still, no expression while the pain turned into anger.
jack saw it happen in real time.
—you don't... —he started.
—yeah, i know where the bathroom is, —you cut, —i work here, thank you.
you took the container form his hand and walked pass him, stepping into the small bathroom attached to the room. you shut the door harder than necessary and leaned against the counter. you stared at your reflection, but the only thing you could pay attention to was the bandage peaking out of your scrub sleeve and what it meant.
when you were done, you walked out. jack looked up immediately when he heard the door but this time, he wasn't alone.
robby was there, standing near the door with his arms crossed. his eyes dropped to the cup in your hand and then moved back to your face, humiliation crashing over you once again, this time so hard you almost dropped the container.
—the'll run a quick toxicology test on both, the blood and the urine... it should be done in couple of minutes.
—what is he doing here? —you asked.
—we found langdon's meds in his locker, —robby explained, —and you know how this works.
—no, —you shot back, —i know how you work.
—then you should know this stopped being personal the moment narcotics started disappearing.
—yeah, —a dry laugh escaped your mouth, —it's not like you've been on my ass since my first day.
robby laughed the same way you did, taking a step toward you. he was about to say something, probably a comment with that soft tone he liked to use when he wanted his words to cut as deep as possible without ever raising his voice, but jack intervened just in time.
—while we wait for the results, robby wants to see your locker, —jack said quickly, as if saying fast would make it less intrusive.
—my locker, —you repeated in disbelief.
—as i was telling you, langdon had narcotics stored in his. we're checking anyone directly connected to him, —robby continued.
—anyone? or just me?
—we do this and it ends here, —jack said to you but looking at robby.
yeah, it definitely ends here, you thought.
robby stepped to aside and walked behind you.
jack arrived later and by then, all your stuff was spread across the floor. your notebooks, your bag, some protein bars, your pair of spare sneakers, pens and receipts everywhere. even the picture you had hanging on the door had fallen during the search, the one after a thirty hour shift with you and jack outside the ambulance. he had one of his arms thrown around your shoulders, kissing your temple while you held up a coffee toward the camera like a survival trophy.
—she's clean, —jack announced, waving the toxicology report to robby, —blood and urine, everything came back negative.
robby took the paper from jack without speaking at first, scanning the results. your eyes lifted and met jack's. he was already looking at you. he was looking at you like he'd always trust you, there was no doubt in his expression now. but it didn't matter, because he'd needed to see those results. the realization hit harder than the locker search, than the blood draw and the humiliation of sitting on that stretched while the man you loved checked your arms for signs of addiction: jack didn't trust you. at least not enough to defend you when you were being pointed at as a drug addict.
robby lowered the report and nodded, —okay, that's what we needed.
—what's gonna happen to langdon?
robby exhaled, he hadn't really thought about it, should he report him? should he give him another chance? —he went home for now, after that... i don't know.
you nodded. robby pressed his lips together and left, smacking the paper against jack's chest. congratulations, your girlfriend's not a junkie. you stared at the floor before kneeling down to start gathering your things. your notebook first, then the pens scattered beneath the bench, the crushed protein bars and the receipts near your sneakers.
jack stepped forward but you mumbled an i don't need your fucking help, and he stopped on his track. jack watched you pick up everything and shoved it into your locker, careless, as if you wanted this done as soon as possible. you picked everything except one thing. you didn't miss it, you left it exactly where it had fallen.
he remembered the shift, the sunrise, the way you'd laughed when he kissed your temple because as dana took the photo, she kept threatening to report both of you for disgusting resident behavior.
you closed the locker, harder than necessary, and walked past jack.
he called your name, alongside with a baby. jack followed you down the hallway. the er buzzed around you the second you pushed through the doors again and you felt completely detached from it. people looked at you, maybe because your eyes were red, maybe because they already noticed langdon's absence and they were asking to themselves if you knew something about it.
you kept walking, straight to the nurses' station. dana looked up the moment she saw you, her entire expression changing.
—what can i... where can i help?
dana pushed her chair back and stood up, —what happened to you?
your face crumpled before you could stop it.
—oh, sweeheart...
her arms wrapped around you before you even realized you were crying, pulling you tightly against her, one hand pressing protectively against the back of your head while the other one rubbed up and down your back. jack approached from behind, eyes fixed on you, and dana understood immediately that this had something to do with him. she lifted one hand from your back and waved it to him. leave. jack looked like he wanted to argue with her, then dana's expression hardened even more and someone yelled dr. abbot, trauma 2.
you hid your face against dana because you just remembered when it first started.
you were looking at the patient board with langdon, knowing you'd both have to stay after hours. we should do drugs, he joked. it'd definitely make this easier, you answered. that day you laughed it off, it was just dark er humor, but a few days later, langdon brought it up again.
you remembered the first time langdon actually offered you something.
you'd both been sitting in the break room. langdon watched you curse under your breath before reaching into his pocket.
—here, —he said, sliding half a pill across the table.
—what is that?
—it'll keep you awake.
you should've said no immediately but instead you just played with it, too exhausted to think about consequences beyond making it through the next few hours.
—you actually take this?
—sometimes.
and langdon looked functional. he charted faster than anyone, worked better in trauma than any other resident, joked around with nurses like nothing was wrong... so you took it, and the worst part was that it worked, and after that, saying yes became easier.
you would spot him by his locker and feel something in your chest loosen with relief because most of the times he'd already have something waiting. a pill to tuck into the pocket of your scrub, a quick you want half? mumbled under his breath... then he started showing up with different pills, sometimes crushed, sometimes asking if you needed something stronger because you looked exhausted.
and living with jack make things difficult because he was one of the best doctors you'd ever met. observant in ways most people weren't, the kind of physician that could diagnose from tiny details everyone else overlooked.
so you knew that if you weren't careful, he'd started to notice things.
you thanked he usually wasn't around at three in the morning because he'd have seen you pacing around the apartment because your brain refused to slow down after your shift ended, would've seen the way when you'd disappear into the bathroom after another nosebleed.
—you should just inject it, —frank suggested. you were both in his car, he was driving you home. you had your tilted forward with a tissue pressed beneath your nose.
—what?
—it'll stop wrecking your nose.
but you couldn't risk it, not when jack knew your body the way he did.
his lips were familiar with the inside of your thighs and the side of your neck, he'd draw little patterns on the inside of your arm while you both watched a movie on the couch, hold your hand whenever he could... every major vein zone of your body, jack knew it intimately. one track mark and it would all collapse. it was positive in some way, because you stayed away from needles and you could tell yourself that things weren't that bad.
as your tears soaked dana's scrubs, all you could think about was what could've happened if you hadn't almost given a patient the wrong dosage four days ago.
langdon reacted fast, grabbing your wrist at the last second, but he looked terrified and you did too. after that, he decided you needed a break. he'd close his locker whenever you were around, he stopped offering you... and you were furious at langdon because your body noticed the absence. the exhaustion came back all at once, you spilled your coffee because your hands shook , you snapped at santos for repeating a question... all of that because you couldn't bear it.
if none of that had happened, the toxicology exam would've come back positive. the thought of it sat in your chest while dana held you together in the middle of the er and you couldn't stop replaying the way jack had looked at you after the results came back, relieved, guilty for ever questioning you in the first place.
and jack stood there hating himself for suspecting you while the truth had only missed him by four days.
summary : frank knows exactly what buttons to push to irk you- the downside is, he also has the one remedy to your anger, but what is he supposed to do- when it doesn't work ?
warnings : none, just angst, swearing, insane amount of fluff
word count: 8.2 k
a/n - as usual not proofread ! based on this request !
Morning is- usually- your favorite time of day.
You're usually the one with a pep in your step, eager to seize the day, chatting Frank's ears off as he sips his coffee, determined to give you all his attention while actively pretending he barely got any sleep. But today ? Today your body feels like it's already given up before your mind even had any time to wake up. You know that the second you get out of bed, you'll have to go to work. And going to work means seeing stupid Louis and his shit-eating grin whenever you mess up. The way he wiggles his eyebrows and the way he whispers how much you suck under his breath as Landman prioritises him over you when giving out cases because he's a man.
I mean, you went to law school- you've always been considered less than because you're a woman- and that's never bothered you before because you've always just been focused on your own goals to care about what people think about you. But Louis just... gets to you.
It seems waking up today is harder than anything else, especially when the huge man next to you is pretending to be a weighted blanket.
Frank’s arm is thrown over your waist like a steel beam, heavy and warm, his face buried into the back of your neck. You squint at the dim light peeking through the curtains and groan quietly.
“Frank.” A sleepy hum vibrates against your skin. “You’re crushing me.”
“No m’not,” he mumbles immediately, voice rough with sleep. “You’re dramatic in the mornings.” You pry one eye open.
“I will bite you.” That finally gets a laugh out of him. Low. Annoyingly amused. Instead of moving, he tightens his grip.
"Don't tease me with a good time." He rumbles, pulling you tighter against him, his lips trailing over your neck. You shiver, closing your eyes.
Usually that would’ve been enough to melt you completely. Usually Frank only had to kiss your neck once before you were rolling over with a grin, already halfway through some rambling story about a dream you had or a case you read three weeks ago that suddenly reminded you of something else entirely Usually the mornings belonged to you You were the noise in the apartment. The constant motion. The chatter bouncing from topic to topic while Frank blinked awake slowly beside you, pretending he wasn’t listening to every word.
But today your body feels heavy.
Still. Wrong.
Frank notices almost immediately.
His lips pause against your neck.
“Baby? You crack one eye open.
“Don’t start.”
“…Start what?”
“Talking.” A beat of silence. Then,
“That’s usually your thing.”
“I’m on strike.” He huffs out a laugh against your skin, but it softens quickly when you don’t react much. You finally wriggle enough to escape his grip, immediately missing the warmth but too irritated to admit it. The second your feet hit the floor, reality crashes back into you.
Work.
Louis.
Landman.
The stupid office.
Your shoulders tense automatically. Behind you, the mattress creaks.
“You okay?” Frank asks, voice rougher now.
“Yep.” You head toward the bathroom before he can ask anything else. Normally you’d already be halfway through six conversations by now. Complaining about coffee brands, talking about a weird article you read at midnight, jumping topics so fast Frank could barely keep up.
Now the apartment is quiet except for drawers opening and closing.
Frank does not like that. At all. By the time you make it downstairs, he’s already leaning against the kitchen counter watching you carefully over the rim of his coffee mug. You ignore him and move straight for the coffee maker.
“So,” he starts casually, “what’s got you glaring at appliances this morning?”
“Nothing.”
“Mhm.”
“It’s too early for commentary, Frank.”
“You know,” he says, following after you anyway, “most people say good morning first.”
“Most people aren’t employed by Satan’s law firm.” That earns a snort out of him.
“There she is.” You shoot him a look over your shoulder.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Try to cheer me up. It's not going to work.”
“I’m not cheerful. I’m charming.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Ouch.” You roll your eyes, stirring some milk and sugar into your coffee, not once looking up at Frank. His heart gives a sad tug, and he frowns, staring at the tension in your back. No matter how bad your day is going to be- because you always knew somehow- you were always chirpy and happy. Even when you knew that Louis was going to bother you, which you never mentioned to Frank but he knew - of course he knew- you were always bouncing around him, kissing his face, grabbing his hands and planting them at your waist because you physically couldn't bare to not be touching him.
And now you're standing six feet away, your breathing already heavy with irritation.
Frank watches you carefully over the rim of his mug. That alone is strange.
Usually mornings with you are chaos in the best way possible. You never stood still for longer than thirty seconds. You’d bounce around the apartment barefoot and half-awake, rambling from one topic to another before the coffee even finished brewing. One minute you’d be complaining about a judge from three years ago, the next you’d be talking about raccoons or asking him completely insane hypothetical questions while climbing into his lap. You were all warmth and movement and noise.
And now? You won’t even look at him. Frank lowers his coffee slowly.
“Well,” he says after a beat, “this is deeply unsettling.” You ignore him completely, spoon clinking against your mug as you stir in sugar. “No random facts this morning?” he continues. “No aggressively detailed story about a dream you barely remember?” Silence. “No threats against capitalism?” You grab your mug and brush past him toward the living room. Frank turns immediately to follow, trialing behind you like a child who's begging for candy. “You know,” he says conversationally behind you, “most people would consider this emotional neglect.” You drop onto the couch with a tired sigh.
“Frank.”
“What?”
“I am begging you to stop talking.”
“You’re begging dramatically. That’s improvement.” You glare at him. Frank grins and drops onto the couch beside you. Too close. His thigh presses against yours instantly, broad and warm. You scoot away without hesitation. He scoots closer. Your eye twitches.
“Frank.”
“Hm?”
“You are one more comment away from becoming a missing person.”
“Ooh. Baby's felin' violent today.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I. You’re scary.” You shoot him a flat look over your coffee. Usually this kind of teasing would’ve gotten you talking again immediately. Usually you’d already be climbing over him to smother his face with kisses while calling him annoying. But today every word feels like sandpaper against your skull. Frank notices.
Of course he does.
Still, instead of backing off like a reasonable person, he doubles down.
“So,” he says, nudging your knee with his, “which coworker are we fantasizing about killing today, mama ?” You exhale slowly through your nose.
“Louis.”
“Ah. Eyebrow guy.”
“The fact you call him that is not helping.” You roll your eyes and stand abruptly, carrying your mug back toward the kitchen. Frank follows immediately. The floor creaks heavily beneath his footsteps as he trails after you like an overgrown dog.
“Where are we going now?”
“We aren’t going anywhere,” you mutter. “I’m getting more coffee.”
“You’ve had three sips.”
“Andi just realised I need more because my usually stoic boyfriend is being an insufferable Chatty Cathy. ”
“Ouch." You slam the mug down beside the coffee pot harder than necessary. The sharp sound echoes through the kitchen. Frank leans against the counter beside you, arms folded loosely across his chest now, watching you move around with narrowed eyes. His teasing smile fades just slightly.
“You really okay?” he asks quietly. You busy yourself pouring coffee you don’t even really want.
“I’m fine.”
“That was the most fake sentence I’ve ever heard.” You sigh hard through your nose. Frank walks closer to you, looping his arms around your middle as he kisses his way up your neck. Warm. Slow. Deliberate. Usually that alone would’ve dissolved every bad mood instantly. Today it just makes your shoulders tense harder. Frank notices immediately. Still, the bastard keeps going.
“Mmm,” he hums against your skin, tightening his hold when you try to squirm away. “There’s my pretty girl.”
“Frank.”
“You smell good.”
“It’s body wash.”
“Still counts.” His nose nudges beneath your ear before he presses another kiss there, rough morning stubble scraping your skin just enough to make you shiver irritably. He catches that too. A smug smile ghosts against your neck.
“Oh, so we do still like me.” You try elbowing him lightly.
“I am actively trying not to.”
“Not working very well, mama.”
“I hate when you call me that before eight a.m.”
“That sounds like a challenge.” You groan quietly, setting your coffee spoon down harder than necessary. Frank only tightens his arms around your waist, swaying you slightly side to side where you stand between him and the counter. Like you’re dancing. Like you’re not one wrong sentence away from snapping at him again.
“You’re grumpy,” he murmurs.
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re cute when you’re mean to me.”
“Frank.” He laughs softly against your shoulder, completely unbothered. The sound rumbles through his chest into your back.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, kissing just below your jaw, “normally by now you’ve kissed me at least four times.”
“Tragic.”
“And called me handsome.”
“You’re surviving somehow.”
“And climbed on me while I made coffee.”
“That sounds unsafe.”
“Mhm. Still miss it though.” You close your eyes briefly. That little sad note in his voice almost gets you. Almost. Then he ruins it by squeezing your waist and dramatically sighing into your neck.
“My baby hates me.” Your jaw tightens.
“Frank.”
“She won’t talk to me.”
“Frank.”
“She won’t kiss me.” You shove back against his chest enough to turn in his arms, glaring up at him.
“You are being so unbelievably irritating on purpose.” Frank looks down at you with entirely too much amusement for someone currently in danger.
“I’m trying to cheer you up.”
“By acting like a middle schooler?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says, reaching up to smooth a thumb over the wrinkle between your brows, “you’re still obsessed with me.” You swat his hand away instantly. He grins. “You know what your problem is?” he continues casually.
“That I’m dating you?”
“Ouch.” He clutches his chest dramatically. “No, your problem is you’re too in your head.”
“My problem,” you mutter, turning back toward the coffee machine, “is that a six-foot-two man keeps talking directly into my ear before I’ve even had caffeine.”
“Six-three.”
“That’s not better.”
“It’s impressive though.” You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. Frank watches you pour more coffee you absolutely do not need, then rests his chin on your shoulder from behind.
“You wanna stay home with me instead?”
“No.”
“I’ll make pancakes.”
“You can’t make pancakes.”
“I can absolutely make pancakes.”
“You almost started a grease fire making eggs.”
“That pan was defective.” You snort despite yourself. Frank immediately perks up behind you.
“There she is.”
“Do not celebrate.” Too late. He’s already smiling against your shoulder like he personally dragged the sun back into the sky.
“You laughed at my suffering.”
“I laughed at your stupidity.”
“Still counts.” You try to step away again. Frank follows immediately. You move left. So does he. You spin around with a sharp glare.
“Why are you attached to me like a lost toddler today?” His expression softens for just a second beneath all the teasing.
“Because you’re sad.” The simple honesty of it knocks some air from your lungs. Your irritation flickers. Frank sees it happen in real time. Which means, naturally, he ruins it.
“Aaaaand because you’re extra cute when you’re angry.”
“Oh my god.” He grins lazily, leaning down until his forehead bumps yours.
“You gonna survive the big scary law office today?” You narrow your eyes.
“You’re about two seconds away from me filing for divorce and we aren’t even married.”
“Damn,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “Cold world.”
“You deserve it.” Then, because apparently peace was never an option, he reaches over and pokes your cheek. You freeze. Slowly turn your head.
“…Did you just poke me?”
“I'm checking you're real- because you're not acting like yourself.” You stare at him in disbelief.
“Frank.”
“What?”
“I am genuinely hanging on by a thread.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
“Because you get all weird and stuck in your head when you’re upset.”
“And?”
“And I don’t like it.” The honesty of that should soften you. Unfortunately he ruins it immediately after. “You’re usually bouncing off walls by now. It’s creepy.” Your expression hardens instantly. Frank realizes his mistake about half a second too late.
“Oh,” he mutters. You laugh once under your breath. Not happy. “Wow.”
“What ? What did i say wrong ?” He mutters, frowning as he watches you dump your newly poured coffee down the sink and turn away from him, ready to walk down. “Right.” You run your fingers through your messy hair, shaking your head as you turn to leave- and Frank's hand settles on your arm.
“Baby—” He rasps, a frown forming between his eyebrows,
“No, it’s fine.” You shrug out of his grasp, scoffing. “Sorry I’m not entertaining enough today.” His brows pull together immediately. “
Jesus Christ, that’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you implied.”
“I implied you’re quiet!”
“Which apparently bothers you enough to keep poking at me nonstop.”
“Because every time I ask what’s wrong, you shut me down!”
“Because I don’t wanna talk!”
“Baby, i'm just worried !You never shut up in the mornings!” The second it leaves his mouth, silence drops hard between you.
Heavy.
Frank’s face shifts immediately into regret. Your chest twists painfully. You stare at him for a long second before stepping back like he physically shoved you.
“Wow,” you say quietly.
“Baby - ”
“No, seriously. Good to know. My long-term boyfriend thinks im an annoying chatterbox.”
“That is not what I meant and you know it.” You move past him, scratching at your forehead as you bite the inside of your cheek, shaking your head as you head for the stairs.
“I’m late for work. I should go get dressed." You hum, sighing shakily, Frank pushes off the counter instantly.
“Hey, c’mon.”
“No.”
“You’re twisting this.”
“And you’re being an asshole.” His expression flashes with irritation now too.
“I’m trying to make you feel better.”
“Well congratulations. You failed.” The words hit harder than you intend. Frank’s jaw tightens.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Go to work pissed off then.” You blink at him. For a second the apartment goes completely still. Then you let out a short laugh full of disbelief and hurt.
“Unbelievable.” You turn towards the stairs, storming upstairs chest heaving. You can hear Frank's footsteps thundering behind you - no doubt following you, but you slam the bedroom door closed and lock it before he can enter. You hear him hover by the door before he decides you're not going to open it whatever he does, and you hear him retreat down the stairs again.
The silence that follows feels awful. Not peaceful. Just awful. You stand there in the middle of the bedroom breathing hard, staring at your reflection in the mirror across the room. Your hair’s a mess. Your eyes look tired. Your chest still feels tight and hot with irritation. And underneath all of it sits guilt. Because you know Frank didn’t mean it like that.
But god. It still hurt.
You scrub both hands over your face with a groan before moving around the room to get dressed. Every motion feels sharper than usual—drawer opening too hard, hangers scraping too loud, closet doors shutting with too much force. Downstairs, the apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Usually Frank would still be following you around by now, shamelessly invading your space while you got ready. Sitting on the bathroom counter while you did your makeup. Tugging you into his lap while you tried to put your shoes on. Now there’s nothing. That almost irritates you more. By the time you finish dressing, your anger has curdled into something heavier. Exhaustion. Embarrassment. Regret. You grab your bag and unlock the bedroom door. The second you step into the hallway downstairs, you find Frank exactly where you expected. Leaning against the kitchen counter.
Waiting. His arms are folded across his chest, expression carefully neutral, but the second he sees you his eyes flick up immediately. For once, he doesn’t tease.
Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t make some smartass comment. You move around him quietly to grab your keys from the counter.
Frank watches you the entire time. The tension between your shoulder blades tightens.
Finally, softly—
“Baby.” You close your eyes briefly.
“What?”
“I didn’t mean that.” You let out a quiet breath through your nose.
“I know.” His jaw shifts slightly like he wasn’t expecting you to answer that honestly. “But you still said it,” you add quietly. Frank’s expression pinches.
“I know.” Silence stretches again. Then, because apparently neither of you knows how to stop picking at bruises, he mutters, “You know I love hearing you talk.” You snort humorlessly while shoving your laptop into your bag.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“C’mon.”
“No, seriously.” You finally look at him properly. “You made it sound like I’m annoying.” Frank pushes off the counter instantly.
“You are annoying.” You stare at him flatly. He points toward you immediately.
“See? That face right there. That’s why I should think before I speak.”
“Frank.”
“I’m serious.” He runs a hand down his face tiredly. “Baby, I love that you talk. I love that you bounce around like your brain’s got fifteen tabs open all the time.” His mouth twitches faintly. “I know more about nineteenth-century shipwrecks than any sane man should because of you.” You roll your eyes, shaking your head. He follows close behind while you head toward the front door.
“C’mon,” he says, reaching for your waist automatically. “Don’t go to work mad at me.”
“You told me to.”
“I was being dramatic.”
“You told me to go to work pissed off.”
“You were pissed off.”
“I’m still pissed off.”
“Yeah, but now I’m involved.” You shove his hand away weakly when he tries pulling you closer. You turn for the door before he can say anything else. Your heartbeat pounds loud in your ears while you shove your shoes on aggressively near the entryway. Behind you, Frank exhales heavily. The irritation drains from him almost immediately.
“Baby.” You ignore him. “Hey.” Large warm fingers wrap around your wrist before you can reach the doorknob. You finally turn around. And there it is. Frank has the kind of face that was probably dangerous long before he realized it. Big body. Rough edges. Crooked nose that’s been broken at least once. Permanent stubble shadowing his jaw. The sort of man people move out of the way for without thinking twice. And then he looks at you.
That’s the problem. Because Frank’s eyes completely betray the rest of him. They’re warm brown, dark around the edges and soft in the center, framed by stupidly thick lashes that make no sense on a man built like him. Usually they’re heavy-lidded with amusement, always carrying that lazy little spark like he’s privately entertained by everything you do.
But when he wants something? God. His whole face changes. His eyebrows pull upward just slightly - not exaggerated enough to look fake, just enough to make him seem unfairly earnest. His mouth softens at the corners, lips parting the tiniest bit like he’s about to say something sweet. And his eyes get so open and warm and impossibly gentle that it physically hurts to stay annoyed at him. It’s worse because half the time he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Frank naturally looks at you like you’re something precious. Like he’s hopeful every time you glance his way. Like your attention is still his favorite thing in the world. And when he’s apologizing - or pretending to apologize, which is somehow even more dangerous- he tilts his head slightly and looks at you from under those lashes with this quiet, wounded softness that usually melts you instantly. Usually you cave within seconds.Usually you’re already grabbing his face and muttering,
“You’re so annoying,” while kissing him anyway. Because the contrast is unbearable. A man who looks like Frank Castle should not have eyes that sweet. Should not look at you like an oversized rescue dog desperate to be let back onto the couch after chewing a pillow apart. And the worst part? He knows exactly what those eyes do to you.
Not consciously at first. But over time he learned. Learned that one soft look could pull you out of almost any mood. Learned that if he wrapped those giant arms around your waist and gave you that quiet little pout, you’d start smiling no matter how hard you tried not to.
Complete bullshit.
“Baby, I’m sorry.” He hums. You narrow your eyes instantly because you can literally see him trying not to smile.
“You don’t mean that at all.”
“I do.”
“You are actively amused right now.” His mouth twitches. “Frank.”
“What? I’m apologizing.”
“You’re mocking me while apologizing.”
“I can multitask.” You yank your hand free with a sharp glare. Usually this is where you’d kiss him anyway. Even after arguments. Especially after arguments. You’d grab his face dramatically and complain into his mouth while he laughed against your lips. But right now your chest still aches with humiliation and exhaustion and anger. And Frank is still looking at you like this is somehow cute. You back towards the door, shaking your head in disbelief. Frank shakes his head, grinning.
"Sweetheart, c'mon. I am sorry." He says. You open the door without another word. Frank walks forward, and leans against the door frame with his arm up, looking down at you. His hand reaches out to grab your waist, to pull you froward to kiss you goodbye.
You always kiss him goodbye.
You step away from him, and start to close the door. Frank’s smile falters instantly.
“Wait - baby - ” The door shuts before he can finish.
Not slammed. Just closed. Which somehow feels worse. For a second Frank just stands there in the hallway staring at the wood in front of him, one hand still braced against the frame where your waist had been a second ago. The apartment is suddenly too quiet.
No quick little goodbye. No absentminded kiss pressed to his jaw while you muttered about traffic. No fingers curling into the front of his shirt while you stole “one more” kiss before leaving.
Nothing.
Frank exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening as he straightens.
“…Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. Because that actually hurt. More than he expected it to. You always kiss him goodbye.
Always. Even after arguments. Especially after arguments - but you always kissed him. And now all he can picture is the look on your face when he said you never shut up in the mornings.
Christ.
Frank drags a hand over his mouth, already regretting half the shit that came out of it. He didn’t mean it like that.
He just -He hated seeing you so closed off.
Hated seeing you hurting and not knowing how to fix it. And somehow he’d turned it into this instead. Outside, you lean back against the apartment door for a second after it closes. Your chest aches. You hate this. You hate leaving angry. You hate that Frank managed to make you laugh twice this morning despite everything. You hate that his stupid puppy eyes almost worked again. And you especially hate that the last thing you saw before closing the door was the exact moment his expression stopped being playful. Because he looked genuinely thrown. Like he really didn’t expect you to leave without kissing him.
Your fingers tighten around your keys. Part of you wants to turn around already. March back upstairs. Grab his stupid face. Tell him he’s irritating and kiss him anyway. But then you remember Louis. Remember the exhaustion sitting in your bones before you even opened your eyes this morning. Remember Frank laughing while you were trying not to fall apart. So instead, you push away from the door and head toward your car.
---------
You're shaking by the time you stumble out of your office. Your shoulders are shaking as you try to keep desperate little sobs at bay, shaking your head. Your hands are trembling as you fumble with your car keys, swearing under your breath as you drop them on the sidewalk.
The bustling streets of Hell's Kitchen seem fuller that usual, and people throw you pitying glances as they walk by.
God, today couldn't have gone worse.
It started bad and somehow kept finding new ways to humiliate you.
Louis had spent the entire morning hovering around your desk with that smug little smirk carved into his face, making snide comments just quiet enough that nobody else could hear them clearly.
“Careful,” he’d murmured when you dropped a file folder after your third straight hour without a break. “Wouldn’t wanna prove everybody right.” Then the eyebrow wiggle. That fucking eyebrow wiggle. And when Landman reassigned your case halfway through the afternoon?
Handed it to Louis after you had spent two weeks building it from scratch?
You thought you were going to be sick.
“Don’t take it personally,” Landman had said without even looking up from his paperwork. “Louis just has a stronger courtroom presence.” Courtroom presence. You’d smiled so tightly your jaw still hurt from it. Then Louis leaned against the doorway afterward with his arms folded and said,
“Maybe litigation just isn’t your thing, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. You’d spent seven years clawing your way through school and internships and firms filled with men who talked over you like your law degree came from a cereal box. And somehow that one stupid comment had finally cracked something open inside your chest. By the end of the day you could barely breathe around it. Now you’re fumbling on the sidewalk outside the office building, vision blurry with tears you’re trying desperately not to let fall. Your keys slip again from your shaking hands and clatter against the concrete.
“Fuck,” you whisper brokenly. A couple walking past glance over sympathetically before quickly looking away again. Humiliation burns hotter instantly. You crouch down too fast to grab your keys, nearly dropping them again because your fingers won’t stop trembling. You can’t do this. You cannot have a breakdown on a fucking sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen.
Your chest jerks with another strangled inhale. The city around you feels too loud. Car horns. Sirens somewhere far off. Too many people brushing past your shoulder without seeing you. Your phone buzzes in your bag. You ignore it. It buzzes again immediately after. And again. Swallowing hard, you wipe furiously at your face before yanking it out.
Your throat tightens painfully.
Three missed calls.
A text underneath.
FRANKIE
baby please talk to me
Another.
FRANKIE
i'm sorry about what i said, i just wanted to cheer you up
please pick up.
And then, sent only two minutes ago—
FRANKIE
i made pancakes
they look like shit but the effort was there
A watery laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Which only makes you cry harder.
“God,” you choke out, pressing the heel of your hand against your eyes. Your phone starts ringing again in your hand.
Frank.
Of course it’s Frank.
You stare at his contact picture through blurry vision for a long second before answering shakily and lifting the phone to your ear.
“Hey baby - ” The second he hears you crying, he goes dead silent. All warmth drains from his voice instantly.
“What the fuck happened ? ” That’s all it takes. Everything you spent all day holding together collapses immediately. You make this awful broken sound in the back of your throat and suddenly you can’t stop crying at all. On the other end of the line, Frank’s breathing changes sharply.
“Hey. Hey, sweetheart.” His voice drops low and steady immediately, all teasing gone. “Talk to me.” You press your hand over your mouth trying to muffle the sob that escapes.
"Can-Can you - Can you come pick me up ?" You sob, shaking your head, ashamed of how shamelessly you're coming crawling back to him after you categorically refused to forgive for a stupid joke this morning.
"You took the car ?" He asks, his voice soft as you hear him move around. You nod, even though he can't see you.
"Uh- Yeah. Yeah. I just- fuck- I don't want to be alone right now, and everyone's looking at me like i'm crazy-" There’s a sharp inhale on Frank’s end.
“Okay,” he says immediately, voice switching - no panic, just focus. "Breathe, baby. Don’t move, alright? Don’t you dare try to drive.”
“I’m not - I’m not going anywhere,” you manage, voice breaking on the last word.
“Good,” he repeats, firmer now. “Stay right there. I’m coming.” Your throat tightens.
“Frank - ”
“I’m on my way,” he says again, like it’s not up for debate. And then, softer -just enough to catch you off guard - “Breathe for me, yeah?” You nod even though he can’t see it.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll be there soon.” The line clicks. Gone. Just like that. The silence that follows feels heavier than before, but not empty anymore. It feels… held. You stay where you are anyway, leaning against the car, phone still in your hand like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored. Minutes pass in uneven pieces. You don’t even notice Frank arriving at first. Only the sudden shadow. The shift in air. Then him. Frank doesn’t say anything when he sees you. No teasing. No questions. Just stillness for half a second like he’s making sure you’re real and in one piece.
Then he’s there. Right in front of you.
“Hey,” he says quietly. You look up at him through wet lashes. That’s all it takes. His eyes, god his fucking eyes make you melt. You surge forward and wrap your arms around his neck. He crouches down, inhaling your scent as he presses you into his body. You sniffle against his shoulder, sighing heavily. "Hi, baby." He sighs, kissing your forehead. For a second, neither of you moves. The city keeps going around you- footsteps, traffic, distant sirens - but it feels far away, like it’s happening to someone else. Frank shifts slightly, one arm tightening around your shoulders while the other slides down your back, anchoring you completely.
“You’re freezing,” he mutters.
“I’m fine,” you lie automatically. Frank huffs a quiet, humorless sound.
“Yeah, okay.” Not dismissive. Just unconvinced. He pulls back just enough to look at your face, his hand immediately coming up to wipe under your eyes with his thumb. You hate how gentle he is.
How careful.
Like you’re something breakable he refuses to drop.
“Look at me,” he says softly. You do. And there it is again. That expression.
Not the teasing one from this morning. Not the amused one that gets him into trouble. This one is steady. Focused. Warm in a way that makes your throat tighten all over again. Frank tilts his head slightly, scanning your face like he’s checking for damage he can fix with his hands alone. His jaw ticks.
"Where the fuck is he ?" He asks, his gaze darkening. He turns towards the building, hands still on your face, eyes scanning the facade like he's back in afghanistan and assessing an enemy camp.
The shift is almost instant. The second your head shakes, Frank’s attention snaps back to you - but it’s already too late for the look that crossed his face. That dark, focused edge settles in behind his eyes like a switch flipping.
You feel it more than see it.
“Frank - ” you start again, voice unsteady. His hands are still on your face, but now they’re gentler in a different way - like he’s trying to keep himself anchored to you.
“I’m going to beat that meathead into the ground,” he says flatly, eyes flicking back toward the building again, scanning it like he’s mapping exits and threats, “if he thinks he can make you cry and get away with it.”
“Frank,” you repeat, sharper this time. That finally breaks through a little. Not all the way - but enough. His gaze snaps back to you.
“…What?” he mutters, still tense. You let out a shaky breath, reaching up and grabbing his wrists so he actually stays with you.
“Please- can you just- Take me home ?" You hiccup. The words land differently. Frank stops immediately. Not slowly. Not reluctantly.
Just… stops.
Like something in him re-centers the second your voice cracks the way it does. His grip on your face softens, then shifts - his hands sliding down to your cheeks again, thumbs brushing lightly beneath your eyes like he’s recalibrating himself back to you.
“Yeah,” he says instantly. “Yeah, okay.” No argument. No lingering anger. Just agreement. You swallow hard, still shaking, still trying not to fall apart in public.
Frank notices everything.
Of course he does. His gaze flicks once more toward the building behind you—brief, controlled now instead of sharp. Then back to you.
Gone.
Whatever he was about to do with that anger gets put away somewhere else. Not erased. Just shelved. For later. He exhales slowly through his nose.
“C'mon, pretty girl,” he murmurs. You nod weakly, fingers curling into his jacket like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. Frank doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t speak again right away, just gently shifts you with him toward the car. One hand stays at your back the entire time.Steady pressure.
Constant reminder.
I’ve got you.
When he opens the passenger door, he guides you in carefully, like you’re not something fragile - but something worth protecting anyway.
“Careful of your head,” he murmurs when you slump a little too fast into the seat. You obey without thinking. Frank shuts the door softly. Not once does he look back at the building. When he gets in, the first thing he does is reach over. His hand finds your thigh again.
Warm.
Grounding. The feeling makes tears fling up into your eyes.
God, you were so mean to him- and just one simple call and he came running to you. Your heart gives a guilty tug and you look away, head in your hand, staring outside the window as New York flashes by.
Frank glances at you every so often. Not constantly. Not pressuring.
Just… checking.
Watching your breathing. Your posture. The way your shoulders slowly stop being so tight. And every time his hand squeezes your thigh gently, it’s like he’s reminding you without words: I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re okay.
He doesn’t try to make you talk. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t fill the silence just to fix it. Just drives. When you get home, Frank’s the first one out of the car. He opens your door immediately. You move like you’re exhausted in your bones. Frank notices.
Of course he does.
Before you even reach for your bag, he’s already shaking his head.
“Nope,” he says quietly. You blink at him.
“Frank—”
“Don’t argue.” Then he reaches in and takes your bag off your shoulder anyway. And your laptop. And your coat.
All of it.
“Frank, I can—”
“You can walk,” he says simply, like that’s the only job you’ve been assigned today. "I'll carry your stuff. C'mon." he says, nodding to the door. You don’t fight him. You don’t have it in you. So you just follow him up the steps. Inside the apartment, Frank holds the door open with his foot, still carrying everything, then ushers you in first like it matters. The second the door shuts, the quiet changes again.
Home quiet. Not outside noise anymore. Frank sets your things down carefully on the counter - like they matter, but not as much as you do - and turns back to you. You’re still standing there like you’re not sure what to do with yourself. Your arms wrap around yourself. Frank moves around the apartment, grabbing a cup and filling it with water.
"I'm gonna run you a bath," He hums, "Add in those little essential oils you like with those bath bombs karen got you for your birthday. I wanna make sure you relax and-"
A sob tears out of you before you can stop it.
Frank spins around, holding the cup of water he clearly was making for you.
"Baby ?" He mutters, taking a step towards you as he puts the cup down. You choke on a sob, softly looking away from him. "Hey- hey- Talk to me, mama."
God he's being so soft.
You don't deserve that softness- you were so mean this morning.
You run your hands down your face, shaking your head.
"I'm the worst girlfriend ever." You sob, looking up at him as you dig your teeth into your bottom lip. "God, i'm so sorry, Frank." Frank doesn’t even wait for you to finish. The second the words “I’m the worst girlfriend ever” leave your mouth, something in him just… shifts. Like a switch flipping from steady concern straight into full softness.
“Baby,” he says immediately again, but this time it’s quieter—almost breathless. And then he’s moving. Fast. Not frantic, not panicked—just decisive. His cup is forgotten on the counter. His body is in front of you in two steps.
"I was such a bitch this morning, i mean, you were just trying to help-"
“Hey - hey, c’mere,” he murmurs at the same time your voice breaks again. Your hands are still half-covering your face when Frank gently pries them away- not forcing, just coaxing 0 so he can see you properly. And the moment he sees the tears still coming, his whole expression melts.
“Oh baby,” he says, voice dropping instantly into something softer than before. Both hands come up right away. Not hesitating. Not thinking.Just you. He cups your face like it’s instinct, thumbs sweeping under your eyes before another tear can even fall past them. You shake your head anyway, words tumbling out between broken breaths.
“I was so mean to you I didn’t even - I didn’t - I should’ve - ”
“Shh,” Frank cuts in immediately. “You’re not the worst anything,” he says plainly. You let out a broken laugh that immediately turns into another sob.
“That’s not—Frank, I—”
“Stop it,” he cuts in gently, thumb brushing under your eye like it’s instinct at this point. He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully - not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he’s trying to make sure you actually hear him. “You were having a shit morning,” he says. “I was being an idiot.” You shake your head again, but weaker now. “I said the wrong thing,” he continues, voice lower, steady. “And you got hurt. That’s it.” Your throat tightens painfully.
“That’s not it,” you whisper. “I was mean." Frank’s mouth twitches slightly - almost like he’s frustrated with how hard you’re being on yourself.
“Yeah,” he agrees honestly. “You were.” You flinch a little at that, but he doesn’t let you drift. Then he adds, immediately: “So was I.” That makes you pause. Frank watches you closely, waiting for it to land.
“I pushed you,” he says. “I kept poking at you when you clearly weren’t okay. That’s on me.” Your breathing stutters. His hands slide from your cheeks to your shoulders, grounding you there again. “And I’m the one who should’ve stopped earlier,” he continues, quieter now. “Not you.”
A beat. Then softer -
“I don’t need you to be perfect with me, alright?” Your eyes close briefly. That does something dangerous to your chest. Frank leans forward just a little, forehead almost brushing yours. “But I do need you here,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re pissed. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re…” his mouth tilts faintly, “…being scary silent and judging me from across the room.” Not sharp. Just urgent. Like he can feel you spiraling and won’t let it get further than this moment. His hands slide from your face down to your arms, then back up again—like he physically can’t decide where to hold you because he needs you everywhere at once.
“Hey,” he says again, softer. “Look at me.” You try. You really do. But you’re shaking too hard. So Frank adjusts instantly. He steps in closer and pulls you right into him instead. No hesitation now at all. Your forehead ends up against his chest, and one of his arms wraps fully around your shoulders while the other hand cradles the back of your head like he’s shielding you from the entire world. You let out a choked sob against him.
“I didn’t mean to be like that,” you whisper. “I just— I was so overwhelmed and I took it out on you and you still— you still came and I—” Frank makes a low, disapproving sound—not at you, but at the idea of you hurting like this.
“Yeah,” he says gently. “Because I love you.” That hits you harder. Your grip on his shirt tightens instantly. Frank notices, of course. He tightens his hold in response, like it’s automatic. “And I’m not letting you stand there beating yourself up,” he continues, voice still soft but firmer underneath. “Not happening.” One hand moves slowly down your back in steady strokes.
Up.
Down.
Grounding.
“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Just breathe with me, yeah?” You try. It comes out shaky, uneven—but Frank doesn’t correct you. Just stays right there. Completely locked around you like he’s decided the rest of the world can wait. After a moment, you whisper again, smaller this time.
“I’m sorry.” Frank sighs through his nose, almost like he expected it. Then he tilts his head slightly, pressing a quick kiss into your hair without moving you away from him.
“Stop apologising,” he says quietly. You sniffle.
“I mean it.”
“So do I,” he replies immediately. A beat. Then, softer—almost a mutter into your hair: “You think I’m mad at you right now?” You don’t answer. Frank leans back just enough to look at your face again—still holding you, still refusing to let go. His expression is completely open now. Warm. A little tired. But so soft it almost hurts. "God, baby, i'm not mad." He hum, kissing your red nose as you sniffle. "I could never be mad at you."
"You were mad this morning." You sniffle.
"I was mad for a total of two minutes. And then you left and all I wanted was to chase after you- but i know you'd probably slap me if I tried." He says. You chuckle, shaking your head as he pulls you into him again, clearly craving to have you close in this moment. His lips press to your forehead, and his hand softly wrap around your jaw and pushes you backwards, taking in your face. He runs his thumb along your cheekbone, kissing the side of your mouth before softly pressing his lips onto yours. The kiss starts soft, almost tentative—like Frank is afraid you might still push him away. His lips brush yours once, twice, testing the waters before he presses more firmly. The rough stubble along his jaw scrapes your skin just enough to send a shiver down your spine. Your fingers, which had been clenched into fists at your sides, slowly uncurl. One hand finds its way to his chest, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt while the other slides up to cup the back of his neck. The movement feels natural—automatic—like your body remembers what your mind had been trying to forget all day. Frank’s hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against him. There is nothing hurried about it, nothing desperate. Just a slow, deepening connection that makes your chest ache with something other than pain for the first time all day. His tongue traces your lower lip, and you open to him without hesitation. The world outside the apartment fades away—the sounds of traffic, the memory of Louis’s smug face, the weight of your laptop bag still sitting by the door. All that matters is the steady warmth of Frank’s body against yours, the way his thumbs stroke circles on your hips, the low hum that vibrates in his chest when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily. Frank rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed like he is memorizing the moment.
“Still think i'm mad at you?” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. You manage a weak smile.
“No.” His lips curve into a ghost of a grin.
“Good.” Then he kisses your forehead again—shorter this time, but somehow more intense. A promise. An apology. A reminder that even on your worst days, you aren’t alone. He sighs, looking at you.
"Now- go get dressed into something comfy. I'll make you some dinner and then draw you a bath." You nod, pulling away from him as you tuck your hair behind your ears. You turn away from him, when-
"Baby ?"
You turn to face him.
"Hm ?" You hum. He smiles.
"I thought you said you wouldn't leave without giving me a goodbye kiss." His grin is stupidly teasing, and your heart gives a pathetic tug. You stop. Not because you want to. Because your brain very clearly files that request under trap. Frank is still standing there in the hallway like he’s done nothing wrong in his entire life. Hands loose at his sides, posture casual, expression mild— Except for his eyes. Of course it’s the eyes again.
Soft. Patient. Slightly tilted up like he’s waiting for you to decide something he already knows the answer to. Not even pushy. Just… there. God. It’s not even dramatic. It’s not some exaggerated pout or obvious attempt to guilt you. It’s worse. It’s just Frank looking at you like you’re the best part of his day and he doesn’t fully understand why you’d walk away from that. You scoff.
"You're impossible."
"Impossibly in love with you, yeah." You smile despite yourself.
"Fine. I'll put goodbye kisses to frank on my daily to-do list from now on." Frank actually laughs at that - properly this time, warm and low, like it’s been waiting under everything else all morning.
“Good,” he says immediately, nodding like you’ve just agreed to a very serious contract. “Put it in writing. I like structure. Now come here and kiss e before you vanish into our room for twenty mminutes.”
“You’re ridiculous -I just kissed you.”
“And yet,” he steps closer again, slower this time, like he’s not rushing you anymore, just… hoping, “You still owe me another one.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it anymore. Just tired fondness trying to fight its way back to the surface. Frank watches you for a second longer, then tilts his head slightly. That look comes back. Not loud. Not performative. Just soft in a way that’s almost unfair—like he’s quietly asking for something he already knows he’ll get if you stop pretending you’re still angry.
“You’ve got time,” he says gently. “Just one.” You huff a small breath through your nose.
“Frank…” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Just stands there looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.
And that’s the problem. Because he always does that. Even when you’re annoyed. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when you’re trying very hard not to soften. His mouth quirks slightly.
“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me beg.”
“You’re not begging.”
“I could be worse at it.” That almost gets you again. Almost.
You shake your head like it’ll physically clear the feeling out of your chest, but your feet are already moving before you’ve decided anything properly. Frank sees it immediately.
Of course he does.
His expression changes—just a flicker, just enough warmth breaking through the tiredness—as you step into him. You stop right in front of him.
A pause.
He doesn’t touch you first this time. Lets you choose it. That alone undoes you a little. So you grab the front of his shirt, yanking him down just enough to meet you halfway, and press a quick kiss to his mouth. It’s not long. Not dramatic. Just enough to shut him up and fix something inside your chest you didn’t want to admit was still broken from this morning. When you pull back, Frank doesn’t move right away.
Just stays there, forehead almost dipping toward yours again, like he’s trying not to chase you for a second kiss and failing spectacularly at pretending he’s not.
Then he exhales—quiet, satisfied. Frank’s eyes flick over your face like he’s storing the moment away somewhere safe.
"Okay, pretty girl, you can go now." You roll your eyes, slapping his chest as you step away from him, shaking your head.
Summary: Your new coworker causes problems between you and Frank. You can’t figure out why—you’re nothing special. But when drinks at the bar prove you wrong… the night ends in blood.
Warnings: slow burn conflict to violent explosion, threats, detailed violence, blood, jealous!Frank, protective!Frank, negative self-image/imposter syndrome/negative self-talk & self-worth, manipulation (not Frank), sexual innuendoes, implied fingering, attempted drugging (not Frank), fuck ton of cussing, power plays, mentioned death of an animal (trust me, you’ll see, it’s not sad).
W/C: JESUS CHRIST 10k
Requested by anon: here
A/N: I kept Frank as still being semi-active as The Punisher. My personal opinion: Frank would not do the job if married. He loves you too much to put you in unnecessary danger. HOWEVER… it’s hot as fuck so that’s my reasoning. 😂 Pics from Pinterest, not mine. I lowkey took this to some extremes. Reader is always 18+. Minors do not interact. Tag list is open for 18+. Asks open for Frank.
Frank can smell bullshit the way a shark smells blood: one drop, a quarter mile away.
Shit’s not close enough to see yet, but it fuckin’ stinks.
A cool breeze whistles through the crack in the window as the rain patters down, crisp ozone and wet tarmac in Frank’s nose. Night settles in; so consuming it’s comfortable. Maybe it’s the anticipation of waiting for you. His girl, gettin’ off her shift to get in his car, get you back home safe, drive you through that coffee joint for a chai latte and a coffee just to drag it out longer. Windshield’s speckled, raindrops streaking, but he’s still got a clear enough view. Woulda been out there waitin’ for you, but last time he did, you said you loved the rain and the run to the truck. So… he stays put. Gives you whatever simple pleasure he can.
The seat creaks under Frank as he adjusts, elbow on the console, chin in his hand, eyes fastened to the door you’ll be comin’ out of. Totally casual. Boot totally not taptaptaptaptapping in the footwell. Van off, artillery in the back; the unsavory pieces of Frank isn’t scared to show you anymore.
Started stinkin’ six weeks ago. Not your bullshit. Jason’s bullshit. Your new clean-cut, savvy-tongued, personal ass-kissing coworker. Started small. Innocent enough. Frank knows better.
A text on your phone during dinner guy’s first week. Frank raised a brow in question, fork left hovering in front of his mouth. “Sweetheart, that guy botherin’ you?”
You raised a brow at your screen, then your expression neutralized. You blink across the table at Frank. “Him? Oh, god, no. He’s been a breath of fresh air.”
…Breath of fresh air. You hear that shit? Christ.
“New guy at work just has questions. Normal stuff.”
“Questions can’t wait until work hours?” Frank’d asked, voice smooth through the lurch of instinct in his chest.
“Eh, he’s… trying,” you reason, “to get up to speed. You know how it goes being new.”
No. No, he doesn’t.
Then the phone calls. He ain’t even subtle.
You walked in the apartment humming acknowledgment, phone sandwiched between your shoulder and cheek while someone else gabbed. When you did answer, it was respectful. Tasteful, nothin’ out of the ordinary. That amicable professionalism Frank dotes on, hearin’ you talk all smart, talk your shop. You’d chime in, small cues you were home. Polite excuses to get off the call. Didn’t work.
Frank cornered you against the countertop, hands planted on either side so his barrage of affection was inescapable. Soundless, you laughed, squirming in the cage of him as Frank nipped your neck, kissed your jaw, muttered nothings about gettin’ you a bath ready, askin’ if you taste as good as you smell, pressin’ about your day… so when you didn’t reciprocate… when you—still laughin’, still smilin’—turned away to give attention to the damn phone call… Frank knew exactly who stole your attention, knowin’ damn well you’re home. And it pissed him the fuck off. Not pissed at you. Christ, no. Never you, his sweet angel. Pissed the fuck off at the guy callin’ a married woman—Frank’s girl—after hours, keepin’ you on the phone ‘about work’ until night came around and Frank suggested, in good nature, you needed sleep.
