hey my favorite writer on this whole app, it's me again 🫡 i got a new request if you want...... okay, hear me out. jack's daughter and ever since her mom died it's just kinda him and her and he does EVERYTHING FOR her like he is top one dad and so reader feels guilty that jack always has to take care of her and so she tries to help like change a lightbulb that has broken while he's on shift.
reader falls and hits her head and passes out and calls dad number two uncle robby and he insists she has to go to the hospital but she says only if her dad doesn't find out.
of course jack finds out, she feels guilty and then just comfort from jack.
this is a long one but do it with it what you want, i trust you and your amazing brain!!!
˚.💡⋆ — lights out
summary: see request!
genre: comfort
notes/warnings: mentions of blood (reader slices her hand open on a shard of glass) and stitches (reader gets her hand stitched up). jack calls reader bug. general hospital setting briefly mentioned amidst dialogue and events.
word count: 3.8k
After the bulb in your living room had blown while you and Jack were half-asleep, half-watching your show, he’d made you promise that you were not going to attempt to change it, that he’d stop by the hardware store on the way home from his shift and get to it, but you just couldn’t let it sit.
The words—I’ll get to it—stung, like it was just another task to add to his burdensome list of responsibilities. He’d complete it, yes, but after he’d changed out of his scrubs, picked up your special-occasion Friday night takeout, gotten some sleep while you ate. The thought caused a surge of guilt to rise in your chest—here you were, reading a book at home after classes, while Jack was out saving lives, and you couldn’t even change a damn lightbulb.
No, you had to do it. It was the least you could do. You thought of the text he’d send, the On my way to the hardware store, be home soon, to which you could reply I found a spare in the garage, don’t bother, taking a load off his back. He’d pat you on the back with one of those proud-dad smiles that you saw in the movies, pride shining in his eyes with a mutter of my girl is all grown up. With that thought in mind, you made a beeline for the garage, googling the correct bulb for the light and swiping one from Jack’s extensive supply of spares.
The ladder was the hard part; you were already afraid of heights, but the mere thought of lugging the thing into the living room without assistance sent a chill up your spine. For a moment, you stalled—maybe you’d drop it, or break something irreplaceable—but the thought of Jack’s pride sent you straight back to the garage to tuck the ladder under your arm and carry it, painstakingly slowly, into the living room.
You steeled yourself. The hard part was over—now, you just needed to screw in the bulb, which you’d seen Jack do a million times. It couldn’t be that hard, right?
Slowly, bulb in hand, you climbed the ladder one-handed, arms quivering as you attempted to keep yourself upright while simultaneously trying not to drop the lightbulb lest it shatter into a million pieces, yet another thing to clean up.
Finally, you reached the top--however, just before you stretched to screw in the bulb, you made the fatal mistake of looking down; immediately, the room began to tilt, and you lost your grip on the rungs, plummeting to the floor. As you fell, the lightbulb slipped out of your grasp, shattering immediately upon impact with the hardwood. You winced, mostly because you were envisioning sweeping up the shards once you'd regained your bearings, neglecting to realize that you'd knocked your head on the arm of the couch on your way down. Upon your attempts to sit up, a fierce, pulsing pain began to radiate through your cranium, and your stomach dropped.
All of Jack's warnings, his protocols, his procedures, seemed to slip from your mind the moment you felt the first throb of pain travel around your head; in that moment, crouched on the floor of the apartment in, you realized, a puddle of your own blood, seeping rapidly into your blue jeans as you pressed your palms to your thighs in a vain attempt to steady yourself, you realized that you had no idea what to do. Your father's voice, his lecture, playing on an endless loop in your head, was distant and hollow.
Your hands went out from under you for a split second of lost consciousness before you regained enough sense to at least reach for your phone (with your good hand, of course, considering you'd sliced the other open on a stray shard of glass while you groped around for something to hold onto in your stupor). You weren't exactly sure what you were going to do with it yet, only that you wanted to feel it in your hands, let the frigid, sleek metal cool your burning skin (oh, god, was it you, or was it sweltering in the apartment all of a sudden?). Your first thought was, of course, your father, for how could it not have been?
