Bisexual, 30, MDNI due to content. You have been warned. Main blog is @thehappiestofplaces. Clusterfuck of aesthetic interests that page is. Lots of fun and beautiful to scroll through if I do say so myself. This is just going to be my page of reader inserts and other miscellaneous things that I adore so much I had to reblog them!!!
franklangdon replied: he remembered your favorite flowers...
The party was already in full swing.
Music echoed through your apartment, mixing with bursts of laughter from every room. Empty bottles had started collecting on the kitchen counter, someone had claimed control of the speaker, and Frank was somehow already losing a drinking game he'd insisted on teaching everyone.
Against all odds, the entirety of the Sexy Six had made it.
Twelve-hour shifts hadn't stopped any of them.
Mel looked effortlessly gorgeous, Trinity had shown up in heels she would undoubtedly regret in an hour, Dennis and Victoria were already arguing over the playlist, and Mateo had somehow convinced everyone to take shots before you'd even cut your cake.
Frank had surprised you by showing up nearly two hours early to "help set up."
Helping, however, turned out to mean following Mel around the apartment while offering deeply unneeded help.
So really,
He'd just come early to flirt.
Not that Mel seemed to mind.
You smiled to yourself as you wandered through the apartment, making sure everyone had a drink and enough food.
Despite everything your eyes kept drifting toward the front door.
Jack still wasn't here.
You knew he was working.
You knew he couldn't just leave the emergency department because it was your birthday.
But that didn't stop you from checking your phone every few minutes.
A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts.
Your heart immediately leapt.
You smoothed a hand over your skirt, fluffed your hair in the reflection of the hallway mirror, and tried very hard to look like you hadn't been waiting for him all night.
You opened the door with a grin already forming.
"Robby?"
Michael Robinavitch stood on your doorstep holding a bottle of vodka in one hand and a gift bag in the other.
The grin on your face faltered just enough for him to notice.
"Ouch" he said, placing a hand over his chest. "You couldn't even pretend to be happy to see me?"
You laughed sheepishly.
"Sorry."
"You thought I was someone else."
"I...maybe."
Robby shook his head, laughing under his breath.
"Sorry to disappoint."
He held up the bottle of vodka.
"I come bearing gifts."
"And good news."
Your disappointment vanished almost instantly.
"What good news?"
He stepped inside, handing you the vodka.
"Jack just called."
You looked up so quickly it almost gave you whiplash.
"He managed to get out a little early."
A smile spread across your face before you could stop it.
"Really?"
Robby nodded.
"He's heading home to change first."
Then he smirked.
"And before you askâ"
"I wasn't going to ask."
"Sure."
"He specifically said he'd be here."
You bit back a smile that was threatening to become embarrassingly obvious.
"Good."
Robby raised an eyebrow.
"'Good?'"
You cleared your throat.
"I mean... cool."
"Mhm."
He looked entirely too amused.
"You've been checking that front door all night, haven't you?"
"I have not."
"Y/N."
"I've been greeting my guests."
"You almost looked disappointed enough to shut the door in my face."
"I would never."
"You considered it."
"Briefly."
Robby laughed, draping an arm over your shoulders as he steered you farther into the apartment.
"I'll forgive you."
"You should."
"Only because it's your birthday."
As the two of you disappeared into the party, you found yourself glancing at the door one more time.
Now you knew.
Jack was coming.
Somehow, that made waiting even harder.
You slipped out onto the balcony, grateful for the cool night air.
Your apartment had gotten warm hours ago.
Too many people.
Too much dancing.
Too much alcohol.
You needed a minute.
You leaned against the railing, fishing a cigarette from the nearly empty pack tucked into your purse.
You lit it with practiced ease, taking a slow drag before exhaling toward the city below.
Cars drifted through the streets beneath you, headlights cutting through the darkness.
A smile tugged at your lips.
Everyone had come.
Despite impossible schedules and twelve-hour shifts, every person you cared about had found time to celebrate with you.
Maybe it was the alcohol.
Maybe birthdays just made people sentimental.
Either way...
Your chest felt unusually full.
The balcony door slid open behind you.
"What's the birthday girl doing out here all by herself?"
You turned at the sound of the familiar voice.
Jack.
He'd changed out of his scrubs, his hair still slightly damp like he'd rushed through a shower before coming over. He looked a little out of breath, like he'd hurried from the parking lot.
"You made it."
The words came out softer than you'd intended.
His smile was just as warm.
"Told you I would."
Without thinking, you crossed the balcony and wrapped your arms around him.
The hug caught him by surprise.
You felt him freeze for the briefest moment before his arms settled carefully around your waist.
"Happy birthday." he murmured.
You smiled against his shoulder.
"I wasn't sure you were going to make it."
"I wasn't either."
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
"Busy shift?"
He let out a tired laugh.
"When isn't it?"
You nodded knowingly.
Neither of you let go right away.
For a second, the noise from the party faded into the background.
It was just the two of you, standing under the string lights on your tiny balcony.
Jack glanced down at the cigarette between your fingers before raising an eyebrow.
"So... this is where you've been hiding."
You followed his gaze and gave a guilty little shrug.
"I needed some air."
"And?"
"Maybe one bad habit."
Jack sighed, though there wasn't much annoyance behind it.
"You know those things will kill you."
A grin spread across your face.
"Kinda the point."
You took another drag before shrugging.
"I'm just speeding up the process."
The smile disappeared from his face.
Completely.
"Don't joke about that."
You blinked.
"It was a joke."
"I know."
His voice was quieter now.
"I just don't like hearing you say things like that."
You studied him for a moment.
He wasn't teasing.
He wasn't lecturing.
He looked... genuinely bothered.
"Jack..."
He looked out over the street instead of at you.
"I don't like the idea of you not being around."
The words landed somewhere deep in your chest.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
You looked down at the cigarette in your hand.
Then, with a quiet sigh, you stubbed it out in the ashtray sitting on the railing.
Jack looked back at you.
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
You offered him a small smile.
"But I'd rather spend my birthday with you than with a cigarette."
For the first time since he'd stepped onto the balcony, he smiled again.
A real one.
And somehow...
That felt like the best birthday gift you could've asked for.
"So" Jack said, nodding toward your apartment "everyone's still upright in there?"
You smiled, leaning against the balcony railing.
"Somehow."
You laughed to yourself.
"But I'm pretty sure Mateo or Trinity are about to tap out. They decided that, as my closest friends, they needed to keep up with me."
Jack huffed a quiet laugh.
"That sounds like a terrible idea."
"It was."
"And yet they committed to it."
"They're loyal."
"They're idiots."
"They can be both."
Jack shook his head, smiling.
His eyes lingered on you for a second before he asked,
"Does that mean you're tapping out soon?"
You immediately shook your head.
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"You just got here."
You shrugged.
"And Robby actually showed up."
Jack raised an eyebrow.
"I have to make it worth your guys' time."
His expression softened.
"You don't have to entertain everyone."
"I know."
"But I want to."
A comfortable silence settled between you.
The music from inside drifted out onto the balcony, muffled by the closed door.
Without really thinking about it, Jack rested a hand lightly against the small of your back.
It was subtle.
Barely there.
But enough to send an unexpected warmth through you.
"You've already done enough." he said quietly.
You looked up at him.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The corner of your mouth lifted.
"Well..."
You nudged him gently with your shoulder.
"I guess we should get back before Frank starts another drinking game."
Jack laughed.
"Too late."
You could already hear Frank yelling triumphantly through the glass.
"I think he's teaching Dana flip cup."
You winced.
"Oh no."
Jack smiled, giving your back one last gentle pat before letting his hand fall away.
"C'mon."
He nodded toward the apartment.
"It's your birthday."
You smiled.
"Lead the way."
Jack held the balcony door open for you.
"Come on birthday girl."
He followed you inside.
The warmth of your apartment immediately swallowed you both whole.
Music blasted from the speaker.
Someone cheered loud enough to shake the walls.
Frank was standing on your coffee table, passionately explaining the rules of a drinking game that had very clearly gone off the rails.
"I'm telling you, that's not what the card says!"
"It doesn't have to!" he argued.
Mateo was doubled over laughing while Mel triedâand failedâto pull Frank off the table.
Even Robby was shaking his head, laughing into his drink with Dana in the corner.
The entire apartment was loud.
Chaotic.
Completely out of control.
Exactly how you'd hoped your birthday would be.
The moment everyone spotted you walking back in, the room erupted.
"There she is!"
"Birthday shot!"
"No, absolutely not" you laughed, immediately backing away.
Mateo pointed dramatically.
"Get her!"
You barely had time to react before half the room descended on you.
Dennis shoved a birthday hat back onto your head.
Victoria thrust a drink into your hand.
Frank had somehow acquired a kazoo.
You didn't ask.
You didn't want to know.
Through the chaos, your eyes found Jack.
He hadn't joined in.
Instead, he stood just off to the side, nursing a beer with the smallest smile on his face as he watched your friends swarm you.
You caught him looking.
He lifted his bottle in a quiet little toast.
You smiled back.
Just for a second.
Then Trinity was dragging you into another round of birthday shots before you could think too much about it.
Maybe it was the alcohol.
Maybe it was another year older.
Whatever the reason...
As laughter echoed through your apartment you couldn't help but smile.
For the first time in a long time...
You couldn't imagine celebrating your birthday anywhere else.
Or with anyone else.
its.y/n im probably getting evicted...
mateodiaz please apologies to your downstairs neighbors for me cuz I threw up off your balcony
franklangdon you are not allowed to throw parties anymore cause I can't remember everything
summary: you've spent most of you're life thinking you're weird and hard to know. so much it's started to feel like fact. robby doesn't agree. you love to much and think too much and robby knows exactly how to carry it. after an impossible shift, your walk home get interrupted... for the better.
tags/warnings/tropes: no use of y/n, reader definitely doesn't use kind words about herself, no aesthetic descriptions of reader, reader sees herself as a "weird girl", descriptions of loneliness, but they kiss!, patient death, child patient death (nothing in detail!), a car accident is discussed, reader is VERY in her own head, robby is like an emotional soft dom... if that makes sense - SFW though!, vague descriptions of depersonalization, robby is a soft hearted guy because I said so., more descriptions than dialogue oops, emotional hurt comfort,
wc: 6.1k
a/n; hi friends!!! its taken me so long to get this one published after my first pic. forgive me!!! this is my first time writing for robby so i hope his characterization comes across well. i am a robby stan so hopefully that shows! im working on an abbot fit right now too so stay tuned! also pondering a john carter if anyones interested. k happy reading. hugs and kisses!! <3
The sense of perpetual oddness that people tended to tiptoe around. Not everyone; some people were drawn into your orbit based on that alone. The way you'd laugh at someone's joke when you noticed no one else was, but would somehow slip yourself back into the shadows. Or, how your voice was just a decibel below everyone else's, easily talked over and interrupted.Â
In some cases, you were sure that it had something to do with it. That they were drawn to your oddness because they had a desire to fix it, fix you. If not to fix it, then at least use it to their advantage. Someone kind and malleable that'd smile and nod as they shoved their problems onto.Â
In defense of your hospital colleagues, most of them were kind to you. Some you'd even call friends. They'd look to you during traumas for an opinion they valued and then ask you to join them on whatever outing they had planned after work. They'd ask even if they didn't expect you to say yes, which you often didn't.
Every once in a while, like clockwork, you'd force yourself to join. For the sake of team building, you'd tell yourself. Really, you wanted to belong somewhere. To be understood, quietly and gently.
You knew you couldn't blame people for not feeling things at the same intensity you did. That was one of life's many curses for someone like you. Someone who lived with an open heart that trickled metaphorical blood, staining everyone you met with love. But, an open heart that never gets filled empties quickly.Â
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Yet, every time you went, you had some kind of hope that you'd magically feel different. That you'd blink and suddenly people would see you.
Because every time you looked in the mirror, you were convinced what you saw was different. You saw your own reflection, the pores on your skin, and the rise and fall of your chest. You were real, alive. But when others looked at you, all you could imagine they saw was a shadow. Amorphous, dark, confusing. Something tangled in the wires of your thoughts you were sure they could read if they squinted enough.
At the very least, the feelings subsided during work. A small mercy through the blood and chaos you deal with every day. When you were in trauma, your voice had to carry; it had to boom. You couldn't afford to be pushed aside. When you were gloved up, people listened. Every night as you fought sleep, you pondered if that was better or worse.
If there was ever a quiet moment between the workload, and the feelings started clawing their way out of your chest, an incoming trauma would force them back down, letting them settle there and no doubt finding a way to eat at your liver.
âââ
So, your gaze disassociated further, eyes locked onto the computer screen in front of you. Your head blared that you should be comprehending the words on screen, not letting them get lost in the swirl of thought. You were relieved to hear Dana's voice echo around the nurses' station before you accidentally suffocated.Â
"MVA rolling in, ETA 2 minutes out."Â
"How many we gettin'? You hopped out of your chair, grabbing sterile gloves from the rack as you passed.Â
"Three minor, two major. But, who knows if it'll stay that way." Dana gives an exasperated sigh from behind the desk.
"What do we got?" Robby asks, winding up beside you on his seemingly never-ending circling of the hospital floor.Â
"Car crash." You say simply. Never leave much room for filler words when you speak. Especially not once you find yourself in trauma mode. Already heading towards the ambulance bay, Robby falls into step with you.Â
You liked having Robby as a boss, actually. Being his resident was the one steady thing you had. At the beginning of every day, you could expect him to already be there. Chart in one hand and that thermos of coffee he always had in the other. Whatever chaos happened in between was the hard part. Whatever horrors you both saw that day and whatever ways your brain decided to attack you during the quiet moments. But then the end of the day came around, and you could expect a pat on the shoulder from Robby's hand, strong and steady like he didn't just live through the same disastrous day you did.
Robby didn't always say much. Especially not standing in the ambulance bay like this, mentally trying to come up with any sort of a game plan without seeing what damage has been done.Â
But, he always had this way of his eyes saying more than his words could. You weren't sure if he was aware of it. Like a language he didn't even know he could speak.
Everything about him was contradicted in his eyes. Not only his anatomy, but how dark they were, deep-set with age, but unexplainably soft in expression.
Whenever he'd look at you with those eyes and a tiny tilt of his head, you knew what he was asking in that language only he was fluent in, but you'd somehow manage to pick up.
Are you okay?
With a nod of your head and a hollow smile, he didn't press further, but you saw the unbelieving squint in his eyes once again.
âââ
These people were going to die.Â
There was no way around it. They were in your care, and they were going to die.
An accident. One that could've happened to anyone. A speeding car, a car that ran a red light, and a minivan passing through an intersection at the wrong time that got T-boned. The fact was left completely up to fate that they were in the left lane, so the right side of the car took the brunt of the impact. Father, who chose to drive, and his daughter, who chose that side of the car today.
That's the part that never made sense to you. How did accidents get decided? Was it fate? Was it religion? Was it punishment of some kind, or was it predetermination? Were you always going to end up here no matter what kind of life you lived? If that was true, how was that fair?
A father and daughter were completely helpless to anything modern medicine could do. His wife and second child were in the adjoining room beside you, their comparable injuries so mundane it really was unfair. They were even alert enough when brought by ambulance for you to hear the wailing and screaming. The wife got a chance to say whatever words she could to her husband and daughter while they wheeled them in together. The other two lost their chance to say anything else once that car hit them. Unfair
With Langdon gone, leaving Robby down a resident, he had to up your workload. Putting you as lead on two of the major traumas tonight. He didn't like it, putting more on you. But you were capable and reliable.
If those were the two words someone thought up when it came to you, you'd take it. It was the typical thought everyone seemed to have about you. Only what you're capable of, how you perform at work, and nothing else. Nothing about you. But, at the very least, you took up occupancy in someone's brain enough to be thought of. You didn't have a clue at the reverence the other doctors held for you, Robby included. Maybe most of all.Â
Santos did what she could with the father as you ran between both rooms at the sound of someone yelling for you or the beeping of a monitor that sometimes jolted you awake in nightmares.Â
You yell for Santos to page surgery, even though you know it would be an anomaly for these two people to make it long enough to become emergency surgery candidates. You can't even get a sentence out to Garcia's voice on the other end before you hear the beeping from the other room.
"If he crashes, shock and come get me! And get surgery down here!" You yell over your shoulder at the nurses and doctors in the father's room with you.
Shouldering your way into the daughter's trauma room, it's a worse sight than before. Javadi and Whitaker were exhausting themselves with the daughter. Beads of sweat are already forming on Whitaker's forehead from the extensive CPR.Â
Over his shoulder, McKay shakes her head at you just once. Enough to tell you there's nothing to do.
"Alright," You shake your head out once, feeling it clear the mental debris there. "Intubate. Then we're gonna ventilate that way." A nurse scurries off to grab the items required the moment you ask. "Whitaker, tap out."
You physically tug his arm off and straddle the bed before beginning compressions yourself. Whitaker's hands go to his knees immediately as a small bead of sweat falls onto the floor already dirtied with blood.Â
"She's had three rounds of Epi already." Someone calls out, voice mixing in with all the other stats being shouted.
Hair slips loose from your clamp as you continue with the compressions, the motion rattling the girl's body and your own in different ways. You blow it from your eyes as best as you can to see the screen. Agonal rhythm is still, and no positive change in blood pressure. Not to mention the blood loss. Focusing completely on compressions, you can't let yourself get lost in the image you see. So much life-saving work has already been done that it's left her looking half-machine.Â
"She's crashing!"
You think the voice belongs to Whitaker, but don't look up.Â
Your hands stop compressions for the short second after you say "clear", immediately back to work, the stats showing no changes. After the third shock, the sweat is stinging your eyes as it travels down your face in streaks.
"Again!" You yell. You put your arms up and yell clear, but you're not even sure how you managed it since your arms are completely unfeeling besides the vibrations coursing through them.Â
You recognize the change in sound that follows the fourth shock. It's the same one that plays in your ears when you're finally alone and able to crumble. The same one you somehow manage to hear in the hospital bathroom when you lock the door with tunnel vision setting in. The specific flatline that people don't come back from.Â
"Asystole."
The room was still for the first time since the young girl was brought in. That's the worst kind of sound you can hear in a hospital room. Maelstrom means there's still hope, but stillness means there's nothing left. Another person gone and another piece of yourself you're sure you won't get back.Â
"Call it, and I'll notify the family." You say somberly, not sticking around to hear anyone offer to take that burden off you. This should be your cross to bear.
Maybe you should've been a better doctor.
âââ
"He's not an ECMO candidate." You hear Robby saying in the vague direction of the nurses and doctors from where he stands near the front of the room. The monitor is screaming, and the rhythm is showing asystole. A father's and daughter's hearts both giving out within minutes of each other, nothing but a wall apart.
"Time of death 20:14."
Your legs get that same burning feeling your arms have, but they haven't been strained at all. It seems like the sole act of holding yourself upright is starting to become too much for them. The stillness and quietness are setting in again, and your body is taking notice.
Robby gestured with a nod of his chin to the room next door. All you can do is shake your head in response. You see the pain flash through his eyes, mirroring your own. You look away quickly, choosing the floor as your target, afraid that his eyes will somehow betray you for the first time and turn cruel.
"Let's all take a moment of silence." Robby's commanding voice comes out in the somber tone it takes on during times like these. "Remember this man for who he was, a husband, father, a son to someone." A few people clasp their hands as everyone's heads bow.
Robby's head tilts again just a bit as he looks at you, stuck in place, eyes still on the floor. His heart clenched in his chest in a way it often didn't do anymore. The way you have this tendency to cower in on yourself. It's like he can physically see some kind of force pushing you down, making your shoulders hunch.
Believing you're to blame somehow sits easier in your chest. Sometimes that hatred soothed the stabbing in your chest. Yeah, it was sick and unhealthy, you knew all that. But you were in no place these days to sit down and fix it.Â
You had all the words, the trite sayings that'd been said to you by multiple people over the years. You even had a little stack of papers from professionals with a written list of what to do and say when you felt like the world was resting entirely on your shoulders. You are not in control of other people's feelings and bullshit like that.
