part one - we go way back | a jack abbot 'return to me' au
pairing: 2000s!jack abbot x f!reader, based on the movie return to me
warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), talk of chronic illness, some general angst, talk of death and grief
word count: 3k
summary: your body heals, but you feel halted in time. jack is similarly stunted by his own grief. upon meeting you, he cannot help the feeling that he knows you, despite being unable to place it.
notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. i hope you enjoy part one. <3 if you're interested in reading future parts, the masterlist for this fic can be found here. as always, please like, reblog, and leave feedback <3
many things go unconsidered when you’re chronically ill for the majority of your life. such as, you don’t necessarily have a robust skill set to go out and compete with transplants for new york city jobs. so, you work at lucky’s. your family had been the owners and operators of the irish-italian restaurant practically as long as new york city had existed. it felt like that to those who came, anyway. there were photos of your family strewn upon the entire restaurant. your mother, her beautiful smile. you as a toddler on her shoulders, having no idea what the future held in store for you.
it felt full circle, you waitressing here, the same way that your mom did. regulars often said that you were the spitting image of her, and it sent a dagger straight through you every time, regardless of how well intentioned the words were. to them, your mother was a fond memory, a tragic cautionary tale. to you, she was joy that was ripped away from you, a ghost that would always haunt you, your former sluggish heart a slick reminder of her with every struggling heartbeat.
“my love, i’m going to need you to pick up that four top,” your grandfather says. his name is john, and he loves you more than the moon or the stars or anything else. you think that if he had to watch his daughter go tragically, that he simply wouldn’t be able to make it if you went, too. that thought acted as a resolve to not give up without a valiant effort and a hardwon fight. “you got it?”
“yep– got it.” you take a stack of four menus and place them under your arm, adjusting your hair as you walk through the bustling restaurant. you like four tops– like double dates, like groups of friends, like complete little families. you like hearing them banter amongst themselves and like immersing yourself into their lives, if only for a single evening. “welcome in,” you say, timid, as you set the menus down, your eyes scanning across each of them.
you feel sorry for the man on the far left; he’s clearly not the most comfortable– his shoulders are slightly hunched, and there are two indents between his brows that lead you to wonder if he ever relaxes that area of his face. the image of your thumb sweeping across that spot flashes across your imagination like a watercolor painting, and you have to shake the image away. there’s this feeling deep in your chest, this knowing… like perhaps you’ve passed him on the street before, or maybe he was in a waiting room at the same time as you. you can’t place it, but there’s this feeling that you can’t shake.
the rest of the group doesn’t rouse fantasies from you. there’s another handsome man who’s fished out readers to assess the menu, and a woman far too pretty for him to his right. there’s the girlfriend of mr. furrowed brows– or, you presume it’s his girlfriend. she’s talking loudly about how long it had been since she’d gotten laid.
and then, him, again. nervously messing with a wedding ring– oh, married?-- and trying to look anywhere except at the woman he’s next to. okay, so not his girlfriend. or maybe she was. hey, who were you to judge? you’re a late-twenties virgin who’s barely been kissed. if you could be married and in a relationship, you might just consider it, if only to catch up with your peers.
“can i get you all anything else besides water?”
“oh, i’m going to need the strongest mocktail that you have,” says the not-laid woman, winking at you. you swallow. are you her new conquest? her rattling off is somehow charming, even if it is not your natural predisposition.
“i can make you a mean not-paloma?” you offer, to which she vigorously nods her head of bright red hair. the other two put in their less humorous drink orders, and it leaves the man on the far side, still working at his ring.
yet, you don’t know if he’s looked anywhere other than you since you approached. he certainly hasn’t looked at the drink menu, so when you raise your eyebrows at him, he swallows. “do you need a little more time?” you ask, gentle as a butterfly.
“do i know you?” he asks, leaning forward towards you, releasing his grip on his ring. he looks you up and down, this look exists on his face that you can’t quite place. “i swear… i swear i know you, but i can’t place it.”
your mouth opens and closes and you laugh, nodding your head. “i thought that same thing!”
it wasn’t typical of you to know men who you weren’t related to– or frank. but he was practically family, too. dating and love was a whole world that you’d barely dipped a toe into, and that mel’s friend, trinity, was all but begging you to dive into headfirst. there was a timidness that you felt– you felt so far behind in all of the ways that counted. what man was going to want to spend time bringing you up to speed on love and sex and the way of the modern world? you weren’t in the business of wanting to be taken advantage of, either. and you were bait for men who were not well adjusted.