Jack had always been there, no matter what. Every awards ceremony, every recital, every doctor's appointment, every skinned knee--you couldn't imagine a life without him. He'd never gotten angry, never yelled, and yet, with all of his contributions in mind, you were always determined to please him; so, pressing the edge of your sweater to your palm in an attempt to quell the flow of blood in a rare moment of clarity and scrolling through your contacts with the other, it occurred to you that now, in your moment of need, you could absolutely not call Jack--for one, he was on shift, but, more importantly, he would have a heart attack on the spot if you called him and, with a disoriented slur to your voice, informed him that you were likely in need of a CAT scan and few stitches.
The second the words left your mouth, he'd immediately hang up the phone with an assurance that he'd be home in twenty minutes, tops, abandoning whatever patient urgently required his care to tend to you. You just couldn't do it, ask him to do any more than he already did--you were an adult (well, sixteen, but close enough), and you could handle a little knock on the head. Your collapse onto the couch after an attempt to stand told you that you, in fact, could not, leaving you only one possible course of action--Robby. Typing seemed too laborious in your current condition, so you fumbled for the call button on his contact. He answered after four rings.
"Hello?" A beat passed before you realized, in your haze, that he had been expecting you to respond. "What's going on? Are you alright?"
"Uh..." You fumbled to get the words out. "I hit my head."
Robby sucked in an urgent breath, and you could hear a mutter of Jesus Christ on the other line. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened."
"I was changing a lightbulb for Dad, but then I slipped, and my hand is bleeding, and my head really hurts, and--"
"Okay," he interjected. "Did you lose consciousness at any point?"
"I don't know. I-I think so."
"Okay," Robby repeated. The sound of a door shutting could be heard in the background. "I'm coming to pick you up, and we're going to the hospital."
The thought of having to face Jack made you nauseous. "Oh, Robby, I don't need to--"
"I wasn't asking. You need medical attention."
"Can't you just check me over?" you pled, but to no avail.
"Trust me, if I had access to hospital machines, I'd do that in a heartbeat, but I don't, and that's why we need to get you seen."
You winced, both at the thought of your father's reaction and the pulse of pain in your forehead when you shifted positions. "Dad's going to lose his shit."
Robby chuckled mirthlessly. "Damn right he is. Now, you stay on the phone with me, and don't move. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
“I can’t go, Robby," you breathed.
“You need—“
“I’ll only go if Dad doesn’t find out.”
You could almost see the purse of Robby’s lips. “Kiddo…”
“What? He’s so stressed all the time, and I don’t want to make it worse by showing up and making him worry about me.”
God, you and your big heart. Robby sighed. “You’re lucky handover is soon. I’ll get you seen when I come in.”
⋆˚꩜｡
When he arrived, Robby practically broke down the door trying to get his key into the lock. You were in the same place you'd been when you'd called, slumped against the couch, chin resting in your palms, fighting the persistent urge to fall asleep. Immediately, he was on his knees in front of you; in your haze, it took a moment for you to process his presence, his rambling, his incessant probing. Robby frowned.
"The doctor is in," you slurred, placing your hand on Robby's scrubs-clad shoulder for a brief moment before you lost your strength and it slid down his bicep.
"Hey, hey, stay with me," he said, cupping your cheeks. "Can you walk?"
You highly doubted your ability to even stand at the moment, but who were you to deny a challenge? You nodded, tried to stand, and then immediately stumbled into Robby's waiting arms. He shook his head; you were truly your father's daughter.
"Come on, lean on me." Gently, Robby slung an arm around your shoulder, allowing you to distribute some of your weight onto him.
"Do you promise that..." you shook your head. God, you were foggy. "...that Dad won't find out? He's getting off soon, and... and I don't want him to stay. I want him to go home and sleep."
He sighed. "He's going to wring my neck if he finds out that I didn't tell him, kiddo. He's your dad--he wants to be there for you, no matter what. He's told me that a million times, and I'm sure that's what he's going to tell you."
"But--"
"No buts. Hush. Conserve your energy."