But, as it was Atlas's punishment to hold up the heavens alone, so it seems it should be yours.
You can't take standing in the room a minute more; not only are you facing the failure of this body on the table, but behind you, just a door away, is the daughter with the same fate. And both of them should've survived. Whether it was because you should've been a better doctor or just that fate's a cruel bastard doesn't matter. Either way, it's unfair.
"I'm going to go notify the family."
A hand clamps down on you before you're even halfway down the hallway. The shuffle of his boots on the vinyl gave him away before you even had to turn around. His taller frame should feel daunting in this little hallway, especially with the way his fingers are curled around your forearm but it doesn't.
You're pretty sure you can feel your own heartbeat under the spots where every one of his fingers is. But, as a doctor, you know that's just not possible.
"I sent McKay to speak to the family." His words feel like they reverberate in your skull even though he's speaking softly to you.Â
Instead of answering right away, your eyes just focus on the hand he still has on your arm. This is the oddness that usually made people turn away from you. The long silences during what should've been conversations, the way you'd hone in on one specific thing and stare sometimes. That could be unnerving to people who didn't know you enough. But Robby? He knew you.Â
So, instead of speaking again and scaring you out of whatever small hole inside you've just crawled into, he just squeezes your arm. Carefully, barely a flex of any muscles. But, similar to what you'd done for him in the times you'd found him in a similar state. Silent but there.Â
"No." You say, finally shaking out your head and finding his eyes. The glasses made his eyes look bigger, amplifying every emotion he had in them. "I should. I was the oneâŠ" Your voice trails off, unsure even which word was going to come next. Doctor or Reaper?
"I sent McKay." He says with finality this time. "Why don't you head out early. There's less than an hour anyway."
Once again, your silence drags on, taking up the entire hallway.Â
"I have some charts I need to finish up." Gesturing vaguely with your thumb back towards the hospital floor.Â
"Charts can wait until tomorrow."
"I know. But, I'd just rather not have it on my mind." That was almost a laughable excuse. Charts would be lowest on the totem pole of worry. No doubt they'd be there, floating around like everything else, but not enough to matter. "I'll help Abbot with the handoff too. Thanks, though."
"Okay."
âââ
The wires in your head were tightening. Every thought stretched into a thin line and managed to tangle itself together. The cacophony of sounds blaring through your head defied any medical logic. But, even that was more tolerable than the images of people you failed to save burned behind your eyelids.
Charts
You reminded yourself, blinking the thoughts away and forcing your eyes to focus. The chatter of everyone around you actually served as a nice buffer for a while until you felt the same hand on you once more.
Your shoulder instantly unraveled the built-up tension inside, dropping from where it felt like they were hiked up to your ears. Your night was back on track, finally. Robby's hand on your shoulder and some empty words of, "Get some good rest tonight."
"We're heading across the street to unwind, maybe have a few beers. Why don't you join us tonight?"
Great. It already sucked enough rejecting your colleagues' offers, but now you're going to have to reject your attending.Â
That emptiness in your chest begged you to say yes. But this time it burned differently. Something inside you that you couldn't trace to a specific place was begging for more time with Robby.Â
Your heart dropped. Usually, you could figure out what was hurting you, where it was metastasizing. But this? This was entirely different.
"Not tonight. I have some more stuff I wanna get done here."Â
"You sure?" Donnie popped up behind Robby, six-pack already tucked under his arm. The invitation was real and open. He wanted you there, like you weren't some nuance that would wreck someone's night. "We might even manage to get Javadi drunk!"
A smile actually graces your lips, small and fleeting. Man, Robby hates how his eyes lock onto it immediately. He glances away quickly, scuffing his foot across the floor quietly at the fact that he wasn't the one who got it out of you.Â
"I'm okay. Kinda tired anyways." You pull your shoulder up into a shrug. "Thanks, though."
"Can I talk to you before I head out?"Â
Robby waves Donnie along, shouting something about being there in a second, as he lingers by your desk.
"Me?" You point to yourself. Idiot. Of course, he means you. Who else could he possibly be speaking to? "I mean, yeah. What's up?"
Your head starts working so fast that, for all you know, there may be a hole burning through you somewhere. Were you in trouble? Anything but that, please.
As he guides you down the hallway, his hand barely hovering just over the small of your back, like he was afraid to push you too hard. That, or he was so unsettled by you that he didn't want to touch you right now. Either way, the gesture felt more humiliating than if he were to drag you down the hall by the ear.Â
Was he going to go through a checklist, point by point, of everything you did wrong with that poor father and daughter? Okay, that probably wasn't it, but still.
The sound of the door clicking shut felt like it reached the volume of a gunshot, every nerve in your body was screaming at you to somehow fix whatever you've done wrong.Â
"You're not in trouble." He says the second he turns enough to see your face. He bends his knees just a little bit to get closer to your level as he speaks. Like he was making himself a little smaller for you.
Oh. So, your emotions must be showing on your face, clear as day.
"I just wanted to check in before I left⊠Do you have anyone to talk to after days like this?"
You want to burst into flames where you're standing. Either bile or humiliation climbs up your throat as you stare back at him unblinking. Was your loneliness that palpable?
"Yeah." You shake your head no before course-correcting it to an up-and-down nod. The single word burns your lips as it passes through, a punishment for lying, you'd assume.
Robby doesn't crowd you or reach out to pat you on the shoulder again; he just stands there with that slight bend in his knees, his eyes not leaving your crumbling face. His eyes narrow just slightly, but stay impossibly soft.
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm sure."
You feel so small right now. Not like you're prey caught in front of a predator. No. Robby could never be a vulture like that. Not when he's looking at you like this. Small, like somehow all the strings that make you up, make you appear human on the outside, have given way at once. Now, all that's left of you is a tangled mess of twine on the floor.
"I should really get back to work." You say, brushing past him before he could interject. Whatever pieces of yourself you couldn't manage to pick back up stay there in that room with him. More of yourself is lost tonight.
A single chill racks through you as the wind seeps in through your unzipped jacket. But the most important matter at hand is getting your headphones untangled. Once those are in, everything will be fine.
Your phone shows 12:24 as you plug in your cable. No calls, no texts, one alert from iCloud that you don't have storage space anymore. Great.
Spotify picks something old and slow as you cross the street, zipping your jacket up to rest over your mouth, the zipper ice cold as it bumps your nose with each step.
The song crescendos in your ears as the vague silhouette of a man comes into view, barely illuminated by a streetlight that the city needs to change. He's slumped against the back of the park bench that's become a landmark for you to pass on your walk. The short hair, big hoodie, and bad posture could only belong to one person.
Part of you considers turning around, taking a different way home, but another part of you, same as before, begs you to move. Your feet make the choice before you do.
"Dr. Robby?" You say quietly as you take the headphones out. Tony Bennet, whom you've just identified, is now singing into the night through the dangling headphones.
"Hey." It's all he says for a moment. He doesn't seem shocked by your presence, like he knew you'd stumble upon him eventually. Hoped maybe. "Everyone headed out pretty early." He tries to explain why he's still sitting on this park bench two hours after a casual after-work meet-up that probably only lasted half an hour max.
You nod, no words finding their way out. Lips pulled into a thin line. But, instead of your feet forcing you to leave, they kick at the dirt idly. Why won't you leave? And more importantly, where the hell is this feeling coming from?!
He kicks at the half-empty six-pack with his foot. "Want one?"
"I'm really not a big drinker."
He bends over toward his backpack, resting against the park bench. His hands dig for a second, the sound of a Ziploc being opening sounds before he retrieves what he was searching for.
"I have an apple."
You stare at the red apple in his hand for a second, then back to him, completely earnest in his offer. Just anything to keep you here a little longer.
"Yeah, okay." You say quietly.
He rubs the apple along the sleeve of his hoodie, haphazardly cleaning it before tossing it to you. The bench barely makes a creak as he shifts over. No big fanfare, just a now-open spot beside him.
"Sit."
You keep enough distance between you two as you scoot onto the bench. A little wary, like somehow you were going to break something or scare him. You take a careful bite into the apple, your stomach twisting as you do, far more hungry than you'd realize. Yeah. Hunger. That had to be all this feeling was! That's why your stomach is in knots.
"Thanks." You say through a bite of an apple. "What are you still doing out here?"
He sipped his open beer before he answered. Staring ahead at the treeline, trying to plan out his next words before he spoke. He had no interest in scaring you off now that he got you to stay. Like a stray that finally butted it's head against his hand after months of letting them adjust.
He didn't want to admit that he stayed out here for two hours in the hopes that you'd turn up eventually. That he's been worried about you. That he worries about you more than the rest of his residents, and worst of all, that whenever you let him get close enough, you have a way of making him feel an assortment of things that he thought he lost the ability for.
"Didn't feel like facing my couch." Is the final casual sentence he lands on.
"Yeah." You nod back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
The silence takes over the two of you for a bit, and neither of you rectifies it. It was comfortable. For the first time you can remember, your silence didn't feel like it was imposing on anyone. You didn't feel like the weird girl in the back of the class getting laughed at or told to "speak up".
"How were the mom and son?" You ask. The images of the way you failed them flashing through your head. You give a tiny shake of your head to rid the thoughts. Robby doesn't comment on it.Â
"Medically, they're gonna be fine. Emotionally, it'll take a while. But, they'll figure it out."
You make a sad sound of agreement, poking at the apple with the end of one of your nails.
"Why do you think it happened?" You ask, offering up no more information on the question.
"Guy ran a red."
"No. Not like that." You say, spinning the apple in your hand. "Why does anything like that happen? Is it God? Just the way life goes sometimes?"
Robby hesitates with an answer. He probably had less of an idea than you did. But it wasn't lost on him the way this was eating away at you. Maybe you actually did need an answer. One from him specifically. You trusted him to teach you medicine. Why couldn't he answer this for you? Surely this was easier than explaining how to put in a chest tube.
"I don't really think I'm the one to ask." He laughs, but the sound is hollow and gruff. "I think it depends on what you believe in."
"What do you believe?"
"I don't know on days like today." He shrugs with his hands in his hoodie pockets. The tension in his shoulders is even more obvious.
He turns his body towards you on the small park bench, uncrossing his legs so he doesn't crowd you.
"But what I do know is that you did really well today."Â
Your eyes shoot up quickly. He must be mistaken. You? Who lost the only two patients you were supposed to handle? You search his eyes quickly for any signs of deception, but there are none there. No, what looks back at you is earnest.
You have to peel your eyes away immediately. The lump in your throat forms so quickly you're afraid the look he's giving you might actually kill you. How is he not looking through you? He's looking like you're not some figment of imagination that accidentally stumbled onto this plane of reality.
"I don't see it that way." You clear your throat after your voice cracks on the second word.
His eyebrows knit together, getting lost behind the rim of his glasses as his eyes soften, barely adjusting them with two fingers. That little sideways frown on your stone face showed him how much guilt you held for yourself.
"You know that's not true."
You pull your legs up on the park bench with you, tucking your knees against your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Not to hide or cry into, but just to have another barrier to the world. Like an animal protecting their soft points.
"Isn't it? You trusted me with half that MVA, and my half died."
The words have harshness behind them. Like you were talking about the wrongdoings of someone you hated.Â
There was the same feeling creeping up Robby's neck. The one he gets when the anger you have for yourself seeps into your words, the pain he feels for you, like he was divinely sent to care for you, and you won't let him. Or, he won't let himself.
"They didn't have a chance. You did better than anyone else could've."
What was he trying to do to you, seriously? Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but there was nothing you wanted to do less than cry in front of your attending. Especially not one that's the only person you've ever come across that's made you feel something that, for the first time, was even lost to you.
"I've been training residents for a long time, and you're one of the best I've ever had."
He saw the way your eyes were glassy and half lidded with exhaustion. The kind you always carried but worsened after days like today. The adrenaline had left your veins a long time ago and left nothing but guilt in its wake.
"Thanks- uh, thank you." Is all you can get out without your voice betraying you even further. Blinking in rapid succession for a few seconds, angling your head away so he couldn't see the sheen of tears covering them.
There you were, cheek pressed against your knee as you rested your head, your body slowly and against your will relaxing in his presence. The worst part was that you didn't even look sad, necessarily. You just look faded, like pieces of you were being carved away every day. Robby recognized this pain.
He collapsed in on himself the same way every night. At home, if he was lucky, in some tucked-away corner of the ED, if Adamson's presence loomed too heavily. But right now, he saw you armorless.
"I should probably go." You said once your voice felt solid enough coming out.
Now, it was his turn to let silence stretch on. The kind of quiet that forms around two people feeling adjacent things that they don't have names for yet. Maybe Robby knew long ago, but this feeling was new to you and confusing, not to mention terrifying.
His eyes found yours over the rim of his glasses, and for a second, he didn't look burdened. Like he'd let all of his reservations go. Maybe that was the natural order of things. One person could be so petrified of their own feelings that they give the other a new sense of self.
"Not if you don't want to."
"Do you want me to?"
You had no idea how he saw you. The fact that you'd even have to ask. Like he hadn't been half begging for you to just be near him all night. He had more respect for you than you could ever fathom. How you acted as a doctor, how you poured life into everybody else. You were extraordinary to him, and yet you acted like you were nothing.
"No, I don't." He had to force the words out, not because they weren't true, but because they were hard for him to say. His emotions had been stuffed down for so long that he wasn't even sure they were there anymore. But, for you, he'd work at them, chip away at whatever he had to.
Looking at you right now, he felt a pull like he never had before. Like everything awful that had happened, happened so that you could be sitting right here.
You couldn't fathom what was happening in your body. But maybe it wasn't bad?Â
Yes, you couldn't identify what part of the body these feelings were sitting in. One of the stupid things you tried to train yourself to do when "complicated feelings" arose, as your old therapist called them. Â
But, maybe the reason you couldn't trace them was because it was everywhere. Like your skin was prickling. But this didn't feel the same, not the feeling you had when you'd lay in bed hollow and alone, and certainly not the feeling you'd get when you lock yourself in the bathroom, with a hand over your mouth sobbing.Â
Was this actually good?
His hand lifted slowly, just enough to land on the spot between your collar and jaw. His thumb barely brushed across your jawbone. His touch was so careful, not grabbing at you or rushing you, just there. Feeling you under his hands, rough from work. You were almost shocked when his hand didn't go through you. You were here, real, and he was touching you.
"You okay with this?" He asked quietly, bringing his hand up just enough to wipe a stray hair away from your temple. He was giving you the chance to retreat if you wanted to.Â
But if not, he had no issues taking this weight off your shoulders and guiding you tonight.
"Yeah." You say, nodding, turning your head into his touch just barely. Maybe unconsciously even, just needing it to stay.
Robby felt your stillness when he kissed you. You panicked. You saw him going in for the kiss and even leaned in yourself. But now? All those thoughts swirled in your head again. Not to mention the newest one blaring about how he must be hating you right now for messing up this kiss. Your hand on his shoulder, perched awkwardly, trembled against him just a little.
"Hey," Robby said, pulling back enough to speak, your foreheads almost touching. "I got you."
Those words undid you completely.
When you finally met his lips again, your kiss wasn't aggressive or with years of pent-up tension behind it. It was careful and tentative. It felt like you were testing to make sure this was real. His lips softened against yours, following whatever pace you set. He has a firm, guiding hand on your back, anchoring you here. He traces his fingers up and down your spine slowly over your scrubs. All of his motions give you some kind of security in this moment. That he's here, he's got you, that for once it's okay to rest.
His thumb strokes small circles on your cheekbone. A quiet kind of tenderness that Robby can't remember the last time he showed anyone.Â
With little confidence in your movement, you brought a careful hand up to his face, letting one of your fingers barely trace over his beard. He exhaled through his nose, a quiet breathy sound.Â
His own hand leaves your back and covers the one on his face, intertwining your fingers together, keeping you there. A silent, that's good.
Your touch was so soft. The tips of your fingers tracing over his beard, the grays peppering throughout it giving it a new kind of coarseness. The way you drew him in closer, like the feeling of the beard, of the age it showed, the stability was something of deep reverence to you.
You were wrecking him.
His lips slowed against yours again. He didn't want to deepen the kiss or devolve into hunger right now. He wanted you to know he was there. That he had you. You were here, you were safe, and he wanted you. Two people who could understand the weight the other one carried without words.
Pulling back from the kiss felt torturous, but you had to. You couldn't bring yourself to pull your hand away yet, loving the way every part of his face felt under your fingertips. He couldn't help lean into it, taking a ragged breath like a man starved for tenderness.
"Still with me?" He asks.
And the smile on your face was one of the best things he'd ever seen. Not the polite one you'd give to patients, or the fake one you gave while fighting your way out of tough conversations. No, this was real. Your eyes crinkled around the edges, even. Because someone had chosen you.
"Yeah."
Your heart is hammering in your chest so rhythmically it sounds like knocking. Like it was physically pounding against your skin to be let out. Because, for the first time in a long, long time, it had the strength too.Â
It was emptied out for so long, a slow tear that leaked until nothing was left, and now Michael Robinavitch, like the great doctor he was, was stitching it back together with steady hands.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x nurse!reader
Warnings: physical assault, violence, high blood sugar, diabetic symptoms (hyperglycemia, blurry vision, irritability, extreme thirst), medical stress, shouting.
Summary: A chaotic night shift turns terrifying when a pediatric case boils over. Though you try to shake off the attack and keep working, the massive adrenaline spike wreaks havoc on your blood sugar. Jack steps in as both your attending and your boyfriend to protect you from your own body.
A/N I received a message mentioning I don't detail about Jack's prosthetic leg. Honestly, I'm too lazy to write about it because that's not the focus of my stories. I KNOW it's part of the character, but I prefer to focus on other things. So, while you're reading my stuff, just imagine he has it and, I don't know, he puts it on or takes it off in the middle of the story, there are little timestamps where you can place that. (For example, in here he obviously takes it off to take a bath)
At 3 AM, for Jack, the shift had already been a marathon. But having you on the floor as his primary nurse usually made the madness manageable.
Until a pediatric case came in.
The paramedic radio had warned about a toddler with a dangerously high fever, presenting febrile seizures. When the gurney rolled into Trauma 2, the childâs father was hysterical.
The room was frantic. The little boy was burning up, his small body stiffening as another seizure began to take hold.
"I need this man to step back and let us work!" Jack commanded, his voice booming over the noise as he positioned himself at the head of the bed to manage the airway. "Secure the IV!"
The father was spiraling, blocking the access to the patient bed. "What are you doing to him?! Do something! Fix him!" he screamed.
You moved in, your tone calm but firm. "Sir, I need you to step outside to the waiting area just for a few minutes so we can stabilize your son."
"No! I'm not leaving him!" the man roared.
You placed a gentle, guiding hand on his arm to lead him toward the sliding glass doors. "Sir, please, you have to step backâ"
Suddenly, with violence, he grabbed the front of your scrub top and shoved you backward with force. Your heel caught on the wheel of a supply cart, and you went crashing hard against the steel counter, a tray of medical instruments clattering loudly to the floor around you. A security guard and two male residents tackled him away from you, dragging him out of the bay kicking and screaming.
"Are you okay?" Jack wanted to abandon the bed and check on you, but his hands were currently holding a tongue depressor and an oxygen mask to a seizing child.
"I'm fine! I'm okay!" you gasped out.
You forced yourself back to the bedside, your hands shaking violently. The medication was delivered, and within seconds, the childâs seizure stopped.
But the damage to your own body had already been done.
The assault had sent a massive flood of cortisol and adrenaline rushing through your bloodstream.
That kind of stress was a death sentence for stable blood sugars.
As the hours ticked toward 5 AM, the aftershocks of the attack took a physical toll. You stubbornly refused to go to occupational health, insisting to Jack at every passing glance that you were perfectly fine. But Jack knew you too deeply to buy the act.
He watched you from the central desk. You were practically glued to the water dispenser, chugging full foam cups of ice water one after the other.
