Summary: 4 times Jack Abbot fought with Samira's Cat + 1 Time He Didn't
Warning/Tags: Fluff, Light smut, Diabetic cat - Body shaming is only okay when it's a chunky kitty, Crack treated seriously
Notes: Don't think about the logistics of a diabetic cat when you regularly have 12 hr shifts okay?
Word Count: 3.6K
Masterlist | Archive of Our Own
Jack Abbot likes animals.
He's never really been a 'pet guy.' He grew up with 3 older sisters under a single mom so they never had the funds for family pet, but him and his sister Josie would always find scraps for the strays in the neighbourhood. One particularly cold winter Josie had found a tiny little mutt in the street on her way home from school and her and Jack had hidden it in her closet for almost a full week before their mother had found out and made them take it to the shelter. Since then, he's never really felt the pull to get one of his own.
Samira Mohan loves cats.
After taking an attending position at Presby, she'd celebrated by taking a trip to the local animal shelter and picked out the one who had no applications for its adoption - this gigantic orange tabby with diabetes and a note on his file that he desperately needed to lose weight. She named him Jalebi, and dutifully checked his glucose every day. Thanks to her extensive research he'd lost 8 lbs, and could now run around for more than 5 minutes at a time.
He's 6 months into dating Samira Mohan when he ends up in her apartment for the first time. They were taking things slow. It was his first relationship after his wife - her first relationship ever. There was no need to rush.
1) The Meeting
Jack sways nervously as Samira fumbles with the key in the lock. He hasn't been this nervous since he met his wife's parents all the way back in the 90s. Somehow this feels more significant.
"Jalebi," Samira calls out with a soft tone as she gets the door open.
He's seen the cat before, of course. Samira has sent him pictures, he's joined their FaceTime calls before, but nothing could have prepared him for the truly gigantic pile of orange fluff sitting in Samira's doorway.
"Holy shit," he laughs, bending down and ignoring the pop in his knee, "He's huge."
"He's diabetic," Samira retorts, tone indignant, "And we're working on it. He needs to lose another 4 pounds or so before the vet is happy with him. But his glucose is already much better now that I've got him on the right diet."
Jack extends his hand, Jalebi's nostrils flare as he takes in the new scent, "He might need to lose 14 pounds, Samira. Cats aren't supposed to be this big."
"You're going to make him self conscious," she bends down next to him. Jalebi abandons Jack's hand with no hesitation, choosing instead to rub himself all over Samira. She coos scratching his head, "You're perfect the way you are, right handsome?"
Nonetheless, Jack is well aware that this Garfield-wannabe is the key to longevity of this relationship so he reaches out to the spot where his tail meets his back and gives a little scratch. Before he can even process what's happening, Jalebi turns around and swat's his hand away, ears flipped back in his disapproval with a tiny growl.
"Jalebi, that's not nice," Samira tuts, scratching between his ears. Almost reluctantly, they fall forward under Samira's touch. He keeps gazed narrowed on Jack, "You love bum scratches, what's the problem?"
"Sorry," He puts his arms up in surrender, "I didn't ask. That's my fault."
But for the rest of the night, no matter where he goes he can feel those tiny golden eyes watching his every move.
2) The Sleepover
On account of Jalebi's insulin schedule, Jack spends more time at Samira's apartment than she does at his place. Not that he minds, it still feels a little odd to have a woman in the space he once shared with his wife. Though, he might have been more inclined to offer up his house to Jalebi too if he wasn't worried the still-obese cat would kill him in his sleep.
Jack doesn't stay the night until about a month later. Samira had surprised him with a pair of crutches with his name written in fancy script in permanent marker on the side, and a shower chair she'd ordered from work. It's just a basic four stand chair that she can fold up and store when he's not there, but he's man enough to admit a tear or two rolled down his cheek when she'd ask him to stay the weekend for the first time.
"How long does this stay in?" he asks, looking at her in the mirror. He's sitting on the chair in front of her counter as she drops oil onto her hand.
She warms it in her hands, before running her hands through his curls, nails scratching against his scalp, "I usually keep it overnight. But if you want to take a shower before you sleep you can wash it then."
"Isn't it gonna ruin your pillows?"
"I've had the same pillowcases since undergrad. They'll survive."
Her own hair is slick with the same oil, braided to keep it off her face. A short piece has escaped, falling into her face as methodically rubs small circles along his scalp.
Jack nods, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch.
"What's in it?"
"Amla oil, some root extracts."
"Did you make it?"
"My mom did," she says quietly, dropping more onto his scalp, "She sent me some last week."
Jack is about to try and prod more about her mother, but just then Jalebi makes his presence known, breaking the quiet intimate moment with a yowl.
Samira jumps, aggressively tapping her phone awake.
"Shit, sorry, I lost track of time. I didn't realize it was dinner time."
Jack swears Jalebi winks at him as Samira rushes out of the bathroom.
*****
"Oh leave the door open!" Samira calls as Jack shuts the bedroom door behind him, "Jalebi will wake us up at 3 am otherwise."
Jack resists the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he slides into bed next to her without a word about it.
"Who ya talking to?" he asks, already fighting sleep as he settles onto the pillow.
"Cassie. Chad has Harrison the week before her birthday so she wants to do a little girls trip."
"Oh? That'll be nice. To where?" he reaches out to grab her hand.
"Maybe New York? Apparently she's a secret Broadway nerd. Might use my new attending paycheck to get us some good tickets to Hadestown."
"You can use my attending paycheck to get you guys one of those nice penthouse suites."
"Jack, we've been over this, you can't just pay for everything for me."
"I can pay for everything for you, you just don't want to let me," he chuckles, kissing her knuckles.
"I don't want to think I'm using you or anything."
"If you were using me you would have been out of this shoebox you call an apartment months ago. In fact I'd wish you'd use me more-oof," the rest of his sentence is cut off by the weight of bowling ball crushing his diaphragm. He flails in panic for a moment before realizing Jalebi has taken residence upon his chest.
"Aw hi, belly baby," Samira's voice goes up several pitches like it always does when Jalebi's in the room, "I was wondering where you were."
"He's gonna stay here?" Jack wheezes.
"You're not the only man I share a bed with, Jack," Jalebi's tail flicks happily as Samira bends down to kiss his face. Jack is acutely aware of his four tiny paws slowly crushing the air out his lungs.
"Can you at least get him off me?"
As if knowing Jack's plan, Jalebi turns and sits. The fat feline clearly does not mind the fact that Jack's face is mere inches away from his asshole, or the fact that his tail is currently swiping over it, the long strands getting caught in his stubble. He tucks his pawn underneath him, one ear turned back to ensure Jack knows that he's still paying attention to him.
"You're on his pillow. It's only fair."
"Really?" Jack wrenches his head away, trying to stay out of the whip zone.
"He's purring," Samira moves his tail and tucks it against Jalebi's body. Thankfully, the creature listens and keeps it to himself this time, "He's coming around to you."
"He's trying to suffocate me."
"He's bonding!" she giggles. His annoyance is somewhat alleviated when she leans down to finally press her lips to his this time, "Soon you'll be watching the game together and playing catch, and whatever else fathers and sons do.
3) The Argument
Jack is fairly certain he was a good husband. Though his skills are a little rusty, he's doing everything he can to ensure he's good boyfriend this time around too.
He hasn't seen Samira in nearly week with both of them working opposite schedules. On his first day off he takes a trip to the grocery store and lets himself into Samira's apartment to work on dinner for her.
Jack nods his greeting to Jalebi on the couch. The freeloader's ear flicks in recognition before dropping his head back down and going to back to sleep. He has all his grocery's lined up on the counter, getting lost in his own little world as he puts them away. He's breaking down the boxes of the Samira's favourite protein bars, trying to remember where she keeps her recycling when a rustling noise gets his attention.
"Hey!" Jalebi looks at him, defiant despite the grocery bag hanging around his neck, "You can't kill yourself when I'm watching you. That makes me look really bad, man."
He tries to take the bag off, but Jalebi's ears go back.
"C'mon man, I'm trying to help you."
He tries again, this time met with a raised paw. Jack doesn't know if his claws are sheathed or not, but he's going to have to find out.
Jalebi hisses, lips pulled back in a snarl when Jack gets his hands around the bag. His heart is pounding in his chest when the plump cat flails, worried he's going to get more tangled in the straps.
"How did you even fit in here? Aren't you supposed to be losing weight?"
Eventually, he manages to rip the handles of the plastic bag in order to free him. The little asshole pulls against his touch, freeing himself off the bag with another growl. He stands on the counter, ears pinned back.
Jack puts his head in his hands and groans, "What do I have to do to get you to like me? I've tried so hard. You don't like when I pet you, when I brush you. You don't like when I give you food. Man to man, tell me what I need to do because I'm not planning on going anywhere."
Surprisingly, the cat has no response.
Jack sighs.
"Get off the counter then, I have to make dinner."
Jack flinches as Jalebi's teeth get dangerously close to the tip of his finger when he tries shove his hefty ass off the counter.
"If it's okay with you, I'd like to keep the rest of my appendages, asshole."
4) The Cockblock
Samira sighs against his lips, laying down on the couch, pulling Jack on top of her. He kisses down her neck, using his stubble to scratch against her skin the way she licks. She squirms as he sucks on her pulse point, revelling in the way hear heartbeat quickens under his lips.
"Jack," she's breathless, one weak hand on his chest not quite pushing him away, "I'm disgusting. Lemme shower first."
"Or," his hand is splayed out against her stomach, his thumb creeping under the band of her sports bra, "You let me get you off like this and then we can take a shower together. See how much weight that chair can handle."
"I'm sweaty," she groans as her back arches off the couch.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," he winks before dragging tongue along the valley of her breasts, groaning as the salt hits his taste buds.
She's about to let him strip her in her living room when that little fucker howls. She stiffens under neath him, the hand on his chest starting to push him away again,
"He's okay, Mira," he grunts, pinching her nipple through her bra making her gasp, "He's just being an ass."
"Th-that's not, that's not nice," she says, but there's no fight behind it. She's already pliant under him again.
"Knew this colour would look good on you," he murmurs, pulling back to look at her. He reaches back and undoes her ponytail, letting her curls fall around her face so he can tangle his fingers in them. The lilac does complement the richness of her skin tone, making him want to drag his tongue over her whole body, "Should get you some more."
"Thank-thank you," she pants, "I've been needing work out clothes for so long."
"Don't thank me," Jack grunts, slipping his fingers under her bra, getting ready to peel her out of if, "Just as much as a gift for me as it is for you, doll. You should-"
They're ripped out of their bubble by another howl, louder and closer this time. They both whip their heads towards the source.
This time that evil little ball of fluff's whole body starts pulsing and Samira pushes Jack off with a strength he didn't know she possessed. Those two golden eyes stare him down as his body convulses once more and produces the largest hairball Jack has ever seen in his life.
+1) The Babysitter
"Are you sure you'll be okay watching him?" Samira asks as she loads Jalebi's insulin syringe, "My neighbour said she doesn't mind."
"It's only 4 days, Samira," he says, wrapping his arms around Samira's waist and kissing her shoulder, "We can put up with each other for 4 days."
"And you're sure, you can give him insulin? I'm gonna pre-load the syringes for you to make it easier, but if you can't actually give him the dose it's fine, but you have to take him to the vet because if his glucose gets too high-"
"Samira," he chuckles, "I know it's been a year since we've worked a shift together but I graduated med school when you were in diapers. Believe it or not, I know how important glucose regulation is for diabetics."
"I'm sorry, I'm just nervous," she shakes her head, "If you're ever unsure just call me okay. Even if it's 3 am. Call me."
"Nothing is going to happen, Mohan," he gives her one more kiss before pulling away, "Now, show me how to administer a shot to a cat without getting bit."
"I always distract him with a Churu," she says, putting the bowl in front of him, "He's used to it now he doesn't even flinch. You just make a skin tent with your hands like this and poke like you would a human patient."
She shows him, fisting the extra skin in her hand and poking it with her finger to show where he should inject.
Jack nods, following her instructions. Jalebi sighs as if to complain about Jack's hands on him rather than Samira's, but makes no move to smack him. It's a bit more difficult to check if the syringe is actually through the skin barrier on account of the fur, but Jack is a quick study.
"See?" he says triumphantly, recapping the needle, "No need to worry about us."
"You don't need to test his glucose unless he hasn't eaten, he usually doesn't have that issue but he can be a little dramatic when I'm not home and stops eating sometimes. If it's too high, then call me and we can adjust his insulin. If it's too low, there's corn syrup here," she punctuates her sentence by opening the cabinet by the stove, "Rub it on his gums to raise it quickly. If he's lethargic-"
"Samira," Jack cuts in, "I am a doctor, remember?"
"I'm sorry," she says sheepishly.
Jack chuckles, standing pulling her in by her waist."
+1) The Time He Didn't
Jack hates day shift. He's reminded of this fact every time he's forced to cover for someone. The night shift may have more agitated patients, but at least all of administration is tucked in their beds with no plans to bother him. Half his day was spent dodging Gloria and other higher ups. And he was out a $50 Dunkin gift card to get Shen to come in early so he could ensure he'd be home on time to administer Jalebi's insulin.
He frowns. Of course that little rat isn't waiting for him at the door like he does for Samira.
"Jalebi," he calls out, after he checks the door is closed, "Dinner time! Need to give your your jab too. Make sure you don't go into DKA."
He walks into Samira's pantry to grab a can of wet food. His blood turns cold as he passes Jalebi's food dish. Untouched. And Jack had administered his morning insulin before he left.
"Shit," Jack takes off at a sprint to the bedroom.
Usually Jack has to fight Jalebi for the pillow at night, but since Samira's been gone he's been sprawled across her pillow instead. Fortunately, Jack finds him curled up on her pillow, exactly where he suspected. Unfortunately, he's completely limp and unresponsive to his sternal rub.
Are you supposed to do a sternal rub on a cat? Jack doesn't have much time to dwell on it, just picks him up with a groan and rushes back to the kitchen. Jalebi manages to lift his head, looking up at Jack with sad eyes as he rips open the drawer for the glucose test strips and corn syrup from the cabinet behind them.
Jalebi doesn't even flick his ear when Jack gently pricks his it and squeezes until the drop of blood falls on the test strip.
Shit. He twists the cap off the corn syrup, rubbing it on Jalebi's gums just like Samira showed him before she left.
He's ignoring the throb in his bad leg as he rushes down to stairs, Jalebi wrapped in the throw blanket from the couch. For the first time in his life, he doesn't wait for his engine to warm before he shifts gears.
*****
"Jack?" Samira's voice beams through the speaker on his phone. His heart leaps in his chest. She sounds so happy, is actually enjoying herself and he's about to tell her that he nearly killed her beloved cat, "Everything okay? How's Jalebi?"
"I'm sorry," his voice wavers, "I fucked up. I-I didn't stay watch him eat at least half his can this morning and gave him his insulin anyways and when I came he was hypoglycemic and so I rushed him over to the emergency vet and-"
"Woah, woah, slow down," she murmurs, panic creeping into the voice, "Is he? He's not-"
"No!" He clarifies immediately. Jalebi's blinks at him on the table, still a little lethargic but in much better condition, "God no. He's fine now but he wasn't totally lucid when I got home so I rubbed some syrup on his gums and rushed him over to the vet."
Jack reaches out and scratches behind his ear. His white-tipped tail flicks happily as a very quiet purr fills the room. The line goes dead and he frowns at his phone, certain that is the last time he'll speak to her.
He jumps as he's suddenly left to stare at his own face as Samira Mohan (Resident) requests to FaceTime. He accepts with no hesitation.
"I'm so sorry," he says, running a hand through his hair, "I know I said I could handle it and I just-"
"Jack it's okay," Samira cuts him off, "Stuff happens. You didn't do it on purpose. Turn the camera around so I can see him."
Jack fumbles with the screen, cursing when he can't find the button.
"Jack where are your readers?" Samira giggles.
"I was in a hurry, Mohan, didn't think to grab them," he grunts back, holding the phone away from his face in an attempt to make it less blurry. Finally, he finds the little camera switch icon.
He's impatient, the square in the corner switches between the floor and his face as he tries to get the right screen. Samira's smile grows bigger on his screen. Eventually, he settles on the right view.
Her face drops when he pans over to Jalebi on the table.
"Oh, Jalebi," she sighs, voice wavering slightly, "My poor baby. What did they give him?"
"IV dextrose and fluids." he moves the camera to the injection site, "22 gauge catheter. And he's going to look a little silly until his fur grows back in. But temporary wounded pride is a small price to pay for a full recovery. Right, man?"
Jalebi starts to purr again when Jack scratches under his chin the way he's seen Samira do so many times before.
That brings a smile back to her face, "Looks like you two are getting along now."
"Oh, he's just too tired to swipe at me right now. I'm sure we'll be fist fighting once I bring him back home."
He can hear Cassie's voice on her end, calling her over. Samira mutes her call to yell something back before she unmutes herself again.
"We're about to go down into the subway so I'm going to lose connection. But do not leave until I call back, I need to talk to the vet and discuss his home care options in detail."
Before We Knew Better | Andrew 'Pope' Cody Masterlist
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Summary: When Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody was taken into care Smurf pulled some strings and got him put in a place close to Oceanside. That place was with you and your parents. Something Smurf would later regret when she realised that the bond you and Andrew forged in the month he was there was never going away. The years went by and the older boy became your best friend. Your protector. Your person. Fast forward and when Andrew gets out of prison he finds out Smurf’s hatred for you has gone to a whole other level.
Pairing: Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x reader
Overall Warnings: Smut, violence, overprotective Pope, sub!Pope if you squint, angry pope, piv sex, oral sex, established relationship.
6.4k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: Dad!Jack; mentions of pregnancy; mention that reader had a rough first pregnancy with a few scary moments but no specifics or real discussion; the quickest second of angst (for me lol) where Jack thinks about losing you during/after a pregnancy; discussion of baby Abbot #2; breeding kink; Jack joking he could remove your IUD; foreplay; allusion to PIV sex; sass; soft moments; silliness; fluff; happy fluffy domestic dad!Jack; no use of y/n.