⋆˚꩜｡
The car ride to the PTMC felt like it lasted years. Robby kept one hand on the wheel and one hand on the passenger seat next to your shoulder--just in case your head lolled to the side, he was prepared to catch you. It astounded you that, with such hyper-awareness, he'd never had kids. Little did you know, he had you.
After a few minutes of circling the parking lot, Robby finally found a space (not without a bit of complaining about how packed the lot was, of course). Before you could even finish taking your seatbelt off, Robby had left his seat and circled around the front of the car to open your door. Your hands had since begun to quiver; the world felt as if it were swimming around you, the letters on the hospital entrance sign blurring into a haze of illegible sludge. You groaned.
"Okay, up we go." With a grunt, Robby moved to hoist you into his arms, but you gently pushed him off.
Stubbornly, you huffed. "I can walk, Robby."
"I'm getting some major déjà vu."
Deliriously, you chuckled. He was right--he'd tried to carry you just like this when you'd been seven, coming home from a playdate gone long. Within moments, you were fast asleep in his arms with your face pressed into his shoulder. You hadn't really been asleep--you'd both known that--but Robby was always happy to carry you whenever you needed.
"Well," you muttered. "This time, I might actually fall asleep."
Robby tensed. "What?"
"I just mean, that... you know..." Before you could finish your sentence, you crumpled, just in time for Robby to scoop you into his arms with quite a loud expletive. Before he could think, Robby was sprinting into Chairs, pushing his way through the throngs of people to make it to Lupe. She was just finishing beckoning a patient with a nasty burn on her forearm to go behind the curtain where Langdon was waiting to examine her when Robby appeared at the window.
"Trauma," he blurted, so frazzled that he couldn't seem to get any further words out. After a few moments of catching his breath, he managed a longer, but no less concise, "Concussion. Fell off a ladder."
"Is that--"
"Yes, Jack's daughter--and he's going to lose his mind if he catches wind of this, so he can not find out, do you hear me?"
"Robby," Lupe replied, as if to say what the hell do you want me to do? "You take her through and get her help, but other than that, you're on your own."
Robby sighed, but darted behind the curtain, announcing your condition and his subsequent need for a gurney. It was almost as if the impact of your body on the foam jolted your senses back into working order--when you came to, you were moving, surrounded by a crowd of doctors. You cried out. In your head, you were calling for Robby, for Jack, for anyone who would listen, but it came out as an unintelligible moan. Finally, you managed a, "Where...?" before a blur that you recognized as Dana recounted your surroundings to you.
"You're in the hospital, hon. You fell and hit your head--you remember that?"
"Uh... yes." It was almost as if you were ripping the words from your throat. "Is Dad...?"
Dana smiled. "He's out in the ambulance bay right now, don't you worry. We're going to get you stable first, and then we'll break the news, okay? Trust me, none of us want him to lose his shit right before handoff."
"Please, you can't--"
"I'm gonna stop you right there, kid. Now, I love you like my own, but that I cannot do for you. Your dad would wring my neck personally if he found out you were here and nobody told him. He worries about you, you know that?”
"Dana--"
"...And it's nice of you to not want to stress him out, I get that, but that's not really how it works, hon. My Jonathan is taller than me now and I still nearly give myself an ulcer when he's out overnight."
You frowned. "When do I, uh.... get to go home?"
"I'm afraid it's going to be a little while. We've still got some tests to perform, just to rule everything out. Probably tomorrow, at the earliest." Dana patted your shoulder. "But you just sit back and let us do all the work, huh? You'll be right as rain in no time."
For Jack's sake, you sure hoped so.
⋆˚꩜｡
"Abbot, go home. We got this," assured Shen, sipping on his second coffee of the night. "You've been on your feet all shift. At least go do some charts or something."
"I can't. I don't know, I just..." Jack sighed. "I have a bad feeling. I need to do something."
"I'd be surprised if you didn't," Ellis chimed in, to which Jack raised his arms as if to say what the hell do you mean by that? "I just mean, that, you know... you haven't taken a day off in a while, that's all. You can only run for so long before you crash."