“and… to drink?” you ask again, clutching at your server pad, knocking your pen against it.
“right.” he looks back down and back up. “um– surprise me.”
your hand rubs at your chest. above the spot where a scar travels down your sternum, covered in full by the turtleneck you wear. “you got it.”
–
jack stares down at his menu long after you’ve walked off. the woman beside him, cassie, nudges jack and says, “i think she has a crush on you.”
upon shaking her hand and hearing the name cassie rather than marsha, jack had looked at robby with confusion. under his breath, robby had said, "marsha cancelled, but cassie's great."
it wasn’t that there was anything wrong with cassie. there really, truly, wasn’t. she’s beautiful and she’s made jack laugh several times since he had taken his seat. but there was just something that wasn’t there, that can’t be forced or replicated. it would be a lot easier if he could just jump straight into bed with her after this dinner was all said and done. honestly, it would probably do him some good.
“you good, brother?” robby asks from across the table.
jack’s head jumps up and he nods, his head, even throws a wink in his direction to appease him. “i just need to run to the restroom.”
and he does exactly that. he stands up and lets out a deep exhale and weaves his way through the dinner room, which is incredibly narrow, by the way. as jack makes his way around a corner, so do you. and the not-paloma that you had suggested for cassie ends up all over the both of you.
“shit,” he hisses, immediately sinking down to wear glass has shattered. every head has turned to look at the two of you– and embarrassment is written all over you, and it makes jack feel like the worst person in the world. “i’m so fucking sorry. i wasn’t watching where i was going.”
“it’s alright,” you say, even though it’s clear by the look on your face that you’re flustered. jack is about to warn you not to touch any of the glass when you do anyway– you’re shaky, and you’re lacking a good grip, and it slices right into the palm of your hand. “fuck,” you hiss, bringing it in to your chest, cradling your hand.
this is where jack can be useful. there’s a problem that doesn’t involve him, or his emotions? he’s your guy. “hey, hey–” he reaches out and grasps your wrist. his touch is light on purpose. a heavy-handed doctor is not comforting in the slightest. “just… come here.”
he helps you up and ushers you away from the mess. blood runs down your wrist and the look on your face screams if i could just curl up and die, right now, i probably would.
“what did you do to my granddaughter, you bastard?!” jack assumes the man is your grandfather, considering he self-declared.
a groan falls from your lips and you tip your head back, looking at the ceiling. another man comes out of the kitchen with an equal amount of ire, and you hold your hands out to both of them. a rather dramatic scene, considering the blood. “i dropped the glass and cut my hand on it. i am fine. and no one did anything to me. can we all take a collective breath?”
your eyes dart from your grandfather, to the other man, and then to jack. you breathe in deep and release it, and so does jack. it does calm him, weirdly.
“i’m a doctor,” jack says, because it feels relevant. “i’ve got some stuff in my truck. just– wait here, and i’ll bring something back that can help. do you have a break room?”
“we have a kitchen with a table,” the cook says, looking at jack, still disgruntled with him. “hurry up, doc.”
jack doesn’t have to be told twice. he spins on his heel and looks at michael and heather and cassie, who are all staring at him with equal expressions of disbelief. “you wanna go?” robby mouths, and jack scoffs and shakes his head.
“what about my not-paloma?” jack hears cassie ask as he swings the door open.
–
you’re sat on the aforementioned table– a retired poker table from your uncle’s house that had become the pseudo break table– with a rag wrapped around your hand and your head knocked back against the wall. how is that people can move through the world and not feel any sort of embarrassment? all you ever seem to feel is embarrassed, or outside of yourself. and now is no different. it would figure that you meet a handsome man– he’s on a date. not only that, you spilled a tray full of drinks right onto him. and yourself, but you didn’t care about that. then, the cherry on top, in your valiant effort to try and minimize the mess, you go and wound yourself.
the man, the doctor, comes back in with what looks like a military-grade first aid kit. you smile and he approaches you carefully, both of you smelling like grapefruit. “i’m really sorry, again.”