Summary: Watching each other with your daughter, who inherited Jack's sass, makes you and Jack have the same thought: you guys could have another.
AN: This feels like something so different for me, especially as of late (Quiet Part 6 notwithstanding). I don't know how I feel about it. But what's new there lol. This is just kind of silly. The idea came to me when I was telling a friend a story about an interaction my mom and I had when I was 4-ish that is the most Mich story and behavior. I've always been like this. It involves the word 'peep' and, you know, Peeps, it's the day after Easter. I think I'm so funny. 😂 Anyway more on the story at the end so as not to ruin anything lol. I don't really know where the rest came from, honestly. I didn't question it too hard and kind of just let it flow so hopefully it's okay. Like I said, it's definitely not my usual angsty angst or super emotional stuff, so I hope I've still got that fluff in me lol. Thank you so much for reading and for all of your support! I hope it's enjoyable and that you do enjoy! ♥️
"Daddy!"
Your daughter's voice rings into your bedroom through the monitor on Jack's nightstand. "Mommy!"
You feel Jack take a deep breath, your face buried against his chest as you lay curled into each other on your sides. "This is a dream, right?" he mumbles. "I'm hearing her call for us in a dream and not for the twentieth time tonight."
You nuzzle your face into him and then pull back. "No such luck, Baby," you hum sleepily. It feels like you guys literally got back to bed and comfortable and fell asleep for about a minute before your daughter calling for you again woke you back up.
Jack groans quietly as you slide out of his arms and start to sit up. He's not mad at her, doesn't resent having to go and check on her, he was just so comfy with you and he's tired. "I knew about the four month sleep regression, I didn't realize there was a four year one. I'm tired and want to sleep." It's almost a little dramatically whined and you laugh to yourself.
Your daughter turned four a week ago. Neither of you can believe it. It's so cliché but it feels like just yesterday you were getting home from the hospital with her and curling up in bed with Jack holding you and you holding her in that postpartum newborn haze.
She's been up and down almost all night which is strange for her. Normally she falls asleep and she's out until the morning. But after about two hours tonight she woke up and called for you both, asked for a drink of water. You and Jack happily took her to the kitchen to get one and tucked her back in bed.
Thirty minutes later as you and Jack were just settling in bed she called out for you both again. This time she needed to go to the bathroom. Twenty or so minutes after that she asked if you could read her one more book to help her fall asleep. Thirty-ish minutes after that Greenie, the stuffed green TY bear she didn't go anywhere without, fell under the bed where she couldn't reach. Fifteen minutes later she was cold and asked if you could turn the fan off. Forty minutes later she was hot and asked for it back on.
And now twenty minutes later here you are again.
"You love it," you smirk tiredly at him. "You love that she calls for Daddy first and that she knows Daddy will always come."
"I do, but I'd also be thrilled not to be experiencing it for the fortieth time tonight. Or this morning, whenever it is." He really does love it. He'll always love it, and Jack will always go to her if she calls for him. It's not even that it's testing his patience, or yours for that matter, though yours is closer to being tested than his. It's that he's tired and it's like she knows right when he slips asleep, when both of you do.
Jack grabs the shirt he keeps on the bench at the foot of your bed and throws it on while you slip on and tie the knee length cotton robe you keep next to it over your satiny sleep camisole and shorts. "You know she knows Mommy will always come too."
"I know," you murmur. You stop at the threshold of your bedroom door and turn to push your lips out for a kiss just because you can. Jack gives you the kiss you seek with a smile. He knows how fucking lucky he is that he has you, gets to call you his wife and love you and kiss you and parent your perfect little girl that you made him with you.
"At least we got some us time before she started waking up," you sigh happily.
"Thank fucking God," Jack huffs, shaking his head. "If this had started when she first went to bed and I'd been trying to have sex with you for the last five hours and kept getting interrupted I'd be in fucking tears." You can't help but laugh quietly to yourself at how serious he sounds when he says it in his hushed tone. "She even went to bed late so she could get some of her excess energy out. How is she not exhausted and totally out? She doesn't even sound that sleepy!"
You shrug even though Jack can't see it. But he can hear it in your voice. "Sometimes the girl can just go and go and go."
At this point you both can tell and know that it's become a little bit of a game for her just by the way she's acting and talking with you. It's not at all that she's scared and trying to get you guys to stay without having to say she's scared. You've seen that before. And it's not that she's just having a bad night or that she's not feeling well but can't quite put the words to the feeling. You've seen both of those before too. She's just not tired right now for whatever reason and is getting bored.
Like he always does he pauses outside of her and knocks on it once with the back of one of his index finger’s knuckles and then opens the door. He turns her dimmer light on low, enough to see well but not hurt anyone's eyes, and then crutches into her room toward her bed as you follow.
"What's going on now Energizer Bunny?" he asks her with a good natured teasing in his voice as he calls her a new nickname that makes her beam at him, a hint of knowing sheepishness in her smile.
She's already sitting up in her bed and shrugs deeply. You smile to yourself. You've seen her father give you that same shrug a million times before. "Wanna change jammies."
Jack fights to keep his smile from growing too wide and encouraging her. "You wanna change your jammies?"
"Yeah," she nods at him, like this is a perfectly normal request to make in the middle of the night.
Jack nods at her slowly. "Wh-" Halfway through asking why he changes his mind. It doesn't even matter. His little girl wants to change jammies so jammies will be changed. Plus he doesn't want to end up getting her started on a ten minute story if he can avoid it, as much as he loves indulging her imagination and hearing the ideas she comes up with.
"You wanna pick them out, Honey?" you ask her from where you've moved to kneel by her probably overly well bolted to the wall dresser. Jack wasn't taking any chances.
"Yeah!" she giggles, scrambling out of bed and running over to you. She purses her lips and brings one of her index fingers to them as she hums while surveying her options.
You and Jack share a look as he sits on the floor by her bed, both of you chuckling silently to yourselves. "What do you think Honey? You've got Cars, or princesses, or skateboards, or puppies, or bows." You name a bunch of what's in there but you already know which pair she's going to pick.
"Those ones!" She pulls her index finger from her lips and points to the pair you knew she would.
You click your tongue as you pull them out. "How did I know?" She smiles widely at you and giggles and you set the pajamas on your lap to grab her and bring her into your arms, holding her close while attacking her face with kisses and making her almost shriek with laughter.
Jack swears he can feel his heart warm in his chest and his body start to melt into the floor at the two of you. He can't believe this is real and his life. He'd more or less given up on it before he met you, figured he would be too old for anyone to ever want to do this with him by the time a relationship was ready for kids, not that he would even be that old.
And then he met you at a bar a group of them went out to after work and for reasons he's pretty sure he'll never understand you think he's the most attractive individual to walk the earth physically and in his personality and character. You both fell in love quickly, dated a year and got engaged, married a year later. Then you took some time to just be married and together for a few years before you started trying for a baby. And now here you are, your four year old little girl giggling up a storm in your arms.
You guys could have another.
"Alright," you release her, "go see Daddy and he'll help you change."
As she gets out of her lap and Jack sees the pajamas she's picked out you watch the satisfied smirk pull onto his face and roll your eyes at him affectionately when he looks at you. While your daughter scampers over to Jack you throw the pajamas at him with a playful force, his hands coming up to grab them as he overdramatically ducks and laughs.
Jack turns his attention to your daughter who stands close to him between his outstretched and open legs. "Arms up!" Your daughter listens and Jack pulls her current shirt off and then helps her get her new one on. "Okay pants." She places her hands on his shoulders automatically, already knowing the routine.
Something about it reminds you of the way he knelt between your legs and you rested your hands on his shoulders as you sat on the toilet in the bathroom and he helped you into clean postpartum underwear, effectively a diaper of your own, changed your padcicle for you and helped you stand up and get them pulled up and comfy just because he could and wanted to take care of you. You hadn't even necessarily needed help with it but Jack did it anyway, at the hospital and once you were home. Just like he showered you for weeks simply so you didn't have to expend the energy and move as much and could focus on relaxing in the water and healing. Just like he took care of you your entire pregnancy.
You get misty eyed thinking about it and have to blink rapidly for a second to clear your eyes. By the time you do and focus back in on the present she's all changed and thanking Jack.
"You're welcome, Peanut." He leans in and gives her cheek a big kiss. "You know these are my favorite pajamas." Jack smiles and raises his eyebrows at her to get her to giggle.
"I know Daddy, s'why I pick 'em! They my favite too!" She leans into him and wraps her small arms around his neck in a hug, Jack's legs closing so she can bend her knees and rest them and her shins on his thighs. The pair she chose has a typical scrub green background and a print of different medical instruments and such all over. "They my Daddy jammies!"
Jack could burst into fucking tears, he's pretty sure he'd promise her anything she asked for right now, a pony, a car when she turns 16, a trip to wherever the hell she wants. "Yeah? They're your daddy jammies?" She nods eagerly and Jack chuckles. "Can you tell me what's on them?"
"Mhm! I like this game!" She leans back on her calves a little and pulls her shirt out so she can see it and Jack can point to things better. Her and Jack have been playing this game since you found and bought the pair, a fun surprise that had excited them both. You make a mental note to try and find them again and order another pair in a size up. She's starting to grow out of them and will be devastated when they no longer fit.
"Okay," Jack points. "What's that?"
"Stefoscope!"
"Yeah, that's a stethoscope, very good." He points to something else. "How about that?"
"'Mometer!"
"Yep, that's a thermometer, good job." Jack points again. "And this one?"
"Singe!"
"Correct again, it's a syringe." He pretends to think about which one to point to, letting her excitement build before he points to another. "What about this? It's a tough one."
She looks at it for a few seconds and starts to hum, moves into trying to sound out the word as she remembers more of it, clearly knows what it is and is just struggling with the word. "Sf, sfffff, sfigmomomonmeter."
"Good job! It's a sphygmomanometer." Jack is absolutely beaming at her with pride and you have to laugh to yourself at your daughter being able to identify a fucking sphygmomanometer at four years old. "You are the smartest little peanut!"
"You're so smart Honey, I'm proud of you, that's a big word!" You crawl over so that you're at the opposite end of her bed from Jack and lean against it a little as you watch them.
"Thanks Mommy!"
He tickles her side a little to hear her laugh as she looks at him like he personally hung the moon and stars just for her. "Okay, last one. What's this?"
She sings out each letter. "EKG stip!"
"Mhm, it's an EKG strip," he nods at her encouragingly. "And what does it show?"
"Sinus taf!"
"That's right, sinus tach! You did such a good job! I'm so proud of you!" Jack catches her easily when she lets go of her shirt and launches herself back into his arms with hers around his neck again in a tight hug in the span of a second. "You're so smart, Peanut! You'll be taking over for Uncle Robby and running the whole Pitt before we know it!"
"Thank you Daddy!"
"You're welcome, Peanut."
You laugh softly and shake your head, an amused smile on your face as you watch the two of them.
Jack catches your eye, the biggest self-satisfied smile on his face. "What?"
You shake your head at him and hold your hands up. "I didn't say a word."
His smile easily slips into a smirk. "I can hear you thinking them."
"I can hear you bragging about how she can read an EKG strip before she can read a book," you smirk back at him.
Jack rolls his eyes playfully but you're right. He absolutely will. Yes, he knows it's just picture recognition and association, but still. She knows all of that stuff, all of those words, can recognize an EKG strip and the rhythm it shows.
"You wanna read a couple of books before it's back to bed?" you ask your daughter as she pulls out of her hug with Jack. "We have to start winding down, Honey. It's sleepy time."
"Mmm, okay!" She slides off Jack and goes over to where you keep her books and starts going through them, picking a couple out.
Once she's satisfied with her four selections she pushes them over to you and climbs into your lap and curls up without a word, you and Jack sharing a look and chuckling together at the way she doesn't ask. You take your time reading three of the books she picked out, do different voices for every character how she likes.
Jack can't help but think it again as he watches the two of you, watches your daughter grow sleepier in your arms as you read to her, sometimes laughing loudly and pushing herself back into you. You guys could have another.
It's not a new thought for him. It's actually one he's been having a lot lately. He's sure some of it has to do with her birthday. He's been reminiscing and looking at baby photos and videos, and photos of you pregnant and god he wants to do it again. Sitting here right now he wants to do it again so fucking badly.
By the time you finish the third book your daughter is sleepier than she's looked all night. You pass her off to Jack for the last book because you know his warmth helps lull her to sleep. It helps lull you to sleep too.
Like you, Jack does a different voice for every character, infuses his voice with whatever emotion is called for. She snuggles into him more and more, holds onto his shirt tightly and toward the end Jack starts to rock side to side. You can't quite figure out if it's deliberate or if it's some sort of subconscious soothing dad thing.
You guys could have another.
You'd always kind of talked about at least two. You're not sure why it hasn't come up yet, especially now that she's four, but you have no reason to think Jack wouldn't want to at least try, see if it's in the cards for you guys. You wouldn't be mad if he didn't want to, if he was content with the way your family is now. But god, seeing him with her makes you want to give him twenty right now. You've been looking back at baby photos and videos too and shirtless Jack with your newborn on his chest for skin to skin while you were still in the hospital flickers into your mind.
Your daughter is still awake at the end of the book but not by much. Jack shifts her in his arms and looks down at her. "Alright, Peanut. Do you need some water?" She shakes her head. "Bathroom?" Another head shake. "Temperature okay in here?" Your daughter nods at him with a sleepy smile. "Nightlight is on. We've got comfy jammies. Stories have been read." Jack looks over at her bed. "And all our fuzzy friends are secure in bed."
Jack stays soft with her like he always does but gets a little serious with her at the same time. "Anything else? I need you to think hard about it because we all really need some sleep, Peanut." He raises his eyebrows at her with a little smile so that she knows she's not in trouble.
"No, Daddy." She takes in a deep breath and sighs it out in that dramatic way four year olds do. "I'm sleepy."
Jack laughs through his nose and nods down at her. "I'm sure you are, kid." He transfers her over to her bed gently and gets her tucked in, leans in to give her a hug and a forehead kiss. "I love you Peanut."
Jack moves out of the way and grabs his crutches and gets himself up while you do the same as him, give her a big hug and kiss her cheek. "I love you Honey."
"I love you Mommy! I love you Daddy!" she calls out in her sleepy voice as you get up and the two of you make your way out of her room.
Jack pauses at the doorway with his hand on the dimmer and door half closed and you pause right behind him in the hall. "Alright, not another peep miss ma'am." He says it un-seriously enough and with enough of a smile and his expressive raised eyebrows for her to know she's not in trouble and that, as always, if she really needed something she could call and you'd both come, but with enough seriousness to it for her to know that this game is over.
You watch your daughter make and hold eye contact with her father, look him Jack dead in the eye, and speak in the sleepiest and sweetest and absolutely fucking cheekiest voice.
"Peep."
You start to blurt out a laugh and manage to save it and make it into a cough and fucking scurry back to your bedroom so that you don't laugh in front of her.
Somehow Jack fights back his laugh and after a second's pause with his eyes closed he looks at her and gives her a small, knowing smile as she gives him the biggest, most self-satisfied grin that he recognizes as his own. "I love you," he manages to tell her calmly, watches her close her eyes and then turns the light off and shuts the door the rest of the way before he starts quickly crutching back to your room, laughing more and louder the closer he gets.
You're in a fit of laughter sitting on your side of the bed, robe back on the bench, as he crutches into your room. And when Jack looks at you after closing the door behind him you somehow lose it even harder, Jack joining you as he makes his way over to the bed and sits on his side next to you.
After a few seconds you try to talk. "I could," you laugh, tears streaming down your face, "I could only see half of your face," you're interrupted by laughter again, "and it was so priceless."
Jack's laughing too hard now to even attempt a response, just shakes his head at you as tears start to fall down his face. You have no idea how long you guys sit there laughing, leaning into each other more and more as you grow weaker with the laughter.
"I can't," you laugh, "I can't breathe! It hurts!"
"If you can talk and laugh," Jack laughs, wiping tears that are immediately replaced off his face, "then you can breathe."
"Don't," you try to fake glare at him as you laugh. It doesn't work.
After a little longer your laughter starts to trail off, you and Jack wiping tears and exchanging some last chuckles as you come back down.
"Well, if her being the spitting image of you wasn't enough to prove paternity." You sniffle and wipe at your eyes again. Your daughter inherited all of her father's features so clearly in her face that it's patently obvious looking at her who her father is. "That sure was."
"Paternity?! Me?!" Jack gapes at you. "That was you! That was so you!"
"Oh no," you laugh. "No, no, Sir. That was you. That was some grade A Jack Abbot sass."
Jack playfully scoffs at you as you both climb back under the covers and move closer to each other as you lay down.
"She's so her father's daughter," you smirk at him, or at least try to. Too much genuine adoration for them both seeps into it. "She's so like you. She's a mini-you, Jack. Ask anyone."
Jack can't even find any words to use to mount a fake defense. Nor does he want to. You're right. She is a mini-him and he loves it. And that 'peep' was absolutely him and he's pretty sure the only reason he didn't crack the fuck up in front of her is because he had a moment of pride about it.
"She got at least one thing from you," Jack starts as he moves even closer to you, leaves the low-lit lamp on his nightstand on. You raise your eyebrows in amusement and to ask him what that might be. "She's perfect," Jack shrugs, his love for you in his eyes so clear you can almost physically feel it, "just like her Mom."
"Oh," you laugh, nodding at him amusedly, a softness to your smile that says thank you and you love him too silently. "You really just went for it there."
Jack clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "I'm just saying the truth. You're perfect. "
"Mhm," you hum at him. "Okay."
"Hey." He rolls you onto your back and follows you, props himself up on his arms and lets his hips and lower abdomen rest against yours. "I am."
You give him a half smirked smile. "Your truth."
"The truth." He doesn't let you argue, kisses you instead.