"I'm not going to--"
"She's right," interrupted Shen. "You nearly missed a brain bleed today. You're off your game."
"Oh, come on," Jack scoffed. "I'm fine."
"That's what they all say," muttered Ellis. "You need--"
Slowly, she was drowned out by the sound of Dana, engrossed in a conversation with Robby at the Hub. "It's Y/N, Robby. A little knock on the head won't keep her down for long. She's young."
At the mention of your name, Jack whipped around. "You're early. What's going on?"
Well, shit. "Jack--"
"Robby." A beat passed, and then, "You wouldn't be here if something wasn't going on. Tell me."
Robby sighed, pressing his lips into a hard, thin line. A long moment of silence passed before Robby muttered, "She's here, Jack."
Immediately, before the last syllable of your name could even leave Robby's mouth, Jack's heart dropped to his stomach. "What?"
"She... she hit her head. She's getting a CT right now, just to rule out--"
"My daughter is in my ER getting a CT right now, and you didn't think to, I don't know, fucking tell me?"
"We just got here like, thirty minutes ago," replied Robby, scrambling for an explanation. "She called me from home, and then in the parking lot, she... passed out."
"Jesus Christ, Robby, this is something you call me about! I could've been there when she came to, and she must've been so confused waking up in an unfamiliar place, and--"
"Jack, she is fine!" Dana exclaimed. "I was there when she came to, and she was perfectly cognizant, talking fine when we sent her off to the CT. Pupils a little uneven, but nothing serious. Please, calm down."
"Don't tell me to calm down! That's my daughter in there, and I--"
Robby placed a hand on his fellow attending's shoulder, and all of a sudden he was silent. "When she gets back from tests, you can go to her room and see for yourself, alright? But for now, I need you to, please, calm down. You're going to stress her out if you go in there and get in her face."
Jack sighed, the sort of sigh that seemed to deflate him.
"Take a break. Go eat something. Everything is going to be okay."
"How do you know that? How do you know she doesn't need a craniotomy, or, or--I don't know, a fucking VP shunt? How am I supposed to just take a break when she's in there, and she's scared, and she's confused, and she needs me? I-I can't just sit around, doing nothing, I can't--"
"Jack, look at me." Immediately, Jack's gaze traveled to meet Robby's. "She's awake. She's talking. There's no brain bleed. She is going to be fine. Now, please, go get something from the vending machine. You're shaking."
Frowning, Jack made a beeline to the break room. Ellis and Shen sent each other a look--who knew that the all-knowing, self-sacrificing Jack Abbot took orders so easily? All eyes were on him as he departed; for someone who hated being worried about, he didn't exactly make it easy not to.
⋆˚꩜｡
After a few preliminary tests, you were finally back in your room. You had a mild concussion that was said to heal quickly with lots of rest (though would be confirmed when your CT scan results came back) and stitches on your palm, but other than that, you were going to be fine. Now, for the hard part--facing Jack. Despite your apprehension, you couldn't help but feel yourself craving his comfort. After the day you'd had, the only thing that seemed like would help was Jack, his arms around you, a whisper in your hair that it would all be okay, even if it wouldn't be. You knew he could never be mad at you, but making him worry felt worse than any anger; he did so much for you, and this was how you repaid him?
However, the second you saw Jack pushing through a crowd of people to make it to you, all of your thoughts melted away, replaced by an undeniable, insatiable desire to be held. Before you could even open your mouth to explain yourself, Jack was on his knees in front of you, cupping your cheeks, running his fingers gently along the gash on your hand, counting each stitch to make sure that they'd been done right. Your lip began to tremble.
"Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry," you murmured, voice wavering as you struggled to hold back a wave of emotion. "I didn't mean to--"
"Hey, no, none of that," Jack interrupted, running the pads of his thumbs under your glasses to wipe away any tears before they could fall down your cheeks. "What did we say about apologies?"
"If... if you had no control over it, don't say sorry."
"Right." A beat, and then, "What happened?"
