summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
ao3
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۫ ꣑ৎ
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.
You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.
“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
“…Those are three by threes.”
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”
“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”
“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”
“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”
“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”
“…No?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”
—
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.
“That one yours, then?”
Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”
“She’s Robby’s intern.”
“Mhm.”
“She’s way too young.”
Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”
“She is.”
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”
“Maybe.”
Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”
“She’s not my intern.”
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
“It’s an HR nightmare.”
Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”
“Parker.”
“Jack.”
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”
Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”
To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“
“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”
Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”
Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”
Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.
When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
“Dr. Abbot!”
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”
“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”
You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”
Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.
But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”
“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”
Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.
“Tilt your head up.”
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
“Did you walk to work today?”
You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”
He blinks.
“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”
There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.
“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”
“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”
He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“
“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”
The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”
Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”
Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”
You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”
He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”
“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”
“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”
“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.
“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
You’re not exactly rushing out the door.
You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
“Still raining out there?”
“Yep. Looks worse now.”
“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”
“Mhm.”
“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”
“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
“Come on, kid.”
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“
“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“
By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.
“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Ah. Right. The Incident.
“I told you I’m—“
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”
“Have you been hit by a patient before?”
He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”
“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”
“What, did she slap you too?”
“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”
“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”
You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”
“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”
He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.
“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”
“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“
“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I was planning on looking online—“
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”
Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?
“Dr. Abbot, I—“
“Jack.”
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Kid—“
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”
Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”
Jack holds up a second finger.
“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”
Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”
“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”
He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
“You worry about me?”
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.
“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”
“No problem, kid.”
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.
—
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.
You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.
But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
“Bad shift?”
“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”
“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”
“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”
“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“
“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”
The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”
You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
“Have you… acted on it?”
“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”
She leans in. “But…?”
“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”
Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”
“Right. Yeah.”
She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”
You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”
She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
—
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”
Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”
There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”
She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”
“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”
She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”
“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”
“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“
“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”
Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”
“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”
She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”
She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”
“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”
Mohan actually looks taken back.
“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”
She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”
“Yes please.”
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
—
Everything is not okay.
You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”
“I try.”
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesn’t help much.
There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.
“You’re flagging.”
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”
He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”
“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And that’s just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.
You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”
“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”
“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”
“I have a guest bedroom.”
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your address?”
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.
It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.
“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.
“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”
“That explains a lot of things.”
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.
“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”
Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”
“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”
Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”
That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
“Feeling better after your shower?”
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”
He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”
“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”
“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”
You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.
“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”
“Do you?”
You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.
“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”
“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”
You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”
“Are they?”
“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”
He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldn’t it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”
You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.
“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.
Kid-
I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”
Mel is the first to speak.
“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”
Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.
You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”
Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
–
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
–
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
Synopsis: You’re the newest ER resident, fighting to prove yourself under the relentless scrutiny of Doctor Langdon, brilliant, distant, and impossible to read. When a fellow resident’s unwanted attention starts crossing lines, Dr. Langdon begins to take notice.
Tags: Workplace Tension, Jealousy, Forced Proximity, Protective Langdon, Power Imbalance, Sharp Banter, Mutual Pining, Emotional Confrontation, Eventual Kissing
Warnings: **Unwanted Advances**, Workplace Stress, Cold calling, Power Dynamics, Emotional Distress, Medical Setting
Words: 10k~
A/N: I am not American and have the barely any knowledge of how US medical school works so please ignore any inaccuracies!!
You're a new resident in the ER, the bottom of the food chain, badge still shiny under fluorescent lights, white coat not yet saturated with antiseptic and exhaustion. Your handwriting is still neat, your pockets still organized: penlight, trauma shears, folded index cards with drug doses written in careful ink.
You don't report to him directly. Technically. But in the way gravity technically doesn't report to the sun, you still orbit Dr. Langdon. You work with him. Somewhat under him. He doesn't sign your evaluations, but he signs off on your decisions with a look. Working relationship? None in sight. In fact, there is no relationship at all.
Your first week, you were bright-faced and buzzing with nervous energy, practically vibrating with inexperience and caffeine. You came early, stayed late, introduced yourself to everyone, nurses, techs, environmental services, even the attending who barely glanced up. You practiced your greeting before approaching Langdon. Professional. Confident. Approachable. You found him at a workstation, scrolling through labs like they personally offended him, jaw set, blue-gray eyes moving fast over the screen. You stepped forward anyway.
"Hi, my name is-"
"I need an ECG for room 5."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't rude. It was simply... final. He brushed past you mid-sentence, shoulder almost clipping yours, eyes already locked on another screen. No smile. No acknowledgment. Not even a nod. Just a task.
You stood there half a second too long, blinking at the empty air where he'd been, your prepared words shriveling in your mouth. Okay. Maybe not the best first impression. But you've had ego-driven seniors before, surgeons who bark, residents who talk over you, fellows who treat interns like background noise. You told yourself it wouldn't get to you. Some doctors treat interns like walking clipboards. It's nothing personal
Except with Langdon… it feels personal.
Not because he snaps or belittles you, he doesn't. He simply erases you. He moves around you like you're part of the furniture, like the crash cart or the supply cabinet. You'll present a patient and he'll redirect his gaze to the monitor before you finish your second sentence. You'll stand beside him in a trauma and he'll hand instruments past you like you're a gap in space. He never mispronounces your name because he never says it. The only acknowledgment comes when he orders scans or assigns the tedious exams no one else wants: "Full neuro exam. Rectal. Document everything." No inflection. No praise. No irritation. Just efficiency.
You begin to wonder if you've offended him somehow, if you said something wrong in that half-finished introduction, if he's already decided you're incompetent.
And worse is when he decides to quiz you. In front of everyone. It happens without warning. You'll be mid-sentence presenting, heart pounding but voice steady, and suddenly: "What's the mechanism of action? What's the dose adjustment in renal impairment? Why are we not worried about this potassium?" The entire workstation goes quiet. Monitors beep, keyboards click somewhere distant, but around you there's silence. You can feel everyone watching, feel the heat climbing your neck before the question's even finished. And he stands there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, not cruel, not mocking, but unrelenting. Observing you like a case study, like pressure applied to see where the structure cracks.
Sometimes you get it right. Relief flickers through your chest. Sometimes you stumble, your brain scrambling because under his gaze the information feels locked behind a door you can't open. And when you stumble, he doesn't rescue you. He waits. Eyes steady. Clinical. Almost like he gets off on watching your ears slowly turn red.
You hate that your body betrays you like that, heat creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks. You hate that your pulse pounds so loud you're convinced he can hear it. You hate that he notices. Because he notices everything: your hesitations, your second guesses, the way you grip your pen too tight, the way your breathing changes when you're unsure. He doesn't smile when you're right, just a short nod and a quiet "Good," as if competence is the baseline and approval unnecessary. But when you miss something, his correction is precise and sharp: "You're thinking too small. Don't anchor. You're not listening." Not cruel. Just exact.
You go home some nights replaying his voice in your head more than your patients. You'll be brushing your teeth and suddenly hear, “Diagnosis?” You'll lie in bed thinking about the way he narrowed his eyes when you hesitated. You tell yourself it's educational, that this is how you get better. And the worst part? You can't even say you dislike him.
He's brilliant.
You've watched him drop central lines like it's muscle memory, smooth, controlled, no wasted movement. Watched him read an EKG in three seconds and call a cath lab activation before anyone else saw it. You've seen attendings defer to him without realizing they're doing it. He moves through the ER with sharp assurance, diving into cases with quick, bold moves. He thrives here. The chaos seems to hum in tune with him, like he's tuned to the same frequency as crashing vitals and overhead pages. He requires little to no supervision. He makes sound judgment calls. He is a natural. Patients stabilize under his hands. Nurses trust his orders. Other residents watch him the way you do, carefully.
And you? You are just trying not to drown. You're triple-checking doses, replaying histories in your head, second-guessing your differentials, trying to look composed while your insides buzz with constant self-evaluation.
You tell yourself it doesn't matter that he's never asked where you're from. Never asked how you're settling in. Never once used your name unless it's attached to a task. You tell yourself you don't care that when other attendings laugh at something you say, he doesn't even glance up. That when you stay late to finish notes, he leaves without looking back. You tell yourself it's better this way. Clean. Professional. Unattached.
Except safe is a lie you tell yourself when you don't want to admit you're lonely.
By the end of that first week, your throat is raw from swallowing questions. Your feet ache in a way that makes you feel older than you are. You’ve learned the geography of the department, where the crash carts hide, which nurses will teach you without making you beg, which attendings like bullet points instead of paragraphs. You’ve learned how to move quickly without looking like you’re running.
What you haven’t learned is how to exist here as a person.
Because Langdon doesn’t leave room for personhood. Around him, you become a set of tasks. A pair of hands. A voice delivering data. And when he erases you, you start erasing yourself too, tightening your smile, shrinking your presence, making yourself smaller so you can be overlooked on purpose instead of by accident.
So when someone finally looks at you like you’re not just another intern-shaped obstacle in the hallway it hits harder than it should.
The other intern starts paying you attention in a way that feels deliberate.
It begins so small you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
His chair nudges closer when you’re both charting. Not close-close, not touching, but enough that the wheels squeak and the gap between your elbows becomes a suggestion instead of a fact. He angles his screen a fraction toward you like you’re a team. He asks questions he could absolutely look up himself.
“Hey,” he says one night shift, voice pitched low over the constant chorus of monitors and overhead paging, “what did you put for your differential on the syncope in 12?”
You blink at him. “Uh. Orthostatic, arrhythmia, anemia… dehydration… PE because she’s on oral contraceptives and -”
He grins. “See, that. Your brain. I like it.”
You stare at the note you’re writing, suddenly unable to remember how to spell dehydration.
Dating is the last of your worries. You’ve got exams that sit like bricks in your stomach, the kind you can’t chew through or swallow, just carry. You’ve got skills checklists. You’ve got a list of procedures you’re terrified you’ll never get smooth at. You’ve got attendings with eyes like scalpels and nurses who have seen every brand-new intern fall apart at least once.
You do not have time for any of it.
“You’re doing fine,” he adds, as if he can read the thought scrawled across your forehead. He swivels his chair another inch closer. “Seriously. First week is brutal. I nearly cried in the supply closet.”
You snort despite yourself. “You?”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning in like he’s telling you a secret. “Because I couldn’t find the right size IV catheter and a trauma rolled in and I thought I’d end up on the news as ‘intern who killed a man with incompetence.’”
Your laugh escapes you before you can trap it. It feels warm in your chest. Dangerous.
He keeps talking. About normal things. Safe things. The cafeteria coffee that tastes like someone tried to brew despair. The bizarre number of adults who come in convinced they’re dying because they ate a gummy vitamin on an empty stomach. The way the overhead voice always sounds slightly disappointed in everyone.
You find yourself relaxing around him in the same way you relax when you finally take off shoes that have been pinching you all day. It’s not romantic, you tell yourself. It’s not like that.
It can’t be like that.
Because the ER is a world that eats softness for breakfast.
And because Dr. Langdon is still moving through it like a blade.
Dr. Langdon notices.
You don’t see it at first, because you’ve trained yourself not to look at him unless you absolutely have to. Not because you’re terrified, though there’s a small, humiliating part of you that is, but because attention from him has never meant anything good.
Attention from Langdon means scrutiny.
It means: Why didn’t you order that? Why is this missing? What’s your plan?
It means: Say it. Out loud. In front of everyone.
It means the slow, creeping heat up your neck while the other interns suddenly become very interested in their keyboards.
So you adapt.
You keep your eyes on your work. On your patients. On the numbers. On the tiny order sets and lab trends and checkbox decisions that feel like they weigh a thousand pounds when you’re new and everything could be a mistake.
You make yourself smaller around him.
Efficient. Neutral. Unremarkable.
You do not look at him.
But you feel him anyway.
You feel him the way you feel a storm building, pressure shifting, air charged, something metallic under your tongue. The sense that if you glance up, you’ll find his eyes already there.
It’s subtle at first.