The kisses start as most do, short and sweet. Then they start to linger a little more. And then Jack is kissing you slowly, languid and deep, and he doesn't stop. You'll never understand how he can get you so worked up just by kissing you, but he can and god does he, his tongue swiping along yours just the start. You're glad it's still like this years later, that you're still making out in bed as foreplay, that you have moments where things will just naturally and slowly devolve.
You're moaning softly for Jack before hands even start to truly wander and tease. When he finally lowers himself on top of you all the way and takes a little bit of his weight on his knees so that his hands can finally start to wander and tease it's not long before clothes start to come off. He straddles you momentarily so that he can pull your satin sleep shorts down with a practiced ease that makes you shiver in its own right, your feet taking over for him and kicking them off somewhere in the bed as he settles back between your legs and kisses you again.
"I thought you were tired and wanted to sleep," you pant softly against his lips when you break for some air, your hands playing with the hem of his shirt and starting to drag it up. Jack lifts himself up off you to get his shirt off, movements hurried, like being even just this far away from you is burning him.
"Not anywhere near as much as I want you," he pants as he smiles down at you, the perfect smirked edge to it. Since his hands are already off you and he's sat up a bit he shoves his pajama pants down, works quickly to get them off and joining your shorts somewhere in the bed.
A little tragically in some ways, Jack is so wired for you and moving so quickly to lay back on top of you and feel your skin and the satin of your top against his skin and resume kissing you that you barely get a look at any of him. But you're sure able to feel Jack's hard cock against you, especially when he starts to grind his hips against yours as he kisses you even harder, possessive and claiming and leaving you wondering where this sudden near feral need of his came from, not that you're complaining.
Jack's lips leave yours to let you both breathe but they don't leave your skin completely, moving to kiss along your jaw back below your ear to that spot he knows will get you to keen for him every time. "I love you," he murmurs through heavy, controlled pants against your skin before sucking and teasing that spot.
"Fuck, Jack," you moan, bring a hand up to run through silver curls. "I love you too." Jack's lips start to tease your neck that he knows is deliciously and dangerously sensitive for you and you whine, feel yourself grow wetter for him.
"You are perfect," he mumbles into your skin. "So, so perfect." Jack slowly kisses his way up the other side of your neck, sucking and nipping and scraping his teeth over your skin pulling more soft moans from you that have his cock throbbing and leaking between the two of you.
And then it just slips out. Falls right off his tongue without him even fully realizing it until he finishes saying the last word, though the realization doesn't make him stop teasing your neck. "You wanna make another baby?"
Your brain glitches for a second at the question, a breathless moan escaping you as Jack sucks at your neck perfectly. "Did… I, Jack," you laugh just as breathlessly. "Did you just ask if I want to try for baby number two?"
Jack hums at you as he brings his head down and nibbles at your collarbone. "Yeah," he mumbles against your skin far too casually for what he's confirming, "I did."
"Uh," you laugh, your mind racing at the thought and the feel of Jack's lips and his cock between you and what he just asked. "Like, seriously? Like you're seriously asking me if I want to get pregnant again and have another baby?"
Jack quickly kisses up one side of your neck to your chin and then looks down at you smirking, but with his eyebrows set in just the right way to tell you he's also kind of serious. His hand starts to trail down your side as he speaks. "I could remove your IUD right now."
"Jack!" You playfully swat his shoulder.
He looks at you innocently. "What?!"
"Are you serious or is this some breeding kink thing we're doing right now? I'm not opposed to that, at all, to be clear." You give him a little smirk and flash of your brows, grind your hips up against him for a second and bask in the low groan it pulls from him. "But I just want to know. Are you serious about wanting to have another baby?"
"I mean… You can't get pregnant right now so it's just a breeding kink thing. Unless you want me to take your IUD out right now." He pushes his lips together and makes a face of consideration. "I probably really could do it."
"No!" you drag the word out through a single laugh, voice a little higher pitched than normal as you smile at him. He gives you a little pout and you give him a please look which Jack likes because it reassures him you're not feeling any pressure to let him or to have another baby and that you know he's playing around with you. "Jack removing an IUD is one of the least sexy things in the world. It's terrible foreplay."
"Well we'd do other foreplay! And I think it is sexy because it means I could get you pregnant." You give him another look and make a little noise of disbelief because you doubt it would work that fast but you more or less let him have it. He sighs dramatically and rests his forehead on your chest for a second before looking at you again. "Okay, no IUD removal right now, got it."
You share a soft laugh as you shake your head at him. You look at him a bit more seriously, but just as adoringly, your desire and lust on pause for a moment. "Does that mean you want me to get it removed?" You run your fingers through his now fluffy curls, your voice a bit lower the next time you speak, not a whisper but so saturated with emotion it pulls your voice down. "You want to have another baby?"
Jack pushes his lips together as he smiles down at you and then licks them before rolling off you and leaning against the headboard as he pulls you into his lap, forcing himself to ignore his erection and the soft skin of your thigh pressing against it. The conversation is obviously taking a more serious turn and he wants to hold you for it.
"I've been thinking about it, yeah," he admits with a nod. His hand starts rubbing up and down your back absentmindedly. "Seeing you with her tonight made me think about it more. I was kind of waiting for us to get past her birthday and all of the attendant activities to bring it up."
You bite your bottom lip and smile at him. "I've been thinking about it too. And, yeah, tonight, you with her… I'm ready to give you another twenty babies," you giggle. Jack laughs softly through his nose and while his smile is real and reaches his eyes and you can tell he does want another baby, you watch a little pain seep into it. "Talk to me, Baby," you murmur, bring your hand to the nape of his neck and start to scratch at his scalp and play with his curls there.
Jack shrugs, shallow and quick. "Pregnancy was rough for you," he says simply.
"Yeah." You return his shrug. "More than worth it though."
"Of course," Jack agrees. He lets out a long breath through his nose. "But rough was an understatement. We both know that. It's hard to ask you to go through that again. And then my mind trails off into all the risks and I go back to last time and there were some really scary moments with you when you were pregnant, moments where I thought…” He trails off, shaking his head a little because he can’t finish the sentence right now. He just can’t. “What if I ask you to do this and then something happens? It would be my fault… I can't raise two kids without you. I can't raise one kid without you."
Your heart aches for him. Jack is right. There were some really scary moments, before labor and during it and after it, in the hospital and at home. And Jack knows way too much, he knows way the fuck too much about everything that could go wrong. He knows how quickly it could all go to shit. You know it's exceedingly hard, if not impossible, for him to turn that part of his brain off.
"I know there were some really scary moments and I know it's hard for me to understand what it was like for you." You bring your other hand up to his neck and brush your thumb at his jaw just below his ear, your other fingers resting against the stubble of his neck that you're pretty sure you could worship. "But if you thought it was too risky Jack you wouldn't even be thinking about it. Your mind wouldn't let you, it wouldn't let you think about and want something that you truly thought and believed was more likely to ki-," you catch yourself just in time, "have a poor outcome for me than not. And even if something did happen, it wouldn't be your fault, Jack. I wouldn't be having a baby just for you because you happened to bring it up first." You lean in and kiss his forehead and then give him what you hope is a reassuring smile. "You're going to have to raise zero kids without me." You nod at him when he opens his mouth to interject, already knowing what he's about to say. "I can't promise you that but I just feel it in my heart and soul."
Jack's brain latches onto your words, you can almost see them stop him from slipping any further into his head. He wouldn't be thinking about it if he thought having another baby was truly dangerous for you and had a higher chance of ending in a tragedy he has no idea how he’d survive than ending happily. "That's true, I wouldn't think about or want it if I believed it was too risky."
"If you want to have another baby Jack I'll have another baby with you in a second. But please know it's not you asking, not really. Sure you brought it up, but it's a conversation. It's us coming to a decision together about our family." You lean up in his arms a little and glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand. "It's also not a decision we have to make right now at three in the morning when we're both sleepy."
You'd be happy to keep talking about it with him, but it's not worth the risk of him getting in his head about it now that you've pulled him out before he could get too far in.
"Very true," he murmurs.
You give him a ghost of a smile and bring both of your hands to his neck and run them down to his chest before moving to straddle him as he shifts down a little on instinct. You make sure your pussy is over his still hard cock, lick your lips slowly. "We can still pretend though," you breathe before you pull your camisole off.
"Fuck," Jack groans, his hands flying to your breasts, thumbs and index fingers finding your nipples, pinching and twisting them perfectly. "We can still fucking pretend."
Your eyes flutter closed and your head falls back as Jack's hands squeeze and knead at your breasts while his two fingers continue to play with your nipples. "You want me to get you pregnant again?" Jack asks lowly, voice all gravel and pure sex.
"God, please," you almost whine, your hips canting against him and dragging your cunt over the length of him as your hands slide up the back of his neck and tangle in his curls. You let your eyes flutter back open and look at Jack again and he tilts his head just slightly, raises his eyebrows even more subtly, a silent instruction to keep eye contact with him.
"Yeah?" The word is a little strangled as it falls from his lips at the feeling of your pussy sliding so slickly over his cock. "Does that do it for you?" He carefully lets go of your breasts and brings his hands to your hips, fingertips digging into your skin at a delicious pressure while he helps you glide along him. "The thought of me getting you pregnant again?" Jack can feel your cunt clench around nothing and throb against him and groans. "Thinking about carrying my baby? Our baby?"
"Yeah," you pant, all breathy and dripping with the pleasure Jack's sending racing through your body. "Yes."
Jack hums in approval at how fucked out you already sound for him when you've barely even started. "You love me claiming you like that, don't you?"
You moan at his words, at him just talking about claiming you like that again, getting you pregnant again. You nod, a half-insolent half-playful smirk pulling onto your face as you speak. "Almost as much as you love claiming me like that."
He chuckles darkly, flicking his eyebrows up at you and nodding. The way he suddenly flips the two of you back into the position you were in earlier with him laying on top of you catches you by surprise even though he's done it hundreds of times before, the show of his agility and strength just making you needier for him.
"Mouthy." He starts rutting against you, can't stop the grunts of pleasure that come from his chest.
"You love it," you continue to smirk at him. You wrap your legs around his waist and move your hips in time with his, try raising them a little higher in the hopes that he'll just slip inside of you.
Jack matches your smirk with one of his own, a dangerous edge to it that makes you shiver and tells you he's about to fuck you out of your goddamned mind. "Almost as much as you love the idea of me fucking another baby into you."
I hope it was okay, and fluffy and sweet and silly (and a touch hot), and dad!Jack with his little girl and her jammies was cute or cute-ish!??!!???? Thank you so much for taking the time to read!! I love hearing your thoughts and comments and reactions! ♥️
And yeah, lol when I was four I was being a total pain in the ass for my mom one night, constantly calling for her and getting her to come to my room, and she didn't quite have the patience Jack does in this so she was much firmer with me when she said, "not another peep." But I 100% looked her dead in the eye and said "peep." Very Mich. Very very Mich. She still loves telling that story. I know she shut the door and went back to her room and lost it. 😂
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Summary: For centuries, Jack has ruled with an iron fist, his name casting a shadow of fear in everyone who encounters it. All have heard the fate of those who cross him, and none forget what became of the ones who took you from him. Kingdoms have risen and fallen, languages have been forgotten, and new countries have been created during his unnatural reign. Yet he remains, watching diligently, and perhaps foolishly, for the return of your soul.
word count: 5.9k
tags: vampire!jack, yearning, suffering, jack has waited for you for centuries, reincarnation, blood, hints of cruelty and torture, biting, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, slight sexual tension
a/n: saw that photo of shawn covered in blood, and inspiration struck me. vampire love stories will just always be a favourite of mine (once a twilight girl, always a twilight girl, am i right?) and there's just something about a man staying true and mourning his love for centuries—it really does something for me hahah. i hope you guys like it—feedback is as always appreciated <33
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
Jack does not remember a life untouched by pain.
He's familiar with it in ways most could never imagine—has measured countless lifetimes by its presence. He has endured the physical excruciation as venom coursed through his veins like liquid fire, surviving the brutal, unforgiving transformation from human to vampire. His bones breaking, muscles solidifying, heart-stopping. His leg hanging on by a thread and reattaching itself. The world going black only to roar back to life.
But none of that compares. None of it ever has.
The worst pain he has ever faced came on the day he lost you.
Centuries of unnatural existence have yet to dull the ache. The heaviness still sits in his chest, sharp and hollow all at once, flaring every time he draws a breath he does not need. A constant reminder that he is still here, undeservingly—and you are not.
That fateful day had taken you from him—his mate—the only soul the universe had ever seen fit to bind to his. The one he'd waited for centuries to find, only to lose within a handful of years of meeting.
And it'd had been his fault. His enemies had taken you because of him—because loving Jack meant standing in the shadow of violence and vengeance. Time had not only made Jack powerful—it had made him inevitable. Kingdoms had risen beneath him. Covens' sworn fealty. Bloodlines bent at his word. He was not simply a survivor of time, but one of its architects, and that meant there was always someone vying for his power.
You’d passed mere days before he’d finally agreed to turn you, just days before eternity would have been yours. He had thought he was protecting you from immortality. In truth, he had been protecting himself from the terror of losing you inside it.
The guilt nearly destroyed him. He had tried to follow you more times than he would ever admit—after first ensuring your assailants had been taken alive, so they could understand, over days and nights without end, exactly what they had stolen from him. When it was finished, no one asked what had happened to them. They only knew the aftermath: the silence that followed, and the certainty that no one had ever tried to take what was his again.
What his court remembered were the blood rages. The scorched streets. The nights when Jack’s wrath had left cities afraid of the dark. That was the version of his grief they were allowed to see—the destruction turned outward, weaponised until few were left to speak of it.
They did not know about the rest.
They did not see him walk into the sun, tearing off his ring and letting the light burn him to ash and bone. They did not see him starve himself until his body shook with starvation, until even rage could not keep him standing.
Only Robby knew.
Each time, Robby dragged him back from the edge—the only one in existence who could lay hands on him without permission and live to speak of it. He forced the ring back onto Jack’s finger, watched as his broken body healed in increments. Shoved blood down his throat while Jack fought him.
Robby watched over him as if he were a liability instead of a ruler—trying to see past the grief that had hollowed him out until only despair and regret remained. He had bled beside Jack in wars older than most languages. Had stood at his side when the world itself tried to unmake him. If anyone had earned the right to save Jack from himself, it was him.
What finally saved Jack—if it could be called salvation—was hope. McKay and Mohan, relentless as always, had spent years chasing fragments of old myths, half-forgotten legends buried in forbidden texts. Stories of souls reborn. Of mates tethered across lifetimes. Of true love finding its way back, no matter how many times the world ended.
Reincarnation.
Jack clung to the idea like a lifeline. And so he waited. He placed scouts across the globe, watchers trained to look for patterns—people who looked the same, spoke in the same cadence, moved as you did. He waited through wars and plagues, through the rise and fall of empires, through centuries that came and went without a single real whisper of you.
For there had been others. Women who resembled you from a distance. Voices that caught his breath. Laughs that made his chest seize. Each time, hope had flared bright and reckless—only to gutter out under scrutiny. Sometimes the resemblance was superficial. Sometimes it was cruelly close. And each time, the disappointment carved something out of him that never quite grew back.
Once, only once, in the early days, had he allowed himself to believe without confirmation. Had crossed oceans on the strength of a drawing and a name written by a trembling scout. When it fell apart, the fallout had been catastrophic. Three nights of unchecked violence. Another city left trembling.
Jack had ordered the scout's hands removed after. Slowly. Not because it would bring you back.
But because it felt like something. And he was desperate to feel anything but the everlasting despair.
Still, he did not give up. He couldn’t.
He buried himself in work, ruled with cold efficiency, letting strategy and bloodshed keep his mind occupied. But no matter how busy he kept himself, you lived in the back of his thoughts—in the quiet moments, in the space of his still heartbeat.
Every war he ended. Every treaty he signed. Every city he spared.
He didn't do it for peace. But so that when you returned, there would be something left worth ruling
“Sire.” Robby’s voice is calm and measured, but sharp, honed over centuries of knowing just how fragile Jack’s restraint can be. In one hand, he holds a report; in the other, a photograph. His every movement is deliberate. Messengers have been killed for bringing false hope, Jack has burned cities for less, which is why Robby carries the photograph himself. No one else would risk it.
“Do not get your hopes up,” Robby says quietly, almost a whisper, even as he enters the office. His eyes are locked on Jack, and across the room, he raises both hands slightly—a silent warning. “Not yet. I cannot promise this is what you want it to be.”
Jack’s eyes flick to him, but the caution barely registers. He does not speak. He cannot help but hope. It's been decades of silence, ever since the last false sign, so the tiniest spark ignites anyway.
Robby does not approach him. Even he has been fooled before—women who smelled like you, moved like you, and yet weren't—but this time is different. He has gone himself, seen you, smelled you. Verified. There is no mistake. Except for the fact that sorrow and grief might have fogged his memory, too. Might have made him susceptible to making mistakes out of hope. Jack might have lost his mate, but Robby had lost a sister.
“We believe we found her,” Robby continues, more firmly now. “But do not let yourself—”
Jack is already on his feet before the words are fully out. He moves faster than the blink of an eye, gripping the photograph in one hand, the report in the other. The world tilts and bends around him.
It is a photograph of a woman, seated in a café, head bent over a book, hair falling forward as she writes in the margins. Ordinary. Unremarkable.
Except she isn’t.
Jack knows it's you immediately. Not because he allows himself to believe—but because some truths refuse permission. It’s you. Not similar. Not reminiscent. You. The tilt of your head. The quiet concentration. His hands tremble as he clutches the evidence.
“Where?” The word slips free before he can stop it, barely more than a breath, pitched too low for any human to hear. It is not a command. It is a need.