"I... I was trying to change a lightbulb--the one by the TV. I wanted to surprise you, so you didn't have to do it when you came home."
Jack felt as if his heart could jump out of his chest with the mix of emotions pumping through it. Part of him wanted to sit you on the couch wrapped in bubble wrap and keep you at home forever so that nothing bad would ever happen to you, but he knew that that was an unrealistic prospect; you had aspirations, and it would be wrong of him to prevent you from reaching for them, even if he nearly gave himself an ulcer each time you had to travel out-of-state for debate club meets.
The other part of him, despite his anxiety, was simply overwhelmed with pure, unadulterated adoration. His perfect, perfect girl had hurt herself trying to make his life a little easier--how could anyone not adore you? Little did you know, your mere existence did just that.
Coming home each morning to you getting ready for school, putting your hair in a braid and pulling on your boots with a cheerful greeting (how anyone was that upbeat at seven in the morning, he would never know) was enough to keep him going for the rest of the day. Picking up takeout on Friday nights was never a chore, because he knew he would get to see the grin on your face when you opened the bag and found your favorite noodles nestled between a package of egg rolls and his own lo mein. Jack lived and breathed to see you happy, and would go to any lengths to do so.
"Oh, honey," he said, softly, pulling over one of the creaky visitor chairs so he could be at eye level with you. "You didn't have to do that."
"Of course I did! You're always doing so much for me, and I couldn't even do this one thing without screwing it up. I can't do anything."
"I was happy to change it, bug, I promise. But even then, this isn't your fault, you hear me?"
"But I took you away from your job, and..." you paused, and Jack held his breath, expecting to receive confirmation that you'd gravely injured yourself, or something to that degree. Instead, like it was top secret, you whispered, "...I dropped the lightbulb when I fell, and it broke into, like, a million pieces all over the floor, and--"
"Hey, hey, look at me," Jack interrupted, placing one hand on either side of your face. "I don't care about the lightbulb, okay? All I care about is that you're okay. Nothing else matters to me. You could've brought the TV down with you, and I wouldn't give a shit."
"But--"
"No buts, honey. Things are replaceable. You are not."
Absently, Jack stroked your left shoulder blade. In moments like these, Jack always had to have a hand on you, one way or another, simply to confirm to his dubious mind that you, his life, his livelihood, were whole and alive in his arms.
"Are you sure?" you asked, and Jack nodded.
"Of course I'm sure. We'll get to that when we get home--for now, I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, okay?" When your lip began to quiver once more, Jack scooted closer to your bed, allowing you to melt into his waiting arms. "It's okay if you want to cry, but I want you to know that I'm not mad at you, bug."
"Promise?" came your feeble voice, muffled in the shoulder of his scrubs.
"I promise," he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before pulling away to look you in the eyes. God, you looked just like your mother, with those big, pleading eyes. He pursed his lips. "I could never be mad at you, honey. Now... I'm not going anywhere. Get some rest."
Slowly, you nodded. In your father's arms, all was well.
Popping in to say I have never watched the pitt but I am always locked in to your dad!robby and dad!jack fics they are soo good <3 you are a lovely writer and I hope you have/are having a great day :)
awe thank you !!! i write for the masses fr, i’m always happy when people enjoy my work 🥹 <3
Georgia O’Keeffe, from a letter to Alfred Stieglitz featured in My Faraway One: Selected Letters of Georgia O'Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz: Volume One, 1915-1933
summary: jack finds himself set off by all of the fireworks. luckily, you're there to keep him company.
genre: angst & comfort
notes/warnings: mentions of PTSD and jack's service as a combat medic (general war settings and fatal injuries/gore). reader is an upcoming junior in high school, so around 16-17 years old. happy 4th to all my american readers in the most eat the rich, fuck the colonizers way possible! (i didn't proofread this and it's also 1am, so if you see any typos, no you don't...)
word count: 2.6k
God, you couldn't wait for the night to be over--you'd nearly finished your walk home after being dragged to a 4th of July party by your friends, who'd practically begged you to borrow their cowboy boots and tube tops and tiny little shorts, which you'd discarded in favor of a slouchy knit sweater with a print of the American flag on the front and a pair of bell bottom jeans. There was nothing wrong with their desire to show a little skin, especially in the peak of the Pittsburgh summer, but you would've hated to be freezing on your walk home, considering you'd correctly predicted that the party would run late into the night.