You’re at the central station, charting. The department hums in the background, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, a stretcher rattling past, the overhead pager clearing its throat before announcing another consult.
Evan slides his chair closer.
Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just enough that the wheels squeak softly against the floor.
His knee bumps yours under the desk.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
He doesn’t move away.
“Mm,” you reply, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen like the sodium level in room twelve is the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.
Evan leans slightly toward you, pointing at your note. “You’re writing like… a lot.”
“It’s thorough,” you say defensively.
“It’s pretty,” he says, too earnest.
You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you and tilts upward. “That’s not a word anyone’s ever used for my documentation.”
He shrugs, smiling. “First time for everything.”
You both laugh, quiet, contained, like you’re not sure laughter is allowed here.
It’s small. Harmless. Normal. And that’s why it stands out.
Because normal doesn’t live here very long.
Across the department, someone calls, "Trauma to bay two!" The world shifts instantly, chairs scrape, nurses move, someone swears, a monitor alarm spikes. You and Evan stand in tandem, chairs skittering back. Your pulse jumps ahead of you, already in trauma mode. You grab your stethoscope, brain switching gears so fast it almost hurts.
You jog toward the bay and nearly collide with Dr. Langdon.
He's moving in the opposite direction, purposeful and fast, like the chaos parts around him by instinct. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow. You misjudge the distance. Your shoulder clips his chest, solid, unyielding, and the impact sends a sharp jolt through you. Your balance tips backward, stomach dropping as your heels slide against the polished floor.
And then his hands are on you. Both of them. Firm and strong. One gripping your upper arm, the other catching your opposite shoulder, fingers spreading instinctively to steady you before you can tumble. The contact is automatic, reflexive, controlled, but solid enough that you feel it everywhere. Through the thin cotton of your scrubs, straight to your pulse. His grip is steady, grounding, decisive. For a breath, you're chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that your brain blanks entirely.
You look up. He's already looking down at you. Not annoyed, not amused. Focused. His jaw tightens slightly, eyes scanning your face as if confirming you're upright, intact.
"You need to watch where you're going," he says, voice low and even. But there's something under it, sharper than irritation.
Your hands are still half-raised from the impact, fingers curled against the front of his scrub top. You hadn't realized you'd grabbed him.
"I- sorry," you breathe.
He doesn’t release you immediately. His hands remain at your arms a fraction longer than necessary, like he's making sure you're steady, like he's reluctant to let go before he's certain you won't fall. Then, slowly, his grip loosens. His fingers slide away from your sleeves. The absence of his touch feels abrupt.
"Room five's ECG?" he asks.
Back to business. Back to clinical tone. But your skin is still buzzing where he held you. And you're suddenly very aware that in a department full of motion and noise, he was the only thing that didn't move. This time he's not looking past you. He's looking at you. Really looking.
"I ordered it," you say quickly, throat tight. "It should be-"
"It should be done," he cuts in. Same tone, same efficiency. Except his fingers don't leave your elbow right away. You become acutely aware of everything, how close he's standing, how steady his gaze is, how your skin feels too tight.
"Go," he says.
You nod, stepping out of his grip. The loss of contact is almost as noticeable as the touch itself.
Behind you, Evan says, "Hey-" and then stops, like he's just realized he shouldn't have spoken. You risk a glance back. Evan is staring at Langdon the way you stare at a dog that hasn't decided whether to bite. Langdon doesn't look at him at first. Then he does. Brief. A glance. But it's cold and direct and unmistakably territorial. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
He turns away, already moving toward trauma bay two with that confident, clipped stride, quick, bold, certain. Gloves snapping onto his hands as he walks. Voice cutting cleanly through the noise as he calls for airway equipment.
But as he passes the central station, his gaze sweeps the desk where you and Evan had been sitting. Where the chairs were too close. Where your knees had touched.
He slows. Just a fraction. Barely perceptible.
And then he's moving again.
The thing about Langdon is that he exists in two speeds, with no comfortable middle ground. One is absolute stillness, standing at the foot of a bed, hands in his pockets, watching monitors like they're about to confess something. The other is sudden, decisive action: gloves snapping on, voice cutting through chaos, ordering the room into obedience without ever raising it. You've seen him drop a central line like it was nothing, intubate like breathing, read an EKG and decide someone's fate in seconds. You've also seen him stare blankly when a patient cries, like he's waiting for the crying to finish so the real conversation can continue.
You don't know what he is right now, stillness or action. He's leaning against the nurse's station, coffee in hand, pretending to read a chart. But you know he saw. He saw Evan's chair close to yours. He saw Evan leaning in. He saw you laughing. It shouldn't matter. It's ridiculous that it does. But you feel the weight of his attention anyway, heavy and wordless, pressing against the back of your neck like a hand you can't brush away.
That night, you find yourself in the supply room, restocking IV kits. It’s a small, quiet way of being helpful, trying to be useful, trying to be the kind of intern people don’t regret letting into the room. The space is narrow and overbright, shelves stacked to the ceiling with gauze, syringes, saline flushes, and IV start kits in plastic-wrapped bundles that crinkle when you touch them. It smells faintly of antiseptic and cardboard, and the fluorescent light hums overhead like it’s tired too. You count under your breath as you stack the kits, one, two, three, because if your hands are busy, your brain doesn’t spiral.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, the sound too loud in the small room. You hesitate before pulling it out, as if you already know who it is. You coming to grab coffee after? – Evan. You stare at the message like it’s a trick question, like there’s a correct answer and you’re about to choose wrong. You want to say no. You want to say you don’t have time, that you have to go home and study and sleep and prepare for tomorrow like you’re about to climb a mountain barefoot. You want to be disciplined, focused, untouchable. But you also want to say yes. Because you’re lonely. Because the ER is loud and relentless, and you’re new and trying so hard not to make mistakes that you’ve stopped breathing properly. Because every interaction with Langdon feels like a test you didn’t know you were taking, while Evan’s attention feels easy. Dr. Langdon’s attention, on the other hand, feels like a spotlight you can’t escape.
You type: Maybe. I’m still on shift. The three dots appear almost immediately. I’ll wait. Your heart does something annoying and fluttery at that, something you don’t have time for. You tuck the phone away quickly, as if someone might see it and confiscate it, and grab another box of saline flushes.
You step sideways to reach the upper shelf, and nearly walk right into Dr. Langdon. He’s standing in the doorway, blocking most of the light like a cutout, like he’s been there long enough to watch you but not long enough for you to notice. Your pulse spikes. He’s in navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up slightly, forearms bare. He looks less like a physician and more like something carved sharp and deliberate out of the chaos. His face is the same calm mask you’ve come to resent, composed, impassive, unreadable, but his eyes flick briefly to your pocket, then back to your face.
“Busy?” he asks. You blink. “Uh… no. Just restocking.” Your voice sounds thinner than you’d like. A pause stretches between you. He steps inside, and the room feels smaller instantly, the shelves feel closer. You’re suddenly hyperaware of how narrow the space is, how there’s nowhere to step without brushing against him. Your brain tries to supply a reason for him to be here and comes up empty. “I need a 20-gauge,” he says. You nod too quickly and point toward the upper drawer. “Top left.”
He doesn’t move. Not immediately. Instead, he looks at you, not through you, but at you like he’s trying to read a label you forgot to attach.
“You’re doing a lot of socializing,” he says. The words land hard. Not loud or angry, just extremely personal. It hits you like a slap, not because it’s cruel but because it means he noticed.
Your mouth opens and nothing comes out for a second. “I’m- what?” you manage. His gaze doesn’t waver. “At the station.”
Heat floods your face, immediate and humiliating. “We were charting,” you say, defensive before you can stop yourself. “And talking. It’s not, I mean, it’s not like I’m neglecting patients.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he replies. There’s a faint, dry edge to his tone, not mocking, not quite, but more like something sharpened and carefully controlled. “Though I can see why you’d jump to that conclusion.” Your nails dig into your palm. “Why are you even-”
He moves then. Steps closer. Close enough that you have to shift backward slightly to avoid bumping into the shelving behind you. He reaches up past you to grab the 20-gauge catheter. It’s on the top shelf, which means he has to lean in, one arm braced lightly against the metal shelving beside your head, the other reaching over your shoulder. His chest is inches from yours. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint brush of fabric as his scrubs shift, the subtle scent of antiseptic and coffee and something clean and sharp that is just him.
You’re in his bubble. Or maybe he’s in yours. Either way, it’s too close. Your breath catches. His fingers close around the catheter, but he doesn’t rush to pull away. For a second, his arm is still braced beside you, his head angled slightly downward, close enough that if you tilted your chin up, you’d…
You swallow hard. He straightens slowly, stepping back just enough to create space again. He slips the catheter into his pocket.
“You’re new,” he says, voice quieter now, controlled. “Distractions don’t help.” You stare at him.
“So you’re what,” you say, pulse still unsteady. “Giving me advice?”
“I’m telling you to keep up,” he replies. There it is, the familiar tone. Cold. Professional. Precise.
He turns to leave, then stops in the doorway, like something invisible caught him by the collar. Without looking back, he adds, “Evan’s not as helpful as he looks.” You blink, thrown. “What does that mean?” His shoulders tense, just slightly, a small, betraying movement.
“It means,” he says, voice flatter now, tighter, “that not everyone who smiles at you is doing it for you.” The words hang in the air, heavy, layered. And then he’s gone. Just like that. You stand there among the saline flushes and IV kits and fluorescent hum, staring at the doorway like it might explain itself. Your pulse is still racing, your skin still buzzing where he leaned too close.
Your phone buzzes again. You almost drop it. Still alive? – Evan. You swallow. Your fingers hover over the screen longer than they should. Yeah. Just busy. You hit send. And you don’t know why your hands are still shaking.
When you step back onto the floor from the supply room, the noise hits you all at once. Monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, someone argues with radiology over a delayed scan, a stretcher rattles past with a patient clutching an emesis bag. It should feel grounding, familiar chaos, something you can disappear into, but your skin still hums where Langdon leaned in, where his arm braced beside your head, where his voice dropped just enough to make his warning feel less like professional advice and more like something else entirely.
You tell yourself to shake it off. You adjust your badge, smooth the front of your coat, force your shoulders back into something resembling composure. You are fine. You are not a first-year med student flustered by proximity. You are a resident. You have patients waiting.
Evan is at the central station exactly where you left him, perched sideways in his chair with one elbow hooked over the back. He looks up immediately when you approach. His expression changes in a way that’s almost imperceptible but unmistakable, his smile softens, his brows knit slightly.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
You busy yourself with logging back into the computer, grateful for the barrier of the screen. “Just inventory,” you reply. “Thrilling stuff.”
He doesn’t laugh. He studies you instead. “Was he in there?”
You glance at him before you can stop yourself. “Who?”
Evan’s mouth tilts knowingly. “Come on.”
You don’t answer, which is answer enough.
He swivels his chair closer, lowering his voice. “Did he say something?”
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You could tell him. You could repeat Langdon’s line about distractions, about not everyone smiling at you for the right reasons. You could admit that it rattled you more than it should have. Instead, you shrug.
“It was nothing,” you say. “He needed a catheter.”
Evan’s jaw tightens just slightly. “Of course he did.”
There’s a beat of silence before he nudges a paper cup toward you across the counter. You hadn’t noticed it sitting there.
“Coffee,” he says. “I grabbed you one earlier. Figured you’d say yes eventually.”
You stare at it. You hadn’t agreed. You’d said maybe. There’s something about that, about him assuming, that makes you hesitate.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” you say carefully. “After shift. I have notes. And I should probably—”
“Study,” he finishes for you, smiling gently. “You always say that.”
You do hesitate. You feel it, how easy it would be to say no and retreat into the safe, disciplined version of yourself. But you’re tired. Your throat still feels tight from swallowing everything Langdon didn’t quite say.
“Maybe,” you repeat, softer this time.
Evan’s smile widens. He takes it as encouragement, as progress. “I’ll walk you to your car at least,” he says. “You don’t have to decide about coffee yet.”
Before you can respond, a voice cuts across the station.
“Room twelve’s repeat labs?”