Frank didn’t sleep much that night. When he did? He dreamt about reachin’ through the receiver to crush Jason’s windpipe.
The double-doors unlatching retrieves Frank from his thoughts. Automatic, he sits straight, heart stuttering the second he sees you walking out into the night rain. Wind catches your hair, tugs your jacket, but when you look up through the needles of rain? See him there, the van? Jesus, he’s gone. Delight lifts you up. Puts a skip in your step, literally. You beam. Smile. Wave like you ain’t seen him in weeks even though he kissed you goodbye that same morning.
Frank rolls the window the rest of the way down. Leans out the side, elbow hooked out, squinting against the weather. Gives a whistle, looow’n slow, goddamn obnoxious as the commoners settle and the city comes to life with rats.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Frank calls across the lot. “Need a ride, huh?”
You laugh, keeled a bit, shoes staggering a step. God, that sound fucks with a man’s common sense. “Yeah!” You call back, playing into it. “I need a ride. You got a seat?”
“Yeah, princess, I got a seat alright. Wanna learn how t’drive this bad boy, huh?”
“Frank,” you shout back, weak from laughter, “it’s an automatic transmission.”
“Sweetheart, you’re supposed t’play along, not use that beautiful brain ‘a yours.”
You dash the rest of the way with a wild grin.
Frank reaches over and pushes your door open so you can barrel in.
You do.
The van rocks as you catapult yourself into Frank, lips crashing into his. Your mouth’s cold on his, sweet from whatever you were drinkin’, soft from the chapstick you can’t survive without.
Frank knows he won’t make it into Heaven, but god damn you taste like it.
Breathlessly sweet, you pull back first, an arm hooked around Frank’s neck as best you can in the confined space. You nudge your nose against his, cold to warm, heart tripping as the best part of your day nears. “Chai latte time?”
“Hell yeah, baby,” Frank rumbles, his hand splayed over the entirety of your lower back. “Chai latte time.”
“Yes!” And after another quick, planted kiss of appreciation that conjures a groan in his throat, you plop back into your seat.
But as Frank shifts the van into drive, foot on the brake, he feels your excitement diminish. Craning his head over, he sees you—his girl—a wry smile, a hand on your stomach like you’re full.
“Well…” you start, “maybe a… decaf for me.”
Frank gawks. “You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” Pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “They workin’ you too much in there, huh?”
You breathe a dismissive laugh, guiding his hand down. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Promise.” You tip your head against the seat, smile all soft. “I had a chai already. I don’t think I need anymore caffeine before bed.”
You. Already had a chai. From somewhere in the vicinity. Frank blinks. You hate the chai’s in the vicinity. Frank specifically drives you twenty minutes outside of town to get the chai you like. Every damn night, Monday through Friday, rain or shine. Before he can get the question out, you answer.
“Jason and I got called out for a meeting on the other side of town. He must’ve remembered I mentioned you and I go there every night after work, that it’s our thing. It was on the way back,” you explain. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Frank. sees. double. Knee-jerk reaction, Frank double-stomps the brake, his stun moving the truck. Guy drives a married woman to the place she shares with her husband, buyin’ the same fuckin’ drink he gets her every night? Guy buys the married girl the drink before her husband can—that’s the bullshit. It fuckin’ reeks.
You shift, sensing the fizzling tension radiating from Frank. “…What?” you ask, quiet, like anything too loud’s illicit.
Low, a promise to make it known: “He know you’re married?”
Brows knotted, then lifting up, you waggle your hand at him, ring catching in the distant streetlamp light. “You made it pretty hard to miss, Frank.” You pause, eyes narrowing as you study him; the impossible person you’ve managed to learn, love, and keep. “…Why?”
“He ain’t actin’ like you’re married.”
“What?” You sit forward, knees angled towards him. “That’s ridiculous. He’s just a nice guy, trying to make friends. He does these things for everyone.”
“Work ain’t f’friends.” Frank immediately hates saying it, regrets the low-drip of spite that’s got you tensin’ your shoulders, face twisting in pure confusion.
“Frank…” your tone to reason.
Here’s the problem: ya don’t see it.
Rain pelts the windshield. Heavy, angry spit from the sky.
He shakes his head, almost… solemn. “Don’t get it, sweetheart, do ya?”
“Get what?” With a red-mottled face, panic bouncing in your veins. “I’m so confused here, Frankie. I don’t- I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be getting.”
Frank leans an arm on the center console. Waves you in close with his other hand.
Like the two of you are magnetized, you follow, leaning your chin in his palm, your eyes searching between the both of his for answers. For clarity.
“Baby…” Frank drops his voice the way he does when he needs understanding without proof. It’s a big ask. Frank knows. Frank knows you trust him, too. And you know—trust—Frank won’t lead you in the wrong direction.
The rough pad of his thumb slides slow strokes over your cheek, his dark eyes holding yours. “Guy ain’t doin’ this shit for the right reasons,” Frank says. “Ain’t doin’ it ‘cause he’s nice, or-or tryna make friends. Nah. Guy knows exactly what he’s doin’. He’s tryna weasel his way t’ya. Playin’ nice, playin’ dirty, yeah? Guys ain’t nice t’pretty ladies f’the hell of it. He ain’t a good guy.”
Your lashes falter as you process, mouth circled in disbelief. Wind howls through the seams of the truck, nullifying the silence. “You’re… deducing that from what…? A tea?”
“Everything. The texts. Calls. Keepin’ you late at work. Buyin’ you shit like that, yeah?”
“No—” your head glitches a shake, hesitant at first. “No. That’s not it at all, Frank, oh my god. That’s- that’s ridiculous.”
Thunder roars like distant bombs. Lightning draws a jagged white fissure through the sky.
Frank grimaces, pressing his mouth into line. “Ain’t ridiculous. It’s right, sweetheart. You need t’stay away from that guy, you hear me? Away, before he does somethin’ I really don’t like. You need me t’talk to him, huh? Give a gentle nudge?”
“Approach Jason and threaten him over work and tea?” You shake your head, exasperated by being in the middle of such absurdity. Ferocity of your truth—the false belief you’re never enough—in your eyes, you pin Frank’s stare. “You have nothing to worry about. I have nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah?” His brows lift in a goad. “Why’s that, huh?”
“Because I’m not spec—”
Your phone cries and vibrates on the dash like a wasp.
You startle, eyes snapping to the phone.
Franks clocks it with a vile glare.
The air constricts; a noose around both your necks.
The name?
Jason.
You hesitate, heart in your throat, stomach an empty pit.
Jaw pulsing, expression empty—the preamble to violence against another man—Frank stares out the windshield with darting eyes. For five long seconds, you don’t see Frank. You see The Punisher. You see what man’s capable of, if pushed too far; if what’s his is threatened.
Eyes on Frank, you slink your arm out to silence the call.
Softer, barely a whisper, you say, “Neither of us has anything to worry about, okay? I’m not special—”
“Bullshit.”
The phone clicks to black.
“It’s not bullshit, it’s true. You don’t have to blow smoke up my ass like I’m not the most average person you’ve met,” you bubble an incredulous, pained laugh.
“Bull-shit.” Frank argues, twisting to drill his truth—the truth—into you, head-on. “Don’t you ever say that shit ‘bout yourself, sweetheart, you’re the—”
A second time. Your phone buzzes a frenzy, incessant and disruptive, deafening in the space between you and Frank. Goosebumps race up your arms, like an augury to what’s to come. Not now, but later.
“I- I need to answer that,” you say, voice thin.
Reluctant, at a loss, Frank throws a nod at it.
You swipe to answer, phone to your ear with a tight, “Hello?”
Frantic nonsense on the other end. Nothin’ Frank can hear. He can, though, feel your anxiety spike. An innate sense tailored to you, Frank slowly turns his head in your direction. Watches you pale, fear zigzagging your eyes.
There’s no fight in him when you’re lookin’ like this. Impatient for answers but quiet, Frank leans over the console. One big hand kneads over your thigh, keepin’ you here, with him. Whatever it is—you ain’t alone. Not with Frank around.
“Oh my god,” your gasp wanes to a halt, eyes round with shock. “Oh-oh my god. Okay! Okay, yes. Yes, l’ll be right there! Just- just give me a few. Okay? Yep. Yes. Bye.”
Click.
The phone slides from your ear. You don’t even realize it’s dropping until Frank grabs it. Sets it in your lap. Kneads a little firmer into you.
“Everything alright, sweetheart?” Dumb question, but he needs to pull you back into focus.
“Um— uh-ha… no.”
Frank braces, steady inhale through his nose. “Talk t’me.”
“We, uh- Me and- yeah. We have a presentation tomorrow. Like— big presentation, Frank. Like, could be a promotion and a raise big.”
“Yeah, alright. I remember, baby. What about it?” Kneading, kneading, kneading. Here for you. All of you. Always you.
Your hands steeple at your mouth to keep the bile gone. “It’s gone. Our system crashed during backup. Frank— it’s all gone.”
“Fuck, sweetheart—”
You bolt to action, scrambling for your things. “I’ve- I’ve gotta go back in. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry, Frank, but I have to. This is one of our highest priority clients I cannot fuck this up. This- this cannot be happening.”
You fly outta the car after smearing a distracted kiss to Frank’s cheek. You don’t hear him ask you to wait. Or call your name. Rain and thunder drown him out; an army of one muted by mother nature and some motherfucker named Jason.
You sprint for the door, swinging it open and a flood of sallow office light spills out, haloing you.
Through the rain, the heaviness in your gut, the scorching of your throat, you yell out: “I love you!”
And the door slams shut behind you, separating you from Frank once again.
Quiet’s got a way of gettin’ in the skin when business’s left unfinished.
Left things unfinished with you.
Frank’s got a few rules. One of the first: fix the fuckin’ problem.
‘Cause you never know when it’ll be your last chance to.
Frank’s eyes track the empty parking lot.
Finds a sedan there. One with plates Frank’s memorized.
Jason’s.
Bastard never left.
And now he’s got you for the night.
Frank snags his phone from his pocket. Thumbs a number without looking. Three rings—an answer.
“Yello?” David answers in a chuckled hum. “Fraaaaank. Long time no talk, big guy. What’s up? How’s it goin’?”
“Need a favor,” Frank grits.
Micro scoffs, “Hello to you too… The family’s great, thanks for asking. Kids’re doing good in school, Sarah has totally forgot about that kiss…”
“Jesus Christ, Micro. Need you to check a file f’me.”
“Dude, it’s dinner time… Sarah made this Mediterranean sala—”
“Salad. Great. Won’t get cold while you check this fuckin’ file f’me.”
“Okay, so I’m sensing I don’t really have a choice here, did I nail that vibe?”
“Right on, genius.”
With a sigh, grumbled huffs, a muffled excuse to Sarah, Frank hears Micro retreating. Laptop opens. Fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Okay, alright, here weeee go…” Micro says, computer light throwing blue over his face. “Company name?”
Frank gives it.
“File type?”
“Fuck, I dunno? PowerPoint?”
“Sheesh, ancient, okay. Who uses PowerPoint these days?”
“It’s- it’s a goddamn presentation, David. Deleted in the last half hour. Can you find it or not?”
“Frank. I’m offended you even asked.” A hand over his chest to stop the hurt.
“Christ.”
Clack clack clack.
“Okay… okay… breaking the firewall… okay… system override, easy… Like, concerningly easy, Jesus…”
Frank bounces a leg. Drums a hand on the wheel.
“Aaaaaand… here… I think… Found it!”
Stock-still, back straight, Frank stares at the building, the door you vanished behind. “How was the file deleted?”
“Uhhh… Manually. Frank, what is this? Promise me this isn’t another government database I’m cracking because y’know, I’m home now—”
“Goddamnit, Micro, the username. What the hell is it?”
“Jason underscore Caldwell. You, uh… you know the guy? Another one of your… targets?”
“Worse,” Frank’s nostrils flare. “Guy’s fuckin’ with my wife.”
☠︎
That night…
It’s late. Regrettably late, and that always seems to be when the thoughts trickle in. Slow at first, and you don’t realize you’re drowning until you can’t breathe.
Tucked away in the privacy of the bathroom, you lean into the mirror. You bat the facet on so the sink disguises your dissection, muffles Frank tossing and turning in bed. Hips bent against the counter, your forehead an inch from the glass so you can magnify and inspect every conceivable flaw.
Your fingertips shake as they ghost under your eye. Thread-thin lines on the delicate skin only you can see. And then across your cheek, your head angling with the motion, over the dots of pores everyone’s made of, but you never see theirs. Only yours. Your hair could be better. Your nose could be different. You manipulate your skin with your fingers, experimenting to see how you’d look if your eyes were just… like this. Or if your nose was like that… Or if your eyebrows sat here, instead of there. Just… making yourself into a puppet instead of a person.
You don’t… you don’t understand…
Who could love this? Who would want this? Why does Frank? Let alone, for someone else to be interested enough to prod at your marriage when there’s plenty of other available women out there. There’s always smarter, prettier, better.
Frank’s words recite in your head from earlier.
“Guys ain’t nice t’pretty ladies f’the hell of it.”
“He ain’t a good guy.”
“You need t’stay away from that guy, you hear me? Away.”
You scoff at his certainty, the mere idea flushing your face because it hurts to consider. It fucking hurts to look at yourself and see an imposter instead of this divine concept of you Frank has.
Turning away from the mirror, your eyes squeeze to shut out the thoughts, you smack the lights off. Safety in darkness; comfort in the blindness. Once you have the shower running, you bat off the sink. Constant noise, anything but the grating static of inadequacy. You shrug out of your cardigan. It falls to the ground in a heap; shed skin, but it doesn’t slough off the fraud.
Everything you’ve built… it’s just luck, right? Your job. Your education. Your friendships…Your marriage. And all luck runs out eventually. What happens when they see you?
The real you.
What do you do when… it all comes crashing down? When they see you’re just… you?
A soft knock at the door startles you. Your gasp lodges in your throat against raw flesh.
“Sweetheart?” Frank asks, voice low and husky from sleep he hasn’t had.
“Just—” you clear the snag in your voice. “Just a second.”
You wipe the backs of your hands under your nose, shake the rotting guilt from your face, and pick the mask back up to maintain nonchalance.
A second is what Frank gives.
With a creak, the door opens.
Heavy shuffled steps follow, then pause in the doorway when he clocks the total darkness here, and in the bedroom behind him. Still, you can see his towering silhouette, something carved from mythology and given sentience.
Bare, broad shoulders, the sharp slant of his trapezius.
“You, uh…” Frank huffs a chuckle, no humor in it. “You good? Seein’ alright in the dark?”
In your tank and slacks, in the dark where it’s safe, you lean back against the counter, hands grasping the ledge. “I’m… okay.”
It convinces neither of you.
“Need some sleep, yeah? Got your clothes in the dryer.”
Your arms cinch around yourself, holding together the shaking pieces, wondering if this is the night they all break. He’s… so sweet. Frank. Always. Thoughtful in ways you’ve never been loved before. Considerate to the extent that the only fear you live in is when he’ll realize you aren’t worth all this.
You log every single example of how Frank loves you, nausea souring your stomach because it’s overwhelming and beautiful and unconditional.
he drives you to and from work, every damn day
every damn day, your chai tea Except… except today…
you never go to the grocery store alone
you never lift a finger unless you ask to do it yourself, or ask to learn the task with him
holds you while you cry, even cups a tissue under your nose and tells you to “blow” after
has never made you feel unsafe
loves you unconditionally, indefinitely
warms your clothes in the dryer
there’s always an electrolyte water in your lunchbox, something you forget, but Frank never does
You don’t even realize you haven’t said anything until Frank’s hand is on your waist, guiding you into him, asylum from your mind. Out of touch with your body, you shuffle in automatic steps.
“What’s goin’ on in that head’a yours, huh? C’mere.” Before he can settle you against his chest, you halt.
“Why?” You finally spurt out, disgust spoiling the one question you haven’t been able to answer after all the years.
Against the dark, his head cranes, his fingertips curling your tank-top where you’re just out of reach. “Why, what?”
Steam compresses the air, humidity stifling—nowhere to run, nowhere to breathe. Everything you hold back sears your throat, veins in your head swelling with pending implosion. “Why… me?”
Needing the light to see the repulsion in your voice, Frank flicks on the overhead bulb.
You recoil as though the light scorches.
There, in the light, he sees you. All of you. The prey animal darting of your bloodshot eyes. Deep lines of worry trekking through your face. The goddamn sincerity from which your question came, bowing your shoulders in, shrinking your spine.
Frank narrows his eyes on you, certainty cemented in every bone in his face. “‘Cause there’s only you.” Gritty fact coming out between his teeth, tendons in his neck standing. “Only you. Always you. You and me, sweetheart? We got somethin’ no one else does. We got this, yeah?” Gesturing his finger between you two. “This. Us. You and me.”
Biting back tears, your skin crawling with your desperation to leave it, you squeak out, “I hate when we fight. Earlier,” you swallow around the lump in your throat. “I hated that.”
He softens, eyes opening to mirror your vulnerability, looking a helluva lot like the foot of distance between you hurts him. “Hell,” he rasps, “wouldn’t call that a fight. Just me. Lookin’ out f’you. Same shit. Always gonna look out f’you, even if you don’t like hearin’ it.”
“I don’t like hearing it because it’s not true. Plain and simple. I don’t get why you think Jason’s after me.” You bubble an unconvinced laugh, slapping a hand over your mouth to stop it. “I don’t even understand why you’re with me. You could do so much better, Frank.”
A loaded silence perforates the air, bleeding out something ugly, something broken from Frank. Tension ratchets up his shoulders, and self-control shoves them down. A dry, empty swallow tugs his adam’s apple.
The anticipation is anger.
The reality is worse.
It’s heartbreak.
The water’s gone cold. Steam dries up, leaving an empty chill in its wake. Just the patter of the water, amplifying the chasmic space separating you from him.
“…The hell did you just say?” Frank croaks out, his brows jutting up. “Better? Than you? There ain’t no better. There ain’t anyone else. There’s nothin’—I’m nothin’—without you, goddamn it. You?” One shake goes through the finger he points at you. “You fuckin’ saved me, sweetheart.”
It’s heartbreak.
It’s grief.
It’s thanks.
Your eyes crawl from the tip of his finger, up the corded veins in his forearm, and flick a fleeting glance to his eyes. God, does it ruin you. The anguish in his stare, so pure you wonder if what you said is form a torture for Frank.
Goosebumps cover your arms, and you drag your cold, clammy palms over the skin to intimate comfort, but there’s no sensation. It only feels like you’re rubbing filth onto yourself, grabbed straight out of the oxygen you used for those words.
“That’s not true,” you try to argue, but the words hold no faith. Small. You feel small. And like the rotten parts of you are being seen. And seeing those parts… that means leaving, doesn’t it? It’ll mean Frank’s had enough. He’ll realize what you are, what you’ve always been.
“Yeah?” Frank grates his hand over his mouth like he needs to get rid of the urge to vomit, his eyes jittering with loss. “It’s my damn truth.”
And just like you expect— Frank leaves.
You stuff your fist in your mouth to keep a sob from punching out, and swing for the shower handle to cut the fucking noise out.
And with the shower severed, there is… nothing. Grotesque proof you’ve always been right. You’re nothing special. And someday? Frank will leave. Frank is leaving.
Before the silence makes a home in yours, a new noise takes its place. One that startles you, something wooden clattering together rooms away. Almost sounds like… the kitchen table…?
Answering your question, proving you wrong, Frank reappears. Shirtless, grumbling curses, knocking one of the kitchen chairs through the doorway of the bathroom.
“Frank! What’re you doing!?”
Dropping the chair down in front of the mirror is his response. Knuckles tented white over the back of the chair, Frank stands angled partially towards you. He jerks his head, summoning you. Shallow breath contracts the muscles in his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. Everything about him screams bridled rage, but he says nothing.
“Sit,” he says, voice cracked low.
Your eyes slide from Frank… to the chair… back to Frank… “You want me to—?”
“Sit. Yeah.”
“Wh—?”
With the curt wave of his hand, Frank ends the follow up question.
Okay. No more questions. No more excuses. On the balls of your feet, you move in soundlessly until you perch in the chair, drawing your legs up to cross on the seat with you. You don’t look at the mirror. You can’t. Clearing your throat, your chin on your shoulder to be near Frank without looking, your whisper comes strained, tight. “What am I doing in our kitchen chair in the bathroom at two in the morning, Frank?”
“Somethin’ I shoulda done a long time ago.”
Frank towers from behind, heat pouring off his body and into your back. His hands cover your shoulders, his focus on the mirror, your reluctant reflection in it. Beautiful, he thinks, my perfect girl. If only you could see it. He moves a hand to cup your chin. Moves it ‘til you’re head’s straight, ‘til you’ve got no other choice but the face the person in the mirror.
Your bottom lip wobbles. Your eyes strain sideways with your refusal to see.
“Look,” Frank whispers, bending just enough to keep his voice a private rumble, just for you. “Look at yourself f’me, angel… C’mon.”
It’s harder than you think. Looking yourself in the eye. Accepting the imperfections, who you are, who you are not. Because he asked, because he said please, and because your jaw quivers under his affection… you look. You see. You see yourself. Exhausted, disheveled from the day, half-dressed, fully embarrassed. His thumb skims your cheek, then skates down the curve of your neck to plant back on your shoulder.
“There she is…” Frank’s rough cheer, a twitch at his mouth like he might smile. Frank doesn’t smile much, but the corners of his eyes crinkle.
Eyes, after all, are the window to the soul.
“There’s my girl.”
A quick, unfiltered laugh barks out of you. This is ridiculous. You press the back of your hand to your mouth, shielding the dark flush over your face. Nerves bounce your leg. “I’m here,” you shake your head. “Now what?”
“Now, sweetheart, we’re gonna get those thoughts outta your head and keep ‘em gone.” An unsettling solemnity takes his face, his instruction inarguable. “You’re gonna sit here, with me, ‘til you say fifteen nice things ‘bout yourself, yeah? You and me both. No bullshittin’ me. No half-assed answers, you got me?”
“Frank, I—”
“Uh-uh. Ain’t playin’, sweetheart. We’ll sit here all damn night if we got to.”
Panic catches your breath, but you stay. You flick your eyes to his, looking for any chance to escape, but the lift of his brows says he’s read your mind and it’s not an option.
“Ain’t playin’,” he reiterates, setting his shoulders back to lead. “Alright. ‘M first.” Frank draws in a slow, composing breath through his nose, head cocking. “You gotta lotta faith in people. Trust ‘em ‘cause you’re always seein’ the good.”
Your eyes narrow, face warm. “…You usually say that’s poor survival instinct.”
“Don’t mean it ain’t special,” he shrugs a shoulder. “You won’t let the world break ya. That’s special.”
Lips rolled in, a new perspective warm in your stomach, you look down at the interlace of your fingers as you toy with your thumbs. You nod; a thanks without words.
“Your turn,” Frank squeezes your shoulder.
“I…”
“In the mirror, sweetheart. Eyes on you.”
You try again. Staring back at yourself, you expand with a steeling inhale. “I… like… my neck length…?”
“…Your neck length.”
“Yup. Your turn?”
“Nice try, sweetheart. Try again.”
Your shoulders deflate, but Frank’s right there to give a little shake of encouragement. “Okay. I like……… how I show up for the people I love.”
Frank perks, slightly, approving of the sincerity. “Atta girl…” He lifts a hand from your shoulder, big fingers instead weaving through the ends of your hair. He quiets again, expression smoothing with the gravity of confession. “You’re a saint, yeah, I think you are. Got such a big heart you need’a find room in it f’yourself.”
The honesty—the real truth—puts you in pensive thought. Teeth grazing your bottom lip, you nod. You understand. You see it, too. Arms linking around your knees, you smoosh Frank’s hand against your cheek and shoulder to keep him.
“Only one you,” Frank says as he leans down, planting his lips against the top of your head, breathing you in so his world keeps turning. “That’s what makes you so goddamn special. Makes an ass like me so goddamn lucky.”
Throat constricting, tears full but balanced in your eyes, you push out the words, “I love you, Frank,” and the man you love smiles.
“Love you more, sweet girl. Ain’t off the hook yet, though. Fourteen more, c’mon.”
And as you conjure up fourteen more things you can say you like about yourself, your posture straightens. Laughter returns, shared between the two of you. Tears well in your eyes but don’t fall. The first one was the hardest. The rest you find with Frank’s help while he threads his fingers through your hair, or drags the back of his knuckles over your cheek, or brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.
You’re talkin’. Laughin’. Finally cuttin’ yourself some slack. Seein’ you like this—soft, unguarded—reminds Frank what he first fell in love with when he met you.
Your heart.
Your goddamn heart. Got so much you’re full of it.
Frank understands what needs to be done. He’ll do it. Without a doubt.
He’ll put the fear of god into the motherfucker that preys on your doubts, your heart, under the guise of kindness. Usin’ his wife’s goddamn sweetness to manipulate her. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s got all the time in the world.
Time’s fuckin’ up.
☠︎
3 days later…
Shark to blood, Frank stalks the maze of halls to your office. Black on black, ballcap cinched down, he cuts through the normality of business casual and overhead lights like plague.
In reality?
He’s the fuckin’ omen.
Fist vising a fresh bouquet of flowers, the cellophane crinkles. A stalk snaps. Boots thunder down the corridors he memorized first structurally, by blueprint, then physically, during his first visit years ago. Your colleagues flatten against walls, find convenient exits, avert their eyes—anything to be small in the presence of The Punisher. They don’t know it’s him… but they feel it, the conquest for blood, the irrefutability of his violent nature.
Frank did his homework weeks ago. Soon as the bastard got hired, Frank had a full background check, credit scores, past addresses, and medical history. Poor bastard’s got scoliosis—no wonder he employs sick tactics on a sweet girl like you. Guy’s got no damn spine. Frank’ll reshape it, alright.
The hall empties out by the time Frank approaches your office. He slows, head craning to see you through the open door as you work. Sunlight from the new picture windows soaks you ‘til you glow gold. You mutter to yourself, movin’ here, movin’ there, unpacking trinkets from a box to arrange just how you like it in your new office.
Promotion paid off. You earned every bit of it. ‘Specially when your breath of fresh air wiped your fuckin’ work. Frank’s not told you that. Won’t let you carry that hurt when he can handle it.
Without a sound, Frank leans a shoulder against the doorway. Flowers hang at his side. Temporarily? He forgets the real reason he came. It’s you. ‘Course it’s you. But it ain’t this. Flowers.
He came for Jason.
Frank’s the kinda guy who mistakes warm and fuzzy for heartburn. He gets alotta heartburn around you.
Turns into a full blown coronary as he watches you dip both hands into the box, takin’ somethin’ in those gentle fingers like it’s priceless. You lift it out, and Christ, he’s done for.
Front and center on your desk, you nestle a framed photo between your monitors. The picture?
You and him. Years ago. Halloween. Hours after Frank got back, beaten only a quarter of the way dead this time. You sat between his legs on the front steps of your apartment, handin’ out candy to kids. Frank gave you relentless hell for your costume, a damn scarecrow.
When a kid asked Frank, “What’re you dressed as, mister?”
And Frank said, “An asshole,” without blinking, he’ll never forget the way you laughed.
You, stupidly adorable makeshift scarecrow costume. Paint on your nose, cheeks. Cheeks puffed in the biggest smile known to man.
Him, busted mouth crooking what it could of a smile he forgot how to make. Reminds himself of the goal he’s not yet shared: get away from the life. Retire. No more busted lips in pictures. No more bruises to come home and concern you with. No more holidays spent dressin’ his wounds.
Masking the aspirating blast of love tightening his voice, recalibrating to the mission instead of reminiscing, Frank speaks. “Workin’ hard, sweetheart? Or hardly workin’?”
Hearing Frank’s voice—familiar rumbly gravel—sparks through every nerve in your system to liven you. You spin on a heel, face breaking into a wide smile, big smile. You’re dashing to him before you realize, drawn naturally.
“Frank? Oh my god, hi,” your arms already winding around him waist, pressing your face against his chest to feel the steady thud, thud, thud of his heart. Your safe place. Your home. “What— I wasn’t expecting you,” with a breathy laugh. “What’re you doing here?”
“Congratulatin’ my girl, yeah?” He binds his arms around you. Gives a loving nudge of his stubbled chin on your forehead to ease you back, get access, and find your mouth with his.
Lifted on your tiptoes, your weight braced by Frank’s forearm banded across your lower back, you tip your head to get a better taste. Lips slotted deeper—easy to blame your excitement on the surprise—you hum a sound Frank laps off your mouth.
You want seconds. You consider seconds, delight teetering to greedy, so you compromise with two pecks and pull back to look him in the eye. Hands on his biceps for support, head tilted back so your lashes fan your eyebrow, you beam up at him.
“Damn,” Frank blinks, halfway disoriented. “I get that every time I bring flowers?”
“Stop by more often and you’ll find out.”
“Yeah? Gonna let me in, give me a tour?”
“Maybe more than a tour, if you’re lucky.”
“Luck’s drawn to me like flies on shit.”
You snort. “…Right.”
Separating a fraction, Frank offers the flowers to you in the space between his chest. Your eyes fall to them, face softening. Gentle with appreciation, over the bundle of white lilies, you press another kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” you murmur against him. “These are beautiful. For being a hard ass, you’re kinda romantic, Frank.“
“Romantic, huh?” Frank watches the shape of your body as you go to tend to the flowers. “Can’t let you get used t’that.”
“Too late.” You flash a small smile in his direction, acknowledging what you both know: Frank’s not romantic in the big ways, but he loves you so much weaker men would’ve gone stupid.
While you cut the stems over the wastebasket, Frank performs a simple recon of the room. Finds evidence of his target. A blazer thrown over the back of a chair. A half-drank coffee. Sloppy handwriting over an abandoned notepad.
“Your friend here?” Frank asks, anything but innocent.
Snip. Snip. You glance at him with a raised brow. “Stephanie?”
“Nah.” Frank points at the notebook. “Him.”
Sn…ip… Skepticism setting in, your nose scrunches. “…Jason?”
“Yeah. Him. He around?”
“Does it matter?”
“Figured I should meet the guy spendin’ forty hours a week up my wife’s ass.”
You shoot a glare, lacking any real depth. “…He’s gone for the day.”
“And left his shit in here like this?” Frank wants to say he’s an inconsiderate slob. Frank refrains from pointin’ out the guy’s makin’ himself at home in your space.
“It’s three things,” you quirk a brow. “Not a big deal.”
“He gonna be back tomorrow?”
“We have a meeting at nine a.m. sharp, so I’m gonna hope so.”
“Good,” Frank concludes, satisfied. That works, too.
Stalks trimmed, you arrange the lilies in a vase, fingers hanging on the glass rim when you’re finished. “Forget about him,” you shake your head. “You’re here, visiting me, it’s just the two of us, and you definitely made my day. I couldn’t be happier right now, Frank.”
“Yeah?” Something rare and short-lived flashes in his eyes; the look where he’s still trying to believe this—you—are his. “Guess I did my job.” With the heel of his boot, he knocks the door shut. Prowls the rest of the way to you, his hands at home on your hips to draw you right up against him.
Your arms snake around his neck, melting into the solidity of Frank. By the bill, you ease his hat off, seeing him in the full, natural light of the windows behind you. Hat in your hands, his head bent, you reach up and kiss the crook of his nose. And again, on the bridge. And again, on the tip. And falling lower, to his mouth.
There’s no tentative introduction. Not when your arms buckle around him and jerk him closer. Not when his mouth opens, inseparable from you, to taste the seam of your lips. You hiccup something dangerously close to a moan, stifled by the palm that cups your jaw, the big fingers that press into either side of your cheeks to lightly mush your lips.
“‘Bout to start somethin’ we won’t be able to walk away from,” Frank goads on your mouth, voice reduced to hot husk and need.
Upper lip twitching, your teeth clink against his. “Can’t get my outfit dirty. I’ve got a presentation in twenty.”
“All’s I need’s ten.”
“…To finish?”
“You.” Boot hooked around the chair leg, Frank yanks it over. Drops down into it, knees spread wide. Looking up at you, his stare inevitable and dark, Frank pats his thigh. “Sit. Wanna show you how good the city can look from up here.”
You forget everything—especially the presentation in twenty—while you overlook the city in your new office, on your husband’s lap, his hand between your legs and the other over your mouth, his boots hooking your ankles open.
You forget about the flowers on display in your desk. Frank communicates through the flowers he buys. You should’ve known. Should’ve read into it more. But you didn’t.
A harbinger in the form of velvet petals and the color of purity, specifically picked by Frank: the lilies.
The funeral flower.
☠︎
That night…
Wasn’t anything unusual when you texted Frank that afternoon with a change of plans:
Going out for drinks after work! Stephanie’s driving me there. Pick me up after? Come a little early to help stage my escape and we can go somewhere else to have a few together. Xoxoxo
Frank replied:
I’ll be there, sweetheart. Count on it.
So he was.
Bar stinks. Smells like fuckin’ shit. Not actual shit. Bullshit—worst kind. Full moon’s got people squirrelly. Has Frank on edge.
Tucked on the other side of the room, corner high top, Frank monitors you from afar. Won’t interrupt your time out. Doesn’t like people much, anyway. Sipping his beer, bottle small in his grasp, Frank clocks the faces he knows from your work, watches every interaction. Even if he hasn’t met ‘em, he’s done his homework. Has faces to names, street addresses, registered vehicles. Five coworkers with you, and a sixth, unattended drink beside you.
Who could that be?
The rock in Frank’s gut says he knows. Says it’s divine intervention, givin’ him an opportunity. A gift. Wonders if Red’d see it that way, too.
Fuck, sweetheart, you glow under the shitty neon lights and grimy haze of smoke. Too damn pretty for a place like this. Kinda place where if you go out back? You’ll get gutted while a handful of bikers smoke and it’s your own fault for havin’ the balls.
Feeling Frank’s stare, you look through the crowd, finding him at his usual post. You lift your glass. Frank lifts his. A salutation from a distance, a promise time together for later in a cheers, a sip, and a smile.
You go back to your friends.
Frank resumes guard, ensuring your safety, so you can focus on enjoying yourself.
Turning back to the bar, the animated chatter of tipsy talking, inebriated laughter, you feel… good. Happy. Elbows on the sticky counter, the vodka soda in both hands, you smile. Content now, knowing later promises the best kind of fun, but it’s just you, Frank, and the entire night.
You don’t have long to indulge in the thoughts. Jason sidles back up beside you, his shoulder pressing against yours in the congested room. He smells like aftershave, smells good, honestly, not in a hungry way, just respectable. He smells like he tried.
“Everything go okay at your doctor’s appointment?” you ask, nudging at the reason he left the office early today.
“Doctor’s appointment?” Jason fires back before he realizes. “Oh, right. Yeah, definitely. Doctor’s appointment went good, went well… Just… routine.”
You hum, nod along, but as you look at his profile—conversational attention—you notice the clean clipper passes through his hair. And then at his jaw, the skin faintly red, leftover friction of a razor blade. So he… went to the doctor… got a haircut… shaved… and then you notice his clothes… Dark dress jeans, a fitted quarter-zip. Jason’s not a bad looking guy, but he’s definitely not your type either. Too clean, too concerned with gaining, obtaining instead of sharing or supporting. Talks a little too much about crap he can convince you knows a lot about, even if he knows nothing. Helps him at work, and he knows it.
“I hope I’m not prying here, surely you won’t mind me asking…” Jason says, not asking permission, taking it anyway. He faces you completely, elbow on the bar. He looks down, thumbing the rim of his old fashioned, pensive as an act. “Is your husband… good to you?”
Almost swallowing your straw, you spit it out in a stuttered cough, brows over your head. “What?”
“You seem really… tense all the time. You said yourself, he’s intense.”
You bubble a genuine, incredulous laugh. “My husband’s not the problem. He’s intense, sure, but that’s not a downfall.”
“It is if you’re distracted and uneasy.”
“I’m— what?” you belt out, face screwed. It’s the first you’re hearing about being distracted, uneasy, or tense. “I’m at work. We have deadlines, high stakes, high pressure. Home isn’t the problem.”
Jason draws a clicking breath between his teeth, as if he knew you’d say that, and you’re still wrong. Kind, compassionate, even, he looks at you with enough sympathy to drown you.
“I think for you, work’s a break. I’m just looking out for you, definitely not trying to be the bad guy here, you know I’d never do that,” Jason raises his hands to claim innocence. “What I’m trying to say is… you deserve someone… nice.”
“Like you?” you prompt, heart thrumming with Frank’s accusation from days ago.
Jason shrugs, biting back a smirk since you said it. “Something for you to think about. I mean, look at all the time we spend together. Calls, staying later than we have to in the office… I know you, I see you in those quiet moments.”
Bewildered by the audacity, brain turning the words over multiple times as you put together a rebuttal. “You call me, Jason. You- you have questions, need help on a sheet… I answer and stay because I’m supposed to. It’s called being a good coworker, not attraction.”
“But you answer. Every time. And you never tell me you have to go. You stay on the line, stay in the office… with me. What’s that say about you? Your marriage?” Jason gauges your reaction. Pushes harder. “What’s the say about us?”
Jaw hanging, your mind races to the last long call you had with Jason. That night Frank cornered you at the counter, kissing and biting your neck, your jaw, trying to coax your attention to home, to him. You told Jason you were home. You vocalized polite deflections that hinted the conversation needed to end. But… this is where being polite got you, stuck with the ideas of yourself you continuously reject, watching them come to fruition. You resist the urge to yell for Frank. You know, desperately, Frank can make the problems go away, remove you from this equation, but Frank can’t fight all of your battles for you.
“You,” you say, cocking a hip out, your jaw jutted. “You need to learn your place. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go to the bathroom, and when I come back? This never happened, and it will never happen again. Are we clear?”
Giving him no time to respond—the only answer is yes—you storm off. Shoulder through the crowd, and close yourself in the bathroom to cool down.
Frank watched the whole thing. Waited for you to give the signal. The: Frank, I need you over here signal. You never did. You wanted to handle it on your own. Alright. Frank respects that. Admires it. But seein’ you walk off like that? Shit. No stayin’ out of it now.
No stayin’ out of it when…
At the bar, Jason rummages in his pocket, hands trembling with urgency. Pulls out a baggie, small, coke-sized. No coke in it. Just five peach, oblong tablets.
Violent inspiration for Frank.
Jason digs a finger in the baggie. Scoops out two pills. Drops a third on the floor with a hissed curse, fumbling for it.
Sockets yank loose in Frank’s head, vision going red. Tendons cable through his neck, breath ragged and shallow; an animal without a leash. Frank chains himself with a fist around his beer bottle, squeezing tighter.
If that pill goes into your fuckin’ drink…
Tighter.
Frank shoulda taken this sick fuck out in his own home, do it on his turf, repaint the sonnuva bitch’s apartment with his brains.
Tighter. The glass creaks. Whines. The bottle quakes.
Ghosts in his palms, clear as day, Frank jolts as he feels old bones and old corpses break in his fingers. Hundreds—thousands—dismantled by the hands he uses to love you.
The noises start. You know the ones. The guttural reeving of a man-made machine; an element of pure fucking consequence.
Tighter. To demolish.
The bottle explodes. Glass bursts. Beer flies.
Jason drops two tablets into your drink. Through the swarm of people, Frank sees the drugs contaminate, spreading poison without your fuckin’ consent.
Instinct and action converge—then explode.
Before Jason can lower his hand, Frank tears through the masses. Not a man. A weapon. Retribution. Vengeance. Divine wrath.
The fuckin’ judge, jury, and executioner.
Punishment.
Pain reaching him before realization does, Jason screams. Bloodcurdling agony scratches out the music, the clamor, all fuckin’ sound. Brain catching up to the excruciating pain, the cause of it, Jason stares at the snare of his wrist. What’s left of it. Snapped back, hand hanging off the wrist, bone spearing under the skin in fractured protrusions.
If not for the pain, it’s the sound that puts the fear of god in Jason.
It’s Frank.
In the span of two seconds, Frank bounces Jason’s head on the counter with a wet crack of skull, heel of his hand pinning him in place. The glass—your glass—absorbing the drug magnifies Jason’s skittering eyes, his stammering breath painting the countertop.
“Puttin’ shit in a girl’s drink, huh?” Frank spits, smashing Jason’s head until it purples.
Everyone gives Frank a wide berth. Whispers of The Punisher start to circulate, always do on this side of town.
“I didn’t-! I-I-I—” Jason sputters, spittle and fear flying.
“You DID!” Frank roars, slam, slam, slamming Jason’s head for a three count, blood sprinkling the wood. “You think I’m stupid, hm? Talkin’ to me like I’m fuckin’ stupid? You think I look stupid?”
“No- no! No! God, no!” Anything to get off the hook.
“Then don’t fuck with me like I’m fuckin’ stupid. Now,” Frank cages Jason in from behind, a massive hand squeezing between his cheeks to pry open his mouth. “Drink it. You were gonna feed this shit to my wife. You drink it.”
Frank lifts the glass as Jason pounds the counter with his good hand, smearing his face in a desperate bid for escape.
As the narcotized drink teeters the rim of the glass, ready to spill over into Jason’s pleading, incessant mouth, a voice—concerned, still sweet—cuts through the thick of it.
Your voice.
“F-Frank?” Legs jellied from shock, you shuffle forward, the herd parting for you. “What’s going on…?”
Frank looks over his shoulder. Right to you. Jesus, his heart almost gives out. You. His wife. Precious, delicate, so fuckin’ good the scum of the earth tries to eat ya. Frank won’t let that happen. “Hey, sweetheart, no problem. Havin’ a civil conversation with hotshot here about human decency. Caught your breath’a fresh air spikin’ your drink, s’all.”
A green-tinge floods your face. “Oh—? Oh… my god…” The ground beneath you swirls. A hand on your stomach to keep the vomit in, other hand curling into a fist, you grit your question through your teeth. “Why?”
Jason huffs, all panted breath and nowhere to run. “Because,” he hisses, grunting when Frank pinches the back of his neck like scruff. “Because you’re special.”
☠︎
Jason’s thrown into the brick wall of the back alley with a heavy slap of limp meat.
“Tell me what the fuck that was!” Frank yells, words clawed from his throat.
Intimidation tactic, galvanic rage with nothing to do but bleed, Frank slugs his fist into the wall by Jason’s face, letting him cower and piss and beg while he feels the fury sailing an intentional centimeter off mark.
“Fuckin’ tell me. Tell me. Tell me.”
Bam. Bam. Bam.
In harmony with the strike of his fist.
The drizzle of piss on the ground’s the fucker’s first answer.
“It- it wasn’t—” choked on his own terror, Jason tries to crawl up the wall. “It wasn’t bad! I swear! It- it wasn’t roofies or anything, just- just something to help her relax. It was just Xan—”
And with a shark to blood… there comes the frenzy.
“You don’t decide what my wife fuckin’ needs! She’s a strong woman—“ wham, an uppercut straight into Jason’s solar plexus. “She’s fuckin’ strong. Goddamn right she’s special.”
Blood gurgling from his mouth, Jason groans, tries to double-over.
Tries.
“Stand the fuck up. Ain’t finished with you,” Frank clocks him back, velocity of his punch leaving Jason damn-near crucified on the wall. “Take it like a fuckin’ man since that’s what you wanna be. Controllin’ women like that. Fuck.”
Weak men are what’s wrong with the world.
“She’s the only good thing I fuckin’ got. You fuckin’ hear me? Huh?”
No reply. Just the sputtering cries of a grown man in crisis. Music to Frank’s ears.
“I said—” Frank latches onto both of Jason’s ears. Rips. Blood gushes out as the seams start to separate. “YOU FUCKIN’ HEAR ME?”
The shrieking says he’s heard. And felt.
Leaves ‘em connected even if he shouldn’t.
Frank thinks about you. His girl. Your grin over that chai latte. Your laugh in his ear late at night while you narrate a documentary on fuckin’ whales. Halloween night those years ago, same picture on your desk now. Slow dancin’ in the kitchen to your terrible music, half asleep, tucked into him like he’s safety instead of a biblical reckoning.
And this motherfucker was gonna do only god knows what to you.
Frank snaps back when Jason hacks up blood.
“You stay away from her,” Frank’s fists ball in Jason’s collar, nose to nose, teeth bared as verbalized venom poisons the air. “Look me in the eye and tell me you fuckin’ hear me. Say it. Fuckin’ say it. Say: I hear you, Frank. I get you, Frank. Say: sorry I’m a stupid cunt, Frank. Say: I deserve everythin’ comin’ my way.”
Jason recites every word, verbatim, through chattering teeth. Calls himself a stupid cunt. Says he hears Frank, gets Frank, deserves this.
“Are- are you gonna kill me?” Sprawled pliant on the wall, shirt catching the rough brick, reduced to a stuck hog instead of a man.
“Yeah,” Frank says simply. “Yeah. ‘M gonna need to do that.”
And Frank unloads.
☠︎
1 Week Later…
Sun’s hot on Frank’s back, even at seven in the morning. Sweat funnels down his back, soaking his tee. Been up before the sun digging the shit for a proper burial. Size twelve shoebox duct taped shut and off to the side.
Grunting, Frank stakes the shovel back in the ground, adding to the mounds of fresh dirt on either side of his boots. Hole in the ground sized for a dismembered man in a garbage bag.
Shovel leaned against his side, Frank wipes the back of his hand over his forehead. Sweat smears dirt. Looks up at the sky. Blue as can be. Bright as hell. Looks a lot like forgiveness. Or deception. Frank can’t tell these days.
Readjusting the handle in his blistered palms, spade ready to pierce the dirt, the back door creaks open. Gets his attention.
Frank straightens in sections of his vertebrae, squinting against the halo of sunlight around… you.
You walk out, barefoot in the grass, sleep-soft in your pajamas yet. And you bring coffee. An angel. His angel.
Frank lets go of a breath he didn’t know he held. “I’ll be up soon, yeah?” he calls. Doesn’t stop you. “Dirty work out here you don’t need t’see, sweetheart.”
You ignore the advice, shuffling your way right to him on an invisible track. When you reach him, you pass a mug of coffee.
Dirt-lined fingers clasp it by the rim, taking a generous sip through the billow of steam. “Mm,” he hums, angling from the pit in the ground and towards you instead, eyes sliding down the satin set blessing your curves. “What’re you doin’ out here, huh?”
“Bringing you coffee. Enjoying the sun,” you sip from your own cup, eyes locked on him.
“Ain’t complainin’.”
“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you murmur, curling into Frank’s side.
The hole in front of you two. But it doesn’t bother you. Maybe it should, but… it doesn’t. Not how you thought it might.
Frank leans down. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. Drapes an arm over your shoulders lightly, afraid of dirtying you, too. “Yeah,” Frank agrees. “Didn’t have to.” He shrugs. “Wanted to.”
“Kinda looks big enough for a body in a garbage bag,” you tilt your head, lips pursed in thought. “You know, if you chopped him up.”
Frank raises a brow. “Screwy thoughts for a pretty little thing like you so early,” but he stamps two kisses your temple like he approves.
You hum, chin inclining for more affection. “To be fair… Twinkles was a really fat cat. It’s nice of you to do this for Ms. Jenkins.”
“The lady’s, what? A hundred? Ain’t gonna make her dig the damn hole for her own cat.”
You laugh, quiet and soft for the morning. Warms Frank right up.
Pretending your top needs adjusting, Frank smooths the fabric at your shoulder, fingertips dragging down your arm, landing at the small of your back. Light touch. Featherlight. Keeps you clean. “You alright, sweetheart?” Quieter, with the weight of last week.
Your chest inflates with a slow, steady breath. Coffee in one hand, other splaying over Frank’s stomach, you think. Then nod. “Yeah, I’m… okay. A little fucked up over it all, but I’m okay. I’m good.”
“Alright. Good. We good?”
“We’re good. More than good.”
“S’long as we’re good.”
“I got an update, by the way…”
Frank tucks his chin, looking down at you in the closeness. “Yeah?”
“Yeah… got the email this morning. Jason’s been relocated to another building. So he must be out of the hospital.”
“Hm,” Frank hides the satisfaction with indifference. “Good.”
“…to another state.”
“Even better.”
“Hey,” you shift. “I’ve been meaning to say a few things… Like I’m sorry. And thank you.”
“Ah,” Frank shakes his head. “Don’t owe me nothin’.”
“I owe you an apology for not believing you.” You slide in front of him, reaching up to span your hand over his stubbled cheek. “You warned me. You were right. I didn’t listen. I… couldn’t see what you saw. About the situation, about… me.”
Frank leans into your touch, brows knitting before they relax. “Always lookin’ out f’you. Don’t need to apologize for believin’ someone’s good.”
“I need to be more aware.”
“Nah,” Frank turns his head in. Kisses your palm. “You stay sweet. You leave the cynicism t’me. What you need t’do, though, sweetheart?” Frank drops the shovel. Wipes his mouth on his shoulder. “Believe in yourself. Ain’t nothin’ in here that’ll change how people see you,” Frank says, tapping his finger against your sternum. “This’s good. Special. You. Can’t go all your life with doubt. It’ll rein you in. Keep you there. Won’t let you go far.”
You drop your forehead to his chest, his sweat placating the old wounds. “I know…”
“We’ll work on it.”
It’s a promise. A plan.
“Thank you,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes. “I never said thank you. Thank you for… looking out for me. Being patient. Doing everything in your power to keep the world from hurting me. Even when I’m the one hurting myself with my doubts. Especially then.”
Frank tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Dips in, his nose nudging yours. “Nothin’s gonna take you from me, yeah? Bubble wrap you if I got to. I got you, baby.”
Hand sliding to his neck, you draw him down. Kiss him. Slow and easy, intimate in the understanding of what this man, your husband, will do for you. The extent he’ll go to.
Drawing back, he nips your bottom lip. Replaces your mouth with a drink. Not the same warmth, but it’ll do. For now.
Arm around his waist, nestled back into his side, you stand with the question that’s burned you most. Until you can’t. “…Why’d you stop?”
Frank turns his head to you. You look up at him. You see each other in the light of a new day. A quiet day. “You wouldn’t want that, yeah? Pretty girl. Everything I do’s f’you.”
“Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
“Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“We should probably finish burying Twinkles. I think Ms. Jenkins is watching from her window.”