Your usual efficient energy had completely vanished, replaced by a hyper irritable fog. When a resident asked you where the extra cardiac monitors were, you snapped, "Where they always are, use your eyes."
"Hey," Jack murmured, catching your elbow in a quiet corner of the floor. His brow was furrowed with deep concern, his eyes scanning your sweaty face. "Are you sure you're okay? Did that guy hurt you worse than you're letting on?"
"I said I am fine, Jack," you hissed, tearing your arm away from his grip. "I have a million things to catch up on because security took an hour of my time. Leave it alone."
Jack blinked, his jaw tightening. He knew the emotional fallout of an attack could make someone defensive, but this level of volatile moodiness was specific.
It was a pattern he recognized.
Before he could press further, a frantic call echoed across the PA. Trauma 1, code red.
The doors burst open, and a swarm of medics wheeled in a young man bleeding heavily from a chest wound. The trauma bay instantly erupted into a high stress symphony of shouting, monitor alarms, and rapid orders.
"I need a chest tube kit, now!" Jack ordered, his hands already deep in sterile fields, applying pressure.
You rushed to the supply wall to grab the chest tube. But as you looked up at the labeled plastic bins, your heart sank. The text on the bins was a completely illegible fuzzy blur. You blinked hard, rubbing your eyes with the back of your sleeve, but your vision remained stubbornly distorted.
"Where is that tube?!" Jack barked, his eyes locked on the crashing blood pressure monitor. "I need it now!"
Frustrated by your inability to see, and completely overwhelmed by the crushing weight of the glucose hangover in your brain, you grabbed the box, your hands trembling so badly the plastic rattled. "I'm looking for it, dammit!" You shouted back, your voice cracking with a fierce sharpness that stunned the entire room.
A heavy silence fell over the trauma bay for a fraction of a second.
Jack didn't yell. He looked up from the patient, his sharp eyes locking onto yours. He saw the slight glaze over your eyes and the way you were squinting at a box that was clearly the wrong size.
The puzzle pieces clicked together.
The attack. The stress spike. The constant thirst. The irritability. And now, blurry vision.
"Shen, take over," Jack ordered, his voice dropping into a calm, commanding tone that brooked no argument. He stepped back from the bed, snapping off his bloody gloves. "You, out. Now."
"Jack, the patientâ"
"I said out, Nurse," he said, using your professional title to signal that this was an absolute order.
He guided you out of the trauma bay by the arm, directing you down the quiet lit corridor away from the main floor. The moment the heavy doors swung shut, the dam broke. Tears of pure frustration and exhaustion spilled down your cheeks. "You can't just humiliate me like that! I was trying to find the tube, I justâ"
"Show me your phone," Jack interrupted. "You've been chugging water for hours, and you couldn't read the labels on the supply wall. Show me the app."
With trembling fingers, you reached into your scrub pocket, pulled out your phone, and unlocked the glucose monitoring app.
The screen flashed red.
442 mg/dL â
"Oh..." you whispered, a sob catching in your throat as the blurry edges of your vision finally made sense. "I... I took a correction after the incident. I thought it would handle it. I didn't realize it got this bad."
"Okay," Jack murmured softly, taking your shaking hands into his. "You know that insulin is fighting your stress hormones right now. You can't chase traumas and run around an ER floor with a number like that."
He looked down the hall toward a break room that the night shift rarely used. "There are two hours left of the shift. You are going to lay down on that couch on the old break room and sleep."
"Jack, no, the floor is totally slammed, I can't just abandon my shift for two hoursâ"
"Yes, you can. Because I am the primary attending, and I am officially pulling you off the floor," Jack said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "You need to lower your heart rate, lower your cortisol, and let the insulin actually do its job. Go sleep, doll. That's an order."
Too physically exhausted to fight him, you nodded. You slipped into the dark, quiet break room, collapsed onto the couch, and pulled a thin hospital blanket over your shoulders.
The moment your head hit the pillow, the heavy fog of the high blood sugar dragged you into deep sleep.
The next thing you felt was a gentle stroking of your hair. The room was still dark, but the quiet of the hospital signaled a shift change.
"Hey, wake up, sleepyhead. Shift's over."
You blinked your eyes open. Thankfully, the blurry edges were completely gone; your vision was clear again. But as you tried to sit up, a sharp ache flared right behind your eyes, making you wince and press your hands to your temples.
"Ugh... my head," you croaked, your throat feeling like sandpaper. "It feels like a vice is squeezing my skull."
"I know, doll," Jack said softly. He was kneeling beside the couch, looking tired. He handed you your phone, pointing to the screen. A steady green line sat at 92 mg/dL. "Look at that. You leveled out perfectly about an hour ago while you were dead sleeping. Sleep worked."
He stood up, offering his hands to pull you up from the couch. Your legs felt a bit like jelly as you sleepy hugged him and hide your face on his neck, letting out a painful groan. Jack caught you easily, wrapping his arms securely around you, pulling you flush against him. He buried his face in your hair, holding you tight for a moment.
"Come on, baby," Jack whispered against your ear, rubbing your back. "Let's get some medicine in you, and sleep at home."
The quiet of the apartment was a blissful contrast to the noise of the ER. After the shift, the first order of business was washing away the hospital.
You adjusted the bath temperature until it was perfectly warm, you let jack in first and you position yourself in front of him. He washed your hair with gentleness, his fingers massaging your scalp. You leaned back against his chest, letting the warm clear out the last remnants of the shiftâs foggy exhaustion.
Once you both dried off, Jack plugged in the hairbrush blow dryer.
The soft sound of the dryer filled the room as he lifted sections of your hair, drying it with care.
Felling the gentle way he handled the brush so he wouldn't pull on your tangled hair, made a wave of emotion swell in your chest.
You took a slow breath, the realization of what you needed to do finally solidifying in your mind.
"Jack?" you spoke up softly.
He clicked the machine to a quieter setting. "Yeah, sweetheart? Head still hurting?"
"A little, but it's getting better," you said, twisting around slightly to face him directly. You reached up, catching his wrist to stop the brush. "I wanted to talk to you about something. For when we go back on Tuesday."
Jack set the dryer down and gave you his full attention. "Go ahead. I'm listening."
"I think I'm going to ask Lena to move me out of the trauma bays," you admitted, the words coming out in a rush, a mix of relief and vulnerability. "I want to request an assignment to the regular ER beds for a while. No more trauma slots."
Jack didn't blink. He didn't look disappointed or surprised.
"It feels like tonight was a massive wake up call for me," you continued, looking down at your hands. "Chasing the adrenaline of the trauma bay while trying to keep my own body in check... itâs just too much stress somedays. This isn't the first time it happened. The rushes are messing with my insulin resistance. I can't keep putting myself in a position where a sudden code sends my blood sugar into the four hundreds-"
Before you could spiral into feeling guilty, Jack placed his hands firmly on the sides of your face, making you look at him.
"Hey," he said, his voice thick with absolute pride. "Look at me."
You raised your eyes to his.
"I think that is a smart and brave decision," Jack said, a warm smile touching his lips. "The trauma bay isn't a prize you have to win every shift. Youâve been kicking ass in there for years, and you have absolutely nothing to prove to anyone."
"You don't think the rest of the staff will think I can't handle it?" you muttered softly.
"Are you kidding?" Jack scoffed gently, cupping your cheek, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone. "Taking care of patients in the regular pods is just as vital, but it gives you a pacing you can actually control. It means you can sit down for five minutes to eat a snack, check your trend lines, and breathe without someone bleeding out in front of you. If anyone has a problem with it, they can answer to the attending. But trust me, leadership wants you healthy and on the floor."
The absolute certainty in his voice lifted a massive weight off your shoulders. The anxiety evaporated, leaving only a comforting warmth.
"Thank you, baby," you whispered, leaning forward to press your forehead against his shoulder. "I've been thinking about it for days, and somehow it feels like a failure for stepping back."
"Never," he murmured, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He kissed the side of your neck, his stubble a comforting scratch against your skin. "I'm proud of you for taking care of yourself."
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x diabetic!nurse!reader
Warnings: medical emergency, severe hypoglycemia, muscle spasms, seizure activity, brief amnesia, disorientation, vomiting, needles, IV placement.
Summary: a rapid blood sugar crash catches you completely off guard, leading to a medical emergency in the middle of a patient procedure.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
đ based on this request đ
more diabetic!reader fics
The shift was relatively calm for a friday night, but the air still carried that distinct heavy exhaustion. You blinked hard, trying to clear the sudden fuzziness around the edges of your vision. Just a few more hours, you told yourself, leaning against the nurses' station.
"Hey." Dr. Abbot stepped up beside you. "I need you in Bed 6. I need a large bore IV started immediately. Can you handle it?"
"On it," you murmured. Your voice sounded a little distant, even to your own ears, but you forced a reassuring nod and grabbed an IV kit.
Inside Bed 6, you prepped the tourniquet and tore open the alcohol wipe. Your hands were usually rock solid, it was why Jack always asked for you on difficult sticks. But as you brought the needle down toward the patient's arm, your fingers violently jerked.
The needle slipped from your hand. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked through your chest.
You gripped your right wrist with your left hand, trying to steady it, but an involuntary spasm rippled through your forearm. Your muscles tightened up, rigid and uncooperative.
No, no, no. Not right now.
You knew the signs. You lived with this reality every day. The entire shift knew it, too. But the velocity with which your blood sugar was crashing caught you entirely off guard.
"Sarah," you choked out, catching the eye of another nurse who was checking the monitor. Your voice was barely a whisper. "Can you... can you take over? I c-can't... I can't get the angle."
Sarah looked at you, confused. "Yeah, sure. I got it."
You stumbled backward out of the cubicle, your right arm tight against your chest as another spasm wracked the muscles.
You needed glucose. Now. Urgently.
You had a strange sensation, a tingling, in your legs, although you could still walk to the break room only because of muscle memory.
From across the floor, Jack catched you exit Bed 6. He frowned. It wasn't like you to hand off a procedure, especially not an urgent one. He stepped away from the central desk, his eyes tracking your swaying stride as you turned the corner into the staff breakroom.
"Hey," Jack called out softly, following you in and closing the door behind him. "Are you alright? Did youâ"
You turned to face him, intending to tell him you just needed a fast acting carb, but your body betrayed you. Your neck stiffened slightly, and a small tic appeared, convulsing into a series of uncontrollable muscle spasms. You tried to reach for the cupboards, but your hand was shaking too much.
Jack froze, his medical instincts kicking in instantly.
He knew your diagnosis. He knew what a rapid drop looked like.
"Jesus, baby," he breathed, lunging forward just as your knees buckled.
He caught you before you hit the floor, guiding your trembling body down until you were sitting in one of the breakroom chairs.
"Hey," Jack commanded, cupping your face with his hands. "Look at me, doll."
You were awake. Your eyes were wide open, your gaze still fixed on him, your tics still twitching, but you weren't there. Your gaze was completely lost, glassy and unfocused. An involuntary whimper escaping your lips as another spasm gripped your hand.
"Hey, stay with me. Keep your eyes open," Jack pleaded, his fingers gripping your jaw firmly. He searched into his pocket, grabbing a tube of oral glucose gel he kept strictly for you.
"I'm going to put this in your mouth, okay? Don't swallow. Don't waste energy. Just let it absorb," he muttered, his hands shaking slightly, a rarity for Dr. Abbot. He gently parted your lips and squeezed the gel into your mouth, his eyes locked on yours, desperately searching for a flicker of recognition.
Your eyes remained swimming in an unfocused void, your head still twitching rhythmically against his hand.
The oral glucose gel was in, but your body wasn't responding. Jack knew the gel would take too long to turn this around.
He couldn't risk waiting.
"I need help in here!" Jack shouted toward the door, his voice cracking with urgency. Within seconds, the door burst open. Sarah and a resident rushed in, pausing for a fraction of a second in shock at the sight of the lead attending holding you tightly.
"She's crashing. Severe hypoglycemia, early seizure activity," Jack ordered. "Get a gurney. I need an IV kit and a bag of D50, now!""
The team moved fast. They wheeled a gurney right to the breakroom door, and Jack insisted on lifting you himself, his arms straining as he carefully laid you onto the mattress. They rushed you into an empty trauma bay, pulling the curtains shut to give you whatever dignity they could save.
"Starting IV," Sarah said, her fingers flying as she prepped your arm.
Jack didn't step back. "Baby, can you hear me?" he muttered, holding your head so you wouldn't hurt yourself. He didn't care about who listened to him calling you nicknames in a moment like this. "Are you with me?"
As Sarah successfully flashed the vein and pushed the concentrated dextrose into your IV, the violent twitching in your muscles finally began to subside. Your jaw relaxed and your eyelids grew incredibly heavy.
Your eyes closed completely. Your head rolled slightly to the side against the pillow.
"Hey, hey, no. Stay awake," Jack said sharply. He tapped your cheek, his pulse skyrocketing. "Goddammit, doll."
Jack felt nervous but he felt your breathing deep and even, your body completely limp.
"Fuck, her blood sugar is going to take a few minutes to register a rise in her brain. Sheâs just exhausted," Jack said gently, he didint know if he was trying to ground Sarah or himself. A patient losing consciousness after a neurological event was never just sleeping. His mind raced through every worst-case scenario: prolonged cerebral hypoglycemia, a postictal coma, a secondary head injury he hadn't seen.
"Get a fingerstick. Check her glucose levels," Jack demanded. He grabbed a penlight from his pocket, peeling back your eyelid to check your pupils. They were reactive, but you didn't even stir from the light. "Come on. Wake up. You can't sleep right now."
Seeing you completely unresponsive was tearing him apart.
"Don't do this," he whispered. "Please, wake up."
Long minutes later, the first thing that roused you from your deep sleep was the sound of the door closing. Your head felt as if it were being pressed tightly between two hands; you felt a great pressure on your temple.
"Hey..." a rough voice made you open your eyes, but the harsh lights of the trauma bay made your vision blur. Before you could even formulate a word, a violent wave of nausea surged from the pit of your stomach.
You gagged, instinctively trying to sit up.
Jack moved fast, grabbing an emesis basin from the bedside table and sliding his arm behind your back to support your weight as you threw up. He held you firmly, his hand rubbing your back as you retched, your body trembling from the sheer exhaustion of it all.
"I've got you," Jack murmured. "Breathe through it."
When it finally stopped, you sank heavily back against the pillows, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
You felt entirely disconnected from your own body.
Jack quickly set the basin aside, grabbed a damp washcloth, and gently wiped your mouth. Then, he picked up his blood glucose meter from the bedside. "I need to check your sugar again, okay?"
You nodded as he pricked your finger, and a moment later, the machine beeped. Jack sighed, a mix of relief and frustration washing over his face. "Two hundred and eighty four. It's high. The D50 overcorrected you, but we can manage that. We'll give you a small correction dose of insulin in a bit."
You blinked at him, the numbers not quite registering. Your brain felt like it was swimming in confussion. You looked around the trauma bay, the familiar sights of The Pitt looking completely foreign to you.
"Jack?" your voice was barely audible.
"Mh? I'm right here," he said, taking your hand and squeezing it tightly. "How do you feel?"
"Tired..." You said, sighing. "Did... did I miss my shift? What time is it? Do I need to clock in?"
Jackâs brow furrowed. He leaned closer. "Doll, you were already working. You collapsed in the breakroom."
You shook your head slightly, confusion hitting your chest. "No⊠no, it's⊠it's Thursday. We had the day off yesterday and had a date. I need to clock in."
Jack froze, his eyes scanning yours. Postictal disorientation was common after a severe hypoglycemic episode, but hearing you sound so lost cut right through him.
"It's not Thursday," Jack said softly, his voice was tending as he tried to reason with you. He raised his hand to gently cup your cheek. "It's Friday, love. Well, technically Saturday morning now. It's 5 AM."
"Saturday?" you whispered, your eyes filling with sudden tears as you realized just how blank your memory was. "I don't... I don't remember."
"Hey, it's okay," Jack rushed to soothe you. "It's completely normal to be confused right now. Your brain just went through a war. We're gonna run some studies to check your brain."
After your blood sugar began to stabilize, he ordered a full workup. He personally walked your labs down to the desk, demanded a priority read on your chem panel, and stood over the monitor while you were monitored for any residual cardiac ectopy.
Two hours later, the results were back.
"Good news," Jack said. He sat on the edge of your mattress, taking your hand back into his, intertwining her fingers with yours. "Physically, youâre completely cleared. Your body handled the crash beautifully, all things considered."
You looked down at your lap. "I still can't remember it, Jack. I remember walking into Bed 4 with an IV kit, and then... nothing. Just waking up and throwing up on you."
"You didn't throw up on me," he corrected gently, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And the amnesia is normal. The neurologist on call confirmed itâs just localized retrograde amnesia from the seizure activity. It happens when the brain is deprived of glucose so quickly. It might come back in pieces, or it might not. But you are okay. Thatâs all that matters."
You let out a sigh, leaning your head forward until it rested against his shoulder. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you with protective tightness that spoke volumes about how terrified he had actually been.
"You scared the hell out of me, you know?" he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking slightly. "Don't do that to me again."
"I'll try not to, baby," you murmured against his shoulder. "Thanks for catching me."
"Always," Jack said, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your head. "You're my favorite, I always be there to catch you."
-
Jack entered the room later as the distant sounds of the early morning shift change began to filter through the curtains.
"Alright," he said, his voice was in authoritative tone. "Iâm pulling you off the schedule for the rest of the weekend, and you are going home to sleep."
You groaned slightly. "You know I have a double scheduled for Sunday. The floor is already short handed."
"I don't care if the entire hospital is short handed," he countered. "I'm the attending here, and I'm putting my best nurse, my girl, on mandatory medical leave. Arguments denied."
You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "You're very bossy when you're worried, Jack."
"I am your supervisor, and your soon to be boyfriend. Itâs my job to be bossy," he murmured as you blushed.
He reached over, placing a small paper bag carefully in your hands.
"Here. Open it."
You frowned, peering into the bag. You pulled out a brand new glucose monitor sensor box, along with a pack of pink patches meant to secure it.
You blinked, memory suddenly sparking. "Wait... my old sensor..."
"When we were cutting your sleeve to line you, the shears caught your sensor," Jack explained. He rubbed the back of his neck. "It completely ripped it off. I had pharmacy pull a replacement from the emergency stash immediately, and I grabbed these extra-strength overlays from the supply closet so it doesn't budge during your next shift."
You looked from the box up to him, your heart swelling. Even in the middle of an emergency, he was anticipating exactly what you would need to recover.
"Thank you," you whispered, running a finger over the smooth box. "Though I'm pretty sure using hospital supply overlays for personal use is a protocol violation, Abbot."
"Consider it an attending-approved override for an exceptional nurse," Jack smoothly replied, a smirk playing on his lips. "Once we are officially off, I am taking you to my house. I'll help you with the new sensor, and then you are going to rest. I'll even cuddle you to sleep. Deal?"
You looked at him, the perfect blend of your demanding mentor and your devoted partner, and nodded. "Deal. But only if you promise not to critique my sensor placement technique."
Jack chuckled softly, leaning down to give you a warm kiss on yur cheek. "I'm not promising anything. I know you're not exactly⊠delicate with that."
Warnings: graphic medical scenes, severe blood and injury, emotional trauma, intense hospital emergency, near-death experiences, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort vibes, happy ending, established relationship, suggestive language, possible inaccurate medical terms
Word count: 3.4K The Pitt masterlist
a/n: this was requested by a lovely anon
You were pulled out of your dream by the shrill screeching of your alarm. Your body flinched out of sleep, a groan escaping your lips as the noise continued to blare.
For some reason, Frank liked to be woken by what he referred to as âsounds of nature,â which meant that for the past four years youâd been waking up to the sound of roosters cawing.
Youâd tried to tell Frank that people hadnât woken up to that sound since maybe the 1800s, but he didnât seem to care.
Frank liked waking up like he was living on a farm, and you liked seeing him wake up happy, so you sacrificed your earbuds in the name of love.