You recognize his voice before you register the words. It cuts cleanly through the background noise of the department, steady, level, impossible to ignore. You hadn’t seen him approach. One second it was just you and Evan and the low murmur of shared conversation, and the next Langdon is there at the opposite end of the counter, close enough that his presence shifts the space.
He rests one hand lightly against the workstation, long fingers spread against the surface as he studies the patient board. He doesn’t look at Evan. He doesn’t even look at you at first. His gaze moves quickly over the columns of names and times and pending labs, absorbing everything in a way that makes you feel like the board itself is reporting to him.
“They’re pending,” you answer immediately, your voice sharper than you intend. You are suddenly very aware of how close Evan’s chair is to yours, how the paper coffee cup sits near your elbow like evidence.
Langdon’s eyes lift then.
Not the familiar quizzing look that pins you in place and demands an answer. Not the dissecting one that strips your plan down to bone. This is different. Quieter. Slower. His gaze settles on you with a kind of measured consideration that makes your stomach tighten.
“Call the lab,” he says. “They’ve been slow all night.”
There’s nothing in his tone to object to. It’s practical. Sensible. You nod and reach for the phone without argument, grateful for something concrete to do.
Beside you, Evan shifts. “I can call—”
“I asked her,” Langdon replies.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t sharpen it. The words are delivered evenly, almost mildly, but they land with the weight of a closed door. Controlled. Clean. Final.
Evan stills.
You feel the change in atmosphere immediately, a subtle tightening that hums between them. It’s the kind of shift that might go unnoticed by anyone not standing inside it, but you are standing inside it, and it makes your pulse stutter.
Langdon’s gaze drops briefly, and for a moment you think he’s returned to the board. He hasn’t. His eyes flick downward, not to your face, but to the space between you and Evan. To the angle of your chairs. To the proximity that had felt harmless a minute ago. To the coffee cup by your hand.
Then his eyes return to you.
“Room eight needs reassessment,” he says. “Now.”
You almost tell him you were about to go. The words rise instinctively to defend yourself, to prove you’re not distracted, not careless. But something in his expression holds you back. It isn’t irritation. It isn’t disappointment. It’s something more tightly drawn, something that feels less like critique and more like containment.
“Yes,” you say instead.
You push your chair back and stand. Evan stands too, instinctively falling into step with you. “I’ll come with—”
“No,” Langdon interjects smoothly. He shifts his attention to Evan for the first time, though he doesn’t fully face him. “You’re with me in bay three.”
Evan hesitates. “I thought I was—”
“You’re with me,” Langdon repeats, already turning away as if the matter is settled.
He doesn’t look back at Evan again. He doesn’t need to. The authority in his tone is enough.
You walk toward room eight with your heartbeat drumming faintly in your ears, acutely aware that Langdon didn’t accuse you of anything. He didn’t comment on the coffee. He didn’t mention Evan by name. He didn’t need to.
He simply rearranged the room.
And in doing so, he separated you.
Through the glass panels, you catch a glimpse of him in bay three. He stands beside Evan now, posture relaxed, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other gestures lightly toward the monitor. His voice carries in low, measured tones, the same voice he uses when he’s instructing, when he’s teaching without humiliation. Anyone watching would see nothing unusual. Just a senior resident guiding a junior.
But there’s a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. A slight tension at the edge of his mouth.
Evan listens, nodding stiffly.
For a brief moment, Langdon’s eyes lift from the monitor and travel across the department.
They find you. It isn’t accidental. It isn’t wandering. It’s deliberate.
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s no clinical distance in that look. No impersonal assessment. It feels direct in a way that makes your breath catch, as if he’s measuring something that has nothing to do with lab values or vital signs.
You look away first.
You tell yourself it’s because you have a patient waiting.
For the rest of the shift, the undercurrent remains. It isn’t loud or explosive. There’s no confrontation. No raised voices. Just presence.
Langdon appears at your shoulder more often than strictly necessary, leaning in to review your notes and correcting details that are technically fine. He redirects you to different rooms whenever Evan drifts too close, assigning you tasks in that calm, unarguable tone. When he asks you questions, they sound casual to anyone listening, but there’s weight beneath them, a focus that feels personal.
He doesn’t touch you again. He doesn’t mention Evan. But he watches.
And you can feel it, steady and unrelenting, like a hand hovering just at the small of your back.
Over the next few shifts, the changes are subtle enough that you can almost pretend they aren’t happening.
Evan’s chair ends up beside yours more often than not. If there’s an open workstation further down the counter, he ignores it. If someone else sits near you, he finds a reason to hover. It starts with proximity and the easy comfort you’d already let yourself accept. His knee brushes yours under the desk during charting, and at first you assume it’s accidental. The second time, he murmurs a soft apology without moving away. By the third time, you realize he’s angling his body toward you deliberately, his thigh resting just close enough that you’re aware of the contact even when you’re trying not to be.
When you pass charts back and forth, his fingers graze yours. The touch lingers half a second longer than necessary. He smiles each time, casual, like there’s nothing loaded in the gesture at all. It would be easy to dismiss it as friendliness if you weren’t starting to feel the pattern.
He compliments your work constantly, and at first it’s harmless. “Your notes are always the clearest.” “You think through things better than most of us.” It’s validating in a way that feels almost dangerous after the steady pressure of Langdon’s scrutiny. Where Langdon finds gaps, Evan highlights strengths. Where Langdon pushes, Evan reassures.
But then the compliments shift.
“You know,” Evan says one night as you’re both reviewing labs, “you’re wasted trying to get his approval.”
You glance at him. “What?”
He nods subtly toward the far end of the station where Langdon stands with a nurse, reviewing imaging. “You work harder than anyone here. And he acts like you’re just barely keeping up.”
Your jaw tightens. “He doesn’t act like that.”
Evan raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t even look at you unless he’s quizzing you.”
The words hit closer than you want them to.
You turn back to your screen. “He looks at everyone like that.”
“Not like he looks at you,” Evan says quietly.
You don’t respond, but you feel it settle somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.
Langdon does look at you differently. You’ve felt that shift. The attention that lingers a second too long. The quiet assessments that feel less clinical lately. The way he rearranges assignments without explanation.
You tell yourself it’s professional.
Evan doesn’t seem to think so.
“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” he continues, softer now. “Not someone who treats you like a project.”
The comment is too personal. It crosses a line you hadn’t agreed to draw. You let out a short laugh to deflect. “I’m not looking for someone.”
“I know,” he says. “But still.”
There’s something in his tone that makes your skin prickle.
Across the department, Langdon shifts position. You don’t mean to look, but you do. He’s no longer focused on the imaging. His posture has changed slightly, weight angled toward the station. His gaze isn’t openly fixed on you, but it isn’t random either. It passes over the counter, over the cluster of residents, and lands briefly on Evan’s hand where it rests too close to yours.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
The escalation continues in increments small enough that no one else would notice.
When you’re presenting a patient, Evan steps closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours as he leans in to “add context.” When Langdon moves into the space to ask a question, Evan shifts just slightly to remain between you and him, like it’s instinctive. It’s subtle positioning, but you feel it every time.
One afternoon in the hallway outside radiology, Evan reaches for your elbow to steer you toward a case. His grip is light, but it’s firm enough that you stop walking. “You don’t have to impress him,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”
You pull your arm back gently. “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
“You always tense up when he’s around,” Evan says. “You don’t do that with me.”
There’s a reason for that. Being around Evan feels easy because there’s no risk of humiliation. No sudden questions. No razor-sharp corrections. With Evan, you’re not constantly bracing.
With Langdon, you are always aware.
And lately, Langdon seems just as aware of you.
He appears beside you mid-conversation more frequently. He asks for updates directly from you, even when Evan has just spoken. When you and Evan are reviewing imaging together, Langdon inserts himself with quiet authority, leaning over your shoulder to point out a finding. His arm doesn’t touch you, but the space between you shrinks until you’re hyperaware of the heat of him.
“Your interpretation?” he asks you, ignoring Evan entirely.
You answer. He listens. The intensity of his focus feels different now. Less about exposing flaws. More about pulling something from you specifically.
Evan notices.
You can see it in the way his jaw tightens when Langdon interrupts. In the way he lingers afterward, stepping back into your space the second Langdon walks away.
It becomes a pattern.
If Evan leans in, Langdon appears.
If Evan touches your wrist while handing you a pen, Langdon assigns you to a different room.
If Evan positions himself at your side during a trauma, Langdon directs him elsewhere with a calm, unarguable instruction.
“Bay four,” he’ll say, not looking at Evan. “You’re needed.”
He never references you. He never mentions what he’s doing.
He just rearranges the board.
And every time, his gaze flicks to you afterward, measuring something.
The tension builds in layers. Easy warmth on one side. Controlled intensity on the other.
Evan grows more confident in his closeness. He stands a little nearer. Lets his hand rest at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded hallway. Compliments your appearance once, casually, like it’s nothing. “You look good today,” he says, eyes lingering just long enough to make it clear he means more than your documentation.
You laugh it off. You tell yourself it’s harmless. But you’re aware of the way Langdon’s attention sharpens when it happens.
He doesn’t confront Evan. He doesn’t confront you. He simply watches. And that might be worse than if he did.
Because there’s no explosion. No scene. Just a steady tightening of something unspoken. His presence becomes heavier, his proximity more deliberate. When he stands beside you now, it feels intentional. When he corrects you, it feels personal.
Langdon offers pressure. Focus. A gaze that feels like it sees straight through you.
And the more Evan pushes, the more Langdon’s silence grows charged.
The shift is nearing its end when it happens. The waiting room has thinned, the chaos dulled into a tired hum. It’s that strange hour where the ER exhales but never fully sleeps. The overhead lights feel harsher somehow, casting everything in pale fluorescence. You tell yourself you just need to get through the last few tasks, med reconciliation in room nine, discharge paperwork in twelve, restock the airway cart because no one else will.
You duck into the medication room to grab antiemetics for a patient who hasn’t stopped vomiting since triage. The space is narrow and poorly ventilated, shelves packed with labeled drawers and locked cabinets. The lighting is softer in here, slightly dimmer than the hallway, giving everything a muted edge. The door swings shut behind you with a quiet click.
You’re reaching for the ondansetron when you hear it open again.
You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.
“Hey,” Evan says quietly.
You glance over your shoulder. He closes the door more firmly this time, not aggressively, but enough that the latch catches.
“I just needed to grab something,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the shelves.
“Yeah,” he replies, stepping inside. “I figured.”
There’s less space now. The room was small before. With him in it, it feels close.
You turn back to the cabinet, trying to keep it normal. “Did you need something?”
“Actually,” he says, and his voice is different. Softer. Intentional. “I wanted to talk to you.”
You feel your shoulders tighten. “About?”
He exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter behind him. “About us.”
Your stomach drops.
“There isn’t an us,” you say lightly, trying to defuse whatever Ethan thinks is going on.
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come on. You’ve been giving me a chance.”
You hesitate. That word. Chance. You remember the coffee. The maybe. The way you didn’t shut him down cleanly because you didn’t want to be harsh.
“I said maybe to coffee,” you reply carefully. “That’s not—”
“It’s not nothing,” he interrupts gently. “You didn’t say no.”
He pushes off the counter and steps closer. Not abruptly. Not threateningly. Just closing the distance inch by inch.
“You’ve been leaning in,” he continues. “Laughing. Staying. You could’ve walked away.”
Your back brushes lightly against the shelving. You hadn’t realized you’d stepped backward.
“I was just being friendly,” you say.
“And I was being more than that,” he says.
There’s something in his tone now that makes your pulse spike. Confidence. Assumption.
“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” he adds quietly. “Not someone who only talks to you when he wants to correct you.”
Your chest tightens. You know who he means. The comparison feels like a hook under your skin.
“That’s not fair,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure who you’re defending.
“I see you,” Evan says. “I see how hard you work. I see how he looks at you like you’re a problem to solve.”
You don’t answer. He steps closer again. This time, there’s no pretending it’s accidental.