Robby’s jaw tightens. He anticipated this. “Not far,” he says cautiously. “Whitaker’s with her—”
But Jack is already gone. The office seems to collapse in his absence, papers fluttering in the wake of his departure. Cities blur past him, streets folding into one another, lights streaking as he follows Whitaker's scent like a beacon. He does not pause. He does not question. He has been wrong before. He has been burned before. And yet… he cannot stop. Something tells him to let it burn for once.
"Where is she?" he demands, halting abruptly in the narrow alley where Whitaker waits.
Whitaker flinches at his abrupt arrival, despite being aware that once he sent word of his discovery, Jack's presence would be imminent. He bows his head, a gesture of deep respect, and tilts it toward the left, toward the small coffee shop. "She's right over there, Sire."
Jack follows his gaze. You're seated in the corner, cradling a book in between sips from a steaming mug. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. His chest tightens, a sudden, painful contraction that leaves his lungs wanting air he hasn't needed for hundreds of years. He remembers you reading that, and now, here you are, centuries later, alive, real, breathing in a world that had once taken you from him, still reading that book.
He dismisses Whitaker with a sharp nod, retreating into the shadows to continue watching you. He must see, must feel, must confirm that hope is not a cruel illusion.
He watches—the subtle crinkle by your eye when you smile, the delicate curl of your lip when amused, the faint furrow of your brow when reading a line that does not please you. Every motion, every quiet nuance, is as familiar as the ache that has lingered within him for centuries.
And then, finally, he inhales. Slowly. Carefully. Not daring to breathe too soon, in case hope is a lie once more.
But the scent is unmistakable—the impossibly sweet scent that has haunted him across lifetimes, across every day he has survived without you. No other soul carries it. No other soul has ever belonged to him like this. And somehow, it is even sweeter than he remembers.
It's truly you.
Grief and joy battle in his chest, centuries of longing and loss pressing down, yet hope, fragile and trembling, blooms truly for the first time in an age.
After all this time, after all the waiting, after all the pain and the emptiness, you have returned to him, not as a memory, not as a shadow, not as a cruel trick of fate—but as you. And for the first time in centuries, Jack allows himself to believe that he will never be without you again.
Jack has dreamt of this reunion for so long that when it finally arrives, he doesn’t know how to navigate it.
In his dreams, you always remember him. You smile the moment your eyes meet his, your lips part to speak his name as if it had always belonged to you. Because it does. Because it has, across centuries, across lifetimes, across all the nights he has spent waiting.
Reality, as he knows it, is far crueller. Because what if you don’t remember him at all? The thought gnaws at him. And so he treads carefully, agonisingly so, every step measured, every gesture deliberate.
He intercepts you at the coffee shop that afternoon, misjudging his step just enough to send your book clattering to the floor. He kneels to help you pick it up, hands brushing yours just long enough to feel the faintest echo of what once was.
Looking up, he searches your face, desperate for a spark of recognition. But there is none. Not a flicker. Not a pause. You smile politely, thank him, and your gaze drifts over him as if he were just another stranger, curious but unanchored.
It is a wound deeper than he anticipated.
For one reckless second, he considers it. The command forms in his throat—Remember me. He has bent kings, broken generals, and shattered lesser minds with less effort. But this—this would not be love. He swallows the impulse down like poison.
He tells himself you are still in there. That souls remember even when minds do not. That patience has always been both his curse and his strength. That a few more weeks, a few more months, are nothing compared to the centuries he has endured.
He straightens, barely breathing, forcing himself to step back, to let you go. Then, just as you reach the door, just as the gap between you seems insurmountable, you stop. You turn back, hesitating, and you reach down into your purse, scribble something on a note that you slip into his hand before leaving with a shy smile.
It is almost cruel. Because you still do not remember. You do not know him yet. And still, you reach toward him anyway.
His chest tightens, but he'll take whatever he can get.
So, he calls your number, asks you out.
You say yes, and it feels like both a gift and a punishment. You laugh with him, touch his arm when you talk, tuck your hair behind your ear the way you used to when you were thinking, look at him with warmth that feels unearned. Gradually, he resigns himself to the fact that even if you never remember, this is still better than the empty years without you.
He'll take whatever the universe grants him as long as you're with him.
Jack knows you don't remember him. He never asks. Never pushes. But even then—even then—there are moments. Small ones. Fleeting ones. Dangerous ones he never quite allows himself to linger on, because to linger would be to hope for too much.
Sometimes, when he’s speaking, you pause before answering. Your gaze drifts—not boldly, not knowingly—to his mouth. To the scar at his throat, he knows your eyes can't see. To the ring he never removes. As though something in you is searching for a shape it once knew. As though a name is pressing against the inside of your mind, just out of reach.
Other times, when he laughs, your smile falters. Your expression softens into something almost mournful, almost tender, as if you are grieving something you cannot name. As if the sound reaches somewhere too deep, stirring a loss you were never meant to remember.
Once you tell him, half-laughing, half-serious, “You feel… familiar.” Then you wave it away, embarrassed. “Sorry. That was weird.”
Jack says nothing. He cannot trust his voice in moments like that.
The most damning moment comes on a quiet night. There’s no tension in the air, no careful distance between you. You’re talking about nothing at all—something mundane and forgettable—and Jack is tired.
Tired enough that the walls he’s built around himself thin for just a second. Just long enough for habit to win over caution.
He says your name. The one he hasn’t spoken aloud since that night. Since his world ended.
The sound leaves his mouth before he can stop it. He freezes instantly, breath caught in a chest that doesn’t need air, dread crashing through him as he realises what he’s done. He’s already reaching for an apology, for some careful lie to smooth it over, already bracing himself for the polite confusion he expects to see on your face.
But it never comes. You don’t hesitate. You don’t blink or frown or ask who he means. You answer immediately, turning toward him with an ease that feels terrifying in its certainty. Your attention locks onto him as if there was never any question that the name belonged to you.
“Yes?”
For one suspended breath—before your expression shifts, before your mind has time to catch up—for one suspended breath, he sees you.
A soul answering a call it has heard before.
When you invite him over for dinner, his chest tightens with something dangerously close to hope.
Maybe this means you’re remembering.
You make him sit at the counter while you cook, scolding him lightly when he tries to help. He obeys, folding himself onto the chair, watching you move around the kitchen. Listening to the rhythm of your hands as you chop vegetables.
It isn’t that he can’t eat. He can. He just doesn’t need to. Not the way you do. But if you asked him to, he would swallow every bite and pretend it sustains him.
He hasn’t been feeding the way he should. He tells himself it’s watchfulness—less hunting, fewer risks, fewer hours spent away from you (even if he knows Robby would be watching you in his stead). He can’t stand being gone long enough for you to disappear again. Hunger is easier than that kind of loss. Hunger he can endure.
You’re laughing at something he said when the knife slips. He hears it before he sees it: the faint drag of metal against skin. Your sharp intake of breath. A bead of crimson wells against your finger, impossibly bright. It gathers, trembles, then spills.
Then the scent hits him.
Jack doesn’t mean to react. Truly, he doesn’t. But he is starving.
His fangs descend before he can stop them. His vision darkens at the edges, the world collapsing inward until there is nothing but the pulse in your throat, the copper-sweet perfume of you. God, it’s devastating, how familiar you smell. How right.
You’re still smiling, shaking your head at your own clumsiness, until you look at him, and the sound dies in your throat.
“Jack?” you whisper, breathless, trying to make sense of the impossibility of what you're seeing.
He forces himself to stop breathing. Forces his fangs to recede. Every muscle in his body trembles with restraint.
“I’m sorry,” he says at once, turning his head sharply away as if the motion alone might undo what you saw. Shame crashes over him—swift and suffocating. It feels like being young again, newly turned and feral with it, all instinct and no discipline. Reckless. Unworthy.
He has missed the taste of you. The bond it forged between you. But that doesn’t matter.
He’s frightened you. He’s ruined everything.
“I’ll leave.” The words are out before he can stop them. He pushes back from the chair, his body moving on instinct even as something in him splinters. His heart does not beat, hasn’t in lifetimes, yet grief pounds through him all the same—an echo of something he thought he’d already bled dry.
He doesn’t get far.
You’re suddenly there, stepping into his path. He stops short—not because you move quickly, but because you move toward him.
You’re close. Too close. Close enough that he can feel the heat of you like sunlight against his skin. Close enough to hear the soft rush of your breathing.
Your eyes search his face. He braces for it. The recoil. The disgust. The instinctive flinch every human makes when they realise the monster is real and standing right in front of them.
He has seen it countless times. He knows the exact moment it happens. He just never thought he'd have to see it coming from you.
But it never comes.
Your gaze doesn’t drop to his mouth in horror. It doesn’t harden. Instead, your brow furrows, not in fear, but in focus. There’s curiosity there. Wonder. Your hand, still faintly stained with red, hovers between you, forgotten.
“Jack,” you breathe, and this time his name sounds different. Not frightened. Not accusing.
Searching.
Slowly, so slowly, he almost thinks he’s imagined it, you lift your injured finger.
Jack’s body goes rigid. “No—” The protest leaves him in a whisper, frayed and desperate, but it dies halfway to your name as you bring your hand closer. Closer until your fingertip rests, feather-light, against his lips.
He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t dare move. As if the slightest shift might shatter something fragile and irreversible between you.
Your skin is warm against his mouth.
His eyes flutter shut. His lips part on instinct, and when you slide your finger inside, tentative but unafraid, something in him breaks open.
He means to resist. He does.
But your pulse is right there. Your trust is right there. His tongue moves before thought can intervene. He draws the blood away with excruciating restraint, every movement deliberate, terrified of the sharpness of his teeth, of the strength he barely contains. There is nothing feral in the way he touches you now. Nothing hungry in the violent sense of it.
Only devotion.
And then the taste of you reaches him fully. It isn’t just blood. It’s memory.
It’s standing beneath a sky that no longer exists. It’s the night he'd saved you from your father's cruelty. It’s the first time you ever reached for him. It’s the bond that once tethered your mortal heartbeat to his endless night.
It floods him.
Love. Fierce and undiminished. A longing so sharp it feels like a blade sliding between his ribs.
His knees nearly give out. He feels it everywhere—through veins that no longer carry life, through a chest that hasn’t held a pulse in centuries. It fills hollows he had convinced himself were permanent.
His hands hover at your waist but do not touch. He refuses to take more than you offer. When he finally, reluctantly, draws back, your finger leaves his mouth slowly.
He opens his eyes. There’s no red in them now. Only something raw and luminous.
Your eyes flicker down to his mouth, and he notices the subtle hitch in your breathing, the way your throat works as you swallow. How confusion and something more scorching tangle together in your expression.
You stare at your hand.
Your brows knit together as you turn it over, once, then twice. The pad of your finger is smooth. Unbroken. No cut. No blood. Not even the faintest mark to prove it ever happened.
“What…?” you murmur, the word barely more than breath.
Jack says nothing. He can’t. He only watches as you try to reconcile what you’re seeing with what you know should be true.
Finally, you look back at him. “You’re a vampire,” you state softly, neither accusing nor frightened.
“I am,” he nods, his voice low and careful. “Are you scared?”
You pause, truly considering the question. Your head tilts slightly as you search your feelings, as if expecting fear to suddenly bloom in your chest and finding… nothing. No instinct to run. No spike of panic. Just a strange, grounding calm, and a pull toward him you don’t understand.
“No,” you respond slowly. “Should I be?”
“Never,” he replies without hesitation, his certainty unwavering. “Never around me.”
Your gaze drifts over his face again, this time slower, lingering on his eyes, his mouth, the tension in his jaw.
“I feel like I’ve known you for years,” you say quietly.
The impact of your words strikes him like a blade to the chest, tightening his expression despite his efforts to remain composed.
Your hands rise instinctively, gently smoothing the tension from his brow just as you once did without thinking. The touch is so familiar it nearly undoes him.
“Did I say something wrong?” you ask softly, confusion creeping into your voice. “I just—none of this makes sense, but it feels like it should."
“No, my love,” he breathes, his voice trembling despite every effort to steady it, the term of endearment slipping out without him meaning for it to. The words feel too fragile to exist in the air between you. “I—” He falters, centuries of restraint battling with the aching need in his chest. “Can I try something?”
Fear grips him now—not of you, but of himself. Of wanting too much. Of asking for something he no longer has any right to. Of this not working like he hopes it will.
You don’t hesitate, trusting him despite everything you've seen. “Anything.”
He moves slowly, every motion deliberate, allowing you the chance to pull away or change your mind. His fingers catch the edge of your top, easing the fabric down just enough to bare skin, freeing the gentle curve of your breast.
His breath ghosts over you as he leans in, pausing, watching your face with painstaking care. He searches for fear, for uncertainty, for even the smallest sign of regret. There is none.
Instead, your lashes flutter. You lean closer, as if drawn by something you don’t fully understand but trust all the same.
Among his kind, this is a place few ever drink from. A place reserved for mates. For bonds that transcend lifetimes. To bite there is not to feed—it is to join. To open the soul as much as the flesh.
His lips brush your skin in a soft, lingering kiss. He feels your breath hitch, hears the faint sound you make, and it nearly shatters him. It’s the same reaction you used to have—subtle, and unguarded—your body remembering what your mind has yet to reclaim.
“I can stop,” he whispers against you.
"Please, don't," you beg.
When his fangs pierce your skin, it is not violent. It is precise. Your blood rises to meet him, and when it floods his mouth, it is nothing like the frantic edge of feeding he has gotten used to. It is deep. Resonant. It feels like drinking starlight.
The moment he draws from that vein, the bond ignites. It is immediate. He feels you. Not just your pulse—but your thoughts, your emotions, the shape of your soul pressing against his.
Memories crash into him, not as fragments but as lived moments. He sees your childhood in flashes of sunlight and scraped knees. The loneliness you never speak of. The years you searched for something you couldn’t name. He sees himself through your eyes—the stranger with sad eyes, the inexplicable pull toward him, the way your chest tightens when he’s near.
You see him, too. Flashes of stone halls, candlelight, blood, and his voice shouting your name.
He drinks, and with every pull he pours himself back into you—not just love, but devotion. Every vow he kept in your absence. Every lifetime spent refusing to forget you. Every night, he stood at the edge of despair and chose to endure, because somewhere in the world, your soul would rise again.
Your back arches slightly. The sensation is everywhere—heat threading through your veins, light behind your eyes, his name forming on your lips. Your gasp sharpens, breaking into something fuller and deeper. Your fingers curl into his hair, not pushing him away but drawing him closer, instinctively, as if some part of you knows exactly where he belongs.
And for one terrible second, he considers it. Taking more. Releasing his venom. Deep enough to anchor you to him forever. Ending this fragile human life before the world has the chance to steal you again. His jaw tightens. He stops. Not until you remember. Not until you choose it.
“Oh, Jack,” you breathe, his name slipping from your lips like memory rather than a newfound discovery.
At the sound of it, his eyes sting. Because that—that—is how you used to say it.
When he finally pulls away, fear seizes him again—sudden and vicious. It coils around his ribs, tight enough to steal the breath he still doesn’t need. He bows his head, unable to look at you. Unable to risk it.
Then you move. Your fingers brush his cheek softly. The touch sends a shiver through him.
“My love,” you murmur. “You found me.”
For a moment, the world ceases to exist.
Jack’s breath stutters, and slowly—so slowly, as if the movement itself might break something—he lifts his head. His heart feels too large for his chest, pounding despite its stillness with a terror so sharp it borders on pain. His eyes search your face desperately, terrified that hope is making him see things that aren’t there.
“You remember?” he breathes, the words come out broken, barely sound at all. He doesn’t dare say more. Doesn’t dare tell you how many lifetimes he has yearned to ask that question, how many nights he has imagined your answer only to wake up to its absence.
Tears glimmer in your eyes, not out of confusion or fear, but from recognition. A love so ancient it has transcended even death.
You smile. It’s the same smile you wore when you used to cup his face between your hands. The same smile that once promised eternity without needing to say it aloud.
“I remember,” you reply softly.
He stills. "How much?"
Your brow furrows. “Not everything. Not clearly.” You touch your temple like something aches there.
“Say something only you would know,” he whispers, needing the confirmation.
You don’t hesitate, eyes lifting to meet his.
“I hated winter,” you say softly. “Hated going outside. Hated being cold. Hated how Robby always managed to hit me with snow, no matter where I hid.” You laugh under your breath. “You used to pretend not to see it happen. Then you’d drag him into the lake in full armour.”
In that instant, something in Jack finally gives. He lets out a sound that is part laugh, part sob, drawing you close. His face burrows into your shoulder, inhaling deeply.
You are here. You are his.
For a long while after, neither of you moves.
Jack is afraid to.
He has learned, over centuries, that happiness is fragile. That if he breathes too deeply, the universe notices. So he stays exactly where he is, forehead resting against your shoulder, arms wrapped around you as if holding a miracle that might dissolve if he loosens his grip.
You let him.
Your hand remains in his hair, fingers moving slowly, soothingly, tracing patterns you once knew by heart. There is a faint tremor in your touch, as though the weight of memory is still settling into your bones.
“I thought I lost you,” he finally says, voice rough and unsteady. It’s the closest he has ever come to admitting the truth aloud. “I thought I would never see you again.”
You pull back just enough to look at him properly.
Up close, you can see it now—the age in his eyes that has nothing to do with appearance. The exhaustion. The love that has never dimmed, only sharpened with time.
“I didn’t disappear,” you whisper. “I just… went ahead.”
Jack had never lied to you. You'd known even then what he was.
He had told you the truth on a night heavy with rain and candle smoke. He had knelt as though awaiting execution. Instead, you had reached for his face and told him you loved him.
You had loved him because of it, not despite it—because you saw the man beneath the monster. You had known the dangers. Known the enemies that followed him like shadows. And you had stayed.
“I should’ve turned you earlier,” he says quietly. “I wanted you to know exactly what it meant. What you would've given up if you chose me.”
You nod slowly. "I chose you knowing the cost.” A faint smile touches your mouth. “I remember being so furious when you hesitated. I thought you didn’t trust me to decide."
Your gaze softens. “You were afraid I’d wake up one day and regret forever.”