It did not, however, mean you enjoyed it.
You didnât like the alarm in general â it meant peeling yourself out of bed and dragging your body toward what was sure to be a grueling shift â but you disliked Frankâs alarm even more.
You tugged your pillow from beneath your head and pulled it over your face to dull the sound.
âMake it stop,â you groaned into the pillow, your voice muffled.
After a second, the screeching finally stopped, and the bedroom was swallowed by silence once again. You sighed softly, grateful for the lack of noise.
Warm hands wrapped around your waist as Frank burrowed his nose under the pillow you were hiding beneath, his head settling in the crook of your neck. His nose bumped against your ear, tickling you and drawing out a soft laugh.
âMorning, baby,â Frank whispered against your ear.
You tugged the pillow off your face, turning your head so you could press a soft kiss to his lips.
âMorning,â you whispered against his smile.
You turned your body around, letting Frank pull you tight against his chest. You breathed in, savoring that familiar scent that just seemed to come with Frank. You wanted to stay like this for the rest of the dayâunfortunately, you had work.
The alarm started blaring again. You groaned, which only made Frank laugh. He reached back blindly for his phone and shut it off.
âWe better get up before weâre late.â
You slapped a hand over your face.
âOh God. No. I refuse.â
Frank laughed again and tugged you even closer as you let your body sink deeper into the mattress. He pressed a kiss to your temple.
âJust thinkâtomorrow weâre both off. No alarms. No trauma bays. No patients throwing up on my shoes.â
His lips dragged along your cheek.
âWe can stay in bed as long as we want⊠go to Altius for dinner⊠and then Iâm taking you home, and youâre gonna be screaming my name all night long.â
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. âFrank.â
He kissed that spot just under your earâthe one he knew turned you into absolute putty.Â
âWhat? Iâm motivating you.â
When he pulled back, you brushed your nose against his, leaning in for another kiss.
âFirst we have to work twelve hours,â he whispered against your mouth.
You moved back with a dramatic groan.
âWay to ruin the moment.â
The smell of stale coffee and antiseptic hit as soon as you walked through the double doors. You and Frank ended up standing shoulder to shoulder at the board, your name already splattered under three cases.
âLooks like Iâve got a possible radius and ulna fracture,â you said. âWhatâd they give you, Frankie?â
He squinted at his line. âA fuckinâ abscess drainage. I swear theyâre assigning me the boring ones on purpose.â
You bumped your elbow into him. âThatâs because you need to be nicer to people.â
Frank turned like he was ready to protest, then your offer sank in.
âYouâre taking the abscess?â he said, eyes brightening.
You shrugged, casual. âSure. You can take the fracture. Grab Mel and knock it out.â
He leaned in until his lips brushed your ear.
âGod, youâve never been sexier. Iâm tempted to bend you over the nursesâ station right now.â
You rolled your eyes and shoved him lightly.
âCalm down, cowboy. This just means you owe me. Next case I donât want? Youâre taking it. No complaints.â
He backed away with that stupid wink.
âYou got it, baby.â
As you walked toward Dana, she shook her head at the sight of Frank disappearing into the hall.
âYou are way too nice to him,â she muttered.
âItâs my weakness,â you said, because⊠yeah. It was.
You found Javardi triple-checking her pockets like sheâd misplaced her entire existence.
âJavardi!â you called. âHave you seen an abscess drainage before?â
She perked up. âNot in the ED. Iâve only seen videos.â
âPerfect. Youâll observe this one with me. Ask whatever you need. And then Iâll have Dana assign us the next abscess that comes in â that oneâs yours. Deal?â
Her eyes widened like youâd just handed her a Christmas bonus.
âYes! Thank you!â
The patient was in his late fifties, a big guy, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. His chart said thigh abscess. The swelling under the blanket confirmed it.
âHello, Mr. Bernstein,â you said warmly. âIâll be your doctor today, and this is Dr. Javardi â sheâll be observing. I understand you have an abscess. How long has this been going on?â
âA week and a half,â he grunted. âHurts like hell. I donât even know what I did.â
âThey can be really painful,â you said gently. âToday weâll numb the area, drain it, and get you started on antibiotics and pain control. You may need to come back in a couple days for a dressing change. Any questions?â
âNo. Letâs do it.â
You pulled the instrument tray closer. Behind you, Javardi laid out the supplies with careful precision.
âAlright, Iâm going to disinfect the area and then inject lidocaine for numbing,â you explained. âThe lidocaine burns â Iâm sorry in advance.â
As you swabbed the skin, Bernstein glanced at Javardi.
âYou a student doctor?â
She smiled shyly. âYes, sir.â
âThatâs impressive. Congrats. What year are you?â
You werenât paying much attention to the exchange â just focusing on getting this guy fixed up and out of the room as fast as possible. There were other people who needed the bed.
Maybe if you had been listening, you wouldâve noticed how he wasnât even looking at Javardi as she chattered nervously about being a student doctor. Maybe you wouldâve caught the exact moment his eyes flicked to the scalpel. The precise second his body leaned forward to grab it.
But you werenât paying attention.
So you didnât notice any of it until white-hot pain exploded in your side.
Everything happened at once.
Javardiâs scream tore through the room. The sound that came out of you wasnât even a screamâmore like the air had been punched out of your lungs all at once. Your hand flew to your side, warm blood already slicking your fingers.
Dana burst through the doorway, eyes wide as she searched for the source of the scream. When she saw you slumped on the floor, your palm stained red, she didnât hesitate.
âCode white! Security â I need security!â
Robby and Ahmed barreled in behind her, going straight for Bernstein. The room detonated into chaos: shouting, the crash of a rolling cart, Bernstein snarling something incoherent as he fought them.
But all of it felt⊠weirdly distant. Your vision wasnât focusing the way it should. Your ears rang. The pain was white-hot, stabbingâand then somehow ice-cold underneath.
Dana dropped to her knees beside you, eyes huge. âJesusâokay, okayâpressure, we need pressure on that woundâJavardi, get Langdon, now!â
You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Dana pressed down on your side, and you let out a raw, broken groan.
âI know, hon. Iâm sorry, I know. I have to keep you from bleeding out.â
Frank barreled into the room like someone had launched him from a canon. He didnât even look at Bernstein or the chaos around him â his eyes found you instantly.
He froze.
âHoly shit,â he whispered.
Then he dropped to the floor beside you, hands cupping your face, his voice too calm to be real.
âHey, baby. Iâm here. Look at me. Donât worry.â
His gaze flicked down to where Danaâs hands were drenched in your blood. His eyes snapped back up, meeting Danaâs â her expression mirroring exactly what he felt.
You swallowed hard, tasting metal.
âFrankieâŠâ
âStay with me, baby,â he blurted, breath shaking. âDonât you dare close your eyes, okay?â
âWe need to move her, Frank â if we donât, sheâllââ Dana stammered.
âI know!â Frank snapped, louder than youâd ever heard him.
But it wasnât anger that made him raise his voice â it was fear. Dana knew that, so she didnât take it personally.
Javardi was talking to Robby, stumbling through an explanation about how she hadnât seen it coming, how there were no signs of distress. Robby called for Princess, asking her to take Javardi somewhere else â the girl was clearly in shock. Princess nodded, guiding her out by the shoulders. As they passed you, you could hear Javardi sobbing apologies the whole way out.
Someone touched Frankâs shoulder, snapping his attention upward. Mel crouched beside him, her expression sharp and focused.
âWhat do you need?â she asked.
Frank didnât hesitate.
âYouâre gonna take over pressure. You have to be aggressive. I donât care if she screams â sheâll bleed out otherwise.â
You barely inhaled before Mel and Dana switched hands.
The scream tore out of you before you could stop it.
Frank gathered you into his arms, lifting you like you weighed nothing.
âWeâre going to the trauma bay. Mel â keep that pressure. Donât stop. One, two, threeââ
He stood, muscles tensing as he carried you out while Mel kept her hands clamped to your side.
People jumped out of the way. You heard gasps, someone calling for a crash cart, a nurse shouting to prep a trauma room.
Frankâs breath was hot and ragged against your hair.
âStay awake,â he kept saying. âBaby, stay awake. Donât do this.â
Bright lights. Cold air. Too many hands.
They lowered you onto the bed, and you cried out when Melâs pressure shifted for even a second. Perla grabbed scissors, slicing open your scrubs and exposing the full wound. It wasnât small. A sickening amount of blood pooled beneath you.
Frankâs voice cracked.
âFuck.â
Robby rushed in beside you.
âI need TXA on board now! Give me ketamine, two bags of O-neg STAT! Langdon, keep her with you!â
Frank cupped your cheek with blood-soaked fingers, forcing your gaze up to his.
âHey. Iâm right here. Stay with me. Stay calm.â
Your vision shimmered. Your ears buzzed.
Frank tried to smile.
âYou always said if you were ever hurt youâd want Robby as your doctor instead of me. Thatâs still kinda rude, by the way.â
You actually felt a weak flicker of amusement.
Your hand â slippery with blood â lifted halfway before you could stop it. Frank caught it instantly, pressing it to his mouth.
âFrankieâŠâ you gurgled.
His breathing faltered.
Behind him, a monitor beeped erratically.
Thenâ
It didnât.
A flat, continuous tone filled the room.
Everyone froze.
Frankâs head whipped toward the monitor.
âNo,â he whispered.
The world went silent.
Robby shouted from somewhere far away, âPush epi! Start compressions! Now!â
Frank snapped back into motion and climbed onto the gurney, starting compressions himself. A sickening crack echoedâyour sternum giving way.
âIâm sorry, baby,â he whispered raggedly as he pumped your chest. âBut youâre not leaving me. You donât get to leave.â
Minutes stretchedâendless, brutal.
Twenty minutes later, Robbyâs voice was quiet.
âFrank⊠itâs time.â
âNo!â Frank barked, still compressing. âWe keep going! Sheâs not gone!â
He leaned down, forehead pressing to yours.
âTomorrowâI was gonna propose. The ringâs hidden in my locker, top shelf. You canât miss that. You promised me a lifetime, babyâdonât you dareââ
His entire body trembled. Tears streamed down his face as he choked, âWeâre supposed to get married. Have kids. Grow old. I love her. I love herââ
Robby placed his hands on Frankâs. âFrank⊠time of death is 11:42.â
Frank collapsed over you with a raw, broken sound no one in the room would ever forget.
Mel never stopped applying pressure.
And thenâ
A blip on the monitor.
Another.
Robby turned. âDanaâpulse check!â
âI have something!â Dana gasped.
âDr. Kingâon the gurney. DO NOT lift your hand. Hang another liter. Push norepi. OR, now!â
Frank kissed your forehead before they raced you out of the room. He stood there shaking, covered in your blood.
Robby took his shoulders. âWe got her back. She has a shot. Garcia will take care of her. Sheâs a fighter.â
Frank sobbed. âThis was my case. She switched with me.â
âNo,â Robby said firmly. âDonât do that. You saved her. Those compressions saved her.â
Frank broke, pulling Robby into a hug. âThank you for not giving up on her.â
âItâs not me you should be thanking. Melâs the one who kept pressure even after we called it. Sheâs the one who gave her a chance.â
Robby patted Frankâs back as he finally pulled away from the hug.
âSheâs gonna make it, Frank.â
He nodded absentmindedly, his eyes still glued to the door theyâd wheeled you through. Robby left the room, leaving Frank alone with his thoughts for a moment.
He felt exhausted all of a sudden, the adrenaline that had been pumping through him finally draining from his body. He stumbled out of the room, his eyes immediately finding Mel talking to Robby. Her scrubs and hands were covered in blood.
Your blood.
Frankâs stomach lurched at the sight, but he forced himself to walk toward her anyway. Melâs head snapped over to him at the sound of his shoes against the floor.
âDr. Langdon, theyâve started the procedure, sheâsââ
But before she could finish, Frank stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a tight, desperate hug. Mel let out a startled sound. Frankâs voice broke against her shoulder.
 âGod, you saved her, Mel. You fuckinâ saved her. I canât thank you enough.â
Mel awkwardly patted his back, still clearly unsure of what to do.
âYouâre welcome, Dr. Langdon.â
When he finally let her go Dana was at his side, her hand moving to rest on his back as she gave him a soft look.
âFrank. Go shower. I promiseâif we hear anything, Iâll come get you myself.â
He looked like he wanted to argue, like leaving the hallway meant abandoning you somehowâbut Dana just held his stare. Eventually his shoulders dropped, and he nodded.
The locker room felt wrong. Too quiet. Too normal. Frank stripped out of his blood-soaked scrubs with shaking hands. When he stepped under the water, the red spiraled down the drain in thin, diluted streams. He pressed his palms to the tile and let the water hit the back of his neck. His chest hurt. His eyes burned. His breath kept catching in that half-sob way he couldn't stop.
By the time he walked out, hair still dripping, fresh scrubs clinging to him, Javardi was waiting. Her face crumpled as soon as she saw him. Frank could tell just from looking at her that she'd been crying just as much as he had.Â
âIâmâIâm so sorry,â she cried. âI froze. I got in the way. I shouldâveââ
Frank let out a sigh, his hand moving to rest gently on Javardiâs shoulder as her face twisted into a deep frown.
âThis wasnât your fault, Javardi. You couldnât have known what he was going to doâthere werenât any signs. You said so yourself.â
Javardi stared at him, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.
âDonât beat yourself up about it, okay? Just go home. Get some rest.â
She nodded, crying even harder, and backed away down the hallway.
Hours later, you slowly slipped into consciousness.
Everything hurt. A deep, throbbing, full-body ache that made your breath stutter. When you tried to shiftâeven a littleâa sharp stab tore through your side, and you let out a groan.
Frank jerked awake instantly.
His head had been resting on the mattress beside you, his fingers tangled with yours. His eyes shot openâred, puffy, glassy. He looked wrecked.
You blinked at him, your voice scratchy. âFrankie⊠you look terrible.â
He let out a weak laughâhalf relief, half broken sob. âYou literally died, and thatâs the first thing you say?â
You tried to laugh, but the motion made your voice twist in pain. Frank immediately shushed you, lifting from his seat so he could press a soft kiss to your temple.
âGod, I love you,â he whispered against your skinâskin that, thankfully, was no longer cold and clammy like it had been the last time he kissed you.
âI love you too.â You squeezed his hand as best you could as he settled back into his seat.
For a long moment he just stared at you, drinking in the fact that you were aliveâbreathingâtalking. The adrenaline was gone, but the terror still clung to him.
âWhat⊠what happened?â you whispered.
Frank swallowed thickly.
âWe almost lost you.â His voice cracked. âWe did lose you. For a minute.â He dropped his forehead to your hand. âDonât ever do that again.â
You smiled faintly. âIâll try my best.â
Frank let out this shaky little laugh at your words â the kind of sound someone makes after almost drowning. It lasted all of two seconds before the smile fell right off his face.
He went quiet. Completely still. And then his chin wobbled. His breath hitched. His eyes filled again, overflowing before he even tried to stop it.
âFrankâŠâ you whispered.
He shook his head like he was mad at himself for breaking. A tear hit the blanket near your hip. You squeezed his hand weakly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles.Â
âHey. Itâs okay. Iâm okay. I promise.â
His shoulders caved inward, like everything heâd been holding back finally punched through.
âI was so fucking scared,â he choked out. âI thoughtâGod, I thought I lost you for good.â
You dragged in a slow breath, ignoring the ache that lanced through your ribs.Â
âIâm right here. Iâm not going anywhere.â
He looked at you, like he still didnât quite believe it. Then he let out this humorless little scoff.
âLifeâs too fucking short, isnât it?â
You blinked, confused. âFrankâŠ?â
He inhaled sharply, sat back just a bit, and wiped his face with the heel of his hand. Then his gaze softened in this heartbreaking way, and he shook his head.
âI was gonna wait,â he said quietly. âBetter circumstances, you know? Something romantic. Something⊠not this.â
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
He swallowed hard. âBut after today? After watching youâafter hearing that monitorââ His voice cracked again. âYou never know whatâs gonna happen. So Iâm done waiting. Iâm done pretending Iâm not ready.â
He reached into the pocket of his scrub pants â the new pair Dana forced him into â and pulled out a small, black velvet box. His hand shook.
Your breath caught, and pain flared in your torso. You let out a soft gasp.
 âFrankâare you seriously proposing to me while Iâm lying in a hospital bed?â
He gave a watery laugh.Â
âYeah. I guess I am.â His thumb brushed the lid of the box. âSo⊠what do you say?â
You stared at him â at his wrecked face, his trembling lip, his desperate, hopeful eyes â and your heart swelled painfully in a way that had nothing to do with your injuries.
âYes,â you whispered. âOf course Iâll marry you.â
Frank let out a relieved, broken laugh that instantly dissolved into more tears. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours, careful of all your lines and bandages.
âThank God,â he breathed. âThank God.â
He kissed your hand â over and over â whispering your name each time like a prayer.
Frank slid the ring onto your finger with hands that were still trembling, letting out a shaky breath like heâd been holding it for hours. His eyes flicked up to yours, still glossy but finally⊠lighter.
âSo,â he murmured, giving you that crooked, exhausted smile, âhowâs it feel to be Mrs. Langdon?â
You blinked, took the smallest inhale â and immediately regretted it.
âHonestly?â you rasped. âLike shit.â
There was half a beat of silence before Frank barked out a laugh, trying to smother it against your arm.
You groaned, âNoâdonât make me laugh, it hurtsââ
âSorry, sorry,â he said, absolutely not sorry, still laughing through what mightâve been lingering tears.
You started laughing too, breathy and pained but real, and reached over to squeeze his hand. âGod, weâre a disaster.â
Frank dropped his forehead against your arm, still smiling. âYeah. But I wouldnât want it any other way.â
You smiled at him, nose bumping into his as you gave him a soft kiss before whispering, âMe neither.â
blurb description: đ à»ê± jack canât seem to get enough from kissing you.
pairing: đ à»ê± jack abbot x reader.
content/warnings: đ à»ê± fluff, established relationship.
jack abbot kisses you like heâs making sure youâre still there.
you donât think he realises he does it as often as he does. if you pointed it out, heâd probably give you that look over the rim of his coffee, all tired eyes and raised eyebrows, and tell you youâre imagining things.
you arenât.
itâs become a running tally in your head.
one before he leaves for a shift. one because you handed him a cup of coffee. one because you wandered into the kitchen while he was making dinner and apparently standing within armâs reach is reason enough. one because you looked at him after laughing at something stupid. another because he forgot his keys and came back inside, only to leave thirty seconds later after stealing one more.
he never lingers. thatâs the funny part.
most people wouldâve made a whole thing of it, all slow smiles and hands around your waist, finding another excuse to keep you there for another minute. jack doesnât. he leans in, kisses you once, and goes straight back to whatever he was doing. itâs so casual that, after a while, you stop questioning it. itâs just what he does.
the first few times, you wondered if he even realised he was doing it.
now youâre pretty sure he doesnât.
sometimes heâs sitting at the table with paperwork spread everywhere, reading through patient notes while a cup of coffee goes cold beside him. heâll look up for a second, catch you watching him from the couch, push his chair back with that awful scrape against the floor, walk over without saying a word, kiss you once, then sit back down and pick up exactly where he left off.
ââŠwhat was that for?â
he doesnât even look up. âwanted to.â
thatâs all you get.
he does it in the middle of conversations, too. youâll ask him something, heâll answer half of it, stop because youâve somehow ended up close enough again, lean in for a quick kiss, then finish what he was saying as though he hadnât interrupted himself in the first place. eventually you stop expecting an explanation because there never is one.
the worst one is after a night shift. he looks exhausted, his hairâs a mess, the tiredness on his face impossible to miss, and heâs barely spoken since walking through the door. he drops his keys on the bench, shrugs off his jacket, disappears into the bathroom, and you assume thatâs where heâll stay.
then the bathroom door opens again.