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Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch & Platonic GN Resident Reader
Summary: After Pittfest, everyone at The Pitt changes, but Robby changes the most. He used to be the mentor who could catch you before you fell. Now he’s colder, sharper, and crueler, acting like cruelty is the same thing as teaching. But on the Fourth of July, when Robby uses the part of you he once helped save against you, you end up on the wrong side of the hospital roof railing, and he’s forced to see just how far he pushed you.
WC: 11K
Tags: Heavy Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Platonic Relationship, Rooftop Scene, No Y/N, Gender Neutral Reader
A/N: This was a request a while back, but I think I accidentally deleted the message. Sorry! So hopefully the person that requested this sees it.
The first few weeks after Pittfest, everyone understood why Robby was different.
How could they not?
The department itself felt different. Same scuffed floors. Same monitors. Same nurses’ station with its bad coffee, half-dead pens, and discharge paperwork that somehow reproduced when no one was looking.
But something had shifted. Something had cracked open and never fully closed.
People spoke softer for a while. Not all the time. Not when EMS rolled in hot or room twelve decided the laws of physics didn’t apply to him. The Pitt was still The Pitt. It demanded motion before grief, charting before sleep, competence before breakdown.
But in the quiet spaces, you could feel it. In the way Dana paused a second longer before snapping at someone. In the way Mohan stared at the board like she could will the names into something less tragic. In the way laughter came back slowly, like everyone had forgotten where they’d left it.
And Robby… Robby had always been hard to read.
That was part of him. He had built himself out of sarcasm, caffeine, bad posture, and the kind of medical instinct people either trusted immediately or resented on principle. He could save your patient, insult your differential, and somehow teach you three things before you realized your pride was bleeding.
But before Pittfest, there had been lightness under it.
A grin beneath the sarcasm. A flash of amusement when you got mouthy with him. A low, pleased hum when you caught something before he did. A kind of trust that made you stand taller, because Robby didn’t hand it out cheaply.
When he teased you, it used to feel like permission. Like you belonged close enough to be annoyed by him. When he corrected you, it used to feel like teaching. Like he saw the doctor you were becoming and was stubborn enough to drag them the rest of the way there. And when you pushed too hard, which you always did, Robby noticed before you hit the ground.
He was good at that. Catching you before the fall. Not dramatically. Never dramatically. Robby would rather staple his own hand to a discharge packet than have an earnest emotional conversation in public.
But he caught you anyway.
A granola bar dropped beside your chart without comment.
A firm, “Go drink water before you become my next patient.”
A hand closing around the back of your scrub top when you swayed after twelve hours, steering you into the nearest chair with a muttered, “Very inspiring. Try fainting somewhere with fewer witnesses next time.”
A consult room door closed quietly behind him after a bad case.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”
You had trusted him with that version of you. The not-fine version.
You were an R3 during Pittfest. Experienced enough to know what you were doing. Not experienced enough for what happened. No one was experienced enough for what happened.
Afterward, everyone became a different version of themselves. Langdon went to rehab. Collins moved to Washington. The spaces they left behind became part of the department’s new anatomy. You became an R4. Mohan became an R4.
And Robby was still there. Except he wasn’t. Not the way he used to be.
At first, you told yourself it was grief. Then exhaustion. Then trauma. Then the department falling apart in small, specific ways. But eventually, there was no softer name for it. Robby stopped catching you.
That was the first thing. Not the sharpness. Not the corrections. Not even the impatience. It was the silence where a dry joke used to be.
The empty space beside you at the board where he used to appear, coffee in hand, already reading your face before you could fix it.
As an R4, you knew you were supposed to need less. You were supposed to move faster. Think cleaner. Lead without looking over your shoulder every time the room got loud. You were supposed to become the person the lower-level residents looked to, not the person still searching for reassurance from the attending who had taught them how to survive the place.
You knew that. But knowing you had to stand alone didn’t make it hurt less when Robby stopped standing nearby.
Mohan handled it better than you did. Or maybe she was just better at looking like she did. She felt Robby’s distance too. You saw it in the pinch around her mouth when he cut her off during rounds, in the way her fingers tightened around a chart when he redirected an intern away from her.
But Mohan had Abbot now. Not officially. Not sentimentally. Abbot was not built for sentimental mentorship unless the soundtrack involved a cardiac monitor and someone bleeding on his shoes.
But he had become a place for her to land anyway. A steady voice. A second opinion. A dry comment at just the right time to cut through panic without making her feel stupid for having it.
You were happy for her. Mostly. Some days.
Other days, you watched Abbot lean against the counter while Mohan talked through a complicated case, watched him listen like her thinking mattered, watched him correct without carving her open, and something small and ugly twisted behind your ribs.
Not because Mohan didn’t deserve it. Because you missed having that. And the worst part was, you used to.
Robby had been the one, years ago, when you were still a med student running on three hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of perfectionism, who pulled you into an empty consult room after you nearly passed out during a shift.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”
You had laughed then, because it was easier than crying.
Robby hadn’t.
He had leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with that exhausted, X-ray stare of his.
“You seeing anyone?”
You blinked. “Like dating?”
“Like a professional who gets paid to listen to the things you’re clearly not saying.”
Your face had gone hot.
“I don’t need—”
“Don’t do that.”
Two words.
Quiet.
Cutting.
And somehow kinder than all the soft concern everyone else had tried to give you.
“You don’t get bonus points for white-knuckling your way through life,” he’d said. “You don’t get a better residency match because you refused help. You just get tired. And then you get dangerous.”
That had shut you up.
Because dangerous was the word that scared you. Not sad. Not anxious.
Dangerous.
Robby had seen that. He had seen you.
Two weeks later, you made the appointment. A month after that, you started medication.
Robby had been the first person to make help sound less like failure and more like maintenance.
Like medicine. Like something you deserved before you collapsed. Which was why the last ten months had felt so much like punishment.
Because now, when you faltered, Robby didn’t pull you aside. He called it out in front of people. Not loudly. Robby didn’t need volume to humiliate you. He had precision.
“If I have to remind you about disposition at this stage, we have a bigger problem.”
“Either run the trauma or step aside for someone who can.”
“Don’t call it caution because you’re afraid to commit.”
“You’re an R4. Stop looking at me like a med student waiting to be rescued.”
Each comment, on its own, was defensible. That was the problem.
Any one of them could be explained away as teaching. Tough love. High standards. Emergency medicine not being a place for ego or indecision.
But together, day after day, they formed a shape you couldn’t ignore. He did not trust you anymore.
You could feel it in the way he stepped around your orders instead of asking about them. The way he redirected R1s and R2s before they reached you. The way his eyes moved past you at the board, landing on Whitaker instead.
Whitaker, brand-new R1, got the version of Robby you used to know. The patient one. The almost-cheerful one. The one who could take a mistake apart without making the person feel like the mistake had swallowed them whole.
“Walk me through it,” Robby would say, standing beside him at the bedside.
And Whitaker would. Haltingly at first. Then stronger. There was room in it. Room to be wrong. Room to learn. Room to become.
You watched it happen from across the floor with a chart open in your hand and an awful heat behind your eyes. You hated yourself for resenting him. Whitaker had done nothing wrong.
But some bitter, exhausted part of you wanted to ask where that version of Robby had gone when you still needed him.
Not to hold your hand. Not to save you. Just to stop looking at you like you had already disappointed him.
Mohan noticed.
She found you one afternoon in the stairwell between shifts, your back against the wall, one hand pressed hard against your sternum like you could physically hold yourself together.
She didn’t ask if you were okay. You loved her for that. Instead, she sat down beside you and handed you a granola bar from her pocket.
“It’s the gross kind,” she said.
You opened one eye. “Why do you have it?”
“Because I keep thinking emergency hunger will make it taste better.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
You huffed something that almost became a laugh. For a minute, neither of you said anything.
Beyond the stairwell door, The Pitt carried on without you. Overhead pages. Cart wheels. Someone calling for respiratory. A place that did not care if you were falling apart, as long as you could do it quietly and come back useful.
Mohan rested her elbows on her knees.
“He’s doing it to you too,” she said.
You didn’t pretend not to understand.
“Yeah.”
“He’s harder on us.”
“He expects more from us.”
“That’s one explanation.”
You looked over at her.
Mohan stared ahead, jaw tight. “Not the only one.”
Something in your chest sank.
“He doesn’t want us here,” you said.
Mohan didn’t answer right away.
That was answer enough.
Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know what he wants anymore.”
You looked down at the granola bar in your hand. The wrapper crinkled under your thumb.
“Abbot thinks it’s trauma,” Mohan said.
You laughed once, flat and humorless. “Abbot thinks everything is trauma.”
“Abbot is usually right.”
“Annoying habit.”
“Deeply.”
Another silence.
Mohan looked at you carefully. “Are you okay?”
There it was. The question you hated.
You forced a shrug.
“I’m tired.”
Mohan’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You looked away.
For a second, you thought about telling her.
That you could feel yourself getting worse. That every shift felt like walking into a room where everyone knew you were failing but nobody had decided who would say it first. That you were sleeping less, eating worse, forgetting stupid things, crying in your car before shifts and fixing your face with the resigned efficiency of someone cleaning up a spill.
That Robby’s voice had started following you home.
“R4s should not need reminders for things interns figure out by winter.”
“That’s hesitation, not judgment.”
“You’re too far into this program to look this unsure every time the room gets loud.”
Instead, you said, “I’m fine.”
Mohan looked at you for a long moment. Then she nodded once.
Not because she believed you. Because she knew what it looked like to need the lie.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
And somehow, that made you feel worse.
By July, the department had accepted the new shape of things. Collins was still gone. Robby was still Robby, except sharper now. More distant. More impatient with anything that looked like need. And Langdon was back.
Technically.
He came in on the Fourth of July with his badge clipped to his scrubs and something guarded around his eyes, looking almost like himself if you didn’t know where to look. But you knew where to look.
The room shifted around him differently now. People smiled too carefully. Jokes landed half a second late. Nobody said rehab. Nobody said welcome back too loudly.
And Robby rode him all day. Not cruelly, not exactly. Nothing anyone could point to and say too much.
But enough.
Enough that Langdon’s jaw kept tightening. Enough that Mohan looked away more than once. Enough that you felt something inside you fold in on itself, because Langdon was back and it still didn’t feel right.
If anything, it felt worse. Because for months, some desperate part of you had told itself that maybe the problem was absence.
Langdon gone. Collins gone. Pittfest still echoing. Too many empty spaces.
But Langdon was here now, standing ten feet away from you, alive and sober and trying, and Robby still looked like a man determined to make sure nobody got comfortable enough to need him.
Not Langdon. Not Mohan. Not you.
Especially not you.
And you had learned to stop looking over your shoulder for someone who was no longer there.
Mostly. Almost.
Except some stupid, stubborn part of you kept waiting for him to notice.
Not the mistakes. Not the hesitation.
You.
The way your laugh had gotten thinner. The way you stopped eating during shift. The way you volunteered for the hardest cases because at least exhaustion felt like something you had earned. The way you flinched now when Robby said your name.
He noticed. That was the worst part. You knew he noticed. Robby noticed everything.
So when his eyes flicked to you after you went too quiet at the board, when his gaze paused on your untouched coffee, when his mouth tightened after you blinked too fast at one of his corrections…
He knew. He had to know. He just didn’t come closer.
And every day he didn’t, something in you learned to believe that meant he had chosen not to.
By the morning of the Fourth of July, you were already tired before you reached the ambulance bay doors.
The city had been restless all night. Heat trapped between buildings. Sirens layered over distant fireworks.
People testing their luck with alcohol, grills, illegal explosives, and the kind of confidence that kept emergency departments in business.
Inside, The Pitt was already awake and angry.
Mohan stood near the board, hair pulled back, eyes shadowed but alert. She looked over when you came in and offered you the smallest smile. You gave one back. A weak one. A functional one.
Across the department, Whitaker was talking to Robby near room four, nodding intently while Robby pointed something out on a chart.
Robby looked tired. More tired than usual. His sabbatical started after today. Three months away from The Pitt. Three months without him.
You had spent weeks telling yourself that should feel like relief. Instead, it felt like abandonment with a calendar invite.
Langdon stood near the medication room, one hand braced against the counter, listening while Dana said something low and practical to him. He nodded once, mouth tight, eyes down. He was back. He was really back. And still, somehow, the department felt emptier than it had before.
Robby glanced up. His eyes met yours across the floor. For one second, something moved over his face. Something almost like concern. Then Whitaker asked a question, and Robby looked away.
Your chest tightened.
Mohan followed your gaze.
“Don’t,” she said softly.
You swallowed.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I know.”
That was the problem with old friends.
They heard you anyway.
—
By noon, The Pitt had become a fireworks safety commercial written by someone with a personal grudge against emergency medicine.
Room three had a second-degree burn across his palm because he “wanted to see if the fuse was still hot.”
Room seven had heat exhaustion, sunburn, and the kind of husband who kept saying she was “being dramatic” until Dana threatened to make him wait outside with the smokers.
Room twelve was drunk, bleeding from the eyebrow, and loudly insisting he had been attacked by a folding chair.
You had not stopped moving in six hours. Not really. You had signed charts standing up, eaten half a protein bar in two bites, lost your coffee somewhere between radiology and trauma two, and washed someone else’s blood off your wrist in the sink by the med room because the bathroom felt too far away.
It was fine. You were fine. You were an R4. That was what R4s did.
They moved. They handled things. They closed loops before someone had to ask. They anticipated problems before they became Robby-shaped corrections at the nurses’ station.
So you kept moving.
Room six needed discharge papers. Room ten needed repeat labs. Room fourteen’s family wanted an update. Whitaker had a question about a possible ectopic, and you answered it quickly, carefully, without looking over your shoulder to see if Robby had heard.
You did not need him to hear. You did not need him to approve. You did not need anything from him. That was the lie you had been carrying all morning, tucked under your ribs like a blade.
Across the department, Robby stood at the board with one hand on his hip, scanning the names with that tired, sharp focus that made everyone around him straighten without realizing it.
His eyes moved over you once. Paused. Then moved on. Somehow, that was worse than being corrected.
You turned back to the chart in front of you and forced yourself to read the same line three times until it made sense.
“Hey.”
Mohan appeared beside you, voice low.
You didn’t look up. “I’m good.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“That’s why I’m saving time.”
She didn’t laugh. That made your throat tighten.
“You’ve been on your feet all morning,” she said.
“So have you.”
“I ate.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don’t be charming. It’s disorienting.”
That almost got you. Almost. Your mouth twitched, but it didn’t hold.
Mohan’s eyes softened in the way you hated lately. Like she could see too much. Like she was standing too close to a bruise.
“Go sit for five minutes,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I said I can’t.”
It came out sharper than you meant it to. Mohan went quiet. You hated yourself immediately.
You looked down at the chart, blinking hard. “Sorry.”
“I’m not offended.”
“That’s annoying of you.”
“I know.”
The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her eyes stayed worried.
Before she could say anything else, Robby’s voice cut across the station.
“Room ten.”
Your spine went rigid. Not because he yelled. He didn’t. Robby never needed to.
You turned.
He stood by the board, looking at the tablet in his hand. “Repeat potassium?”
Your brain supplied the answer too late.
Ordered. Not resulted. No. Resulted. You had seen it. Hadn’t you?
Your fingers tightened around the chart.
“Pending,” you said.
Robby looked up. A tiny pause. The kind nobody else would notice. You noticed.
“Resulted twenty minutes ago,” he said.
Heat crawled up your neck.
Right.
Right, because you had opened it when radiology called. The potassium was fine. You had meant to sign off on it after updating room fourteen’s daughter, but then Whitaker had asked about the ectopic, and room three’s dressing needed.
“I saw it,” you said. “It’s normal. I’m closing it now.”
Robby’s expression didn’t change.
“That would’ve been more useful twenty minutes ago.”
The station quieted around the edges. Not fully. The Pitt never gave anyone the dignity of full silence.
But enough.
Enough for Dana to glance over from the desk. Enough for Mohan to go still beside you. Enough for Whitaker to suddenly become fascinated by the supply cart.
Your stomach dipped.
“I’m closing it now,” you repeated.
“I heard you.”
There was nothing cruel in his tone. That was the worst part. It was flat. Clinical. Tired. Like you were another problem on the board he didn’t have time to solve.
You nodded once and turned back to the computer. Your fingers moved too fast over the keys.
Password wrong. Of course. You swallowed, cleared the field, typed it again. Wrong. Your pulse picked up. Not now. Not here.
You could feel Mohan beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just there. That somehow made it harder.
You typed the password a third time. The screen opened. You exhaled through your nose, clicked into room ten’s chart, signed off the lab, updated the plan, closed the loop.
There. Done. Easy. Basic. Minimum expectation.
Your vision blurred for half a second. You blinked it clear. Robby had already moved on.
Of course he had.
He was with Whitaker now, leaning over a chart, voice lower. Still firm. Still teaching. But there was patience in it. Space.
“Start with what you’re worried about,” Robby said. “Then tell me what you can prove.”
Whitaker nodded, nervous but focused. Robby waited. He actually waited. Something inside you twisted so hard you had to press your palm against the edge of the counter.
Mohan noticed.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Then maybe believe me.”
The words landed badly.
You heard it as soon as they left your mouth.
Mohan’s face closed a little. Not hurt exactly. Careful. That was worse.
You looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m just—”
Tired. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed. Jealous of an R1 who had done nothing wrong except receive the version of Robby you missed so badly it felt pathetic.
You shook your head.
“I’m just trying to get through the shift.”
Mohan watched you for another second before nodding.
“Okay,” she said.
There it was again. That soft, terrible ‘okay’. The one that meant she knew you were lying and loved you enough not to corner you with it.
You grabbed the next chart. Room fifteen. Anxiety after a firework exploded too close. Chest tightness. Tingling fingers. Shortness of breath. You almost laughed. Of course. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.
You walked into the room before anyone could tell you not to. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Sitting upright, knees pulled close, one hand pressed to her chest while her mother hovered beside the bed.
“I can’t get a full breath,” the patient said, eyes wide. “I know it’s probably panic. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know you’re busy.”
The words hit too close. Not because of the panic. Because of the apology.
You softened before you could stop yourself.
“Don’t apologize for needing help,” you said.
Her eyes flicked to yours. For one second, you believed yourself.
Then Robby’s voice echoed in your head.
“R4s should not need reminders.”
You pushed it down.
You assessed her carefully. Vitals. History. Risk factors. Pain description. Breath sounds. You ordered an EKG, basic labs, chest X-ray. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless.
You were not over-identifying. You were not projecting. You were not seeing yourself in her wide eyes and shaking hands. You were being thorough.
That was all.
Still, by the time you stepped out, Robby was waiting near the desk.
“What’s your plan?” he asked.
You gave it to him.
Clean. Organized. Defensible.
His eyes stayed on you.
“And your impression?”
“Likely panic response after the firework scare, but I’m ruling out cardiac and pulmonary causes.”
“Likely panic,” he repeated.
Your jaw tightened.
“With appropriate workup.”
“I heard you.”
“You said it like that.”
Something flickered in his face.
Warning.
You should have stopped. You knew you should have stopped. But the whole day had been made of swallowing things, and something in you had run out of room.
Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m asking you to separate the patient from yourself.”
The words punched through you. For a second, all the noise around you thinned.
“What?”
His expression hardened. His eyes looked exhausted, but there was no softness in them.
“You heard me.”
Mohan turned slightly from the board. Dana looked up. You felt it. Every glance you weren’t supposed to notice.
You kept your voice low. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“I hope not.”
Your face went hot.
No.
No, no, no.
He didn’t get to do that. Not him. Not with this.
“You hope not?” you repeated.
Robby’s mouth tightened.
“You’re an R4. I need your clinical judgment clean. I need to know you’re looking at the patient in front of you, not filtering it through your own history.”
Your hand curled tighter around the chart.
“My history?”
His eyes sharpened.
“Don’t twist my words.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“You’re personalizing a panic presentation.”
“I ordered a standard workup.”
“You reassured her before you assessed.”
Your breath caught.
The cruelty of it was so quiet. So clinical. Like kindness was a symptom. Like compassion was contamination.
“You’re criticizing me for reassuring her?”
“I’m criticizing you for seeing yourself and calling it medicine.”
Mohan said your name softly. You barely heard her.
Your chest felt hollowed out.
“That is not what happened.”
“Then make sure it doesn’t.”
Your voice dropped. “You don’t get to use that against me.”
Robby went still.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No,” he said, colder now. “I’m doing my job.”
“Your job is accusing me of being unstable?”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the staff, toward the people pretending not to listen. When he looked back at you, whatever restraint he had left snapped into something uglier.
“My job is making sure my residents are safe to practice.”
The floor dropped out from under you.
“Safe to practice.”
Your throat tightened so fast it hurt.
“I am safe.”
“Are you?”
The question landed like a slap. Small enough that he could deny it. Sharp enough that everyone understood.
You stared at him.
He didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe some broken part of him had found momentum and decided cruelty was easier than fear.
“Because lately I don’t know if I’m supervising an R4 or managing someone who’s one bad shift away from unraveling in the middle of my department.”
Mohan moved. “Robby—”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on you.
“You’re hesitating. You’re overcorrecting. You’re taking everything personally. You flinch every time I give you feedback, and now you’re walking into a psych-adjacent case with your own history written all over your face.”
Your lips parted. Nothing came out.
Robby’s voice lowered further.
“That is dangerous.”
There it was. The word. The same word he had used years ago to make you get help. The word that had scared you into saving yourself.
Now he was holding it like a weapon.
Your hand tightened on the chart until the edge bent.
“You told me getting help made me safer.”
“It does,” he said.
“Then why are you acting like it makes me a liability?”
For half a second, something moved over his face. Regret. Fear. Then he buried it.
“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”
The department went too quiet around the edges.
Your breath stopped.
Mohan whispered your name again, this time like something had broken.
Robby kept going, and that was the worst part.
“I need an R4 I can trust when the floor turns bad. I need someone who can lead without making me question whether their illness is driving the call.”
Your vision blurred. You blinked it clear.
“You don’t get to call it that.”
“What?”
“My illness,” you said, voice barely holding. “You don’t get to throw that word at me like I’m something you’re diagnosing in front of the board.”
His jaw tightened.
“You want to be treated like a 4th year resident? Then act like one.”
The last piece of you went very still.
Not calm.
Still.
You set the chart down carefully. Too carefully.
“Room fifteen has appropriate workup pending,” you said. “I’ll follow results.”
Robby’s face shifted. Just barely. Like he heard it. Like some part of him realized he had not corrected you.
He had cut you open.
But it was too late.
You stepped back.
“You were the one person who wasn’t supposed to make it sound ugly,” you said.
Then you walked away before your face could betray you.
Behind you, Mohan said something low to Robby.
You didn’t turn around.
You couldn’t.
Because if you looked back and saw regret on his face, you might break.
And if you looked back and didn’t, you knew you would.
You made it to the bathroom before your hands started shaking.
The door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, you just stood there staring at the sink like you had forgotten how to move.
Then your body caught up.
Your breath hitched hard enough that you gripped the counter.
Not here.
Not at work.
Not because of him.
You turned the faucet on, letting the water hit the porcelain loud enough to cover the sound that broke out of you.
Not a sob.
You refused to call it that.
Just air leaving wrong.
Your reflection looked pale under the fluorescent lights. Tired. Cracked. Exactly like the kind of person Robby couldn’t trust.
No.
That was his voice.
His damage.
His cruelty.
You knew that.
You knew it, and still his words sat under your skin.
“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”
You splashed cold water over your wrists, fixed your face, and went back out.
Because if you fell apart now, it would prove him right.
The department swallowed you whole again.
Monitors. Phones. Voices. Alarms chimed faintly around you.
No one looked directly at you.
That was how you knew everyone knew.
Mohan found your eyes from the board.
You gave her one small look.
Don’t.
She stopped.
Room fifteen’s workup came back clean. EKG normal. Labs normal. Chest X-ray clear.
Panic, most likely.
You updated the patient with a voice so calm it almost sounded real.
“You did the right thing coming in,” you told her. “Fear can feel physical. That doesn’t make it fake.”
The patient’s eyes filled.
“Thank you.”
You smiled.
It hurt.
When you stepped out, Robby was at the board.
He saw you.
For one suspended second, it looked like he might say something.
Then EMS called in another burn, Dana shouted for trauma two, and Robby turned away.
Of course he did.
So you kept working.
You signed orders. Closed charts. Caught a med interaction before pharmacy called. Talked Whitaker through a discharge summary even though some ugly part of you resented how grateful he looked afterward.
“Thanks,” he said. “I know you’re busy.”
You swallowed.
“Don’t apologize for learning.”
The words tasted bitter.
Across the room, Robby watched you.
Not openly.
But you felt it.
Worry wearing a muzzle.
By the time the sun went down, your whole body felt far away.
Someone brought red, white, and blue cupcakes to the nurses’ station. You stared at them until Dana appeared beside you.
“Eat something.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re spiritually buzzing.”
A weak laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Dana’s face softened.
That almost undid you.
“I’m okay,” you said.
Dana hummed. “Sure.”
Before she could push, fireworks cracked outside, loud enough to rattle the windows.
Half the department flinched.
Nobody said anything.
Another burst followed.
Mohan closed her eyes at the board.
Robby went still.
You saw it.
The way his shoulders locked. The way his hand tightened around the tablet. The way his face emptied.
For one second, Pittfest came back too clearly.
Noise.
Blood.
Bodies.
Robby’s voice cutting through the chaos.
You and Mohan as R3s, moving because stopping would mean understanding.
Afterward, he had found you in a supply room, knees to your chest, scrubs stiff with someone else’s blood.
He had sat beside you and held out a water bottle.
“Drink.”
You had stared at him.
“Don’t make me do bedside manner. We’ll both hate it.”
You had laughed.
Then cried.
And he had stayed.
That was the part you couldn’t let go of.
He had stayed.
Another firework cracked.
Robby looked up.
His eyes met yours.
Something broken moved across his face.
Then he looked away first.
And the last hopeful thing in you went quiet.
—
Later, when the rush finally thinned, Dana sent the day shift up to the roof.
“Morale,” she said, like that explained anything.
Mohan found you near the elevators.
“Come up with us.”
“I should finish charts.”
“You can finish them after.”
“I’m behind.”
“You’re not,” she said softly. “I checked.”
You looked at her.
For a second, you wanted to tell her everything.
Instead, you smiled.
“I’ll come up later.”
Mohan didn’t believe you.
But someone called her name, and the elevator opened, and the moment passed.
She stepped inside.
You stood there for half a second. Then, before the doors could close, you moved.
Mohan’s eyes lifted in surprise.
You forced a small smile. “Changed my mind.”
Dana gave a satisfied hum. “There you are.”
You stepped into the elevator beside them.
Robby wasn’t there. You were grateful. You were devastated.
The roof was warmer than it should have been, the concrete still holding onto the heat from the day.
It was quieter than you expected. Not empty. Just intimate.
Dana stood near the low wall with a paper cup in hand, shoulders finally dropped from around her ears. McKay leaned beside her, arms folded loosely, face tilted toward the sky. Mel stood a little apart, still and quiet, watching the horizon like she was letting the colors settle somewhere safe. Santos sat on the edge of an old utility box, trying to look unimpressed and failing every time gold split open above the city.
Javadi had her hands tucked into her scrub pockets, eyes wide behind each flash. Perlah and Princess stood near a cluster of nurses, speaking softly between tired bursts of laughter.
Mohan stayed beside you. Not touching. Just there.
It was a small pocket of women from the floor, all of you trying to make something beautiful out of a day that had been anything but.
The fireworks bloomed over Pittsburgh in bursts of red, white, and gold.
For a while, no one really spoke. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.
The first explosion of color washed across Dana’s face, and you saw it, the tiny release. Not happiness. Not really. Something quieter. Relief, maybe. The kind that came when you were too tired for joy but still grateful the world could make something pretty.
McKay exhaled slowly. Mel’s shoulders dropped. Santos forgot to pretend she didn’t care. Javadi blinked up like she was trying to memorize it. Perlah and Princess smiled softly at them.
Everyone looked peaceful.
Not fixed. Not untouched.
Just… peaceful.
And you couldn’t get there. That was what scared you.
Not the noise. Not the height. Not even Robby’s words still embedded under your skin.
It was this.
Standing beside people you cared about, watching them find something gentle at the end of an awful day. And feeling nothing but distance.
Like they were on the roof. And you were already somewhere else.
A firework burst overhead, gold spilling open like light through a wound.
“That one was nice,” McKay said quietly.
“It was,” Mel agreed.
It was.
You knew it was. You could recognize the shape of beauty. You just couldn’t feel it.
Your hands curled into your scrub pockets.
Mohan glanced over. “You okay?”
You kept your eyes on the sky.
“Yeah.”
Mohan let the answer sit between you for a second before she said quietly, “You don’t have to lie to me up here.”
Your chest tightened.
Your demons pressed in harder. Because she was kind. Because everyone else looked like they could breathe again. Because you couldn’t.
Another burst cracked overhead. You flinched before you could stop it.
Mohan noticed.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
Too quick. Too sharp.
The peace in her face shifted into worry. You hated yourself for taking it from her. Dana glanced over, brief and knowing, but didn’t push.
No one did.
They let you stand there.
Let you pretend.
The fireworks kept going.
Louder. Closer. Then softer. Slower.
Until finally, the last one bloomed. Faded. Left the sky dark again.
For a few seconds, no one moved.
Then Dana pushed off the wall.
“All right,” she said, voice rough but steady. “That’s it.”
Everyone looked at her.
Dana glanced around at all of you, something firm settling back into place.
“Go home,” she said.
No argument. No softness. Just Dana.
“You all did enough today.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
McKay nodded first, like she’d been waiting for permission. Mel followed, quiet but immediate. Santos rolled her shoulders and hopped down from her spot, muttering something about finally sitting somewhere that wasn’t hospital-issued. Javadi gave the sky one last look before turning. Perlah squeezed Princess’ hands gently before heading for the door.
One by one, they moved.
Not rushed.
Just… done.
Dana passed you last.
She nudged your shoulder lightly.
“Don’t stay up here all night.”
You forced a small smile. “I won’t.”
Dana gave you a look. The kind that said she didn’t believe you. The kind that said she knew better than to push.
She nodded once anyway.
Then she left.
The door closed behind her.
Eventually, it was just you and Mohan.
The quiet shifted. Heavier now. Closer.
Mohan stayed beside you. Still not touching. Still there.
“You coming back down?” she asked.
“In a minute.”
She hesitated.
You could feel it. The pull between staying and trusting you.
“You scared me today,” she said softly.
Your throat tightened.
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
She was right. That made it worse.
“I just need a second alone,” you said.
Mohan watched you for a long moment. Then she nodded, even though everything in her said she didn’t want to.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
She lingered. Then stepped back. Then turned.
The door opened.
Closed.
And the quiet changed again. No longer shared.
Just yours.
You didn’t move at first. You just stood there after Mohan left, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks had been.
The smoke still lingered. Thin gray ribbons drifting over the roofline, breaking apart in the humid night air.
For a while, you listened.
To the distant traffic. To the muffled noise of the hospital below. To the soft mechanical hum from the roof units behind you.
Everything sounded far away.
Even you.
Your hands were still in your scrub pockets. Your shoulders were still loose. Your face was still arranged into something that could pass for fine if anyone opened the door and checked.
But no one did.
The roof stayed quiet.
And the quiet got inside you.
One step.
That was all it was at first.
Your shoe scraped lightly against the concrete.
Then another.
Slow. Unhurried. Almost curious.
Like your body had decided to go look at something your mind had not agreed to yet.
The edge waited ahead of you. But there was a railing first. A low metal barrier bolted into the roof, meant to make the boundary obvious. Meant to tell people where safety ended. Meant to be enough.
You stopped in front of it. For a moment, you only looked. One hand lifted. Your fingers curled around the top rail.
The metal was still warm from the day, but cooler than the concrete. Smooth in places where weather and hands had worn it down.
It should have stopped you. That was the point of it. A line. A warning.
A small, practical mercy built into the roof of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.
You stepped closer. Then, slowly, carefully, you lifted one leg over.
Your shoe found the narrow strip of concrete on the other side. Then the other leg followed.
The railing was behind you now. That should have meant something.
Maybe it did. Maybe that was why your chest went so quiet.
You stood on the wrong side of it, a few feet from the edge.
No wall now. No barrier.
Just warm concrete.
Open air.
Nothing dramatic about it. Nothing cinematic.
Just a ledge at the top of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.
You stopped close enough to see over. Close enough to feel the air change against your skin.
The parking lot spread beneath you, bright in patches beneath the lamps. Cars lined up neatly. Ambulance bay glowing. The city carrying on like it had not noticed you standing above it, wondering if there was any version of tomorrow you could still survive.
Your breathing stayed even. That frightened you distantly. You thought panic would come with noise. With tears. With shaking.
But this was quieter than that.
This was your body finally going still after months of begging to be heard.
You took another step. Then another. Until your toes touched the base of the ledge.
You looked at it.
No wall. No barrier now. Just the ledge. Lower than you expected. Or maybe you had known that. Maybe some part of you had known all along.
Your hands came out of your pockets. For a second, they hovered uselessly at your sides. Then you sat down.
Slowly. Carefully.
Like if your movements were calm enough, this could still be called something else.
Just sitting. Just air. Just needing quiet.
The concrete was still warm from the day beneath you.
Human-warm. Alive-warm. That almost made you stand back up.
Almost.
Instead, you shifted closer. One inch. Then another.
Your palms pressed flat against the ledge on either side of your thighs, steadying yourself as the backs of your legs met the edge.
For one second, your feet were still on the roof. Safe enough to pretend this was nothing.
Then you moved them. One foot forward. Then the other. Your shoes found nothing.
Just open space.
Your stomach dipped, but not enough. Not enough to make you scramble back. Not enough to make you choose. Your feet hung over the side of the building.
Below, the hospital looked small. Orderly. Distant.
Like a place you used to belong to. Like a place that would keep functioning without you because places always did.
Your chest felt calm. Too calm.
Like something inside you had stopped trying to be saved.
Robby’s voice came back, quiet and sharp.
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
Your fingers rested against the ledge. Not gripping. Not yet. Just resting.
You swallowed.
And for the first time…
You believed him.
“Neither do I.”
The words barely made it out of your mouth. Then you looked down.
Not quickly. Not all at once.
Your eyes moved from your shoes to the side of the building, then lower, following the long drop until the parking lot came into focus beneath you.
Ambulance bay lights. White and sterile. Cars lined in neat rows. Painted lines. Concrete islands.
A world still organized enough to feel insulting.
For the first time, the height became real.
Not symbolic. Not dramatic.
Real.
The kind of real your body understood before your mind could make language out of it.
Your stomach dipped. Your fingers flexed against the ledge.
Below you, the hospital kept breathing.
Doors opening. Lights shifting. A figure crossing the lot with keys in hand. Everything ordinary. Everything continuing.
Death looked different from up here. Downstairs, it had noise. Blood. Hands moving fast. Someone calling time. A family member making a sound that stayed in the walls long after they were gone.
Downstairs, death arrived like an emergency.
Up here, it waited.
Quiet. Patient. Polite.
And for one awful, honest second…
You wanted the quiet.
Not death. Not exactly.
You didn’t think you wanted to die. You wanted the hurting to stop.
You wanted five seconds where your chest didn’t feel carved open. Five seconds where you didn’t have to be the strong one, the steady one, the almost-attending who could close every loop except the one tightening around her own throat.
You wanted to stop waking up already tired.
Stop swallowing pills with shaking hands and calling it maintenance. Stop sitting in therapy trying to explain a loneliness so old it had started to feel like a personality trait. Stop walking into The Pitt every day hoping Robby would look at you like he used to. Stop hating yourself for still needing him to.
Your hands had been resting on the ledge. Barely holding.
Now your fingers loosened. Just a little.
The concrete pressed into the backs of your thighs.
The open air pulled at your shoes.
One lean. One breath. One second where you stopped fighting.
A tear slid down your cheek.
You didn’t wipe it away.
You were so tired. So tired that the thought of falling almost felt like being held.
Behind you, the roof door opened.
You didn’t turn around.
Couldn’t.
For a moment, there was only the scrape of the door. The distant hum of traffic. The last faint echoes of fireworks fading into smoke.
Then everything behind you went still.
“Hey.”
Robby.
Your eyes closed. Of course it was him.
The person who had taught you how to survive yourself. The person who had made you believe help wasn’t weakness. The person who had looked at the softest part of you today and called it unreliable.
His voice carried carefully across the roof. Not too loud. Not too soft. Like he was trying not to startle you back into your own body too fast.
“Heard Dana sent everyone home after the fireworks,” he said. “You left your bag and phone downstairs.”
You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere below the parking lot lights.
Behind you, he rubbed the back of his neck. You heard the faint scrape of his palm against skin, the restless shift of his fingers into his hair before they dropped away.
“Figured I’d come find you before your stuff disappeared into the nurses’ station permanently.”
Nothing. No answer. No shift of your shoulders. No sign you had heard him at all.
And somehow, that scared him more.
For once, Robby didn’t fill the silence with sarcasm. He just stood there. Seeing you. Seeing the ledge. Seeing the open air beneath your feet. Seeing the way your hands were barely touching the concrete at all.
Whatever he had come up here planning to say disappeared. Completely.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
You heard it. That tiny failure. That impossible silence from the man who always had a next step.
He swallowed.
“You’re probably ready to pass out,” he added, trying for light. “Hell of a shift.”
Still nothing. The silence stretched. But he kept talking anyway. Not because he thought it was working. Because stopping felt worse.
Because if he could keep the conversation ordinary long enough, maybe you would remember how to be part of it.
“Your phone keeps lighting up,” he said. “A ton of texts. Apparently you’re very popular.”
A breath pulled in behind you. Too careful. Too controlled. Like he was trying to manage himself before he could manage you.
“Pretty sure if you don’t reply soon, the battery’s gonna die.”
Your hand didn’t move. Your feet hung over open air.
The roof went quiet except for the city below and the uneven rhythm of Robby trying to breathe normally.
“I was thinking we could walk down,” he said, still trying to sound like this was normal. “Get your bag. Get you out of here before the night shift crazies start multiplying.”
Your fingers flexed against the concrete. He saw it. The movement was small, but it hit him like a monitor alarm.
His shoe scraped once against the roof. Stopped. He’d almost moved. Almost.
You heard him drag a hand over the back of his head, fingers catching in his hair before falling to his side.
“You left your pen downstairs,” he said quietly. “The good one.”
Your fingers twitched weakly against the ledge.
Robby swallowed hard.
“Honestly, if we don’t go down soon, someone might steal it.”
A shaky breath left him that almost sounded like a laugh.
“I heard Ellis has been trying to steal that pen for months.”
Your right hand lifted from the concrete. Not purposeful. That was the worst part. It looked absentminded. Like you had forgotten why it was there in the first place.
Robby’s breath caught. The sound was small. Sharp. Impossible to miss.
His voice came back thinner than before.
“Don’t move forward.”
The words landed carefully. Terrified.
“If you move, move back. Just back.”
A small, broken laugh left you.
“That’s usually my line.”
Robby went quiet long enough for you to hear his hand return to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, harder than before.
“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it tonight.”
He moved. Not closer. Not yet.
Just a shift of weight. One hand lifted slightly, dropped again because even that felt like too much. His fingers flexed at his side, useless and frantic, looking for something to do when there was nothing he could safely touch.
You stared down at the ground. Your heart should have been racing. It wasn’t. That scared you more than anything.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you said.
Soft. Almost peaceful.
The breath behind you disappeared. For one awful second, there was nothing from him at all. No movement. No correction. No sound except the city below.
But he didn’t say no. He swallowed it. Forced it down hard enough you could hear the breath catch in his throat.
“Okay,” he said instead.
His voice shook on the word. He rubbed the back of his neck again, faster this time, like he was trying to keep himself inside his own body.
“Okay. You don’t have to do this anymore tonight.”
You didn’t look at him.
“You can try again tomorrow,” he said, careful with every syllable. “Not the whole thing. Not all of it. Just tomorrow.”
His breath hitched.
“Tonight, you just have to move back.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“You’re right.” His voice shook. “You’re right, I don’t. Not exactly. Not yours. But I know enough. I know enough to know that quiet you’re chasing is lying to you.”
Your fingers loosened. Just a little.
Robby saw it. His whole body went still. Too still.
“Okay,” he said carefully, fighting to keep his voice even. “I need both hands on the ledge.”
You didn’t.
His breath caught, but he swallowed it down.
“Not fast,” he added. “Just put them back where they were.”
For one suspended second, you didn’t.
His breathing changed. Fast. Ragged. The kind of breathing Robby corrected in patients and ignored in himself.
“Please,” he said.
That got through. Not enough to bring you back. Enough to make your fingers twitch.
Robby took one step closer.
You shifted.
He stopped so hard his shoes scraped against the roof.
“Okay. Okay. I’m stopping.” He lifted both hands, palms out. “See? I’m not coming closer. I’m not touching you. Just—hands back on the ledge.”
“I don’t trust myself.”
The words hollowed him out.
You heard it in the silence behind you.
The way his breathing stopped for half a second. The soft scrape of his shoe against the roof as he caught himself from moving too quickly.
His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, fingers pressing hard into the muscle there before catching briefly in his hair.
“Okay,” he said carefully.
His voice sounded lower now. Pulled tight.
“That’s okay.”
You stared down at the parking lot lights. Your right hand hovered slightly above the concrete again.
Robby’s breath caught.
You heard him swallow it back down.
“You don’t have to trust yourself for the whole night,” he said. “Just the next ten seconds.”
A wet laugh left you. Wrong. Empty.
“You told me you couldn’t trust me.”
Robby went quiet. Not defensive. Not angry. Just quiet.
You heard him breathe in too sharply through his nose.
“I was wrong.”
“You meant it.”
His hand scraped over the back of his neck again.
“I’m sorry.”
Your fingers flexed weakly against the ledge.
“You were ugly.”
“I know.”
“You were cruel.”
His breath hitched.
“I know.”
Your voice thinned into something smaller.
“You made me feel like the sickest part of me was the truest part.”
Behind you, Robby made a sound like the words had gone straight through him. Not loud. Worse. Human.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rough now. “I’m so sorry.”
Behind you, his breathing turned uneven.
His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, rough and restless. Not the attending everyone feared. Not the teacher with impossible standards. Not the man who could run a trauma bay on instinct and fury. Just a person. Terrified. Choking on the damage he had done.
“I needed my teacher,” you whispered. “And you punished me for it.”
His breath broke. A sound came out of him like he had tried to swallow a sob and failed halfway.
“I know.”
Your right hand slipped off the ledge.
Fully.
Dropped into your lap. Your body tilted forward. One inch. Maybe less. Enough.
The metal rail rattled under his hand. His shoe scraped once against the roof and stopped. For one second, even his breathing vanished. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. You were going to fall. Even you knew it.
Robby moved before thought could stop him, then caught himself halfway, every muscle locked so hard he was trembling.
“Left hand stays,” he said, voice raw, urgent. “Left hand stays on the ledge. Do you hear me?”
You stared down. Your other hand started to lift. Slowly. Like your body had decided something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
“Kid.” Robby’s voice cracked. “Hands. Both hands back now.”
Kid.
The word hit somewhere old. Somewhere trained by years of following his voice through chaos.
Your palm slammed back onto the concrete. Then the other. Hard. Desperate. Your knuckles went white.
Robby bent forward slightly, hands braced on his own knees for half a second, like relief had nearly taken him down. But he didn’t let himself stay there. Couldn’t. He straightened, breathing too fast.
“Good,” he said, voice shaking. “Good. That’s good. Stay there.”
A sob caught in your throat.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound like you still know how to take care of me.”
His voice twisted.
“I do know how.”
His voice broke on the last word. For a second, neither of you moved.
The roof hummed around you. The city below kept breathing. Your hands stayed loose against the concrete, not gripping hard enough to feel safe.
Robby dragged a hand over the back of his head.
“I just stopped doing it.”
That was worse. Somehow, that was worse. Because it wasn’t that he had forgotten how to take care of you. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen you. He had known. He had seen. He had stopped anyway.
Your breath fractured.
“I hate you.”
The words came out small. Tired. Not angry enough to protect you.
Behind you, Robby went very still.
“I know.”
Your throat tightened. A tear slipped down your face, warm and quiet.
“I don’t.”
His breath caught.
“I know that too.”
Your fingers curled faintly against the ledge.
“I wanted you to come back.”
The words barely made it past your mouth.
Robby’s voice sounded scraped raw.
“I’m here now.”
Your eyes stayed on the parking lot below. The lights blurred.
“Too late.”
He took it. No defense. No correction. No sharp little Robby answer to make it easier for either of you. Just silence.
His hand moved to the back of his neck again. Rubbed once. Stopped. Dropped uselessly to his side.
Behind you, his hand found the metal rail between you and him. The line. The awful, visible line. Safe roof on his side.
Open air on yours.
For the first time, Robby seemed to understand exactly where he was standing. On the wrong side of the lesson.
For years, he had been the one telling residents not to freeze. Not to panic. Not to let fear make their hands stupid.
Now his hands were shaking. Now his chest was heaving. Now he was staring at one of his own residents and trying to convince them that life was still worth staying for.
“Maybe it is too late,” he said, voice hoarse. “Maybe I don’t get to fix what I did tonight. Maybe I don’t get to fix the last ten months.”
You cried silently, staring down.
“But late is what I have,” he said. “So I’m going to use it.”
He took another careful step. Then stopped. Waited.
You didn’t tell him no.
His throat worked.
“You told that girl downstairs fear could be physical and still matter.”
Your fingers tightened slightly.
He saw it. Held onto it.
“You were right. You were right when you said it to her, and you’re right now. This fear matters. Your pain matters. But it does not get to make the decision alone.”
“I don’t want tomorrow.”
“I know.” Robby swallowed hard. “Then don’t take tomorrow. Take the next minute.”
“I don’t know what’s left.”
“You are.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It is to Samira.”
Your face crumpled.
“It is to Dana,” he pressed, voice shaking but stronger now. “It is to McKay. Mel. Perlah. Princess. Everyone who stood on this roof tonight and breathed a little easier because you were standing with them.”
“They don’t need me.”
“They do. Not because you’re useful. Not because you’re an R4. Not because you catch mistakes and close charts and make scared patients feel less stupid for being scared.”
He took another step. Closer now. Close enough to reach the railing. His hand closed around it. The metal clanged softly under his grip. The sound made both of you flinch.
He froze. You froze.
Your hands stayed down. Barely.
Robby’s voice dropped.
“They need you because you are not just what you can do for people.”
You sobbed once. Hard.
“I don’t believe that.”
“I know,” he said. “So I believe it for you tonight.”
His hand curled tighter around the metal until his knuckles blanched.
“You want a reason to stay?” he asked, choking on it now. “Stay because Samira is going to come back looking for you, and she deserves to find you breathing. Stay because Dana told you to go home, and she meant home, not gone.”
Your shoulders shook.
“Stay because Langdon still owes you at least one terrible joke. Stay because Javadi needs someone to tell her she’s allowed to still make mistakes. Stay because there is still coffee that tastes like burnt plastic and patients who apologize for needing help and people who love you badly, stupidly, imperfectly, but still love you.”
You shook your head. Barely. But your body went with it. Your shoulder dipped. Your weight shifted.
The open air seemed to notice before you did.
Robby’s grip on the railing tightened hard enough that the metal gave a small, sharp sound under his hand.
“Don’t,” he said.
The word came out too fast. He swallowed, forced his voice lower.
“Don’t move your head like that. Not while you’re sitting there.”
Your breath shook.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” he said, and there was panic under the steadiness now, cracking through despite him. “Because you’re stubborn as hell.”
His hand scraped over the back of his neck, then dropped back to the railing.
“And because you’ve been correcting my terrible bedside manner since you were a med student.”
Your fingers twitched against the ledge.
His breath snapped when your fingers twitched. He stayed exactly where he was. Waited.
Your hand held. Barely. A broken sound left you. Not a laugh. Not really. But close enough that Robby looked like he might come apart from relief.
“That’s it,” he whispered, nearly breaking.
Then your fingers slipped again. Both of them. Not fully. But enough. The tiny laugh died. The world lurched. Your body tilted forward. The metal rail jerked under his grip.
His breath tore out of him.
“Kid—”
This time it wasn’t command. It was begging.
You looked at him then. Really looked. And suddenly the calm was gone.
All of it.
The height rushed back into your body at once. The drop. The air. The fact that your feet were hanging over nothing. The fact that your hands were failing. The fact that some part of you had wanted this, and now every living piece of you was screaming.
Your eyes went wide. Your voice came out small. Childlike.
“I’m scared.”
Then your balance tipped. Too far.
Robby moved. No calculation. No careful step. No safe distance. He lunged across the railing, one arm hooking hard around your waist, the other catching the back of your scrub top as your body pitched forward.
For half a second, there was nothing under you.
Nothing.
Your shoes kicked empty air. A scream tore out of you.
Robby made a sound like an animal. He hauled you back with everything he had.
Your hip struck the ledge, pain flashing white-hot through the numbness. Your hands clawed at his sleeve, his wrist, the front of his shirt, anything.
He pulled you fully onto the roof. Not gracefully. Not cleanly. Momentum took both of you down hard. His back hit first. You landed against him, half on his chest, half on the concrete, breath knocked loose in a broken gasp.
For one second, there was no sound.
No city. No hospital. No fireworks. Just the brutal, animal silence after almost.
Robby’s arms closed around you so tightly you couldn’t move. Not enough to hurt. Enough to anchor. Enough to make sure every part of you was on the roof with him.
His hand pressed against the back of your head, fingers trembling in your hair. His other arm stayed locked around your ribs, holding you against him like the ledge was still trying to pull you away.
Your face was crushed against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through his scrub top. Fast. Violent. Terrified. Alive. Then his breath broke. Once. Twice.
A rough, strangled sound that didn’t belong to him. Not Robby. Not the man who ran codes with steady hands and cut through chaos like fear was something that happened to other people.
This sound was wrecked. Human. Small. His fingers curled tighter at the back of your head.
“I’m sorry,” he choked.
You froze.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice cracked on it. Then again.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The words hit harder than the fall. Because he wasn’t saying them like a man trying to be forgiven.
He was saying them like he had finally seen the edge he’d walked you toward and couldn’t survive the sight of it.
You felt his body shake beneath yours. Not from effort. Not anymore. From sobs he was trying and failing to swallow.
“Robby,” you tried, but your voice came out broken beyond use.