His eyes close briefly. “I still am.”
You press your forehead to his, steady and warm. “I won't. I'll never regret being with you,” you whisper.
“I was not kind without you,” he says quietly. “I was not merciful.” He meets your eyes, gaze unwavering.
He readies himself for horror, but you don't flinch. You just nod. "So would I have been," you say simply, "if they had taken you."
The truth comes out later, in pieces.
It’s well past midnight when Jack finally speaks of it—not because he hasn’t thought about it every single day since, but because saying it aloud still feels like reopening a wound that never healed.
You’re curled beside him on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, your head resting against his shoulder. He can feel your heartbeat there, steady and real.
“I did try,” he says quietly.
You lift your head, brows knitting. “Try… what?”
“To turn you.”
The words land softly, but the weight behind them is immense.
“I didn’t tell anyone this,” he continues, staring ahead as if the past might be waiting for him in the shadows. “Not the others. Not even Robby. I couldn’t stand to hear them say it out loud.”
You sit up a little, instinctively turning toward him.
“You were dying,” he says. “They’d taken so much blood from you that there was almost nothing left. I could feel your heart slowing under my hand.” His jaw tightens. “I bit you anyway. Gave you my venom. I begged it to work.”
His voice breaks, just barely. “But there was nothing for it to change.”
Your breath catches at the grief in his voice, the guilt.
“Venom doesn’t create life,” he says hoarsely. “It reshapes what is already there. But you were already slipping."
You remember it all now. Not the pain—oddly, not that—but the warmth. The way his arms had wrapped around you, shaking, the way his tears had fallen onto your face as he whispered apologies you hadn’t needed. You remember wanting to tell him it was all right. That you weren’t afraid. That you shouldn't have left the castle. That it had been your own fault.
“I felt you,” you murmur. “I remember… heat. And then nothing.”
Jack closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours. “I stayed with you until the sun came up. I couldn’t leave you alone.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy but not unbearable. Later still, when the grief has softened into something gentler, you tell him about this life.
How, as a child, you were always drawn to old things.
“I liked the smell,” you admit softly. “Dust. Ink. Leather. New books never felt… right.”
You tell him how you’d find yourself rereading medieval romances, old epics, obscure translations—texts no one your age cared about. How passages felt like echoes rather than discoveries.
“There were times,” you confess, “when I could swear I’d already read something. I’d know what was coming next before my eyes reached the words.” You shake your head. “I thought I was imagining it.”
Jack’s hand tightens around yours.
“And that’s why I became a historian,” you continue. “I told people I liked patterns. Timelines. Understanding how the past shaped the present.” You laugh quietly. “But the truth is… I think I was looking for something. Or someone.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and sees the inevitability of it all.
Of course, you would find your way back to history. Your soul had always known the path.
Jack exhales shakily and presses a kiss to your temple. “You were always coming back to me,” he murmurs.
You turn into him, resting your forehead against his chest. “I'd choose you,” you say softly. “In every lifetime. Will you choose me back?”
He stills. He knows what you mean. His arms close around you, protective, but there's no fear in him now.
“You understand what you’re asking?” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
Jack pauses for a long time. He studies your face as if memorising it. As if preparing to lose it again. “Then this time,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the steady beat of your pulse, “I won’t hesitate.”
And this time, when the world comes for you, it will find you standing beside him, forever in your heart and death behind your smile.
9.7k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW:guilt; angst; anxiety; panic; fear for partner’s safety; crying; PTSD; flashbacks; laceration; blood; reference to reader getting stitches but nothing described; reference to CPR and coding; reference to sepsis; talk of condoms; reference to PIV and oral sex; Jack is a little bit of a dick and snappy for a second; valium mention; doesn't follow canon timeline like the rest of the series; no use of y/n.
Summary: Title is pretty explanatory I think so here's a snippet: "Nausea and dread begin to consume Jack. He wonders how bad it is. How bloody you are. Where it’s coming from. If you’re still conscious. If it’s something he can fix or if he’ll be fucking useless like last time."
AN: Set in the No Man's Land Universe because I love them and missed them!! And can't stop putting them (especially Jack) through it (briefly-ish here) apparently!!! 🙃 You don't really need to have read the series for this to make sense, but reading it will spoil a lot and some things will make more sense if you've read. You can find Part 1 here if you'd like to read or refresh! If you haven't read, Jack calls Reader Doll as a pet name and Reader calls Jack Peter as a pet name which is explained more in the series lol, and Jack works days. Based on this request with the prompt, "Sorry, I'm being so difficult for you." I don't really know where this came from and it was never something planned but it's just how the prompt spoke to me. I hope it's okay and enjoyable and thank you for reading! ♥️
"Can I help you?"
A med student you've never seen before steps in front of you, wearing one of the fakest smiles you've seen in a while. He's stopped you right in front of that trauma room. "Should you be in a room? We really can't have patients just wandering the floor."
"Oh, no, I'm, I'm not. Not yet at least," you laugh a little, holding up your bloody arm that you've wrapped with a clean dish towel. "I'm looking for Jack, Dr. Abbot. I'm looking for Dr. Abbot."
"Okay, well patients don't really get to pick their doctors, and a simple laceration is unlikely to get an attending like Dr. Abbot. Plus you need to go out to chairs and get checked in and triaged, okay?" He gives you a tight smile that matches the condescension in his voice.
It almost makes you laugh a little. "No, I’m not trying to pick my doctor, he's my-"
"Hey!" Dana comes striding up to you. "I thought that was you. You okay?"
"Hey," you greet her with a warm smile, hope it's reassuring because you can tell Dana is quite concerned as she takes in the blood. "Cut my arm. It definitely needs stitches."
Dana turns to the med student and he smirks at you, clearly thinks Dana is about to back him up and send you to triage despite the way you and her obviously know each other. "I told her she needs to go to chairs and get triaged and that she can't just request a doctor, much less an attending-"
"No, Ogilvie. Read the room, for Christ’s sake." Dana cuts him off. "This is Dr. Abbot's wife and he's going to lose his fucking shit if he sees her here bloody without knowing what's going on, okay? So go find him and tell him his wife is okay before telling him that she's here with a lacerated arm."
It's too late though. Jack steps out of trauma one at just the right time. His back is to you so he doesn't see you but he hears Dana, doesn't focus on the conversation really except for his title and three words that slam into him, his brain cutting off everything after them.
Dr. Abbot's wife. Here. Bloody.
Five years of marriage have passed in a calm blur without any further life-altering events. It's been pretty perfect if you ask Jack or yourself. You celebrated your fifth wedding anniversary a little over a month ago with the most incredible trip to Italy.
He should've known something like this was coming. Should've expected the universe to implode his life, to implode your life together. To tear you from him.
Why couldn't it be his turn to get hurt? Why did it have to be you again? What if he can't fix you this time either? What if you die this time and he's left all alone? You already survived something you probably shouldn't have once. There's no way the universe will let that happen twice.
Nausea and dread begin to consume Jack. He wonders how bad it is. How bloody you are. Where it’s coming from. If you’re still conscious. If it’s something he can fix or if he’ll be fucking useless like last time.
Jack spins on a dime praying that maybe he heard wrong. Maybe Dana was talking about someone else's wife and it just sounded like Dr. Abbot's.
But sure enough there you are. His wife. Here. Bloody.
“Doll?”
You look over at him and it's not the same situation, not at all. It's not even the same place, not completely, you guys aren't in the trauma room. You don't have blood on your teeth or trickling from your mouth, you're not holding up your shirt and revealing a gunshot wound, you aren’t clearly about to lose consciousness.
But you here with a bloody arm that's bled through the towel you wrapped around it, blood dried all over your hand and staining his old light gray shirt that you're wearing all over in various amounts, a little over a month after your anniversary and this close to the anniversary of you getting shot, it's close enough. It's so much more than close enough for Jack's brain to send him right back there.
Even with the twenty or so feet away from Jack as you are, you watch the color drain from his face, watch the slight glaze that covers his eyes as his brain reconstructs the scene in the trauma room the day you were shot all those years ago. "Jack," you draw his name out as you walk over to him. "I'm okay." He takes in a shuddery breath at your words and shakes his head. Fuck. You realize too late as you watch him react and go back there in his mind even faster that those words are the exact same ones you said to him at first that day.
"Hey, Peter, stay with me, okay?" you say quietly as you reach him and bring the hand of your uninjured arm up to the back of his neck, squeeze gently and scratch at his skin through the curls at the nape of his neck.
"Sit," he whispers to you. "You'll fall and, and…" Jack suddenly pulls his eyes from yours and looks over at Dana. "Get a gurney or a chair."
"North five is open. Why don't you guys head there?" she offers with a small, reassuring smile to Jack.
"Yeah, but we need a chair or something or she'll fall, and, and," Jack lets out a harsh breath suddenly as everything slams into him a little harder, a little more intensely, "and she'll fracture her skull."
"Here," Mel walks up from the side with a wheelchair and you shoot her a grateful smile. It's unnecessary but Jack needs you in it for right now, so you sit. "You want me to wheel her over Dr. Abbot or you got it?"
He slowly turns his head to look at you and Mel almost like he's afraid of what he'll see when he does. Jack knows the sight he does find should reassure him, that you sitting up in the chair without assistance and giving him a reassuring smile should calm him down and ground him back in the present, but it doesn't. Not even close.
Jack needs to get away from here, needs to get you away from here, away from that room and all the sounds of this fucking place. He needs to get you somewhere he can look you over carefully. But at the same time half of him feels like he needs to take you into the trauma room and look you over in there, just in case, so that you're right there next to all the equipment if you end up needing it.
"Take me to north 5?" you ask him, able to see the gears turning in Jack's head. You hate this. Hate yourself for being clumsy in the first place and then deciding to come to the Pitt and not just go to urgent care. Jack probably would've been a bit upset when he found out, but at least he wouldn't have gone through this, wouldn't be right back in one of the most traumatic moments of his life. An all too familiar guilt starts to creep up on you.
He nods after a few seconds. "Yeah, okay."
Mel steps away from the wheel chair as Jack walks over and gets behind it, pushes you the short journey to north 5 and is silent as he closes the door and draws the curtain behind him before helping you out of the chair and onto the gurney. He moves the chair out of the way and walks back to you.
"Peter." You spread your legs where you sit on the edge of the bed so that he can step between them. You know you need to get him at least a little grounded in the present. Your arm is the least of your worries at this point, you can tell the bleeding has stopped or at least significantly slowed and you're not anywhere close to six hours since you cut it. "Come here please."
You watch him think about it for a second, think about what to do. But then he takes the two steps forward so that he's standing between your legs, automatically puts his hands on top of your thighs. You bring the hand of your uninjured arm up and cup the side of his face, worried and terrified hazel eyes boring into yours. You brush your thumb over his cheek. "Jack, I promise that I only have a minor injury. It's just a cut. I just need some stitches. It's not happening again, I promise. You're not back there. We're not going to end up going through that again right now. You're going to look at my cut and stitch it up and then discharge me and I'll wait here until you're off and we'll go home together tonight, I promise."
"Don’t.” It’s a little harsher than he means for it to be but not because he says it meanly or the words are coated in anger, but because he sounds as terrified and worried as his eyes look, as traumatized and back there as he is. “Don’t, don’t promise that. Don’t promise that because I, I, I…" Jack swallows hard. "I thought we'd go home together that night too. You said you were okay and I, I let myself believe you and I fucked up and didn’t check you over and I thought,” his voice breaks slightly, “I thought we’d go home together that night too."
Jack shakes his head at you, almost dazed. “And we didn’t. We didn’t Doll.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and almost wince silently for a second. You really can't do this right at all, can you? You just have to keep saying things that make him feel even worse. Part of you wants to just keep your mouth closed and not say anything else until he's calm and back to feeling himself but you know that's not an option and would just make him worse.
A wave of nausea passes through Jack so hard that his mouth salivates like he's about to be sick, and you can see it, your heart dropping even further imagining him being sick over this. Why did you fucking come here for this? What the actual fuck were you thinking?
You could’ve gone to urgent care. Fuck, you probably could’ve just waited until he got home. He only has two hours left on his shift so it wouldn’t be so long that he wouldn’t be able to stitch it because of the infection risk and you’d have to wait for him to be able to do a delayed closing or something.
"I thought we'd go home together that night too and then I almost, and then," half a sob tears from him and Jack takes one of his hands off your thigh to cover his mouth for a few seconds, your hand slipping from his cheek. "And then we almost never went home together again. I almost went home without you forever. I almost, because you almost…"
"Jack," you say his name with urgency so that he'll look at you. If you don't get him to take a breath and calm a little he's going to slip into a full blown panic attack. The urgency to your tone does exactly what you had hoped and Jack's eyes snap to yours. "Give me a kiss please," you murmur.
He blinks at you for a few seconds and then your words break through all the way and he nods, leans down and in and kisses you. It's so gentle at first, like you're made of glass and liable to shatter at any second. It feels like he thinks this could be your last kiss and there's a little piece of Jack that does think that. That is thinking that.
You bring the hand that had been cupping his face to the back of his neck and play with his curls at the nape how he loves and how you know grounds him. And god does it all help pull him back, the reality of your current situation clicking into place around him as Jack deepens the next kiss, is firmer with it, licks into your mouth and sucks on your bottom lip because he can. Because your responses, your sigh and the way your mouth and tongue move in time with his reassure him and remind him that you're here. Strong enough to kiss him like this and play with his hair and reassure him and alive and warm and wanting and conscious and here with him.
Here with him.
When you both need air Jack pulls his lips from yours and rests his forehead against yours. You continue to scratch at the nape of his neck until he pulls his forehead from yours and straightens back up, letting your hand return to cupping the side of his face.
Jack leans his head into your hand and sighs, tries to relax his shoulders to release some of the tension. "I'm being ridiculous," he mutters.
"No you're not." You squeeze his face gently. "You're reacting to a trigger and that's okay. That happens. That's PTSD. It's normal."
"It's fucking bullshit," he huffs, moves back in to take another couple of kisses from you.
"It is, yeah," you agree in a murmur. "And it fucking sucks and I'm sorry you're going through it, Peter, I really am, Baby."
"It's not your fault, you have nothing to apologize for, Doll." There’s a lot you want to say to that as you swallow back tears you can feel forming behind your eyes. That actually you’re the one who cut yourself accidentally, and you’re the one who came here instead of dealing with it in literally any other way. You’re the one who sent him back there. You’re the fucking trigger that decided to walk into his ED bloodied.
None of that occurs to Jack though. Because he’d never think to blame you. And even when you tell him and apologize later at home he’ll do his fucking best to get you to see that it’s not your fault and you did the right thing and what he wanted you to do, what he always wants you to do when you’re hurt and he’s at work.
In the present, you share a few more kisses before Jack steps back and looks down at your towel covered arm and then over the rest of your body. "Alright," he nods. "Let’s get you in a gown."
A gown isn't necessary, not for this cut and how easily accessible it is. You both know that. But as your eyes follow Jack as he walks over to grab one from the cabinet you realize it is necessary, if for no other reason than the simple fact that Jack needs to see your body and look you over when you change into it. He needs to see for himself that you're really okay, that nothing is hiding like it was all those years ago. And right now with where he's at in his head Jack can't ask. He just can't.
And you'll never make him ask, ever, for anything, when you know he can't.
You'll never withhold something from him just because he can't find the words or the voice or courage or whatever it may be to ask.
So you give him a soft smile when sets the gown on the gurney next to you and toe your shoes off before hopping off the edge of the gurney. You let the smallest smirk pull up at the edge of your lips, something flirty and playful and that shows you're okay. "Wanna help, Dr. Abbot?"
Jack lets out a soft laugh through his nose. "If I ever say no to helping you get naked, Doll, especially after you hit me with Dr. Abbot, assume there is something seriously wrong with me."
You giggle at his answer as Jack steps closer to you, the sound soothing him, reinvigorating him as cheesy and cliché as it sounds and feels. He smiles to himself and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your pants and starts to pull them down, letting you keep your underwear on. His eyes roam your skin checking for any blood or anything out of place as he helps you step out of your pants and tosses them on the gurney.
He carefully helps you out of his shirt that you're wearing next, the two of you working together to make sure the towel stays over your cut. Jack keeps the shirt in his hand and walks over to the biohazard bin and presses the pedal to open it, tosses the shirt in.
"Hey!" you gasp. "That's my shirt!"
"Well, actually it was my shirt, and it was covered in blood, Doll," Jack points out with a small smile at your adorable indignation. He grabs the gown and starts to shake it open, eyes roaming the back of you as you turn so he can help you get the gown on and because you know he needs to look over your back.
"So?" you huff, putting your arms through the gown as Jack holds it open for you. "It would wash out."
"Maybe eventually. It was a pretty light gray, Doll." He walks around and ties the front of the gown for you, does his best to ignore the light smears of dried blood on your skin from where your blood soaked through the thin cotton of the shirt and pressed against your skin. as he checks over your torso and chest. It's not the same, he reminds himself. It's nowhere near the same and he can see that there's no active bleeding anywhere and your scars are all just that. Scars. Closed and healed and the past. "I have a ton more at home for you to replace it with."
"Yeah, but I really liked that one," you grumble, pouting a little as you hop back onto the gurney.
"I know." He walks over and steps between your legs again as you automatically open them for him to. Jack leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'm sorry."
"No," you sigh, shake your head at him. "Don't be. You have nothing to be sorry for. I was the clumsy one who got it covered in blood in the first place."
"Still," Jack shrugs. He looks down at you for a moment and then shakes his head as he licks his lips and looks away for a second before his eyes return to yours. "I need to go get stuff to stitch you up but I don't want to leave you," he admits quietly.
"That makes sense," you say just as quietly, nodding. "I think you should check outside the door."
Jack's brows pull together in confusion. "What?"
"I think you should check outside the door," you tell him again.
He purses his lips but nods and does what you suggest, pulling the curtain and opening the door. You can hear the soft huff of a laugh he blows through his nose just after he opens the door and know you were right.