ââŠforget something?â
he shakes his head, walks all the way back across the apartment just to kiss you once, then turns around and heads straight back.
you canât help laughing. âjack, seriously?â
he glances back over his shoulder, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âyeah.â and then heâs gone again, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him like nothing happened.
Hello! I saw that you write for langdon!! If you're taking requests could I ask for one where his partner comes to the ER, because of a burn or cut or something and she's not told him she's there so she waits until she's called cause she doesn't want special treatment and he's just concerned and wants to take care of her, pls ignore if you're not taking requests!! Love your work đ
special treatment
pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings: established relationship, blood, stitching, i am no doctor so i apologize for any mistakes :)
a/n: thank you so much for your request, i hope you like it, lovely :) my inbox is always open for langdon requests btw <3
You push the toe of your sneaker against the floor, back and forth, back and forth, watching the rubber squeak against the scuffed linoleum. It gives you something to do besides think about the hot throb in your hand, or the way your whole arm aches right up to the elbow.
The man next to you groans again, shifting in his chair. You try not to look at him. Try not to think about how youâve been both just sitting here for hours.
Youâre so tired. The kind of tired that makes your eyes sting and your thoughts go slow and syrupy. And the pain is worse now than when it happened.
You lift the edge of the bandage with your good hand, just a peek, and immediately wish you hadnât. The gash is red, very red, maybe even too red. You drop the bandage quick, swallowing hard.
You shift in the hard plastic chair, trying to find an angle that doesnât pull at the wound. But every tiny movement hurts and you canât help the hiss that escapes through your teeth. You curl your hand against your stomach, hold it still, try to breathe through it.
All this because you wanted orange juice.
Itâs almost funny in a stupid way. Youâd been tired then too, stumbling around your kitchen at 8am, fumbling with the carton. The glass slipped right through your fingers. And when you bent down to pick up the pieces, because youâre not the kind of person who leaves broken glass on the floor, your palm found the sharpest piece of glass there was on the floor.
You couldâve gone anywhere. The urgent care across town, the little clinic near your apartment. But your boyfriend works here. And even though you know heâd want you to come find him, even though you know Dr. Robby would probably wave you straight back if Langdon just asked, you couldnât do that.
Special treatment. You hate the thought of it. Hate the idea of people looking at you and whispering, oh, thatâs his girlfriend, thatâs why she got seen so fast. So instead youâve been sitting here for two hours, watching the clock above the admissions desk tick so slow youâd think it was broken, watching the same people walk past with clipboards and coffee cups.
You know how bad the wait times are here. Youâve heard Langdon complain about it plenty. You know. And still, you sat down and waited. Your eyelids are heavy. You catch yourself nodding forward and jerk awake. The man next to you groans again. The fluorescent lights buzz.
But then you suddenly hear your name being called.
You blink, disoriented, like youâd been deeper in sleep than you realized. Relief washes through you as you clutch your makeshift bandage and push yourself to your feet.
The man next to you doesnât look up. You give him a small smile anyway. Sorry for cutting in line and I hope you get seen soon.
When you reach the desk, Lupe is watching you from behind her glass. Her eyebrows are already up, perched high on her forehead. She knows you, seen you loitering near the exit waiting for Langdon to finish his shift.
âHow long have you been waiting, honey?â Her eyes swept over your tired face, the clumsy bandage, the way youâre holding your arm so carefully.
âNot long.â You smile. It feels thin on your face.
Lupe gives you a look. She knows youâre lying. You can see it in the slight downturn of her mouth, the way her gaze flicks to the clock and then back to you. But she just looks down at her papers, shuffling them into neat alignment.
You hesitate, you're not sure if Langdon's working triage today, but still you'd prefer to be treated by any other doctor than him, not wanting to concern him. And you hear yourself speak before you can stop.
âUh, could Iââ You cut yourself off, but Lupe is already looking at you, waiting. Your face warms. âNever mind. Itâs fine.â
âDr. McKay will take care of you.â She nods at you as if knowing what you were going to ask.
You exhale. âThank you.â
When you turn, Dr. McKay is already there, standing in the doorway of the treatment area with a warm smile. She lifts her hand in a small wave and you smile back, and it feels a little less thin this time.
Cassie was always kind to you. So when she smiles at you now, it's like a small weight lifts off your chest. Her hand finds the space between your shoulder blades, guiding you away from the noisy waiting room and down the hallway.
The treatment room is small and quiet. So quiet. You let out a relieved sigh.
"Loud, isn't it?" Cassie says, already pulling on gloves, smiling at you.
You nod, sinking onto the edge of the exam bed. The paper crinkles beneath you. "So loud."
She settles onto the rolling stool across from you, knees bumping gently against yours as she scoots in. She holds her hand out, palm up, and you place your injured one in it.
"Now," she says, tilting her head, "what happened to you?"
You open your mouth to answer, but then her fingers are very gently turning your hand over, resting it on your thigh so she can get a better look. The shift in angle pulls at the wound and you can't help the hiss that escapes.
Her eyes flick up to yours, apologetic. "Sorry, sorry." She lifts the edge of your sad little bandage, peeling back the tape bit by bit. When she sees what's underneath, she sucks air through her teeth. "Oh, ouch."
You grimace. "Yeah. It'sâ"
The door opens.
"âworse than it looks, actually," Cassie finishes for you, not looking up, because she's still peering at your palm.
"Hey, McKay, there's aâ" Frank stops talking.
You watch his face cycle through about four different expressions in two seconds. Confusion first, eyebrows drawing together like he's walked into the wrong room. Then recognition. Then his eyes drop to your hand, cradled in Cassie's gloved fingers and the blood. Then it settles into something deliberately neutral.
Cassie's head has turned. She's looking between the two of you, her "oops" face already in place, clearly realizing Langdon did not know you were here.
"Crap," you mutter.
Frank is still holding the door open. He's not moving. Not coming closer, not stepping out. Just standing there, one hand on the frame and his gaze hasn't left your hand.
For a beat, nobody speaks.
Then Cassie clears her throat. "I should, um." She's already peeling off her gloves, already scooting her stool back. "I'll go check on that thing. The thing I was going to check on. Before I came here." She's standing now, edging toward the door.
Frank doesn't move to let her out. Doesn't seem to register her at all.
"Sorry," Cassie murmurs to you, and there's genuine apology in her voice beneath the sly curve of her mouth. She shoots Frank a look on her way past go easy on her and slips through the narrow gap between him and the doorframe.
The door clicks shut. And then it's just you and Frank.
For a moment he just stands there, hand still on the handle, looking at you. Then he takes Cassie's abandoned stool, rolls it close. His knees bracket yours. His fingers find your wrist gently, turning your hand over, tilting it toward the light. You watch his face as he studies your palm.
"What happened?" His voice is quiet. He lifts his gaze to yours and something in his expression softens like it always does when he sees you.
And when you meet his blue eyes, you suddenly realize how much you'd missed him.
You'd seen him three hours ago but still. You'd only gotten a glimpse of him in the early grey light. His early shifts eat up the best hours of the day, swallow him whole before the sun's even thought about rising. In the beginning you used to fight it. Set your own alarm, drag yourself upright, shuffle to the door to kiss him goodbye.
But after a while your body stopped cooperating. The alarm would go off and you'd burrow deeper into the blankets instead, surfacing just enough to feel the mattress shift as he stood up.
So, he started waking up ten minutes earlier just so you could have those ten minutes together. You'd lie there in the dark, your head on his sternum, listening to his heartbeat beneath your ear. Talking sleepily about what you should eat tonight, if he was getting home early, what plans you had for his day off.
He'd, then, kiss your temple, untangle himself. You'd hear him in the bathroom and you'd drift. But you always woke again when the mattress dipped. He'd come back to the bedside, dressed, and face-plant into the curve of your neck. His breath warm against your skin, his body heavy. You'd lift your hand, stroke the back of his head, careful not to mess the hair he'd just spent five minutes gelling. Go to work, you'd murmur. And he'd groan, press one more kiss to your temple, and finally go.
Three hours ago he did all of that. Three hours ago his mouth was against your skin and his hand was in yours and now here you are, sitting on an exam bed in his hospital, bleeding into your lap.
You miss him. It's stupid, he's right here, his fingers circling your wrist, his knee warm against yours, but you miss him. The feeling sits heavy in your chest.
You sigh, and it comes out shaky. "Dropped orange juice," you mumble. "Tried to pick it up."
Your free hand lifts and your fingers find his hair, the strand that's come loose and you tuck it back. It's softer than the gelled parts. You let your hand linger.
Frank stares at you for a beat too long, his thumb still resting against the inside of your wrist. Then his gaze drops back to your hand.
"Does it hurt much?" His voice is like he's asking any patient, like he hasn't spent countless mornings with his face buried in your neck.
"No, it's not thatâouch, what the hell, Frank?"
You practically yelp, snatching your hand back on instinct. He'd pressed right at the edge of the wound.
His jaw is set, but there's something flickering at the corner of his mouth. "That's for lying."
"Youâ" You glare at him, fully aware that you look more pained than intimidating. "I wasn't lying, I said it's not that badâ"
His touch gentles immediately, fingers careful now as he turns your hand back over. He didn't mean to actually hurt you, you can see it in the way his brow pinches, the way his hold softens. But he's not apologizing, either. You keep glaring for another moment, then sigh, the fight draining out of you.
"Fine," you mutter. "Work your magic or whatever."
He releases your wrist long enough to stand, crossing to the supply cabinet. Your sad little bandage goes in the bin. He gathers what he needs and arranges them on the tray beside you.
"Why'd you wait?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.
You shrug with one shoulder. "Didn't want special treatment."
Frank's head turns. He gives you a look. The one that says are you serious?
"You were bleeding for two hours." His voice is quiet. He's making an effort to stay calm. "That could easily count as an emergency. 'Special treatment' doesn't matter."
He's mad. You appreciate the effort he's making to stay gentle. You also know you upset him, deeper than either of you are saying.
"I wasn't bleeding for two hours, Frank." You can hear how petulant you sound. You don't care. He looks up from the tray. "I had a bandage on!" You can feel your lower lip pushing out. Actually pouting, like a child, and you can't seem to stop. "A perfectly functional bandage."
"A bad one."
"You barely saw it. Cassie already took it off when you came in."
"I know you well enough to know it was bad."
That shuts you up and you look away. He pulls on fresh gloves and the sound of the latex snapping against his wrists is loud in the small room. He takes your hand again carefully, and positions the tray closer.
"Ready?" His voice is softer now.
You nod. The saline stings as it runs over the wound, and you hiss through your teeth. You can't see what he's doing, your view is blocked by his head, but you can feel it. Your eyes start to sting.
"Almost got it," he murmurs, not looking up. You don't answer. Your throat is tight. "Grip my arm."
He doesn't need to tell you twice. Your free hand finds his bicep, fingers digging into the fabric of his scrubs.
When he's done stitching, he snips the thread, discards needles, bloody gauze all vanishes into the red bin. His gloves come off with a loud snap, and then he's just standing there in front of you, hands empty, looking down at his work.
It's neat. You can see that much. Six tiny sutures, precise and even. He's good at this. "You okay?"
You shake your head. "No."
He exhales slowly, and then his arms are opening, just slightly. You fall into him. Your knees part wider and he steps into the space between, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through his scrubs. Your one good hand grips the back of his shirt. The other lies bandaged and useless against his chest. He wraps his arms around you properly, one hand spanning your shoulder blades, the other settling at your waist. You press your face into the curve of his neck and close your eyes.
"I didn't mean to upset you." Your voice is muffled against his skin.
His hand moves in slow circles on your back. "You didn't."
"I did." You pull back just enough to look at him. "You're upset. I can tell."
He doesn't deny it. His jaw shifts, that tell he can never quite hide. His hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing the curve of your cheekbones. He looks at you for a long moment.
"You know I worked my ass off to become a doctor." His voice is quiet. "The special treatment should be used."
You sigh, and it's mostly fond. "Come on, Frank. It's not fair to other people."
He opens his mouth, but you keep going.
"I saw a teenage boy in the waiting room. His ankle was the most purple color I've ever seen in my life. Like, eggplant purple." You shake your head slightly, his hands moving with you. "How is it fair that I just skip past him because my boyfriend works here?"
Frank's jaw does that thing again. He fixes a strand of hair behind your ear, tucks it gently, his fingers lingering. He doesn't say anything, but you can see him turning it over, weighing your words against his own stubborn concern.
"My point stands," he finally says softly. "Next time you come here immediately. Got it?"
You don't reply. He gives you a look and you give him a look right back. He makes a mental note. You can practically see him filing it away under Conversations To Have At Home, right next to Why She Doesn't Eat Enough At Work and The Thing About Leaving Wet Towels On The Floor.
But for now, he lets it go.
His hands are still framing your face and he smooths your hair again, tucking another stray piece behind your ear. His fingers trail down, adjusting the collar of your shirt, straightening it.
"When you get home," he says, his voice settling into doctor mode, "keep the bandage dry for twenty-four hours. After that, you can shower normally, just don't soak it." You nod. "The sutures need to stay clean. Watch for redness, swelling, any drainage." His thumb brushes your jaw. "If it starts looking angry, you come back. No waiting."
"I won't wait."
He pauses. Looks at you. "No waiting."
"...I won't wait."
He doesn't look convinced. But his hands drop to your shoulders, squeeze once, and then he's reaching for the aftercare sheet on the counter, scanning it. His other hand finds yours, holds it carefully, the uninjured one.
"Elevate it when you sleep," he murmurs, still reading. "Pillow under your arm. And take the ibuprofen before the lidocaine wears off, not after."
"Frank." He looks up. "I'll be fine."
After a while, your head drops against his chest, right over his heart. Your fingers find the edge of your new bandage, toying with the tape, pressing gently to see if it still hurts. It does, but less now. Clean and closed and taken care of.
"How's work going, by the way?" You tilt your head up to look at him, chin pressing against his chest. Your smile feels easier now, the tension finally bleeding out of your shoulders.
Frank glances down at you, and the corner of his mouth ticks up. "Oh, you know. Much better ever since my girlfriend showed up with a bloody hand."
You poke his chest with your good hand. "Very funny."
"Not trying to be funny." His voice is dry, but his eyes are warm. "Really brightened my shift. Nothing like a little relationship crisis to break up the monotony."
"Relationship crisis." You snort. "Is that what this is?"
He considers it. "Minor relationship crisis then." His thumb finds the back of your head, threading through your hair. You shove at his chest, but you're smiling now, and so is he.
The silence stretches again and his hand keeps moving in your hair. Slow strokes from your scalp to the ends, over and over.
To be honest, Frank is quite happy to have you here. Happier than he expected. He's missed you. More than he guessed.
Usually it doesn't hit him until later. Until he's finally walking through the front door after twelve hours. Until he sees you on the couch in your pajamas, some show paused on the screen, your face lighting up when you notice him. You always jump up, always wrap your arms around him like it's been weeks instead of just a day. And he holds on too long, probably, his face pressed into your hair, his arms locked around your waist. He gets clingy after long shifts. Terribly clingy. You tease him about it sometimes, but you never pull away.
That's when it usually hits him. How long the hours really are. How much of the day he spends without you.
But now you're here. Right here, in his hospital, with your head on his chest and your breath warm through his scrub top. And all he can think is that this shift, this shift that was already shaping up to be chaotic, already had him running from room to room, is about to become the longest shift of his life. Because now he'll get to wonder if your hand hurts. Wonder if you're eating enough. Wonder if you'll still be awake when he finally gets home.
He sighs and keeps brushing through your hair. His fingers catch on a small tangle and work through it carefully.
"Do you think it'll be a long day today?" Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. It's your day off, the whole empty apartment waiting for you, the whole afternoon stretching ahead. You'd been hoping, maybe, for something else.
He's quiet for a moment. His fingers still in your hair. "No," he says. "I don't think so."Something loosens in your chest. "I'll get dinner on the way home, okay?" He says it casual, like of course he'll be home at a reasonable hour, of course you'll eat together. "And please don't touch any more dishes today." He pauses. "Or anything made of glass, actually. Just to be safe."
He's grinning now, that particular slant of his mouth that means he's very pleased with his own joke. You shoot him a look. It doesn't land.
"Fine," you sigh. "But you're doing dishes for a week."
"I'll clear my schedule."
You shake your head, but you're fighting a smile. His thumb is drawing slow circles on your scalp now, and you could honestly fall asleep like this, right here, with your head on his chest and his heartbeat under your ear.
But you shouldn't. He has patients. He has work. You're taking up his time, his attention, his hands that should be on someone who actually needs a doctorâ
"I should let you get back to work." You start to pull away, shifting your weight off the bed.
"Uh uh." His hand on your shoulder, easing you back down. "Nope."
You blink at him. "Frankâ"
"We're going to the cafeteria." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. His palm is already open, waiting for yours. "We're making you eat something so you don't get dizzy from blood loss. Then I'm calling you a cab. Got it?"
You open your mouth and close it. He's watching you with that particular expression, the one that says I'm not asking. You've learned your boyfriend's antics well enough by now. A year of him looking at you exactly like this until you sigh and give in.
And you sigh and give in.
Once you had more than enough food in you, it was time to go back home. At the entrance of the hospital, Frank hesitates, his hand hovering over his phone. He has been thinking about driving you home himself, about having a few more moments together before the long hours of his shift swallows him again, but he knows youâd argue with him if he tried. With a reluctant sigh, he taps the cab app and summons a car. Leaning back against the wall, he gestures for you to stay close, and you do, yawning and pressing lightly against him as you fiddle with your bandage.
âCareful with that,â he mutters for the third time, snatching your hand gently from your bandage. You sigh and he just shakes his head, brushing the hair out of your face instead, letting his hand linger there as you waited.
Frank exhales slowly, feeling the warmth of your body next to his. It was the kind of warmth that made him painfully aware he wouldnât see you for another seven hours.
You look up at him and smile softly. âThanks for taking care of me, by the way.â
âNo need to thank me,â Frank smiles softly, brushing his thumb lightly over your cheek. âNext time, you visit me without a bloody hand, yeah?â
âWill do,â you murmur, smiling back. You glance down at the street just as the cab pulls up, then back at him. âTake care of yourself, okay?â you say softly. âIâll see you at home.â
Frank nods, reaching out to cup your hand gently, inspecting the wrapping one last time. âIâll try to be home as soon as I can. Be careful, please,â he murmurs.
Instinctively, you lean in to kiss him, your good hand sliding up toward the back of his neck. Out of habit, you try to tug him down to you, the way you always do, but you forget about your other hand. The bandaged one presses a little too firmly against the side of his neck as you reach, and a small groan escapes before you could stop it.
Frank reacts instantly. âHeyââ His hands are already gently lifting your injured hand away from him. His brows pull together, concern flashing across his face as he cradles your wrist carefully. âEasy.â
He turns your hand over in his, brushing his thumb lightly across the inside of your palm. âLet me do the work, yeah?â he murmurs softly.
This time, he steps closer instead of letting you strain toward him. One hand slides to your jaw,the other still loosely holding your wrist so you wouldnât forget and reach again. He leans down slowly and presses a gentle kiss to your lips. His mouth moves softly against yours and for a second you forget about the throbbing in your hand, forgot about the shift waiting to swallow him whole.
When he pulls back, he doesnât go far. His forehead brushes yours, his nose grazing lightly against your cheek. âSee?â he murmurs quietly. âMuch safer.â You huff out a quiet laugh.
He studies your face for another second, before finally straightening just enough to look at you properly. A teasing glint returns to his eyes.âNo dishes tonight, yeah?â he says, the corner of his mouth curling upward. âNo cleaning. No heroic attempts at doing anything one-handed.â
You roll your eyes at him, though your smile gives you away. âYes, doctor.â
He shakes his head lightly, thumb brushing once more over the inside of your wrist before finally letting you go â reluctantly.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x mom!reader x toddler!daughter
Warning: fluff, domestic sweetness
Summary: Jack returns home to find his sleepy babygirl clinging to a very special teddy.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
The morning sun was just starting to peek through the blinds. Jack quietly unlocked the front door, his entire body was aching and all he wanted was to crash.