Jack had allowed you to attend the party only after you'd promised to regularly update him on your status via text, which you did diligently every two hours. Most recently, you'd texted to inform him that you were returning home, but rather than his usual thumbs up, you received radio silence. He'd finally managed to secure a day off on one of the busiest nights of the year, so you figured, at midnight, he was likely to be asleep, but knowing him, his night shift sleep schedule was rather ingrained into his circadian rhythm; he was always asleep most of the day on his days off, which he had been when you'd left for the party with a peck to his forehead, but now.... where was his response?
A pang of anxiety reverberated through your chest. The logical side of you was eager to brush it off, but you couldn't help but feel a persistent, niggling sense of unease nag at you. He liked to be scheduled on the 4th of July in order to occupy himself with patients rather than sit at home and listen to the fireworks, which you knew--though he would never admit it--made his anxiety skyrocket. Each time you asked about it, he'd brush it off like it was silly, like there was no reason to fret over him, but the thought brought a frown to your lips.
You picked up the pace when your apartment building came into sight, pushing open the lobby door with your hip and smiling in greeting to Ernesto, the doorman, as your hands were full with both your purse and a plastic takeout bag full of leftover treats that you'd brought home to share with Jack if he was awake.
"Thanks, Nesto," you said, nodding your thanks as he pressed the button on the elevator upon noticing that your hands were occupied.
"Have a good night, señora," he replied, grinning, though something deeper was lurking behind his eyes. "Cuida al señor Abbot, ¿de acuerdo?"
He'd cautioned you to take care of Jack, which only increased your anxiety. "¿Por qué?"
"He seemed extra jumpy today. I opened the elevator for him and he whipped around like I came to kill him, or something, dios mío."
You frowned, but nodded nonetheless. "I'll update you on how he's doing in the morning," you said. Jack had had the same conversation when you'd gone down with the stomach flu and he'd come into the building with an armful of groceries; in such a small building, you were quite the close-knit community. With a final wave, you entered the elevator and pressed the 3 button.
When you reached your floor, you practically ran down the hallway, slinging the bag of treats onto your wrist so you could more effectively unlock the door without disturbing the neighbors so late at night. When the door was safely locked again, you set your keys in the bowl by the door, making a beeline for the living room, where Jack was usually up late flipping through the channels. Empty. Huh.
The bathroom door was slightly ajar, meaning that he wasn’t in there, which left two places: the balcony and the bedroom. A quick peek outside the living room window confirmed that it was in fact vacant, meaning the bedroom was your last hope. You and Jack tried to respect each other’s privacy, so you didn’t want to barge in uninvited, but your worry was a bit too large to ignore. Slowly, you crept through the doorway.
“Dad?”
No response.
“Dad, are you in here?”
Silence. You frowned. Another firework went off, and you heard a soft rustling in the closet, almost as if it were a flinch. You conjured an image of a frightened animal in your mind, curling into itself at the slightest bit of noise, and kneeled on the ground, setting the bag of treats and your purse by the doorway. At this level, you could see the tip of a colored sock peeking through the clothes, confirming your suspicions. “Oh, Daddy…”
“Can I sit with you?” you whispered, feeling around the mass of clothing and placing your hand gently on his knee. You didn’t question why he was in the closet; you already knew.
“Yeah,” came the hoarse response, and you pushed over a conglomerate of hangers to make room for you to slide in. Your hand accidentally grazed his sweater-clad chest while you were settling in, and you could feel his heart pounding against your palm.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, curling up next to him in the corner. It hadn’t been this bad since you were a kid, when there had been a couple of drunk idiots setting off firecrackers in the street below his bedroom window. “I should’ve been home earlier.”
Slowly, Jack shook his head. It was clear that he was too overwhelmed for words right now, but still, he was determined to let you know that it was not your fault, just as he always had been. You, his perfect, perfect girl, could do no wrong in his eyes.