"Who?" Jack asks once he's closed the door, pulled the curtain back and started wheeling the Mayo stand over. "And how did you know?"
You shrug as you move onto the gurney properly, settle once Jack has put the head of the bed up for you a bit more. "I didn't know for sure, but I know Dana, so I figured."
"Yeah," Jack murmurs, flicks his eyebrows up and shakes his head once. "I should've figured that too."
Jack gets the stand set up how he likes quickly, leaving room for you to rest your arm out on it for him to stitch. You unwrap the dish towel as he washes his hand and extend your arm out and lay it on the space he's left, toss the towel to the side for now.
Once he has his hands washed and dried, Jack sits on the stool and wheels himself over to you and the stand. He didn't expect seeing it to hit him as hard as it does. It makes him start to go back there again which frustrates him because this is not the same. It's nowhere near the same even with as deep as the laceration is. There's no reason for him to be reacting like this.
He tries to push through it. "How did you do this?"
"I was trying to open a box and had… difficulties, clearly," you laugh softly, observing Jack carefully. You can tell it's getting to him again, can see the way his body stiffens slightly and how his breathing becomes a little deeper. "The box cutter slipped and went right to my arm with the way I was holding things." You watch him eye the dish towel you wrapped around your arm wearily and smile to yourself. "It was clean, I promise. I tried gauze first but it bled through."
He looks up at you. Trying to push through isn't working. He hasn’t even grabbed a pair of gloves. "I… I figured that, I don't think…" He closes his eyes and shakes his head while he lets out a long breath. The last thing he wants is for you to think that he thinks you're an idiot because he doesn't, at all. His anxiety is just skyrocketing again and he's falling right back where he was when he first saw you now that he's looking at your wound and watching you bleed just a little. He's going back there again in his mind, starting to convince himself all over again that something is going to happen to you. That you're going to die. "I don't think you're an idiot or…"
And just like that Jack is exactly right back where he was. Back where you just pulled him from.
Jack trails his sentence off, keeps glancing between your bleeding cut and your face because the completely irrational and traumatized part of his brain keeps expecting you to suddenly be in DIC and bleeding from your nose and mouth and everywhere again, just like before. After the fifth or sixth glance he manages to convince himself you're not going to spontaneously go into DIC or bleed out so his mind attaches and fixates on what happened next and the thought of your wound getting infected and you becoming septic again takes over.
"I know you don't, Sweetheart," you try to reassure him. Jack's eyes find yours and you know he's back there again, that you need to lead him back to you again.
You smile at him and it should reassure him but it just doesn't. It just fucking doesn't right now because all he can see is Robby moving an oxygen mask off your nose and mouth so that you can mouth you love him at him as sepsis does its best to take you from him and your eyes flutter closed as you lose consciousness, all he can hear for a moment is the high-pitched whine announcing that you've flatlined and his best friend yelling for someone to start compressions on you and push the induction meds and epi.
Your voice brings him out of the memory. "And I promise I didn't think that you did, I was just trying to reassure you," you tell him softly.
"Okay." He nods distractedly, blinks at you a few times. "Maybe we should just culture it now and give you some prophylactic antibiotics." His eyes leave yours to look back down at your cut. "Or maybe I should have them take you up to the OR and wash this out good just to be safe." He bites his lip as he tries to decide which is better.
"It doesn't involve a joint, Peter." You say the words with a smile, hope it'll draw a comment from him about you always listening and learning and how you're his best student. But it doesn't.
It's like he doesn't hear you. He doesn't react. Doesn't respond to what you said. Just keeps voicing his ideas as he stares blankly at your arm, eyes glossed over. "Both maybe. Could admit you for a night just to monitor you too. I'd stay with you, of course. I could probably even be in the OR while you're under when they wash it out."
"Peter."
He tilts his head in what seems like an almost acknowledgment. Like he thinks you're giving him input. "Maybe they could even just do twilight sedation, not put you all the way under. Wouldn't have to control your airway and intubate or use an LMA that way."
"Jack."
"Even a brachial plexus block, maybe," he considers. "Numb your whole arm and keep you awake. We could give you some valium and I could distract you in the OR. We could put a sheet up so you didn't have to see if you didn't want to."
"Jack!" You say his name louder than you had been but not too loud, you don't want to completely startle him. And that's the same reason you stop yourself from leaning forward and reaching out with your other hand to touch him, you don't want to make it worse for him with a sudden and unexpected touch.
The sound of your voice breaks through and it's like the world comes crashing back down around him, sounds no longer muffled, his brain no longer completely stuck on the all too clear image of you intubated and septic and in a coma and looking so fucking sick and weak and close to death in a hospital bed.
Jack looks up at you and blinks away the glossiness that had taken over his eyes. "Yeah? That one?" he nods once.
You shake your head slowly. "I think all of that might be a little overkill. I just need it cleaned here with you and some stitches, yeah?"
He's not sure it's anger that flares through him, but it's something. Annoyance, maybe. Irritation that you're questioning his medical judgment even though he knows you’re not. Fear. Whatever it is it's coming from a place of fear because it's easier to feel than the fear. And Jack, in an incredibly rare move, one you know is more subconscious and reactive than deliberate, gives into it. "I didn't realize you'd gone through med school, completed residency and been an attending for over twelve years in the last five minutes," he snaps.
You're careful to keep your reaction measured, to not let your eyebrows fly up and give him an excuse me? look the way you might if he very uncharacteristically snapped at you like that in any other circumstance at any other time. This isn't any other time and he will tear himself down even more and get further into his head if he realizes how snappy that was. "I don't think I need any of that to know it's overkill for the situation."
Jack's jaw clenches, his mouth set in a scowl. There's no real anger in his eyes, no heat in the way he's looking at you. Just worry, a deep, deep anxiety you can see threatening to swallow him whole. "How would you even begin to know if it's overkill for the situation?"
His words are still sharp but you don't take them personally. At least not completely. You’re pretty sure you deserve them for coming here and putting him through this. "Oh, I don't know, the probably at least several dozen times I've listened to my husband come home and vent about people wanting IV antibiotics or a script for antibiotics or a hospital stay for a simple cut that just needs some stitches," you laugh softly, trying to keep it lighthearted.
"You're just making assumptions. What you're saying is based off something else that requires at least a fucking ounce of medical training. It's derivative," Jack scoffs humorlessly. "How do you know it's a simple cut that just needs some stitches to have a foundation to know what is or isn't overkill?"
Your heart sinks and you’re a little surprised you manage not to flinch and get at least vaguely teary. You just keep making everything worse it seems. "I-"
"You don't. You don't know. You could've sliced a nerve or severed a tendon or nicked an artery." Jack looks back down at your arm, his heart rate increasing even more. "Three centimeters to the left and a bit deeper and you probably would've hit your ulnar artery. I could've come home to you bled out on the floor." He knows that would've been incredibly unlikely but it doesn't matter. It was still a possibility. A real one. More than hypothetically if you were to ever cut your arm one day it could happen. You did cut your arm. It could've happened.
"Jack," you start, sit up more so that your back is off the gurney and lean in towards him, reach out for him with your other hand.
But Jack pushes away on the stool and then stands, shaking his head at you. "Bled out on the fucking floor, Doll. Just like I fucking dreamed about for months." He holds your gaze for a couple of seconds and then looks away.
It's quiet for a moment as Jack's words linger in the air between you.
"I'm sorry. For all of it, Jack," you whisper eventually, unsure of what else to say. "And I'm not trying to question your medical judgment, I know you are the best doctor. So if you really think any of that is necessary then okay, that's what we'll do. Even if it's not necessary, necessary, but what you want or need for yourself necessary, then that's what we'll do." You hold out your hand for him hoping he'll take it and come back to you. In every sense. "Just… I don't know. Pretend it's not me you're treating. What would you do for any other patient who came in with this cut?"
"I can't!" He doesn't raise his voice, there's just a heavy emphasis to his words as he looks back at you. "God, Doll, I fucking can't." His voice is pained now and your heart sinks and aches because you made that happen. You frown to yourself and lower your hand as Jack thinks about starting to pace but doesn't, just stays standing there looking at you helplessly.
"I can't pretend it isn't you because it is you. It is you! It's you here in my ED, bleeding, a month after our anniversary just like last time, just like fucking last time and I…" You watch him swallow down a sob and screw his eyes shut to prevent any tears from falling.
"I can't," he whispers, voice breaking. Jack opens his eyes and looks at you again, so terrified and upset it breaks your heart. You've seen him look like this before when you were in the hospital. It broke your heart then too. "I have to protect you. I have to do everything in my power to keep you safe and not let this get infected so that you don't get septic again and actually die from the septicemia this time. I cannot live out your funeral. I cannot fucking do it, Doll. I can't lose you. I can't," Jack lets out a shuddery breath that's verging on a panicky hyperventilation kind of breathing, "I can't watch them lower you into the ground."
Jack hates this. He hates it. He hates how fucking irrational this reaction is, hates how he's so fucking aware of how irrational it is and how despite that he can't stop it. He hates how he gave into it and was a fucking dick to you. He hates how it’s hurting you, how he can see guilt consuming you more and more.
Here you are ready and willing to go through a surgery you don't really fucking need just for him, to help his anxiety, and he's being a fucking dick to you. He hasn’t even asked if you’re in pain, hasn’t given you any pain medication. His anxiety is paralyzing him and he’s letting it. Letting it get the better of him and be awful to you.
A few tears finally fall over his lash line and down his face and the sight makes tears start to sting at your eyes. "So I don't… I don't know what I think is necessary. I don't know how to be a doctor right now," he shakes his head at you, eyes still teary and mouth set in a line that he tries so hard to use to hide his trembling lips and chin but doesn't quite succeed at. "I don't know how to… How to do this."
More tears streak down Jack's face as he finally just gives in and lets it happen, lets some of it out. Some of the worry and panic and true fear he's been holding onto since he heard the words Dr. Abbot's, wife, bloody. And he tries to let go of some of the anger at himself he's feeling, for treating you how he did, speaking to you how he did. He knows holding onto it isn't going to do any good, certainly isn't going to help him apologize.
Jack isn't crying audibly, he's not making any sound really, but you can see his chest heaving and trembling and know that's as far as he's going to let himself go at work right now.
It hurts. It's hard to see him like this, it takes you right back there in its own way. But it’s easier to fight, easier for you to stay present. "Jack, Sweetheart."
The way you say his name breaks him.
"I'm sorry. I’m so sorry," he whispers, just loud enough for you to hear from the six or so feet away from you he is. "Sorry, I'm being so difficult for you. I know it, and I, I'm sorry-"
"Hey, stop it, no" you interrupt him gently, shaking your head. "You're not being difficult, Jack, not at all. I understand, I promise. Come here." You pull your arm off the mayo stand carefully and move back to the edge of the bed and slip off it so that you're standing, hold your hand back out to him. "Come feel me."
Jack fights with himself for a minute. You watch it play out in his eyes. He wants nothing more than to come feel you, to take you into his arms and be in yours and feel your warmth, proof that you're alive and well. But he doesn't deserve it. Not with the way he's treated you. And what if he goes in for this hug and kiss and it tempts fate into making it your guys' last one somehow.
You wiggle your fingers at him and let a small smile pull onto your face and Jack wipes the tears off his face and then starts walking. You smile wider at him and for the first time since you've been here Jack thinks that it might actually be okay. That you might actually be okay. You hold your arms open for him and Jack wraps his around you pulling you as close to him as possible. You hug him back as tight as you can with your one arm, hold your cut one out to the side a bit.
Jack nuzzles his nose against your hair and takes in a deep breath, lets the familiar scent of your shampoo and conditioner help calm and ground him. "I love you, Doll," he murmurs, kissing the top of your head and then resting one of his cheeks there as he keeps you close.
"I love you too, Peter," you murmur back, giving him a little squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.”
You're not sure how long you and Jack stand like that. You have no idea what the passage of time is like when you're in his arms like this.
Eventually Jack lifts his cheek from the top of your head and you react as he thought you would, move your head to look up at him. He brings his hands up to your face, thumbs resting above your jawline, his other fingers holding your neck gently. It's a move he's done a million times, before and after you got married, but you recognize it for what it is.
Jack holds your face the way he did on the altar when he kissed you as his wife for the first time and kisses you just the same, short and chaste and lingering and so full of love it makes your head spin. And like you did at the altar when the kiss ends you steal another couple of kisses from each other.
It takes you both right back there, gets your minds on the track of reliving and thinking about your wedding instead of the shooting and its aftermath and you in the hospital.
When you pull away from each other Jack's finally able to give you a small smile and you beam at him so hard about it he laughs softly and shakes his head at you. "Come on." He flicks his chin at the bed. “Are you in pain? Did you take anything?”
You take the step back and hop back onto the edge again. “It doesn’t really hurt, no.” Jack raises his eyebrows at you as he steps to you and you shrug. “It’s just kind of there and throbby at this point, you know? You’re going to numb it anyway too. And I didn’t take anything because ibuprofen slows clotting time and we were out of acetaminophen.”
“I can give you something,” Jack offers. “I’m sorry that wasn’t one of the first things I asked.”
“It’s okay, Peter. If it was bad I would’ve asked. And I really don’t think I need anything at this point, but I’ll take something if you want.” You smile at him.
Jack shakes his head. “No I’m not going to force you, I just wanted to check.” He sets his hands next to each of your outer thighs, leans forward on them and hunches a bit so he's more at your level, rests his forehead against your shoulder. You know he has something he wants to say, are sure he has a lot of things he wants to say, so you give him a moment, run your fingers through his silvery curls and scratch at his scalp.
"I hate this," Jack mutters, shaking his head against you a little before pulling his forehead from your shoulder and looking at you. "I fucking hate this. I was just right back there and replaying every day. I couldn't shut it off, I couldn't stop thinking about losing you. And I'm not convinced I won't go back there again, won't start seeing and feeling it all again. It's been years. I should be over it. Or at least more over it. It shouldn't control me like this. You coming in needing stitches for a simple laceration shouldn't make me panic about you dying or think about putting you through unnecessary surgery and giving you unnecessary antibiotics and it sure as fuck have me snapping at you and be a dick and awful to you."
You nod slowly so that he knows you're taking in what he has to say and then tilt your head at him, let the faintest ghost of a smile twitch up at the corners of your lips. "Should is a stupid word," you murmur, the words pulling a single slightly broken laugh from Jack as he shakes his head at you. "Nothing should or shouldn’t be. Things just are. And it’s okay for them to be as they are. It’s okay for this to be as it is, as much as it fucking sucks and as much as we hate it."
Jack can't hide the small chin tremble your words pull from him and your shoulders drop a little. You didn't mean to make it worse again. Jack tilts his head and groans for a second before looking back at you, worry mixed with an almost soul-crushing preemptive sadness painting his handsome face. "What if you weren't around to tell me that ever again? What if I never heard you tell me that again?"
Loaded questions.
Ones you're not sure if he really wants you to try and answer or if they're more rhetorical, designed to be an expression of love more than anything.
You take in a deep breath and blow it out slowly as you shake your head. "I can't answer that because I don't know, Sweetheart. And I can't and won't promise you that you'll never find out as much as I want to because I won't lie to you. But I can tell you that I truly don't believe this cut is going to get infected and take me from you or get anywhere close to that. I don't think it's going to become anything other than a nuisance when I shower and sleep because of the stitches."
Jack sighs. "I love and appreciate your honesty but a part of me wishes you'd just lie to me and tell me I'll never have to find out."
You let out the softest laugh through your nose. "I know. Part of me wishes I could lie and tell you you'll never have to find out."
He gives you a small smile and nods and you see it in his eyes, a kind of clarity that tells you he's really all the way back here with you. You smile reflexively when you see it and Jack melts a little more.
You're bloody and here in his ED, yeah, but you're okay. You're smiling at him as you wait for him to finally stitch up your arm looking perfectly healthy. You're okay and you're going to continue to be okay.
Jack makes sure he has strong eye contact with you for this next part because of how incredibly fucking important it is to him. "I'm really sorry for snapping at you. I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you and treated you, it was unacceptable and you deserve so much better. I was mean and an asshole and a dick and I'm very, truly sorry, Doll."
"I forgive you." Your words are quick to follow his, but not too quick. Not so quick that it seems like you didn't really listen, like you just heard he was sorry and immediately said you forgive him without thinking about it. "It's okay, Jack. It happens."
He gives you a lopsided smile and raises his eyebrows. "It's really not."
You click your tongue at him, happy to see some light returning to him. "You know what I mean. I forgive you. I understand and I know it was out of love and fear, I know that's where it was coming from."
Jack shakes his head and presses his lips together. "Doesn't matter. It doesn't matter where it came from or why it happened. That's not an excuse. It was wrong, I was wrong for letting those emotions get the better of me. I'm sorry and I'll try to do better."
He's far too hard on himself, your Jack. But you get it. You'd feel the exact same way. You have felt the exact same way.
"Jack, I forgive you. We've gotta get you to start forgiving yourself now." You lean forward a bit and give him a tender kiss, a physical acceptance of his apology. When you pull away he looks a bit more relaxed but his forehead still carries that worried crease that you love. You kiss it softly before returning your gaze to his. "What do you need Jack?"
Jack huffs a laugh and stretches his neck. "To wrap you in knife-proof, fireproof, bulletproof, acid-proof, virus-proof, fungus-proof and bacteria-proof bubblewrap and never let you out of my sight again." The two of you share a small laugh. "I don't know." He sighs deeply. "I don't know. I want you. I want you to never be hurt again, never feel any pain again. I know this will pass, this anxiety and being this antsy, it's just so…" He shrugs hard, unable to articulate what he means. "You know?"
You nod at him because you do. You do know. You know exactly what he means, feel it yourself a little right now because you never want him to hurt or feel pain again, physically or psychologically. Especially not because of you.