He shook his head against the roof, eyes squeezed shut, one tear slipping sideways into his hairline.
“No. No, I did this. I did this.”
His arms tightened again, and his breath hitched like the words hurt coming out.
“I pushed you away. I saw you getting smaller and I told myself it was training. I told myself you were becoming stronger. I told myself if you hated me, maybe you’d leave before this place ate you alive.”
A sob tore through him.
“And then you almost—”
He couldn’t finish it. His whole chest caved beneath your cheek.
You started crying then. Not the quiet tears from the ledge. Not the numb, distant kind. This was ugly. Panicked.
A sound ripped out of you because your body had finally caught up with what had almost happened.
You had almost fallen. You had almost let yourself.
Robby’s hand moved from the back of your head to the side of it, pressing you closer while his thumb shook against your temple.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, shredded and breathless. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry. I never should’ve said it. I never should’ve touched that part of you. I knew better. I knew better.”
You clutched his scrub top in both fists. The fabric twisted in your hands.
“I thought I was going to fall,” you sobbed.
His breath collapsed above you.
“I know.”
“I thought I was going to do it.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to want it.”
“I know.” His voice broke completely. “God, I know.”
He bent over you as much as he could from where he lay, forehead pressing into your hair. And then Robby cried. Really cried. Not one controlled tear. Not a rough breath he could pass off as exhaustion.
He cried into your hair with his arms around you and his shoulders shaking, the sound muffled and helpless and devastatingly unlike him.
“I almost lost you,” he said, barely understandable. “I almost lost you because I was too proud to admit I was wrong.”
You cried harder.
He pulled in a ruined breath.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Over and over. Like repetition could build a wall between you and the ledge. Like if he said it enough, he could go back ten months and stay.
You pressed your face harder into his chest, your body trembling violently now.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
Robby’s arms tightened.
“I know.”
“No, I’m scared,” you sobbed. “I’m scared because I wanted it to stop. I’m scared because it felt quiet. I’m scared because I don’t know what happens when I stand up.”
His breath shuddered against your hair.
“Then we don’t stand up yet.”
“I can’t go back down there.”
“Then we don’t go yet.”
“I can’t see everyone.”
“You don’t have to. Not all at once.”
“I can’t be alone.”
That one broke him all over again. He pressed his face into your hair, voice muffled and wrecked.
“You won’t be. Not tonight. Not after this. I swear to you.”
“You’re leaving.”
“I’m not.”
“You were.”
His breathing hitched.
“I was.”
You went still against him. Robby swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw enough to bleed.
“I was leaving wrong.”
The words sat between you. Heavy. Terrible. True.
“I thought disappearing would be cleaner,” he said. “I thought if I made everyone angry enough, disappointed enough, you’d all let me go easier.”
His hand shook against your shoulder.
“I thought grief was something I could manage for people if I made sure they hated me first.”
Your throat closed.
“That’s horrible.”
“I know.”
“That’s stupid.”
A wet, broken sound left him. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s very stupid.”
You cried again, softer this time, but still shaking.
His palm moved slowly over your back, not soothing exactly. More like checking.
There. There. There.
Like he needed to prove to himself you were still under his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Quieter now. More exhausted.
“I should’ve protected you from me.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
The roof was cold beneath your leg. His scrub top was damp under your cheek. Your knee throbbed. Your hands ached from how hard you’d grabbed him.
Below, the hospital kept moving.
Somewhere under you, monitors still beeped. Someone still needed discharge paperwork. Someone still wanted coffee. Someone was probably complaining about the wait.
Life continued.
But here, on the roof, Robby held you like the whole world had narrowed down to one impossible fact.
You were still breathing.
He pressed his cheek to the top of your head.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered.
His voice broke again.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
For the first time all night, you believed him.
Not about everything. Not about tomorrow. Not about yourself.
But about this.
About his arms around you. About the concrete under your body. About the terrible, shaking relief in his chest.
i absolutely loveddddd your “Grumpy x Sunshine except Dr. Jack Abbot MeowD is the sunshine” word smmmm, it scratched an itch in my brain i didn’t know i had.
do you think you’re anymore like that?
Grumpy x Sunshine except Dr. Jack Abbot MeowD is the sunshine
Summary: It's not always sunshine and rainbows in the ER or for your relationship.
AN: I'm so glad you liked it! I love them too and have already started writing more! This has some angst but still fluff/smutty allusions so minors DNI. Also, I do like Robby, I swear. He's just backing his bro here.
Can be read as a standalone or as a sequel to this and this
Masterlist // AO3 Link
“Been a while. Getting reacquainted with the view?”
Jack continues to lean his lower back on the roof’s safety railing, hands in his pockets whilst he surveyed the skyline. His blinking is drowsy after a long night. Yet his eyes snap wider at the recognition of Robby behind him. Though he doesn’t turn his body, he nudges his chin to his shoulder.
“Needed some air,” he says.
Robby leans forward, his forearms balanced onto the railing a few inches away from his friend. There’s three steps to the edge and he’s confident Jack won’t do this over what Robby overheard downstairs. Still, he wants to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
“Dana mentioned to me what happened,” Robby said in that tone of his – an attempt to light-heartedly broach an uncomfortable subject.
A scoff slips by Jack’s notice, “I’m guessing someone else told her because she wasn’t that early to her shift.”
Robby mulls over how to approach this as he’s done the entire elevator ride up to the roof, landing eventually on: “It’s not easy, fighting with another attending, especially in front of the new med students.”
“What?” Confusion to bring him back from the edge, that’s a new tactic.
“You got into it with Doctor Stepford over how to handle the internal bleeding of Mr. Morgan.”
Jack blinks at the nickname that the ER has dubbed you, the one he is on the fence about only because you told him you don’t care about it. “Hardly.”
“Apparently, you were both this close to using the scalpels on each other.”
“Says who?” Robby is about to repeat Dana, but Jack is already climbing back under the railing and continuing his train of thought, “We were just debating which route to go, nothing major.”
“So,” Robby’s pursed lips hesitate to accept the version of the truth he’d been given. The gossip downstairs is often enflamed, but why else would Abbot be on the roof if not destressing after a rough shift with an oppositional attending? “Why are you up here?”
“Fresh air. Perspective.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not gonna end up like that surgeon who quit a week after that incident over Mrs Davies’ appendectomy and Stepford’s smile? Gonna be able to work together after this?”
“No sweat.” Jack heads back inside for the elevator, Robby trailing behind in bemusement. “And it’s Doctor Stepford.”
“Better you than me,” Robby hangs his hands on his stethoscope.
Technically, that is an insult at Jack’s partner – a relationship status that Robby remains unaware of – yet Jack can’t help but agree with Robby’s veiled insult. Life is so much better working a shift with you than Robby could ever appreciate. Busy enough that you’re not overwhelmed by each other yet in contact enough to keep from missing you, Jack wouldn’t have it any other way, even if you drive him mad at times.
You aren’t waiting in the ER for him; you never did anyway. You’re waiting at your car that you’d picked him up in this morning, though you are in the driver’s seat already. Music is already wafting out into the parking lot long before Jack eases himself into your passenger side.
An unspoken rule of the car: no shop talk, just let you get you both to one of your homes. Jack scratches at his right trouser leg idly and watches the familiar streets guide him to your apartment. His heart is thudding louder than usual with Robby’s words echoing through its chambers. When you arrive, you open the front door and let him pass you by into the house.
Jack occupies the shower first, using the chair you bought for him a few weeks into this relationship and the body wash he prefers (and you adore). It’s only when he’s inside that his prosthetic had been rubbing through his compression sock, a red circumference just below the knee joint. The lavender oil you always leave him eases the colour a little.
It’s a quick wash then onto crutches over to your bed, towel tied around his waist once his top half is dry. He finds himself dropping onto your bed and splaying out atop the blankets, their soft embrace coaxing him into sleep, but his eyelids are heavy with the one image that stands out over the whole argument earlier. Not the fight for which standard of care to save the patient with, no, it’s your expression that haunts him.
His thigh senses his towel being rolled up and Jack’s chin meets his sternum as he looks to find you wiping dry his stump. You’re in your dressing gown and Jack frowns. Had he been so tired he hadn’t noticed you getting in then out of the shower?
“You didn’t say it was getting bad. You need a hot towel?” You avoid his gaze, focusing instead on the mark. Your expression is neutral this time. But Jack's still stuck on the one you gave him back in Trauma 2.
Damnit, Robby. Man didn’t even know you two were together and he was still worming his way into fucking long-term things up. It was like he can’t let anyone else be happy sometimes.
Jack sits back up. “You’ve never smiled at me like you did back there.”
You know precisely what Jack is talking about whilst you fish for the moisturiser you store in his bedside table: Robby’s so-called scalpel scenario.
Back in that trauma room, you and Jack were standing either side of a patient with oxygen levels like a ski slope. You were trying your best to remember you were on the same team – in more than one sense. Then Jack had cut you off, taking over the procedure. You had let out a scoff that was instinctive when assholes acted this way towards you, completely alien to the man you love and live for.
No sooner had your patient been taken up to the OR, you had vanished to the ambulance bay and only returned after the longest fifteen minutes of Jack’s life.
Back in the present, you pause before you twist the bottle’s cap off that his hand wavered over the chest tube at being under the glare of your sneer-stained ire.
“No, I haven’t before,” you pump a healthy amount of cream into your hand, dropping the bottle beside your knees.
Jack takes your neutrality as acknowledgement of your actions and presses further, “It scared me a bit.”
“I’m sorry.” It’s instant yet weighted with remorse.
“I know you were scary because we had the same priority.”
You warm the cream before you lather it over Jack’s leg. You look up at him once your hands are occupied, your face devoid of the mask you wear to work. Jack feels more relaxed already, seeing you frown your way through your thought process and sigh before you speak.
“I want you to be right,” you say carefully, “And I don’t want to be right at the expense of a life."
And that’s enough for Jack. The “E” in ER doesn’t stand for “Ego”. Your patient had been shipped up to OR. Alternative methods didn’t make either of you right or wrong. Santos had once described you two as scrappy in different fonts. But both of you just want your patients to live their greatest lives and never to see them back in the emergency room again.
But, even thought it is enough, you still made it known: "I shouldn't have done that to you and I am sorry for how I made you feel.”
"You're only human despite what others might say," Jack relented gladly.
"Oh yeah? What do they think, I'm a demon?"
"Heard it's more like someone called... Indrid Cold?"
You hum (unphased) and continue to knead Jack’s stump at just the right pressure, one that took a lot of practice but now has been solidified as second nature.
“One sec,” Jack shuffles out of your reach for a moment, straining into your bedside table drawer and returning with your own moisturiser now in his palm.
You thumb over his scar tissue whilst he circles across your cheeks. Both of you are about the rest of this routine away from falling asleep, propped up only by wherever you landed against each other.
Then Jack’s phone vibrates on the bed beside him and you’re brought back to reality. It still takes him a few seconds to finish up with your routine then a few more tear his gaze away from you in order to check it.
“Garcia says he’s gonna make it,” he raises a brow at you. You nod and finish up; that’s basically like you punching the air. As you’re rubbing the excess moisturiser up to his knee, Jack catches your eye, “I never wanna make you feel like you can’t do your job. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you imitate your partner’s gravelly tones after a pause. Then your real voice, professionalism absent, just an honest to goodness natural tone, emerges, “You never do.”
Relief sags Jack’s spine over so you meet him halfway for a kiss. As per usual, your lips stay against his for longer than intended. But given how Jack’s hands find their familiar anchor points, he isn’t upset over it.
He does tease, “Taking advantage of me in my vulnerable state?”
“Just taking care of the elderly,” you nip back, “They fought in so many wars for us, you know?”
Even with one foot planted on the ground, Jack manages to suplex himself back onto the bed with you swept in his arms. You instantly let out a shriek that shatters into giggles as he grates his stubble across your neck and kisses the burn better
“Stop,” you whined pathetically, regretting that you don’t have the energy to keep this up or push him away.
“Hmm,” Jack barely pretends to consider before he presses his nose right under the square of your jaw and sniffs loudly. Your wriggling in his vine grip is like if frantic was being sedated. He grunts like he’s pleased with what he’s found, “Smell so good.”
“Let me go!”
“Can’t I give you a reason to shower again first?”
Despite your grumbling, you smile giddily down at him, eyes squinting like you can’t take him all in or you’ll blind yourself. “Table it for tomorrow?
Jack releases you and you toss him his boxers from your dressing-gown pocket – somewhat fresh from the dryer. His heart sings a ditty in your name. He squirms on his back again like a flipped tortoise to get his underwear on (the way he knows will make you hold back a laugh and he can playfully roast you for belittling the struggles of disabled people) before he gets under the covers. You join him after pulling the blinds down and hanging up his towel on the bathroom radiator. His arms are open to welcome you for a quick cuddle, squeezing the stress and the non-existent resentment from you like icing from a piping bag.
“Will it count as make-up sex tomorrow?” you ask before flipping the light off.
“Do you want it to be?”
“Make-up sex is pretty hot.”
“Sex with me isn’t hot enough?” You shush him before giving him one final kiss and rolling back to your side, eyes already closing. The sooner you sleep, the sooner you’ll wake up with enough energy to ride him ‘til he’s dry.
♡ synopsis: when a patient attacks you & embeds a scalpel in your abdomen, you go to jack for help. overwhelmed & irritable, he snaps at you to go find someone else for whatever it is which you're running to him for. once robby has tended to your injury, he informs jack of how he royally screwed up & your husband comes home after his shift to make amends.
♡ a/n: requested by @styx03, ty! i hope i did ok ;_;
Blood drips in fresh, crimson splatters onto polished white tiles from the wound your hand hovers near.
Protruding from your right lower quadrant is a scalpel which a patient has just impaled you with. You don't even respond—there is no screaming, wailing in panic, or hyperventilating to bear witness to which interrupts the beeping, shifting monotony of the ED—before you turn and head out the door of his exam room without another word.
With your shirt awkwardly clutched in your hand, you walk with measured steps to an empty room—cringing all the while from the rhythmic movement.
Once you've closed yourself behind a locked door, you pull the silver instrument from your now inflamed abdomen with a quiet cry of distress, and drop it into the stainless steel sink you stand at. Clattering against the metal basin, you pluck half a dozen tissues from a plastic box mounted to the wall and press them firmly to your weeping laceration.
Not but perhaps two hours ago did you stand at a patient's bedside and hold his hand as a heart attack claimed his life and ripped him from his family's embrace. His wife threw herself over his corpse after—screaming all the while for him to wake up, wake up, wake up; she can't do it without him, how will they survive?
Her children, meanwhile, trembled in a corner while holding fast to one another—their tiny faces flushed and red from tears, unable to understand why daddy wouldn't open his eyes like mommy wanted.
You excused yourself to the restroom to vomit thereafter.
Fighting down a familiar feeling of nausea, you flex stiff limbs while continually pressing numb fingertips against your palm—continually counting them as a grounding technique.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
You believe that you may be going into shock.
You'd like a heated blanket to keep you warm, or your husband's arms to make you safe. Most of all, you wish to leave this place.
You go in search of Jack.
"Hey, Jack?" you ask quietly from the entryway of Trauma 3, watching as he smoothly inserts an IV in the arm of an unconscious patient.
You slide your shaking hand behind you so no one can see.
At least you're still upright, you think. Small blessings.
Even behind the blue and white mask he dons, you can hear him huff in irritation. "Honey, I'm a bit busy right now. If it's a consult, or you're needing help, you need to go find somebody else."
You take a small step forward, ignoring the way your fresh wound smarts when you do so. "I was just—"
He swiftly tugs down his mask and grips the handrail of the patient's bed he stands guard beside. "Go find Robby or Langdon. Anybody else. Can you do that?" he barks. "I don't always have to be the one you come to. They're just as capable."
Your eyes flit to Parker, who turns to Jack with an open mouth—you know she intends to defend you; chew him out for the way he's just spoken to you—until you take a step back in acquiescence to prevent an argument.
Sniffling quietly, you nod, now feeling like a burden. Does he often feel like that? Like you're breaking his concentration, or are too attached? Perhaps it's unprofessional behavior on your part. Work and home are two different things which you've ignorantly merged into one.
"Yeah, I'll go find Robby. I'm sorry for interrupting."
The door swings shut behind you.
You stare at Robby a handful of feet from where he stands, and watch as he heads into an empty exam room before following close behind.
"Are you busy?" you inquire softly while fingering the edge of the striped polyester curtain you waver beside.
He glances to you with kind brown eyes before tearing wrinkled paper from the exam table he stands at. Robby shakes his head while balling it up and tossing it into the trash. "Never too busy for you. What's up?"
You pull back the curtain to give yourself a bit of privacy.
You nervously tug at the hem of your shirt while your other hand continues holding your throbbing side, which Robby's eyes flit to before meeting your own once again.
"I need you to promise me," you say while shuffling forward. "That you're not going to make a federal case out of this. I...I think he's going to end up under psyche's care. I left him—" You shake your head. "I shouldn't have."
You half turn around then. What if he leaves his room and harms someone else? Why did you just walk out and not call security like protocol demands?
Stupid, stupid, stupid. No wonder Jack was so short with you.
You go to head back the way you came until Robby starts toward you and grabs your forearm. "Sweetheart," he says while resting his opposite hand on the crown of your shoulder. "You're my concern now. Tell me what's going on." He nods toward your stomach. "It have anything to do with the way you're holding yourself?"
You shift on your feet uncertainly and wince quietly from the movement. "Promise me. He's unwell. I don't want him arrested, or—"
Robby finally throws up his hands. "Fine, fine, if it'll get you to tell me what's wrong, I will give this man the royal treatment. Now, tell me."
You chew the inside of your lip, then gingerly lift the bottom of your shirt before carefully peeling away the wad of tissues that've dried to your unwanted incision.
"Jesus Christ," Robby curses while stepping forward and gripping your hip to begin examining the damage inflicted. "When did this happen?"
"A few minutes ago," you sputter in explanation. "I didn't tell anyone. I just turned and walked away. I don't know why. I went to Jack, but he...he was busy—"
"Too busy for this?" he asks incredulously. "A patient sliced your fucking stomach open."
You hang your head. "It's not that extreme, Robby."
Maybe if you deny that you were assaulted, things won't turn out to be as bad as you're afraid they are when he finally takes a look.
Robby gently prods at it and your hand flies—sinking your nails into his shoulder. "Ow!"
He raises a brow. "Isn't it?" Robby shakes his head. "Jack should've dropped everything to tend to you."
He waves you toward the exam table, and you climb awkwardly atop it while favoring your side. "I didn't exactly tell him," you murmur while lying back.
Pulling on a pair of gloves, Robby purses his lips in disapproval.
"He told me to come find you. Or just...someone. He was busy—overwhelmed—so he didn't mean to snap at me."
Robby shakes his head. "No excuse. When you come to me, I drop everything without complaint."
You grin, ignoring the way your body is trembling because it's so painfully cold. "It's because you just adore me, right?" you say playfully between chattering teeth while tucking your shaking hands beneath your thighs.
Seeing how you're shivering, Robby frowns, then shrugs off his hoody before draping it over you. "You know I do," he rumbles before grabbing a pack of wipes. "Was the instrument—"
"Sterile," you supply. "I just need stitches." Your eyes flit to the machine next to him, and your stomach sinks to your knees. "Robby..."
"What is it, sweetheart?"
Your chin wobbles. "Ultrasound." Your hand flutters toward your stomach. "My...my ovary."
He stills for a moment and studies you—the way your tearful eyes plead with him to tell you anything but that which you're now terrified of hearing.
He wheels the machine around and switches it on.
You stare up at him through glassy eyes. "Is...is it—"
He shakes his head. "It didn't go deep enough to hit anything. Barely went any deeper than the subcutaneous level."
You squeeze your eyes shut and begin to sob.
Pushing the cart away, Robby slides a palm over your forehead while shooshing you. "It's alright. I'm going to clean the area, give you a few stitches, and then," he says while folding your shirt until it's positioned just beneath your breasts, "I'm taking you home."
You shake your head. "No. Robby, I can—"
He drags an antiseptic wipe over the affected area. "This isn't some option I'm laying before you. I'm an attending, you're my resident—"
"I'm Jack's resident," you state.
Robby looks at you. "I'm making you my resident right now. And as your attending, I'm telling you that you're going home. I'm not asking," he states with finality.
Throwing your head back against the hard vinyl beneath you, you huff in irritation. "Fine."
Robby alerts security to the altercation which occurred where you clearly neglected to, followed by a page to psyche for a consult. After you've completed a workplace incident form and he's compiled a bag of supplies for you to take home so you can tend to your wound in private—as well as some pain meds—he presses the keys to his truck into your palm and tells you to go wait for him.
You think to ask as to why he can't come with you, but refrain.
You'd really like to sit down, and the sooner you make it to his vehicle, the sooner that can happen.
Jack's just exiting the room he found himself unwittingly stationed in for the last hour to the sight of Robby coming straight toward him with a displeased look on his face. He's left to assume that you went to him in the end like he commanded you to, then, and now he's about to be ripped a new one for daring to withhold attention for a damn minute.
"Take it she came to you?" Jack asks while ripping off a surgical gown.
Robby crosses his arms. "She's out in my truck. I'm taking her home."
"I'm sorry, what?" he asks with a raised brow while swinging around toward him.
"I'm guessing you don't have any idea why she came to you earlier?"
Jack plants his hands on his hips. "I assumed because she had a question, or needed help with a patient."
"She was the patient," Robby spits.
Jack falters momentarily.
"He's been taken up to psyche, but she was trying to treat a man having an episode of psychosis. He shoved a scalpel in her belly for it."
Jack curses then runs the heel of his palm along his eye and past his temple. "She didn't say—"
"Maybe if you'd bothered listening for a moment—allowed her to get out what she was trying to fucking tell you—then you might've known."
Jack hardly wastes a moment before shoving past Robby and hobbling toward the doors of the ED. His leg is giving him fucking fits tonight, and instead of dealing with it like a man, he chose to take it out on you instead. You, who was already terrified after someone committed battery against you.
You had looked a bit wan, but he merely shook it off as hazards of the job. Hardly anybody around here is in tip-top shape at all times.
Robby jogs to catch up with him, then presses a hand to his shoulder to halt him in his tracks. A gesture which he bats away. "I'm going to see my wife."
"Jack—"
"Dr. Abbot," calls Henderson from two doors down. "He's crashing, we need you!"
Jack grits his teeth and growls in frustration before turning back around yet again. "Just get her home. I'll be there as soon as I can once my shift is over," he calls reluctantly over his shoulder.
"You sure you don't want me to come in with you? Stay for awhile?" Robby asks while settling his forearm atop the center console and turning in his seat to face you.
You shake your head and force a smile. "No, thank you. I'll be okay. I'm just going to go in, try and bathe," you say with a breathy laugh. "Maybe order something, or just warm up leftovers. Afterward, I'll probably lay down for awhile and watch TV."
Robby seems to debate something for a moment, but ultimately relents. "Alright. Just call me if you need anything," he says while giving your hand a reassuring squeeze.
You nod. "I will. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
When Jack enters your shared domicile, it's to strict quietude. He presumes that you long ago fell off to sleep in wait of him, so he heads in the direction of the bedroom to get his damn leg off and switch to the relief crutches provide.
And then he finds the bed devoid of your previously expected presence.
Tugging off the apparatus, he practically tosses it onto the floor at his side of the bed, slides himself onto his preferred means of physical support—when he's home, anyway—and goes in search of you. An exploration which doesn't take long when he sees light peeking out of the crack found at the base of the bathroom door.
He knocks quietly. "Honey, can I come in?"
He hears something roll across the floor, followed by a quiet "damn it."
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry for what happened at work. I just had a lot going on. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. Just open the door for me, angel. Please."
There's the sound of something crinkling.
With a huff, he goes to turn the handle, only to find it locked.
He's really in the doghouse this time, isn't he?
"Either you can let me in, or I'm going to find a key," Jack states.
"I'm busy," you snip.
He sighs, rolls his eyes, then turns and heads for the multiple keychains that hang near the front door.
The doorknob jingles, then turns with a quiet squeak. "Now, do you wanna tell me why—" He promptly shuts his mouth.
It's worse than he thought. Robby did a clean job of repairing what that man damaged, but he's horrified by the sight of you sitting atop a towel in the middle of the bathroom floor in no more than your underwear while you try and clean your dozen stitches.
Leaning his crutches against the sink, Jack hops forward, presses a palm against the wall, then slides downward to join you on the floor.
"C'mere," he murmurs. "Let me take care of it."
"No, I can do it," you mumble while half turning away.
Jack plants his legs on either side of you and shoves your hands from the injury before you manage to reopen it.
Picking up the bottle of rubbing alcohol, he eyes it with a raised brow before glancing to you. "You know better."
You shrink into yourself out of embarrassment. "I was only gonna use a little..."
With a shake of his head, he reaches across the way, grabs the top, and screws it back on.
Swiping an ace bandage from beside you, he peels it open and tosses the wrapper in the trash before making to apply the dressing. "I'm sorry," he begins while smoothing the edges with his thumbs. "I didn't know. Not until Robby told me. For what it's worth, I was a worried wreck for the remainder of my shift. I couldn't get back here fast enough. I went flying by a state trooper on the interstate, but got lucky when he didn't come after me."
In every spare moment Jack had tonight, he found himself subconsciously fiddling with his wedding ring—not wanting to acknowledge the ugly truth of what kind of hell losing you would bring upon him.
He feels doubtful he could survive it; unsure that he would want to.
But you don't need to ever hear something so ugly.
Once you've been properly tended to, Jack grips your hips and pulls you toward him. "My leg has been aching all fucking night, I ended up having to do a cric on the patient you saw me with—" he shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."
Cupping the back of your head, he tries pulling your lips toward his. "I'm sorry, baby."
You slide a hand up his chest. "I forgive you," you whisper.
An apology which is soon followed up with a mischievous smirk. "Robby's really good with his hands, by the way. You ever had 'em on you?"
Jack glares at you. "You do not want to test my patience right now."
"I'm the one who got stabbed," you retort. Leaning in close, you giggle. "Even let him come inside and tuck me in..."
Jack deadpans. "I need to check the security cameras?"
You shrug. "Only proof of what we did in bed is stored on my phone in a locked folder. It's filthy."
He fights against a smirk. "You're such a pain in my leg."
You raise a brow. "And you're a pain in my belly."
He snorts while bringing you flush against his chest. "If something like that ever happens again, you scream at the top of your fucking lungs. Alright? Made me sick thinking about you trapped in there alone... He could've done far, far worse."
You nod while nuzzling against his neck. "I just froze. My body locked up, and my voice with it. All I wanted was you I was so scared."
He could put his head through a fucking wall hearing that. Jack wraps his arms securely around you. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. What happened tonight will never happen again. You come first. Always."
Sliding a hand up your back, he presses a kiss to your temple. "It's my job to protect you. And tonight I failed to—"
You shake your head. "Jack, I didn't even tell you." Leaning back, you caress his cheek. "It happens. As terrible as it is, it does in our line of work. It's just a cut that, at most, may leave a small scar. Better it be me with a sterile instrument than someone he attacks on the street with a dirty knife. He wasn't himself. I'm okay."
He presses a long kiss to your forehead. "You're way more empathetic than I would've been. Good thing you didn't tell me. Because if you had..." He doesn't want to think on how he may've very well put the assailant in the morgue.
"I'm just glad he's safe and getting the help he needs. Everything is alright now," you insist.
He brushes a kiss over your lips.
"C'mon," you say while pushing back. "Come lay in bed for awhile and I'll massage your leg." You grin. "Robby gave me the good painkillers, y'know?"
He rolls his eyes. "He does tend to baby you," he says with a grunt while pushing himself upward.
You paw at his middle once he's standing. "Guess that makes two of you."
You pad out of the bathroom and he pinches your rear on the way out, causing you to yelp in surprise.
"Let's go see if we can't overwrite your and Robby's video," he croons while sliding onto his crutches.
"'Overwrite'? Think you're cruising in the wrong century, old man."
He switches off the bathroom light and nearly barks a laugh at the reply that comes to him. "Yeah, well, I'm about to fuck you into the next one, little girl. So you better hope those stitches were sewn tight enough."
meeting older!jack abbot x younger!reader (1.7k wc)
part 1 part 2
warnings: first fic !! i listened to ethel cain while i wrote this, nothing very bad here, just age gap !
jack abbot always knew he’d end up alone. there were voices that told him that he was a good man, that he served his country. he did right, and the only bad to come out of his time over there were the injuries he faced.
he knew that wasn’t truly the case.
jack knew what he did; he helped his country’s soldiers, he aided them while other soldiers did the real work. he felt better about it than other positions, he tried to excuse it. he wasn’t directly hurting those he was “against.” jack was just helping those who did.
he tried to moralize it, he wasn’t doing it because he loved his country, he was doing it to help pay off his loans. he put himself through medical school, and he didn’t have the means to pay it off. what’s easier than joining the military?
now, here he was. no longer a medic, no longer an attending at one of the most respected trauma centers in the country.
he was just jack.
he didn’t know who that would be enough for, because he could barely fathom himself. jack abbot moved out south, down to who knows where. he wanted to disappear. he would no longer find himself helping those who needed it, he would no longer find himself making a difference where it might have mattered most; he was alone.
until he saw her.
church on sunday. it wasn’t something that jack felt good about buying into. he never wore his ‘best’ but instead a button up, slacks and work boots that made him feel like he was someone he wasn’t.
the small town he moved into wasn’t one could weave themselves into, even if they wanted to. it was the kind of place where people left their doors unlocked all night, where during the summer, teens roamed free without any kind of responsibility.
it had already been formed into a beautiful tapestry of life, love, trust, god. jack abbot didn’t consider himself a part of that in the few months that he’d been living there.
he’d never found a community. the most he ever had was a brother. or something like it.
then he went down a road that jack had to hold himself back not to.
there he was, sunday morning, in one of the pews farthest back in the church. he felt just as close to god as those in the front. jack saw those who came in, families, he was the only person who came alone. he was not as consistent to come to church in comparison to other families, only coming once or twice a month. people didn’t judge him in the house of god, they just saw a lonely man, who saw others as they were.
people pitied jack abbot. what was new?
acting on it was.
your mother, ever the saint, sent you over to him to make friends. you were extremely confused.
you were the oldest daughter. It was your job to help out your mom, your dad instilled ever since you were five years old. your older brother had been lucky, he’d made it out. he went to college out of state on scholarship, somehow, but when it came your time, you were coerced into going local.
just a thirty minute drive, why shouldn’t you just stay at home?
she insisted you go and make conversation with him. he lived two streets off of yours, and you saw him occasionally when dropping off your younger siblings at school. he’d been either working on his truck, or mowing the lawn. you didn’t think he had a job, but he didn’t look old enough to qualify for retirement either.
you were still confused, he must’ve been at least, god, twenty years your senior? you were the oldest, but not that old. still, you took a deep breath and nodded at your mother, standing up and walking through to go and accompany him in the back of the church.
everyone was too involved in their own conversation about worship to notice you, the town’s sweetheart at your mother’s disposal, go up to him, the black sheep, newest addition to your flock of a town.
jack abbot paid attention to the sermons, but kept to himself during the more communal parts. he took that time for prayer. forgiveness. something to guide him to salvation.
you saw him by himself, eyes closed and head bowed. he stuck out like a sore thumb in the sea of conversing neighbors and friends.
you stopped in front of his pew, and he didn’t realize you were there, it seemed. you took a deep breath.
“hello,” you started softly, looking at him with eyes of the same degree, “is that seat taken?” you asked softly, pointing to the empty space next to him. real smooth, you told yourself while your cheeks burned as he looked up at you.
jack abbot opened his eyes, and he saw an angel. maybe for once, his prayers would be answered instead of pushed to the side.
town’s darling. hasn’t he heard it.
when he moved into town, trying to stock his house at the general store, he’d obviously been bothered by questions of personal, or town gossip’s, interest.
he’d heard from one of the cashiers, a young woman, just about your age, that you’d always been good at helping out newcomers feel welcome. she gave him directions to your house, and that you were always at church and other community events.
he smiled at the young woman, thanking her, with no intention of ever bothering you with him as a liability.
but there you were, looking at him hopefully.
“uh, i guess not,” he said gingerly while looking at you.
you nodded softly and then sidestepped in front of him, going to sit next to him, leaving room for the man upstairs. it was only decent, especially here.
“how are you, mr. abbot?” you asked, looking at him.
he turned to face you, confused as to why such a sweet girl would be talking to him. what had he done to deserve it?
“i’m fine, thanks,” he said gruffly, not exactly keeping eye contact, “but it’s just jack. i’m- i don’t think I’m that old yet, sweetheart.”
“oh, I’m sorry jack,” you said sheepishly, looking at your lap.
“it’s okay, angel,” he said, softer, “know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
your cheeks flushed, looking at him, “no, never, i promise,” you said, shaking your head.
he smiled, shaking his, noticing your demeanor, “you can go back to your family if you’d like,” he said, “i don’t mind being alone.”
you looked at him softly, “everyone can tell,” you said, matter of fact, looking at everyone else lost in their own fellowship, “sorry, ‘s true,” you said softly, “but i don’t wanna leave you here alone, wouldn’t feel good about it.”
he looked at you thoughtfully, noticing everyone really was right. you were darling.
“you’re too sweet for your own good, angel,” he said, looking at you, “everyone can tell.”
you shook your head, “just how i was raised, jack.”
he was fascinated by you. you truly had an attention span made of steel. he wasn’t that interesting at all.
“speaking of,” he said, “how old are you? twenty four?” he asked, curious about the girl that had made herself a spectacle of intrigue.
once again, you shook your head, “i turn twenty one next month,” you said, looking at him while you played with the ends of your hair. all of a sudden nothing was more interesting than your dead ends.
his eyes widened a little bit, “wow. you’re younger than my credit card is,” he said softly. he adjusted, realized how he should be perceiving you. you were a baby.
“shouldn’t you be in school?” he asked accusingly, “you seem like a smart girl.”
that made you feel a bit giddy, you’d been talking for about five minutes and he already had a high expectation of you.
“i-i am,” you nodded softly, “at the community college closer to the bigger town here. my brother got to go to college in california,” you added softly, “but my mom and dad wanted me to stay, help out with my siblings,” you explained.
“funny, i actually got into a few really good schools,” you added, your disposition dusted with melancholy.
he looked at you softy, “i’m sorry to bring up a sensitive topic, angel. sorry it didn’t work out either.”
you shook your head, “things aren’t too bad here,” you said with a small smile, “i’m working to become a teacher at the elementary school.”
“that’s good of you,” he said softly, “and that’s your idea?” he asked softly. he wanted to make sure you had some autonomy over who you were. from what he could tell, you lived to help others thrive, never yourself.
you nodded, “i was always good at teaching my little sister things that she didn’t fully understand,” you hummed softly, “now, she’s got her art down to a science and her science down to an art.”
he hummed, “that’s good.”
as the pastor began to reign in the small groups of people who were in conversation, you looked and saw your family going back to where they sat originally. apparently, so did jack.
“you should head back, angel,” he said, looking at your family.
“yeah, probably,” you said as you got up, walking in the space between his legs and the bench in front of him.
jack abbot felt like a sinner.
this sweet girl made him want to crumble the moment she spoke to him.
their conversation was easy, smooth, like honey. how could something that felt like breathing be wrong? maybe it was her age. she was younger than he was when he enlisted. jesus, he couldn’t think about her like this. he was older, so he should know better.
he sat with himself, almost in guilt. what kind of a person was he?
you sat seven rows ahead of him, thinking about your conversation. jack abbot was a nice man. you had no clue why he’d chosen to move here. you’d get it out of him after church was over.
as the pastor let everyone go for discussion, the teens for youth group, the parents for lunch, you looked for him, but he was nowhere to be found.
you didn’t have time to fret about it, honestly. you were too backed up with volunteer hours you needed to clear, so you looked after the kids that were too young for the youth group.
jack abbot held a place in the back of your mind, one you would have to look deeper into when you had the time for it.
author’s note: let me know if this is bad because i haven’t written in three years. please !! all criticism and notes r welcome :) oki thank u love u !!! <3
Jack Abbot finds himself feeling oddly protective over the new night shift attending.
He tells himself it's natural.
You were the young widow of a Marine, a military spouse who brought the greatest sacrifice for her country - your husband.
He watched you push on with gritted teeth, haunted by your own demons and trauma, all for the little girl depending on you.
It was only natural.
Any serviceman would feel an obligation towards your well-being.
Any serviceman would want to know you were safe... happy...
So how come, he can't help but feel like he is stealing another man's life?
Ao3
Current total word count: 49,5k
No use of y/n
Tag/Content: 18+, slow burn sexually explicit content, older man/younger (29 y/o) woman, grief, loss, ptsd, yearning, Jack Abbot would be a great girl dad and you can't change my mind, reader is an alt!girly with tats and piercings (more tags to follow as I work on the fic)
Have you ever come across one of those fics that you know will be life altering by the end of the first chapter? Yeah, this is one of them. I fear that once it’s over my brain will automatically categorize any fandom media i consume as being either pre or post Semper Fi and i am absolutely okay with that!!
I loved everything about the last 10 chapters and I never want this to end!!!
was sort hopin' that you'd stay, baby we both know the that night were mainly made for saying' thing that you can't say tomorrow day
almost 10 years after your divorce, robby sees you in the ED with a child who looks just a little bit too much like him
wc: 25,718
content warning: angst, hurt/comfort, second chance romance, single!mom reader, secret child,medical jargon, medical gore, inaccurate medical details,, age gap [reader is 37 , robby is 50ish], might be slightly OOC robby, reader has hair long enough to be put up in a claw clip, child injury, mentions of broken bones, i play fast and loose with timelines
notes:
A dense heavy heat had settled over Pittsburgh, typical for the end of June as summer decides to make its home in the city, the kind that promised summer thunder storms as well as sunburn and heat exhaustion. It was suffocating, lungs having to work over time to just breathe and carry you through the day, and it was sticky. Sweat beading on foreheads and down backs, clothes sticking to skin.
It was also the kind of heat that lead to recklessness and an increased patient presence in the emergency room - people falling of bikes, burns from barbecue accidents, severe sun burns and heat stroke because people forgot to protect and hydrate themselves, car accidents caused by sun glare on the roads, people messing around in pools or getting distracted and not watching their kids leading to incidents of almost drowning. It was a lot and the Pitt was in chaos.
Doctors shouting orders over the beeping of heart monitors and the clicking wheels of gurneys as paramedics bring more patients in. Nurses rushing from station to station in a haze of movement and noise, carrying cooling blankets and dishing them out in the waiting room and halls because there simply wasn’t enough space in the trauma bays, while also keeping an eye for disorientation and other side effects.
Robby had just stepped out of a bike accident, a teenager whose shoulder had dislocated upon impact with the ground and who was suffering from some internal bleeding after being hit in the stomach with the handles as they crested over a hill, he had done what he could. Stabilised him and got him prepped for surgery, the case was no longer in his hands.
He steps up to the nurses desk, hand running down his face as he takes a deep breath. The clock was just ticking over to 1pm, what would be the half-way point of the shift, but something inside him knew he was going to be here much longer than 7pm. He smiles softly to Dana who offers him a bottle of water, somewhere along the way she had been put in charge of making sure everyone stayed hydrated because lord knows everyone would have forgotten and then they would really be in shit when doctors and nurses started dropping because of heat stroke.
He offers a soft ‘thanks’ as he takes slow sips of the water, it's ice cold and he’s grateful for the shock it delivers to his system, for the way he can already feel the headache brewing starting to fade. His hand shakes a little as he holds it, but soon settles as Dana hands him a chart after a few seconds.One for the last patient, and he fills it in quickly so he’s ready to jump into action for the next patient that comes through. Which doesn’t take long.
“Male, 9 years old. Took a fall at the park, a potential fractured ankle and a small head contusion.”
He goes to move, to take a step away from the nurses desk to get the patient, but Dana stops him. A gentle hand on his arm to hold him in place, and he gives her a puzzled look.
“Collins, this one’s yours.”
Robby’s eye brows pinch up in confusion and he goes to argue but then he looks to the child on the stretcher, eyes casting over the face of the paramedics and to the frazzled mother at their side. It takes him a second, his brain racing to catch up with what he’s seeing. He refuses to believe it’s real, that it wasn’t his imagination and heart playing tricks on him like it had a thousand times before.
He shakes his head, rubs his eyes, then looks again to see if the face has morphed but it hasn’t. It’s you. It had been nearly ten years, and yet here you stood. Eyes wide with worry and hands clutched in the little boys as he sniffles and rubs away the tears in his eyes.
Eyes that look strangely like his, a deep hazel with flecks of green and gold that reflect little starbursts when hit with the light. He scans the boy, taking in his face and features. The wild unruly dark hair, the tip and point of his nose, even the way his mouth curves down in a frown are so shockingly similar that Robby has to remember to breathe.
He stands still for a heartbeat, mind racing with a thousand possibilities and reasonings. It could simply be coincidence, you had met someone new and started a family with them. He could be adopted and just share similarities with Robby and because he hadn’t seen you in so long he was grasping at any form of connection.
But then your eyes meet Robby's. There’s a flicker of unnamed emotion, then panic, then protectiveness as you step closer to the gurney and position yourself so Robby can no longer see the boy. He goes to take a step towards you, but is gently pulled back by Dana as she whispers, “not now”, just barely heard over the pounding of his heart that matches the rhythm of the monitors around them.
Then Doctor Collins approaches, a warm smile on her face as she takes the two of you back to the peds bay. You’re gone in a matter of seconds, the door to peds sliding closed and breaking whatever tension had been building in Robby. He stumbles backwards, tailbone hitting the edge of the desk as he reaches his hand behind him to stabilize himself.
Dizziness now swarmed his head and made the world spin. His whole world had just tilted on its axis and he didn’t know how he was going to go on now, if he could even go on like he was before. There’s a thundering in his ears, the rush of his own blood as his heart pounds so heavily against his ribs he’s surprised it doesn’t just rip out and throw itself on the floor. Nausea wells in his stomach, burns at his throat, and he can’t seem to get a full breath in.
Then there’s coolness against the back of his neck, like ice pressed against his skin. His hand is lifted to a chest and through muddled sounds he can just make out someone asking him to follow their breathing pattern. He tries, and initially fails, but the icy coldness starts to shock his nervous system back into a normal rhythm and he does it. Deep breaths rattle against his chest and fill his lungs with blessed air, his heart starts to slow down just a little and the rushing in his ears fades. His head still spins a little, but it’s manageable now.
He’s sitting now, but Robby doesn’t know when that happened, in one of the desk chairs and he’s shielded behind the barriers around the nurses stations where prying eyes can’t watch him seemingly fall apart. Dana is in front of him, his hand still placed on her chest as he mirrors her breathing, eyes full of concern but not scrutiny. As if she expected this to happen the minute you walked through the door.
There’s silence for a few beats, seconds really, as Robby comes back into his body. He feels the sticky heat of the room, how his scrubs rub uncomfortably against his skin, the creaks and cracks of his joints as he clenches and unclenches his free hand as if he’s trying to hold onto something that exists only in his imagination. Sounds filter back in, the shuffle of feet and the beat of heart monitors suddenly overwhelming and loud and he flinches back at them slightly.
He removes his hand from Dana’s hold and leans forward with his elbows and his knees as he rubs at his face anxiously. There’s a choked sound from him, like holding back tears, as he looks at her.
“How old is he?”
Dana lets out a sigh, eyes scanning over this face because they both already know the answer, “9 almost 10.”
“Fuck”
Robby leans back fully into the chair now, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose as if they could stop him from crying. It works, for now.
“You know you can’t go in there.”
Dana’s voice is soft, calming, a mother setting a boundary with an upset child. She knew what he was going to do before he even did, and he just sighs and throws his head back against the rim of the chair. He wants to go in, to see you. To see his son. The word felt like a cinder block in the dead center of his chest. But he can’t.
“I know”
And he doesn’t, at least not right away. The next three hours are a blur of patients and treatments, instinct over riding choice as he flows through them with head (and heart) half way in peds and with what was happening there. Then he gets a pediatric case, a five year old girl who had slipped on the edge of the pool and hit her head, Dana insists he reassign it but everyone else is busy with their own patients. So, he goes with the young girl and her family through the sliding glass doors and into the pediatric unit.
He spots you almost immediately, eyes drawn to you like you were his center of gravity. You're sitting on the bed, eyes staring intently at Collins as she goes over treatment, but your hand is in the boys. Clasped tight and rubbing soothing circles into the skin as his other hand plays with a toy plane. Distracted, happy if the smile was anything to go by. Kids always were resilient little things.
He can finally take you in properly, not much had changed in the 10 years since he had seen you. Your hair was a little different, maybe a little bit shorter and styled in a way he hadn’t seen before. It framed your face beautifully. There were little crinkles at the side of your eyes, the beginning of crows feet starting to form and laugh lines decorated your forehead like a map leading him to treasure. Your eyes were the same. Beautiful, sharp, always observing and watching. A kaleidoscope of colours that he had spent endless nights getting lost in all those years ago. Even under the clean fluorescence of the hospital lights, there was something golden and magnetic about them.
You were as beautiful as the day you met, and the day he lost you.
As his patient is transferred to the bed, with the help of Mataeo and Donnie, he offers her a warm smile. Her parents stand at the end of the bed, hands clasped together so tight that Robby worries they’ll cut off each other's circulation, he had never understood a parent's worry before. Not truly. He could empathize with them, but he had never felt that bone-deep panic and fear of wondering if your child would be okay even if it was a simple graze on the knee, but as his eyes snap to the young boy at your side some part of him finally understands.
The cinderblock presses down against his chest, makes it hard to breath and makes every move he makes disjointed, he has to think about what he’s doing now rather than following routine. He knows he has no right to feel like that, he didn’t even know the boy but as he watched the way he smiled up at you and how he laughed with Collins as she told a silly story, he can’t help the way his heart twists itself into knots. He’s not sure if it's worry about his health, or the grief of never knowing him that causes it.
As he treats the girl in front of him, who had proudly proclaimed her name as Amelia, he keeps his eyes off you. He patches up the cut on her forehead with some derma-bond, making sure to tell her if wouldn’t leave a scar when it healed because she was sad she wouldn’t be pretty anymore with a scar, and goes through the concussion protocol with practised ease. Though he’s pretty sure she’s cleared of any concussions, he asks Mataeo to put in a CT order just so they can be sure.
His eyes drift over to you again, only to find you watching him as Collins motions him over. Your shoulders are rigid, tension obvious as you move almost robotically while turning to the boy who had asked you a question. Where there was a harshness in your eyes when you looked at him, there’s now softness and love as you whisper low enough for only him to hear. There’s a giggle that passes his lips, soft and sweet and it sends a sharp spear of grief through Robby's heart.
“Everything okay Doctor Collins?”
Robby approached slowly, making sure to stay at the foot of the bed by Collin’s side and not up close to you. His eyes stay on the boy, who's smiling up at him warmly and there's another stab to his heart. Collins looks up at him, offering up the tablet with a smile and a nod.
“Yeah, just want a second opinion on the x-ray.”
As he eyes the x-ray, he takes in the name Isaac. It had been his grandfather's name, one he had told you he wanted to use if you had ever had kids. He has to clear his throat to try and subdue the well of emotion that was rising inside of it. He spends much longer looking at the x-rays than he really should, using it as a distraction so he could avoid looking at you and Isaac.
He looks away when you clear your throat, eyes slightly downcast so you’re not looking straight at him. He hands the tablet back to Collins, eyes moving to Isaac who busies himself with the multiple planes and cars in his lap.
“Looks like a Salter-Harris type three”
Collins nods to his words with a soft sigh, “That’s what I thought.”
Both Robby and Collins give Isaac a sympathetic smile as Robby takes a step back from the bed, “I’ll put the call into ortho”
Collins nods as she turns her attention back to you and Isaac, taking time and care to explain what the next steps of treatment would be. Your eyes snap up to Robby’s for just a fraction of a second, not even a full heartbeat, and he can see the panic and worry in them. The need for reassurance that this was the best path, but he can’t give that. Instead he ducks his head down and turns around, slipping out past the sliding glass doors where he takes a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“You alright?”
Dana’s voice stretches over the thrall of beeping machines and hushed conversations from where she stands at the nurses desk, hand propped on her hip as she eyes him up and down. As if she’s taking emotional stock of him in case he collapses again.
“Yeah I’m good.”
There’s a scratchiness to voice, a husky timber that shows he is not, in fact, good. Dana nods her head unconvincingly, eyes moving to the ambulance bay doors as she tilts her head towards them, “Why don’t you go get some air? We’re good here”
Robby just nods his head, ducking down and keeping his chin close to his chest as he shoves his hands into his pocket and makes his way out to the ambulance bay. It's quiet there, beeping and voices being contained by sliding glass doors, there's no rig with blaring sirens and flashing lights. The heat feels heavy against his chest, but it's a welcome relief compared to the cinder block that had lodged itself between his ribs and right against his heart.
As he leans against the wall, head gently thudding against the brick as he repeatedly rubs at his face, Robby wishes he was a smoker and could smoke away all the feelings inside of him as he thought back to that final fight.
_____
It was late December, in that space between Christmas and New Years where time didn’t seem real and people seemed to exist in a vacuum of joy and holiday spirit. In a rare occurrence of meteorological mystery, the sky over Pittsburgh is clear. The moon and stars twinkled and streaked the city in rays of silver, it was almost dream-like. Time frozen still as the world took a much needed breath.
But inside your apartment, it was a war zone. Robby had come home to lamp lights dim as you rushed around the apartment and picked up clothes and documents. Special, sentimental items, shoving them in different boxes and a suitcase that lay on what was once your shared bed. But neither of you knew the last time you had both slept in it together, it was probably a few weeks before Christmas after one too many drinks at your office holiday party.
You’re silent as you pack, don’t even acknowledge Robby as he steps into the room. Your eyes are sharp, clinical, narrowed into a glare any time you look at him. When he first walked in, he was shell shocked. Hand hovering over the coat rack where he intended to place his hoodie, but he was frozen in place. His mind whirled and tried to reckon with what was happening.
“Honey…”
His voice was soft as he spoke, footsteps light as he tried to approach you. A predator approaching a wounded animal, trying to convince them they are safe. The cat and the mouse. The cat desperately trying to claim they’ve changed and the mouse refusing to believe it a second time.
You are having none of it, eyes narrowed into a tight glare that causes Robby to shrink back and if looks could kill he would be dead 50 times over. He puts his hands up, a sign of silent surrender, as you continue to move around the room. He desperately wants to stop you, to change things. To make things better.