“you don’t have to be sorry,” you say with a shake of your head. “i should’ve said corner. i’m still kind of getting the swing of things around here.”
“just start?” he asks. he perches on the edge of the table and lays his hand out gestures for yours. you place it delicately in his palm and he peels away the bloodied towel.
“sort of. six months ago. i haven’t waitressed before.”
he hums and examines your hand. “yeah, there’s some glass in here.” he looks up at you. “do you get woozy about these sorts of things?” he halts abruptly. “nothin’ wrong with that if you do– i just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
you smile and shake your head. “not at all.”
if only he knew, is what you joke internally. “alright. well, i’ll take good care of you.”
that same burning feeling engulfs you. you tuck your chin down towards your chest as you allow him to carefully pluck the pieces of glass from your hand, depositing them into a small glass that your uncle had supplied. he’s methodical– trustworthy. you can sense the competency that he possesses. if he wasn’t in his element before, he surely is now. “i didn’t get your name,” you say as you watch him work.
he looks up at you and smiles. “jack.”
“nice to meet you,” you say, wincing slightly as he takes alcohol from his kit and cleans the wound once he’s taken all the glass from it. he wraps it with a lightweight bandage. “looks like i’m good as new.”
“yeah. just be careful and it should heal just fine.” his lip quirks up to the side. “i really don’t know you?”
you press your lips together. “i can’t put my finger on it.”
“must’ve been my dreams, then.” jack smirks and stands up, offering his hand to help you. “you should take the night off. doctors orders.”
your eyes widen slightly. “it’s slammed in there.”
jack looks over at your uncle. “what was your name, sir?”
“luke.”
“luke, i’m going to need you to relieve your employee for the evening. doctors orders.”
“whatever she needs, she gets. she can have the year off.”
jack looks back at you, satisfied. you huff and don’t quite know what to do with your hands. do you thank him with a handshake? a hug? no, that’s too much, you think to yourself. “thank you.” you decide your words are a good place to begin.
“no need to thank me.” he pauses. looks like he’s thinking quite hard. “if i come back here, same time tomorrow, will you be here?”
you blink, eyes full of stars. “yes.”
“then i’ll be here.”
—
when jack comes out of the door to the kitchen, his table is looking at him expectantly. robby, half-frustrated and half-perplexed. heather, perhaps more self aware than robby, raising an eyebrow at jack. and cassie who looks like she could hardly care less about it all.
“all good?” robby asks as jack takes his seat and straightens up a bit.
“yeah. she cut up her hand, so i fixed her up. gonna come back for my kit tomorrow.”
“oh, you’re coming back?” cassie asks and she smirks, knowing, and jack feels a flush creep up his neck and to his face. “good on you. she’s cute.”
“it’s not—“ jack sighs, because it is exactly whatever cassie thinks it is.
“hey, no hard feelings.” cassie leans in and says, quietly, “i’m gay. robby’s head is up his own ass too far to realize.” she lifts up her mocktail and clinks it against jack’s glass, that landed on the table in the time he was in the back. “and i wanted the free dinner on someone else’s dime.”
with a loud laugh, jack nods his head. “you got it.”
you come out of the kitchen with a bandaged hand and a bag on your shoulder, trotting towards the back door. you catch jack’s eye and he raises his hand. you raise yours in a response and duck your head down, trying and failing to conceal a smile. you pass through the door, the sound of you going up the stairs to the apartment above ringing in jack’s ears the whole way.
—
“this one,” trinity says, pulling a lower-cut navy top out of your closet and putting it into your hand.
“i don’t–” you sigh. “i don’t want him to see my scar.”
trinity’s brows furrow. “didn’t you say that he’s a doctor? if he’s a doctor, then i highly doubt a scar is going to scare him off any.” she pauses, reconsidering. “and if it does, he’s a piece of shit anyway, and not worth your precious time.”
“yeah, but… if i wear that, then i have to explain, and i really, really don’t want to do that right off of the bat. it’s embarrassing.”
“you survived a heart transplant. that’s not embarrassing. that’s fucking badass.” she hangs the top back up. “but, i get it.”