But as he hung up his jacket, your soft voice pulled him toward your babygirl's bedroom.
No matter how exhausted he was, seeing his girls was the only cure for a rough shift.
You were already by the crib, a mug of coffee warm between your hands. You looked up as he slipped into the room, your eyes softening at the dark circles under his.
"Hey, handsome," you whispered, setting your mug down on the side table. "Survived the night?"
"Barely," Jack murmured back. He walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "Missed you, beautiful."
"Missed you too, Doctor." You tilted your head, kissing his cheek. "Say hi. Sheâs just waking up."
Jack smiled, pulling away to step over to the crib. Inside, your daughter was starting to stir. She blinked sleepily, her eyes rubbing against her fists until they landed right on Jack. Instantly, a tiny smile broke behind her pacifier.
"Daddy!" she screamed with a sleepy voice.
She immediately poked her hands up into the air, making her uppie arms.
Jackâs heart completely melted. He leaned over the railing, scooping her warm body up against his chest.
"Hi my beautiful girl," Jack whispered as he pressed a long kiss into her hair.
She let out a giggle, her hands immediately coming up to cup his face. Her fingers patted his cheeks, testing the rough morning stubble on his jaw. "S'atchy," she mumbled, but she didn't pull away. She leaned her forehead against his nose, rubbing it side to side in a sleepy greeting.
"Yeah, Daddy needs a shave, doesn't he?" Jack cooed, rocking her gently from side to side as she buried her face into his neck.
As he hoisted her a little higher, Jack noticed something else in the crib. A familiar fluffy brown teddy bear dressed in a miniature set of blue hospital scrubs with a very cute little stethoscope.
"Since when does she sleep with plushies?" Jack asked softly, turning to you with an arched eyebrow. "She usually kicks everything out the second she lays down."
You let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his waist, leaning your head against his shoulder. Hearing your voice, your daughter reached one hand to pat your face, ensuring both of her favorite people were within arm's reach.
"She only sleeps with that one," you explained. "And only on specific nights. When you're on a night shift and you can't put her to bed, she gets incredibly restless. She sits by the door waiting for you."
Jackâs chest tightened. The guilt of the long hours at the hospital was a constant weight.
"So, I started giving her the bear on those nights," you continued, reaching out to smooth a stray curl away from your daughter's forehead. "I told her that whenever Daddy is at the hospital helping people, this guy is on duty to keep her safe until you get home. Now, she won't go to sleep without him when you're gone. I think it's her way of keeping you close until you come back."
Jack looked down at the scrubwearing bear on the mattress. He reached down with his free hand and picked up the plushie, holding it up so his daughter could see it.
"Who's this, sweet girl?" Jack asked her gently, shaking the bear's little paw. "Is this your helper?"
The toddler blinked sleepily at the bear, then looked right at Jack, her little thumb poking the bear as she nodded. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and pointed a tiny finger at the plushie.
"He's night dada," she mumbled softly, her voice muffled around her paci.
Jack froze. New emotions emerged at the realization that she considered the little bear her version of him when the sun went down.
"Night Dada, huh?" Jack pressed the plush bear gently into her arms, and she instantly hugged it tight against her chest, right alongside his own neck. "He takes good care of you when Daddy's at work?"
The toddler nodded and whispered. "Dad doctor."
He wrapped his free arm securely around you, needing the comfort of his family.
"Thank you," he whispered to you, leaning down to kiss your lips. "For being here for her when I can't."
summary: When you've been feeling sick for a few weeks, Jack expects to face the worst. But a trip to the emergency room reveals something he never expected. And you have to face the fact you're there for each other in sickness and health... and everything between.
warnings: pregnancy, mentions of abbot being a widower, lots of uncertainty and anxiety, age gap (but reader is implied to be a bit older), talks about infertility/ trouble getting pregnant. let me know if I need to add anything!
notes: had this idea a few days ago and like the devious baby fever pilled gal I am and managed to bang it out in two evenings. thank you jack abbot for being my current muse.
Jackâs work shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, his heavy footsteps echoing down the empty hospital hall. Heâs running, a layer of sweat already beading at his temple. The glass ambulance bay door hits the wall with a teeth chattering thud. Jack is almost suprised it didn't shatter with his thrust.Â
He pants, eyes scanning the hospitalâs back lot, trying to find the ambulance he knew was on his way.Â
âMr. Abbot, we have your wife here- she fainted in the grocerâs parking lotâŠâ
Jack knew he shouldn't have left you. He'd had a feeling. The looming dread that had been creeping up on him the past couple of weeks.Â
You'd been feeling out of it for a while now. A lethargic and nauseating achiness you couldn't quite shake, no matter how much tylenol or herbal teas youâd tried.Â
You had played it off as nothing. Just a headache that came and went. An upset stomach due to the day old chinese food youâd eaten.Â
âIt's fine, Jack. Iâm just tired.â
âAre you sure?âÂ
âIâm okay. Iâm here. You don't have to worry.â
But Jack worried.Â
He was always worrying.Â
He knew that little things sometimes added up to a bigger, meaner somethings. That if you missed the signs, you might catch it too late.Â
What exactly? Jack wasn't sure. He didnât particularly want to find out.
But he sure as hell wasn't gonna let you blow it off now.Â
His heart pounds as the ambulance finally pulls into the bay, the emergency lights blaring an ugly red and orange. Jack bary registers the EMT saying hello to him, his eyes focused on your splayed out form, laying on the gurney.Â
âHey baby,â he says, voice cracking slightly.Â
âJack,â you look up at him blearily, your eyes hazy, a bandage already taped to your forehead. Jack is quick to come by your side as the EMT lowers the gurney, his hand running over the back of your hair.
âOne of the bystanders said she hit her head going down. It's not too bad. Just needs some cleaning. Same for her legs,â the EMT says to Jack as she watches him carefully lift the bandage.Â
Jack lets out a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and leading your gurney back into the Pitt.Â
âWhat the hell Jack. You just ran off-â Robby calls out, watching Jack come back in. He stops once he sees you, your scraped up knees and bandaged head, the confused expression on your face. âWhat happened?âÂ
âShe fainted. Weâll need to start her on an iv, get her fluids and run a couple of blood tests. Do you still feel dizzy?â
âI donât⊠Jack, whatâs going on?â You look up at Jack, confused, panic written across your face. Jack looks back at the EMT who shakes her head.
âShe was having trouble remembering the fall. Only remembers her headache and feeling sick.âÂ
Jack remembers how you had looked this morning. The purple bruises around your eyes and the wince you'd tried to hide when he said goodbye.Â
âI don't have to go in today. Shen can cover if Robby really needs him to.â
âGo Jack. They need you more than me.â
He should have known better.Â
Robby comes beside the railing of the gurney, helping to pull it into a trauma room. You look around, your chest beginning to rise and fall quicker as your eyes begin to clear of the confused fog.
âWhatâs going on?âÂ
âJack, stay with your wife.â
âI am with her,â he throws back at Robby, turning to grab the bag of fluids Princess was moving to hand him.
âNo. Stay with her as Jack. Not Dr. Abbot,â Robby tosses back, gesturing to your wide and fearful eyes. Jack swallows thickly, torn.Â
Especially when you groan, turning towards Robby and vomiting off the side of the gurney railing.Â
Jackâs heart hurts, pounding heavily against his sternum. You were here. The one place he hated seeing you.
Jack knows he can help take care of you right now. Bandage you up and order labs. He can solve the mystery behind why you were suddenly so ill. Why you havenât been feeling well lately.Â
He can handle that. Dr. Jack Abbot, night attending and army vet, can handle bad news.
But just Jack. Mr. Jack Abbot, loving husband and worried widower, cannot.Â
He canât take another bad diagnosis.
Jack looks up at Robby whoâs helping Princess clean up the vomit, and then back at you. And he makes a decision.
âHey,â Jack says, pushing down the railing on his side of your gurney and sitting on the edge. âHey, honey-â He takes your head in his hands, taking the damp cloth Robby hands him and helping to clean your face.Â
Jack sits with you, his scrub top abandoned, his hand clasped tightly over yours. He watches as the color slowly comes back into your face, helps you take a sip of juice when your hand trembles too much to hold the cup. He stays silent for it all, Robby cleaning and bandaging your scrapes, Perlah coming in to draw your blood, the hospital gown Princess helps you into. He watches it all with a wariness. An awful churning in his gut.
A fear gnawing away at him.Â
âJack,â you whisper, squeezing his hand. He hums, glancing up at you from where he was sitting beside your gurney. âItâs going to be alright.âÂ
âI know,â he whispers back. You hadnât said much to each other. Mostly hushed whispers and clinging to each other's hand. Like raising your voices was too much for the already overstimulating hospital room.
Jackâs knee is bouncing up and down anxiously. He couldnât help it, his mind turning over the many diagnoses, the myriad of things that could be wrong with you. You gently wrangle your hand out of his iron grip, reaching over to rest it on his jostling knee. Jack stills at the feeling of your warm palm over the fabric of his scrub pants, swallowing. You smile.
âWhatever it is⊠weâll be okay.âÂ
"I know," Jack repeats again. But it's hard to really believe it.
He's been here once before. A hospital room just like this. The woman he loves loved sitting by his side. Slowly wasting away. And he didnât even know it.Â
He sees the symptoms, too familiar and painful. The exhaustion and fatigue that wore you down. The migraines and brain fog, lethargicness and nausea that plagued you. He sees it and he knows. Whatever labs Robby is currently looking at holds a future heâs not sure heâs ready for.Â
You sigh, your hand moving upwards to run through his salt and pepper curls. They had already been mussed and messed up from his own hand raking through them. Jack sighs at the feeling, closing his eyes and leaning his head against your side. You hum, holding him close.
âI didnât even get to do any shopping. I just⊠passed out in the parking lot.âÂ
âDonât worry about that,â Jack mumbles into your gown. âIâll order some groceries for delivery later.â
âI really wanted to get that new cream cheese to try. The one with the jalapenos.â You sigh. âGosh, I wish they could just inject that into my iv. Maybe Iâd perk up faster.â
Jack canât help but crack a smile. You hum happily, still petting his hair.Â
âThere he is.â Jack looks up at you, his mouth open to say something. To apologize for worrying. For being so scared.
But he doesnât get a chance.
The door to your room opens, Robbyâs familiar silhouette shadowing behind the curtain.
âJack?â
Jack clears his throat. âYeah?âÂ
Robby peeks his head through the fabric.Â
âIâve got the test results back.â He comes in and sits down on the stool by the foot of your bed with a grunt. You give Jack a nervous look, your hand finding his again. He takes it, squeezing gently. Grounding. Robby clears his throat.Â
âWell, your blood panels came back fine. No signs of infection or disease.â
âSoâŠwhat is it? Whatâs wrong with her?â Jack asks, swallowing thickly. Robby looks down at the lab work in his hands, peering over the frames of his glasses at the two of you.
âNothing.âÂ
The word hits harder than Jack could have expected. Of all the things he had anticipated-
You frown, looking confused.
âNothing,â you repeat, the question no louder than a breath of air. Robby smiles and nods.
âWell, nothing that wonât go away in nine months. Congratulations kids. You're gonna have a baby."Â
Both of you go very still. Your mouth falls open, Jackâs eyes practically bug out of his head. Robby sits there smugly, folding the lab results over.
âAâŠâ Jack starts, trailing off as he leans forward. Surely heâd heard Robby wrong.
âI- a baby?â You ask, dumbstruck.Â
âHmm.â Robby nods. âFrom what I can tell youâre roughly six weeks along. Of course, youâd need an ultrasound and larger blood panel to be able to tell more accurately.âÂ
âPregnant,â Jack breathes. His eyes dart around the room, finally meeting Robbyâs. âBut how?â
Robby raises an eyebrow.
âItâs a simple process. I donât think I have to explain the exact mechanics on conceiving to you Jack-â
"No, I know- I mean how... I can't even...
"We aren't exactly prime candidates for conceiving," you finish for Jack.
He can feel your fingers wrap tighter around his hand, your shoulder brushing against his.
Robby gives you a look, his features softening. âI know. I know, I donât know why. It happens. Sometimes fertility problems resolve themselves. No on can pinpoint why exactly. Could be hormonal changes, medication changes, reduced stress-â
You and Jack finally glance over at each other. He looks at you, eyes raking over your face, the glimmer of hope you were trying to hide. And it hits him.
The sabbatical, he thinks. The long overdue vacation he'd finally gotten around to taking.Â
Three months without either of you worrying about work or patients. Three months of just the two of you; long walks in the park, lazy mornings spent in bed. Decadent yet nutritious dinners and way too many trips to the ice cream shop down the street.Â
Leaving behind the worries of your every day.Â
The sabbatical heâd finally come back from not even a few weeks ago. Just before you had begun to get sick-
You're the first to smile. A small curve upwards, more nervous than anything.Â
"I'm pregnant."Â
Jack breathes heavily in his chair.Â
âYou are,â Robby smiles. You take a shaky breath, unsure of what to say. âThereâs quite a few things weâll have to go over. Iâm sure Jack knows this speech like the back of his hand, but itâs still customaryâŠâ
Jack is half listening as Robby goes on about the usual procedure. The prenatal vitamins youâll need, the appointments youâll have to set up. The safety precautions and symptoms and internal changes. The risks considering Jack was older and you werenât very young yourself.
Jack is so far zoned out he doesnât even realize youâre calling his name.
âJack. Honey," you shake his shoulder, frowning. âAre you okay?âÂ
Jack opens his mouth, looking between you and Robby. He glances once at your stomach. Hidden behind the hospital gown. Looking exactly like it had yesterday.Â
But it was different. There wasnât some disease growing inside you. Some foreign thing making you sick and slowly sucking the life out of you.
There was a baby growing there. You were sick because you were making another life.Â
Jack is hit by the realization that for the next nine months, you were going to be going through all kinds of changes. All kinds of hurdles and milestones.Â
A baby.
Jack suddenly feels sick.
âI have to go,â he blurts, shaking your hand off of his shoulder and beelining out of the hospital room.
âJack!â You call out, your voice raising with surprise.Â
âI just need some air!â
Jack doesnât turn back. He canât. He canât let you see the utter terror written on his face.Â
He marches down the hall, ignoring the looks the nurses give him, the confusion Trinity and Mel share as he storms out down the crowded hallway and to the stairwell.
You find Jack outside. Not on the roof like youâd panicked heâd be.Â
Robby had come back, shaking his head, trying to calm your racing heart.
No. After finally convincing Robby to let you help him look, You find Jack sitting on one of the benches in the park across the way from PTMC. Heâs sitting there, elbows braced against his knees, staring off into the distance.
You approach him carefully, blades of grass crunching beneath the slip on clogs the hospital provided. Your clothes feel cold against you, comforting and familiar after the scratchy hospital gown. You glance back at Robby who stands at the edge of the park. He nods, encouraging you to keep going.Â
As you get closer, you realize Jackâs not just staring off at nothing. You catch sight of his eyes, focused and glistening beneath the late afternoon light. You follow his sight line, watching a little family on the other side of the park. A broad shouldered man tossing a foam ball to a toddler girl, her mother laughing as her girl toddles about.Â
You watch Jack for a moment, staying out of his sight line. You don't have to try very hard to guess what he's thinking about. The sheer amount of worry and confusion he's feeling.Â
You felt it yourself. The whiplash of expecting the worst outcome only to learn you were carrying something wonderful. There was still the nervousness of what the future would look like.Â
The schedules that would need rearranging, the house child proofed, your office room cleared out in space for another little person. Doctors appointments and ultrasound photos taped to the fridge, onesies and books and diapers tucked away in a closet.Â
In spite of the excitement you felt, the confused yet exhilarating feeling of knowing you were going to be a mother, you were scared.Â
There was a whole person you'd have to take care of. You'd have to grow and birth. You weren't exactly a spry chicken. Neither was Jack. And there were more risks and complications that came with that.
On top of all the things that came with pregnancy.Â
You might not be dying from some malady. But pregnancy was no small thing either.Â
You finally take a step forward, placing your hand gently on Jackâs shoulder. He snaps out of his stupor, back straightening, a panic written in his eyes.
âYou shouldnât be up-â
âIâm okay.â He frowns. You point to the space beside him on the bench. âCan I sit?âÂ
Jack nods, scooting over a bit. You sit. Jack wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand; being closer now, you can see theyâre red rimmed and glassy. He doesnât look at you. Not at first.
But heâs the first to open his mouth again.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run out if there. That was a dick move."
You swallow against the thick lump in your throat, trying to keep the well of anger rising at bay. It wasnât hard to. The fear and anxiety laid bare in Jackâs voice. The thoughts he tried so hard to hide from you unveiled.Â
You nod. âYeah. It kinda was."Â
He takes a breath, reaching out to hold your hand. You take it, his thumb brushing along the ridge of your knuckles.
"I just... this whole time I was worried I was going to lose you. I kept thinking about all the ways Iâd have to watch you die. All the treatments or surgeriesâŠâ he chuckles dryly. âI was so worried about you. And now all Iâm thinking about is how weâre going to have a kid walking down the aisle in a cap and gown when Iâm 70.âÂ
You sigh, the breeze a gentle comfort as it blows against your cheeks.
âThat's all youâre thinking about? College already?â You give his hand a small, loving squeeze. Teasing. A clearing amidst the stormy turmoil you both had been worrying over.
âWell,â he shrugs slowly. âYou know, between wondering if the pregnancy will hold. Or birth. Or what elementary school drop offs will look like and dinners and the house and my crazy schedule-â
âI know. I know, itâs a lot.â
Jack nods. âIt is⊠and Iâm scared.â
You look at him. Your heart aches with the pure sincerity written on his face. Jack was never one to hide his feelings. But he rarely gave them away easily. Not like this.
Truth written in the glassy mist of his eyes, the worry carried in the tightness of his hand around yours.
âI know,â you nod. âI know itâs not going to be easy. Robby explained the risks.âÂ
The long list of complications and genetic disorders and risky side effects run through your mind. You hadnât known just how fragile pregnancy became the older you got. It was just never something that had crossed your mind. To think or worry about. But nowâŠ
You continue.
âI know this wasnât what we had planned, Jack. Us. Having kids⊠and I know you may not want- may not think we can do this. But I donât think this is such a bad thing.â
Jackâs eyes widen, his frown deepening.
âWhat, woah. No I donât want you thinking that. I donât- I donât think that.âÂ
âReally?â You take a deep breath, hopeful. Jack finally smiles. A small and gentle quirk of his mouth.
âReally. And Iâm sorry if I made you feel that way. I just⊠I didnât think that I could have one.âÂ
âA baby?â You clarify. He nods.
âI told you about what happened in the army. With my leg and, well, everything else. And you told me having kids wasnât exactly going to be easy for you.â Itâs your turn to nod.
Between Jackâs injury and age, your genetics and seemingly lackluster fertility, a baby had just never been a part of your plan. And you were fine with it. Life was crazy enough as it was.
âI know. But here we are.â
Jack nods, looking out into the park again. Heâs watching the small family again, eyes glued to the man as he hoists his giggling daughter into his arms.
âHere we are,â he mumbles.Â
âWe donât have to figure everything out right now Jack. Thereâs still time.âÂ
âSeven months and two weeks,â he huffs. You chuckle.
Robby makes Jack leave the hospital early with you.Â
Although Jack would use the term âmakeâ loosely, considering he had already decided he wasnât staying the moment he saw you in the ambulanceâs hull. Youâre cleared to leave not long after Robby drags the both of you back into the ED, making sure to stop by the pharmacy to pick up your new prescriptions.Â
The prenatal vitamins and nausea medication sit among Jackâs own clutter of meds on the kitchen counter. Jack told you not to worry about groceries or the car still at the store. Heâd take care of all of it in the morning.
For now, he just wanted to clean away the sterile smell of the hospital lingering on both of your clothes and get to bed.