“Tell me what's going on”
You freeze, body hunched over the coffee table where some of your favourite books lay, your shoulders were already tight with tension but now they’re even tighter. Coiling up like a cobra ready to strike. You're slow as you rise, deliberately slow, and there’s a look in your eyes that is absolutely deadly.
“Whats going on?”
There’s an edge to your voice, a dangerous undercurrent of devastation and rage culminating in a deadly strike against Robby’s heart. He looks confused, face scrunched up and eyes wide, and devastated. Body curling in on itself protectively, shoulder slumped and head dipped just enough that he can still maintain eye contact with you. A man bracing for impact just before it comes.
“What's going on is I’m done.”
Your last word is edged with a finality he hadn’t heard before, not in previous arguments, and one that left no space for argument or for fixing things. You throw your hands up, not dramatically but in resignation.
“I’m done with the empty promises and the waiting and the lies.”
Your voice breaks then, the quiet devastation that had been festering for months crawling to the surface, claws digging into your heart and not letting go. Tears form at your lash line, but they don’t fall. You refuse to let them.
“I am tired of begging you to be here. To be home. To be present. To be my fucking husband.”
His ring feels heavy on his finger now, the metal burning its way through flesh and into bone. A reminder of the promises he had made two years ago, one he knows he’s failed to maintain recently. There’s a weight in his chest, a heavy grief and pain that lodges itself under his ribs.
His face morphs from confusion to sadness, grief evident in his eyes and in the slope of his mouth as it turns down into a frown. It almost breaks you, the wolf turned into a puppy. But you can’t let it.
“I…” A half-step forward, a hand reaching out to touch you that falls by his side, a rattling breath as emotion rises inside of him. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, Robby wasn’t one to cry. Not one to break. He was the pinnacle of strength. But this, this was shattering him.
“I’m trying… please… don’t do this.”
There’s a crack in his voice, one that pierces the armour you had drawn around yourself. But mentally, you just pull it closer around you. Refusing to let any weaknesses through.
“I booked that trip you wanted, got tickets to the concert you wanted to go to. I’m try -”
You cut him off then, one hand in the air as you rapidly blink away the tears that had formed. There’s a terrifying calmness in your voice now, one that’s more devastating than the silence or shouting. A quiet finality. A confirmation that this was the end.
“Were you trying when you took that overtime shift instead of coming out to dinner for my birthday?”
A step towards him.
“Were you trying when, instead of being by my side after my grandma got sick, you went out with Jack?”
Another step.
“Were you trying when you told me a major trauma had come in and you had to stay later, only for my friends to see you out drinking?”
And another.
“ You’re never here. I love you but I didn’t marry a ghost.”
Your voice was sharp, clear. Every letter edged with the tip of a blade as you spoke, one that cut deep into Robby’s skin. Leaving him bloody and bruised, scars forming in jagged marks across his heart. Then you were gone, a friend arriving moments later to load your things into their car before you drove off into the night. Leaving Robby in a half-empty apartment, hollow of all the things that made it a home.
_____
It’s the sound of your voice that pulls him out of his reverie. Soft, sweet like honey as it dripped down his spine and caused a shiver to rattle his body. He opens his eyes to look at you, tracking you as you pace back and forth in place. Your phone is up to your ear, voice low as you explain to whoever's on the other end that Isaac needs surgery. When you notice him, eyes widening just a fraction, you quickly end the call with a promise to work from home and a goodbye.
Silence stretches over you, a prickly blanket that sticks into your skin. It’s uncomfortable. More suffocating than the heat. You sigh, eyes cast to the ground, then there’s a deep breath. A step, and then another, until you’re leaning back against the wall beside Robby.
Another beat of silence, the sound of beeping horns and pedestrians filling the space. You close your eyes for half a second, head leaning back against the wall as you take a deep breath. Robby breaks the silence first.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His voice breaks, cracking right at the end. The emotions he had been so desperately trying to hold onto finally spilling out.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything Michael”
Your voice is softer now, a whisper that’s almost lost in the wind as you look to the ground, foot pushing around an invisible piece of dirt. “You were a ghost, and he needed a father. I…”
You look up at Robby now, the words catching in your throat as you take a gulp and a deep breath, “I didn’t trust that you could be that.”
Another stretch of silence, the rush of blood and a strong heartbeat filling Robby’s ears. First there's anger. Anger for the fact that you had kept this from him. Anger for the fact that he didn’t see his first steps, his first words, his first tooth falling out. Anger for the fact that he had messed up once and you took something so important away from him.
Then there’s realisation. That it wasn’t just once. It was time and time and time again where he failed to show up for you. Failed to be there when you needed him. Failed in being a husband. He had thought providing stability and comfort, a hand to hold when things got hard, was enough. But it wasn’t. What you needed was consistency, showing love in the small little things of everyday life and not the grand romantic gestures he always used to try and pacify you (something he had only realised after being told off by Dana when the divorce was finalised). He didn’t give you that.
That then leads to understanding. He understood why you did it, it was self-preservation. He had hurt you before, and he could hurt you again, could have hurt your son, if you had stayed. Another deep breath, this time from Robby, as he crosses his arms over his chest and looks away from you.
There’s a crack of thunder in the sky, then a flash of lightning. Suddenly there’s heavy rain, the pavement slick wet in a matter of seconds. Protected under the shelter of the ambulance bay, only a few small ricochets of water hit you. Suddenly the air isn’t stifling or sticky, it doesn’t suffocate. It’s clear. Clean. Cleansing the world to allow for new beginnings.
“Can I meet him, properly?”
Robby eyes are on you again, hope lacing every colour and fracture of gold as they reflect the sun rays through the clouds. You take a deep breath, hands clenching in front of you. It’s been ten years, you're a different person than you were at twenty-seven, and maybe (hopefully) Robby is too.
“Yes, you can.”
It’s nearly three hours later, the clock just ticking over to 7.30 pm that Robby comes to see you again. His last patient was treated, handover was completed with Jack who looked at him quizzically when he didn’t head for the locker room.
“You staying late?”
Jack's voice is quiet, it's not unusual for day shift to stay late. Especially after such a chaotic shift, but things had mellowed out. The late afternoon thunderstorm slowed things down to a manageable pace, so there was no need for Robby to stay.
“I’ve got something I need to do before I go.”
Jack raises his eyebrow, a question brewing on his tongue that he swallows down when he sees your maiden name listed next to a peds case. One click and he sees you listed as the mother and emergency contact. A puzzle piece slots into place, something to file away for later.
Then Robby’s gone from the handover desk, disappearing behind sliding glass doors and colourful walls with painted animals. His heart beats heavy against his chest, the cinder block that had lodged underneath his rips starting to crack just a little, the weight lightning just a fraction. Anxiety roils in his stomach, flipping over and over and causing nausea to rise in his throat.
Then he sees you and Isaac. His leg propped up in a sling high above the bed, his head pressed into your chest as you lay beside him on the bed. Your voice is quiet, whispered so as not to disturb the other patients, but melodic as you read to him. There is an old, well-worn and obviously loved, copy of The Golden Compass in your hand.
Robby recognises it immediately, having seen the copy in your shared home once upon a time. He remembered briefly, the sound of your voice as you read it to him one night when you first started dating. The sound of your voice pushing him over the edge to sleep. Sometimes, he still heard it in his dreams.
He stops for a second, just a little bit away from the bed, and takes a deep breath. His heart quietens down, his anxiety dissipates just a little. Then there’s a sensation of peace. A quiet recognition of it was always meant to be this way. He wasn’t ready to be a father back then, hell he probably wasn’t even ready to be a husband, but now the moment seemed right.
Your eyes glance up, some unnamed but not unknown instinct telling you that Robby was there. You smile at him, quiet. Soft. But still guarded. Still observing. Isaac follows your movement, his head turning slightly to turn to Robby. He’s tired, eyes flickering closed every few seconds as he tries to fight to stay awake, but he still smiles. Warm, bright. Loved.
“Hi”
Again your voice is quiet, barely carrying over the sound of monitors and machines that fill the room, but Robby smiles at it. Gentle. Soft. A man who recognises how precious this moment is and wants to bottle it up to carry with him forever.
“Hi”
Robby’s voice is similarly quiet but where there is a quiet confidence in yours, there’s a hint of anxiety and unsure energy mixed in his. You motion your head to the side, towards the visitors chair you had been sitting in earlier that now lay at the side of the bed closest to Isaac. He hesitates for just a moment, your eyebrow raising slightly as your smile widens. You had never seen the man so unsure in the hospital. Then he sits, pulling up close to the bed where he now leans his forearms against the guard rails.
There’s silence for a moment, the echo of heart beats through monitors surrounding you both. Then Isaac turns to him, hand reaching out gently cupping his jaw as he stares at Robby intently. Then there’s a wide smile on his face, a giggle passing through his lips.
“You have the same eyes as me! Mom likes to call the gold flakes little starbursts.”
Something catches in Robby’s throat at the contact, emotion welling inside him and rising to the surface once again. Under the dimmed down lights, you think you can see tears starting to well in his eyes as his adams apple bobs. His hand reaches up to softly cup Isaac’s, gentle. Feather-light, barely touching him at all.
“Yeah buddy I do.”
Robby’s voice is softer now, a quiet kind of reverence for the life in front of him leaking through. It's the same voice you had after giving birth and Isaac was set against your chest. A parent, falling in love with their child in a single moment. Robby’s eyes flash to yours, filled with sadness and grief but also love and gratitude for this moment. He is all too aware that you could have told him no, but you didn’t and hope bloomed in his bones.
“Isaac,” Your voice is soft as you call to your son, and he turns to you with a quizzical look as his hand drops from Robby. There’s unnamed emotions in your voice, a combination of fear and anxiety and hope all merging into one.
“Yeah mom?”
Anxiety fills you, causes your fingers to shake as you dog ear your book and set it to the side, one hand reaches out to gently brush at Isaac’s hair more a comfort for you than him.
“You remember how, when you asked me about your dad, I told you he was a very good doctor that I knew a long time ago? Who had starbursts in his eyes and goodness in his veins?”
Isaac nods his head, head now laying down against the pillow where he can dart his eyes between you and Robby. You can see the wheels turning in his head, connections starting to form, he was a very intelligent child afterall.
“Well…” Your voice catches in your throat and you have to clear it gently before you continue, “This is Michael, he’s your dad.”
Isaac’s eyes bulge slightly, realisation settling into place. Then there’s a frown on his face, one that is exactly like Robby’s and you gently trail your hand down from his hair and too Isaac’s cheek where your knuckles rub softly against the skin in soothing motions. There’s silence again, not tense. But anticipatory. A spark not yet meeting a flame.
Isaac’s eyes move to Robby’s, tears starting to fill in the waterline, his voice shaky and breaking as he talks, and yours and Robby’s heart break at the sound.
“Why weren’t you there?”
You instantly curl around Isaac more, pulling his head into your chest once again as the tears start to fall, one hand threading through his hair to rub gently at his scalp while the other rubs soft soothing circles in his shoulder.
“Oh baby…”
Concern laces your voice, as soft whimpers leave Isaac. Robby is shell shocked for just a moment, frozen in time as the question settles against his skin and his mind races for an answer. Then instinct takes over, a hand reaching out to Isaacs where he gently threads their fingers together, thumb rubbing circles into the skin. He expects Isaac to pull away, but he doesn’t. Instead his small fingers tighten against Robby’s hand. Then there’s a breath, a single heart beat, before Robby speaks.
“Oh buddy…I,” He clears his throat, his own tears now starting to slowly fall and streak his face in lines of salt, the cinder block on his chest cracks again. Debris falling and allowing him to breath fully for the first time all shift “I didn’t know.”
Robby’s eyes snap to your momentarily, not in blame or accusation, but a look of I’m going to try my best to handle this.
“I wasn’t very nice to your mom before we split up, so she moved away to keep you and her safe.”
Isaac nods into your chest, seemingly happy to accept the answer. The tears have stopped flowing, though the lines still streak his face, and you gently rub them off the skin. Isaac squirms away from the action, pulling the two of you apart and you let out a chuckle, it seems you had run out of your allotted affection time for the day. But he keeps his hand in Robby's.
“Do you wanna know how I broke my foot?”
There’s joy lacing the words, the kind that only a child could have when telling the story of an injury. To them, they were battle scars. Tales to be told around the playground and friends to show how tough they are. It makes you laugh, full, unrestrained, head thrown back slightly as you sit up and get off the bed.
You place a kiss on Isaac's forehead, eyes darting to Robby’s for a second, soft smile now a little less guarded than it was before. “I’m gonna go get a coffee, do you want one?”
He looks at you, recognising you’re giving him a moment alone with Isaac, a huge step. One he doesn’t know if he’s ready for, but it will only be for a few moments, so he nods.
“Can I have a soda?”
You turn to Isaac and scrunch up your nose, squeezing his cheeks playfully as you shake your head, “You’re not allowed one until after your surgery bug, doctors orders”
He grumples, looking to Robby for a bit of back-up but Robby shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, “No buddy, you need to wait.”
Isaac huffs, arms crossing over his chest as you walk out of the room. But it doesn’t last long, you can hear him start the story of how broke his foot as the door slides closed behind you.
Robby is immediately enamoured with the story, the lilt of Isaac’s voice as he excitedly tells him about the trick he was trying to do on the jungle gym in the park. Something he had seen a gymnast do on TV that was relatively easy in theory, harder in execution. He couldn’t help but smile as Isaac babbled on about how he had gotten this close (fingers pinching together until there was barely any room between them) but slipped at the last minute.
He promised him he would watch the video you had taken of it before it went wrong to see how well he did. As Isaac speaks, his hand falls away from Robby’s and he mourns the warmth for a moment. The physical connection fizzled against his skin almost like a brand, one he was proud to have. Robby leans a little further forward, elbow now leaning against the guard rail as he uses his palm to support his chin. He smiles at the wide grin on Isaac’s face as he proudly proclaims he's going to try again once his leg is better.
One story turns to another, this time about how he took a dive at the pool and the water went up his nose and made his brain feel fuzzy, and then another and another. Snippets of Isaac’s life slipping out as though it’s as easy as breathing. Grief and sadness wedges itself between Robby’s ribs for having missed the moments, there’s guilt there too. An internal reckoning of how he treated you and that led to this. He promised himself he would do better this time.
As you watch Robby and Isaac from behind the door, a decent distance away to stop them from opening, with a warm smile on your face you feel a bump against your hip. You already know who it is before even looking and you bump back against him as his chuckle fills your ears.
“It’s good to see you kid”
You turn your head and smile at Jack, warm. Friendly.
“Good to see you too Jack.”
He glances back through the glass doors of peds, eyes carefully watching Robby as he laughs at whatever absurd story Isaac is now telling him. His head is thrown back, his hand clutching his chest. Without even hearing it, you and Jack can both tell it's one of those unrestrained belly laughs that he only lets out when he’s fully relaxed.
There’s a moment of silence as you both stand there watching, the coffee in your hands warming you up and reminding you that you need to go back in. A deep breath, a settling feeling of peace and acceptance lodging itself in between your ribs.
“He’s gonna be a good dad to that kid.”
You don’t question Jack on how he knows, figure he put the pieces together from Isaac’s birthdate and how he now acted with Robby. He also just had a way of knowing things, maybe it was the veteran in him, always observing and watching. Pattern recognition and things like that kicking in until puzzle pieces fit perfectly into place.
Then you surprise yourself, the thought almost intrusive as it spills out of you before you can think, “Yeah, he is.”
Then you're slipping away from Jack, heading back into peds with a smile on your face. It’s then that Jack is joined by Ellis, arms crossed against her chest and eyes watching you disappear. “So…”
Jack raises an eyebrow as he turns away from the door and heads towards the nurses desk where his charting awaits him, she walks in step beside him.
“Who was that?”
Then there’s a small, conspiratorial smile on Jack's face. Mischief lacing every feature and his voice drops low, almost teasing.
“Just Robby’s ex-wife.”
Then he walks away to go see a patient, calm. Casual. As if he didn’t just drop a bombshell in the middle of the emergency room that left Ellis with her jaw on the floor.
The doors of the peds bay slide to a close behind you, and you can’t help but smile at the wide grin stretching across Isaac’s lips. For a boy who was fighting to stay awake only 15 minutes earlier, he’s now full of life and a new found energy. You never ceased to wonder where he found it.
You try and approach softly, but the heels of your shoes echo softly around the room. You cringe slightly at the sound, eyes scanning the faces of the other sleeping children and parents to make sure you don’t disturb any of them. Instead of going back to sitting on the bed beside Isaac, you stand beside Robby. Just close enough to feel the fabric of his scrubs rub against your jeans and the heat that radiates from his body.
He looks up at you, eyes mystified and in awe of your son. Full of softness and warmth, guilt bubbled between your ribs. It’s a feeling you’ve felt before, many times, especially at night where your thoughts spiral and you lose yourself in questions of what if? It sits uncomfortably, like clawed hands reaching their way through your chest and holding onto your heart. Not squeezing, but letting you know it’s there.
A soft ‘thanks’ passes through Robby’s lips, quiet like a whisper into the night, as you hand him the cup of coffee. Your fingers brush his, a micro touch more than anything but it still fizzles against your skin. Heat spreads through them, like you had touched a candle flame. Hot enough to feel and burn, but not enough to leave a permanent mark.
There’s a hitch in breath, both yours and Robby’s, and his hand is slow to move away. As if he craves the contact but knows it's dangerous to ask for any more. You can see the tightening in his shoulders, the way his pinky twitches against the edge of the cardboard cup as if he’s holding himself back. You clear your throat before going to respond, an attempt to break the small amount of tension now building, but the sound of the door and hushed voices as they approach stop you.
You glance to the door, recognising the orthopedic surgeon as they stop at the bottom of the bed. There’s a brief smile from them, then a look of confusion as they see Robby sitting beside you. He smiles at them. Small, contained. Like he’s holding on to something precious that’s about to be revealed to the world.
“Doctor Robinavitch, I didn’t realise you were consulting on this case.”
A deep breath from Robby, realisation settling into his bones that this is real. He had obviously known it was real before, you had confirmed it for him. It had settled in his heart and his mind that this was his son, but he hadn’t spoken it aloud to anyone else yet. Another crack in the cinderblock on his chest as he clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck.
“I’m not…”
He glances at you, a micro beat, seeking both reassurance and permission which you give with a stiff nod. He notices the hesitation, the way your shoulders tighten just a micro fraction and how your grip now crinkles in the sides of the coffee cup, files it away for later discussion, and accepts the motion. He clears his throat again, eyes casting over to Isaac who’s once again trying to fight sleep. His smile instantly softens, the hand he had on the guard rails reaching for Isaacs where he softly holds it.
“He’s my son.”
There’s a look of shock on the surgeon, and the nursing team's face (their eyes glancing towards one another in silent conversation) but it quickly passes. A softness spreads across their faces now, bed side manner kicking in as the surgeon clears their throat.
“Okay. Well, we’re ready to bring Isaac up to surgery now.”
You nod to her words, drawing your arms tight around you as if they can shield you from the hurt a botched surgery might cause. From the anxiety once again welling in your stomach and forcing its way through your veins. Heavy vines rooted in your heart and spreading until they entangle your feet to the floor. You can’t speak, afraid of the emotion that will spill out.
Robby notices the way your shoulders tense again. Almost spring loaded and ready to burst through your skin, the rise and fall of your chest as your breath starts to quicken. He wants to reach out to you, hold your hand in his and soothe you. Wants to tell you it will be okay, the surgeon knows what they’re doing. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stands next to you. Hand hovering at the middle of your back, not touching but you can still feel the heat. The ghost of his fingers as they brush against your top.
“We’ll have you in the OR waiting room during the surgery and then when he’s awake a member of the team will take you to his room, it will be in the in-patient pediatric ward.”
Her voice is soft, a small comfort to the anxiety, and her eyes are warm. Confident. This is a routine surgery and it will be okay, but it's hard to quell the anxiety once it’s taken root. You nod again, feet finally ungluing from where they are on the floor as you step pass Robby and up to Isaac.
A soft kiss pressed to his forehead, a hand running through his hair that he scrunches his nose up at. You smile softly at him, “The doctors are gonna take you to fix your foot now bug.”
He nods, eyes barely open as he takes in your words.
“Will you be there when I wake up?”
Another kiss, a sacred promise against his skin.
“Of course I will.”
He looks past you now, eyes on Robby as he stands just a bit away from you with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Will Michael be there?”
Robby’s heart stutters at the use of his name, not dad. But he supposed he didn’t deserve that title just yet. He takes a step forward, hand replacing yours to card from Isaac’s hair.
“If you want me there buddy.”
Isaac nods, eyes finally losing their battle with sleep and you and Robby take a step back as the nurses move in to prepare Isaac for transport up to the OR floor. You can’t speak again, heart hammering in your throat and stopping any words from forming, so Robby takes over.
“I’ll take her to the waiting room.”
A nod from the surgeon, a gentle pat on your shoulder, and then they were gone.
Robby goes to touch you again, hand hovering at your elbow so close that you can feel it bump against you when you turn to watch the gurney leave. It sends heat through your close and into your skin, burns in a way that isn’t entirely unwelcome. Then there’s a hesitation, a few seconds where he thinks he might be better leaving it. Then a gentle touch, barely felt at all. Fingers light against your skin, like a whisper among the trees. It’s grounding. Steadying. A hand reaching out in the dark to lead you into the light. You lean into it, just a fraction.
“Come on, we should go to the waiting room.”
Robby’s voice is soft, but it still breaks through the anxiety fog in your mind. A stiff nod. Your body moves robotically as you grab your bag and book from the side of the bed, then you’re standing close to Robby again silently hoping he’ll reach out and guide you. He does.
His hand’s a little firmer now, arm wrapping around your back gripping your arm, a small bubble of protection if you were to fall. A deep breath, a steadying heart beat, a lean into the touch, Robby's arm tightening just a fraction, and you’re ready to move. Softly, without words, he guides you through the doors and through the ED, stopping only momentarily to have a hushed conversation with Jack.
You could have heard it, if you were listening, but the blood rushing in your ears made it hard to focus. You could just about hear the pulse of monitors, the rush of paramedics as the wheel in someone new and voices of patients as they shouted across the room. Then you’re moving again, Jack clapping Robby's back and offering you a smile as you walk away. The ride in the elevator up to the peds floor is silent, Robby’s arm is still around you, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your bicep and you welcome the pressure. You have to stop yourself from leaning your head against his shoulder. Instead, decide to lean back against the cool metal of the wall behind you. There’s a small ‘thump’ as you do but there’s no pain. Just the sensation of cold pressure sinking into your scalp. It feels nice.
Quickly, far too quickly for your liking, the doors slide open and Robby is once again leading you through winding halls and corridors. You really should take a mental note of where you’re going so you can get out of here easier once Isaac’s been discharged, but you can’t right now. Then you’re sitting down on a chair in the corner of what you assume is the waiting room.
It’s in the far corner, with a little coffee table littered with magazines and comic books. There’s a box beside it, filled with toys and colouring books and crayons. You suppose it’s to keep the kids occupied while they wait. There's few others about, which isn’t surprising given it’s after 8pm and visiting hours are over, a few people linger. Talking to nurses and doctors in hushed tones with worried voices and faces. You can’t look at them.
Robby disappears for a few seconds, telling you he’ll be back in a second, so you sink down into the chair. It’s nicer than the ones in the waiting room in the ER, cushioned and soft with a bit of extra room for you to lean back comfortably or to sit with your legs up. It’s not individual chairs either, but a row of three or four before it divides into a new row. Something in your mind registers that there’s enough room for someone to lie down and sleep if they need to.
Then Robby’s back, his hand brushing yours lightly as he hands you a fresh coffee and for the first time you realise you had both left the other ones downstairs. You offer a soft thanks, adjusting yourself to draw your knees up under you and turning to face Robby as he sits in the second seat down from you. Close enough that he can hear you, far enough away that he’s not intruding in your space.
Silence spreads. Thick. Heavy with unasked and unanswered questions. You can see them brewing behind his eyes, in the way he stares at the ground and scrunches his eyebrows up. In how he’s holding onto the coffee cup so tightly you’re surprised it doesn’t spill over and burn him.
“Ask them.”
Your voice is soft as you bring the coffee to your lips. It’s hot and bitter and jolts your nerves just a little, replacing anxiety jitters with caffeine instead. He looks at you, eyes softer now but confusion and pain still lingers along the edges. Reflected back to you in the golden specs as the dim fluorescents shine on them. Robby shakes his head, looks back to the floor.
“It’s not the time.”
You snort a little, eyes rolling almost playfully, “It’s the perfect time. Surgery’s gonna be what 2 hours? Then it will take Isaac a while to wake up. Besides, I need a distraction.”
A small smile, then Robby’s leaning back and crossing one arm across his chest. Another sigh as he gathers his thoughts, you’re pretty sure you can see the gears turning in his head, hear them clunk into place. He turns to you then, arms unfolding and instead spreading against the back of the chairs. It’s open. Comfortable. Much more than you expected from him.
“Did you know when it was finalized?"
A loaded question, one that could make or break the foundations you had just started to build. But a simple answer
“No.”
He nods, “When did you find out?”
You take another sip of coffee, another deep breath and you make sure you’re maintaining eye contact.
“About a week after I settled in Nevada”
Another nod, you can see some of the stress leak out of him at that. His shoulders softened, his grip on the coffee loosening, another deep breath. Robby didn’t think you would have kept it from him if you had known at that point, but some part of him still needed to check.
“Is that where you’ve been the whole time?”
You shake your head and push a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “Not the whole time, no. We lived there for a few years and then I got a promotion just before covid hit and transferred to the New York office. We lived in Greenwich until moving back here.”
He pauses then, you had only been a train ride or a 6 hour drive away. So close to him, yet so far. A breath rattles out of him, uncontained. Uncontrolled. He didn’t mean it, and he can see the way you cast your eyes down to the ground before meeting his again.
Another silence, prickly. Tension filled. A heavy weight on your chest as he asks another question. A deep breath from Robby, your eyes casting down into the coffee cup in your hands as if it held the answers to the universe.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
A pause, your heart beat picking up once again. You knew the question was coming, had anticipated it in the back of your mind but it still filled you with dread.
“Yes.”
It’s soft, almost a whisper. Robby barely hears it and has to lean a little closer to make sure he heard it right. There’s a crack in your voice as well, the words having to fight their way up your throat. It wasn’t pain stopping them from coming, but guilt. Another deep breath, a clearing of your throat. You meet his eyes again.
“We only got back into the city a week ago, when we arrived I reached out to Dana and Jack on facebook to get your number because I didn’t have it after changing mine after the divorce. But you know what those two are like, I would either get a reply in a minute or a month and this morning they hadn’t even looked at the messages.”
Another nod from Robby, his free hand reaching up to rub at his face before he takes a sip of his coffee. It's cooled down a little, but the heat of it still melts a little part inside of him. That part that wanted to scream and shout and cast blame. But that melts away, thawing and giving space for recognition that you both fucked up but now was the chance to fix it.
He looks to you again, the pains still there but the confusions gone. Replaced with the hope of new beginnings, that look starts to crack at the shield you had built around your heart.
“Where do we go from here?”
Robby’s voice is soft, a whisper. A man quietly begging to be let in, and ready to show he deserves it.
A sigh from you, another glance to the coffee cup, “That depends on you and Isaac.”
You look up at him again, see his finger twitching against the edge of the seat. His eyes darting not only to your eyes but across your face, looking for little micro signs of deception. But there are none, for the first time all night you’re unguarded. Softed. Willing to let him in and work on this.
“As long as Isaac wants to see you, you can.”
Robby nods to that, “Of course.”
“But,” You take a pause, a deep breath, eyes meeting his with the sternness only a mother can have, “I need to see you trying. You need to be there and show up, and I don’t mean for every little thing that’s a lot to put on you with your schedule. But I need to see you making an effort.”
You clear your throat, ready to go to war to get peace, “If we set up times for you to meet, I expect them to be adhered to. If something comes in that is unavoidable and you need to stay, then I need to know. Clear, consistent communication. We go off our schedule, not yours. You can’t just randomly show up and expect access, not at first anyway.”
Robby nods along to your words, cataloging every detail and filing them away.
“All medical and schooling decisions are mine, I’ll ask for your input but the final decision comes from me. At least for the first few months, and then we can re-evaluate. You can be alone with him, take him out and do things with him, but I want to know when and where.”
Another deep breath from both you and Robby, “And then for at least the first few weeks, especially as he’s healing, you come to my house and I supervise.”
You clear your throat, words bubbling up before you can catch them, “I don’t want him getting close to you only to have you disappear on him.”
Robby flinches back at that, just a little, it’s cold. But honest. You had known him as a man who ran away into his work, but he couldn’t do that here. It wasn’t just you he would be letting down, it would be Isaac. And you loved your son too much to let him go through that pain, and maybe some part of you didn’t want to go through it again either.
Robby clears his throat but nods, stiff but accepting. “Okay, those are reasonable”
He shuffles forward slightly, just a little, his knee bumping into yours slightly as he does, “I’ll make sure you get a copy of every one of my schedules. If there’s no need for me to stay, or come in for overtime, and we have plans then I will stick to those plans. If something does, you’ll be the first person I call. If I’m busy, I’ll get Dana to reach out.”
He stretches his hand out to you now, open and willing. You can see the way his breath catches, how there's a slight tremor in his hands, as you reach out as well. You clasp your hand in his, the heat of it burning like a brand against your skin, and you shake.
“Then we’ll re-evaluate in a few months.”
A nod from Robby, his hand dropping from yours. Then you both take a sip from your coffee.
After that, numbers are exchanged and schedules are discussed. Obviously with Isaac having to be in a cast for the next 6-8 weeks, and then potentially a boot, it throws your whole summer for a loop. But you let him know he usually plays baseball on the weekends, you were currently looking for a team for him to join because he loved the sport.
Every Tuesday was taco night, and Robby could join you for the next one when Isaac was out of hospital. You tell Robby how he loves cars and motocross and F1 and how sometimes, when he had been really good or did something well in school, you would let him stay up late to watch the races. Robby tells you he’s been working on restoring an old motorcycle, and maybe Isaac can help.
You tell him Isaac’s favourite subjects in school, science and history, and how you had once found him trying to collect frogs so he could see their life cycle in person (that made him laugh). How he loved to read, Percy Jackson was his favourite at the minute but he still wanted you to read The Golden Compass to him at bed despite having read the whole series three times that year already.
You also let him know that while you don’t practise Judaism, you still teach him about it and its history. Every holiday season, you do a joint Christmas and Hanukkah celebration, and how Isaac loved lighting the menorah with you. You think you can see a rattle in his chest at that, despite not being there you had kept parts of him alive in your traditions with Isaac.
On your phone, you show him videos you had taken. The one from today and the accident being the first, because Isaac had wanted him to see it. Though Robby flinches when he sees Isaac coming down, he comments on how brave he is.
Then you go further back, baby photos and videos. First steps and first words. You don’t miss the way Robby’s eyes mist up at that, guilt stabs at your heart but you shove it down. There’s no longer any time to wonder about the what-if’s in your mind.
In the process, Robby has gotten closer. Your legs are now over the chair, feet planted firmly in the ground, Robby is right beside you. Shoulder and tight pressing against yours, the heat searing your skin and causing you to lose focus half-way through sentences.
Eventually, you move on to conversations about yourselves. About work and family, he asks about your parents and siblings, you tell him you're an aunty now and show him photos of nieces and nephews. You joke about bad habits of Jack and Dana that they still do to this day and you remember just how easy it was to talk to Robby.
Then the conversation dies off, it's nearing ten pm. The waiting room is empty now, except for you and Robby. But the quiet is comforting now, wrapping around you like a blanket. The world stops for just a moment to breathe with you, to welcome in this new beginning.
Your name is called, Robby’s called almost immediately after it and you make a mental note to update Isaac’s medical and school records to have Robby on as a parent.
When you meet the surgeon near the front, they smile at you, and all the anxiety you had felt before burns from your veins. The vines that had constricted your heart down in the ER, burst and melt to the floor leaving relief in its wake.
“Surgery went really well.”
You let go of the breath you didn’t know you were holding, chest falling as the weight of worry drops from your shoulders. From the corner of your eye, you can see how Robby’s shoulders soften as he takes a deep breath in.
“There are a few things you’ll need to know once he’s discharged, but that can be spoken about in the morning. We’re gonna keep him overnight for observation and to make sure there’s no complications from the sedation, but you should be good to go tomorrow afternoon.”
You nod your head, offering a small ‘thank you’ and shaking the surgeon's hand. Then they’re telling you what room he’s in before disappearing again. Robby’s hand reaches out to you, a slight tremble in his fingers as does, it wraps around your back and pulls you in close to his chest and you let him. Then finally, you fall apart.
The tears you had been holding back since the accident finally fall. Hard. Heavy. Ugly. Sobs you can’t choke down claw their way out of your throat, echo around the empty room so loud it almost feels like you’re drowning in the sound. There’s a heart beat echoing in your ears, you can’t tell if it's yours or the ghost of the monitor Isaac was on earlier in the day.
There’s a hand, Robby’s, rubbing soft circles into your back. Gently at first, then harder. The pressure working out the knots that had formed over the hours in the ER, while also bringing comfort. You hear a whisper, barely, but you can’t make out what’s actually being said. Then it’s slightly louder, the familiar deep timber breaking through the echo of tears and heartbeats.
“It’s okay, he’s okay.”
It’s shaky. Soft. A band aid being placed over a wound to stop the bleeding. Someone who is trying to convince themselves as much as they’re trying to convince you.
A deep breath, though you’re not sure if it's you or Robby that takes it - maybe it was both. Chests rattling together, heart rates slowing down and beating in sync. You stay in Robby’s arm for another minute, letting the tears dry up until all that’s left is lines of salt and red rimmed eyes. Then you step back, hands swiping at your face to try and clear the evidence before going to see Isaac.
Robby doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have too. He had seen it before, parents at their strongest when their kids were around and at their weakest when they found out they were okay. He understood.
You offer him a ‘thank you’, a whisper beneath your breath and he simply nods and says “Of course.”
Then his hand is reaching out for yours again, tentative. Asking permission. You give it, reaching out and taking it in your own. He gives a small, reassuring squeeze, and then he’s leading you through winding corridors again until you reach Isaac’s room.
The lights are dim and the moon is now high up in the sky, sending twinkling shards of silver through the blinds. A halo of light dancing around the bed where Isaac now lay. His leg was now in a half-cast, still elevated above the bed. His eyes were open, just barely, blinking languidly as he rubs at them and tries to fight off sleep again. Beside the bed, are two arm chairs and on the other is a travel cot.
You rush to his side, dropping Robby’s hand and taking Isaac’s instead.
“Hi bug”
A quick kiss pressed to his forehead, your other hand carding through his hair as he offers a sleepy smile.
“Hi mamma”
Tears prick your eyes, it had been a few years since he had called you mamma and it tugged at all the right heart strings. His eyes move from you, to Robby who stood at the bottom of the bed and was currently reading through the chart.
“Hi Michael.”
The soft sound of Isaac’s voice pulls Robby away from the chart, he slots it back into place at the end of the bed and smiles gently at Isaac as he takes steps to stand beside you.
“Hey buddy, how you feeling?”
“Sleepy.”
You tilt your head at Isaac’s words as Robby lets a small chuckle pass through his lips, your hand releases Isaac’s and Robby’s takes its place. It was a relief to you both to know he’s not feeling any pain.
Another kiss to Isaac forehead, a soft look and a gentle smile, “You can go to sleep bug”
A soft nod, Isaac’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheek like the flitting of a butterfly wing as it lands on a flower, “Will you both be here when I wake up?”
You glance to Robby, an eyebrow raised in a tentative question, then there's a small nod from Robby as he gives Isaac’s hand a small squeeze.
“Yeah buddy, we’ll be there.”
Another small nod from Isaac.
“‘Kay, love you mamma. Goodnight Michael”
Then he was asleep. Eyes fluttering closed as his chest rises and falls, the steady beep of his heart on the monitor an echo of safety and reminder that he’s okay. You take a step back, eyes still on Isaac. On the way his chest rises and falls, the little twitch of his eye and fingers as he sleeps. His eyebrow scrunching up just a little as he drifts into dreamland.
“You should sleep.”
Robby’s voice pulls you back to him, eyes glancing over to find him already looking at you with arms crossed softly over his chest. His eyes are warm and soft, but alert. Years of staying late at work and countless hours of overtime making him more immune to the effects of fatigue.
You are starting to falter, exhaustion settling into your bones and you blink slowly. Almost cat-like. Eyelids feeling like concrete, making every blink harder and harder. The adrenaline that had fueled your body and kept you awake for the last few hours, finally crashed around you and even lifting your arm to brush at stray hairs was a feat.
“Do you not have to go back down stairs in the morning?”
Your voice is soft, a whisper so as to not wake Isaac. Robby shakes his head, looks to the ground for a second, then back to you.
“Jack’s gonna stay”
Then you remember the whispered conversation, the hushed voices and words you couldn’t quite hear before coming up to the pediatric floor. A promise kept planting a seed of hope in the deep recesses of your ribs. For the first time, since before you got married, Robby was keeping his promise and he was staying. The ghost had become a man once more.
You nod your head softly, “Wake me in a few hours so you can get some sleep too.”
Robby nods, but doesn’t promise anything, and as soon as your head hits the pillow of the travel cot you drift off.
When you wake up, there's a soft morning glow filtering through the window. Pillars of golden light illuminate the room, streak it in a kaleidoscope of colours and warmth that radiates against your back. You can hear the hum of machines, the beeping of a heart monitor. There’s soft, whispered voices that filter in. Soft giggles and warm chuckles fill your ear, warms your soul like melts away fear. You hear the click of the wheels from a toy car as it glides against the guard rails of the bed, the sound of a child imitating a motor as they babble on about the type of car and the details of an F1 race it had been featured in.
You can smell fresh coffee, bitter and invigorating in the early hours, and the slight stinging scent of antiseptic and hand sanitizer. You scrunch your nose up at the scent, flutter your eye lashes as the soft light filters through your blurry morning gaze. After a few seconds shapes start to form.
The metal siding of the bed. The slope and curve of the bed as the top that’s now propped up. The dark unruly mop of hair belonging to Isaac, he’s facing away from you but his shoulders are relaxed and you can see his shoulders shake with giddiness. You can see his arms moving, one dragging one of his toy ferraris over the bed rail, the other is gesturing close to his chest as he excitedly explains something to Robby.
You can’t see him fully, just the shape of his legs from the other side of the bed and his hands. You can only assume he’s sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. You take a few moments to come back into your body, feel the scratchyness of your jeans and the stiffness of your joints. The tangled metal of an old chain resting against your chest, the pendant pressing into your cheek from where it moved in your sleep. Then you rise.
Careful. Slow. Quiet so as to not disturb the moment. Sitting up in the bed, your legs crossed, you can fully take in the scene before you. As you expected, Robby is sitting leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. There’s a wide, unrestrained smile on his face. His teeth reflecting the soft golden glow of the sun. His shoulders are loose and there’s a calm certainty in the air around him you hadn’t seen the night before. A man ready to accept all the responsibilities that came with becoming a parent.
There’s a hitch in your breath, a rattling of your lungs and your heart and the little seed of hope that it planted itself beneath your ribs starts to bloom just a little. You smile at the scene, soft. Warm. Some broken part of you knitting itself back together in your soul.
You watch for a few minutes, Robby completely enraptured as Isaac details the latest F1 race you had let him watch. He nods along as Isaac talks, and laughs along with son when he lets out a giggle, you can tell he doesn’t fully understand what he’s talking about (but then again you don’t really understand the racing talk either) but he’s still there. Engaged. Present.
Robby notices you’re awake before Isaac does, the sun glinting off your necklace as you adjust it back into place and reflecting right into his eyes. He zeros in on it almost immediately. It’s a simple chain, a little weathered but still in good condition, and the pendant is a sun with your birthstone sitting in the dead center. It catches him off guard and he has to double check that he’s actually seeing it right.
It was a necklace he had gotten you, on your second anniversary. When you were together, you rarely took it off and even planned other jewellery and outfits around it. An unknown feeling takes hold of his heart then, a gentle squeeze, not paralysing or damaging but just…there. It doesn’t know what it is, but it feels oddly similar to how he felt when he saw you walking down the aisle.
“Look buddy, moms awake.”
Isaac’s head whips round so hard you flinch slightly in fear he hurt himself, but he’s smiling. Eyes full of nothing but the type of joy that only children can embody.
“Mom!”
You laugh lightly at his excitement, the happiness infectious and spreading through your body.
“Good morning bug, how are you feeling?”
“I’m okay! My leg was sore but the nice nurse came in and gave me some medicine to make me feel better.”
“That’s good baby.”
You stretch your arms over your head, shoulders and elbows popping as you do and you can feel all your vertebra realign. You look to Robby now, smiling softly at him with a raised eyebrow.
“I thought I told you to wake me?”
He chuckles slightly, head shaking as he looks to the ground and then back to you.
“You never specified how many hours and I didn’t promise anything”
There’s a roll of your eyes, a huff from your lips as your arms fall back down and you cross them over your chest. Almost childlike and playful.
“That’s not fair, you need to sleep as well.”
Robby laughs now, head thrown back slightly. It makes you feel fuzzy. Warm. The deep timbre of it slipping down your spine like honey, saccharine sweet and delicious. You try and shake the feeling, but it lingers in your spine.
“I’m fine, it’s not my first time being up 24 hours or longer.”
Another roll of your eyes, a finger pointed towards Robby almost accusingly.
“Still, you should have woken me up. What time is it anyway?”
You see Isaac look to the clock hanging on the wall opposite the bed, eyes squinting slightly as he goes to read it. You and Robby give him the time and space to do so.
“Six…fourty five”
You glance to clock yourself and smile at Isaac, he had been struggling with reading the clock at his old school and pride swells inside of you.
“Well done bug.”
Isaac beams at you, prideful and happy that he had gotten it right. You can see how Robby’s smile transforms, pride at the tips and the curve of his lips.
Then there’s a knock at the door, and you look at it quizzically as does Robby. Both of you recognise it’s too early for the doctor to come and discuss the healing and discharge process.
“Come in”
Your voice is soft, but still loud enough that it can be heard through the wooden door. As it opens, a smile breaks out onto your face as Dana takes a step in. You had seen her the day before in the ER, but hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to her. She smiles back at you, eyes warm and welcoming and her arms immediately open as you step up from the bed. When you wrap your arms around her shoulders, she pulls you tight against her chest and squeezes your shoulders gently.
“Hey kid, you look good.”
Her voice is low, a whisper right against your ear. But the tone is warm, a lacing of I missed you hidden among the words. You had missed her too. You often joked that she was your favourite in the friend circle, much to Jack and Robby playful resentment. But it was only half-way true. She was your favourite and while you didn’t keep in touch after the divorce, you still kept an eye on her social media and sent her a message every birthday and holiday, even sending gifts for major celebrations.
“Thanks, you too.”
When you pull back she’s still smiling at you, one hand squeezing your shoulders again and smiles at Isaac on the bed. Robby reaches his own hand up and squeezes back, a sign he’s okay, before dropping it back down.
“Who’s this mom?”
There’s a brief look of confusion on Isaac’s face, you had just embraced a stranger to him after all, but it quickly changes to a look of interest. Dana was also obviously important to you.
“This is Dana, she’s an old friend of mine and your dads.”
You both move towards the bed, you pushing the cot to the side so you can stand instead while Dana stands beside Robby. She places a hand on his shoulder, gives a gentle squeeze.
“Hi Dana, are you a nurse?”
“I am little man. I’m the one in charge of everything downstairs.”
Isaac’s eyebrows scrunch up a little, confusion taking over his face, “But I thought Michael was in charge?”
You all laugh at the question.
“He just likes to pretend he is.”
You chuckle again at Dana’s voice, eyes darting between Robby and Dana with a look of mischief in your eyes.
“Dana really runs the show and everyone likes her better anyway.”
Dana laughs at that, as does Isaac, and Robby gives a look of faux offense as he pressed his hand into his heart.
“You wound me.”
Then there's laughing again, Isaac joining and as he realises you were just teasing. You meet Robby’s eyes and he glares lightly, but there’s no malice there. Just a quiet friendliness and joy you didn’t realise you had missed. You smile softly and quickly look away to Dana, taking a steadying breath as you do.
“I just wanted to come see if you guys need anything before I start my shift.”
You eye the bedside cabinet briefly, noticing an empty cup of coffee, before looking back to Dana.
“Some coffee and a soda for Isaac would be great.”
You immediately notice how Isaac perks up, soda was always a treat for him.
“I can have a soda?”
You nod softly, “Once we talk to the doctor again you can have it.”
He looks to Robby now, who nods in agreement with your decision. He beams, smile wide and almost blinding. Excitement bubbles through him, to the point that he’s almost vibrating and you roll your eyes lightly at the energy while Robby chuckles.
“Coffee and a soda, got it.”
Dana steps away from Robby, and you move with her, pulling her into another hug before she leaves.
“Thank you for checking in.”
Another squeeze of your shoulder before Dana pulls away, and another whisper.
“It takes a village kid, just know you always got one here.”
Then she’s gone. The sound of clicking hospital bed wheels and the shuffle of feet, voices muffled behind doors and hushed conversations with doctors filter in briefly as the door opens. When it closes, there's silence again. Warm and light with the rays of the sun. The arms of the universe wrapping you in a protective cocoon, if just for a moment. Your eyes meet Robby's again, just for a brief moment, but it’s all you need.
They’re steady, reassuring. Full of light and love and emotions you would rather not name right now. But they’re there. He stayed and that was all you needed in that moment.
A few minutes later, a younger nurse that Robby introduces to you as Mataeo arrives with the coffee and soda, letting you know that Dana got called in with a patient as soon as she arrived on the ER floor. You both thank him, and Isaac smiles wide at him as Mataeo tells him his cars are cool and then he’s gone again.
The smell of fresh coffee as the steam rises from the cups finally cuts through the smell of antiseptic and sterility that came with hospital rooms and the heat spreads from your hands and up your arms, settling into your chest. You take a seat next to Robby, smiling softly as Isaac starts asking him about his job.
He explains it in child friendly terms and you can see Isaac’s eyes light up. He was a lover of science and asked so many questions that you giggled lightly at the overwhelmed look that over takes Robby. You choke a little on your coffee when you go to take a sip of it only for Isaac to turn round and ask, “have you seen a dead body?”
The question was out of left-field and was asked with such sweetness and innocent curiosity that it catches you both off guard. Robby goes to answer, but then the door opens and the surgeon walks into the room with a smile on their face.
You’re still choking when they walk in, hand hitting your chest a little to dry and dislodge the feeling and they give you a look of concern. As does Robby as he reaches over and gives a small hit to your back. Finally, it clears and the only evidence is the watering of your tear line.
“I’m okay.”
You smile now, fully turning to greet the surgeon now. Their face changes again, a ghost of a smile tugging at the sides of their lips as they stand at the bottom of the bed. Pleasantries are explained, Isaac’s asked how he’s feeling and the surgeon listens closely and the ghost of a smile turns into a full smile when he lets them know that he’s doing good.
Quickly, the conversation changes to discharge and healing and the surgeon explains that they usually like to monitor for 24-48 hours to make sure swellings going down properly but Isaac’s swelling was reducing pretty quickly and if the pattern continues you would be out by the afternoon.
As the surgeon talks, you flit your eyes between them and Isaac, who’s busied himself with the toys on the bed again. Robby has reached a hand out over the back of your chair as he leans back, eyes kept on them while his fingers gently trailed against your shoulder. It’s not a deliberate movement, more an unconscious one. You lean further back into the chair, allowing his fingers to fully settle against your shoulder.
They explain that the half-cast will be on for 4-8 weeks, depending on how well it healed and they would want you back in at the 4 week mark for more x-rays. Then would come the boot, which would be on for another few weeks. Your heart sank a little at hearing that at least it would be 6 weeks before Isaac could be fully weight bearing again, at most 10. Nevermind that he couldn’t do sports for 3-6 after the boot came off.
But a gentle squeeze on your shoulder from Robby grounds you and stops you spiraling, you were just going to have to come up with creative ways to keep Isaac entertained over summer. As the surgeon asks if you have any questions, Isaac who didn’t seem like he was paying attention pipes up, voice slightly saddened and gaze downcast at the cars in his laps. Somewhere along the way he had stopped playing with them.
“Can I have a soda?”
The surgeon chuckles lightly, smiling at him with gentle eyes, “Yes sweetheart, you can have a soda?”
His eyes light up again, a small smile stretching across his lips as Robby opens and hands him the can of the soda. You roll your eyes affectionately as he lets out a small hum of satisfaction and a giggle at the carbonation as he takes a drink, turning back to the surgeon with a smile and a ‘thank you’ before they leave again.
A deep breath,another steady squeeze from Robby, your heart leaping into your throat as tears dot your water line. A single second of weakness. Then you're blinking the tears away, clearing your throat and taking another sip of coffee before turning to Isaac with a smile.
There’s a small, content smile on his face. Though his eyes reflect sadness and you can see tears in the corner, he doesn’t let them fall. You know he doesn’t want you to worry, so you lean forward and reach out to take his hand. Threading your fingers through his and rubbing soft circles into the skin with your thumb.
“It’s okay to be sad bug, you’re allowed to cry.”
A stiff nod from Isaac, his nose scrunching up as he sniffles and tries to stop the tears from falling. He rubs at his eyes with his free hand to try and dry the tears, but more form, and finally after a few minutes the fall. His hand tightens in yours, squeezing gently.
You hear Robby’s breath hitch beside you, can feel his hoodie brush against your arms as he leans forward again and his hand reaches out to lay gently against Isaac’s arm. He gives a soft squeeze, fingers gently wrapping around the crook of his elbow and thumb resting against the bone where he also rubs soft circles into the skin. Isaac doesn’t pull away, instead he lets his arm fall heavy into the touch.
You don’t talk for a few minutes, you just hold Isaac in your hands. Letting him cry and process and grieve his first summer in a new city. The tears continue to fall, streaking salt rivers down Isaac’s cheek, the sniffles and soft sobs he lets out tugs at your heart and cracks it right down the middle. Slowly, the tears stop but the sniffling remains as snot falls from Isaac’s nose.
You let go of his hand, stand and grab a tissue before rubbing gently at his cupid's bow and nose to clean it away. You cup his cheeks gently, placing a kiss against Isaac’s forehead as you rub gently under his eyes to clear the streaks that had been left behind. Isaac shakes gently, and his head falls against your shoulder as you hug him gently.