"I think…" He looks away from you for a second and around the room before his eyes return to yours. "I think I need to get you stitched up and out of this gown and hospital bed. I need to make you better. And then I need to take you home, walk out the door of this fucking place with you tonight."
"I think that sounds like a plan." You cock your head at him as Jack pushes off his hands and stands back up to his full height. "It's okay if you need someone else to do it Jack."
"Nah," he shakes his head. "I got it. I can be a doctor now, I promise. I just… needed to crash out for a second there and get that out of my system."
You nod at him, let a small smirked smile pull onto your face. "Well I'm ready when you are Dr. Abbot," you wink.
It doesn't take all that long from there. Jack sets up again and washes his hands, sits on the stool and gets started. He knows he shouldn't even technically be treating you since you're his wife but he doesn't really care. You are his wife and this is something pretty minor. If it had happened when he was at home with you he'd have just stitched you up there, he keeps a suture kit around just in case.
The two of you chat while he cleans out your wound well once you’re numb and then stitches it up. The chatting helps him relax, makes things feel far more normal, you guys could be sitting on your couch chatting like this. Doing your stitches also helps Jack if he's honest. It makes him feel like he's doing his job and helping you heal, a stark contrast to how he felt after you got shot.
"Alright, Doll," Jack hums as he finishes dressing your stitched cut. "You're all set."
"Thank you Dr. Abbot. How can I ever repay you?" It comes out far less flirty and far more distracted than you intended because Jack starts taking his gloves off and something about the way he does and how his hands and arms look as he does is fucking obscene to you.
When he doesn't answer immediately you look up at Jack after he's finished taking his gloves off. He's already staring at you with an amused smirk and slightly raised eyebrows that he raises a little further when you make eye contact. "Taking gloves off, really?"
"What?" you drag the word out melodically.
"Nothing Doll," Jack shakes his head at you and chuckles. "Not a single thing."
"It's not my fault your arms and hands look like that when you take gloves off! I was merely appreciating the view!" you fake huff.
Jack laughs a little more and starts cleaning up the mayo stand, throwing away what can be and putting everything else into biohazard and needle bins, the used instruments the only thing remaining on the tray by the time he's done. He shoots off a quick text and turns his attention back to you.
You pout at him, push your bottom lip out and raise your head a little and everything. Jack has to bite his bottom lip not to laugh at how ridiculously adorable you are. "Watching it brought me back to our condom days," you shrug.
"Our what?" Jack coughs, a shiver ripping through him at the thought. He has no idea what he expected you to say but it sure as fuck wasn't that. "I… I don't even know…what? H-how?" He trips over the last word.
"I don't know," you shrug again, giving him the biggest self-satisfied smile. "The way your forearms flexed and the not-latex latex, it just made me think back to memories of you taking off a condom after we'd finished when we were still newly together and using condoms. It was kind of hot. There can be something kind of hot about using one I think. Putting it on and having to roll onto your back right after or sit up on your knees between my legs to take it off, your chest heaving as you pant and all of you sweaty and flushed and the little groan you make."
"I, I," Jack laughs breathily, blood rushing to his cock way the fuck too fast at the thought. He shifts his weight on his feet and has to bring a hand down and adjust himself as he starts to fill out almost completely.
"A condom, really?" you ask him in the same tone he asked you about taking gloves off, smirking.
He wants to say something smart back, something even more teasing and flirtier that will get you more wound up for him but he's got nothing, his brain too fixated on the idea now. "I'll, I'll get us some," Jack forces out, nodding and swallowing hard.
You cock your head at him and then lick your lips just to fuck with him, revel in the way his jaw clenches in response. "I bet you won't even make it six minutes in before you can't take it and have to pull it off mid-fuck because you'll want to feel me so badly and come inside me."
Your challenge gives his brain some ground to claw into. "And what do I get when I fuck you for an hour with it it on and finish in it?" Before you can answer there's a knock on the door. Jack knows exactly who it is and why. "Motherfucker. Really Dana?" Jack mutters under his breath. "You had to bring the shirt now?"
An airy smile pulls on your face. "I guess that's to be determined, Peter."
Jack makes a groaned whine and then walks over to the door, pulls the curtain just enough to move the top half of his body around it and open the door and grab the shirt from Dana, his lower half and now fairly obvious erection remaining hidden by the curtain.
"Hey," he nods at her.
She flashes him a soft smile, obviously still worried about him and how he's doing with you being here. "One shirt from your locker as requested."
"Thanks." He gives her a soft smile back and closes the door.
You're hopping off the bed and grinning to yourself as Jack pulls the curtain back and turns around. You want to change the subject to leave him hanging a little bit, let the build up and unresolved tension and teasing make it better. "Wanna help me get dressed?" You pull the slip knot he used to tie your gown and shrug it off.
Jack's eyes rake up and down your figure greedily and any progress he'd made on getting his erection to go down is erased. "Mm," he hums, "not particularly, no. I'd actually prefer to take your bra and underwear off, honestly. Keep you naked for me all of the time, Doll."
You roll your eyes at him affectionately but it makes you fucking glow, makes you feel so good to know that he's just as attracted to you now as he was that first day in the bookstore. More attracted to you now if anything. "This is certainly not going to help with my," Jack motions to his cock, "problem." He walks up to you and starts bunching his shirt to help you get it on. "But you also know that you didn't even need to ask, Doll."
"I know I didn't, but it's nice to." You get your uninjured arm through the arm hole quickly and then Jack helps guide your other one through. "I don't want you to think I take you or all the things you do for me, little and big, for granted." With Jack's assistance you get your head through the neck hole and smile up at him. "I love you." As his hands pull the shirt down you lean up on your tip toes and kiss him. "Very, very much."
"I love you very, very much too, Doll," Jack nods, stealing another couple of kisses from you as his arms snake around your waist to hold you close.
Once Jack releases you he helps you get your pants back on, picks up the hospital gown and sets it on the gurney as you slide your shoes on. He doesn't look tense as such when you look back up at him but some of the anxiety is rising back to the surface. You can see it in his eyes, the way he holds them and the specific set of those creases you adore that appear at the corners, and in his shoulders, tensed ever so slightly.
"I'll wait in the break room until you're done and then we'll get out of here together, yeah?" You step to him and rest the hand you can feel on his chest, rub lightly.
"Yeah," he nods. The word has a little too much air to it and you know more is coming. Jack swallows hard. "Everything's going to be okay. You're going to be okay." He does his damnedest to make both sentences statements, and to anyone else maybe they would sound that way. But not to you. You can hear the subtle intonation at the end of them easily. He's not quite asking if both those things are true, it's more him asking you to reassure him that both are true.
You give him an easy smile that takes his breath and lingering uncertainty away, even if only for the moment. "Yeah," you nod. "Everything is going to be okay and I'm going to be okay. I am okay, Jack. Promise. I love you."
Jack leans down and kisses you, lets it linger and rests his forehead against yours for a second after. "I love you too. Thank you," he murmurs against your lips. When he pulls back he holds his arm open for you. "I'll walk you to the break room."
You step into Jack's arm and let him pull back the curtain and open the door for you. He keeps his hand on your lower back as you walk toward the break room together. "You know, I'm surprised we did all of that without being interrupted," you hum.
"I owe Dana, I'm sure," Jack nods in agreement. His words are a little distracted though and you know it's not from everything going on around you. It's that anxiety peeking back through.
"You could fuck me on the kitchen table again tonight. That seemed to help ground you that one time," you muse with a little smirk. You guys have gotten to the point where you can joke a little about what happened and your reactions.
Jack huffs a laugh. You always know when he's struggling no matter how hard he tries to hide it. And you always know how to help him. "I'm not opposed to trying." He lets his hand slip down from your lower back to your ass and gives it the cheekiest squeeze before his hand is right back where it started. "I need to make up being a dick to you."
"What? With your dick?" You smirk up at him as you step by him to walk in the empty break room as he holds the door open for you.
"I was thinking more with my mouth," he smirks back at you. "And especially if you're going to be on the kitchen table for me. Might as well eat while I'm there, hm?"
You pull your lips down and shrug. "I certainly wouldn't protest."
"Yeah, I didn't think you would," Jack murmurs as he stops in front of you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulls you close. "Were you envisioning that before or after the kitchen table fucking?"
You laugh and shake your head at him. "I'll defer to your desire on that one Dr. Abbot," you murmur back.
Jack lets out a soft groan and screws his face up in mock pain. "Tease. I literally just got soft again right before we walked out."
"You love it," you giggle at him.
"More than you'll ever know, my dear," Jack agrees with a soft nod as he leans down and kisses you. "Find me if you need me and I'll do my best to get out on time."
"Okay," you nod, press your lips to his again for another sweet kiss. "Be safe."
"I will. You be safe too." Jack steals one last kiss from you and forces himself to step away from you and start walking to the door or he never will. "I'll come check on you in a bit." He pauses just before the door and looks at you. "Hey, you wanna grab dinner somewhere on the way home? Make a date out of this little mishap?"
You bite your lip and nod. There's something so adorable and loving and… Jack about the idea. "I'd love to. But if I get anything that requires cutting you're going to have to help me." You gesture to your numb forearm.
"Happily, Doll," Jack winks at you and your heart skips several beats you're pretty sure. He'll just always have that effect on you.
"Hey Peter?" Jack didn't say it explicitly, but you know exactly what his response to you talking about cutting your food meant even if he didn't truly realize what he was saying with it. Jack stops pulling the door open and turns back to you, raises his eyebrows in question. You smile at him. "I love you too."
🥹 I love them. I hope it was okay and that you enjoyed and it felt like them! I can't believe it's almost been a year since Part 1 was published. They're the reason that all my writing after their Part 1 exists, they got me back into writing and gave me the confidence to post. 🥺 Thank you so much for reading and for all of your support! ♥️ I love hearing your thoughts and comments! ♥️
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Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
Tags/Notes: established relationship, groveling and forgiveness, acts of service, nurse!reader, pregnant!reader, getting back together, ft. trinity as a menace and dennis as a cutie
Content: pregnancy, pregnant sex (fingering), shaving scene
A/N: im not good at math <3 sorry i haven't posted in three weeks lmao
Word Count: 14.3k
The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.
On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.
You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.
He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?
You didn’t answer.
You don’t plan to.
The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.
Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”
Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”
His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”
“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”
As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”
Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”
She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”
Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”
“Whatever you say, cap.”
The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.
In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”
She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”
He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”
The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.
—
It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.
You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”
“No worries, gorgeous.”
Your focus snaps.
Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”
Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”
You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”
He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”
You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”
“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”
“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”
Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”
You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”
Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”
Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.
“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”
Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.
Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”
“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”
He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”
“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”
Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”
You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”
It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.
He sends you texts. You don’t reply.
He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.
After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”
“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”
Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”
“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”
Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”
“But I’m not your girlfriend.”
“And thank god for that.”
“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”
“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”
“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”
“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”
“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”
“And you repaid her by leaving.”
Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”
“But she did.”
“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”
“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”
“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”
“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”
“Flatterer.”
“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”
Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”
“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”
At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.
When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”
His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”
Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”
“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”
“Not hostile, just professional.”
“You were definitely hostile.”
Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”
She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”
Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”
“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”
“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”
“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”
Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”
Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”
“At the door.”
Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”
Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”
“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”
Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”
“It’s ten thousand dollars.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”
Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”
You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”
“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”
“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my baby daddy drama.”
“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.
Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”
Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”
Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”
“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”
“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.
She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”
“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”
“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”
“And you’re not forgiving enough.”
You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”
“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”
Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”
“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”
With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.
I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life.
That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice.
But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that.
So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that.
It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please.
I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more.
And I promise I love you. Both of you.
I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it.
Love,
Sincerely,
Yours,
M.
All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.
Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”
Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”
Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”
You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”
Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”
You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.
In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.
In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.
I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.
Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I think you should let him grovel.”
Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”
“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your baby daddy. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”
“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”
“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”
“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”
You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”
“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”
“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”
“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”
“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”
Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”
“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”
You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”
And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.
Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.
Then.
After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”
“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”
“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”
Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”
Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”
Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”
“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”
The world tilts slightly.
Robby’s breath catches in his throat.
Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?
You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.
You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.
“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”
“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”
You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”
Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”
You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”
His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”
Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”
“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”
“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”
“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”
Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”
With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”
“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”
Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”
You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.
“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”
You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”
“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”
“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”
‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.
After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”
One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”
You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”
“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”
You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”
His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”
“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”
Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”
You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”
He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m 100% confident.”
“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”
That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”
“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”
Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”
“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”
Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”
“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”
He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”
Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.
Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.
With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.
Noted. Thanks for the tip.
Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.
I’m rooting for you.
If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.
Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.
Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.
“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”
“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”
With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”
Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”
“Kids. Plural.”
He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”
You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”
Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”
You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”
“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”
“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”
“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”
Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”
“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”
Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”
You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”
“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”
“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.
“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”
You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”
He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”
“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”
“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”
You tease, “Sounds horrible.”
“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”
Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”
“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”
“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”
Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.
…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…
After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”
Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”
Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”
“You were just talking to her.”
He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”
She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”
Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”
You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”
He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”
Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.
“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”
You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”
“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”
“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”
“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”
“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”
He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”
“Michael!”
“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”
“I will not hesitate to splash you.”
Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”
Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”
“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”
After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”
His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”
You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”
He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”
And you want to kiss him.
You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”
He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”
You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.
As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”
You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”
Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”
You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”
“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”
You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”
He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”
You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as he confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.
Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”
Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”
Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”
Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”
“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”
Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.
Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.
You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.
For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.
So you decide.
Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”
His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”
“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”
“What would it be, then?”
He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”
You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.
When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-
Woah, asshole.
Calm down.
He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.
All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”
When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint flutter aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes.
To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”
Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”
Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.
He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”
“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”
Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”
“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”
“You do?”
There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”
With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”
“See you soon, Michael.”
“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”
When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.
Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.
Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”
He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”
You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”
You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.
As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”
“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”
You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”
When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”
You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”
“God forbid.”
“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”
“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.
“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”
“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”
Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”
“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”
Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”
You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”
“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Good. As he should.”
Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”
“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”
Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”
“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.
Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”
Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”
You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”
You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”
He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”
The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”
And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.
Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”
You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”
“What? You don’t want a shower?”
“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”
Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.
Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.
She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”
“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”
“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”
Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”
“We’ll see.”
You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”
“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”
Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”
You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”
Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”
You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”
Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”
You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”
Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”
When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”
He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”
You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”
So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”
Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”
Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.
You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”
Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”
He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.
Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.
From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.
That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.
Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.
While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”
Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”
Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”
Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”
He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”
Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”
“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”
“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”
As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”
“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my ‘baby daddy’ or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”
Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”
“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”
“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”
A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”
“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”
“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”
“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”
“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”
Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.
“Rest of your life, huh?”
“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”
You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”
“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.
Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”
Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.
Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”
Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”
You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”
Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”
You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”
“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”
Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”
“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”
He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”
“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”
You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t play dirty with me.”
“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”
He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”
“Now who’s playing dirty?”
“I would never.”
Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.
God.
God.
Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.
Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”
“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”
“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”
You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?”
Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”
He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”
The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.
Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.
And you kiss him.
It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”
Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”
You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”
“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”
You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”
“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”
Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”
“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”
He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”
You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”
Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”
“I want a hot tub.”
“Okay.”
“And a soaking tub.”
“Okay.”
“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”
“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”
Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”
Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”
I'm trying out posting this without a taglist to see how it performs! So if you see it, please engage so I can get a sense of whether or not I need to keep my taglists going!
Summary: Pope shares a quiet moment with his new daughter.
Companion piece to:
Before You - Pope was in a dark place before he met you.
The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.
Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.
Made For You (NSFW) - Pope’s sexual encounters have always been paid for… until you.
The Gift - Andrew recieves an unexpected Christmas gift.
Compulsions - You realise something isn’t right in Pope’s world
The Octagon - Smurf decides to show you the real Pope Cody.
The Bathtub - After the fight at The Octagon Pope returns to the beach house to claim his prize, only to discover a change of plan.
Two Weeks - Two weeks is too long for Pope to go without you.
The Skatepark - Pope reacts badly when you try to share your feelings.
Wild Boys - Pope gets a phone call he doesn’t expect in the middle of the night.
Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.
Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.
Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.
Everything - Pope's family life clashes with your time together.
Positive - Pope didn't expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.
Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.
Misery (feat: Baz Cody) - Baz starts to notice there’s something wrong with Pope.
The Gruffalo - Pope finally lays eyes on you for the first time in months.
Kill The Queen - Pope tries to come to terms with Smurf’s death.
Night Thoughts - You and Pope discuss your fears about becoming a parent.
Existential (NSFW) - You and Pope have another first in the aftermath of Smurf’s death.
Today (NSFW) - You and Pope both wake up excited for the day ahead.
Freya - There’s a reason that the wedding has to happen before the birth of your daughter.
Freya Halliwell is the best thing that Andrew Pope has ever done with his life. He thinks this as he sits in the nursing chair beside her crib, holding her close against his bare chest. His daughter is nestled into him, her tiny fist curled up over the freckles that spatter his flesh. His lips brush over the light dusting of auburn hair on her head, a shade redder than his own. She’ll have curls when she’s a toddler, ones just like his.
“But you have eyes just like mommy.” He tells Freya as she snoozes, watching her lips purse together. “You’ll have the best parts of the both of us and you’ll grow up happy, being whatever you want to be.”
He believes that, truly he does. His baby will have the life the two of you didn’t, she won’t have to fight and scratch and claw her way through her childhood the way that you both did.
There’s a dull click from the doorway and he looks up to see you holding up your phone taking a picture.
“Sorry.” You say with a hapless smile on your face. “I couldn’t help it.”
“No, it’s good.” He finds himself saying, his head resting on the back of the chair as he rocks it gently, “I don’t want to forget a single moment with her either.”
“It is a great one.” You say, tilting the phone screen for him to see.
He almost doesn’t recognise the man in the picture. The expression of tenderness in his face the softness of his features as looks down at his little girl. He was never allowed to be any of things when Smurf was in the picture. In every family photograph of the Codys, his face is a grimace. His shoulders bunched up, muscles coiled, ready to spring. He’d been the attack dog, the one they kept on the margins because of the feral look in his eyes. Seeing his image, he realises he’s looking at the real him, the man underneath the trauma, the father he aspires to be for his daughter.