Heâs grateful, for once, that you're exhausted enough to fall asleep the minute your head hits the pillow. Youâre breathing softly beneath the sheets before Jack can even pull his prosthetic off, your hand lain out on his side, like you still wanted him to hold it unconsciously.Â
But sleep doesnât come for him. Jack lays awake for a long while.Â
The moonlight casts wispy shadows along the wall and he watches them, thinking. He plays with his wedding ring, twirling it between his fingers with mesmerizing ease.Â
Not the ring you'd slipped onto his left hand years ago, the dark amber band that still glistens on his ring finger. Jack plays with the wedding ring he wore a long time ago, still a young man figuring things out. From his first marriage. His first wife.
It wasn't often he pulled the ring out. Sometimes it hurt too much to even look at it; to think about and remember her. Jack fiddles with the ring now, holding it against his lips as if he could whisper all his worries into it.
The worries which still rested in the side of his ribs, changed but there all the same. Jack canât help but think of all the things he never got to do with her. The future theyâd planned cut short by an illness he couldnât cure. Maybe itâs why he felt so scared now.Â
This unplanned thing laid out before him. Far out of his control.
Jack tosses and turns, his mind reeling with memories and thoughts about the future. He quietly gets up, setting the ring on his nightstand and fitting his prosthetic back on. He slips out of your bedroom, making sure you were still settled before wandering down the hall.
Heâd always wanted to be a father. That wasnât the problem. Hearing that you were pregnant had resurfaced those feelings like theyâd never been buried. The idea of having a mini him, with matching curls and crooked smile. Or a mini you, with your bright eyes and pretty nose.
The problem was that desire had been locked away for a very long time. After he got injured in the army. After he became a widow. Even after he met you. Jack had begun to accept that being someoneâs parent was just not in the cards heâd been dealt. But nowâŠ
Jack stands in the living room, staring around the dark room. He moves quietly, picking up a random glass and setting it in the kitchen, moving the tossed couch pillows back into their designated places. He canât sit still when he tries. The air suffocating inside in spite of the cooling system blowing gently.
Jack ends up sitting outside on the back porch, his head in his hands.Â
What would she have thought? After all this time.Â
A baby.Â
Jackâs not even sure he should begin to want this. To let himself hope. There was so much uncertainty with a later in life pregnancy, of an older parent conceiving a child. The constant what ifs and complications. So much to worry about.
Jack sighs, running a hand through his mussed curls as he realizes how tired he is. Of feeling on edge. Of never feeling like he could settle. The worry of something bad happening again. Of being all alone-
A noise sounds from the bushes running along the fence.
Leaves rustle softly, twigs crunching beneath something weighty. Jack looks up, brows furrowing. He squints, standing and flipping on the porch light to illuminate the dark backyard. The rustling sounds again, and Jack inches closer.
He pauses. And then he lets out a disbelieving laugh, instantly quieting himself.
The rabbit which had ducked back into the foliage at the sound of his voice peeks itâs head out again in the new silence. Her nose twitching, beady black eyes staring straight into Jack. He lets out a breath, in awe of the rare sight. He knew there were plenty of rabbits that lived around the neighborhood. He often saw where they burrowed through your garden or ate certain plants. But actually seeing one was rarer.
Of all the nightsâŠ
He goes still when the rabbit moves. Inching slowly out of the bush. She turns back, snuffling softly and moving forward again. A baby in tow.
Now, Jack was not a very superstitious man. At least, not by nature. He laughed when Ellis chastised him for saying the âqâ word in the ED, rolled his eyes when Joy and Nazely talked about karma.
But if life had taught Jack anything, it was to never ignore the signs.Â
He watches the pair of rabbits hop through the backyard, eyes following their path until they squeeze through the cracked boards of the fence, disappearing into the night. Jack lets out a slow and much needed exhale, the cool air of the night finally feeling fresh.
New.
Second chances that don't always happen every day.
Baby rabbit.Â
Baby Abbot.
He liked the sound of that. And maybe, this time, there wouldnât be so much to worry about. Not with you by his side.Â
"Jaack!" You call out from the kicthen, where you're putting the first few bags of groceries away.
"Yeah?" Jack's voice echoes down the hall, the sound of more paper bags rustling.
"Did you get- never mind!" You grin as you find the tub of cream cheese you'd been dying to get your hands on, practically tearing the package open and digging in. You let out a satisfied hum as you eat a spoonful of the spicy spread, nodding in satisfaction.
Jack enters the kitchen, arms full of groceries, an amused look on his face.
"As good as you'd hoped it'd be?" You hum again.
"Better. I think your child already has great taste in cuisine."
Jack stills for a fraction of a second, then smiles. He sets down the bags and moves over by your side, pressing a kiss to your forehead, carefully around the tender cut still hidden by a bandage.
"Yeah they do."
You both put away the food and various household items you'd needed to stock up on. Trash bags and pasta, that lavender creamer you loved and Jack's protein bars he always carried in his scrub pockets.
You munch on a bagel- properly toasted and spread with your cream cheese because Jack insisted on at least being civilized about your cravings- going through the last bag. The bag crinkles as you feel around inside; you frown as your hand comes into contact with something soft. Fluffy. You peer inside.
A little stuffed bunny peers back at you. You stare at it for a moment, and then you laugh.
"Jack?"
"What?" He asks, folding the towel he'd just used to wash his hands. You smile, holding up the bunny. His ears go pink and he gives you a bashful grin.
"I just thought... well I thought it might be cute for the baby. You know, rabbits are thought to be good luck charms or something."
I FOUND IT. Oh my god I'm so glad I could find it again. I swear to god this fic fixed something in me as a supposedly infertile as well as older woman. Like I'm not saying it would ever happen but being able to put myself in the Reader's shoes here and have Jack be on the other side⊠It was just a balm on my soul.
Thank you for writing this, Scarlett. It is gorgeous.
âSummary: Between the double shifts and the relentless pace of the ER, you forgot to do the one thing youâre always telling your patients: eat.
âšïž Based on this request âšïž
(Short one cause this is my third about diabetes I'm one request away of this becoming a serie)
One moment you were reading some labs result and on another, the back of your neck was slick. A cold sweat broke out across your forehead and your scrubs felt like they were sticking to your skin in all the wrong places. You gripped the edge of the nurse's station, your knuckles white.
Frank stopped mid sentence, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you.
"Youâre pale," he noted, his voice dropping an octave. "Why are you sweating?"
You blinked but your eyelids felt heavy. You looked down at your shaking hands, then back up at him. "Oh?" you managed, the word feeling distant. "Am I...?"
â"Yeah, love, you are not fine." He reached out, pressing the back of his hand to your cheek. "When was the last time you ate?"
âYou tried to remember but the memory was behind a fogged up window. You felt your knees buckle slightly, the floor beginning to pitch like the deck of a ship.
â"Hey, hey, focus," Frank commanded, grabbing your shoulders to keep you upright. He guided you toward a chair, his movements urgent.
"Talk to me, baby. Tell me your name."
âYou stared at his scrubs, fascinated by a small stain near the pocket.â You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your brain felt like it was unplugged, the connection between hearing and responding completely gone.
â"I need a D50 kit over here!" Frank shouted to a passing nurse, his voice sounding like it was underwater. He crouched in front of you, took your phone and scanned your sensor.
âHis jaw set when he saw the number on the screen. 30 mg/dl.
"Damn it. No wonder youâre totally out."
âHe started prepping the line and as he worked, his focus never left your face. He needed a sign, anything to show him your lights were still on.
â"I'm hooking you up to a bag," he said, his voice a low. "You gotta talk to me, baby, so I can help you. I need a name, a date, tell me anything."
âYour lips parted, trembling, as you fought through the static in your head.
Somewhere, deep in your subconscious, you recognized the cold sweat and the unfocused vision. You couldn't find your name but you found the cause.
â"F-forgot lun-lunch," you rasped, the word barely a breath. "S-sugar..."
âFrank exhaled a sharp, relieved breath, his hand steadying the IV line as the D50 began to flow.
"Okay, you're still with us. Yeah, I noticed, we're gonna work in those lunch breaks."
âWarnings: diabetic reader, hypoglycemia, tachycardia, dissociation, brief angst, established relationship, fluff and comfort ending.
Summary: Pre-bolusing for a late caramel latte lands you in a hypoglycemic fog, forcing Jack to switch from attending to protective boyfriend.
Based on this request đ
The trauma bay was finally clearing out, but your heart was still putting on a hard performance.
Just anxiety, you reasoned. We almost lost the kid. Anyoneâs heart would be racing.
You checked your glucose monitor.
70 mg/dl â
Maybe I just need a little sugar on my system after a 12 hours shift.
Your shift was almost over.
You messaged Dana, who was about to start the day shift, asking her to grab you a caramel latte on her way in.
You: good morniiiiing queen of nurses, u coming today? Grab me a caramel latte on your way, please? Need some sugar :(
Dana: sure honey
Dana: be there in 10 minutes
So, doing the math, you had already proactively administered a dose of insulin. The insulin was actively circulating in your body, perfectly calculated to counteract the sugar spike from the coffee you were about to drink. You knew that a coffee like that would raise your blood sugar significantly, so you injected the exact dose to keep your glucose within range.
The only problem? Dana was late.
30 minutes late.
You were sitting at the main desk, trying to quickly update the latest data before you could leave. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, but your mind was elsewhere.
Without the caramel latte to balance the insulin, your blood sugar was actively plummeting. Fast.
Dr. Jack Abbot, your attending, your boss and, for the last year, your boyfriend, was waiting for you.
He was already signed out, leaning against the counter with his jacket over his arm, ready to walk out to the parking lot together.
But as he watched you, his medical instincts kicked in. You had typed the same single sentence three times, deleted it, and were now just staring blankly at the monitor.
"Hey," Jack said. "You've been on that same line for ten minutes. Let's go, doll. Shiftâs over."
You didn't answer. The world was rapidly losing its edges. The lights of the ER seemed to stretch into blurry halos, and the chatter of the nurses sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. You were dissociating hard, fading into an unresponsive silence.
Jackâs posture shifted instantly with intensity, one of a man who knew your medical history by heart.
He moved around the desk, dropping into the empty chair right next to you. He reached out, grabbing your hand.
"Hey, Dr, look at me," Jack commanded gently. He used his other hand to turn your chin toward him. Your eyes were glassy, your pupils wide and slow to react. "What's going on? How is your blood sugar?"
"I- I think.. Dana..." you mumbled, your tongue feeling heavy, as you looked at your watch. "Oh, she's late."
"What does Dana have to do with this?" Jack's eyes narrowed as he scanned your pale face.
"I took insulin," you whispered, the realization finally breaking through your own fog, bringing panic. "For a caramel latte. From Dana. But she isn't here. My glucose was dropping a little."
"Jesus Christ, you prebolused for a coffee that isn't even in the building? I told you to do not take insulin until food is in front of you during shifts."
He didn't waste another second.
He checked your app.
40 mg/dl
Jack stood up, grabbed your arms, and guided you up from the desk chair. You stumbled, your knees buckling, but his strong arm caught you around the waist, hauling you into the break room.
"Sit. Do not move," he ordered, his authority absolute.
Jack went over to the break room fridge, pulling out a carton of juice. He grabbed three sugar packets from the coffee station, tearing them open and dumping them straight into the juice to supercharge the fast acting carbs.
He sat in front of you, placing one hand behind your neck to support your head while holding the straw to your lips.
"Drink. All of it," he murmured.
You took a sip, the overwhelming sweetness hitting your tongue.
Your brain, starved of glucose, screamed for it; so you drank half the carton before Jack gently pulled it back so you wouldn't choke.
"Slow down, doll. You're gonna choke."
He watched you, keeping his hand wrapped tightly around yours, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.
"Good girl. Let it hit your system."
For a few minutes, the break room was quiet except for your heavy breathing.
Gradually, the fog began to lift. The edges of the room sharpened. The distant underwater feeling receded, and the warmth returned to your cheeks.
"There you are," Jack breathed, a visible wave of relief washing over him. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, leaning into his touch as the last of the haze cleared. "I thought I had the timing right."
Jack sighed, his hand moving from your forehead to cup your cheek.
"You are a terrible patient," Jack said, his voice was entirely serious. "You're a brilliant R4, but you know as well as I do that if you want to be a doctor here, you have to take care of yourself first. You can't save anyone out there if you're collapsing at the charting desk."
You swallowed hard, nodding against his palm, feeling thoroughly cared for. "I know. You're right."
"Damned right I am," he murmured, his gaze softening as he handed you the rest of the juice. "We're checking your glucose again in twenty minutes. Then, I'm taking you home."
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x resident!reader
Warnings: none, fluff and comfort, slight nervousness/panic.
Summary: When a fever leaves you completely exhausted, Abbot steps in to take care of you; unbeknownst to you, entirely validating a hospital wide betting pool on his secret crush.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
A/N I had an idea in mind but I feel it didn't turn out well, like when you plan an outfit and then the clothes don't match lol but anyway, I hope you enjoy it!!!
đ based on this request đ
The ER was always noisy, but tonight it felt like a physical burden. Going back to work after four days with a fever meant being completely exhausted after five hour. At a certain point, exhaustion stops being a feeling and becomes a physical ache in your bones.
You leaned against the central nurse station, staring blankly at a patient chart on the monitor. A tear of fatigue slipped down your cheek.
You quickly wiped it away, hoping no one saw.
But of course, he did.
Across the desk, Lena caught your eye. But she looked at you with the expression of someone watching a romantic tragedy unfold in real time. She nudged the resident next to her, who glanced up, saw you, and immediately checked his watch.
"Any minute now," Lena murmured softly.
"What happens at any minute?" you asked, your voice raspy.
Before Lena could answer, Dr. Jack Abbot walked out from a trauma bay. The second his eyes scanned the floor and landed on you, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The entire nursing station went quiet.
You didn't notice.
You just thought everyone was as tired as you were.
Jack handed the papers he had on his hands to a passing intern without looking and detoured straight toward you.
"Hey," he said. "You look like you're about to collapse into the desk."
"I'm fine, Dr. Abbot," you breathed. "Just trying to finish up a discharge."
Jack looked at the dark circles under your eyes, the slight tremble in your hand, and the absolute exhaustion radiating from you.
A protective frown line appeared between his brows.
"Lena," Jack said, his eyes never leaving your face. "Who is covering the east wing for the next hour?"
"Dr. Langdonâs doing night shift today," Lena replied instantly, a small smirk playing on her lips. "And I can handle the paperwork. Go ahead, Abbot."
"Great. You're off the clock for sixty minutes," Jack told you, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Breakroom. Now."
You blinked, panic instantly cutting through your fatigue. You stood up on shaky legs, your heart hammering against your ribs as you followed him down the hallway.
Behind your back, Lena silently handed a five dollar bill to a nurse. âTold you heâd break protocol to get her off her feet before 2 AM,â she whispered.
Unaware of the betting pool you were currently central to, you walked into the breakroom. He closed the door behind you.
"Dr. Abbot, if I made a mistake on the trauma intakeâ"
"Oh, no, no," Jack interrupted gently, putting a hand out to stop you. "You didn't make a mistake. You've been on your feet for five hours, non stop, after days of fever. This is an intervention."
He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a protein bar along with a bottle of water, and placed them on the table.
"Take a break," he commanded softly.
You took the food and sank down onto the sofa; the relief of finally sitting up was so intense it made your head spin. Jack stepped out for a second and returned with a jacket in his hand. Without a word, he placed it on your lap. It was warm and smelled of his cologne.
"Jack, I can't sleep, I have patients," you whispered, using his first name only because the walls of the room felt like a safe haven. "It looks bad. The other residents..."
Jack chuckled and sat down in one of the chairs, elbows resting on his knees. "Let them talk. Iâm the attending. If anyone has a problem with me making sure my best resident doesn't faint on a patient, they should talk to me."
Jack's gaze was entirely focused on you. He wanted to reach out, to pull you against him and tell you that heâd carry the weight of the whole hospital if it meant you could rest.
But he didn't. He kept his hands to himself, clamping down on the feelings he'd been harboring for months. You were his resident; there were lines he couldn't cross, no matter how much his chest ached every time he saw you smile or, worse, saw you cry.
"Eat. Drink. Rest for an hour at least," Jack said, his voice a low, soothing anchor. "I'll be out there handling everything. Nobody is going to disturb you."
"Thank you, Jack," you murmured, tearing open the wrapper with clumsy fingers. You looked up at him. "You're a really amazing mentor. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Jack's heart did a painful twist. Mentor.
He offered you a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just doing my job. Get some rest."
He left the room and crossed paths with Frank as he reached the central desk. Frank glanced at him sideways, letting out a sigh.
"You've got it bad, Abbot," Frank whispered. "You know the entire night shift is currently running a pool on when you're actually going to tell her, right?"
Jackâs jaw tightened, his cheeks flushing slightly. "She's exhausted Leave it alone, Langdon."
"I'm just saying, the girl is brilliant, but sheâs medically blind to the fact that you look at her like she hung the moon," Frank countered with a smirk. "You're going to have to spell it out for her. Preferably after she graduates residency."
"She needs to focus on her career. She doesn't need the complication of an attending crossing lines," Jack said. "And right now, she just needs a safe place to rest. Thatâs all Iâm giving her."
Frank stared at him for a second. He patted Jack on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Jack. A miserable, pining man, but a good one. I'll cover her for the next hour."
"Thanks," Jack muttered.
At 7:30 AM, you were waiting for the day shift to finish taking report. You reached into your scrubs pocket for a pen, only to realize you were wearing Jackâs jacket. You smiled faintly, the scent of him clinging to the fabric.
"Alright, pay up," a loud whisper hissed from around the corner of the desk.
You paused, your hand still on the zipper of the jacket.
Lena was holding her palm out toward Mateo. He was grumbling under his breath as he fished a ten dollar bill out of his wallet and slapped it into her hand.
"I still say itâs cheating," Mateo complained. "You had inside information."
"I didn't have inside information, I have eyes and know how to bet," Lena countered smoothly, pocketing the cash. "He didn't just give her a nap break; he gave her his jacket."
You blinked, standing entirely still. His jacket?
Slowly, you stepped around the corner. "Is there a problem with Dr. Abbot''s jacket?"
Both Lena and Mateo froze. Mateo immediately looked down at the clipboard, suddenly fascinated by a trauma intake form.
"I definitely didn't say anything about a bet." Lena said. "Aren't you leaving? It's 7:30 already."
"Lena," you said, your eyebrows knitting together as you looked between her and the dollar bill sticking out of her pocket. "What bet? Were you guys betting on this jacket?"
"Oh, honey. Not just the jacket," Lena said, leaning her elbows on the counter and looking at you with a mixture of affection and disbelief. "Weâve been betting on the entire ecosystem of your life for the last four months."
"My life? Why?"
Lena let out a laugh. She looked at Mateo. "Sheâs serious. She really doesn't know."
"Know what?" you asked, a sudden spike of anxiety hitting your stomach. "Did I do something? Is there a rumor about me?"
Lenaâs expression softened instantly. Seeing your genuine panic, she reached across the desk and gently patted your arm. "Hey, no. Itâs not a bad rumor. Itâs just... sweetie, how can someone so brilliant in the trauma bay be so blind?"
You stared at her, completely lost. "Blind to what?"
Lena sighed, shaking her head. "To Dr. Abbot, darling. To Jack."
The name made your heart skip a beat, though you tried to keep your face completely neutral. "What about Dr. Abbot? Heâs a great attending. Heâs incredibly supportive of my residencyâ"
"He is completely wrapped around your finger," Lena interrupted bluntly.
Your jaw tightened slightly. "What? No, heâs not. Heâs just a mentor. He does things for everyone."
"Oh, really?" Mateo chimed in, unable to keep quiet any longer. "He didn't bring me a specific brand of protein bar last week just because I said I liked it."
"And the jacket," Lena pointed to the one you were currently wearing. "Jack Abbot is very serious when it comes to his personal stuff. I once saw a medical student accidentally knock a smoothie onto that exact jacket, and Jack looked like he was going to perform an unanesthetized appendectomy on the kid. And tonight he literally tucked you in with it."