Your brain blanks for half a second. It’s not violent. It’s not forceful. But it’s not invited either. The shock of it steals your breath. You freeze, muscles locked, trying to catch up with what’s happening.
“You don’t have to impress him,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
He leans in. You see it coming. You know what he’s about to do.
And still, you hesitate. Because you don’t want to make a scene. Because you don’t want to hurt him. Because you hate confrontation more than almost anything.
His other hand comes up to your shoulder, fingers curling gently but possessively. His face is inches from yours now.
And then he kisses you.
It’s not rough. Not aggressive. But it’s claiming.
Your body doesn’t respond. There’s no spark. No pull. No answering shift. There’s only heat flooding your face and the sudden, sharp realization that this is wrong.
In a spilt second you shove him back.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not a slap. Just a firm push against his chest that creates space between you.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt immediately, the words tumbling out on instinct. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”
He stares at you, stunned.
“Why are you apologizing?” he asks.
“Because I didn’t—I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea.”
“You didn’t,” he insists. “You were into it.”
Your stomach twists.
“I wasn’t,” you say, stepping sideways so you’re no longer pinned against the shelving. Your voice is quieter now, but steadier. “I wasn’t.”
His expression hardens slightly, confusion edging toward defensiveness.
“I was tired,” you say, the embarrassment burning up your neck. “And I thought we were just—”
“Just what?”
“Colleagues,” you finish.
Silence stretches between you.
You feel foolish. Guilty. Like you’ve somehow created this misunderstanding even though you know you didn’t ask for his hand on your waist.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because it feels easier than standing firm.
Evan exhales sharply. “I thought you wanted this.”
“I don’t,” you say. The words land heavier than you expect.
He studies your face for a moment, searching for something, doubt, regret, invitation. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it.
“Is it him?” he asks quietly.
Your heart stumbles.
“What?”
“Is it because of him?”
You don’t answer. The door handle rattles suddenly from the outside. Both of you look toward it instinctively.
And when it opens, it isn’t a nurse who steps inside.
It’s Langdon.
His gaze moves once, slow and deliberate.
He takes in Evan’s position first. The way Evan is standing too close to you. The way your back is angled toward the shelving instead of toward him. The small but unmistakable distance you’ve created since pushing him away. The tension still held tight in your shoulders.
Then his eyes lift to your face. There is no surprise in them. No visible anger. No flare of temper. Only calculation.
For a moment, the three of you exist in a suspended pocket of silence. The ventilation hums softly overhead. The fluorescent light flickers faintly. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.
Langdon doesn’t ask what’s going on.
He doesn’t look at Evan again immediately.
He looks at you.
“Room nine is asking for you,” he says evenly.
His voice is steady, measured, perfectly professional. Anyone overhearing it would hear nothing but routine workflow. But you know the board. You know no one paged you for nine. The lie is clean enough that no one else would question it.
You swallow. “I was just—”
“I know,” he says.
The words are quiet, but they land with weight. Not accusatory. Not sympathetic. Just certain.
Evan shifts beside you. “She’s with me.”
Langdon’s head tilts slightly, though he still hasn’t fully turned toward him. There’s a faint tightening at the edge of his mouth, so small it would be easy to miss if you weren’t watching him.
“You’re needed in CT,” Langdon replies.
It’s the same tone he uses when ordering imaging or redirecting a consult. Calm. Unimpeachable.
Evan frowns. “We were in the middle of something.”
Now Langdon looks at him.
It’s not a glare. It’s not heated. It’s colder than that. The kind of look that strips away assumption and leaves nothing but hierarchy.
“She’s needed,” he repeats, and then his gaze shifts back to you.
“Now.”
He says it to you, not to Evan.
The emphasis is subtle, but unmistakable. His eyes hold yours when he says it, steady and unwavering, as if waiting to see which direction you’ll move.
You don’t hesitate this time. “Okay.”
The word feels small in your mouth, but you step forward anyway. As you move past him, you’re acutely aware of his presence in the doorway. He shifts slightly, not enough to block anyone outright, but enough that Evan would have to brush past him to follow.
Evan doesn’t try.
There’s a flicker of irritation in his expression as he steps back. “Fine,” he mutters.
Langdon doesn’t acknowledge the tone. He doesn’t need to. He simply turns and walks into the hallway, assuming you will follow.
You do.
The ER noise crashes back in around you, bright and unrelenting. A nurse near the station glances up as you and Langdon emerge from the med room together. Her eyes linger half a second too long, curiosity sparking. Another resident pauses mid-sentence, gaze shifting between the three of you.
No one says anything out loud.
But the shift is felt.
Langdon moves through it as if nothing is unusual. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, one hand slipping casually into the pocket of his scrubs. If someone were watching from a distance, they would see only a senior resident redirecting a junior. Efficient. Ordinary.
Except you were just inside that room.
You know it wasn’t ordinary.
“Room nine,” he says again, as if reinforcing the fiction. “They’ve been waiting on reassessment.”
His tone leaves no space for debate.
You nod and move ahead, but he doesn’t immediately peel away to another task. Instead, he remains within a few steps of you, close enough that you feel the steadiness of him at your back.
Evan reappears near the central station, jaw tight, watching. Langdon doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t address him again. The dismissal is complete.
As you reach the workstation to pull up room nine’s chart, Langdon stops beside you. He leans one hand on the counter, close but not touching, his gaze fixed on the screen.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
The question is almost clinical in delivery, but there’s nothing clinical about the way his eyes flick over your face.
It’s the first time he’s asked something like that.
You nod automatically. “I’m fine.”
His jaw shifts slightly, as if he’s weighing the truth of that statement.
“If I wanted to embarrass you,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond the two of you, “I would have asked what was happening in there.”
Your breath catches.
“I didn’t,” he continues. “That was intentional.”
There’s no triumph in his tone. No self-congratulation. Just fact.
Heat spreads up your neck, but this time it isn’t humiliation. It’s something more complicated.
“I didn’t need rescuing,” you reply, the defensiveness rising before you can stop it.
His gaze sharpens slightly at that.
“I know,” he says.
The simplicity of the answer unsettles you more than any argument would have.
“Ethan must’ve missed the importance of the consent talk in medical school,” he says quietly, almost under his breath.
He saw enough. Not the kiss but enough to step in. And he did it without raising his voice, without making a scene, without staking a claim in words.
A nurse calls his name from across the station. “Dr. Langdon, they need you upstairs. A helicopter’s arriving.”
His expression shifts instantly, smoothing back into its usual controlled neutrality, the personal sealed away behind professional focus. He nods once toward the nurse, already recalibrating.
Then his eyes return to you.
“Walk with me,” he says.
It isn’t a request.
He doesn’t wait to see if you hesitate. He turns, already moving toward the elevators, long strides confident and unhurried. For half a second you consider staying where you are, consider letting the moment dissolve back into workflow. But something in the way he said it, quiet, direct, deliberate, pulls you forward.
You follow.
The department parts around him as it always does. Nurses step aside without being asked. A tech moves a stretcher just enough to clear his path. You trail half a step behind at first, then fall into stride beside him. He doesn’t look at you as you walk, but you are acutely aware of his presence. Of the contained energy in his movements, the tension held just beneath the surface.
When you reach the elevators, he presses the call button once. The doors open almost immediately.
He steps inside and turns, holding the door with one hand as it begins to slide closed.
“Inside,” he says, his gaze locking onto yours.
You step in. The elevator doors slide shut with a muted thud, sealing you into a narrow metal box that suddenly feels far too small for both of you. The noise of the ER is cut off mid-breath. No monitors. No overhead paging. No nurses moving past with charts. Just the low mechanical hum as the car begins to descend.
Langdon stands opposite you at first, hands loosely at his sides, posture composed as ever. The fluorescent light overhead casts sharp lines across his face, emphasizing the hard set of his jaw. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He presses the button for the lower floor with the same calm precision he uses to order imaging or start a procedure.
“You can’t let people corner you like that,” he says, tone level, controlled.
It sounds clinical. Detached. As if he’s discussing airway management.
You stare at the brushed steel wall instead of at him. “I wasn’t cornered.”
He shifts his weight slightly, and you feel the movement even without looking. “You were,” he replies. “And you didn’t shut it down fast enough.”
Heat flares in your chest. “I handled it.”
“You froze.”
The word lands hard.
You turn to face him fully. “You don’t get to dissect that.”
His eyes meet yours then. Steady. Assessing. There’s no mockery in them, no satisfaction at catching you off balance. If anything, there’s tension threaded beneath the surface.
“You’re here to work,” he continues. “Not to manage other people’s feelings.”
Something in you snaps.
“Why do you care?” The question comes out sharper than you intended, but you don’t pull it back.
His expression doesn’t change. “I don’t.”
It’s automatic. Defensive. Too quick.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right.”
The elevator hums as it moves downward. You can feel the faint vibration through the soles of your shoes.
“If you don’t care,” you press, stepping closer despite yourself, “then why do you always target me?”
That hits. You see it. The smallest tightening at the edge of his mouth. The brief flicker in his eyes that suggests you’ve struck something real.
“I don’t target you,” he says, but the certainty in his voice isn’t as solid as it was a moment ago.
“You quiz me in front of everyone. You call on me when you could call on anyone else. You make me feel like I’m constantly one mistake away from being exposed.” Your voice is rising, not loud, but intense. “You humiliate me in front of the entire station and then act like it’s teaching.”
The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, then continues moving. Neither of you look at the floor indicator.
“I push you because you can take it,” he says quietly.
“That’s not an answer.”
“You want an answer?” His composure fractures just enough for you to see the strain beneath it. “You’re capable. More than you think. And you waste time trying to make people comfortable instead of being right.”
“You think I care about making people comfortable?”
“I think you apologize when someone crosses a line instead of setting one.”
Your breath catches.
He steps closer.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just enough that the space between you narrows from several feet to a breath and a half.
The elevator lurches and comes to a temporary halt between floors. The lights flicker once, then steady. The mechanical hum shifts into a strained whir.
You both feel it.
Neither of you mention it.
“You warned me about him,” you say, your voice lower now, more deliberate. “Why?”
His gaze sharpens. “Because he doesn’t see you.”
The answer is immediate.
You swallow. “He does.”
“He sees attention,” Langdon corrects. “He sees access. He doesn’t understand what you are.”
“And what am I?” you challenge.
He hesitates for the first time.
The pause is small but seismic.
“You’re not naive,” he says finally. “But you don’t always recognize when someone is positioning themselves to own a piece of you.”
The words hang heavy between you.
“You don’t get to decide who gets me,” you reply, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.
His jaw tightens.
“I know.”
The admission is quieter than anything he’s said so far.
The elevator remains stalled, suspended in that strange mechanical limbo. The air feels warmer. Thicker.
You take another step forward before you can stop yourself. Now there’s barely space between you. You can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“You act like I’m incompetent,” you continue, but your voice has lost some of its edge. It sounds almost unsteady now. “Like I’m a liability you’re constantly monitoring.”
His eyes darken slightly.
“If you were incompetent,” he says, “I wouldn’t waste my time.”
It’s blunt. Unvarnished. Entirely him.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
Your breathing shifts. You’re aware of it. A little faster. A little shallower.
He notices. Of course he does.
“I don’t humiliate you,” he says, voice lower now. “I refuse to let you hide behind being new.”
“And what does that have to do with him?” you press.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.
“I don’t trust him with you.”
The honesty of it knocks the air from your lungs.
The elevator hum deepens as it prepares to move again, but the car remains suspended for a few more seconds that feel longer than they should.
“You don’t trust him,” you repeat slowly. “Or you don’t trust yourself?”
The question lands harder than you expected.
His hand flexes slightly at his side.
“You think this is about me?” he asks, but there’s no heat in it. Only tension.
“I think you care,” you say. “And you don’t know what to do with that.”
Silence fills the space between you. Dense. Charged.
The elevator jolts back into motion, but neither of you break eye contact.
“You don’t get to claim me because you noticed first,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now. “You don’t get to decide who gets close.”
He inhales slowly.
“I’m not claiming you.”
The lie is softer this time.