You can feel Robby’s hand pressing into your ribs as you lean over, just barely, a moment of realisation striking through you like a lightning bolt under your skin. The room now holds three heart beats, learning and working together, another hand has joined your own and is learning the shape of fatherhood one soft circle after another. Another kiss against the side of Isaac’s head and he pulls away softly.
There’s a small smile on his face, soft. Reassuring. Sadness lingers in the edges of his eyes, but it's not as prominent now. Instead, there’s lingering hope and determination and you smile back at him.
“Okay, let’s make a plan and see what things we can still do this summer.”
You sit back beside Robby, who’s already pulled his phone out and is scrolling through a list of places and activities on his phone. You can see the same look of determination in the golden specks of his irises as the sun hits them just right, it pierces through your ribs. Feeds the small bloom of hope that lives there, causes it to expand even further. A seed fully turning into a sprout, but not yet a blooming flower. You pull a notebook out of your bag, ready to write down ideas and potential dates.
The next few hours are spent planning, interspersed with visits from nurses offering kind smiles and warm eyes. Taking vitals and monitoring swelling, bringing both breakfast and lunch for Isaac which was devoured in seconds, you even get another visit from Dana. It’s only for a few minutes, but she brought fresh coffee and sandwiches for you and Robby and even offers a few ideas for what to do as well, mentioning that there’s a motocross event happening only 30 minutes from the city. Isaac’s eyes absolutely lit up with that, he was practically vibrating with excitement again as he begged you to go. You wrote it down and promised to look into it.
By the time the surgeon came in again, the sun was now sitting high in the sky and lit the room up in its warmth and golden light, and you had multiple pages of ideas and things to do. From museum trips and science events held at Carnegie Science Center to a trip to the national avery or aquarium, to art events being held at local comic books stores, to motocross events and races, and to baseball games (minor and major).
By the end, there’s a wide smile on Isaac’s face as well as yours and Robby’s. Isaac requests to see the book and a pen and you let out a small chuckle as he reads over the pages and puts stars next to his favourite ones before handing it back with a proud smile on his face. To no one’s surprise, he starred the motocross and science events.
At that moment, the room began to feel less like a hospital and more like a sanctuary where a family builds itself brick by brick, pen put to paper and a future you never imagined suddenly coming to life and as Robby looks at you with a softness you hadn’t seen in a long time, you can map the future in his eyes.
The last step was just to book everything, but your phone was dead and you were without a charger. Robby had offered you his phone, but just as you went to decline the door opened again and the surgeon and a nurse walks in with a wheelchair. The wheels click gently as they move across the linoleum floor and there’s a squeak of brakes as the surgeon places it at the bottom of the bed.
There’s a warm smile on their face, and a clipboard in their hands. You catch a glimpse of a title saying ‘discharge’ as they pull it close to your chest, and then there’s a breath of relief that rattles its way out of your chest.
“Good news, the swelling has gone down much faster than anticipated and we are happy to let Isaac go home.”
There’s smiles all around and sighs of relief, weights dropping from chests and shoulders and melting into the ground. Robby’s hand reaches out, sits gently against your shoulder blade, thumb moving just ever so slightly against the fabric of your shirt. You lean back into the touch slightly, an unconscious movement.
“Thank you doctor”
Your voice is soft, relief dripping off every word. You look to Isaac again, whose hands are now fiddling with the edge of the gown, fingers dipping under the hem slightly to scratch at his skin. There’s a smile on his face and relief in his eyes, the little starbursts shining like a galaxy in the sun as he thinks about getting home.
“If you two want to follow me to get the discharge paperwork signed, the nurses can help get Isaac changed and all ready to go”
You give a smile, a nod, and gather your things into your bag. Robby stands with you, and you both give Isaac’s hand a quick squeeze, before you walk out of the room. Once again, you’re led down winding corridors and passed rooms, but this time you take in the painted animals and flowers on the walls. The colours shifting in a recognisable pattern of something comforting to children, there’s little decompression and play rooms for patients staying longer. There’s a rush of hushed conversations behind doors, of laughter and lightness as families try and find the good in a bad situation.
The waiting room is busier now than it was last night. It’s not as scary, not as clinical. There’s families sitting around and children playing with the toys. Nurses and doctors bustle about, tablets and clipboards in hand, there’s kind smiles on their faces as you pass them. As you step up to the desk, Robby presses in close beside you. His arm is wrapped protectively around your shoulders, part of his chest pressing in against your back as he moves you gently out of the way of a bustling nurse going by with a medical cart.
The surgeon hands the discharge paperwork to you, explains every detail as you fill it in and reminds you of the expected healing time as well as things you can do to make it a little easier. If there’s some residual pain, some tylenol of ibuprofen every four hours should help, if there itchiness (as there usually is in a cast) use a low setting on a hair dryer and do not, under any circumstance, stick anything into the half-cast to ease the itch. Take the first few days easy and come back if there’s any issues.
You hand over the paperwork, smiling and thanking her once again. Then there’s a click of wheels, the screech of worn tires against linoleum, and Isaac is beside you again with two nurses. One pushing the chair, the other with a pair of crutches. They explain the crutches can be used at home, but they would recommend getting in contact with a wheelchair rental service for venturing outside. You offer them a kind smile, hand reaching out to shake theirs and give thanks.
Then you turn to Isaac again, smile softening. Almost reverent as you scan his body, hand reaching out to his which he happily takes.
“Ready to go home bug?”
A hearty nod and a chuckle from you and Robby, who leans in close to your ear.
“You need a ride?”
You glance him from the side, completely forgetting you had arrived in an ambulance and your phone was dead so you couldn’t order an uber. There’s a deep breath from you, and from Robby. You can feel his chest expand against your back, the press of his ribs into your skin.
“If you don’t mind.”
Soft. Hesitant. You had been doing this alone for so long, that help seemed foreign even if it wasn’t unwelcome.
Robby shakes his head, lips turning up in a soft smile. He wasn’t going to verbalise it, but he didn’t want this to end. Because, finally, after so many years apart he had you again. Like there was some part of his soul that had left with you and was just now finally slotting back into place. Where he was previously lost and alone, wandering the desert under a starless sky there’s now a guiding light showing him the way to the one thing he didn’t know he needed. Family.
“Of course not, I just gotta stop by The Pitt first and grab my things.”
You nod, smile at the nurses as you take over behind the wheelchair while Robby takes the crutches and then step out of the waiting room. Glass doors slide closed behind you, quietly as you take one step after another into a shared future. Sunlight streams in through wide windows, a golden warmth blanketing you. Isaac’s voice is soft, some tiredness seeping into the edges as he talks about how excited he is to go home.
Unnamed hope fills you, flows through your blood like liquid honey. You had stepped into the hospital, a single parent, and now you were stepping out a family. The man beside you transformed from a ghost to flesh and bone, a beating heart and a warm touch, you could only hope he stayed that way.
And Robby, he’s warm beside you, arms brushing against you as you walk. He talks, voice warm and deep, a gentle cadence you remember in the very fibre of your being. There’s a gentleness to him now, eyes crinkled around the edges and laugh lines visible as he smiles.
His eyes very rarely leave you, muscle memory kicking in and carrying him through the hospital. Emotions you can’t, or refuse, to name dancing on the surface. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to at that moment, but he’s changed. There’s something deeply soul shattering in his gaze, the quiet kind of reverence you had experienced all those years ago when you first fell in love. A quiet promise of forever that he intends to keep.
And to your surprise, he does.
___
It's late Tuesday evening, three days after you left the hospital, the sun is just starting to dip in the sky. Golden rays of light transform into something ethereal as they’re replaced by stretches of coral and lavender, streaks of deep indigos and violets poking through as it dips lower and lower. It's a clear night, the moon already fully visible and keeping watch over your home with the gaze of a lover and protector. A keeper of secrets and harbinger of new beginnings.
There’s still a lingering heat in the air, still a humidity that seeps into your bones but it’s not as heavy. It’s languid, slow. Forces you to move with intention, not just instinct. But the falling sun had brought with it a cool breeze, one that blows through the open windows and ruffles the curtains. Makes the house feel alive, the thrum of a heartbeat under skin. The air conditioning also helps, keeps the sweat from dripping down your neck and avoids the sticky sensation that comes with such high humidity.
Especially as you flit about the kitchen, pulling plates and cups out of cupboards. Setting up side dishes of guac and salsa and sour cream, all placed on a lazy susan in the center of the table. Tortillas are warming on the grill, the barbacoa bubbles away idly in the slow cooker, and Isaac sits at the table. Switch in hand, mind distracted momentarily from the heavy weight of his casted leg that rests gently on a chair in front of him.
Though you can tell he’s getting impatient, the little grunts of frustration you sometimes hear become more noticeable. The shaking of his un-injured leg, picking up speed and making the dining chair shake and rattle against both the table and the ground. You had told him Robby was running a little late, a bad accident coming into the ERjust minutes before he was supposed to leave. Isaac said he understood, but he couldn’t help the impatience as the clock ticked over to 8:15pm.
Then, as you’re placing the tortillas on the table, there’s a knock at the door. Three in quick succession, barely heard over the soft music you have playing. They’re tentative, almost nervous. Isaac immediately perks up, switch dropped to the table as he reaches for his crutches, a wide smile spreading on his face.
“I’ll get it!”
The excitement in his voice kills any protest you had building, hands settling onto the edge of the table with a quiet sigh. You know he hated being cooped up like this, he was an active kid and liked to be on the move and the resting period was always going to be the hardest. You still worried, of course you did, but you recognised his needs for independence and his need to be involved in this. So, you let him go. Following just a few steps behind in case he stumbled, especially as there were still boxes lining the hallway because you didn’t have the time to fully unpack everything just yet.
He struggles to unlatch the door, so you reach out and do it for him, taking a step back when he opens it to Robby. There’s a sheepish look on Robby's face, his hand gripping tightly on to his back pack while the other rubs nervously at his neck. You can see the apology already loaded on his tongue, his mouth opens but immediately closes as Isaac all but tackles him into a hug.
“Michael!”
An ‘oof’ leaves Robby and a chuckle passes your lips, Isaac’s arms are wrapped tight around his body as he balances on one leg. Both crutches are now dangling in the air and hitting Robby in the shins, but he doesn’t mind.
A smile splits across Robby’s face half a second later, the shock of the impact and affection quickly passing as he wraps his free hand around Isaac. His hand landing on his head where he ruffles his hair affectionately.
“Hey buddy”
Robby's voice is soft, weary. Carrying the kind of tiredness only those in the medical profession understood, the weight of a long shift, a bad shift, sitting heavy in their bones and on their chest. It’s in his eyes too, the dark circles forming under them and the sadness that permeates even through the joy of seeing his son. But he still smiles, still looks up at you as you lean against one of the clear walls of the small hallway with a warm smile on your face.
The silver light of the moon shines down on you through the door, halos you in its glow and with the warm light of a home behind you Robby freezes for a second. His mind buffers, his breathing hitches and he can think of a thousand ways to describe you and yet they simply wouldn’t be enough. These were the moments he missed the most, he thinks. The quiet, messy ones where there’s a stain on your shirt from the dinner, hair messy and untamed as it came undone throughout the day. The golden glow of your skin even after a day's work and cooking.
“Hi.”
Robby’s voice is somehow even softer now, a whisper that’s almost lost in the wind. You duck your head a second, suddenly shy under his gaze. You had forgotten just how intense it could be. How it had made you feel like a teenager discovering romance when you meet for the first time. And here he was, looking at you like it was the first time all over again. Your cheeks heat, the rush of blood an involuntary thing, but you look up again. Smile softly at him, motion your head to the side a little and chuckle.
“Hi, are you gonna come in?”
Isaac lets Robby go, wobbling a little as he does but Robby steadies him as he gets his crutches on the ground. You can both see Isaac’s hand open and close before he places it on the handle, like he wants to reach out and grab Robby’s hand but he can’t because of the crutches. You look at Robby, see the gears turning in his head before he swoops his free hand down under Isaac and lifts him into his arms, being careful not to jostle the injured leg in the process.
There’s a look of shock on Isaac's face as he’s momentarily displaced then a laugh bubbles out of him as he throws his head back in joy. Your hand had flown to your chest, placed gently over your now hammering heart as visions of either of them being hurt flooded your mind, but now it drops. There’s a deep breath, a sigh, a playful glare towards Robby who just gives a cheeky grin and a wink back.
“You’re gonna give me a heart attack Robinavitch”
You push yourself off the wall, finger pointing accusingly at Robby who joins Isaac in his laughter. You affectionately roll your eyes and turn away from the two, leading the way to the kitchen.
Robby follows, hand a little looser around the strap of his back pack as he kicks the front door closed behind him. Steps a little lighter than when he had walked up your path. Eyes brighter, more alive. The cinderblock that had lodged itself in his chest only a few days earlier cracks again, crumbles around the edges as dust falls through his bones and into the floor. It’s still there, just a little smaller now. A little more delicate, one powerful hit and it would be gone.
Robby, very gently, sets Isaac down by the table and helps him into the chair making sure to take extra care when placing the injured leg opposite him. His bag is placed under the table, close enough so he can grab it but far enough that neither you or he would trip over the straps. He moves to help you get everything ready, muscle memory from a time before and a desire to simply exist in your orbit leading the way, but Isaac grabs his hand and smiles up at him.
“Do you wanna see my minecraft village?”
Robby’s eyes soften, the crows feet at the side dissipating as he smiles gently at Isaac. He had no idea what minecraft was, he had heard a few of the kids in the ER and Harrison talk about it but he still didn’t know what it was. He had filled it away with things like Fortnight and Roblox and slang terms he didn’t understand, something he didn’t need to know or care about unless a patient was talking to him about it. But, now he cares.
“Yeah buddy.”
You watch the two from the counter, head tilted to the side and eyes cautious yet tender. You didn’t know what to expect letting Robby back into your life and into Isaac’s, there was a cautious optimism that lived deep in your bones. Buried under layers and layers of doubt and fear. Fear he would disappoint. Fear he wouldn’t show up. Fear he would disappear again. It was a dark shroud hanging over your shoulders, and yet, as you watch Isaac ramble on excitedly about minecraft and Robby (though looking very confused) smile and follow along with enthusiasm the golden light of hope and that cautious optimism started to shine through.
For the first time, you think things might just work out.
“Okay, time to put it away.”
Isaac pouts, his free foot almost stomping on the ground like a disgruntled rabbit, and he turns to you with pleading eyes. “But mommmm,” He drags it out in childish impatience, looking at you with puppy dog eyes that he knows never really works, “I was just gonna show Michael my farm.”
Robby chuckles beside him, eyes darting up to yours for a moment to see how you handle this. He had a lot to learn after all, and your word was law. A deep sigh and you push yourself off the counter, to instead lean down on the table with crossed arms so you could look Isaac in the eyes.
“You know the rules, no devices at dinner. But…”
A glimmer of hope and Isaac’s pout starts to dissolve.
“I can give you 30 extra minutes of play time before bed, you can use it to show Michael your farm or anything else. How does that sound?”
A wide smile breaks onto Isaac’s face and he quickly saves his game before handing the switch over to you. You offer him a wink as you take it and stand up again. When you look to Robby, there's a shadow of devotion one you had seen years before under a half moon arch of peonies and dahlias. Your heart stutters, breath catching in your throat and you have to clear it to regain a semblance of composure. Your heart betraying your brain as it remembers what being loved by him was like.
A warm, familiar blanket settles over you. Threadbare and torn at the edges, but still comfortable. The kind of blanket you reach for on a stormy night as lightning flashes outside and rain batters the windows, promising shelter and safety. An unspoken vow of forever weaved into the fabric.
You mentally throw it off your shoulders.
Of course, Robby notices the shift. The way your shoulders tense for half a second, the sharp inhale of breath as you turn away from them and the subtle shake of your head as if you’re trying to clear away something unpleasant. The walls you had built around you heart coming up once again. He sighs softly, eyes going back to Isaac who’s now talking about the cool new science book you had gotten him that talks about animal biology. It hurts, your reaction, a knife blade slipping right between his rips and poking at the soft flesh of his heart.
The only reason it doesn’t pierce it and devastate him is because he knows it’s warranted, he had hurt you and now he had to deal with those consequences. He knew forgiveness, and even true acceptance of him being back in your life, would take time.
Dinner passes by uneventfully, but it’s filled with laughter and smiles as Isaac tells stories and asks Robby questions about himself and his work. Robby’s favourite colour turns into a story about the reflection of the sunset in the water as he walks through the park one summer evening. What he doesn’t tell Isaac is that it was also the colour of your dress on your first date and the night he proposed. When you hear it, you can’t help but look down at your plate and take a deep breath to steady your rapidly beating heart. You didn’t think he would remember that, didn’t think it would still be his favourite colour all these years later.
It’s destabilizing, rattling you from the inside and though you try to keep yourself and walls stable, little micro fractures start to appear. Unnoticeable, little webs of golden light leaking through the walls like the starbursts in Robby's and Isaac’s eyes. You excuse yourself from the table, lifting empty plates and glasses and placing them in the sink. If you stayed any longer, you were sure to fracture completely.
As you work on cleaning the dishes, you keep an ear out on the conversation. Smiling softly to yourself as stories are swapped and laughter fills the now quiet evening air. You had turned the music off before dinner, and the streets were almost silent. Only a few cars passed by as time ticked over, if you strained you could hear the sound of wildlife and a soft wind rustling trees. The clatter of trash bins opening and closing, soft footsteps as people did late night walks. It wasn’t silent, but it was peaceful. A sacred kind of feeling that felt like the world leaning in and breathing for the first time in centuries.
As you place the last cup on the drying rack, the slow cooker a problem for tomorrow, you glance towards the clock on the microwave where it reads 22:00. You turn around, arms crossed over your chest. Robby and Isaac are huddled close now, conspiratorial smiles on their faces as they whisper amongst themselves. You wish you could put the moment in a bottle and keep it forever.
But unfortunately, it's past bed time.
“Isaac,” your voice is quiet, a kind of gentle that only comes from a mother looking at their greatest love. It absolutely wrecks Robby internally, sends his mind and heart into a tailspin as it thuds against his chest. It was a tone he had never heard before, it made him think of all the things he missed and all the things he had yet to learn and relearn about you. The possibility of it all excited him, made his pulse skitter under his skin as he took a calm, steadying breath.
“Yeah mom?”
Isaac looks up with tired eyes, something you were sure he wouldn’t admit to, but he blinks slowly and has to maintain concentration to open them fully again. You smile soft, love written into every line on your forehead and crinkle beside your eyes. Robby has to take another deep breath as his heart skips a beat.
“It’s time for bed bug,”
Another pout, a but loading on his tongue that's quickly dispelled with a shake of your head.
“It’s 10 o’clock bug, you’ve had more time than we agreed."
He looks to Robby as if he could save him, he wants to spend more time with him after all, but Robby just shakes his own head.
“You heard your mom, buddy, it’s time for bed.”
His pout deepens, but when he reaches up to rub the sleep out of his eyes you know he isn’t going to argue.
“Can Michael stay?”
A sharp breath, a shared look between you and Robby, a question you weren’t prepared for. Your chest rattles, eyes scanning over Robby’s features. He had brightened up over the near two hours he had been in your home, but you can still see the lingering tiredness. The stiffness in his shoulders as he struggles to hold himself up, the dark circles under his eyes and the slow blinking that is so much like Isaacs another crack appears in your walls. You almost give in, almost.
“Not tonight bug.”
You go to Isaac’s side, hand gently running through his hair as you look between him and Robby. “I’m sure Michael’s up early tomorrow for work, so he needs to go home and get some sleep too.”
A slow, sleepy nod from Isaac. His hands reaching out as he leans over as best he can to wrap his arms around Robby who instantly melts into the touch. His own arms wrapping around Isaac as he rubs at his back, he goes to place a soft kiss against the side of his head, but stops himself. Not yet echoing in the back of his mind.
“Goodnight Michael.”
“Goodnight Isaac.”
Robby’s voice is hushed, melting into the skin around Isaac's neck as he gives a gentle squeeze, you barely hear it but there’s a crack. A break of quiet adoration finally spoken into the universe. When Isaac pulls away, you take a step back and allow him to calibrate himself in his crutches before he waddles away slowly towards the next room.
“Where’s he going?”
You turn to Robby, soft smile on your lips, “The playroom, because we’re still unpacking it was easier to set his bed up down here for the time being. He has everything he needs and can maintain some of his independence.”
A nod from Robby as he grabs his bag from under the table. There’s something different about him now, not physically but you can still see it. Something had shifted in the very marrow of his bones and the fabric of his soul, there’s a lightness around his eyes you hadn’t seen since you had first started dating. A softness to the hard exterior of a man. A permanence in the way he looked at you, and Isaac, and the life you had built like this was now his forever and he had simply spent the last ten years looking for a way home.
Another shared look, softer this time. A shared acknowledgement of the new lives you were now building around you, brick by brick. Story by story. Dinner by dinner. It would take time, but maybe you could learn to love again.
You walk Robby to the door, that familiar blanket of warmth drawing closer around you but not yet fully settling around your skin as he turns to wish you good night. There’s a moment of hesitation with you both, silence stretching into the night and being lifted on a summer breeze. Neither of you make a move, just look.
Robby wants to reach out, to feel you in his arms and hold you there once again. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t want to push. To make you uncomfortable. Even if you looked devastatingly beautiful in the moonlight.
You want to reach out too, even if just to feel the warmth of his skin or the scratch of his beard against your palm as you cup his cheek. But you hold back, arms instead wrapping protectively around your chest. Protecting your heart from the now more noticeable crack in its walls.
“Goodnight Michael.”
Quiet, a whisper almost lost to the hoot of an owl and the crunch of gravel as tires drag across a driveway. But still there, more veneration than you had intended.
“Goodnight.”
Soft, sweet, reverent. Almost a solemn prayer and a promise wrapped into one. It wasn’t a goodbye, it was an I’ll see you tomorrow.
And as the door closed, more golden light poked through your armored walls.
___
The next few weeks are filled with evening visits and dinners, weekends spent as a family unit. Your living room turned from an area of rest and relaxation to a graveyard of pillow and blankets, forts made and burned to the ground in imaginary war zones. Instead of silence or music, a random tv show in the background or the sounds of video games, there squeals of laughter. What once was dead space, is now alive. A thrumming pulse of activity, a lifeline you didn’t know you desperately needed.
Isaac adjusts to his crutches, moving more fluidly and with less fear, and Michael shows up. Every night, even if it’s late and all I can do is a quick hello and a goodnight. Days off where he would lock himself up with medical journals and spiraling thoughts are now spent at your home, under a mountain of blankets and pillows you had deliberately pulled out of storage or with toy cars and race tracks in his hands. Stories are swapped, laughter spilled like wine and whiskey that warms him from the inside.
Then there's the closeness with you, hesitant touches as you brush against each other shifting into something more deliberate. Your shoulder pressed into his as he helps you in the kitchen, hand lingering just a moment too long as you hand him something, thighs pressed close together as you sit on the sofa and watch Isaac present a magic trick he had learned on youtube.
Then there’s the first night he stays. It's July 5th and despite an exhausting day before in the ER, Robby takes Isaac out to the Carnegie Science Center during the day to not only spend time with his son but to give you space to work, unpack and breathe. Despite insisting you were fine, Michael could see the way you wobbled on the tightrope between exhaustion and burnout, one wrong step and you would collapse.
Isaac, of course, had an incredible time and was basically humming with barely contained excitement as Michael pushed him through the door on the temporary wheelchair you had rented. His voice loud and boisterous as he rattled off all the things they had seen, everything he had got to do and try. His eyes were alight with life and passion and you couldn’t help but smile at him.
Behind him, the sun is just starting to set the brilliant gold of the day transforming into something softer as yellows and orange streak across the cloudless sky and if you look closely enough you can see some hues of indigo and violet mixing in. They frame Michael in a halo of colour, edges soft and shadow blurred behind him, as he steps through the front door.
There was always an air of permanent exhaustion around Michael, he supposed it went with the territory of being caked in the scent of anti-sceptic and blood and illness that he carried with him from being in the ER, yet he felt lighter than he had in years. Being with Isaac did more than bring him joy, it was actively reviving him. He had long ago accepted that his life would be short flings and one-night stands, loneliness displaced by the sound of voices on the tv as he tried to sleep. But now?
Now he saw what his life could be, full of life. Full of love. Full of hope. Hope for a future he had no idea existed only a month ago.
“You coming in?”
Your voice is soft, teasing as you lean against the wall at the end of the hallway with your arms crossed and head tilted to the side. Michael had been standing there for a few moments too long, just watching Isaac as he transferred from the wheelchair to his crutches and settled into the sofa.
The boxes that had lingered around the door for the past few weeks are gone and as Michael moves inside he sees the living room is decorated with trinkets and books and candles. Photos line the walls and the bookshelf is impeccably ordered, the first one that catches Michael’s eyes is one he had gotten you. Limited edition copies of The Lord of the Rings series, still perfect as if they hadn’t been touched. Then he spots the photo next to it.
It’s a recent one. Of him and Isaac surrounded by pillows and cars and books on the living room floor (where the coffee table now is) both with smiles on their faces. He never even noticed you taking the picture.
“You’ve had a busy day.”
A snort from you as you run your fingers through your hair and push yourself off the wall, “Yeah, I uh… I couldn’t keep still.”
Michael looks at you, a smirk on his face that crinkles his crows feet and sends a flutter through your heart.
“You could have asked for help, you know.”
A soft sigh, a gentle look from the corner of your eyes as you rock back on your feet.
“I know, I’m still getting used to this whole not doing it alone thing.”
Michael nods, then notices the two used and empty wine glasses on the dining table and shakes his head with a small laugh as you follow his gaze with a shrug.
“I also had Dana over to help.”
You nudge his shoulder playfully before stepping back, “Go sit down, Isaac’s requested a movie night and the popcorns just finished.”
As you pass Isaac on the couch, you ruffle his hair and press a kiss against the top of his head and laugh softly when he scrunches up his nose.
“What do you want to drink bug?”
“A sprite please”
A nod from you, eyes moving over to Michael with a soft smile, “You want a beer?”
Michael moves the sofa, covered in soft throw blankets and pillows, kicking his shoes off and placing them under the coffee table as he does, and gives a small nod before sitting at the end of the sofa. Isaac is in the middle of the three-seater, sitting closer to the other end than he is to Michael but despite their growing relationship he doesn’t want to push any further than he’s allowed. But then Isaac’s tugging on his hand, pulling him closer to him to show off the features of the toy they had picked up at the bookshop.
He leans in close, arm wrapping around the back of the sofa to allow him as close as Isaac wants, to look it over. There’s buttons and lights and a remote that Isaac hands him with an excited smile, at the look a pleasant crack ricochets through his body right down the middle of the cinderblock that had been slowly eroding over the past few weeks.
It's no bigger than a brick now, sitting tucked tight underneath his ribs instead of the domineering pressure on his chest it had once been. Still there, lingering, but buried under layers of soft cotton and the butterfly wings of Isaac eyelashes as they blink up at him. Grief now replaced with learning and light and love.
You join them a few seconds later, popcorn bowl placed in Isaac’s lap and Michael notices the peanut m&m’s and candied almonds and can’t help but tuck his chin to try and hide his smile. He knew that was your influence, and of course you catch it as you hand him an open beer.
“What are you smiling at?”
There’s a small spark of electricity up your arm as your fingers brushed, and you stop, for just a moment. Fingers pressed softly against one another as Michael wraps his hand around yours. There’s mischief and teasing in the starbursts of his eyes, the golden hour light making them shine even brighter than normal. His eyes dart to the popcorn bowl, then back to you, fingers tightening just a little.
“Some things just don’t change.”
There’s a playful roll of your eyes, an unconscious smile stretching across your face as you finally pull your hand back and let him take the beer from you. Then you’re gone again, just for a moment, then you’re handing Isaac his sprite in a non-spill cup that he can keep beside him and placing a glass of wine on the coffee table for yourself before throwing a bag of candy at Michael with a playful glare.
It hits his chest, bounces to his knees and he laughs. Full, unrestrained. But his eyes never leave yours as you settle in next to Isaac on the other side, he brings his free hand up to his face and attempts to hide the smile between his fingers but he fails and you’re laughing alongside him. Another crack, this time in your walls, spider webs turning into full fractures that allow pieces to crumble around you. Golden light penetrates and fills you with a warmth you’re still too scared to admit you not only missed, but craved in the deepest parts of your soul.
It’s still early-ish, the soft yellows and oranges transforming into deep indigos and violets as the sun slowly dips lower in the sky, your phone reading as 8:45. You agreed to let Isaac stay up a bit later than usual, the energy from the day not yet fully leaving his system, and agree that each of you will pick one movie. Isaac picks Wall-E, it’s one of his favourites and you’re just grateful he hasn’t chosen Meet the Robinsons again.
There’s laughter shared throughout the movie, jokes and comments about certain scenes. If there was one thing you could say about Michael coming back into your life, it’s that it’s never truly quiet and you appreciate it. He, and Isaac, reminded you every day that there was more to life than just surviving and trying your best and that you needed space to simply be and live too.
By the end of the first movie, night had fully set in and the stars give little sprinkles of silver light through your blinds. It’s the only light, but it’s all you need against the backdrop of the TV. You’ve all shifted on the sofa. You with your legs up to your side as you lean in close to Isaac with one arm supporting your head on the sofa. Isaac is leaning in close against Michael, head resting softly against his shoulder as best he can with his leg propped on the coffee table and Michael is closer to him. Hand wrapped around the back now laying gently against Isaac’s shoulder. And somewhere along the way, all three of you had ended up wrapped up in your giant throw blanket and the pillows were thrown to the floor.
You can see the tiredness finally settle in Isaac, in how his eyes are starting to close over just a bit and he has to force them awake. In the limpness of his hand as you hold it in your free one. He still asks for another movie.
You let Michael choose this one, content to just exist in space with the two. Honestly, they could have chosen the most boring movie in existence and you would have been happy. He chooses Matilda. You give him a curious glance when he clicks on the movie, it was unexpected and he simply shrugs but there’s lightness in his eyes. A memory flashing between them and you wonder if he’s also remembering the first night you stayed at his place when you started dating.
The mountain of blankets you had formed on his bed, brought from your own home, curling up in his arms as you waxed poetic about the how it was one of your favourites telling stories of lazy sundays spent at your grandparents with the movie on the background. How you, in your young mind, had convinced yourself you were like Matilda and tried to move things with your mind. The smile on his face and the small chuckle he lets out tell you he is.
You can feel your cheeks heat at the look and quickly look away, glancing down at Isaac to see him perk up a little bit as the movie starts. You place a quick kiss to his head and lean further into him, head leaning against his as you readjust on the sofa. As you move, so does Michael. His hand and arm now leaning against the back, his fingers trailing gently against the skin of your neck and your clothed shoulder. Heat blooms wherever he touches, spreads out and trickles down your spine.
It’s quieter now, laughter now hushed. Conversation abandoned as you both let Isaac drift off to sleep but you can feel Michael’s eyes on you almost the whole time. He’s watching the way you mouth along to the script, the way your head bobs slightly to the music, a warm smile on his face the entire time.
Then the movie ends, screen turning black as the credit’s roll. Michael pauses it, a comfortable silence stretches over you. That old tattered blanket settles closer to you, wrapping around your ribs but not yet settling on your shoulders but it doesn’t restrict. It is comforting. It's warm, familiar. An old friend coming home.
There’s a shared breath, deep, grounding. Both of you look at Isaac who snores gently at your side, then Michael looks at you with a soft smile on your face. He wants to take his phone out and take a photo, commit this image to memory forever so he can look back on it on the long days. He realises then, he doesn’t want to leave. Could spend the rest of his days just locked in this moment.
“You want me to lift him into bed?”
It’s a whisper, soft. Gentle. And just like that the world comes back into focus, the sound of cicadas filtering in through the open window, a radio from a small party down the street playing soft music as it winds down. The twinkling stars and moonlight as they shine in the sky, reflecting off the glass of the coffee table and sending a kaleidoscope spreading across the floor. It’s something delicate, breakable. You don’t want to move, slow your breathing so as not to disturb the movement.
Then there’s a startling thought, you don’t want him to go. You could get used to this, to Michael being not only in your life but in your space. Potentially in your heart once again. It scares you, but you don’t let it stop you. Your conversation with Dana ringing in the back of your mind, don’t let fear stop you from living.
“Yeah, I’ll get everything cleaned up”
A nod, then you’re both slowly moving off the sofa so as not to disturb Isaac. As you gather the dishes and empty bags into the near empty popcorn bowl, Michael gently hoists Isaac into his arm being very careful so as not to bang his broken leg. You watch his back as he disappears down the hallway and into the playroom before making your way to the kitchen.
When he returns, you're leaning against the counter and responding to a text. Michael doesn’t clear his throat, barely makes a sound as he pads into the kitchen and yet your body knows he’s there and you look up instinctively. He’s only a few steps away
“I should go”
Soft, whispered into the night. A heart beat slams in your ears, you can’t tell if it’s yours.
“You should stay.”
A look of shock, a skipped heart beat. Elation blooming in Michael’s veins, yet trepidation leaks from his tongue.
“I don’t have any clothes.”
You roll your eyes, softly. Affectionately.
“I still have a pair of your old sweats, I can put your clothes in the washer and dryer before we go to bed.”
A moment of stillness, a shared recognition of I don’t want this to end. A step closer, you can’t tell who takes it.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Then you’re taking a step back, leading Michael up the stairs to your bedroom where you riffle through drawers before pulling out an old worn pair of sweats. Their college branded, Michaels alma mater, a little tattered and worn but still perfectly wearable. As Michael takes them, they are soft and obviously still well cared for.
“Thank you.”
You nod, gentle, eyes soft as you look up at him through your lashes.
“Bathroom is just there,” You point to the door at the top of the stairs, “The guest bedroom is beside it.”
Another soft ‘thanks’ passed from Michael's lips, and you nod before turning back down the stairs. When you reach the kitchen, there’s silence. Cicada’s no longer chirp, the dimmed down radio is now quiet and the gentle summer breeze no longer ruffles the trees. The air feels heavy, tense. Full of anticipation and longing and maybe something a little more dangerous. It’s the time before a storm, before the world around you is thrown into chaos. Where most people seek shelter.
And yet, there’s peace. You are not outside of the storm watching it destroy the world, but in it. Cradled gently in its arms at the center. You were safe. Warm. Protected. A feeling of whatever happens here, now, it would not destroy you.
There’s a deep breath as you steady yourself against the kitchen counter, eyes closing for just a moment. A thousand what if’s playing in your mind, a thousand reasons this won’t work and then a thousand more of what if it does? You try not to swell on them too long and quickly regain your composure. Another deep breath, rattling against your ribs and you open your eyes.
You busy yourself with pouring another glass of wine and grabbing a cold beer for Michael and he joins you only a minute later. His clothes bundled up in his hands, the sweatpant riding low on his hips and he’s shirtless. You try to stop yourself from trailing your eyes up his body, admiring the pudge of his belly and the happy trail that leads up to his chest hair. When you meet Michael’s eyes and see the small flush dusting his cheeks, you realise you failed.
Heat rises up your neck and to your cheeks, you hope it isn’t as obvious as it feels. The burn of skin, like touching a hot stove top, spreading like a wildfire. You don’t address it, just clear you throat and take the clothes from him.
“I’ll be uh… back in a second. There’s a beer there for you if you wanna um…wait on the couch. The button for the lamps on the base.”
You don’t wait for him to reply, instead make your way around him with a hitched breath and a hammering heart. It had been years since you had felt like this, it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen a naked man since you had divorced Michael but there was something that was just so uniquely him that it got under your skin. Made you feel crazy and young and totally inexperienced, as if it was your first time seeing him like that.
You curse to yourself as you load his clothes into the washer, in a small alcove outside the playroom, desperately begging your heart to calm down and remember you’re a grown adult and you can handle this.
As you do, Michael struggles in the kitchen. As soon as he noticed you looking, more like oggling, his body froze. His heart started hammering against his ribs and his stomach twisted itself in knots over and over again, like some little school boy who had just discovered what feelings were. He wanted to say something a little teasing and maybe just a tad egotistical, but the words got caught on his tongue and his brain completely melted. And just as he finally regained his bearings, you were talking and then you were gone. Disappearing into a little nook just outside the playroom where he assumed the washer and dryer were.
Michael has to take a few deep breaths to steady himself, to calm his pounding heart. He clenches and unclenches his hands, his jaw, anything to try and release the roiling tension inside of him that mirrored the tension in the air. Then he takes a step, unsteady. Unsure. Walking a tightrope he knew he was destined to fall off, the only question was when?
Then another, steadier yet still soft. Bare feet barely making a sound against the wood grain floor. The coldness of the beer and the condensation dripping onto his hand is welcome, a shock to his system that reminds him to take it easy. This is fine. You’re two adults, who just happen to share a kid, spending time together. Once he has the beer and wine in hand, he moves to the sofa and uses his foot to press the button on the lamp.
The light is gentle, warm, the same yellow as peonies in early summer filtered through the shade. It spotlights the sofa in its glow, fizzling out at the edges and scaring away the creeping shadows in the corners. He takes a seat, one leg folded over the other as he placed both drinks on the coffee table.
You join him a few minutes later, changed out of your day clothes and into a pair of baggy sweatpants with your own alma mater embroidered into the side and an oversize t-shirt. It’s a band shirt, one that has certainly seen better days with the faded graphics and pain stains dotting the bottom. But it’s still unmistakable, it is was his. He still remembers the day it got the navy blue stain just under the neckline.
You had just moved in together, about a year before the wedding, and were decorating the bedroom on one of his few days off. He had rubbed at his face not realising there was paint on his fingers and when you had laughed, he had rubbed his face over your shirt in retaliation as you giggled and half-heartedly attempted to push him away. You had both ended the night with paint in places it should not have been.
He clears his throat, shakes his head lightly as he realises he was staring before re-adjusting on the sofa. You sit at the other end, where you had been before, and drape the blanket over your legs as you pull your knees up to your chest. It makes you look small, fragile. Shoulders curling in as you place your chin atop your knees and wrap your arms around your legs.
There’s silence, not the dramatic kind where words are left unspoken but the intimate kind of two people learning how to navigate life together again. Your eyes are soft, crinkling at the edges slightly, but still bright under the lamplight. He can see your mind racing behind them in the way your lips twitch and your fingers drum against the blanket as you search for something to say despite the fact the silence doesn’t necessarily need to be filled.
He scans you, just for a moment. You were still you, the same beautiful woman he had loved all those years ago. But you were different, time and life and motherhood had changed you so fundamentally that were parts of your soul that he didn’t recognise, parts he desperately wanted to meet and map out and learn. He had already started re-painting the tapestry of you in his mind, detailing every grey hair and wrinkle and laugh line, every new freckle on your skin and small scars he had discovered over the last few weeks. The image of you warping from wife to something more reverent and holy, mother and woman and friend transforming the image into something spectacular.
He also mapped out the hidden hurt in your eyes, the little flickering of pain that had danced across your irises for the last few weeks. How you had tried to keep them hidden, protecting not just your heart but Isaacs. He, of course, knew Michael had hurt you in the past, but you protected him from how it still hurt now. The unspoken words of why wasn’t I enough passing your face for just a fraction of a second every time he comes by. But he saw it. And he knew he needed to apologise for it.
Michael shifts, both feet now on the floor as he brings his elbows to his knees and clasps his hands together. There’s stillness, a deep breath. A calibration in his mind of what he needs to say. His heart hammers in his chest, as does your as you brace for what was to come.
There’s a crack of thunder outside, a bright flash of light that illuminates you both. A bright white that streaks across the room, it’s dazzling. Almost a moment frozen in time, a man hunched over as if he was in prayer, hands clasped together so tightly the tips started to turn white, and a woman, his god, holding vigil over his form as finally spoke of his sins.
“I-”
There’s a crack in his voice, you can’t tell if it’s a moment of hesitation or an emotional overwhelm that causes it. But there’s a shake to his shoulders, a trembling of his hands, and you can see the way his chest stutters with uneven breaths as he tries to collect himself.
Vulnerability was not something Michael was good at. It scared him. Talks of feelings and fears and hopes and dreams, laying his heart and soul bare to another person was absolutely terrifying. Because once it was all out there, out of his control, they could do anything with it. Hurt him. Punish him. Ruin him. But then they could also support him. Guide him. Love him despite all of the aches and pains and flaws. He had always been so terrified of showing someone the damaged parts of his souls because they might run away and it was so overwhelming that he had never considered the fact that they could also stay.
He hoped you would stay.
You soften as he gathers himself, legs crossing underneath you and hands falling limp in the gap between them. Your shoulders are still hunched, not with harshness or as a protective instinct but as a gentle spot for him to lay his head if things got too much. You wanted him to know he was safe. You weren’t going to run and hide, you were going to catch him when he falls. No longer holding vigil for a man confessing sin, but offering sanctuary and grace to drowning man.
“I’m sorry for…everything. I was not the man you deserved back then. You were too good for me. Too kind. Too patient. Too loving. You carried everything alone when I should have been by your side carrying the weight alongside you.”
Another deep breath, you can’t tell from who, another tremble in his voice. Your lashline starts to water.
“I was scared… of loving you and being loved by you. I hid inside the hospital and work when things got hard and I refused to let you in because I was scared of what it might do to you, to me, to us.”
His hand lifts, moving slowly and casually between the two of you at the words.
“I…thought I was protecting you, protecting us by separating work and home life but all it did was push you away and I…I should have let you in. Should have told you about things at work, how they made me feel. I should have just tried harder. You were always enough and I loved you,”
He doesn’t let the words I still do out of his mouth, though they rest heavy on his tongue.
“I’m sorry for not being there. I’m sorry for pushing you away and hiding. For keeping secrets and breaking promises. For making you carry not just our relationship but everything by yourself.”
A tear streaks down your cheek, leaving a layer of salt in your skin and burning like acid through your walls. It’s a crack right down the middle, rubble falling to your feet as they crumble around you. The dark shroud you had held close to your chest vanishes, chased out by a bright golden starburst of colour that instead envelops you like an old friend. It settles right against your ribs, pushes through your hearts and into your blood stream. The old comfortable blanket now wraps fully around your shoulders, warm and comforting and feeling a little bit too much like home to ignore.
Your eyes soften and you shift closer to Michael, your knees pressing into his thigh and sides as you reach out and take his hands in yours. He lets you pry them apart and as you lace your hands together he looks at you. Face soft, lips turned up in a soft forgiving smile. Warm, welcoming. Home.
“I forgive you.”
A whisper into the night, another crack of thunder and a deep breath from you both.
“It hurt, sometimes it still does but that old pain is my issue to deal with now, not yours.”
Soft circles rubbed into skin, trembling fingers and shoulders becoming still. Tears streaking both your faces as emotions settle.
“I forgave you that first taco night because I could see the person you’re turning into. In the dad you’re becoming. We’re different people than we were ten years ago Michael. The man I married and the woman you married are gone, not dead. Just…different. We just need to learn who we are again.”
Another minute of silence, a shared breath. A wound closing over, healing. Then there’s rain. A pounding against the glass, a brief summer storm that lasts only a few minutes. It’s cleansing. Like a river washing away the sins of the past. Of course, evidence of them lingers, marred deep into the bones of the earth. Indents and crevices left behind, but forgotten but ready to be filled again with something new. Something potentially beautiful.
There’s a few moments of silence between you, the rain a metronome to match your beating hearts. A few shared breaths. Then hands reach out to wipe at the others tears. A moment of stillness where you hold each other's face, fingers splayed across jaws and fingers pressing lightly into necks where you can feel pulses jump underneath skin. You breathe together, 4 in, hold, 4 out. Slowly, almost hesitantly you both pull your hands back.
Then you readjust, your legs uncross but fold under you and too the side as you lean an elbow into the back of the sofa and Michael leans back, shoulder just millimeters away from your elbow, and places a foot on his knee. Tension has leached from you both, there’s softness there now instead.
The rain stops as you reach for your wine and take a drink and Michael reaches for his beer. More silence, soft. Sweet. A clear sky after the storm has passed. Then Michael looks at you, a question brewing on his tongue and you realise it’s the first time since the hospital where you’ve been alone. Where you’ve talked about something other than Isaac or without him around.
He reaches a hand out, picks an invisible bit of lint of the navy paint stain on your shirt and chuckles lightly. You raise an eyebrow at him and smile.
“You know I hunted for this shirt for two weeks after you left the apartment.”
You huff out a small laugh, rolling your eyes playfully.
“Yeah?”
He nods, slow almost melodramatically and something warms inside you.
“Yeah…”
He doesn’t elaborate on why he was looking for it, doesn’t have too. The words are there, dancing in the air. It was because he missed you. Neither of you comment on it. But it opens up the conversation, the first real adult one you’ve had since your dramatic reunion and it’s nothing like you expected.
It’s soft words and almost whispers, questions and answers, stories spilled like whiskey and honey. You’re relearning each other, almost like it’s the first time again.
You talk about your favourite colours and books and movies, warmth bubbling inside of both of you as memories are swapped from a time before. No venom in the words, but joy and happiness of what was and what could be. You tell him you now strongly dislike, not hate (you were very specific about that) the colour purple because someone in Nevada had ruined it for you, he tells you how he had fallen out of love with one of his old comfort shows after a patient had told him an unsettling fact about the production.
Michael comments on the pristine special editions of Lord of the Rings and you tell him they're simply too precious to ever touch, but he could read them to Isaac if he wanted. He laughed at that and agreed. He comments on the decor, how your tastes have changed and you laugh saying it’s simply more child friendly but you want to get more art and pictures for the walls, especially of Michael and Isaac and even the three of you.
Then you talk about work. Michael telling stories of some wild cases he’s had in the ER, making sure to not mention names or identifying information, one he told was a man who had called his girlfriend after an accident but the nurse had also called his emergency contact who was his wife and the explosive fight that had happened in the trauma bay. How Ahmed and the security team had to force them out and threaten to call the cops, how the divorce papers arrived that same day as well as a break up text from the girlfriend. The girlfriend had come in five months later with the wife by her side and they were thick as thieves. Your eyes bulged at the story and the giggles were pouring out of you along with a ‘good for them’ at the end.
You tell Michael stories of how you got to where you are now, how a crazy coworker got fired after stalking one of the young interns. The drama and gossip from inter-departmental arguments and affairs, stupid executive decisions and idiot clients. When you told him about how you, very politely, chewed out a client for sexist comments about you and your co-worker he laughed a full belly laugh, hand clutching his stomach as his whole body shook with the force.
“You always were a little spitfire.”
A light shove to his shoulder and an affectionate eye roll from you and then you were both giggling. Then there was silence, the cicadas were brought back to life outside chirping a symphony that seemed almost recognisable. There was a moment, accented by the hoot of an owl, where you both realised you didn’t want the night to end but then the washer played its soft song and you looked at the clock. It was just past midnight and you knew Isaac would be up in only a few hours.
A deep breath, then a whisper. A delicate thing, soft enough to be heard but not break the atmosphere that had settled.
“We should head to bed.”
As Michael looked at the clock, you realised just how close you had gotten. Your knees now rested on top of Michael’s thigh and you were tucked in close to his chest and his arm was thrown behind you. Lazy, unassuming, but you could still feel his fingers twitch against your shoulder.
“Yeah, we should.”
But you both make no immediate move to stand up, instead linger together for a few more seconds. Your heart thumps, his breath rattles. You both look at each other's lips, then away again. You want to kiss him, he wants to kiss you but neither of you move.
A horn blares outside, someone chasing away an animal on the road before a collision you think, and the moment shatters. You clear your throat, standing quickly and moving away from the sofa. There’s another look, somewhere between longing and regret and dangerous emotions you aren’t ready to face yet.
“Goodnight Mikey.”
Michael stands, makes his way to where you stand at the bottom of the stairs just before the alcove for the washer and dryer. His lips quirk and his heart quickens at the old nickname.
“Goodnight spitfire”
You look down, away from him. The intensity of his gaze makes you shy. Then he’s up the stairs as you move his clothes to the dryer. Once they’re in, you stand there for a moment, your mind no longer swirling with a thousand what ifs and questions and fears. Instead there’s a lingering hope, and only one question, what if this works?
Jack Abbot gets off on being the one you rely on for everything.
He's a progressive man, don't get him wrong. He loves how independent you are. How you take pride in doing things yourself, sometimes stubbornly refusing help because you've been burned by men who weaponised your competence.
Not Jack, though.
He knows how capable you are. He's convinced you can do anything you set your mind to. You know it too.
Still, there's something about this older man who's been through hell and back, the one people look to in a crisis, who walks into a room and earns respect without uttering a single word, a man who shows you so much trust and appreciation for everything you do.. that makes you want to just.. let him.
What you don't know is how badly he wants to be needed by you.
Jack wants to look after you, every want and every need, no matter how small or how insignificant it might seem. It's gotten to the point where he thinks he might be losing his mind.
You casually mention that the kitchen faucet is leaking. "I'll do it." Dr. Abbot says in that warm honeyed tone and the next thing you know he's at your door with a toolbox.
Why the hell would he let you call another man and pay for it when he can fix it himself?
You complain to the other nurses that your dishwasher broke and suddenly he's watching repair tutorials on his phone.
How difficult could it be?
Then he's in your kitchen, sweat sliding down his neck, arms working while he tries to make your life just a little easier and can feel your gaze intensely on him.
That's his favorite part.
The attention you give him. The way you watch his hands as they move, biting your lip at the sight of him simply being useful, for you. The softness in your voice when you thank him. The relief on your face when the worry fades because he took care of it.
The perfume you wanted but didn"t buy because it was too expensive?
Jack says he's going to find a restroom while you keep browsing and you barely have time to blink before there is a small bag in your hand.
"It was more for me, really.." He murmurs in your ear when you open it, "-because I love that scent on you."
Even the shopping cart doesn't stand a chance. You barely notice when he taps his card and thanks the employee before you even reach into your purse.
At first Jack thinks something is wrong with him.
Why the hell is the blood rushing to his cock when all you did was ask if he could help assemble the desk you bought for your apartment?
Maybe it's the way you bat your eyelashes at him. That innocent look in your eyes when both of you know damn well you could do it yourself. The way you purr the word 'please' like it belongs in a completely different conversation than building furniture.
You lean closer to him, lightly brushing his arm, your smaller frame almost pressing into his side but not quite touch him cause you always let him take initiative. It thrills him.