You looked down at the jacket, your mind racing, replaying a dozen different interactions over the last few months.
The way he always happened to be near the desk when your shift ended.
The way his voice grew remarkably quiet and gentle whenever he spoke to you, completely different from his sharp and commanding attending persona.
The way heâd look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.
"Everyone knows," Lena said softly. "Nurses, residents, security staff. We actually have a timeline. Langdon put twenty bucks on 'After Graduation,' but Iâm rooting for you two to figure it out by the end of the month."
"He... he has a crush on me?" you breathed, the words feeling entirely surreal on your tongue.
"Crush is a word for teenagers, sweetie," Lena said, looking at you with a gentle smile. "What Jack Abbot has for you is a profound case of being completely gone. Heâs just too much of a gentleman, and too worried about crossing professional lines, to tell you himself."
Your hands gripped the edge of Jack's jacket, the warmth of it suddenly feeling entirely different. It felt like a protective shield of a man who was desperately trying to take care of you from a distance.
--
For days, you were a walking disaster of nervous energy and Jack noticed every single second of it.
Whenever he walked into a room, you suddenly found a patient chart that desperately needed your attention across the floor.
When you handed him a suture kit in the trauma bay, your fingers brushed, and you jumped as if youâd been zapped by a defibrillator.
You couldn't look him in the eye for more than two seconds without your face turning red.
A week later, the tension was unbearable. Jack was quietly losing his mind, convinced he had somehow crossed a line or made you uncomfortable during your shift.
Needing air, Jack retreated to the roof, the only place in the hospital where the noise couldn't reach him. The cool wind whipped at his scrub shirt as he leaned against the metal railing, his mind completely consumed by thoughts of you.
The door to the roof groaned open.
Jack turned, his breath catching when he saw you step out. You were holding his jacket tightly against your chest.
"Hey," Jack said softly. He took a step toward you, his eyes scanning your face, filled with worry.
"Lena said you came up here," you breathed, the wind catching your hair.
Jack stopped a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep from reaching out to you. "Look, we need to talk. Youâve been... avoiding me? For days. If I did something to upset you, or if I made you uncomfortable by putting my jacket on you the other night, I need you to tell me. Iâll back off. I swear I will. Just please tell me whatâs wrong between us."
The panic in his eyes broke the dam. You gripped his jacket tighter, took a sharp breath, and the words just tumbled out of you.
"It makes me nervous being around you because you like me and I like you and they have a bet about you with me, did you know that?"
Jack froze. He stared at you, his brain completely stalling out as he tried to process the words that had just exploded from your mouth.
"I... what?" Jack stammered.
"The nurses! And residents! And even security!" you blurted out, your face burning so hot it made your cheeks hurt. "They bet on what time youâd kick me out of the floor to take a break, they bet on when youâd give me your jacket, and they told me you bought a specific protein bar for me, and Langdon has twenty dollars on us figuring it out after I graduate!"
You stopped to gasp for air. "I didn't know, Jack. I swear. But now I do, and every time you look at me I forget how to read a lab report, and it just makes me so nervous because I do like you, and I didn't think you liked me back, and now I know everyone in the whole hospital is watching us and can't even look at you without blushing."
Silence fell over the roof, save for the sound of traffic below.
You squeezed your eyes shut, suddenly wishing the roof would open up and swallow you whole.
Great.
You just broke the professional boundary.
And sounded like a lunatic doing it.
Then, you heard him.
You opened your eyes. Jack was smiling. He let out a disbelieving laugh, his frown completely vanishing. What Langdon said the other day, "preferably after she graduates", kept echoing in his head for a couple of days.
"Frank put twenty on it?" Jack asked.
"Thatâs the part youâre focusing on?!" you wailed, hiding your burning face into his jacket.
Jack closed the distance between you. He grasped your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. You looked up and his soft eyes made your knees weak.
"No," Jack whispered, his thumbs softly tracing the inside of your wrists, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "Thatâs not the part Iâm focusing on."
He took a deep breath, stepping even closer.
"You like me?" he asked, as if he needed to hear the words clearly just to believe they were real.
"Yes," you whispered, feeling nervous and a little dizzy. "I like you, Jack."
"Good," Jack murmured, his hands sliding up from your wrists to cup your face, his palms warm against your cheeks. "I like you, too. Langdon was right. I am completely gone over you. Iâve been trying to be the responsible attending, keeping my distance because I didn't want to complicate your residency. But it has been absolute torture."
"So... you're not mad about the betting pool?" you asked softly, staring into his eyes.
Jack laughed softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned down, his forehead gently resting against yours.
"Oh, I'm furious!" Jack joked, his warm breath against your skin. "Especially because Frank made a bet about not having the guts to tell you I like you before you graduate. We're going downstairs, I'm going to kiss you right in front of them and make sure Lena gets all the credit."
You let out a soft laughter, the tension completely evaporating into the cool night air.
"Wait," you murmured, your hands finding their way to the lapels of his scrub shirt. "If you kiss me in front of them now, Frank loses his twenty bucks, sure, but Lena wins. And as much as I love her, she's been smug about this for days. Want her to suffer a little bit."
Jack paused, a spark lit up his dark eyes. "You want to see Lena loose her mind? You're evil," Jack whispered. "An absolute menace."
"I learned from the best attending in the hospital," you countered softly.
"Alright," Jack agreed, his hands sliding from your cheeks down to your waist, pulling you against him. "We keep it a secret a few days. No hand holding, no extra protein bars, and absolute professionalism in front of them."
"Deal," you smiled. "But, can you kiss me now? There aren't any cameras up here."
"No, there aren't." He didn't hesitate and leaned down, putting one of his hand on your chin to capture your lips. His hands held you firmly, securely, as if he were making sure you wouldn't walk away from him. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his neck, completely lost in him.
When he pulled back, his breathing was shallow, and your eyes were shining. He pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling away.
"Keep the jacket," Jack murmured, as he looked down at the jacket still clutched between your chests. "Looks good on you, baby."
You blushed and bit your lip as you walked back towards the rooftop door, Jack's fingers intertwined with yours for a moment, before he let go and took a step back to let you through the door first.
It startsâlike most things in your relationshipâwith you doing something absolutely deranged and Simon deciding he's fine with it.
It's July.
Hereford is experiencing what the weatherman keeps calling an unprecedented heatwave and what you keep calling hell.
The flat has no air conditioning because Simon is, at his core, a man who believes suffering builds character and that a desk fan pointed at the bed is a reasonable substitute for modern climate control.
So you've been lying on the kitchen floor in your knickers for the better part of an hour, cheek pressed to the tile, when you hear his key in the lock.
He's come home from the gym. You know this before you see him because you can smell him the second the door opensâthat warm, salt-heavy wave of clean sweat and cheap deodorant losing its war and something underneath that's just him, dense and male and so fundamentally Simon that your brain whites out for a second like a computer hitting a critical error.
He rounds the corner and finds you on the floor. Doesn't blink.
"Heatstroke?"
"Almost."
"Drink water."
"No."
He steps over you to get to the fridge, and the smell of him hits you full force.
The cotton of his shirt is damp at the collar and under the arms and clinging to the small of his abnormally broad back, and when he reaches up to grab a glass from the cabinet his shirt rides up and you get a flash of his stomach, the trail of hair below his navel, and the waistband of his shorts sitting low on his hips, and something in your hindbrain just snaps.
You don't make a conscious decision. One moment you're on the floor. The next you're standing behind him with your nose pressed into the space between his shoulder blades, inhaling like you're trying to extract his soul through his t-shirt.
He goes still. Glass in hand. Tap running.
"Whot're y'doin'."
It's not a question. It's a statementâdelivered all flat and measured, the voice he uses on comms when someone is doing something tactically stupid and he's deciding whether to intervene or let natural selection handle it.
"You smell good," you mutter into the damp cotton, which isâobjectively insane.
He smells like a man who just did over ninety minutes of deadlifts in thirty-degree heat. He smells like exertion and iron and the ghost of this morning's soap buried under hours of sweat. He smells absolutely incredible.
"I smell like a bloody gym bag."
"Yes." You press closer.
And your arms come around his waist and your hands flatten against his stomach, feeling his abs flex, and you drag your nose up the line of his spine to the nape of his neck where his hair is damp and the scent is concentrated, thick and warm and salty, and the sound you make is embarrassing.
It's a sound that belongs in a nature documentary. The sound a wolf makes finding its mate's trail.
Simon turns the tap off. Sets the glass down.
"You're sniffin' me."
"Mm-hm."
"Haven't showered yet."
"I know." You say it like that's the point, because it is, and you feel the exact moment he processes that by the way his stomach tenses under your palms, the slow, deliberate way he turns around and looks down at you.
His pale face is flushed from the heat. Dirty blonde hair pushed back and slick at the temples. There's a bead of sweat tracking down the side of his neck and you want to lick it, and something in your expression must telegraph that thought clearly because his dark eyes go half-lidded and the corner of his mouth twitches, twisted by a scar.
"Filthy girl," he says, low and warm and not remotely disapproving.
You lose your mind a little.
It gets worse from there. Or better. Depends who you ask.
Simon comes home from a five-day exercise on Salisbury Plainâunwashed, kit bag reeking, the smell of him so potent that it practically has its own postcodeâand you ambush him in the hallway before he's even got his boots off.
Shoving your face into his neck as he drops the bag before his mammoth hands come up to grip your hips, and the noise he makes is quiet and dark and satisfied, like this is exactly what he expected and he's been thinking about it for five days.
"Missed me, then," he murmurs against the top of your head, and his voice has that edge it getsâthe arrogant one, the one that knows precisely what effect he has and has decided to be insufferable about it.
"Take your shirt off," you demand, tugging at the fabric impatiently.
"Haven't even locked the fuckin' door."
"Take your shirt off."
And he takes his shirt off.
And you, you're past the point of pretending this is normal when you press your face into his chest and breathe him in, the dip of his sternum, the hollow of his collarbone, the coarse hair that covers his pecs.
He smells like five days of sweat and gun oil and British weather and the base layer he hasn't changed since Tuesday, and you're making noises against his skin that are genuinely unhingedâlittle huffs and hums and one actual, literal whimper when you find the crease where his arm meets his torso and the scent is so strong your vision blurs.
His armpit.
You have your nose in his armpit. You are a woman with a degree and a mortgage and you are huffing your boyfriend's unwashed armpit in the hallway of your shared home and making sounds like you've found God.
Simon's hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. Not pulling you away but holding you there.
"That's rank, luv," he says, conversationally. "Haven't washed in days."
You whimper again. He feels it against his skin and his fingers tighten in your hair and his chest expands with a slow, controlled breath that you've learned to identify as Simon Riley exercising enormous restraint.
"You're proper fucked in the head," he tells you, fond as anything, sporting a throbbing erection in his tac pants.
"Your bloody fault."
You drag your mouth across to the other side. Equal opportunity. His skin is salt-warm and slightly tacky and you tongue the hollow of his throat on the way and he makes a soundâa real one, rough and lowâand his hips shift forward and you feel exactly how okay he is with all of this pressing hard against your stomach.
The thing about Simon is that he's a hypocrite.
He'll call you unhinged and stand there with that flat, unimpressed expression while you bury your face in his worn hoodie that he deliberately left on the back of the sofa. He'll raise one split eyebrow when you steal his pillow on the nights he's away because it still smells like his shampoo and his skin.
But then you'll catch him.
You'll catch him pressing his nose into your hair when he thinks you're asleep, breathing slow and deep like he's memorising you. You'll catch him picking up the shirt and knickers you wore yesterday and holding them to his face for just a second before tossing it in the wash.
And you'll catch him pulling you onto his lap after his run and settling you so your face tucks against his neck, unprompted, like he's offering himself, and when you latch on and inhale he'll sigh this long, heavy, settled exhale, like a man setting down something he's been carrying for a very long time.
He likes it. He more than likes it.
He loves that you want him like thisâgraceless and desperate and raw.
Loves that it's not the clean, put-together version of him that gets you going, but the unwashed, sweating, human animal underneath.
He loves it because Simon Riley has spent his entire adult life being a weapon, a ghost, a thing behind a mask, and you're down on your knees in the hallway sniffing him like a deranged bloodhound because he smells like himself and that's enough to make you lose your mind.
He'll never say it. But his hand in your hair says it. The way he tilts his chin up to give you access says it. The way he comes home from a run and finds you on the sofa and stands in front of you, shirt dark with sweat, and waitsâjust waits expectantlyâwith that barely-there smirk until you reach for him.
The worst instanceâthe one that becomes legend, the one that Simon would murder you for if you ever told a living soulâhappens on a Saturday afternoon.
He's been out on a long run. It's hot again. He comes through the door in shorts and a vest that's soaked through, and he's flushed and breathing hard, and you're sitting on the kitchen counter eating an apple and you just stop chewing, eyes big. Mid-bite. Like a prey animal that's just spotted a predator.
Your eyes drop from his face to his chest to the dark trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his running shorts, and then lower, to where the thin material is clinging with sweat and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, and your brain produces a single, coherent thought:
I need to put my face there.
Simon follows your gaze. Looks down at himself. Looks back at you.
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have'ta. I can hear ya bloody thinkin'." He grabs a cold water bottle. Takes a long drink. A drop escapes down his jaw and tracks along his throat. "The answer's no. I'm disgustin'."
You put the apple down.
"I will literally get on my knees right now, Si."
He chokes on the water. Actually coughsâLieutenant Simon Riley, the man who has been waterboarded and didn't flinchâand when he recovers, his eyes are dark and his voice is rougher than it was ten seconds ago.
"You're a fuckin' menace, luv."
"And you fucking love it."
He stares at you. You stare back, unblinking. The kitchen is very quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the sound of your shared dignity circling the drain.
He sets the water bottle down. Leans back against the opposite counter. Spreads his stanceâjust slightly, just enoughâand the look he gives you is the most arrogant, self-satisfied, obscene thing you've ever seen on a human face. The whore.
"Come here, then."
You have never moved faster in your life.
You slide off the counter and cross the kitchen in two steps, and then you're on your knees on the tile in front of him, and he's looking down at you with that heavy-lidded expression that's half disbelief and half wantâraw and dark and barely controlled.
"Christ," he mutters, and his hand comes up to cup the side of your face, thumb dragging across your cheekbone. "Fuckin' look at you."
You nuzzle into the front of his shorts before he can say anything else. Press your open, wet mouth against the shape of him through the thin, sweat-damp material, and the sound he makesâlow, involuntary, and punched out of his chestâsends a hot pulse of satisfaction straight through you.
He's already half-hard and you can smell him here, concentrated and musky and so overwhelmingly male that your eyes flutter shut and you moan against the fabric like you've been starving for it.
"Fuck." His hand slides into your hair. Not pushing, not yet. Just there. "You're really goin' toâ"
You tug his shorts down. He helps, lifts his hips off the counter just enough, and then there's nothing between you and the thick, flushed length of him, and the scent hits you unfiltered. Skin and salt and the dark, heady musk of sweat pooled in the crease of his thick thigh, and you bury your nose there first, dragging your tongue along the join of his hip and his leg, tasting the salt on his skin, lapping it up like it's something precious.
"Jesus." His thigh tenses against your cheek. His fingers tighten in your hair. "That'sâYou're actuallyâ"
You lick a broad, flat stripe up the underside of his cock, base to tip, and his sentence dies in his throat when you slowly stroke his foreskin back, revealing his glistening tip.
He tastes like sweat and skin and Simon, bitter-salt and warm, and you take the head into your mouth with a groan that vibrates through him and makes his hips jerk forward. You feel the twitch of restraint in his grip, how he stops himself from thrusting, and you reach up and grab his wrist and pull, giving him permission.
He swears. Low and filthy and barely audible.
You take him deeper. Relax your throat and let him slide heavy over your tongue, and you can taste every inch of him. The clean salt of fresh sweat, the musk that clings to the coarse hair at his base when you press your nose into it, the slick of pre-come that you chase with your tongue and swallow without hesitation.
And you're sloppy about it. Graceless. Drooling and gagging and moaning around him like you're the one getting something out of this, and the thing isâyou are. Your thighs are pressed together and you're grinding against nothing and you're so wet it's obscene, all from the taste and smell of his unwashed, post-run, sweat-soaked body filling your mouth and bursting on your tastebuds.
"Look at me," he rasps, and when you drag your eyes up the length of his bodyâhis clenched stomach, his heaving chest, the dark flush spreading across his collarbonesâhis expression nearly undoes you. It's wrecked.
The arrogance is still there but it's cracked open, underlaid with something raw and desperate that Simon Riley does not let anyone see, ever, and his chiseled jaw is tight and his lips are parted and he's watching you with the kind of focus he usually reserves for a scope.
"Fuckin' perfect," he grits out. "Taking me soâfuckâso well, that's itâ"
You hollow your cheeks and suck, hard, and his head drops back against the cabinet with a dull thud. His hips stutter forward, once, twice, and you feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the tremor in his hand where it's fisted in your hair, and you pull back just enough to tongue at the slit, taste the fresh salt of him leaking onto your tongue, then swallow him down again as deep as you can take him.
He comes with a groan that sounds like it's ripped out of himâlow and broken and long, and his hand holds you steady while his hips pulse forward and you swallow every drop of it, hot and salty on the back of your tongue, and you keep swallowing, keep licking him through it until his thigh is shaking against your cheek and his grip in your hair softens from holding to cradling and the sound he's making is just breathâragged, shattered breath.
You pull off slowly. Press one last, open-mouthed kiss to the crease of his thigh, tasting the sweat still cooling there. Look up at him.
He looks properly ruined. Chest heaving, eyes half-closed, lips bitten red. And he looks down at you on your knees on his kitchen floor with your swollen mouth and your wild eyes, and the corner of his lips curves into something that's too undone to be a smirk.
"C'mere," he murmurs, and pulls you up into his lap on the floor.
And laterâmuch later, after you've done things on the kitchen floor that would get you both banned from polite societyâhe's lying on his back on the tile with you draped across his chest, both of you disgusting, and he's running his fingers through your hair with this idle, lazy contentment that he only ever shows when it's just the two of you.
"You're absolutely mental, woman," he deadpans. "You're aware, yeah?"
"You literally invited me."
He clicks his tongue. "Didn't say I was complainin'."
Then his calloused hand drifts down your back, and he pulls you closer. His nose presses into your temple and he inhales slow, deliberate, tasting the smell of your sweat and his sweat and the two of them mingled togetherâand the rumble in his chest when he exhales is so deep that you practically feel it in your teeth.
"Good girl," he says quietly, into your hair. "Fuckin' feral, but good."
You press your grin into his collarbone, breathe him in, and it smells like home.
new dad!Jack Abbot doing skin to skin with your newborn baby <3
It's quiet in the hospital room. Jack's been sitting by the window for a long time now, watching the snow fall and looking over to check on your sleeping form ever so often.
The last 24 hours have been a lot on you. You're sleeping, getting well-needed rest, your little puffs of air the only sound in the room. This and the little coos coming from the bundle in Jack's arms.
Jack smiles down at yours and his baby, his heart hurting with overflowing unconditional love for the little worm resting easy against him. His hand is so large against baby's head, it baffles him how something so loved can be so small.
It's a good thing he runs warm in general because the little worm seems to be very comfortable like this, snuggled against his naked chest and soaking all that loving attention up like a sponge. Baby coos once more and Jack hums, his knuckles brushing over the soft peachy cheek that isn't resting over his heart.
"Let's give mommy some more rest, okay, sweety? Cuddling with daddy is nice, isn't it? No need to make a fuzz, hm?"
Baby blinks at him, thinking about it for minute before seemingly agreeing and snuggling back into the warmth Jack provides.
God, his heart is so full.
His beautiful strong supergirl is finally sleeping and her and his baby is with him, all cozy.
Jack leans back and closes his eyes, letting the bliss wash over him. Baby's hair is whispy soft against his hand and your lips part peacefully in your sleep...
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