The elevator slows as it approaches the next floor. The subtle deceleration shifts your balance forward slightly. Instinctively, his hand lifts, hovering near your waist as if to steady you, though he doesn’t quite touch.
Your eyes drop to the space between you.
Then back up.
“You stepped in,” you say. “You redirected him. You separated us.”
“Yes.”
No denial.
“And you’re telling me that wasn’t personal?”
His jaw tightens again.
“It was necessary.”
“For what?” you demand.
His gaze burns into yours.
“For you.”
The word lands in your chest like a weight.
Your breathing falters. The space between you shrinks further without either of you consciously deciding to close it. The elevator hum is the only sound now, mechanical and distant.
“I don’t need protecting,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“Yes.”
The silence between you stretches so tight it feels like it might snap.
The elevator hums as it descends, but the sound is distant, mechanical, nothing compared to the sound of your own breathing. You're standing too close now. You don't remember stepping forward, and yet there's barely an inch of space between your bodies. The fluorescent light above flickers faintly, washing his face in pale sharpness, jaw clenched, eyes darker than they were moments ago.
"You don't get to decide who gets me," you say again, but the edge in your voice has thinned into something more fragile. More honest.
His chest rises slowly, deliberately. "I know."
He says it like it costs him something.
You hold his gaze, refusing to look away this time. "Then stop acting like you do."
Something shifts in his expression then. Not anger. Not control. Something far more dangerous.
"You think I don't know that?" he asks quietly. His voice is lower now, rougher around the edges. "You think I don't know I don't get to—"
He cuts himself off.
The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, the mechanical tension mirroring the strain in the air between you. You feel the deceleration pull you forward a fraction. His hand comes up instinctively to steady you, fingers wrapping around your waist before he can stop himself.
The contact is firm. Unthinking. You both freeze. His grip tightens.
For a split second, neither of you move. Your hands are hovering near his chest, your breath caught halfway between inhale and exhale. His thumb presses into the small of your back, anchoring you there.
His eyes drop to your mouth.
And something in him snaps.
His hand leaves your waist only to slide upward, fingers curling around your jaw. Not gentle. Not tentative. His palm is warm and solid against your skin as he tilts your face up toward his.
The kiss is sudden.
It isn't careful. It isn't sweet.
It crashes into you.
His mouth finds yours with a force that steals the air from your lungs. There's no soft lead-in, no hesitant brush. It's hunger and frustration and restraint breaking all at once. His grip on your jaw tightens just enough to hold you in place, to keep you there.
For half a second, you freeze.
Shock flares through you, bright and blinding.
And then you kiss him back.
Your hands fist into the front of his scrubs, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The world narrows to heat and breath and the solid line of his body pressed against yours. The kiss deepens, not slow but desperate, like something long denied finally breaking free.
He makes a low sound against your mouth, almost angry, almost undone.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes, the words rough against your lips. But his mouth doesn't leave yours, can't leave yours, and his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. "Tell me you don't want this."
You don't tell him anything. You can't. Your brain has stopped functioning entirely, reduced to nothing but sensation, the heat of his palm against your skin, the press of his body, the way his breath hitches when you tug him closer.
His other hand slides back to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the tension in him, the battle between control and want playing out in the way his fingers flex against your side. He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he's been thinking about this far longer than he'll ever admit.
"You have no idea," he murmurs between kisses, voice frayed, "what it's been like. Watching you. Every single day."
His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, hot and insistent.
"Watching him touch you."
His teeth graze your pulse point, just enough to make you gasp.
"Smile at you."
His hand presses harder against your lower back, arching you into him.
"While I stood there. Pretending I didn't notice."
You can barely breathe. Your fingers twist tighter into his scrubs, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his chest where the V-neck gaps.
"Dr Langdon—"
The kiss slows then, just slightly. Just enough to feel every point of contact, every slide of tongue, every shared breath. His thumb traces slow circles against your hip, grounding you both.
It is not gentle. It is not careful. It is everything you both tried not to let happen.
The elevator dings.
The sharp chime slices through the heat between you, dragging reality back into the small metal box.
Langdon pulls away first.
Not gently. Not reluctantly.
Abruptly.
His hand drops from your face as if the contact has burned him. He steps back, putting a fraction more distance between you, though the air still feels charged and thin. His chest rises and falls harder than you’ve ever seen outside of a code, breath controlled but not steady. His jaw is set tight, a muscle ticking faintly near his temple. His eyes are bright, too bright, and there’s something raw there, something unguarded that he would hate anyone else seeing.
“This is a mistake,” he says, voice rougher than usual, like the words have scraped their way out of him.
You don’t trust yourself to speak. You nod, staring at the closed doors in front of you, trying to slow your breathing, trying to gather whatever professionalism you have left and stitch it back into place.
The doors slide open.
Noise floods in, voices overlapping, monitors chiming, the distant whir of a stretcher being rushed past.
You step out first.
He follows.
For a few steps, you walk side by side without touching, without speaking. He has already rebuilt the mask, shoulders squared, expression composed, the efficient senior resident returning to his post as if nothing has happened. If anyone were watching, they would see nothing but hierarchy restored.
You make it halfway down the corridor before curiosity gets the better of you.
You glance back. Just for a second. You expect to find him cold again. Distant. Regretful.
Instead, you catch him watching you.
And he is trying, very clearly trying, not to smile.
It’s subtle at first. The faintest curve threatening the corner of his mouth. The tightness in his jaw isn’t anger anymore; it’s restraint. Not of temper. Of amusement. Of satisfaction.
Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest.
For all his talk of mistakes, he doesn’t look like a man who regrets what he just did.He looks like a man who has finally stopped pretending.
The sight cracks something in you. You feel it before you can stop it, the answering lift at the corner of your own mouth. You try to suppress it. You fail.
Your eyes meet fully this time and something unspoken passes between you. The tension breaks.
A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him first, low, almost disbelieving. It pulls a matching sound from you, soft and incredulous and a little wild. You both turn your faces slightly away as if that will make it less obvious, less dangerous, but the laughter lingers in your eyes.
No one around you notices.
To everyone else, this is just another shift. Another trauma incoming. Another page overhead.
But the axis has shifted.
He straightens, composure sliding back into place, though the ghost of that almost-smile remains.
“Helicopter’s landing in two,” he says, voice steady again, but warmer somehow.
You nod, pulse still racing.
Everything has changed.
And as you fall into step beside him, the chaos of the hospital helipad rushing up to meet you, one thought threads clean and undeniable through the noise.
╰ ⨳ synopsis ; after surviving a year of less-than-ideal dorm life, you’ve decided to take matters into your own hands. this year, you're determined to live off-campus— freedom, privacy, and no more mystery meat in the cafeteria. the only problem? rent is way more expensive than you imagined, especially when you’re only working a part-time job at a run-down antique store. but you're not one to give up easily. you ask your friends if they know anyone in need of a roommate and, lucky for you, runa knows just the person: a girl named rin, her cousin that she, supposedly, trusts with her life.
╰ ⨳ vague forewarning ; university au ( second years, making them 19/20 ) 、 underage alcohol ( and probably drug ) consumption 、 miscommunication 、 smau 、 profanity 、 violence 、 blackmail 、 toxic past relationships.
╰ ⨳ denotes written parts ; ★
╰ ⨳ taglist ; open !
AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES . . . !?
masterlist.
⟶ chapter one ; spilled silverware ★
content warning ; miscommunication 、 smau 、 profanity 、 kind of short 、 just like an introduction type thing.
⟶ chapter two ; we live TOGETHER 💜
content warning ; smau 、 profanity 、 explanation of missed moments 、 introduction of ‘EJP playboys’ groupchat 、 awkwardness 、 anxiety 、 akaashi for some reason?
⟶ chapter three ; the party ; part one / part two ★
content warning ; party scene 、 drinking 、 anxious! reader 、 blacking out 、 mention of vomit 、 profanity 、 underage drinking 、 violence 、 writing in 3rd person ( kindof ) for the first time in forever 、 really rushed / bad writing 、 PUNCHING!! 、 assault 、 possibility of career going down the drain.
⟶ chapter four ; the morning after ★
content warning ; hungover 、 bruises 、 half-naked reader 、 accidental injuries 、 throwing up 、 lyyyinnngg.
⟶ chapter five ; y/n, mafia boss
content warning ; smau 、 hungover 、 profanity 、 lies uncovered 、 blackmailing 、 mention of drugs and underage alcohol consumption.
⟶ chapter six ; holy shit
content warning ; content warning ; smau 、 profanity 、 admission of feelings (but not to each other. SIGH) 、 komori x runa!! yayy 、 runa being suggestive LOL.
⟶ chapter seven ; ice skating! ★
content warning ; profanity 、 ice skating almost DATE!! 、 komori x runa!! yayy 、 rin helping you skate.
⟶ chapter eight ; jealousy, jealousy ★
content warning ; smau 、profanity 、jealousy 、not too many cw’s for this one 、mentions of ex girlfriends 、runa getting upset 、runa telling komori everything bc they’re actually like a thing now idk.
⟶ chapter nine ; insane maybe
content warning ; smau 、profanity 、lowkey reader ghosting suna 、suna FINALLY realizes that he has feelings 、mentions of ex girlfriends 、runa being mean kindof.
⟶ chapter ten ; the end
content warning ; THE END 、profanity 、admission of feelings FINALLY 、apologies.
AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES . . . !?
character intros.
⊂ ⊃ y/n l/n ; freshly-baked cinnamon rolls, fruit roll-ups, loud laughter, messy study notes, falling in love, writing in a diary, lip gloss collection.
⊂ ⊃ suna rintarou ; the smell of pine, messy hair, worn-out hoodies, tired eyes, vast music taste, dark bed sheets, tangled headset wire, bad horror movies.
Summary: Sirius Black has always been a dog—but the thing about dogs? They're loyal to only one person: Their owner
A/N: um this whole fic is just me calling sirius a dog so be prepared for that
credits to @cursed-carmine for the divider
The locker room buzzed with low voices and nervous energy. Players paced, adjusted gloves, tightened goggles, cracked knuckles. The scent of polish, sweat, and adrenaline filled the air. Green and silver glinted off every surface, and somewhere above, the distant roar of the crowd was beginning to rise.
You stood in front of your team, arms crossed over your chest, chin held high, calm as ever.
And when you spoke, the room snapped to attention.
"Alright. Listen up."
Voices cut off immediately. All eyes turned to you.
“You hit hard. You fly clean. No stunts unless I call them. You’ve worked your asses off for weeks—rain, snow, bruises, broken brooms—and today, it pays off.”
You paced slowly, gaze locking with your Beaters, your Chasers, your Keeper. One by one. Like loading a weapon.
“We’re going to show them—without a single inch of doubt—who’s taking the Quidditch Cup home this year.”
You let that hang, the tension curling in your teammates’ shoulders like springs wound tight.
Then your voice dropped, sharp and cutting:
"We're going to send those bleeding badgers crying back to their mummies."
That broke the tension. Laughter and jeers rippled through the room, players bumping shoulders, fists meeting palms with dull thuds of anticipation.
You smirked.
Held out your hand.
“Let’s turn those badgers black and blue.”
One by one, gloves slammed down over yours.
“Slytherin!”
You were carried into the infirmary without protest by Mulciber, allowing him to gently lower you onto the bed. Without saying much else, you interlaced your fingers neatly over your lap, settling in as you waited for Madam Pomfrey to arrive.
She seemed preoccupied with the other beds, where four more occupants were already receiving care.
“Nasty fall, (L/N)?” Potter’s voice broke through the quiet, a teasing edge to it, “Would hate for you to miss out on Quidditch for the rest of the season.”
You smirked, “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Potter? But sadly, no—just caught a nasty Bludger to the side when I grabbed the Snitch. So, I guess you Lions have no choice but to lose to us eventually.”
Your eyes flicked past him to the bed beside where Remus Lupin lay, looking far worse off than the rest of the Marauders—pale and sweaty, with Madam Pomfrey fussing over him. Without realizing, your lips pouted, curiosity flickering as you wondered what had gone wrong to land all four of them in the hospital wing.