Another firework went off, and Jack sucked in a quick breath through his teeth. To an uninformed observer, it appeared that he had simply been startled by the loud noise, but you knew the fear ran much deeper than that. He could see the events playing out in front of him--applying a tourniquet amidst a shower of bullets, the thunder of boots against uneven terrain, praying that an exposed root didn't trip him and leave him to flee with a sprained ankle or wrist, making him a liability to his squadron. You never wanted to be a liability; in the trenches, liabilities were left behind.
Another blast. A shell exploded half a mile from Jack, who was pressing a scrap of his uniform against a dear friend's torso, a last-ditch attempt at quelling the river of blood flowing from the gaping wound. His fellow medic was yelling over the explosions that he had to move on to another victim, that the man had lost too much blood, that it was no use, but Jack couldn't bring himself to leave him for dead. What a strong, reticent man his comrade had been, now reduced to a pitiful, weeping child in Jack's arms, calling for his mother.
Another blast. Jack had felt this one in his very bones as the other medic yanked him by the back of his shirt from the scene, hands still stained with the blood of his fallen comrade. He had raised his voice now, begging Jack to stay with him, not to let him die alone.
"Dad," you said, and Jack sucked in another quick breath, broken free from the constraints of his thoughts. "Dad, can you hear me?"
"Fuck," he breathed, palm splayed across his chest, which rose and fell with quick, unsteady breaths. "Fuck, I--I can't--"
"Dad," you repeated, pushing another load of hangers aside so you could sit in front of him and place one hand on each of his shoulders. "Look at me. Do you feel me with you? It's just me. Nobody else."
"No, no, it's--"
Another firework. Another quick breath. Jack slid further down the wall, curling into himself. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "Fuck, I'm--I didn't have a choice, you have to believe me!"
"Dad, you--what are you talking about? Please, can you look at me?"
Jack placed his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. If you looked closely, you could see the faint outlines of tear tracks on his cheeks, which made your heart clench. You didn't know what to do, but you wished you could make it all stop in an instant. If only it were that easy. You slipped out of the closet with an assurance that you would be back soon, fumbling for your purse upon remembering that you'd accidentally grabbed an extra pair of earplugs at the party before the fireworks show on the roof and stowed them in your bag for further use.
Hands shaking, you ripped open the package, depositing them in your palm and scooting back over to Jack, who had since pulled his knees up to his chest.
"I have earplugs, if you want them," you said, softly--you had a feeling that your frantic questioning had played a part in further overwhelming him, and thus wanted to try a different approach. "I know you left your special ones at Robby's, but these might work, I think. They worked for me."
Jack opened his eyes just a smidge, then fully, when he realized there had been a break in the fireworks. "What...?"
"Earplugs," you repeated, holding them out for him to grab, which he did in an instant, placing them in his ears. Another firework went off, and though he still flinched, it wasn't the duck-for-cover sort that he'd been experiencing earlier. Slowly, he nodded his thanks.
"Fuck," he muttered, for what seemed like the hundredth time, dragging the heel of his hand against his cheeks with a roughness that suggested he figured he needed to be punished simply for the crime of feeling. You frowned; he could do no wrong in your eyes.
Slowly, as if approaching a cornered animal, you scooted closer, placing your hand on his knee once more. You opened your mouth to speak, but remembered he couldn't hear you. With an outstretched hand, you communicated a silent message: Come out? Jack pursed his lips. Cautiously, he took your hand. Another firework went off, and Jack jumped, but your grip on his hand didn't waver. Finally, you sat across from each other on the floor in silence.
You crawled over so that you were shoulder-to-shoulder, as you knew that in moments like these, where words failed, Jack craved touch; slowly, though his chest was still heaving, he rested his head on yours, allowing himself to relax, even if it was only slightly. You squeezed his hand with just enough force to remind him that you were there, opening your notes app with your free hand to type Do you want to talk about it? He shook his head, and you nodded in acknowledgement. Clearing the document, you typed Hungry?, nodding to the bag by the door.