“i just…” you trace the raised skin. “my whole life, all i’ve ever been allowed to be was the girl with the bad heart. and i just… i guess, i would just really like to be the girl who works at lucky’s. or the girl who smashed her hand in with glass. or literally anything else besides the girl with the bad heart. and now i have that opportunity, and i really just don’t want to mess it up.” you look desperately to mel. “do i make any sense?”
“of course,” she says. “of course you do.”
trinity sighs. “you do,” she affirms. she hands you a shirt with a high neckline. “so go be the girl who works at lucky’s, then.”
you swallow and resolve yourself. you throw your shirt over your head and slip the pretty green fabric over your head. the neckline touches your collarbones, covering any visibility of your scar, and you feel familiar comfort wash over you. this is safe. this makes you feel safe.
mel approaches you, and you wonder if your nervousness is permeating over to you, because she wrings her hands. “have a good time. be safe.” she puts her hands on your shoulders. “you’re going to be so, so great.”
“thanks, mel.” you wrap your arms around her and pull her in, and she tenses for a moment before she relaxes into your hold. it has been that way since you were both small.
when you pull back, all three of you look at each other and you suck in a breath. “okay!” you look at your watch. it’s almost seven o’ clock, the time that jack was there just the night prior. you sling your small bag over your shoulder and you approach the stairs, taking in a deep breath.
it’s just a date, you tell yourself. that’s what frank would say if he were here– which he might as well be, considering mel is going to give him all of the details anyway– but frank has been dating for much longer than you have. this isn’t just a date for you. it’s your first real date, not one that was forced upon you by trinity or whoever else in the past year that was trying to make your brittle baby bird wings spread and soar. this was the first date where you wanted it.
jack is there and he’s sat around a small table with your grandfather and your uncle and your uncle’s friend, jimmy. you lean against the doorway and watch them for a moment, biting down on your lip to contain the smile from spreading.
“she’s a gentle girl,” you hear your uncle say, pointing at him. “now you’re not gonna fuck with that, alright? she’s a good girl. and it’s going to stay that way.”
“yes, sir.” jack says with a nod of his head. he looks up and his eye catches yours and he smiles, and so do you. “i’m a gentleman.”
prologue - the day i tried to live | a jack abbot 'return to me' au
pairing: 2000s!jack abbot x f!reader, based on the movie return to me
warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s)
word count: 2.1k
summary: you've spent your life since you were fourteen years old in and out of hospitals, waiting for a donor for the heart transplant that would save your life. on may 1st, 2000, you finally receive the heart that allowed you to live again. at the same time, jack abbot loses his wife.
notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. welcome to a new fic inspired by the movie return to me!!! i'm so excited to write this! if you're interested in reading future parts, the masterlist for this fic can be found here. as always, please like, reblog, and leave feedback <3
your life has been derailed by a broken heart since you were fourteen years old.
no, really. not a heartbreak spun from a messy and disheveled boy who didn’t know the first thing about the world. your heart was broken because it didn’t work properly in your chest, and you needed a new one.
it was a pipe dream of the highest order. you and your grandfather both knew this– it was the same type of heartbreak that captured your mother just a year before you were rushed to an emergency room with the weight of the world on your chest. you always joked inside that the heart ache bounced from your mother to you, once she was gone. a familial curse, straight out of a fairytale. maybe your great-great-great-grandmother had bested a witch. you didn’t know, but it helped to think about it in that way, for some sick and twisted reason.
it was not a joking matter, not anymore. it was not a joking matter because you lived your days out in your hospital bed, with your grandfather and your dear friend mel at your bedside. mel, would tell you stories of her and frank and they would come in with frank’s kids, and it was nice. it was all nice, certainly. the only problem was that it wasn’t a real life.
in order for you to live a real life, someone else was going to be have to die. and you didn’t like to wish death for others, so you tucked that hope far away in the deepest chasm of your chest.
but, still. you did hope. if that made you a bad person, you didn’t know. you were bad person who was going to die with or without hope, in any case.