There's something about the fact that you don't actually need him to do these things. You just want him to because it's him. Because he's your man and wants to give you everything.
His heart flutters like a bird trapped inside a cage when you thank him with that sweet smile meant only for him. The genuine gratitude in your touch when you melt into him during a hug. The way his name rolls off your tongue because you know exactly what it does to him when he's the one you call to fix every damn problem in your life.
Even something as simple as hearing your voice go soft and whiny while you cling to him and complain that you're hungry does it for him.
Asking him to change a light bulb because 'you can't' when in reality you just want to watch the way his shirt lifts and his fingers get to work, handling it effortlessly the same way he handles you.
The satisfaction Jack feels when he lets you try to get yourself off using him first, working you up until you're begging him to take over, begging him to touch you and give you exactly what you want because he knows best.
The sight of you with your tits slipping from your shirt, grinding yourself against his thigh while he watches how desperately you want his hands on you.
"Please, Jack-" you whimper softly, the sound slipping from your parted lips as his movements grow faster, guiding your hips back and forth to give you the friction you crave.
He could give you what you want right then but call him a sadistic bastard because the strain in your voice, the tears shining in your eyes and the way your body moves helplessly trying to find his like an animal in heat gives him almost as much pleasure as his leaking cock sliding raw in and out of you.
"You need my help, pretty girl?" he hums against your ear, just to watch you nod and sigh out messy, incoherent answers.
The wet sounds coming from underneath obscene, a clear indication that you made a whole mess on his lap, pants soaking wet from the way you are jerking down your hips against your own slick on the soft material.
"Beg for it, then."
He'll give you what you want.
He'll always be a good soldier and follow your every command.. but the way you give yourself to him so easily? how you let him do whatever he wants because you know it's your pleasure he cares about more than his own?
Yeah. Take advantage of that.
Sit on his face while his strong arms hold you steady so you don't move an inch. Feel the tip of his tongue pressing insistently against that sensitive nub, teasing it with quick flicks that send more shivers rushing through your body until you're gasping at every slight shift of his mouth.
Every nerve lights up when his tongue presses flat and drags slow circles over your clit, making you jerk so hard you nearly slip right off him.
And when you whisper that maybe you should stop for a moment because you're afraid you might fall?
"Don't fucking hover." is what you get in response.
When Dr. Abbot starts something, he finishes it.
Too drunk on the taste of your soaked cunt to care about breathing, he'll make sure you're far too spent to even wish him goodnight before he's satisfied with his work.
If he catches you browsing lingerie online, it shows up at your door the next day. If your perfume is almost finished, there are two new bottles waiting on your nightstand in the morning. If your fridge looks half empty, he's already ordered enough groceries to fill it and every cupboard in your kitchen.
Jack Abbot never refuses his pretty girl anything.
As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.
Chapter Summary: After finding out you're pregnant with his child, Titus must secure his family's approval in order to make you a unique proposal: Become the new Mrs. Danforth.
Tags/Notes: marriage before romance, established sugar relationship, also ft. ursula and daddy danforth, meeting the family, possessiveness & protectiveness, obscene wealth, predator/prey dynamic, brat!reader, piv, mating press, creampie, oral (f receiving), messy sex, edging, denial, spitting, mouth covering, titus lowkey whipped already
Content: pregnant reader, canon-typical content, a brief instance of body shaming
A/N: since I already posted most of what was initially chapter one as a teaser during my 3k celebration, i decided to be silly and give you a mega chapter one instead!
Word Count: 14.1k
Ursula Danforth slaps one perfectly manicured hand across her twin brother’s cheek. He doesn’t even flinch; he’d been expecting worse. “You’re so selfish. Stupid and useless like a child. Knocking up a sugar baby, of all things.”
Father paces across the large sitting room with a clenched jaw. Eventually, he stops in front of his son. “How dare you do this to us? Right before the most important hunt of this family’s life, too. I can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible.”
Ursula sneers, “I believe it. This is what happens when a spoiled brat grows up. Poor baby Titus always has to have everything exactly how he wants. Probably never bothered with condoms because ‘it just doesn’t feel as good, sweetheart.’”
“Don’t be so crass, Ursula,” Father spits in her direction before returning to his son. “I assume you’ve communicated that abortion isn’t an option.”
“Of course,” Titus replies, keeping it curt to avoid a verbal lashing. Or a physical one, given the tension thick in the opulent room full of blades and guns. Father demanded the conversation be moved to the innermost room of the estate when Titus told them in front of a few members of staff. This sort of thing is best discussed in private, even with the most discreet staff money can buy.
The abortion discussion had gone better than expected, considering you told him you’d be keeping it before he could even get to the ‘my family would sedate you through delivery and then discard you before they let you abort a Danforth’ thing. He’d given you a line about supporting you however you needed in order to stall you while he discussed what to do with his family. Ultimately, your fate wasn’t his decision but a collective decision for the betterment of the Danforth name.
But Titus does, admittedly, dislike the idea of abandoning you. Despite your lack of status, money, or power, he feels an…affection for you. Similar to the affection one might have for an injured bird. He’d been raised to put creatures like that out of their misery, but your only brokenness was being part of the masses. That could be improved upon. So, to advocate for you, Titus swallows hard and offers, “This may not be a bad thing. Our family needs an heir, after all.”
“Not under circumstances like this,” Ursula scoffs. “You should marry advantageously. Within the seven families, at least. How could you even think-”
Father raises his right hand.
Silence falls.
“You may be right, Titus. We’re long overdue for a new generation of Danforths and neither of you seem particularly close to finding anything akin to a real relationship. Your mother would be horrified.” Father drapes himself in his authentic Jacobean austere velvet armchair in the corner, beneath a grand window he’s spent hours and hours ruminating out of through the years, especially since his wife died. Without looking at his son, he asks, “This…girl of yours: Is she good stock?”
Titus considers that. He imagines how very lovely you look obediently presenting yourself for him on the hotel beds where he’s taken you multiple times a week for the last six months, gazing up at him with reverent eyes and an innocent sort of expression that doesn’t necessarily match your occupation of choice. “I’d say so. She’s young. Pretty.”
Ursula rolls her eyes. “Of course.”
Father gives her a lethal gaze. “Don’t interrupt. This is important.” His eyes turn back to his son and he asks, “Her personality?”
“Sweet,” he answers right away. That’s the first word that comes to his mind. It’s the thing he likes most about you; you’re so, so far from everyone he knows. Kind and tentative and eager to find reasons to smile. The kind of girl who brakes for pigeons. After a moment of thinking, he relents, “A bit stupid, at times, but charming. Docile. I’ve never seen her disagree with someone.”
That seems to please Father. He doesn’t like women who fight back, even his own daughter at times. He probes further, “Does she have any family?”
“She’s estranged from her parents. No siblings.”
“Good. How about education?”
“She’s getting a master’s degree.”
“In what?”
“I don’t know,” he replies with a chuckle. “Something with books, maybe. I’m not usually with her for the stimulating conversation, Father.”
“Don’t be vulgar. Does she have a criminal history? Any connections in our world?”
“No. I vetted her thoroughly before selecting her as a…companion.”
“Boring. But that could be useful in its own way.” Father thinks it over as he watches the gardeners outside tending to the hedge maze across the pond. Winter is beginning to melt off the extensive grounds and they’re preparing for the glory of spring blooms. For vibrant fresh blood, too, in the coming months with the vernal equinox and other traditional celebrations fast approaching. He asks the final question, the only one that matters: “Could she be a Danforth? Or will we have to be rid of her once the baby is born?”
Titus thinks of your laugh, your ease, your total lack of darkness. It’ll be difficult to balance the reality of his world with you, but he’s intrigued by the challenge. With a steady voice, he admits perhaps the deepest secret of this whole situation: “I’d like to keep her.”
The tension eases at that. Keeping up appearances will be best. And if there’s one thing the Danforth family does well it’s keeping up appearances.
With the first smile of the day, Father stands, embraces Titus, and announces, “We can make this work, son. We will.”
Titus stiffens at the rare show of affection, trying not to reveal that he’s pleased with the decision. That would only show a chink in his armor. He would’ve handled the other option, keeping you in the dungeon as a toy of sorts until the birth, but it’ll be better for everyone if he has a wife and his child a mother instead of a nanny. “Thank you, Father.”
“She’s going to have to move in,” Ursula tsks as she, too, gives her brother a short but earnest embrace. “We can’t take risks with the baby.”
Father adds, “And there will have to be a wedding, of course. With all the families invited.”
“A wedding?” Titus gripes, “Isn’t it enough to just-”
“No,” Father interrupts. His fingernails dig into his own palms. “Just because you started this improperly doesn’t mean you’ll continue it that way. In two months’ time, before she starts showing, we’ll have a wedding.”
“Everyone will know it’s a shotgun wedding,” Ursula points out. “Even the most asinine of our associates can manage basic addition and subtraction.”
“That’s irrelevant,” Father insists. “It’s the 21st century. The baby will be born with its mother sharing the Danforth name. Nothing else matters.” He levels his gaze at Titus. “Go and tell her. I expect to see her moving in here before the weekend’s up.”
“Yes, Father,” Titus agrees, already taking his phone from his pocket to dial you. Before leaving the room, he takes a deep breath and says once more, “Thank you. I won’t disappoint you.”
Father gives him a wink. The thought of the first baby born to the Danforth family in four decades lifts everyone’s spirits. It’ll be a good change. “Careful, or you’ll make us think you like the girl.”
He expects you to make a fuss about it. Fully prepares himself to have to drug you, tie you up, kidnap you, and make it clear you don’t actually have a choice in the matter, as distasteful as that would be to him. At the very least, he anticipates resistance. For it to take more than one brunch. Modern women want careers, don’t they? It’s part of why he’s always sworn off girlfriends and dating in the standard sense. Ever since it became relatively acceptable for the elite, he’s strongly preferred paying for the company of simple, complication-free women procured by the family lawyers. He doesn’t want a girlfriend. He wants…a pet. A well-trained companion. Something reliable and reliant. A pretty, obedient creature to recline on the couch who makes no demands and listens with rapt attention to his every order.
So he’s pleased beyond belief at your reaction to his offer, outlined to you at your favorite chichi breakfast place in one of the nicer hotels downtown.
You gaze up at him over your streaming mug and ask bluntly, “What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one,” he lies. Smooth as butter. “I want to take care of you and the baby and I have the means to do so.”
“You’d already be doing that just by paying me at the rate you already do. With my job and your payments, I can afford a comfortable life,” you point out. “But you want me to marry you. Move in with you. So I have to assume there are rules. Catches.” You take a sip of the caffeine-free tea he’d ordered for you, savoring the spicy and citrusy notes. The ginger helps soothe your stomach. “Look, you’re obviously very wealthy. And I know you’re not rich because of something…normal, if you don’t mind the word.”
Titus snickers, “Not at all. Go on.”
“Before you made us exclusive, I’d been with a lot of secretive, rich men,” you explain slowly, “but you don’t seem like most of them.”
The waitress approaches your table. Titus rattles off quickly, clearly annoyed at the intrusion, “We’ll both do the three-course menu. I’ll have the foie gras torchon with prosciutto and figs, the filet mignon as rare as you’ll serve it, and the caviar trio in lieu of dessert.”
The order doesn’t surprise you after countless meals spent together. His food is always expensive and tastes of life cut short.
The waitress gives you a warm smile. “And for you, darling?”
“Don’t call her that,” Titus says, curt and emotionless. “She’ll have the yogurt parfait with the pistachio granola, lobster eggs Benedict, and the baked apple strudel.” Then he gives you a glance that borders on affectionate. “And I’m guessing she’d also like the gelato flight after.”
“You spoil me,” you lilt with batting eyelashes. Then you tell the waitress, “And a ginger ale, if you don’t mind. Thank you.”
As she disappears, Titus’ typically flat expression transforms into one of concern, which you haven’t seen on him often. He observes, “Ginger ale. Ginger tea. Morning sickness?”
You sigh and confirm, “That’s been the theme of week seven.”
“Seven weeks,” he muses, sounding almost wistful. “Does that mean you’ll have your first ultrasound soon?”
“Monday morning,” you tell him with a tentative smile. “You can come, if you want.”
“I will. Definitely.” Titus sits up straighter and adjusts the sleeves of his charcoal-gray button-down, a nervous habit since his custom-tailored clothes always fit perfectly on his chiseled body. “You were asking about rules. Saying I don’t seem like most men.”
“Right, yes.” You touch his hand across the table and he lets you. Titus never asks for affection, but you know he craves it. Deeply. Otherwise he would never have sought you out in the first place. Sex is cheap; companionship is priceless. While rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb, you muse aloud, “You don’t brag about your money, which means you’ve always had it. It’s just a part of you; you’ve never been without it. Your schedule has too much freedom to be a doctor, you don’t dress like a lawyer, you’re too private to be a CEO or anything you’d want to peacock about, and you’re not annoying.”
He smirks at your analysis. “What does that rule out?”
“Tech bro. Anyone who works in blockchain or AI.”
“Smart girl,” he praises with a short chuckle. “What’s your theory, then?”
“Something dark and secretive,” you tease, clearly joking with the low, spooky voice like a Halloween recording you put on. He doesn’t react like it’s a joke, though. So, more seriously, you say, “Maybe private security? Something with weapons; I know you try to be subtle, but I’ve always seen your carrying a gun.” That pleases him; you’ve already noticed his danger and didn’t flinch away. “I doubt it’s really illegal, like drugs, because you’re so clean about everything. I mean, my main point of contact the first three months was your lawyer,” you remind him with a laugh. Then you lean forward and continue, “Regardless, I can tell you have the kind of life where you’re not just going to marry and whisk away the first girl you knock up without some rules.”
Sounding amused, he sips his expensive cocktail and teases, “I can’t just want to be an honest man for the mother of my child?”
“You can, sure. But that’s not you.”
“You’re right about that,” he concedes after a moment. With a deep breath, he sits back in his chair and tells you, “I wouldn’t call them ‘rules’ so much as, perhaps, guidelines. Expectations. I won’t force anything on you. And I won’t abandon you if you go against them.”
That’s a patent lie, but he doesn’t think you’ll defy him, so he keeps it to himself.
You cross your arms over your chest. “Let’s get down to it, then, because I can imagine worse fates for this baby and me than having a rich, handsome daddy to take care of us. But I want to know what I’m getting into.”
“Very sensible. I can appreciate that.” The first round of food arrives and he gestures for you to dig in while he begins, “Your first priority would be growing a healthy pregnancy, of course. Go to all of your doctor’s appointments, follow their recommendations to the letter. You’d quit your job. Continue your classes if you’d like, but you’ll need to cut out any unnecessary stress. You’d move into the family estate; you can decorate and rearrange our building however you’d like as the lady of the house. I don’t care about things like that.”
“What do you mean by ‘the family estate’?” You give him a teasing raised eyebrow; you’re the only person he allows to look at him like that. “You live with mommy and daddy?”
“My father lives in the primary mansion on the grounds, yes. Mother is dead. There are a lot of different outbuildings along the property; it goes on forever. I don’t even know how many acres anymore; the lawyers buy up adjacent properties whenever they go for sale. We’d be in my private house, which is further back on the estate.”
“Like a guest house?”
“An eight-bedroom guest house, but yes.” Without giving you much time to process that, Titus goes on, “You’d have some social responsibilities as Mrs. Danforth. My mother’s passed now, so you’d be the official host when our family holds events, which we do often. You’d just have to look pretty, though, which you’re phenomenal at already.” As your cheeks warm, he assures you, “We have a whole team to handle the planning side if you aren’t interested in those sorts of things.”
You give a timid smile. “I like planning and hosting parties. It’d be nice to have some occasions to show off all the fancy dresses you’ve bought me.”
That makes him smile. Really smile. Like he can see you slotting into his life. “Good. Great. Well, you can have as much or as little involvement in our social circles as you’d like as long as you’re willing to put on one of those dresses and sit next to me adoringly when needed.”
“So far, that fits my resume to a tee.”
“And, in that vein, there are certain standards of dress and, let’s say, etiquette, for lack of a better word, that my sister can help you with getting used to.”
“You have a sister?”
“Yes. Ursula.” He toys with his fork, hovering it over the decadent spread. “I suppose we still have a lot to learn about each other.”
“I’m an open book,” you retort with a cheeky smile. “You’re the one with the secrets. I don’t even know your last name.”
“Danforth,” he says quietly. Like it’s a secret. Maybe it is. “Titus Victor Danforth.”
“Very stately name.” You wrinkle your nose a bit. “Does our baby have to have a name like that? It’s hard to imagine calling a newborn Titus Victor.”
“We’ll agree on a name like any other couple,” he chuckles. “But, for the record, I have family with much worse names than Titus.”
“Like Ursula,” you joke, earning a conspiratorial snort. You nod and drink some more of your tea as you consider everything thus far. “So I have to learn to sit pretty and do tricks. Got it. What else?”
His voice darkens and so do his hazel eyes. “The most important thing is that you’ll allow me to keep you safe and protect you. Against anyone and anything. By any means necessary.”
Your own voice drops to a whisper. “You say that like I’ll be in danger.”
“Sometimes you will be.”
Not taking it all too seriously, you check. “But you’ll always protect me? And our baby?”
He puffs up his chest and insists seriously, “With my life.”
No matter who or what tries to get in my way.
You narrow your eyes at him. “And you’ll take care of everything financially?”
“Yes.” Zero hesitation. “Always.”
You don’t doubt he can keep that promise, at least. When you take on sugar clients, you make sure to have proof of funds before agreeing to any arrangements. Titus passed that test with flying colors; you’re sure there’s incalculable wealth behind the many, many zeroes you’ve already seen. He’s always driving around in tinted luxury cars, wearing suits by $10,000-a-piece designers, handing over heavy black cards for quadruple digit dinner dates with no dobut on whether they’ll clear.
With a tiny smile, you press, “And you’ll marry me?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Can I have a real wedding?”
“Here I was thinking I’d have to convince you of that,” he laughs. Something unfamiliar is knocking around pleasantly in his ribs. “Our wedding would be very, ah, socially significant. You’ll be impressed by the guest list, I’m sure.”
“Give me a teaser.”
“Let’s just say if a bomb were dropped on it, the world’s economy would collapse.”
“Yeah, alright,” you giggle. He’s looking forward to the day you realize he’s telling the truth on that matter. “So I’d be a wife. Hm, okay.” You jokingly tap your chin and squint like you’re really thinking hard about it. “Does that mean I’ll have to cook for you?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“How about cleaning? Laundry? I hate doing laundry.”
“That’ll all be handled.”
“So we’ll have…servants?”
Titus can’t help but notice the way you’re already saying ‘we.’ He doesn’t mind the sound of it; you’re right where he wants you. Needs you. “We prefer to call them staff, but yes, we do.”
Curiosity piqued, you press, “How many?”
He starts running through the mental rolodex; the estate’s goings-ons don’t interest him much, so they’re at the periphery of his mind. “Full-time, on-site staff? We have three chefs – one in each house’s kitchen, of course – and an estate manager who oversees a handful of groundskeepers, gardeners, and housekeepers. There’s an incredibly effective security team. Part-time? Lawyers on retainer, naturally. And we have connections for anything you’d want. Ursula has her tennis coach and her pet pool boy. Father has his favorite mixologist and, ah, massage therapist. I’ve got my golf caddy as well. Each of us has our own driver, but you’d probably share mine a while. That’s a high-trust position; I’d want to personally hire yours for the safety of the baby. You’d also have your own personal assistant to help with whatever you need day-to-day. And you’ll be in charge of hiring out any childcare support you want, when the time comes. Nannies, tutors, those sorts of things.”
“Wow.” Your fork is stuck mid-air. “So you and your family are…rich rich.”
His lips curl up slightly. It’s nice to be around someone who isn’t used to snapping their fingers and having whatever they want in moments. Charming. “That would be a fair assessment, yes.”
Titus notices a selfish, almost cute little shimmer lighting up your eyes as you ask, “So I can have whatever I want?”
He cocks his head to the side and considers that. What it might mean to someone who didn’t grow up in the world he did. “Within reason.”
Your eyes narrow. “How about a car? Like a really ridiculous one – a neon yellow Lamborghini?”
Almost offended at the idea, he scoffs, “A car? Of course you can have a car. I thought you were going to say something ridiculous like an elephant.”
You pout and cross your arms playfully over your chest. “So you’re saying I couldn’t have an elephant if I really, really wanted one?”
Feeling indulgent beneath your delight, he sighs dramatically, “I suppose I could reopen and repurpose the stables for the mother of my child.”
“The stables?”
“My mother loved horses. We were raised on dressage but never really took to it. When she died, my sister and I-” let those wretched horses free and hunted them with arrows “-decided not to keep up the responsibility.”
“Could I have a horse?”
He almost winces at the memory of countless on-site animals becoming casualties in the family games, intentional or otherwise. Still, because it’s important, he relents, “If you want, sure. I don’t see the appeal, but you’ll have whatever hobbies make you happy and keep you occupied.”
“Don’t worry; I hate horses. Just curious.” You can tell he’s amused by your version of an interrogation, so you go on, “Will you still take me on dates?”
That puzzles him. Do you like these dates with him? He’s always assumed you just see him as a paycheck, which he doesn’t mind, but the idea of a real relationship does tantalize him to a certain extent. So he says, “If you’d like that. I do enjoy your company, after all.”
“And sex whenever I want?”
A laugh punches out of him. They’re rare from Titus, so it makes you grin, too, for a second. He rolls his eyes and nods. “Of course; that’s one of my favorite parts of your company.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to give that up with you, considering the, ah, quality.”
Blush tinges the apples of his cheeks and you know better than to point it out. Titus has never been shy about his sexual prowess, but he also grew up in a family where it’s not acceptable to talk about those things over brunch. Titus clears his throat and checks, “What else do you want to know to decide?”
“To recap, I’ll be fed and housed and safe and spoiled beyond my wildest dreams?”
He nods, pleased. “Exactly.”
You bite your lower lip and ask, “But what if something happens to you? I’d be giving up all my independence and relying on you. I don’t want the baby’s security depending on whether or not you’re around for us.”
He doesn’t assure you that nothing will happen to him the way you’d anticipated. Instead, he admires your practicality. You can tell his life is dangerous, but you aren’t flinching. “You’ll be written quite handsomely into the family estate. Above my sister, actually, since you’ll be the mother of an heir. That’s permanent, even in the event of death or divorce.”
“An heir?” You almost choke on your food. “You’re not royalty, are you?”
He laughs, “Not in the sense you’re thinking of, certainly.”
Softer and more seriously as you consider the implications of everything said so far, you touch your lower abdomen and ask him, “Will our baby be safe?”
“Safer than you’ve ever been in your life here in the ‘real world,’” he says with actual sarcastic finger quotes. Then he squeezes your hand, meets your eyes with a new kind of warmth in his, and affirms, “I swear that nothing will ever harm our children.”
You smirk and tease, “Didn’t realize we had more than one on the way.”
He shrugs modestly. “I always liked having a sister.”
“And I always wished I had siblings.”
“Sounds like you agree.”
You let out a sharp laugh, the ridiculousness of the conversation hitting you at once. This is the kind of arrangement people agree to in the dark romances you read when you’re ovulating and here you are actually considering it for the rest of your life. After a minute of eating and thinking, you tell him, “I just have one more question.”
“Anything.”
“Will you love me, Titus?”
He takes his time thinking about the answer, which you appreciate. He isn’t just going to tell you what he thinks you want to hear. Honesty is more attractive to you than his silvering curls or glass jawline, though those definitely do it for you. Always have.
You’ve wasted a lot of time on men who lied to you, who strung you along, who took advantage of your lack of security. As strange as it may be, the thought of someone being very clear about their expectations and giving you everything in return has an appeal after all of that. You’d never have to worry about the things that currently absorb 90% of your time again.
You’ve finished your dish by the time Titus collects his response. Slowly and carefully, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses each finger; you can’t stop the fluttering of your heart in response. Titus murmurs, “You may have to teach me how, bunny.” Gradually, he meets your eyes and offers, “If it matters, in the time we’ve known each other, I’ve already grown quite-” he struggles to find the word; you wonder if he’s ever been given ones for this variety of feelings “-fond of you. Which is unusual for me.”
A smile blooms over your lips. Relief punches Titus in the gut and he’s not so sure why. You take your hand from his and press it gingerly to his silver-scruffed cheek. “Fondness will do.”
“Are you sure about this?” Your best friend, Natalie, asks for the fiftieth time as you finish packing your suitcase. Titus had arranged for professional packers, movers, and cleaners for your entire apartment over the weekend, so all you had to do was pack for a long weekend. “It just seems a little fast to me.”
You shrug and try to brush it off, “I’ve known him for six months already.”
She balks, “As a client.”
“Well, unplanned babies tend to rush relationships,” you cut back. “It’s not like he’s a murderer or something; he’s just a rich guy who needs company. Plus, look at these pictures he sent me.”
You unlock your phone and toss it to her where she’s rifling through your closet, taking her turn to pick over it since you’re going to be switching to maternity clothes soon enough and, it seems, designer after that. Natalie scrolls through the grand Danforth estate and her mouth slowly falls open the same way yours did when Titus showed you. Water features both natural and man-made, meticulously maintained flower gardens, a hedge maze, marble sculptures around the grounds. Not to mention the interior. He’d only sent pictures of his residence on the property, which was styled minimalistically compared to the opulence elsewhere, but you could already imagine outfitting it exactly how you want.
Natalie scoffs, “Are you serious? I didn’t even know places like this still exist. Are you sure this isn’t all, like, a catfishing scheme and he’s just going to lure you into the woods and keep you chained up in a cabin or something?”
You roll your eyes and tell her, “After he made the offer, he showed me everything on his iPad. Titles, holdings, all the legal stuff. I guess his great-great-times-a-million grandparents built half the trade infrastructure in America and then used the money for real estate and investments and now they just have mega money. He told me that there are a lot of families like his that have old money managed by lawyers that’s just accruing more and more money by being in banks.”
She raises a curious eyebrow. “So he doesn’t have to work?”
“Sort of.” You try to explain to the best of your understanding, paraphrasing from the spiel Titus gave that you admittedly kind of zoned out during, “Since his dad retired, he’s got a seat on the board of basically every company in the country, so he has a lot of meetings and travels a lot.”
Natalie changes into one of your dresses and inspects herself approvingly in the mirror. “Does that mean your baby is gonna have to be a boring businessman?”
“Or boring businesswoman,” you laugh. “This one’ll be the oldest, so they’ll have responsibilities, yeah.”
“The oldest?” Her eyebrows go up again. “You and gramps are having more than one?”
“He’s not that old,” you start, a bit more exasperated now, “and he’s going to be my husband. If I want more kids, who else would I have them with?”
“Jesus, you’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”
“You’re here pilfering my closet, aren’t you?” The intercom buzzes by the door and you tell her, “Finish up; that’s my ride.”
“Is that him? Mr. Moneybags?”
You peek out the window and see the dark-tinted black Rolls-Royce idling in front of the door. The white-gloved, black-capped chauffeur who’s driven you around a handful of times before stands by the passenger side with his hands linked in front of himself. You mutter, “No, it’s his driver.”
“His driver? Damn.” Natalie takes the things she wants off their hangers and starts to walk you out. “When do I get to meet this guy, anyway?”
The two of you take the stairs together and you suggest, “At the wedding, I guess. Two months or so.”
Natalie scoffs and shakes her head. “Two months to plan a bachelorette party for a pregnant bride.” She squeezes you into a tight, warm hug. “It’s a challenge, but I’m up to it.”
“I know you are,” you giggle. “I can have the driver drop you off somewhere, if you want. I’m sure Titus wouldn’t mind.”
“No, thanks; I’ve got a job interview right up the street.”
Natalie insists on bringing your suitcase down the stairs, setting it on the stoop and scampering away before she has to ‘pretend to be fancy in front of one of your servants.’ As she disappears around the nearest corner, you wave and smile at the driver, hopping off the raised entry to meet him by the road. “Hi, Chip, thanks for coming to get me.”
“Good morning,” he says warmly. He hefts your luggage easily into the trunk and assures, “It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Danforth.” At your curious look, he explains before you can question, “Master Danforth instructed all the household staff to refer to you with your new title so you get used to hearing it.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Master Danforth?”
Chip cracks a rare conspiratorial smile. “The usual title for the eldest son while his father is still alive. His father is Sir Danforth, but I’m sure you’ll call him Father like Titus and Ursula do.” He opens up the back door for you and assures, “It’s a lot to get used to, but you can ask any of the staff for help with anything.”
You slide onto the smooth leather, lowering the partition between the driver and the back, which Titus never does. As the car leaves the city and starts the winding path into the countryside, you glance at Chip and pose, “I’ve wanted to ask before, but now that I’m gonna be family I think I’m allowed to know: How much do the Danforths pay you?”
Surprised by your frankness, he just laughs, “More than enough.”
“C’mon, you can tell me,” you lilt like you’re doing a heist together. “I can dig it up anyway; Titus says I get free rein of the whole property.”
“Really?” Chip chuckles under his breath. “You must be awfully special to him.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Not even Miss Danforth has full access to the entire estate. Their father mainly stays in the front house these days, too,” he explains, “so Titus must think highly of you to allow you unsupervised access.”
You joke, “Or he’s lying to make me feel safe and thinks I won’t meddle.”
Chip glances at you in the rear view mirror, no joking in his expression. “That’s also a possibility.”
You chew on that for a second and then press, “That doesn’t mean you get out of answering me, by the way. If I’m marrying into a family where the staff are underpaid, then-”
Chip almost wheezes out a laugh, caught off guard by the assumption. “I suppose I shouldn’t let you think that about your future husband.” He takes a long breath and explains, “Discretion is expensive. Security is expensive. And loyalty is priceless. I’ve worked for this family since Titus started high school and needed his own driver. Most of the staff have been with the Danforths for a decade or more. I’m sure the hiring process for your personal employees will be rigorous – background checks, security clearances. My starting salary was $80,000. By year ten, that had doubled. I’ve never had to ask for a raise; my salary just gets silently adjusted at the start of the year. Especially since Titus took over the family’s management, their generosity has been staggering. If you include all the above and beyond benefits – he pays for my daughter’s private school tuition outright, covered every penny when my wife went through chemo a few years back – and the bonuses, it has to be about a quarter million by now.”
You let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”
“Security all makes twice that,” he goes on as he pulls the car off the main road through a massive automated iron gate. Your skin prickles at the knowledge of getting closer. The view is shrouded by thick trees, making the whole estate feel hidden. “Trust me: You’re surrounded by the most loyal, discreet staff in the world.”
You huff out half a laugh. “Should that make me less nervous?”
“Nothing to be nervous about,” he lies lightly.
As the car finally breaks through the trees, the magnificent grounds come into view and the air leaves your lungs. You press your forehead to the glass to get a better view of the property. At the base of the grand front house with its storied old stone and hand-carved Grecian details being devoured by brilliant green ivy, you see the unmistakable shape of Titus in one of his usual charcoal gray suits, strong and broad in a soldier’s stance. He’s waiting at the bottom of a staircase which opens onto a large half-circle drive that reminds you of something out of The Princess Diaries. A man you recognize as a member of his security detail flanks him; you’ve only spotted him at the periphery before, lingering at the entrances of the restaurants Titus takes you to or waiting in the lobby of hotels. He makes a point of being unnoticeable, but you make a point of rarely letting your guard down.
You hear the gate shutting behind you, a thud instead of a click. Deep. Final.
Stopping the car a few feet from Titus, Chip slides out, opens your door, and smiles earnestly. “Welcome home, Mrs. Danforth.”
The moment you’re out of the car, Titus is lifting his arm for you to slip into, which you do.
“Hello, darling.” Titus loops his hand around your lower back and pulls you close enough to smell his brisk, masculine aftershave. He plants a chaste, claiming kiss to your forehead and then holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How are you feeling?”
“Good. Nervous,” you tell him sheepishly. Before he can jump on that, though, you add, “Nausea hasn’t been too bad today.”
He nods slowly, examining your expression carefully. “I’m glad. Let me know if that changes; you can have whatever you want whenever you want now that you’re here.”
“I’m still waiting on my elephant,” you reply lightly, leaning up onto your toes to kiss him.
He hadn’t been planning to let you kiss him in front of any staff, but he’s pathologically unable to resist you when you look so soft and so ready to submit to his plans for you. Your wide eyes are longing for reassurance, for steadiness, for him to produce the scaffolding of your new life together. When you step back down, he cradles your face and teases, “All in due time, princess.”
Then Titus gestures for his bodyguard to step forward. Up close, you can see pockmark scars over all the skin visible around his dark sunglasses and black-on-black suit. There’s also a feathery brown bruise on his jaw and you can’t help but wonder if he got it in the line of fire, so to speak. Titus introduces, “Smith, my personal security detail, will be yours while I hire a new one.”
You cut him a sideways look. “You don’t need your own security detail in the meantime?”
He gives you a cocky, handsome smirk in return. God, he’s devastatingly beautiful when he’s like that. The ruler of his domain. “I can handle myself, bunny.”
You needle, “Then why have one in the first place?”
“I like to be underestimated,” he replies easily. Not wanting to let you dwell on the implications of that, Titus continues, “Smith will check any and every room before you go into it and then remain stationed by the nearest door. He’ll also do some personal training with you on the family security protocols to make sure you’re prepared.”
You swallow hard and nod, extending your hand toward the bodyguard. “Good to meet you.”
Smith glances at Titus, who nods briefly. Only then does the security guard shake your hand – once, firm, quick. More scars over his knuckles. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”
You gesture between them with a suspiciously pointed finger. “What was that?”
A smirk flickers on Titus’ mouth. You’re too observant for your own good and he hates how much he likes it. So he explains honestly, “Nobody is allowed to touch you without my permission.”
You narrow your eyes. “And if I give them my own permission?”
You can’t.
My word is law.
A chill goes down your spine at the possessive darkness in his eyes. You might have your own security guard now, but there’s a level of safety above that, one that only comes from being under the protective wing of Titus’ unyielding power.
Titus chews on his response a moment and then amends, “Male staff are not allowed to touch you unless it’s an emergency.”
You tsk and tease, “Jealous, jealous.”
“You really shouldn’t talk to me like that,” he admonishes, but you know it’s more of a contradictory plea. Titus craves being challenged as much as he hates it. He can’t tolerate it in business or from family in case it’s perceived as weakness, so he yearns for it from you, the one person who has no desire to actually challenge him. With a shake of his head, Titus dismisses Chip and then says, “I’ll give you a tour of the central grounds and our home. Then I have to go out on business for the afternoon before dinner with my sister and Father in the main house. In the meantime you can get settled and play.”
You laugh, “Play?”
“Whatever it is you want to do to entertain yourself,” he replies with a hand wave and a shrug. “Explore the grounds, interrogate the staff, snoop around all the places you shouldn’t.”
You offer a small conspiratorial smile. “Sounds good to me.”
Then Titus does something new and unexpected: He threads his fingers through yours. You get the sense that he’s practicing behaving like a normal, convincing couple. But you still notice that his palm is slightly clammy. Nervous. Titus Danforth gets nervous about holding a pretty girl’s hand for the first time. Cute.
For half an hour, he guides you around the few acres of land that sit between the three main houses, which are in a U formation. There’s a hedge maze that he warns you not to go into unless you have a few hours to kill, a drone to map it out from above, or a helicopter on standby. Then a tennis court (“you can page our trainer from the gate”) and a pool that’s half inside and half outside (“heated, of course, with a hot tub attached”). At the center of it all sits a series of fountains with emotive sculptures captured in such vibrance you’d believe they come alive at night.
“The tableau of Artemis and Actaeon,” Titus explains as he points out the features – a beautiful nude woman in a righteous stance with a bow raised, a muscular stag fleeing, a hoard of gnashing dogs tight on its heels. “Actaeon wandered away from his companions and found the virgin goddess Artemis bathing when she didn’t want to be seen. To punish him for breaking the boundary between the mortal and the divine, she turned him into a deer and sent his own dogs after him.”
You study the series of sculptures, water running down features like blood, and ask softly, “And your family liked that story enough for this whole water tribute thing?”
Titus chuckles and explains, “Artemis is sort of the Danforth version of a patron saint.” His hand drags slowly, pointedly down the center of your back until you shiver. “Goddess of the hunt. She’s a good omen for the family.”
“Goddess of the hunt,” you repeat curiously. “Interesting.”
He raises an eyebrow and starts to lead you toward the second largest house on the left side of the property. “Is it?”
You snicker and match step with him. “Most families go for, y’know, saints of unity, love, that sort of stuff.”
“She’s also the patron and protector of women and children,” Titus adds on the walk through the rose garden that leads to your new home. “And she chooses when to bring wellness or illness. She’s a good woman to have in your corner.”
You give him a coy sideways glance and muse, “I’ll try not to piss off her statue, as then. I want to stay on the good side of anyone who’s going to protect me and TJ.”
“TJ?”
“Oh, yeah, the baby,” you giggle far too adorably to be allowed on the deathly quiet Danforth Estate. “I’ve been calling him Titus Jr. in my head to try to get used to all of this.”
Something you haven’t seen before glitters in his eyes at the comment. “You think it’ll be a boy?”
“It’s too early for me to even think it’s real,” you reply with a soft laugh. “I can’t believe we’re going to actually hear the heartbeat on Monday.”
“I can’t wait.” He gives your hip a little squeeze that feels much more relationship-y than he usually gets. Then he gestures proudly at a large swath of empty land. “Welcome to the final stop of our tour before the house.”
“It’s, um, lovely,” you offer as you gaze at the undeveloped ground, parts of it divided up with unintelligible spray paint marks. “I’ve always wanted a half acre of empty space. My dream.”
“It’s going to be a space for the children,” he explains with something close to softness in his voice. Like he’s scared you’ll reject the sweet idea from a man you know mostly to be harsh, biting. “I thought…Well, I thought it might be nice for them to have a playground, a splash pad, those sorts of things. The property isn’t very child-friendly; there hasn’t been a baby here in more than forty years now. Time to change that.”
Your heart grows about three sizes at the thought. Titus isn’t just inviting you into his life; he’s carving out space for your shared future. “If you didn’t have anything to play with here at home, what did you and Ursula do for fun as kids?”
“We didn’t have fun,” he almost scoffs. You can tell the memories behind the sound are painful but far away, like reaching through a broken chain link fence. If he pulls back, the pain will become real. “My parents were-” Titus searches for the right word a while before deciding on one that’s close enough“-severe. Dour, often. They thought children should be trained and disciplined, not raised. Father thinks the idea of cherishing a child is the same as spoiling them.”
You shrug and give his hand an affirming squeeze. “I guess they got what they wanted; you’re successful, clearly. Driven, strong, powerful.”
“But not fulfilled,” he murmurs, only loud enough for you to hear. He wouldn’t want the staff knowing his feelings. He takes his hand and rubs your back almost absently, like a nervous habit. With a sideways glance, he labors out, “I think being a parent should be about giving your children more than you got. But I got everything. Always. So what can I give to my children, who will have more than they’ll ever need?”
“A space to play,” you finish for him. You lean up on your toes and plant a kiss on his scruff, unable to conceal the smile that comes at Titus talking about fatherhood so softly. “You’re going to be a great dad.”
He blinks hard a few times. His organs feel like they’re in the wrong order, but it’s not unpleasant. Winding his fingers with yours once more, he almost smiles. “You really think so?”
“Wouldn’t have agreed to all of this-” you gesture to the ridiculous property all around “-if I didn’t. I’d kind of figured being the softie would be my job, but I’m happy to share the load.”
Titus downright pouts. “I am not a softie.”
You nod toward the grass and lilt, “The evidence to the contrary is pretty compelling, sweet pea.”
“That’s too far,” he sighs, suppressing a laugh, “even for you, my little terror.”
As you approach Titus’ house – your house – Smith steps out in front and opens up the ornate wooden door. There’s a golden, roaring lion’s head knocker that clicks slightly as the door swings open to reveal the marble foyer. No amount of pictures Titus texted you could do the place justice. Every detail is strikingly opulent from the golden chandeliers and Italian marble checkerboard floors to the sheer embroidered curtains and high ceilings.
The only thing you don’t love is, well, Titus’s taste. You wrinkle your nose as he shows you through the sitting room and dining room. “You really like black and gray, don’t you?”
He watches you inspect his living space. It’s been a very, very long time since he’s had a woman here. At home. “They match everything. It’s easy.”
“I guess,” you mutter, running your hand over a black leather couch that’s smooth and cool beneath your fingers. You point out, “It’s a little cold for a family. I can’t really imagine a baby toddling around, can you?”
“No,” he replies honestly, “but that’s why I have you. I’d like you to change it all so it’s…warmer. Hire a designer or pick out everything for yourself, whatever makes you happiest.”
As your eyes rove along the under-decorated hallway toward the living wing, already imagining how you might redesign the space, you ask him, “And how would I do that? Will you give me a check or something?”
Titus rolls his eyes and laughs. “A check would imply a budget and supervision; I don’t want any part in it unless you truly think my input would be valuable.”
“That’s hot,” you laugh. “More men should act like that.”
He hums, amused, and then reaches into his jacket, removes a sleek wallet, and hands you a heavy black card. The Black Card, you realize as you stare down at the centurion engraved on dark steel. “That card is yours for whatever you like. You’re already an authorized user on the account; I had the legal team take care of that. It auto-pays every month and I won’t even look at it, so I better not catch you overthinking your spending habits.”
“Ooh la la,” you say, taking the card from him and turning it over in your hand. You’re more than familiar with money, even his money, but it’s never been yours to spend however and whenever you want. No budget, no restrictions, no instructions. It feels almost like getting your first car; that shitbox meant freedom. Your eyes go to his and you ask, “What’s the limit?”
Opening up one of several bedroom doors, he tells you like it isn’t even interesting, “It’s NPSL.” You swallow hard. No Preset Spending Limit. Before leading you inside, he turns around and gives you a mischievous smile. “In fact, there’s a minimum. To maintain our status with the company, you’ll need to spend $350,000 a year on that card.” He smirks at your open-mouthed shock and muses, all cocky and coy, and touches the tip of your nose affectionately. “Can you do that for me, princess?”
“Are you joking?”
“I don’t joke often.”
You balk, “What would I even spend that kind of money on?”
He laughs out loud. “Ursula could spend that much in an hour; I’m sure you’ll find something. For example, where have you always wanted to buy jewelry from?”
You bite your lower lip and reply, “Tiffany.”
“Right, of course. I got you those earrings for Christmas,” he remembers fondly, especially fond of the mind-numbing orgasm you’d ridden out of him wearing nothing but said diamond earrings. “Any time you want, you can take your cute little ass downtown to the shop and get everything else from that collection. Better yet,” he goes on, taking his phone from his pocket and sending a few texts, “I’ll get an appointment for you at their flagship in New York and you can use your fun new card on some first-class tickets for you and a friend and buy out the damn store just to show off.” Before you can roll your eyes and scoff out a response, he presses his index finger to your lips, kisses your forehead, and coos, “You’re filthy rotten rich now, kitten, you’ll have to discover ways to act like it. Now, may I continue my tour?”
You give him a giggly mock salute. “Yes, sir.”
He debates jumping on it but bites his tongue, trying to keep a modicum of self-control with his regular staff lingering nearby. So he takes a breath and leads you through the open door into a vast, relatively blank bedroom, leaving Smith stationed outside. He tells you, “Until we’re married, you’ll stay here in one of the guest rooms. Anything else would be inappropriate.”
You nudge him with your hip, a little too confident. “Inappropriate like all the kinky premarital sex we’ve already had?”
In response, Titus grabs you hard by the waist, flipping you around and pushing you against the nearest wall, hand behind your head. There’s a caution to his touch, though, and it steals your breath away. He’s certain not to be too rough with you. He cups your face in one large hand and studies your features intently. Your eyes widen as you look up into his stoic hazels, finding something dark and unreadable in them.
And then he kisses you. Deep, serious, claiming. Your knees go weak as he presses the curve of your spine, pulling you as close as possible to his body. It feels like a warning more than an act of affection. When he pulls back, he gently touches the tip of your nose with his pointer finger, drawing out a smile, and tuts, “You’re going to have to learn not to talk like that in front of others. It’s bad form.”
“No sex jokes in front of the posh folk,” you tease with a serious nod. “Got it.”
“Good girl.”
“You shouldn’t call me that if you want me to behave.” With embarrassingly warm butterflies taking flight in your stomach, you push out your lower lip and give him your best puppy dog eyes. “I really have to sleep alone?” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, leaning your weight on him. “In an unfamiliar place?” You drag your lips up his rough neck and suck his sensitive skin, smiling to yourself when he draws in a sharp and wanting hiss. “With my big strong fiancé all the way across the house?”
Titus gives a low chuckle, looking at you like a puzzle. He traces his finger up your neck and along your jaw until he reaches your chin, tilting it upward. He turns your face from side to side, examining you, and you shiver from the intensity. His lip twitches at the corner. “Would you really prefer to sleep in bed with me? Why?”
You take his hand in yours and guide it down to your hip. His other hand instinctively follows and they roam around to your ass, which you arch out to be more enticing. He follows by squeezing your flesh and grunting softly under his breath. You ruck your hands up beneath his shirt and rake your fingernails over his abs until you feel him tremble ever so slightly. On your toes, you whisper against his ear, “I get cold at night.”
Titus sucks in a sharp breath when you take his earlobe between your teeth and nibble ever so slightly. He leans his head back and groans, “Mmm. You’re too powerful for your own good.”
“Just powerful enough.” Then you nibble your lower lip, avert your eyes, and add bashfully, “And I might need you.”
His brows furrow in genuine confusion. “Need me? For what?”
You shrug and try not to sound too vulnerable. “I mean, I’m pregnant. What if I wake up and something’s wrong?”
Titus sets his jaw, considering that. He brushes his thumb over your cheek and studies one of the many emotions he doesn’t have much experience with: Worry. Lowering his voice, he assures you, “Nothing’s going to go wrong. Not if I can help it.”
With a sad little smile, you reply, “Money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t stop me from being scared of complications. Or worse. I don’t want to have to wonder where you are if I wake up afraid.”
At that, he nods solemnly, takes your hand, and starts leading you to the opposite wing of the house. He may not experience anxieties like that, but he understands that his job is to quell yours. “Come on, then; I’ll show you our bedroom. Don’t tell Father; he wouldn’t understand.”
Your eyes narrow. “Will you get in trouble if he finds out?”
“Yes,” he says with a dark humor in his tone and a glint in his eyes. “He’d put me in time out and take away all my favorite toys.” He’d have one hour to hunt me while I remain unarmed. Titus presses a kiss to the center of your forehead. “Don’t worry, bunny; I can handle myself. Handling you is what I’m worried about.”
As he pushes open a set of opulent double doors, you poke his firm shoulder and protest, “I’m a perfect angel.”
“Precisely my concern.” As you step into the suite, he raises a silent hand to stop Smith from following. Closing the doors, Titus strides to where you’re admiring the space, wide eyes greedy over the California king, the floor-to-ceiling windows with grand velvet curtains, the massive his and hers closets. “I know it’s plain right now; I don’t have much of an eye for taste – except in women, of course.”
You smack him lightly on the arm. “Flatterer.”
His deeply ingrained instincts urge him to flip your arm around, pin it behind your back, twist you into submission. But then you smile at him and it’s so warm and open and trusting and earnest that he almost smiles back. “Only for you.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” You traipse into the adjoining bathroom suite and gawk at the oversized soaking tub, practically its own pool with jets and a head rest, and add, “I get the impression you have to flatter a lot of people in your world.”
“They have to flatter me,” he corrects. You feel his hand on your back and catch sight of him watching you in the large mirror above the double vanity sinks. His first finger trails up your spine and he smiles when you shiver. “And soon they’ll have to flatter you, too.”
“If they have to suck up to you, and you have to suck up to me,” you muse, turning around into his arms, “does that make me the boss of the whole world?”
Titus cradles your face in one hand. His expression is completely and totally confident as he tells you, “I spent the first thirty years of my life watching my mother snap her fingers-” he punctuates it with a click of his own “-and get whatever she wanted from whoever she was speaking to. She commanded attention, power, money. Everyone listened when she spoke. She was the only woman – person – my father ever acquiesced to or listened to. Nobody on earth has more power than Mrs. Danforth,” he finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “and very soon that will be you.”
For a second, you’re breathless, taking in the intensity simmering in his eyes. Then you avert your gaze a second, swallow hard, and look back at him with your usual mischief. “Mommy issues much?”
Rolling his eyes dramatically, Titus swats your ass and laughs, “Father is going to hate you.”
With a raised eyebrow, you needle him, “You say that like it might actually be a good thing.”
Titus confirms, “Being hated by my father is always a badge of honor. He can’t stand me.” Then he takes your hand, leads you back to the bedroom, and sits you down on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Now, I have to leave for some business before I introduce you to the family tonight, but I do have one thing I need to give you in the meantime.”
“A welcome home gift?”
“Something like that,” he replies, walking over to his bedside table and removing a black velvet box. He kneels in front of you, your legs on either side of his shoulders, and your heart starts to pound. As he opens it to reveal the ridiculous ring inside, he begins, “Now, bunny, if you want a proper proposal with a string quartet or a sunset on the beach, I’ll do that, but for-”
“Titus, shut up,” you whisper. “Is this…for me?”
Your eyes are glued to the ring. You’ve never seen anything like it. Clearly it’s an antique piece; the metalwork and stones have been meticulously maintained and show a high level of craftsmanship. The large center diamond is black – an almost surreal color, both drawing light in and flinging it out, seeming at once opaque and transparent from different angles – and surrounded by a halo of small pearls and diamonds set in fine platinum. It’s not eye-catching so much as jaw-dropping.
Your heartbeat thuds and whooshes in your ears as Titus removes the ring from the box and takes your left hand in his. You splay your fingers to give him better access.
“My great grandfather had it made for his wife and my mother held onto it for me to give to mine, not that she believed I’d ever find one. It won’t be the most expensive piece in your collection, but it’s the most precious and rare to our family name.” Titus slides it onto your finger and then kisses the skin just above it, his lips softer than you’ve ever felt. He holds your hand in his and urges. “I never want to see you without it.”
“I should take it off to shower and sleep,” you point out absently, still staring at the ring. You flick your eyes up to his. “And I assume you’d still like to see me those times.”
“I’m going to have to start punishing you for all this flirting, you know.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a promise?”