"Haven't eaten," he admitted, softly, monitoring his volume, as he didn't know truly how loud he was being with the earplugs in. You'd figured. Setting your phone down, you reached for the bag, gently slipping your hand away from his to untie the knot. Inside were an assortment of leftovers: sugar cookies with red, white, and blue sprinkles, some miscellaneous candy, and even a few slices of pizza. You left the bag open in your lap, a silent invitation for him to dig in, as you didn't want to overwhelm him. You grabbed a cookie shaped like the American flag as if to show him that nothing would happen if he decided to indulge, to which he grabbed his own, taking a miniscule bite.
After he'd devoured the cookie and a subsequent slice of pizza, which seemed to calm his nerves, even if it was only a little, he sighed, removing one of the earplugs. "God, I'm sorry you had to see that."
"What are you talking about?"
"Ever since you were born, I've always tried to, you know.... keep you away from all of this. You don't deserve that, looking after me like that. That's my job."
You could tell he was attempting to make a joke, but it didn't stick. You frowned. "Why would you do that? You know I always want to help you."
Mirthlessly, he chuckled. "You and your big heart. I know you want to--you've always wanted to. You just... I don't want you to feel like it's your responsibility to look after me. It's not your job to take on my shit, kid. I have to suck it up and deal with it. That's just how life works."
"But you don't have to. You never had to, Dad. Why would you ever think that I'd leave you to deal with this by yourself? You have me, and you have Robby, and you have Dana, and Shen, and Ellis, and all of your night shift crew--so many people that see this happen to you and want to do something about it."
"I know, and that's kind of you, but it's my--"
"No! I want you to listen to me, Dad. If I were carrying something, wouldn't you want me to come to you?"
"Of course I would, but that's different."
"No, it really isn't. I love you, Dad, so fucking much, and if there's something you want to talk about, I don't want you to feel like you don't have anyone to talk about it with. And if you don't want to tell me, tell Robby! Tell Dana! Tell your therapist! The point is, tell someone. You deserve to have people listen just as much as anyone else."
For a long moment, Jack was silent. The silence was broken by the crack of another firework, at which you crawled into his lap just as you'd done as a girl of four, unable to find another way to remedy the situation other than touch. You remembered that night vividly, the way you'd pressed your head into his chest until you could feel the beat of his heart against your ear, each panicked breath he took in through his nose, out through his mouth.
"Look at me, Daddy," you said, softly, staring into his eyes. "It's just me. Nobody else. You're in our house, in your bedroom. Nesto is downstairs, probably beating the next level of Candy Crush or whatever new game he's discovered. Robby's down the street, probably sleeping off his shift. Ellis and Shen are doing handoff. Dana is taking her last smoke break. Everything is okay. You're safe. Breathe with me."
You raised your hand as you took a breath in through your nose, then let it fall when you let it out through your mouth. After a few intervals, his breath seemed to calm again. You exhaled for the last time, giving Jack one last long, searching look, a silent once-over to determine if he was truly alright.
"Do you think you can sleep?" you asked, finally, after a beat. He shook his head. "That's okay. We can watch TV or something, if you want."
"I think... I think I can do that."
You smiled. "You go to the couch, and I'll put all this stuff away."
"I can--"
"Couch."
Jack rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, the first sign of his demeanor brightening ever-so-slightly. "When did you get so bossy?"
It was a weary remark, as if it took effort to make, but the fact that it had been made in the first place was a good sign to you. "I grew up with two ER attendings and a charge nurse--what do you think?"
He chuckled. "Dana at the hospital, Dana at home... Will I ever escape?"
"Dana tells you to, what, drink water and have meals so you don't die? Oh, the horrors."
Another chuckle. "Oh, you get that sass from Robby, not me."
Gently, you shoved his shoulder. "Whatever you say, old man."
i just saw the CBS interview reel where shawn hatosy gets shown the “unc peepaw people’s princess” selfie and admits he’s chronically online and !!! you just KNOW robby’s daughter teaches him brainrot and they torment robby together
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
baratheonpilled
prguitarman