—
annie abbot was a certifiable force of nature. those were the words that would come to be uttered at her funeral on may 15th, 2000. they would be said by her husband, jack abbot.
she was taller than her husband by two inches– and he loved that about her. he loved her stature and how she was a force, not someone who could be undermined or bested. she was smart and quick as a whip, and passionate. passionate about everything. about food, about the world, about justice. she was a new york city public defender and it was the thing that she loved the most about herself. the second thing she loved was being loved by jack. in jack’s eyes, she was perfect, despite any imperfection that one could identify.
jack and annie did everything right. they stopped at red lights and gave other drivers the go ahead. but it didn’t matter when the passenger side of jack’s bmw absorbed the impact of a drunk driver who blew through their intersection.
she was gone before jack could get his wits about him, or his neck out of the brace. and for the next 365 days, jack abbot considered himself to be gone, too.
–
your grandfather clutches your hand between his. you’re tired– always so tired these days. that’s what a barely beating heart does to a woman just around the corner from thirty, you suppose. tears shine in his eyes and you offer what you hope to be a comforting smile. “i’ll be okay,” you say as they wheel you back towards the operating room. “and if i’m not… then it was all worth it, and i love you.” you squeeze his hand with the little energy that you have.
his mouth opens and closes. “you will be okay.” he says the words with such conviction, that you almost believe them to be true. but you know the reality of what a heart transplant can do. before you fell ill, you had half the thought to become a doctor. she wanted to help prevent the exact sort of thing that happened to your mother. but that opportunity was robbed from you, just as everything else was. and all that was left was a reclusive shell of a girl, having lived a half-life and only experiencing the world through pages or through a screen, or through your window. your window, where birds would chirp and you’d hear the loud honking of new york city traffic. it was comforting to know that while you are static, others are in freeflow.
there were many things that you missed, once you were moved into full time critical care. you missed the smell of her family’s restaurant. you missed the way that you could lay out in central park for hours and never tire of it. you missed loud music and singing along, you missed days out with mel and becca.
those things you missed give you another shred of hope, just as the doors that lead to the operating room click shut.
–
it takes a very long time to recover from receiving a heart. two weeks in the hospital, another 6-8 before you could really reap any of the benefits. you spent the summer inside, feeling just a little bit more alive, every single day. and every single day, you were reminded that someone else was gone.
“do i get to know anything about them?” you had asked your team of doctors on a saturday in july. you weren’t out of the woods, not yet– but things were looking good. your body was responding well, you didn’t have any infection, or rejection. you felt good, you looked good… it felt like things were on the upswing. but it didn’t change the gnawing feeling inside of you. guilt, maybe.
“it’s all anonymous,” your doctor says curtly. he doesn’t have the best bedside manner, but you don’t mind, because he took your heart out of your chest and replaced it and you lived to tell the tale, so what was there to really complain about? “you can try the organ donor liaison program. they maybe be able to connect you.”
you spend a year of your life writing and rewriting and rewriting the letter again and again, until you come up with something that feels succinct but warm and, hopefully, comforting. well, it probably won’t be comforting, you understand. but maybe it’ll do some good to the person’s family to know your gratitude.
“i can’t do this,” you say to mel as you crumple up a piece of paper again. “seriously, i can’t do this.”
“can’t do what? say– sorry your person died, but i needed their heart, thanks so much?” frank asks you. mel gasps and hits his arm, and you send the paper ball flying towards him, getting him right in his nose. “ouch.”
“you deserved that,” mel says. she turns her focus back to you. “you don’t have to send it if you don’t want to.”
“i do want to,” you reiterate. “i just… i can’t imagine what this person is going through. and i can’t imagine that they want to hear from me at all.”
–
the first ever episode of survivor aired on may 31, 2000, exactly 31 days after annie abbot died in a car accident. the cushy new york city brownstone that they had bought, finally bought, looked unlike it had in recent years. chinese take out containers littered practically every surface of the apartment, that once was polished and pristine. it was, truly, a one to one model of how jack abbot felt inside.
it was perfect that survivor aired at this time, because he honestly could do with the distraction. and what a better distraction than watching people on a remote island struggling to survive? at that moment, it felt like he might be better off on that remote island with them. he could do it, he thinks. even with a missing leg, he thinks he could hack it better than half of the people the network found for this show.
these are the types of things he thinks about, now. not what’s for dinner, or if him and annie should go out with heather and michael that night. in the span of one year, he watched that one season of survivor more times than he could count.
grief was a weird thing in that way.
a knocking on the door draws him away from his tv. robby stood on the other side, hands on his hips, raising an eyebrow. “again?”