He shakes his head and lets out a sharp, amused breath. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”
In the next breath, Titus smirks and lifts you easily, tossing you up onto the bed. As you shriek out a laugh, the plush fabric and thick mattress catch you like a cartoon cloud. Titus pounces on you like a panther while you’re still getting your bearings, hiking your skirt up around your waist and yanking your panties down hard enough to rip the elastic. You don’t complain; for every pair of your underwear he’s ruined, Titus has always gifted you five more from nicer shops.
His fingers circle your clit hard and fast, working you up frantically, and you know exactly what his game is. It’s one he plays often and well. You’ve got no choice but to enjoy the expert way he touches you, months of knowing how to get you off and bring you down painstakingly memorized.
Then, as you expect, the very moment your walls start to clamp down, Titus stops all touch and slaps your clit hard. The sting rockets up your spine and you gasp. Your thighs shake and he laughs at your mewling.
Before you can even start to think , he pulls his shirt off, casts it aside, and crawls onto the bed next to you. Then his middle two fingers are on your clit again and his lips lock onto yours and you’re moaning and whining and hoping, hoping, hoping he won’t-
He slaps your clit once more and you nearly knee him with the force of your body’s reaction. He stills your leg with a smirk and coos, “Careful, princess, you’ll pull a muscle. Can’t have that.”
You challenge him with narrow eyes. “Then how about you pin me down and fuck me so I don’t squirm?”
“So goddamn greedy,” he huffs. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today.”
“I wonder whose fault that is.”
You watch, mouth watering, as he takes off his belt and slacks. You even notice the brief hesitation as the leather belt runs over his fingers; you’ve been known to beg for a whipping with it on more than one occasion. But he’s being gentle with you – for Titus, at least. He returns to you on the bed with a wolfish gaze, spreading your legs apart and admiring you for long enough to make your breath hitch. When you feel the tip of his swollen cock nudging at your entrance, it’s with a toe-curling gentility that makes your body sensitive.
Titus always thrusts into you agonizingly slow, no matter how worked up either of you are. He savors the little flutters and twitches that come with filling your pretty cunt millimeter by breathless millimeter. Once he’s seated inside of you, feeling the way your hips instinctively roll back into his and how your cunt is clamping onto him like it needs reassurance, Titus presses his thumb to your lower lip and orders, “Beg.”
And even though you’re having to actively hold back from squirming and moaning, you know he loves the chase, so you grip his curls tight and reply, “Why should I?”
“God, you fucking brat.” He spits on your face and you lick it off your lips, never dropping his eyes that trace your movements. “If you won’t beg for what you want, then I expect you to stay there and take whatever I give you.”
Your eyes widen in a mix of lust and fear, right on the primal line that Titus so loves to play with. One of his hands goes down to cover your mouth. There’s a millisecond where his eyes flick up to yours, asking permission, and it’s gone as soon as you give an imperceptible nod. When you and Titus fuck, your minds run parallel to one another; the same temptations and ideas call both your attention.
Once his salty, heavy palm is clamping your mouth shut, Titus fucks you like he needs. Your pleasure becomes entirely secondary to him; he only touches your clit because it amuses him to watch you squirm and kick and writhe, unable to speak or moan or do much of anything besides take it.
When he hikes your legs higher, working you into a full mating press that lets him fuck you hard and deep, your eyes roll back and your moans turn into squeaks. His thumb continues its strumming on your clit as you start to shake from pleasure. He purrs, “There we go.”
And then he cums.
Unannounced, unplanned, unrepentant. He pulls out and gives your thigh an affectionate pat.
You grab his hand and wail, “No, no, no no no nonono! Titus!”
He lifts your fingers to his lips and kisses each one softly, “Didn’t I say this was a punishment? You have to learn to behave yourself.”
You lean back, raise your arms above your head so that your tits are on beautiful display, and look up at him like an innocent, needy puppy. After a beat of charged silence where his eyes ravish your body, you say the one word you’re always careful to withhold from him until the right moment: “Please.”
Above the bed like a god, Titus gazes down at you, panting and disheveled and leaking his cum. He tsks and sighs, “How am I supposed to punish you when you take me so well?” Then he drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your legs, and tugs you to the end of the bed as if you weigh nothing. “When you’ve done everything I’ve asked without complaint?” He slides two fingers into your sopping cunt, curling them toward himself and grinning when you arch your back and whine out in pleasure. He nips your inner thighs with his teeth and rests his free hand on your lower abdomen, over your womb. Leaning toward your wrecked pussy, he murmurs at last, “When you’re carrying my child? I couldn’t possibly deny you.”
And he descends on your swollen, aching clit. The taste of his own cum mixed with your juices drives him wild. The taste of his ownership. After all the edging, you’re mere moments from tumbling over the precipice.
He doesn’t make you wait any longer.
He growls into your cunt as you spasm around his fingers, the orgasm burning up your spine and boiling beneath your cheeks. Your back arches and he refuses to let you stop cumming, keeping his tongue just as firm and fast as you punch into overstimulation. It’s so good it borders on painful and that’s what he loves the most. The moment when you cry out his name and try to push his shoulders back because it’s just too much and only he can finally release you.
Your chest heaves as you collapse back onto the bed. Titus slowly withdraws his fingers from your pussy and licks them clean, drunk on the taste of the two of you becoming one. You can’t talk or think as you rest the back of your hand on your forehead to cool it down. After a few moments of breathing, you smirk up at him and tease, “I knew you’d cave, you big softie.”
He kneels over you again. “I assure you it was completely selfish; making you cum strokes my ego.”
“Mhmm. Whatever you say.”
Titus tuts out a chuckle and checks his watch before swearing under his breath. After a searing kiss that gives you the sense he wants nothing more than to start a second round, Titus sighs, “Three hours as my live-in trophy wife and you’re already making me late.”
You nip his collarbone. “Bite me.”
“Don’t tempt me.” He holds your chin and orders gently, “Ask Chip to take you downtown. Designer district. Buy an outfit that makes you feel perfect and be home in time for dinner at six.”
At 5:58, Titus knocks on the door of his own home with a bouquet of white roses. He can already imagine you rolling your eyes at his display before Smith opens up the door on your behalf. Titus is pleased to see that you let him open it without argument, already beginning to accept having others watch out for you.
You step into the moonlight and Titus hands off the flowers to Smith, who falls back behind you. For a moment, Titus is at a loss for words. You’ve always made a point of dressing up and looking beautiful for him; that’s a part of your arrangement, a part of the business of being a professional sugar baby. He’s even paid for you to get plenty of lovely pieces to add to your wardrobe.
But this?
You’ve spent the handful of hours since he left (and attended several excruciating meetings) pampering yourself into a state more akin to divinity than humanity. He may not have the eye for fashion that his sister does, but he can easily identify the trappings of a woman feeling confident about herself: Freshly French-tipped nails, sleek high heels with a thin strap around your ankle, makeup subtle and feminine. The burgundy halter dress hugs your curves, the silk crepe just structured enough to be formal but swinging enough to be sweet and flirty.
He wants to devour you.
And when he kisses you hello, he makes it obvious, dipping you far backwards and gripping your hip like it owes him money. He can feel the designer quality of the dress, soft as butter, under his fingertips. Then he rakes his hands up your thighs and growls against your ears, “I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you in the one situation where I absolutely have to.”
You give him a modest twirl and ask, “You really like it?”
With his hand on your lower back, Titus guides you toward the main house and purrs, sounding both proud and possessive, “You look perfectly at home in luxury, kitten.”
You try to quell your nerves as you walk up the marble steps to the back entrance of the home, where Smith opens the large glass doors to usher you both inside. Unlike Titus’ – and your, you have to keep reminding yourself – house, the main house is opulently designed, drenched in old-school grandeur. Everything is antique, hundreds of years old, in dark woods and rich silks. It’s more like walking through a museum than a home.
When Titus brings you into the grand dining room, you can see just how well his father and sister match the decor. Thin, severe, expensive. His sister is drop-dead gorgeous in a very ‘90s leading lady way while his father has the sort of face and demeanor usually reserved for stereotypical evil wizards or vampire counts. Titus has to push you into their eyeline when you find yourself shrinking beneath their stares.
Mr. Danforth and Ursula both stand to greet you but don’t move otherwise. Titus takes a deep breath and announces, “Father, Ursula, I’d like to introduce the future Mrs. Danforth.”
Father offers you his hand first, but you’re clearly not supposed to shake it, so you just present your own. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your skin softly. “How lovely to finally make your acquaintance. My son has sung your praises extensively.”
“That’s very sweet.” You bite your tongue despite how easy it would be to tease Titus because you know for a fact he never would’ve mentioned you to them at all if it weren’t for the baby. You stick with a polite albeit slightly stiff, “Mr. Danforth, it’s an honor to meet you.”
Titus’ gentle, affirmative pat to your arm almost makes you laugh – the situation is too weird for words – but you still hold back. It’s a truly herculean effort not to point out how otherworldly this whole thing is. You haven’t exactly met people who just reek of power and status, their presence so effortlessly commanding that you want to laugh so you don’t cry or hide.
Then it’s Ursula’s turn with you. She doesn’t shake hands, doesn’t hug, doesn’t even speak for a solid thirty seconds. You can feel Ursula’s eyes on every inch of you, dissecting and analyizing. It’s like she’s trying to see through your skin or maybe telepathically peel it off your bones. You’re holding your breath until she finally says, “You’re very pretty.”
“Thank you.” Swallowing hard, you force a wobbly smile and tell her, “You look stunning, exactly like I expected from how your brother talks about your fashion sense.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Please; Titus wouldn’t know fashion sense if I smacked him over the head with it. And I’ve tried.” Before you can try to come up with any possible response, she gestures to your dress and asks, “Where is this little number from? It looks appropriately expensive for the occasion. A gift from our Titus, I assume?”
“Um, yes, he sent me shopping today.”
She gives you a pitying sort of smile and squeezes your forearm in a way that feels truly predatory. “He’s always so generous with his playthings.”
Titus clears his throat. “Ursula.”
“I’m just teasing,” she laughs without any humor. Then her narrowed eyes return to you. “Really, though, where did you find a dress like this in our dingy little city?”
You smooth out the fabric and tell her, “It’s, um, it’s Yves Saint Laurent.”
“Looks like something I would wear.”
You try on a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I told Chip to take me somewhere you would shop.”
“Maybe I’ll go and pick one up in my size,” she muses, still scanning your body for every flaw, which you’re suddenly painfully aware of, coming up with brand new insecurities every second her focus moves. “I’d ask to borrow it, but yours would drown me.”
Titus cuts her off sharply, “That’s enough.”
She pouts at her brother. “Don’t be so sensitive, ducky; I’m sure she can-”
“No.” You’ve never heard Titus’ voice as stone cold and commanding as when he tells her, an order and a punishment, “Never speak down to her. Never.”
Ursula rolls her eyes and plops herself dramatically in one of the oversized dining chairs. She pouts and says, “Fatherhood is already making you so boring. Now I’m going to have to weaponize her against you so I have someone to complain with about how boring you are. Sigh.”
And dinner goes just about like that.
Mr. Danforth unabashedly interrogates you about your life, your family, your history. Ursula critiques your answers. Titus snaps at them both when they push too far. You just try to hold onto your fork and sneak bites of decadent food in between the family bickering. You can tell there’s a kind of affection entirely foreign to you in the way they jab and dodge each other’s barbs. The way rich people talk to each other – all subtext and speed – is surreal to listen to. Eyes rolled about memories in St. Barts and arguments over clients in Aspen; it’s like they’re speaking a different language from the one you learned growing up.
By the time you’ve finished pretending to like flan because you’re terrified of being rude, they seem to have hashed out all their regular arguments, everyone beyond ready to leave the rest alone. Titus can tell you’re getting overwhelmed by their equally intense presences fighting for dominance, so he slides his hand protectively onto your knee and announces, “I think we’ve kept my fiancée awake late enough, haven’t we?”
Ursula pouts, leaning across the table and snatching your left hand into hers for examination. “You already gave her mother’s ring and I missed the grand proposal? How tragically unromantic.”
Father sighs, “They’re doing things a touch out of order, darling.”
“I wouldn’t want an extravagant proposal anyway,” you manage to squeak out. “A nice private moment between the two of us was perfect.”
“Ah, so she’s the one making you boring,” Ursula laughs. Then she lowers her gaze and adds, “If you don’t like extravagance, you may be marrying into the wrong family. Your wedding guest list is already 250 people long.”
“I’m definitely looking forward to all of it,” you assure as you desperately try not to sound either meek or ungrateful, “but Titus is being kind enough to ease me into the waters. Trust me: The beautiful estate and stunning, personal ring made as much of a statement as any proposal.”
Father smirks at you with a pleased satisfaction that seems to surprise Titus and his sister. “What a diplomatic response. My daughter will be lucky to learn from your decorum.”
As Titus stifles a laugh, Ursula stands up dramatically from the table and reminds him, “I’m literally a diplomat, Father. Try telling the people of Monaco that I’m anything but diplomatic when I personally broke ground on the country’s latest arts center.”
“That was for optics,” Titus cuts back, adding under this breath, “unlike my work in Geneva.”
Ursula brandishes her knife like she might really use it on him, making you gasp gently under your breath, and that’s when Father officially clears his throat and stands with a curt, “I think that’s enough family time for one night.”
“I completely agree,” Titus replies, rolling his shoulders before he stands up. After pulling your chair out and guiding you to your feet, he says, “We’ll see you both at the Governor’s Ball on Saturday.”
Titus shakes his father’s hand at the end of dinner and, once again, you have to remind yourself not to tease him. Thankfully, it’s a surgical extraction from there and Titus has you walking back toward your house in no time.
After Titus dismisses Smith for the night and arms the extensive home security system, he meets you in the primary bathroom, where you’re unclasping your jewelry and examining yourself in the mirror. Titus must’ve had someone on staff put away your things because your bedtime skincare routine is laid out on the countertop. Before reaching for any of it, you bite your lip and ask Titus, “Be honest: Did I do okay?”
He comes up behind you, slipping his strong arms around your waist. “You did great. I’m only sorry Ursula was so very-” he struggles to find the right word “-Ursula.”
“I expected worse,” you tell him with half a smile. “I didn’t expect you to stand up for me, though. To your sister.”
“Ursula is the family the universe gave me. She’s my best friend and my closest confidant – and she’s a nightmare. A hellion.” Titus kisses your forehead and gently touches your stomach. “You’re the family I’m choosing. That means you come first, button. I’m not going to have my children watch their father sit idly by while their mother is insulted. I’m practicing setting a good example.”
You stand up on your toes and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
Titus runs his hands up your spine and fiddles with the halter tie at the back of your neck. “Now let’s get you out of this very lovely dress so you can sleep. Do you need a back rub? Some ginger tea?”
You raise an eyebrow as you slowly take out your cleanser and reusable cotton rounds. “Are those real offers or are you teasing me?”
“Real offers. From either a masseuse I can have here in fifteen minutes and our chef or from me personally.” He tugs the dress down your body, guides you to step out of it, and discards it in the bathroom hamper like you didn’t pay $3,200 for it a few hours ago. “No funny business, just relaxation and rest, especially well earned after spending a few hours with my family.”
“I could probably tolerate a foot rub before bed,” you giggle as he kisses across the tops of your shoulders.
“Go on, then.” He strips off his own shirt and makes quick work of his belt and slacks, too. Looking deliciously sturdy in just his black boxer briefs, he leans against the bathroom doorframe and says. “Finish getting un-ready and come lie down with me, princess. I’ll make sure to get you nice and relaxed before bed.”
“You want me to do my whole bedtime routine topless?”
“I’ll grab you something from your closet,” he offers, frowning a little because he admittedly does like the idea of watching you traipsing around with your tits out. When he returns with a tank top and silky shorts, he notices you still haven’t started taking off your full face of makeup. Too knowingly, he strolls into the bathroom with the pajamas and asks, all low and teasing, “Are you nervous to take off your makeup in front of me?”
You toy with the damp cloth, studying him in the mirror, and admit, “A little. And not just the makeup.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and laughs, “I’ve seen you naked, kitty.”
You scoff, “Naked and made up with at minimum highlighter and mascara. Or in very manicured outfits.”
He offers, “I’ve also seen you in pajamas before.”
“Lingerie,” you correct. “You don’t really think I sleep in slutty little negligees and teddies, do you?”
“A man can dream.”
“Well, if you hadn’t noticed, typically you rip those off me, fuck me unconscious, and then leave before my actual bedtime routine,” you reply, poking him in his hard chest. As you tug on the tank top and shorts, you go on, “I usually wake up around midnight, get room service on your tab, and sleep in my ugly sweats since you never spend the night.”
Clearly amused by the whole thing, he presses, “Are you worried I’ll rescind my proposal to the mother of my child because you aren’t a model in your sleep?”
“I don’t know!” You huff and glare at him, knowing full well you’re being hormonally dramatic now. “This is all very new to me, Titus. I have to wear a four-figure dress to dinner and go to the fucking Governor’s Ball, I guess, but I still have to be me at bedtime? All while figuring out how to be your fiancée and not just your sugar baby? It’s weird.”
Titus closes the space between you, each step stern and confident. He takes the makeup removal pad and cleanser from you, gently lathers the cloth, and starts to work it over your face without saying a word. Titus says the most when he's silent. Right away, you melt beneath his touch. His totally sturdy gaze. Quietly, he relents, “It’s a lot. I know that. You don’t have to come to the big social events right away; we can start smaller than the fucking Governor’s Ball.” He smiles when you crack one of your own. “If you aren’t ready to jump right into being my wife, there are plenty of other bedrooms you can stay in and have your own space.”
“I don’t want my own space,” you whisper back. “I’m just scared of taking up too much of yours, I guess. Or not fitting into your life the way you expect. Of being Mrs. Danforth correctly. Not looking expensive enough or beautiful enough or-”
“Quiet now,” he interrupts, words harsh and clear but tone nothing but warm. “Do you know what I want from Mrs. Danforth?” Titus finishes wiping your face of its mask and then examines your products and selects your moisturizer. He massages it into your face and neck with fingers so tender you could cry. When he’s finished, he holds your face in one large hand and murmurs, “I want you to sit by my side and sleep in my arms. You. We have the rest of our lives to work out the details.”
For the first time, you feel the real you slip out in front of Titus. No flirting, no pushing, no hiding. All you can manage to whisper is, “Thank you.”
He gives you a soft kiss and then goes on, quiet but urgent. “As for worrying about your appearance, you have never been lovelier to me than you are right now,” leading you to the bed and sitting you down with your feet in his lap, he finishes, “because you’re mine. And that’s the most perfect thing you can be.”
Summary: An unfortunate encounter with a waffle iron leads you to Cook County's ER at midnight. You hope you don't run into your roommate John... he tends to worry, and you're sure he'll prioritize you over more important patients.
Pairing: John Carter x gn!reader
Word count: 2.4k
Warnings/tags: minor burn injury, reader goes to the ER, fluff, roommate!carter, phd student reader. apologies if he's ooc, i've only seen about nine episodes so far lmao
my first ER fic... needed to write this babygirl STAT! perhaps i'll write him more in the future :)
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For the record, you tried everything to avoid the ER.
There's really nowhere you'd rather be less than Cook County’s emergency waiting room at midnight. You put ice and antiseptic and Neosporin, all from your roommate’s first aid kit that he insists on keeping stocked. Any other night, you would've stayed home and let your body do its thing. Heal. That’s what human bodies do, right?
But after burning yourself with the waffle iron, you stared at the patches of blood swelling the criss-crossed welts on your arm, and said roommate's voice started nagging you in your head. You know most burns are worse than people realize? I've seen three this month that got infected because people didn't come to the hospital right away. This was two weeks ago, when you were still waking up from a nap after submitting your thirty-two page paper on the significance of husbandry in medieval literature.
It should be said that, after only rotations in dermatology and psychiatry, your roommate is a little jumpy when it comes to emergency medicine. He takes everything seriously, especially after getting reamed by his supervising resident in his first two months.
His nerves have infected you. That’s the truth. You really need to stop helping him study. Knowing all the ways a person can become septic will make anyone jumpy.
The nurse has given you an ice pack while you wait, which was really nice of her. You don't mind waiting, although you have a morning class, and you were hoping to get some actual sleep before heading off. You aren’t a med student, thank Christ, but a PhD is no joke.
The door to the waiting room opens and there’s John, which makes you panic. You seriously debated paying a cab extra to take you to the next hospital over in Chicago. But you don't have that kind of money, and you were worried about the burn, so you sucked it up and hoped he would stay out of the waiting room. No such luck.
It seems like maybe he hasn't spotted you. He beelines for an elderly woman and helps her into a wheelchair, complimenting her Schnauzer-printed handbag, which you find extremely endearing. He looks so professional in his white coat, John Carter printed neatly on the badge clipped to his pocket. John told you that in the beginning of his internship, some of the residents teased him about having a tailored coat. But you think he wears it well. His movements are confident, gentle. It’s nice to see him in action, despite the circumstances. He wheels her inside and hands her off to a nurse. Then he stops.
You grimace as he turns and faces you. You wave, trying for casual.
“Oh, hey, John,” you say lightly. “Is this where you're placed? Very cool.”
He hurries to you and his gaze flicks to your cooked arm. His eyes widen.
“Holy shit,” he says. A few patients look up in alarm. John winces and mumbles an apology. He squats down to your level, gingerly lifting your injured arm to get a closer look at the burn.
“What happened?” he asks. “How long have you been waiting?"
“Dude, relax,” you say, nudging his shoulder with your knuckles. “I'm fine. But that’s the last time I attempt anything with your waffle iron. It's out to get me.”
“That’s why you shouldn't use my stuff,” John says, teasing, momentarily forgetting his worry. But then he sees the welts and frets again. He stands, seemingly coming to a decision in his mind. “I'll be right back.”
“John, please don't make a big deal. I can wait my turn.”
“I'm not making a big deal,” he says as he disappears behind the doors. You groan, tilting your head back in defeat.
“Dr. Benton?”
Carter sniffs his resident out like a bloodhound. You're his only thought. He has about five other patients to check on, but you need care. You burned your arm, and it's nasty-looking. Not that you're nasty-looking. You could never be nasty. You're probably the prettiest person Carter's ever laid eyes on, and he gets a lot of pretty people throwing themselves at him when they find out he's a doctor-in-training.
You aren't like that. You don't care that he’s been sucking on a silver spoon since the day he was born, that he has no idea how he fits into the fabric of the world, but he’s trying his best. You know he’s trying. You're interested, kind. You ask him how he's doing, leave him leftovers to reheat, throw his laundry in with yours if you're doing a load. He pays more than his half of rent, even though you’ve told him repeatedly he doesn’t need to. He buys the expensive groceries to replenish what you use on him, so you can enjoy fancy grilled cheeses and burgers. Carter provides little to nothing, working twelve to fourteen hours a day and borrowing money from his dad, but you still treat him like he’s good. Like he’s worth it. You're the best roommate ever. And right now, he needs to return the favor. This is truly the least he can do.
“Dr. Benton,” Carter says again as he gets closer.
“Heard you the first time,” Benton says tiredly. “What is it, Carter?”
“Uh, burn victim.” Carter winces. He feels bad calling you that. Your case isn't that severe, and he's undercutting what real burn victims experience. He's just a little shaken. He's never seen you hurt. “Sorry, not a victim, just… patient came in with a waffle iron burn and it looks kind of deep. I'm worried about infection.”
Benton shrugs. “So treat it. You can handle a burn.”
“Right, but they're still out in the waiting room.”
“Then how have you already made a diagnosis?”
Carter looks at a crash cart, trying to think of an excuse that'll result in the least amount of shouting. “Uh…”
“Carter.”
“Hmm? Oh, well, I happened to see it when I brought in Mrs. Voorhees. I really think we should bump them up the list.”
“We don't pick favorites. If someone's injuries are severe enough, they get admitted without our interception.”
“Right, yeah, I know that, but…” Carter interlocks his fingers, bending them. “It's just that, uh…”
Benton crosses his arms. “Do you know the patient?”
Shit. Caught. Carter ambles for the answer they both know. “Well, kinda.”
“Kinda?”
Carter musters the saddest, pleading-est look he can manage. “Sir, please. I'm really worried. It's my roommate.”
Benton blows air out, probably already sick of Carter. They’re nine hours into their shift. This is about when Benton loses his already thin patience.
But he doesn’t yell, to Carter’s surprise. “Fine. One time. Don't make a habit of it. And don't tell anyone I gave the okay.”
Carter barely waits after the go-ahead, sprinting back to the waiting room and shouting thank you.
Five minutes later, your name is called. You're aware of eyes on you, and the fact that you've been called before three others who were here when you arrived. You're about to explain all this to the receptionist when John appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. He says your name professionally, like you've never met before.
You glare at him. “John, did you do this?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Dr. Carter,” he says mildly.
You roll your eyes and follow him into the ER. The doors shut and you turn, about to give him a piece of your mind. But John's already down the hall, leading you to a room. You follow exasperatedly.
He shuts the door behind you and sets down his clipboard, rushing to inspect your arm. All pretenses fall away; this is your concerned roommate fussing over you.
“John, it's wrong that you bumped me up the list. Those people have been waiting over an hour.” You sit on the examination chair, unable to do much else with John crowding you into it like a neurotic sheepdog. He sits on a stool and gets close, propping your legs up on a large cushion. He takes his stethoscope and feels your chest and back. You sigh.
“Is this really neces—”
“Yes! Burns can get infected. Irregular heartbeat is a sign of that. Anyway, you don't need to worry about the people waiting. One man out there said his cheek hurts after falling asleep on his kitchen table; one woman took too many vitamin C tablets and won't leave even though we told her they're water-soluble and she'll pee them out; and the third patient thinks they’re seeing ghosts. Why you'd come to an ER for that, I really don’t know, but—”
“The point is that you shouldn't show me favoritism just because we're roommates,” you say.
“Considering I'm your emergency contact, I think this is exactly the type of situation that warrants favoritism.” John gently lifts your arm and places it on his lap so he can clean the skin. “Might sting a little. Sorry.”
It stings, but it's tolerable. John's honed in on your arm like he's performing surgery. He meticulously cleans and applies a topical for the burn. Already, your skin feels better, no longer pulsing underneath the welts. John is so careful with you.
Another doctor comes in shortly. “Carter, you're needed in South 4.” His eyes land on you and he looks a little friendlier. “Hello, I'm Dr. Benton. Can I take a look at your burn?”
You nod and he approaches. John leans away for Dr. Benton to look. You know Benton well, from how often John's mentioned him. It's nice to put a face to the name. John watches Benton, eager for feedback.
“Is it okay? Should I run tests? If there's an infection—”
“Looks alright to me,” Benton says, voice a little softer. “First degree burn. Wrap it.” He looks at you. “So you two are roommates? I thought Carter lived with Mommy and Daddy.”
“They wanted me to be independent,” he mumbles, focused on wrapping your arm.
You smile. “We've been roommates for a few months. I live close to the hospital and needed the rent. It’s good to meet you. I've heard great things about his time here.”
Benton barks a laugh. “Yeah, I know that's a lie, but thanks.” He eyes John. “We had no idea he was living with someone. We’re relieved to learn he’s well-adjusted.” John rolls his eyes but doesn’t look away from your arm.
“You kids get along alright?” Benton asks.
You're confused by what he’s getting at but you nod anyway. “I’d say so. I mean, I hope I'm a decent roommate…”
“You are,” John says instantly. “The best.”
Benton hums. “Two minutes, Carter, or I'm assigning you to enemas for the rest of the shift.”
You hide a smile. John winces. “Okay, okay. I'll be out soon.”
“We'll give you a topical,” Benton says. “Apply it and change the dressing every six hours or so. If it starts to hurt or smell, come back. I'm sure you'll be well taken care of.”
“Of course,” John says, touching your knee.
Benton leaves and you watch John clean up the station.
“He seems nice,” you say.
John scoffs. “Yeah, in front of you.” He tilts his head, considering. “Actually, he was unusually cool about bringing you in sooner. More than when I brought Joe after he broke his arm at the bar.”
You remember that; John had just fallen asleep when he'd gotten the pleading call from his idiotic friend Joe Bailey to bring him to the hospital. His parents are friends with John's, and Joe had been terrified his parents would ship him off to military school if they found out about another drunken injury. He was always pulling stupid, rich boy stunts, as far as you understood, but John had taken him to the hospital out of nostalgia and sympathy.
They don’t talk anymore. You’re grateful. John deserves better friends.
“Benton told him he was a fool.” John sighs at the memory. “He wasn't wrong.”
“A waffle iron burn is pretty foolish too,” you say glumly.
“No, it's not. Could happen to anyone.” He squeezes your uninjured arm. “I'm glad you came, alright? I'd drive you home but—”
“It's fine,” you say. “It's a short train ride.” You don't have the funds for another cab.
John frowns. “This late? No way. Here.” He pulls out his wallet and two twenties, tucking them into your coat pocket.
“John—”
“No.” He holds up a hand. “Take advantage of me while you can, before Dad officially cuts me off.”
“It doesn't cost forty dollars to get home.”
“Well, order a pizza or something.” He smiles cheekily. “Anything to keep you from using my waffle iron. Why were you making waffles at night anyway?”
“I was trying to make breakfast for dinner. I was gonna leave you a plate too, for when you got back, so you could actually eat breakfast in the morning instead of dinner leftovers.”
His eyes turn soft. “You don't need to do that. I like whatever you cook.”
You shrug. “You have no choice.”
He grins. “I'm at your mercy, true. Honestly, though, I do like what you make. And I'd much prefer you stick to dishes that won't result in a burn.”
You groan. “Oh my God. How long are you gonna bring this up?”
“At least a month. Probably longer.”
“Carter!” comes a shout from the hallway.
John winces, scrambling to get up. “Sorry. I have to go. He's not kidding about the enemas. I'll see you soon? Call me when you get home so I know you're okay. Just leave a message, they'll get it to me.”
“Okay, worrywart. I'll be fine, you know. Not my first day on Earth.”
You flick his bangs away from his eyes. They drift back immediately.
“You need a haircut,” you say.
“Maybe one of my patients will be a hairdresser.” He crosses his fingers, scrunching his face. You laugh. He opens his eyes, sobering. “Please take a cab. Promise?”
“Yes, mom, I promise. Thanks.”
He reaches for you like he’s going to hug you, or maybe… maybe kiss your head. He did that once, when you both got a little drunk after finals last semester. Your heart stutters. But John aborts at the last moment, patting your shoulder instead. He flexes his hands, looking at you for a moment longer.
“See you at home.”
Then he’s gone. And maybe it’s not so bad, going to the ER, when John Carter’s tending to you.
The concept of Robby having a constant fling about which he is anything but mature, as a fifty-ish year old man he hasn’t completed the list of what’s expected of people his age, you know, the usual thing you’d see maybe somewhere in an office where some are already settled down or at least have a relationship with someone no matter the nature of it, well, he’s not the kind.
Ever since you started working at the Pitt years ago as one of the nurses Robby’s eyes have been glued to the new face that’s been strutting around the corridors with either Perlah and Princess or Donnie and Jesse, he couldn’t put his finger on it, you weren’t the picture perfect nurse that Gloria imagines in her daydreams of the ER, but you managed to be good judging by all the patient satisfaction scores and the way you’ve managed to form a bond even with the night shift, whether it was casually chatting with Jack, telling another case from that day to Ellis, taking a cup of iced coffee from John with a soft “thank you” or even handing Doctor Welsh some box with food from time to time. People knew you, interns seeking advice, McKay’s kid being glued to your side when his mom was busy, hell even the paramedics that barely lingered for more than a minute nodded your way, and maybe that was what drew him in at first, that confidence in an environment that can throw shit at you at any given moment, the softness that showed whenever you listened to the elderly patients and held kids through scary moments.
The first time the two of you had went out on a date was the most nervous he’s been in his life, exams at med school seemed easier than trying to find words when he saw you in that cropped coat, with a v-line sweater and jeans underneath, he couldn’t bring himself to speak properly the entire dinner, just watching the way your eyes almost sparked when you kept talking about patients and a couple that got you coffee to thank you for staying with their daughter like it was some grand gesture and not a two minute walk to the cafeteria, it was easy with you, oddly so for a man that couldn’t find peace whenever he attempted dating, probably because of how complicated he was when it came to actually staying and putting in effort. You made days better, whether it was sex, dinners together, or just time spent in his townhouse when you’d put on a vinyl and watch him read with your feet on his lap, it was casual, really, you didn’t demand seriousness that he feared, didn’t ask the dreaded “what are we?”, just went with it up until the moment you didn’t.
It stung, seeing one of the cops that often showed up when things got dirty lean a little too close, whisper something or hand you a sandwich and a drink like it was routine for the two of you, like he had any business staying so close to whatever computer you were busy typing on at the nurses' station. The fucker, Elijah or whatever his name was, didn't even try to be less obvious about it at all either, he didn't have some sort of a claim on you so why did he think it was his birth given right to guard you like some lapdog instead of doing his job?
"So," you heard a familiar voice speak, before looking up from the ipad and noticing Michael rubbing antiseptic in his hands, trying to look unbothered by you slipping away as he took in the board, "what about the.. boy that's been hanging on you?"
"What is it about?"
"You tell me," he said, elbows on your desk, "one of my nurses is distracted because of a guy that treats ED like a playground."
"I'm doing my job, Robby. No?"
"With occassional success," he was being bitter about it, "i need you present with the rest and not batting eyes at kind policemen lending us a hand, are we clear?"
So you did what he asked, left the meetings with Elijah for post-shift hours, had him pick you up at your beck and call with a bag of takeout and sometimes even flowers. Robby practically tracked the hours you spent with him, two months and thirteen days since the first evening he picked you up after a twelve hour shift, he knew you'd leave that boy eventually, men like him aren't what you need, too eager to please and too sweet to handle, knew it was a matter of time before you slipped back into his house after a while, wriggling under him with your face pressed into pillows while his hips drilled into you relentlessly from the back.
"Did he make you feel this good?" he rasped out, breathing heavily, "two months away from me, must've been shit if you come back here--" he emphasized with another thrust, "begging under me. Tell me baby, does he know about me? Knows that you're fucking your boss?''
"I didn't," you mewl through small pants, "tell him anything."
"Should have. Was he bigger? Worth running away for?''
"No!" was all you needed to say before he let you cum, body going lump on his grey bedsheets.
"Then do us both a favor and don't do that again," he said, rolling off the condom like he did with countless gloves during the day at work.
You couldn't keep the distance, tried to, for all it was worth before the whole department got to know about another boyfriend when somebody saw him talking to you by the break room, that visitor's sticker glistening on his chest, charming smile, soft brown eyes without the crows feet, slight stubble that didn't compare to Robby's beard. Nothing was the same without him, and maybe admitting that in another's man flat only proved his point, but you missed it more than you thought you would, especially with a new message lighting up your phone.
house been lonely without you
i got your favourite wine and pizza's on the way
Come see me?
He won't delay the much needed conversation anymore, Michael never knew how greedy a man could get with everything you could ask for in his hand, and the sooner you realise that he's the only one for you the better.
That night you stayed for more than a heated makeout session or sex, instead waking up to breakfast in bed and a sweet reminder on his lips that now you're only his to have, and he'd like to keep it this way.
hi hi bb!! i adore your moodboards 🤍🤍 so i was wondering if i could request dog dad!robby??? you can choose any breed that feels right to you! i just know he’d love that pup 🥲
"Sometimes I think you love that dog more than me," You murmur, glancing across the couch to where Robby is currently sprawled, Cary the German Shepherd sound asleep on top of him.
"I have enough love in my heart for both of you," Robby replies, tossing you an easy grin. Cary tilts his head to look at you, tail swishing happily, as if in victory.
"You're only cuddling one of us right now," You arch an eyebrow. "Seems to me like there's some favouritism."
It's not that you don't love Cary. You do. A police dog reject, he's been with Robby for longer than you have. He's truly man's best friend.
You just would like to be able to sleep with your arms wrapped around your husband, instead of having to deal with the giant dog who likes to lie directly between you both at night.
"C'mere then - there's room for both."
You're not convinced that there is, but you move anyway, allowing Robby to pull you down into his side. Robby's arm wraps around you, while Cary plants a big lick on your cheek.
For however much you complain, you wouldn't change your boys for the world.
in my head robby is for sure a dog dad, but i can only ever see him having either a german shepherd or a l&w springer spaniel for some reason🤣😭
and bc everything for me goes back to rabbot…i feel like that cynthia erivo meme rn thinking of a rabbot!au where robby and jack take their dogs to the same dog park and robby’s springer spaniel meets jacks german shepherd and become best buds thus forcing their introvert dads to introduce themselves to each other so they can start planning out play dates for their “kids”!!!!! okay i gotta stop before i spontaneously combust at work, bye!!
Summary: When Dr. Adamson switches Dr. Jenna Robinavitch to night shift during her last year of residency to get more hands-on trauma experience after noticing her older brother hovering over her on day shift. Nobody expects newly hired brooding ER cowboy Jack Abbot to fall in love with her.
🎧 Jack Abbot's Spotify playlist | Jenna Robinavitch’s Spotify playlist
getting to reread these chapters again after the revisions/rewrites is so fun bc i loveddddd them the first time around and now they’ve somehow gotten even better (how is that possible?!?!) so i get to enjoy the saga that is jenna robinavitch and jack abbot all over again!!!
Jack leaves the party...and you much too early.
Or: Jack’s struggles overtake him, and it leaves you with a night that will haunt you for the rest of your life.
tw: suicide, angst, gun violence, depression, extreme mental health issues and the in-depth POV of a mentally unstable, untrustworthy narrator Jack, obsessive!jack, toxic and unhealthy depictions of relationships, self-hatred, suffering, just a whole load of depressing, obsessive monologuing, this is Jack when the therapy doesn’t work, no happy ending, (not canon if y’all have been keeping up with crash idk what this is, be aware and beware oOooo // WC: 2.4k
Two hours into the work party, Jack is done.
He was done before the first hour mark, actually. Ever since the music got too loud, every conversation started to tangle itself in the same topics and anecdotes. He can feel it in conquering need for some quiet. It’s just…too many bodies, is all. Too many voices. Yeah. Two hours is his limit.
There are too many reminders that you, Kiddo, exist just fine without him.
“Jack, did you hear that? Santos, that’s wild!”
But these reminders, seeping into the inventory of complications and threats, make tonight no different than any other night.
You’re victim enough to the boxes’ opening enough to know that.
God, baby. He’s so fucking sorry all the time. This isn’t—this isn’t the beer talking, he’s not even in the double digits of downed bottles for that to be.
He’s just…sorry. And no alcohol could ever be enough to keep that biled guilt down.
He blinks slow standing at the edge of the room, watching you. Again. When the hell is he not? That’s the routine that he resented with lashings and entitlement and everything immoral. He did, once.
“Jack, come here, baby.”
He does every time he makes you cry. He does every time he hurts you, and that’s where he finds every single sorry, sleepy—I didn’t mean to, baby that means nothing.
There’s only one type of sorry that could have good intentions.
Not a means to soothe Kiddo into obedience, smallness, something only to tuck in the linings of his stomach and what fucking not.
Not a means to overexplain and justify the spiraling that’s made up of the outline of your resentful, perfect body and all-consuming light that mimics a ridiculous, glaring supernova that’s catastrophic for what he swears used to be a bettering man.
“Kid, I’m—”
That one, sorry sounding out with the trigger or the cracking of the rope, is dependent on how much Kiddo loves him.
It’s dependent on whether she’ll ever leave. She will. She should.
Over his dead fucking body, which is very much to the point of the brain-splattered sorry. It’s all semantics.
“Ready to head out?”
It’s dependent on the answer you’ll give, free of anything that could influence it.
If you say no, Kiddo. That’s okay. That’s okay. You’ll be okay. He doesn’t deserve to be kept at the forefront of that little, spacey brain of yours. He’ll go.
It’s not your fault, even if the answer is an unknowing choice. It’s not your fault, nothing ever is.
“Um…already?”
“Yeah. Come home with me? We gotta finish the bingeing of the worst show to ever possibly exist.”
“Vanderpump Rules is a great sociology study in the form of reality television! Why are you—”
“You ready?”
You blink at him, still glowing with your eyes bright in a way that ruined the sturdiness of everything casual about his attraction to you when he first met you, and in a way that hits him violently in the chest right now.
He watches you look around at your guys’ friends clustered close, at the half-finished drink in your hand, and at the clock.
The answer’s already there. It’s in the calculation happening on your face—duty, and reluctance, practically jostling for position.
It’s okay, baby. I’m only humiliated with rage. You can stay.
God fucking damn it.
“...Yeah, if you are. I can come home with you.”
Jack nods at your answer, and it’s not from believing that you’re actually wanting to go home with him. No. You’re not as good a liar as you are a nurse.
But he’s got the answer he wanted. No. Not wanted. If it were, his skull wouldn’t feel like it’s been shot to bits already.
But it’s needed. It’s needed for both of you.
Okay. Okay.
“Let me just say goodbye to everyone.”
With every beer, though it’s not beer talking, he’s been looking for the answer he looks for every day with you, Kiddo.
He’s been theorizing, much to the chagrin of his dependency on your ruining whore soul, what it could be with every hand that’s on your shoulder. With how the party’s laughter curls around you like it seems to do all the fucking time.
How you don’t scan the room for him. You don’t need to.
And he’s found it. All he needed was two godforesaken hours. The answer is in your lie that’s for his sake, and it’s in the way your face, relaxed shoulders, and easy smile, and laughter unguarded can’t secure it.
“You know what, Sleepy?”
The anger comes first. That’s the routine of his Sleepy-bound spiraling. A hot, humiliating flare at the idea that Kiddo could be happy without orienting herself around him.
That you could exist without wanting to nestle inside his blood and never be meant for anything that isn’t the way he loves you.
The way she glances around the room when I ask her, you’d think she’s being asked to leave sunlight for a bunker.
She shouldn’t have to think about it. She should want to leave with me. If she loved me even half as much as I love her, this wouldn’t even be a question.
If she wanted you. She’d be leaving already. She wouldn’t hesitate. She wouldn’t glow like this.
…She wouldn’t glow the way that trapped you by the leg and cock and soul in the first place, right, Abbot?
“Stay. I’ll head out, but…you just come home when you can, okay?”
And that’s why his question wasn’t a question, why it’s a test you don’t know he sets. A test disguised as the routine.
Take her home. Bring her back into the quiet where it’s just the two of you, where he makes sense again.
God. His love for you keeps turning into a greedy, seeping, filthy demand he never agreed to make and never stops making anyway, but instead justifies it with being loyalty, devotion, every delusional joke that makes up his denial of how awful he is for you.
You can’t live like this. You can’t exist in tallies, baby—what you give, what you withhold, what you should know by now without being told when it comes to keeping him happy without the worry he’s gonna hurt himself because you’ve wronged his spiral.
You can’t live like this, and he’ll never get better to make sure you do. That’s despite and because of how much he fucking loves you.
And that’s the same despite and because behind what’ll be his final sorry. Semantics.
“Are you sure? I’m kinda digging your effort to watch Vanderpump Rules with me. Effort’s hot.”
You slip your soft arm between his ribs and bicep, pulling him into you with your hand pressing on his back.
“Just give me a couple of minutes—”
“No. You’re having fun.”
It’s said without any passive aggressiveness or gruffness in the gravel of his throat, because he didn’t think your touch could turn him into a boy. He, aged with filth and spots…he feels giddy.
And yeah, he’ll have to take all he can get with the job he has to do.
Let me be disgustingly selfish one last time, God. Let her hands on my skin be my reward for what I’m doing for her. Let me be allowed to feel like Kiddo’s heaven before I’m sent to hell. Please.
Your smile, cheesy, heavenly, same thing, tilts and falters. As it did every time, his nerved anger at you existing in all the wrong ways lashed out at you.
When a tease opened the gates to the resentment of his filth and your whorishness and his insanity and your beauty and his inability to get better at least a fucking step or two for the only one who keeps the air he breathes worthy of a tomorrow and your light, your light, your. Your sunshine.
At you, Kiddo. At you, Baby. At you, Sleepy.
“Are you sure sure?”
Jack nods, and it’s genuine in movement this time.
“I’ll be okay.”
Your brows furrow. No. Don’t give him that. Give him your smile. He spent wasted days dreaming about it, and your skin, and he’s not going to go back to that when he can have it now.
Please.
“...You will be? Okay?”
Your voice softens in a way, Jack thinks is instinctively. God. That’s hilarious. That might do him in before the bullet does. Your voice has a way of doing that.
“Yeah. You’ll be okay here by yourself.”
It’s not a question.
And…he’s too busy circling his thumb on your shoulder, pressing in—trying to find the button to your sweet, sweetie smile—finishing the mold as if he can take bits of you with him to the grave to know that it’s a furrow laced with your own.
“You don’t have to go with me. Seriously.”
“...Well, you don’t have to go, mister.”
He wishes that were true. But just be flattered, Sleepy. Be horrified. Jack will. Take bits of you, he means. He wouldn’t be so sure to take your answer seriously if he couldn’t.
That’s where the true selfishness lies.
“I just need some quiet. I’m wiped.”
You blink one more time, and it’s where he smiles. Teeth and everything. And it’s not false in its bearing, this is the happiest he’s ever been.
“...Okay. I'd better not catch you watching Vanderpump Rules by yourself, my filthy old man.”
You step closer and kiss him right on the temple before his lips. It’s quick, warm, and familiar.
He stiffens out of reflex, and his ears redden out of it too. He relaxes into your body with a hug, and he can smell lavender and the beer on your breath when you nibble on his lip.
God, the real favor would be to do the job for me and let my skull crack open now and let her be the last thing I feel and hear and smell and feel.
Jack breathes, and he doesn’t realize he’s not the one to pull away first. But that…that doesn’t mean anything like hesitation. No. He just never, ever wants to let you go.
But the slight distance isn’t anything like the killer he’s going to be tonight, because he becomes witness to how you grin like an absolute dope at the faint pink in his ears.
He snorts.
There’s my baby’s smile. Thank you, baby.
Thank you for everything.
“Don’t count on it.”
You pfft into his face.
“Text me when you get home—”
Jack pulls you in by the waist, and he kisses your ear before he kisses the start of your jaw, and before he nestles his face over your shoulder and into your neck.
“I know the deal, Sleepy. I’m the one who dealt it. I will. I love you.”
I don't know how, home is here.
It takes seven seconds for you to pull away, only because he’s pulling you back with, albeit, cheeky ass pecks all over your face as he sways you.
“Jack!”
There are more than enough times he can be playful, and there’s the perpetual, previously mentioned giddiness that the cocktail mix of a bastard who knows it’s the last time, and a bastard who’s so fucking happy because he's...
Bettering. Because…you will be okay.
“I love you, too, Jack. See you at home!”
And he meant it when he said he’ll be too, baby. Because you’ll be okay without him, tonight proved that. The way you shine without ever trying, you’ll be okay without him.
And for the first time, that doesn’t bullet resentment or lashings and jealous, entitled projections into his ache.
You’ll be okay without him, and that’s only giving him all the relief in the world.
"Bye, kiddo."
He says it when you're too far to hear him, but you give him one last twirl with a kiss blown with your fingers.
Jack catches it.
You disappear into the crowd of good people. You’re safe. You’re surrounded. You’re happy.
He clenches his already made fist.
You’ll be okay without him, and that’s giving him all the relief in the world, because that means he can really go.
He can stop.
Jack drives home with the windows down. He passes the street he once found you walking alone on in the dead of winter. Crazy kid. The ride is silent saved for the CD you made for him. He thinks about how stupidly excited you must’ve been while you made it.
By the time he gets there, your favorite song on the playlist is halfway through. He waits for it to end before turning the truck off.
At home, he doesn’t turn on any lights. He sits in the dark for a long time, and the silence feels earned.
He sinks, head in his hands.
You better be pretty fucking sure about this—
A buzz sounds out from his phone. Jack rolls his neck before picking it up.
Did you get home safe? Miss you already :p
Jack blinks down at the screen. It takes him forty-three seconds to type.
‘I’m home. I love you.’
He gets up and finds his way to the safe in the bedroom closet. He doesn’t remember when he changed the passcode to your birthday.
He pulls out the handgun and takes off the safety. He goes back into the living room. You haven’t texted him back yet. That’s okay, Sleepy. He doesn’t need a last I love you to be permission. He doesn’t need to scold you in his last moments.
Tonight was the permission, and you being okay tonight was the proof.
But he picks up his phone anyway, the gun steady in his right hand. There’s no note. No grand emotion.
Just a settled knowing that this is the one thing he can do without hurting you.
He closes his eyes and dials.
Ring. Ring. Ring—
“9-1-1, what is the address of your emergency?”
If he’s gone, you’re free. Not ruined. Not abandoned. Free from monitoring his moods. Free from breaking into pieces for loving him. Free from the poison he pretends is devotion. This is the one good thing he can do, Sleepy.
The only way he can finally let you go.
He imagines your grief—not in detail. God no, he’d never pull the trigger if pictures the tears and screaming and you, sweet, too-pretty you rotting in grief. You will be surrounded by love. You already are. Tonight proved it. You will heal.
The relief from that is as intoxicating as you always have been.
Therapy hasn’t fixed him for you. Control hasn’t. Time won’t sand things down. None of it worked. None of it stopped the way he demands more and more of you and from you just to keep him upright.
But he isn’t giving up. He’s choosing your happiness over his need. Choosing to stop being an aged parasite. Leaving is not abandonment when he’ll never get better. It’s mercy for his baby.
…Because the idea of letting you go while he’s alive isn’t possible. This is clean. This is the one unselfish thing left to him.
Mercy for my baby’s well-being.
Jack gives the 911 operator the address. He turns the gun over.
“And what is the nature of your emergency—”
“There will be a body with a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Male. Late 40s. Well. Early 50s.”
Silence is the response. Well. It’s certainly earned there.
“...Did you come across a body, Sir—”
“I’m going to hang up the phone now, so you don’t have to hear the gun go off. You don’t need to hear that. 911 operators, you guys—when you think of it, are the first responders. You don’t need to hear that. I’m just calling so she doesn’t…”
Jack swallows. He chokes on his spit.
He glances at your blanket and your bra on the couch. Fleece. Blue lace.
“I’m just hoping whoever you send will get most of the place cleaned up before she comes home.”
Jack hangs up the phone. He drops it onto the table.
Barrel goes up. Right at the temple. He rubs his thigh. Another buzzing goes off at the same time the gun does. He’ll never know.
I was listening to this song, and I came up with this. Blame her. Jk. Hoped you enjoyed whatever this was. Not canon I was just sad.