Before you could study his wounds more closely, your line of sight was blocked by another presence.
Black.
Compared to the others, he looked almost unharmed, hands on his hips as he stared down at you with a cocky smirk.
“You haven’t given me an ounce of your attention, princess,” He said, voice dripping with amusement, “Only bantering with my best mate and mooning at Moony. Should I be offended?”
“Wasn’t aware I owed you my attention, Black.”
His grin widened. Typical.
It wasn’t the first time your sharp tongue had reeled him in like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sirius Black didn’t know how to leave well enough alone—and you had no intention of making it easy for him.
Merlin, he lived for it.
Before he could come up with something clever in return, Madam Pomfrey appeared at your side with a soft cluck of her tongue and a no-nonsense look in her eyes.
“Caught a Bludger, did you?” She muttered, her tone clipped as she summoned a vial and some bandages from a nearby shelf, “You lot play like it’s war.”
“I think anyone can admire the dedication to the game, Madam Pomfrey.” You replied mildly.
“Not when it might break your ribs, Miss (L/N).” She snapped.
Then, more gently, “Lift your shirt. Let’s see the damage.”
You didn’t hesitate—casually unbuttoning the lower half of your Quidditch jersey and lifting your shirt just enough to reveal the mottled bruise blooming along your side. It was ugly—deep and dark with angry purple edges, already beginning to swell.
His eyes darted instinctively toward the injury, then immediately away—head turning sharply to the side, jaw tight. His entire body went rigid, as if even the suggestion of your bare skin had turned his brain to static.
You smirked, voice syrup-sweet, “What’s the matter, Black? Shy?”
“I’m many things,” He muttered, ears tinged faintly red, “but I am trying to be respectful. For once.”
Your eyes flicked to him just once. He was still looking away—but his jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and you could feel the heat of his focus even if it wasn’t on your bare skin anymore.
When Pomfrey finally stepped back, she wiped her hands briskly on her apron and nodded, “You’ll bruise badly, but the swelling will ease by morning. Try not to exacerbate it for the time being."
"Understood. Thank you." You replied, voice even.
You slid off the edge of the bed with fluid grace, smoothing your jersey back into place with a flick of your fingers.
You nodded once toward her retreating form in quiet thanks, then turned to go.
You were hardly surprised when Sirius followed you out.
After weeks of this little push and pull—this dangerous game you’d both been playing—you weren’t even remotely surprised that he’d finally snapped the leash you’d had so delicately wrapped around his neck.
So now, here you were. Back pressed to the cold, rough stone of a quiet Hogwarts corridor, Sirius’s arms caging you in like he was the predator in this scenario.
But the truth was clear.
You were the one in control.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. You just blinked at him—slow, deliberate, almost lazy. And though your expression was frustratingly unreadable, there was something ghosting over your lips that drove him mad. A smirk that wasn’t a smirk. A glimmer of smugness that you refused to make obvious. It was maddening. Intoxicating.
Had it been anyone else he’d backed into a wall like this, they’d have giggled, blushed, reached up to tangle their fingers in his hair with wide eyes and parted lips.
But not you.
Your hands were tucked neatly behind your back like you were entertaining a child’s tantrum, waiting for him to exhaust himself. Always poised. Always untouchable. Always in control.
And God, it was driving him insane.
What he wouldn’t give to be caught in the eye of your storm—while the world bent and broke around you, you’d remain untouched, divine. He wanted to be yours. Completely. Worshipfully. Pathetically.
“What do you say we stop pussyfooting around and go on a date, (L/N)?” He asked, his voice low and rough with the effort it took to sound casual.
At that, you smiled—finally, a real smile, sly and slow like honey sliding down a knife.
“Sorry, Black,” You said, tone sweet as poison, “I don’t think I’d be interested.”
His brow twitched. “That’s not what you’ve been signalling these past few weeks.” He muttered, leaning in—just enough to try and catch your lips with his. Only to feel your finger press firmly to his mouth, stopping him dead.
He stared at you, lips brushing your fingertip, pupils blown. His breath caught, chest rising sharply. His eyes dropped to your mouth again and he clenched his jaw tight enough to ache—because if he didn’t, he might actually whine. Might beg.
“Why not?” He asked, voice hoarse and low, barely more than a whisper now.
You tilted your head, your smile that of a cat watching a bird flutter too close to the ground.
“I’m a very jealous woman, Sirius,” You said, voice light, playful—deadly, “And I have a reputation to uphold. Can’t have you embarrassing me with all your… side chicks.”
He swallowed hard. The words hit like a slap and a caress. His brain fogged. The rush of blood thundered in his ears, and the air between you crackled.
You pouted suddenly, lips pursed in a way that made his knees threaten to buckle. And then—casually, cruelly—you reached up and gave his cheek a light pat.
“Sorry, puppy.”
And with that, you slipped out from under his arm like water through fingers, walking away without looking back.
Sirius stood frozen, throat dry, staring as your hips swayed down the corridor.
Utterly wrecked.
Something changed after that night in the corridor.
Well—he did.
Not immediately, of course. First, he sulked. Dramatically. Unproductively. For a good day and a half.
He spent most of it brooding in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the fireplace like it had personally betrayed him, ignoring three different girls who tried to sidle up beside him and ask what was wrong. (The fourth didn’t bother asking—just sat herself on his lap. That earned her a single-word dismissal and a truly withering look.)
But after that?
He changed.
The flirting stopped. The lingering touches in alcoves, the smug little smirks in the corridors, the midnight broom closet rendezvous—all gone. He stopped accepting folded notes spritzed with cheap perfume and sealed with lipstick kisses. Stopped tossing winks like knuts. Stopped acting like every hallway was a catwalk and every girl in Hogwarts his audience.
The last girl he even entertained—a sweet, overeager Hufflepuff fifth-year who tried to earn his attention by helping him with Transfiguration homework—had burst into tears when someone joked that she must have “turned him gay.”
He just wasn’t interested anymore.
Because for once in his life, Sirius Black didn’t want meaningless sex.
He wanted you.
And the castle knew it.
Even though you hadn’t spared him so much as a glance since that night in the corridor. Even though you walked past him in the Great Hall like he was furniture.
Everyone still knew.
Which meant, of course, all eyes had turned to you.
Wondering when you’d notice.
Wondering when you’d give in.
Or whether, as Sirius feared most of all…
You never would.
You loved partying.
Loved the bass so loud it rattled your ribs, the way lights flickered like spells mid-duel, the sway of bodies pressed close on the dance floor. You loved shaking ass with your friends, loved the wild screams and clinks of raised glasses. Loved the moments where you stepped back, drink in hand, watching it all unfold—cataloguing the gossip in real time. Who was kissing who. Who shouldn't be. Who’d be crying in the bathroom by midnight.
But there was a distinct difference when the party was thrown in your honor.
The moment you stepped into the Slytherin common room, the room erupted. Cheers ricocheted off the walls, your little black dress catching the green and silver lights just right, and your open jersey—your surname stitched in bold—billowed like a cape.
You’d never been prouder of that name.
Not until Remus’s voice boomed over the speakers earlier that day, full of awe:
“(L/N) has made the miraculous catch of the Snitch—Slytherin wins!”
The memory played over and over in your head as your teammates lifted you onto their shoulders, parading you through the room like the queen you were. You laughed, kissed the golden Snitch in your hand, and smudged your lipstick across it with zero shame.
The party moved on around you, wild and electric, and you eventually found yourself perched on a velvet ottoman, nursing a drink and watching the chaos unfold with your usual sharpened gaze—until the Marauders appeared.
“Good game, (L/N),” James grinned, raising his cup, “That was some mighty flying. Looking forward to beating you in the finals.”
You scoffed, but smiled, “Thanks, Potter. Though I can’t see you being this cordial when Slytherin mops the floor with you.”
Then your gaze slid to Sirius, who hadn’t spoken yet.
“I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve come over tonight, Black,” You purred, circling your finger around the rim of your glass lazily.
He grinned, wolfish and easy, “Didn’t want to be just another forgettable face in a crowd of nobodies.”
You chuckled, “Sure you didn’t just forget about me? Busy fending off your admirers, I’m sure.”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to that gravelly register that drove you mad, “Sweetheart, everyone here knows there’s only one person I have eyes for.”
You were about to volley something back—something sharp and slick and just flirtatious enough to make him twitch—when the atmosphere cracked with a loud crash and an even louder voice.
“IT WAS A FLOP!”
Across the room, Ravenclaw’s captain, Muccullen—clearly drunk and still stinging from his loss today—was making an embarrassing scene.
“I would’ve caught that damn Snitch if the snakes didn’t play dirty!” He barked, sloshing firewhisky onto the carpet.
You barely blinked. Just raised a brow, unimpressed, letting his tantrum unfold like a child kicking their legs in a supermarket.
“(L/N) thinks she’s all that,” He continued, voice rising, “but that stupid bitch just got lucky!”
Now that made your brow twitch.
You weren’t planning to dignify it with a response. But then Sirius was suddenly in front of you, jaw tight, a quiet fury radiating off him like a pulse.
“Watch your mouth.”
Muccullen blinked slowly, swaying. “If it isn’t her mangy mutt,” He slurred, sneering, “You’re just as pathetic, Black. Chasing after her like a dog when she doesn’t even want you. Face it—the only reason she gets anywhere in life or on that bloody broom is ’cause that slag keeps guys like you wrapped around her finger.”
That much was true. Sirius was so tightly wrapped around your finger you could flick it and he’d bark.
Which is why Muccullen shouldn’t have been surprised when Sirius grabbed him by the collar.
You stepped forward then, calm and unbothered, resting a single hand on Sirius’s arm.
“Down, boy.”
His grip loosened—just barely. But it was enough.
You turned your gaze on Muccullen, voice cool and dangerous.
“You really know how to ruin a party, don’t you, Muccullen?” You said smoothly, “I won today because I was faster. Simple as that. You don’t want to get pummeled by Bludgers while chasing the Snitch? That’s a conversation to have with your Beaters. Go sober up. Losing on the Quidditch pitch is one thing. This? This is just pathetic.”
Sirius shoved him back as he let go, and Muccullen stumbled off with the grace of a wounded troll.
You exhaled, turning to Sirius.
And yeah… he looked hot.
Leather jacket clinging to broad shoulders. Hair a bit mussed. Breathing heavy like he wanted someone to give him an excuse to finish the fight. All for you.
He looked good defending your honor. Too good.
You sipped your drink with finality, “Well. On that note, I’m gonna turn in for the night.”
Sirius visibly deflated, like a puppy who’d been told no to a treat.
“Yeah, my roommates are gonna be partying all night,” You added, giving a theatrical sigh, “Figured I might enjoy the empty dorm for once.”
You nodded to Remus and James—who were both looking equally exhausted and wildly entertained—and started walking toward the staircase.
But you didn’t make it far before glancing over your shoulder.
Sure enough, Sirius was already staring.
You smirked. Winked.
And then you lifted your hand, curled a single finger.
Come.
His face lit up. Like Christmas and fireworks and every wish he’d never said out loud just came true.
Behind him, James cackled. Remus shook his head, amused.
“Go on, lover boy!” James shouted, slapping him on the back.
And Sirius? He sprinted.
By the time he caught up, you were outside your dorm, and his arms were already curling around your waist as you let out a soft giggle.
He buried his face in your neck, breath hot, lips brushing your skin.
“You better take me out on a date tomorrow.” You murmured.
He smiled against your throat, “Anywhere. Anytime. Just say the word.”
Bonus:
If anyone had ever been afraid of the Marauders—afraid of Sirius Black, the uncollared dog of Gryffindor House, heir to the House of Black, all sharp teeth and dangerous smirks—all they had to do was witness how he behaved with his girlfriend.
The only girl who’d ever managed to train him.
It was almost comical, the way Sirius’s entire face lit up the second he spotted you in the Gryffindor common room. His smirk melted into a wide, boyish grin, wild grey eyes softening like morning light breaking through fog.
“Baby!” He practically shouted, immediately abandoning James mid-sentence and sprinting across the room like a man possessed.
Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before your armchair, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your lap like it was the safest place in the world.
You giggled—an uncharacteristic sound, at least to everyone else. But for Sirius, it was as familiar as his own heartbeat. You ran your fingers through his thick dark hair, nails scratching gently along his scalp, and Sirius all but purred, sighing into the space between your thighs like the tension had been holding him hostage all day.
“What are you doing here?” He mumbled, voice muffled against your legs.
“Class ended early,” You replied smoothly, a smile tugging at your lips, “and I wanted to see my favourite boy.”
Sirius groaned dramatically, turning his head to press soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your wrist, right against your fluttering pulse. Like he was grounding himself with the feel of your blood beneath his lips.
Across from you, James flopped onto the couch with a snort, “Merlin, (L/N), you’ve got him trained better than a show dog.”
You didn’t even look up from Sirius as you smiled, sharp and slow.
“Oh, she knows.” Remus added from his spot by the fireplace, flipping a page in his book with a smirk.
Sirius hummed, clinging tighter to your waist like he couldn’t stand to be even a millimeter away.
You leaned back in the armchair, letting him sprawl across your lap like a pampered prince, fingers carding through his hair as if you had all the time in the world.
“You’re clingy today.” You murmured, not unkindly.
“Missed you.” Sirius said simply, lifting his head just enough to look at you—like you hung the bloody moon.
You raised an eyebrow, tapping your nails against his jaw, “Did something happen?”
He pulled one of your hands to his mouth again, pressing a kiss to each knuckle like it was sacred ritual, “Nah. Just tired of pretending not to be obsessed with you.”
“Well, you’re doing a shit job of hiding it.” James snarked.
“I know.” He replied, unapologetic.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
cw: fem reader, ooc, mentions of sex but it doesn’t happen, sirius being a supportive boyfriend, kissing, groping, reader has boobs
synopsis: During a private moment Sirius is confused as to why his girlfriend suddenly stops.
a/n: writing this simply because i dont get why its such a shocker when people don’t want to have sex.
Everyone in Hogwarts knew of Sirius’ habits. Nearing the end of fifth year is when it started, it only progressed during sixth year. Sirius after almost every party would sleep with a girl or get handsy in her bed and then never acknowledge her again.
Once asked by James as to why he does it his words were, “I don’t need some girl getting attached, a catch like me should never settle down.” Everyone laughed it off and moved topics but it stuck with you.
So whenever Sirius asked you out on a date you immediately assumed it was a joke, some type of prank. He was very persistent that it wasn’t, and even if you agreed you were still suspicious.
Only a month after that the two of you started dating. No one really even saw it coming. The both of you kept it quiet, wanting to have something to yourselves in a school full of gossip.
There was whispers, questions too as to why the infamous Sirius Black was dating someone. You honestly couldn’t even answer it yourself, but he had no problem doing so. “I mean cmon she’s bloody brilliant, who wouldn’t want to have her huh?” He tugged you a little closer to his side as he spoke.
Now the two of you were lounging in his bed, the rest of the group doing who knows what. You were both just talking before he leaned down for a kiss, which lead to many more.
He was pressing some kisses to your neck as your hands moved to run through his hair, a small sigh leaving your lips. His right hand moved from the side of your neck and drifted down to your breast and gave it a light squeeze.
You could see where this was leading and you closed your eyes as you tilted your head back. Gently, you retracted your hands from his hair and pushed him slightly back by his shoulders.
Immediately his eyes were on you, looking at you with a questioning gaze. “What is it? Sorry should I not have-” he was silenced as you shook your head. “No no, you did nothing wrong I just.. um.” You sat up a bit straighter and he could tell this was a bit more serious.
“If you aren’t ready for y’know.. thats fine I can wait.” You let out a soft breath as your eyes flickered to him before looking away. “What would you think if I never wanted to.. have sex.” Sirius was a bit confused as to where this was going, he sat up and placed his hands on top of your thighs.
You realized you were still practically in his lap which caused you to shift so you were sitting in-front of him rather than on top of him. He furrowed his brows, “do you mean like never?” You only nodded and stayed silent, but spoke up.
“I know that you have a reputation, and i’m only saying this because I dunno.. i’ve never wanted to have sex. Not with anyone, and its just I don’t know if i ever will.. y’know want to have sex.” You realized you were starting to ramble so you stopped talking and stared at him to gauge his reaction.
You could see the realization that passed over his face before he spoke, “what about us kissing… or just touching. From time to time, not all of the time obviously.” You smiled slightly, “i’m ok with kissing, but um touching is it ok if we just wait a little longer?”
He nodded his head as his hand came up to pull you into a soft kiss, a small peck that lasted a few short seconds. As he pulled back you smiled softly, “will this bother you?” He immediately shook his head.
“Im just glad you’re mine, I like us kissing and the thought of us having sex is nice. But if you don’t wanna do that it’s fine with me, just glad I can stare at you all I want.” A small laugh flowed through you as he leaned closer to press some fast kisses to your face.
Later the two of you were laying in his bed, just enjoying the silence as you softly spoke up. “Thanks for not getting upset.” He hummed as he pressed a kiss to your temple “‘course.”
SUMMARY: Every summer for as long as you can remember, everyone gathers at the Potters’ beach house with bonfires, laughter, and memories that feel endless. But this summer is different. Sirius, your oldest friend, brings his younger brother Regulus, and somehow, you find yourself caught between them both. You never meant to fall for either of them, but some summers change everything.
warnings .ᐟ tooth rotting fluff. grumpy x sunshine. friends to lovers. obvious age gap. alpine mention. misogynistic comments toward reader (not from bucky). slow burnish. bucky’s fuckass therapist mentioned.
summary .ᐟ you’re bucky’s overly friendly neighbour, having never had an actual conversation with him yet you’re always smiling or waving at him. after alpine wonder’s into your apartment, prompting you to return the feline to her owner, bucky decides he has to be friends (or maybe slightly more) with you.
a/n: just something short and sweet for my favourite old man ;p
integrating back into society after spending century after century fighting against your will wasn’t as easy as everyone painted it out to be. it was a lonely, hard and daunting process, adjusting to a time after being full throttled into it.
after steve left, bucky had been alone, yes sam was there but they weren’t the closest, and he was always busy, too busy to be saddled with a 100 year old super soldier with a fragile state of mind.
so he steered clear from most people, besides your odd person here and there, which included you, his neighbour.
he’d never spoken to you, not once, but in passing offered a look here and there, a nod and eventually sometimes a wave and a smile, which was always reciprocated by the toothiest grin on your end; the apples of your cheeks shining as you smiled, eyes crinkled at the corners.
bucky began realising he’d started looking forward to these mundane greetings, the interactions bringing some form of normalcy into his life, something he could keep for himself, a routine of sorts.
today had started like any other; he’d gotten up to get ready for his day, searching for alpine, his cat, for a few minutes to feed her but ultimately moving past not being able to find her, (she always wondered off now and then so this didn’t worry him) to eventually resorting to having some black coffee while he mulled over the impending mandatory therapy session he had in a bit; except today wasn’t like any other day, the tap of knuckles against his front door pulling his attention, brows furrowed in confusion.
before you could knock again, the door flung open, your brooding neighbour who only ever seemed capable of a grunt, nod and grumble, standing on the other side, his steel blue eyes moving from your face down to the feline asleep in your arms, his feline.
“morning, i hope i’m not bothering—she wondered into my apartment through the fire escape last night, and i would’ve been fine with leavin her be but i gotta get going somewhere so i wanted to return her before leaving,” you hummed out, looking down at alpine asleep and curled up in your arms.
you sounded different to what he imagined you to, but he welcomed it nonetheless, his adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded.
“oh uh thanks—sorry about her showing up unannounced,” he awkwardly rasps, moving from one foot to the other, nearly cursing himself for acting like an alien in his own skin, all because of the pretty neighbour from down the hall.
you simply dismissed his words, smiling gingerly, “no it’s no problem, i love cats so i have no issues with her showing up unannounced, just didn’t wanna leave her in a locked up apartment all day while i was out,” you hummed, your eyes glittering as you really took in his features. it was obvious he was handsome, but up close? god could strike you down if you were lying but your knees nearly buckled when that damn door opened.
after awkwardly hovering, you extended your arms out, offering alpine to him, in which the sleepy feline stretched as bucky took her, softly placing her down inside his apartment before turning back to you, his arm above his head as he held the top of the door.
“well thank you for bringing her,” he nodded, his smile a little larger than what you were used to, only nodding in response, turning on your heels to leave, softly waving at him over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
the ticking of the clock was slow and methodical, his hands clenching as they moved to rest atop his jean clad thighs, his face set and sullen, eyes fixed on doctor raynor, his therapist.
every question she asked was met with nothing more than a grunt, a nod or a grumble, or the occasional roll of his eyes.
“james, i asked you a question,” she sighed, “are you still having nightmares?” she spoke up again, clearing her throat as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, “no,” he all but mumbled in response, that line between his brows prominent, etched into his skin from years of frowning and brooding.
doctor raynor only sighed, lifting her glasses up and onto her head, rubbing her eyes before pinching the bridge of her nose, “we’ve been doing this long enough that I can tell when you’re lying.” she murmurs, tilting her head toward him.
bucky kept his face stoic in response, sucking his left cheek in, his eyes darting to the loud ticking hands of the clock.
“you’re a civilian now, with your history, the government needs to know that you’re not gonna—“ she cuts herself off, rethinking her words before speaking up again, “it’s a condition of your pardon.” she reminded him, her leg restless as she watched him, already knowing his tells off by heart, it was clear he was keeping something from her, but getting through to him? that was a whole other story.
when her response was met with more silent brooding she shook her head, opening the notebook in her lap before clicking her pen, glaring at him for a moment before pressing her pen to an open page in her notebook.
he groaned at the sight in front of him, that damned notebook his kryptonite; “oh, come on, really?” he scoffed, shaking his head all grumpily; “you’re gonna do the notebook thing? why? it’s passive aggressive.” he clicked his tongue, hoping if he stared long and hard enough at the notebook and pen in her hands, that it’d explode.
“you don’t talk, i write.” doctor raynor responded, in which bucky raised his hands in mock surrender, followed by finally speaking up on his most recent doings, which names he’d crossed off of his list and how he went about it.
doctor raynor closed her notebook as he spoke, sighing at his continued closed off demeanour, his shoulders still tense, meaning he still wasn’t getting what he needed off of his chest.
“look…” she hums, setting the notebook down onto the coffee table in front of her, “one day, you’re gonna have to open up and understand that some people really do want to help you and that they can be trusted.” she nods, tilting her head to emphasise her words.
“i trust people,” bucky mumbled defensively, his brows cinching at the centre; “who? and don’t say alpine cause she doesn’t count,” doctor raynor responds with equal fervour, stopping bucky in his tracks.
he goes quiet for a moment, biting the bullet as he mumbled your name without thinking, cursing to himself before deciding to speak up, “she’s uh—she’s my neighbour, and i-i trust her,” he nods, so sure of himself, to which doctor raynor just quirked a brow, scoffing at his once again, obvious lie.
“oh really? give me your phone,” she holds her hand out, bucky’s brows furrowing in response before reluctantly fishing for his flip phone in the pocket of his jeans, handing it over.
she scrolls through his contact list, almost wincing at how dry and barren it was, “you don’t have ten phone numbers on this thing,” she scoffs, her eyes widening as she goes into his unanswered texts, “oh, and you’ve been ignoring the texts from sam, that’s great!” she responds sarcastically, only furthering bucky’s already sour mood.
“look, you’ve gotta nurture friendships.” she sighs exasperatedly, causing bucky to groan once again, “i told you—i have friends—my neighbour! she’s my friend, always greeting me, i greet her, she looks after alpine, that’s a friend is it not?” he frantically rants, fidgeting in his seat.