“i’m watching the best episode,” he says, mustering up a smirk for his friend. his friend, who is showing up at his doorstep very obviously worried and concerned.
robby lets himself in and takes a seat on jack’s couch, rubbing his hands on his pants. “i set us up for a double date.”
jack laughs. “you’re real funny.”
“i’m serious. me, and heather, and you and heather’s friend marsha. it’ll be a good time.” jack’s hesitation must be obvious, because robby leans in slightly. “it’s been a year, man. i know you loved her, and you miss her. but–” he looks around. “you want to keep going like this?”
“i don’t know what you mean.”
“eating takeout, watching survivor, and working the nightshift?”
“i don’t know what you want from me,” jack snaps back. “only one of us has lost their wife.”
“i get that. i just… i just want to see you be happy.” the silence permeates through the space around them, and robby relents, hanging his head. “alright, i won't overstay my welcome. just… think about it, will you? we’re going to lucky’s. it’s some irish-italian place.”
“irish-italian?” jack asks incredulously.
“i dunno, don’t ask me.” robby stands and so does jack and he hugs his friend, a little bit tighter than he might’ve a year ago. “i love you, buddy.”
“love you too,” jack grumbles and all but pushes him out of his door. he hands his head and takes a deep, steadying breath.
a double date. he could do that. couldn’t he? before annie, he had been a shameless flirt– missing leg be damned. he knew who he was and that was a man who was confident and in control, regardless of the things in his life that forced him to relent that control. it should be the same, in theory. but… it’s not.
cleaning up his apartment might be a good start.
he starts at his entry table, sifting through the various bills and postcards from friends all over the world. but something catches his eye.
organ donor liaison.
he must’ve read that wrong. he knew that the recipient of annie’s heart wanted to remain anonymous, and honestly, that was probably for the best. he doesn’t know if he could see someone who has his wife’s heart living in their chest. didn’t matter if they were a saint or whatever else– jack is pragmatic. he’s a doctor, for christs’s sake. he knows that organ donation is necessary, and the way that a person who is gone can be honored long after they’re not of the earth anymore.
but this is his wife’s heart.
with shaky hands he opens the letter and finds light green stationary inside. the script that the letter is written in is loose, loopy, maybe a little shaky, too– like the author was nothing but a bundle of nerves. well, shit. that made two of them.
dear donor family,
i don’t quite know how to address this letter properly, or what there is to say, really. there’s not a lot to say, i suppose– but all i can offer is my immense gratitude and my hope for continued peace for whomever is reading this, and all those who loved the person who donated their heart to me.
i’ve lived with this understanding, for a long time, that i would not be able to live without someone else going through tremendous pain. it’s something that i grappled with for a long time. and i know that all i can do is take this second chance at life and try and not squander the opportunity that i’ve been given.
i won’t ever know who my donor was. but i know that they were a good person, who loved deeply, if they were generous enough to do what they did even after they were gone.
i will carry their memory with me every day.
jack’s heart goes to his throat. tears have sprung into his eyes, for some reason– he blinks them away and flips the letter over, as if maybe it’ll reveal the identity. jack doesn’t know why he wants to know, now. this doesn’t change anything. except it does, somehow. deep inside of him.
jack picks up his cell phone and calls robby. “hey, man. i’ll be there tomorrow.”
return to me | a jack abbot 'return to me' inspired fanfic
dear donor family,
i don’t quite know how to address this letter properly, or what there is to say, really. there’s not a lot to say, i suppose– but all i can offer is my immense gratitude and my hope for continued peace for whomever is reading this, and all those who loved the person who donated their heart to me.
i’ve lived with this understanding, for a long time, that i would not be able to continue to live without someone else going through tremendous pain. it’s something that i grappled with for a long time. and i know that all i can do is take this second chance at life and try and not squander the opportunity that i’ve been given.
i won’t ever know who my donor was. but i know that they were a good person, who loved deeply, if they were generous enough to do what they did even after they were gone.
i will carry their memory with me every day.
prologue - the day i tried to live
part one - we go way back
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