“so why’s her number not here then?” doctor raynor asks, holding up the ancient cellphone before handing it back over to him.
he accepts it with a roll of his eyes before speaking up, “i was getting to it,” he shrugs, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he listened to the rest of doctor raynor’s berating; this was going to be a long session.
later that day as he walked to his apartment unit, he hovered by the front door, thinking over doctor raynor’s words; as much as he hated to admit it, she was right, he was lonely, isolated and everything someone with his history shouldn’t be.
he needed friends.
his foot tapped against the carpet, his metal hand hovering over the door handle to his apartment before dropping it, his eyes landing on your apartment door number, contemplating his next move before sighing, grumbling a barley audible ‘fuck it’ before his feet carried him over to yours, his knuckles rapping against the door before he could even register it.
“just a second!” you called out from the other side, rushing to the front door before opening it, a smile gracing your features as you looked up at bucky, your very crabby, very mysterious, very handsome neighbour.
“oh hi,” you faintly spoke, lashes fluttering as you unconsciously bat them, your body responding to him before your mind could catch up.
“hi,” he awkwardly mumbled, adding a subtle, almost pathetic wave before speaking up again, his eyes muddled with confusion and uncertainty at the idea in his head, pushing back his overthinking the moment he heard doctor raynor’s words echoing through his mind again, clearing his throat before speaking up, “god this is—this is way out of my comfort zone but i just realised i’ve lived here for some time now and i don’t really know anyone so would you—would you like to go grab something to eat? together i mean, you and me?” he awkwardly rambles, your cheeks heating at the display.
upon seeing his face once you opened the door, this was the last thing you were expecting but you can’t say you weren’t displeased with it, so you nodded, smiling wide, “yeah—why not? always open to making more friends,” you swallowed, still nodding; “uh let me just—freshen up then we can go?” you asked, brows raised.
“yeah! that’s alright by me, i’ll just—i’ll wait here then.” he smiles, nodding as he turned on his heels once the door closed, leaning against the wall adjacent to your door, surprised at how easy that was.
“you know, i know who you are,” you mumbled after swallowing some of your drink, your legs folded on your chair as you dipped a piece of sushi into your soya sauce.
bucky’s eyes pierced at your words, clearing his throat, “oh you do?” he asked, his face almost falling at that exact moment. most people ran for the hills once they’d realised who he was, they didn’t care for the pardon he’d received or to learn that he was brainwashed into becoming the winter soldier; so to see you still seated comfortably in your chair, nonchalantly speaking of his past as if it were nothing, it was refreshing and for sure solidified your place in his life for years to come.
“what and you’re not running off?” he hummed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before taking a sip of his drink.
you simply shook your head, brows furrowed almost in offence that he’d think you’d do that, “why would i?” you asked, lips quirking up in a smile before changing the topic, rambling on about something mundane.
bucky just sat there, watching you in awe, those three words doing more for his healing than any therapist could; this moment set to change the trajectory of his life indefinitely.
from that day on, you were stuck to his side like thorns on a rose, constantly dragging him along with you, whether for coffee, little errands here and there, or to just be around him.
you’d taken him furniture shopping, having mumbled something along the lines of, “god this is really sad buck,” the first time you came into his apartment, bringing some life and ambiance to his place, leaving little touches of your own personality to the space, something bucky found himself smiling at when he was alone, his eyes trailing over the little trinkets you’d leave here and there.
you’d watch over alpine when he’d go on missions, making him promise you to come home in one piece, practically jumping him when he’d knock on your apartment door a few days or weeks later.
you even had a key to his apartment, inviting yourself in at all times of the day; often times he’d find you curled up on his couch coming home, alpine next to you as you napped, the sight making his cheeks pink with adoration.
his two favourite girls.
the first time you’d done it, it was at that moment, his hands pulling a throw blanket over your curled up figure, he realised he’d fallen for you, hard; the baggage in his mind lighter and lighter by the second all because of you.
he started talking to sam more, even going out with him, opening up to him, hell even doctor raynor could spot the difference.
you changed his life for the better.
you were currently getting ready over at yours, you and bucky had made it a ritual almost, to visit this one bar each friday evening. you did the finishing touches to your makeup before bucky let himself in, his eyes meeting yours through the mirror.
“oh you’re here! i’m almost done, just finishing a few things,” you hummed, unaware of bucky’s gaze; his eyes gleamed with admiration as he stared at you, the shade of your blue dress matching that of his eyes, those same eyes lingering on the skin of your thighs peeking out, before clearing his throat, mentally face palming himself for staring at you like that.
“kay, i’m done—how do i look grumpy?” you asked, grabbing your purse before turning to face him, twirling around to show him your full outfit, the ends of your dress flowing as you did so.
he stared in awe, scratching the back of his neck as he looked at you, that disgusting feeling of fluttering in his stomach returning, all because of the light in your eyes; “beautiful,” he hummed, that sweet smile of his you’ve grown to love, etching its way onto his features, melting your heart.
“so sweet when you wanna be,” you joked, pecking his cheek as you’ve done many times before, waiting at your door for him.
he all but rolled his eyes once your lips left his cheek, looking to the heavens for the strength to not just kiss your lips right there and then before following after you.
the ride to the bar was quick, filled with mostly your voice chatting his ears off, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“god i haven’t danced since the 1940’s…it feels like,” he laughs into his beer, your face warm from the cocktail you’d been nursing. “i keep forgetting you’re like an old man,” you snort, “one hundred and six, wow that’s fucking insane,” you guffawed, covering your face in embarrassment; “yeah yeah laugh it up—call me an old man,” he nods, fighting back a smile at your giggly nature, keeping a firm hand on the back of your chair as you rocked back and forth with laughter, the chair shaking as you did so, always looking out for you without you even realising.
there was this time you were raving on and on about this almond croissant you had at some cafe, your boots clacking against the pavement as you walked in front of bucky, your back to oncoming folk, walking backwards like the fool you were, your face expressive as you went on and on about the pastry. bucky’s brows furrowed as he placed his hands on your elbow’s, manoeuvring you when someone would come walking from the direction you were walking in, preventing you from a head on collision, muttering a small “sorry,” to anyone he’d dodged, almost wincing at your oblivious nature.
there was another time where you’d both been in his apartment, your brows furrowed in concentration as you tried following a recipe you’d seen online, swearing up and down to bucky that you were sure it would turn out amazing; you’d foolishly kept your eyes on the recipe, blindly cutting the tomato’s you needed for the dish; you were so close to chopping your finger off before the knife faltered, bucky’s metal hand pressed under it and on top of your other hand, effectively stopping the blade from piercing your skin. “jesus kid—watch it,” he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he took over for you, ushering you to sit on the couch while he finished the food.
you felt so comfortable around him, you’d unknowingly resorted to relying solely on him for your safety, your brain turning off whenever you were with him and god bucky loved it. he loved feeling needed, loved being someone’s safe space after so many years of solely bringing terror wherever he went.
it was clear he needed you, but you needed him too.
you had left for the bathroom, laughing over your shoulder at a joke he made, leaving bucky to his lonesome self, flagging the waiter down for another beer when he heard a wolf whistle from the next table over, three sleazy looking fellow’s with cigarettes hanging from their lips, their eyes beady as they watched you walk to the bathroom, their words even filthier, detailing rather loudly what they’d do to your “sweet piece of ass” if they got the chance. bucky’s fists clenched as he listened, his metal hand moving to grip the table, the edge of it giving way under his vibranium hand, wood splintering as it broke away, muttering a “shit” under his breath as he kept his eyes on the three guys.
as you came back from the bathroom, the smile on your face was rapidly wiped off once you’d seen bucky standing rather defensively with three other men, your eyes widening as you rushed over.
“no, you shouldn’t talk about ladies like that,” you heard him say as you approached them, the three guys laughing slyly as you tapped his arm.
“hey, hey everything okay here?” you asked, ignoring their obnoxious whistling and filthy words.
bucky’s jaw clenched as they continued on, your hand on his arm grounding him as he looked at you, “yeah just—they shouldn’t speak about you like that,” he murmurs, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“it’s fine—let’s just settle the bill and leave, please?” you begged, voice soft and small as you squeezed his arm, ready to leave the now shitty atmosphere.
the moment he saw that look in your eyes he was ready to go, keeping his anger at bay as he turned to follow you, only to stop in his tracks when one of the guys called out again, “bet he can’t even fuck that sweet pussy the way you want can he baby?” his voice slimy as you looked back with a grimace, bucky’s body going rigid under your touch as he turned, his blue eyes black with anger now.
he swore he turned into the winter soldier at that split second, metal hand hitting the guy square in the jaw, sending him flying across the floor. your jaw dropped as your eyes widened, hand coming up to cover your mouth as you followed after bucky, his steps heavy and deliberate as he crouched down, his hand gripping the front of the guy’s shirt, “now you’re going to apologise to her,” he grumbles, his face stoic as he stared daggers into the now trembling man, his jaw slightly crooked from the left hook bucky delivered.
“buck it’s alright—can we just g—“ he cut you off, looking over his shoulder at you, “no, he needs to apologise, he shouldn’t have said that to you,” bucky spoke, his voice soft with you in comparison to how it sounded when he had just spoken to the man trembling at his feet.
“i’m uh—i’m sorry ma’am—really i am— me and my buddies shouldn’t—we shouldn’t have said what we did about you,” the man croaked out, taking a breath of relief when bucky let his shirt go, clearing his throat as he straightened up, apologising to one of the staff members for the mess he caused before taking out a few bills to cover your bill, his hand on your lower back as you both rushed out.
the ride back to your apartment complex was quiet, his voice only sounding out once you were both in his apartment, alpine on your lap.
“i’m sorry you had to see that—i shouldn’t have punched him, i know, it’s one of the stupid rules my shrink’s always telling me about—but i-i don’t know—when i heard him say that—about-about you, i couldn’t control it,” he huffed, sitting down cautiously next to you, his brows furrowed almost as if he were waiting for you to scold him.
your eyes softened at his tone, gently moving alpine to the side before turning to face him, tucking your legs under your bottom.
“are you kidding? that asshole deserved it—thank you for standing up for me buck,” you smiled, batting your lashes, a faint smile making its way onto your face.
bucky nearly fist pumped the air at your words, letting out a breath of relief as he awkwardly laughed, “he was an asshole wasn’t he?” he smiled, his blue eyes gentle and attentive as he looked at you.
you nodded in agreement, “seeing you punch him was kinda hot too—“ you blurted out, slapping your hand to your mouth once you realised what you’d said.
bucky’s brows raised at your words, feeling like a teenager again as he blushed profusely. “oh was it now?” he said cockily, your entire being burning with embarrassment, shoving his shoulder playfully as he laughed, his hand coming up to enclose around your wrist, softly tugging you forward almost halfway in his lap with this new air of confidence.
the world quieted around you at that split second, everything else blurred but the super soldier under you, your heart thumping in your chest at the close proximity.
yes, you and bucky had been this close before, snuggling together while watching a movie, or accidentally falling asleep on his shoulder, but something about this time felt different, something about the way his eyes traced your features before settling on your lips, his pupils dilated when they finally locked back onto yours.
he swallowed before biting the bullet, tongue darting out to wet his lips before speaking up, “can i kiss you?” he hesitantly asked, brows almost furrowing, preparing himself for rejection, god, if 1940’s him could see this he’d be disappointed for sure, he thought.
you smiled at the words you’ve been waiting months to hear, frantically nodding, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth as you couldn’t trust yourself to speak right now, not with all the emotions soaring through your body due to the man before you.
bucky smiled, his flesh hand warm as it moved from your wrist, goosebumps rising over your skin as he trailed his hand up to your jaw, softly cradling it as his thumb stroked your cheek, moving the digit down to pull your lip from your teeth, sucking in a breath before pressing his lips to yours.
you swore fireworks exploded behind your eyelids when he kissed you, his lips soft but pressured against yours, his touch gentle as he cradled your jaw, almost as if he were scared you’d break.
you swallowed his hisses as you moved properly into his lap, your hands moving into his hair as you kissed him harder, smiling into the kiss before pulling away, leaning your forehead against his as you caught your breath.
“guess i should start punching more assholes in your honour then,” he spoke after a beat of silence, pulling a laugh from your chest as you shook your head at his cocky words, pecking his lips a final time before pressing your face into the crook of his neck.