“Can we frame that one?” He asks you softly. “I…”
He trails off but you understand what he’s unable to say. He likes who he is in that picture, he likes the future it represents in the face of the past he’s trying so hard to leave behind.
“Of course.” You say, slipping your phone into the pocket of your robe. “We’ll put it pride of place on the mantlepiece beside her sonogram.”
The baby starts to grumble, her lips smacking together as she turns her face into his chest, searching. “I think she’s rooting.” He tells you, raising to his feet so that you can take the nursing chair. “I guess that means she’s hungry.”
You sit down in his vacated spot, rearranging your robe before he carefully hands Freya over to you. She latches almost immediately, and Pope draws away so he can pull on the shirt he’s slung over the side of the crib.
“Still happy with your little family?” You ask him, shifting so that Freya sits more comfortably in the crook of your arm.
He’s not the only one that needs reassurance, he forgets that sometimes. The road that led to Freya, it’s been fraught but the two of you are the most precious things in his life and he wouldn’t change that, not for anything in this world.
“Yes.” He says gently, crouching down beside the chair, nuzzling his cheek against yours as he watches his daughter feed. “I’ve never been happier than in this moment, right now.”
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Summary: After a long week, you come home to Jack Abbot, rainy weather, greasy pizza, and a true crime case you’re determined to solve before the documentary does.
It’s a Friday night, and the moment the front door closes behind you, relief settles into your bones.
The week falls off your shoulders as soon as your inside. The rain tapping against the windows sounds softer here, muted by warmth and familiar walls. Living room glowing with lamplight instead of the dreaded big light, shadows gentle and lived-in.
The air smells clean and comforting, something savory underneath. Your stomach twists, half hunger and half gratitude.
Home. Finally.
You drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes.
That’s when you notice, Jack is already home.
Shirtless, of course. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, hair still damp like he showered and did not bother drying this curly mop. He is leaning against the kitchen counter, beer in hand, looking entirely at ease, like this is exactly where he is meant to be.
You stop short, exhaustion momentarily overridden by appreciation.
“Ooo,” you start, slow and shameless, eyes dragging over him. “Handsome. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Jack snorts. “Please. You wish I got dressed up for you.”
Stepping closer, grin sharp and teasing, you continue: “Feels like you’re trying to seduce me.”
He lifts his brows and does the most exaggerated, stupid little wiggle with them. “Baby, I’m always trying to seduce you.”
You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head, and that is all the opening he needs.
Jack closes the distance in two easy steps, arms wrapping around you like it is muscle memory. He tucks you against his chest, warm and solid, presses a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your hairline. He lingers there, breathing you in like he has nowhere else to be.
“How was your day?” he asks quietly.
You exhale into him, shoulders sagging. “You ever put your dick in a cheese grater?”
He pulls back just enough to look down at you, eyes wide. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
Jack nods, solemn and entirely unhelpful. “Awesome. Love that for you.”
You swat at his side, but you’re smiling, tension easing just a little. He catches your wrist easily, fingers warm around yours.
“Go shower,” he says, gentle but firm. “I set out comfy clothes for you in the bathroom. And I put a towel in the warmer.”
You squint at him. “Not you trying to incentivize me showering.”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m a problem-solver.”
Leaning back, sniffing exaggeratedly. “Do I smell that bad?”
Jack does not hesitate. “Truly the smelliest you’ve ever been. A record, honestly.”
Your mouth falls open. “Rude.”
“Love you. Mean it,” he adds cheerfully, already steering you toward the hallway. “Off you go, baby. Time’s a-wasting.”
You twist to glare at him over your shoulder. “You are such an ass.”
“And I love yours,” he calls after you. “Don’t forget behind the ears.”
You flip him off affectionately and disappear down the hall, laughter echoing faintly before the bathroom door shuts and the shower starts.
Jack lingers in the kitchen, listening to the rain, the water running, and then he smiles to himself and turns back toward the living room, already setting the rest of the night into motion.
He sets his beer down and grabs the flowers he picked up on the way home. Nothing flashy. Just something he saw and thought of you. He fills a vase at the sink, trims the stems, and places them on the coffee table where you’ll notice immediately and pretend you didn’t.
Then he opens the fridge.
Your beer comes first, one of his fancy ones, that you swear you don’t like but finish every time. He twists the cap off and sets it within easy reach. Next, is Diet Coke. He pauses, reaches for one of those weird powdered lime packets you swear makes a difference, pours it in, gives it a gentle swirl.
“My diva,” he mutters, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s doing this.
Your oversized water bottle is next. He dumps the old ice and refills it properly. Fresh ice, filled to the top, water cold enough to make the bottle sweat. He screws the lid on tight. Room-temperature water should be a crime, and he loves you too much for that.
From the pantry, he grabs the jar of pepperochinis and pours a few into your favorite little heart-shaped bowl, juice and all. He sets it beside the pizza box like it belongs there.
The pizza itself lands on the coffee table with a soft thud. Greasy, perfect, folded just enough to keep the heat in. Napkins follow, crooked and unnecessary.
He grabs your favorite blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over his side like bait. Then he turns the fan on low. Strategic. If you get cold, you’ll be in his lap in ten minutes flat.
Jack pauses by the hallway mirror, sprays a little cologne at his neck, then, because he is who he is, adds another spritz lower.
“For morale,” he murmurs.
He flops onto the couch, stretches out, sets the remote neatly on the table, and deliberately doesn’t turn anything on yet. It’s your turn to pick and honestly, he couldn’t care less what you're watching as long as he gets to spend time with you.
The shower cuts off.
A moment later, you reappear in the doorway, hair damp, skin clean, wrapped in his T-shirt like it belongs to you. Bare legs, soft and shiny. His favorite girl.
You slow when you take in the living room.
The setup. The drinks. The blanket. The flowers.
You look at him, brows lifting, something warm flickering across your face.
“Jack,” you say, half amused, half undone. “What’s all this?”
He glances at the table, then back at you, expression easy but fond in that way that always sneaks up on you.
“Long week,” he says gently. “I figured you deserved to come home to something easy.”
And the way you smile at him makes every stupid, thoughtful detail worth it.
You don’t say anything right away.
You just cross the room and climb onto the couch like it’s yours. Which it is. You tuck yourself into Jack’s side without asking, legs folding under you, immediately stealing the blanket he very intentionally set up for you. The fan hits your still-damp skin and you shiver on purpose.
Jack watches you do it like he saw this coming from a mile away.
“Cold already?” he asks, smug.
“Mind your business,” you mumble, reaching for your beer.
He shifts easily, arm sliding around you, pulling you closer until your back fits against his chest like it was designed that way. He grabs the remote with his free hand and clicks the TV on, scrolling through options without much commitment.
He glances down at you. “So what’s the plan tonight? Are we helping the criminals or catching them?”
You crane your neck to look at the screen. “Depends. How incompetent are our criminals?”
He huffs a laugh. “Ah. So we’re judging.”
“I’ve had a day.”
He scrolls. Pauses. Scrolls again. A true crime documentary pops up, the narrator already halfway through something ominous and overly serious.
You squint at the screen. “Haven’t we already seen this one?”
Jack shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the one where you decided the husband was guilty based purely on vibes.”
“I wasn’t wrong,” you say. “I just beat the detectives to putting two and two together.”
He huffs a laugh. “You accused a man because he rehomed her dog and cleaned out her closet.”
You don’t even hesitate. “That is unhinged behavior.”
Jack tilts his head, considering. “Okay. The dog thing is bad.”
“And the closet?” you press.
“That’s worse,” he admits. “Still not technically probable cause.”
You settle back against him, smug. “The jury is out.”
He clicks play anyway and drops the remote back onto the table.
The voices on the TV fade into background noise almost immediately, rain tapping against the windows underneath it.
You take a sip of your beer, then sigh.
“Okay,” you say, eyes still on the screen. “So Jenna texted me again.”
Jack hums. “That tone tells me this is not a fun update.”
“She keeps telling her boyfriend she wants him to plan something. Just once. Like, pick a place, make a decision, show up with a thought in his head.” You shake your head. “And he keeps acting like she’s asking him to move mountains.”
Jack’s arm tightens slightly around you. “Let me guess. He says he’s ‘not good at that stuff.’”
“Bingo.”
“Fascinating,” Jack says dryly. “A man incapable of planning dinner but somehow fully able to draft an entire fantasy football league.”
You snort, then sigh again. “I just feel bad for her. She’s venting, and I want to be supportive, but every time she talks about it I think about all the little things you do. And it feels like if I say anything, I’m rubbing it in her face.”
Jack presses his chin lightly to the top of your head. “Yeah. Probably best not to open with that.”
“Exactly.” You shift closer. “It’s just… not a good situation.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, then adds lightly, “You just have it too good, huh.”
You smile, knowing he’s teasing. “I know. Whatever will I do, not having to beg for the bare minimum.” You sigh dramatically. “Woe is me.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “Tragic.”
“But it does make me extra appreciative,” you add, softer now. “Of my old man.”
Jack goes still.
“Your what?”
You grin. “My old man.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. “I am not old.”
“Spiritually?” you offer sweetly. “A little.”
He scoffs, then his mouth curves into something familiar and dangerous. “Extra appreciative, huh?” His brows wiggle. “How much appreciation are we talking?”
You laugh and shove his chest. “Not happening, playboy.”
“We have adequate coverage,” he protests.
“We have cases to solve,” you say, already reaching for a slice of pizza. “And I’m starving.”
Jack settles back against the couch, arm firm around you. “Blue-balling a public servant.”
You steal a pepperochini and grin. “You’ll live.”
He presses a kiss to your temple anyway. “Unfortunately for you, I always do.”
The episode fades out, and before the autoplay countdown can finish, Jack clicks it away.
“Nope,” he says. “New case.”
You tilt your head to look at him. “Why? Afraid I’m about to be vindicated?”
“I’m protecting my peace,” he replies, already scrolling.
A different documentary pops up. Different city. Different year. Grainy surveillance footage. Somber music.
It runs for a while before either of you says anything.
Twelve minutes, maybe more. Long enough for timelines to be laid out, names introduced, grainy footage replayed twice.
Jack leans forward slightly, elbow on his knee. You’re half-curled against him, absently picking at the edge of the pizza box, listening more than watching.
Then you straighten.
“Pause it.”
Jack doesn’t argue this time. He clicks the remote.
“What.”
You point at the screen. “Rewind ten seconds.”
He does, eyes flicking between the TV and you.
“Look at his body language,” you say. “When he has to say her name.”
The clip plays. The man on screen hesitates, swallows, looks away for half a beat before speaking.
“Guilty,” you say flatly.
Jack hums, considering. “Maybe. Or uncomfortable.”
“No,” you say. “That’s ownership avoidance.”
He tilts his head. “You’ve been reading psychology again.”
“And you’ve been teaching me to watch people,” you shoot back.
Jack sighs but rewinds it again. Watches closer this time.
“…Okay,” he admits. “That’s not nothing.”
“But,” he adds, because of course he does, “what about the alibi?”
You don’t hesitate. “It’s bullshit.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “Strong claim.”
“He changes details every time he tells it,” you say. “Different time. Different phrasing. And he over-explains.”
Jack nods slowly. “Over-explaining is usually cover.”
“Exactly.”
“But,” he says, pointing, “the phone records still put him across town.”
“Or his phone was,” you counter. “Doesn’t mean he was.”
Jack looks at you, a little impressed despite himself. “You’re enjoying this.”
“You taught me this,” you remind him lightly. “Instinct first. Then facts.”
He exhales. “I said instinct informs the facts.”
“And I informed them,” you say sweetly.
He snorts. “We’re not breaking the rules.”
You glance up at him. “Thought we didn’t follow the rules, partner?”
Jack shakes his head, amused and resigned. “I created a monster.”
“You created a competent investigator.”
“Debatable.”
You settle back against him, smug. “Admit it. I’m not wrong.”
He watches the screen for another second, then clicks play. “You’re… not wrong yet.”
You smile. Victory adjacent.
The case continues, rain steady outside, pizza cooling between you, both of you already five steps ahead of the documentary.
The documentary keeps going, the narrator laying out facts you’ve already clocked.
You don’t even say anything when the alibi starts to unravel. You just shift slightly, eyes narrowing, listening. Jack notices anyway. He always does.
“Okay,” he murmurs, leaning forward. “They’re circling it now.”
“Mm,” you say. “Told you.”
He shoots you a look. “You did not.”
You tilt your head. “I absolutely did.”
Jack rewinds ten seconds, watching closely as the expert on screen points out the inconsistency. The phone records don’t line up with the security footage. The timestamps overlap in a way they shouldn’t.
“…Shit,” Jack mutters.
You smile, small and contained. No gloating. Just quiet satisfaction.
The documentary keeps pace, catching up to you instead of surprising you. Jack crosses his arms, thinking, then uncrosses them, tapping his fingers against his knee.
“The dog,” he says suddenly. “They’re going to come back to the dog.”
“They always do,” you reply. “People don’t rehome pets in the middle of a crisis unless they’re detaching.”
Jack exhales slowly. “God, that’s bleak.”
“Also accurate.”
A few minutes later, the narrator confirms it. The cleared closet. The sudden attempts at erasure. Behavioral red flags dressed up as practicality.
Jack leans back, defeated but impressed. “I hate that you saw it first.”
You glance up at him. “You taught me how.”
He smiles at that, soft and genuine, then shakes his head. “Still.”
The case wraps itself up neatly after that. Arrest made. Confession implied. Credits roll.
Jack clicks the volume down before the next episode can start.
Neither of you reaches for the remote.
You sink back into him, tension gone, the earlier sharpness replaced by something heavier and calmer. He adjusts the blanket without looking, tucking it around you, arm settling across your waist.
Rain taps steadily against the windows.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“Long week,” he murmurs, like it’s a shared truth instead of an observation.
You smile faintly. “You made it better.”
Jack doesn’t say anything right away. His fingers slide into your hair, slow and familiar, gently combing through damp strands like he’s done it a hundred times before. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, lingering.
“My pretty girl,” he says quietly, not teasing, just certain.
You hum, eyes drifting closed.
“We’re both off until Monday,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “No alarms. No rushing.”
Your shoulders relax even more at that, your body sinking fully into his. “That sounds illegal.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Jack presses another kiss to your temple, lingering.
“Get some sleep, trouble,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from the long week. “We’ve got until Monday to pretend the world doesn’t exist.”
You know those days where you’re ready to go back to bed? Where the second you get home, you get into pajamas and crawl into bed and just pass out?
Today felt like that.
Y/N came home to find Jack lying on the couch, sleeping soundly. His lips parted a bit as he breathed softly. Gizmo laid on top of one couch pillows, while Elouise slept on the other.
She smiled at the fact everyone was on the same page.
Gizmo’s eyes met hers and he jumped off the couch to greet her. She bent down and scratched her baby boy.
“We’re going to sleep in a minute,” she whispered.
She went into the bedroom and changed into one of Jack’s shirts and some sleep shorts.
She headed back into living room, Gizmo trotting back to his old spot. Y/N crawled on top of Jack. He groaned awake, eyes fluttering to see Y/N nestling her head on his chest. He smiled and threw his left arm around her protectively.
“Did I wake you?” she whispered.
“You did, but it’s ok,” he reassured, a sleepy rasp in his voice.
He kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes again, his hand rubbing her back.
Y/N closed her eyes too and began to drift asleep.
=============================
I came home after work and passed out after dinner. Last night was long AF.
the earth from a distance
work in progress, #mohabbotmonday
The invitation comes less than a week after she commits to PTMC’s emergency medicine toxicology fellowship.
It is, at least at first, an invitation for dinner with one of her favorite med school professors. Naima Bratton is one of Adamson’s oldest acolytes—one generation older than Robby, whose health was compromised by multiple bouts of covid, who found herself semi-retired by the end of the first year of the pandemic. Dr. Bratton had taught Samira’s capstone course, and served as her faculty advisor for the first iteration of her research into racial disparities in emergency care as an MS3.
Which is to say: Samira Mohan trusts Naima Bratton implicitly.
“Where are we going?” she asks anyway, looking at the window of their Uber. She hadn’t been paying attention to the screen when Dr. Bratton ordered the car, and now after ten minutes in a luxury sedan speeding towards downtown, she wishes she had looked.
“Believe me, dear,” she replies, eyes sparkling. “You will receive satisfactory answers to your questions shortly.”
“But in the meantime…”
Her long, elegant fingers delve into her worn leather Birkin bag and extract a thick, tri-folded ream of paper. “In the meantime, I’m going to need you to sign this NDA.”
Samira’s eyes widen.
“An NDA?”
Dr. Bratton smirks, her lips shaping into something that is both coy and playful. “Why, do you need your lawyer to take a look at it before you sign?”
“We both know I don’t have a lawyer,” Samira says, taking the printed agreement into her hands so that Dr. Bratton can locate a pen. “I barely have a car, most days. It stalls out at the bottom of Mount Washington when the temperature falls below freezing.”
“But in a month, you’ll be making a fellow’s salary,” she consoles her.
Sighing, Samira allows her eyes to scan the words on the page, printed in tight, ten point Times New Roman. The paper is heavy, the ink lifts off the page, creating a slight ridge. It speaks to money. She’s signed NDA’s before, always in the course of participating in a research study. Never in the pursuit of… whatever this is.
Curious, she signs her name at the bottom of the fourth page.
“That’s a good girl,” Dr. Bratton says, folding the contract back into thirds and then sliding it back into her purse. “It’ll be worth it.”
“So… can you tell me where we’re going now?” Samira asks, clenching her hands into her black cocktail dress. On her feet are low, sensible heels; she’d been invited to meet her old advisor at an upscale restaurant, and despite the ache in her arches, wanted to look like she belonged there.
Despite her eagerness to please an old authority figure, she cannot help her response to what she’s asked next.
“Have you ever belonged to a secret society before, Samira?”
She almost chokes. “Um, no. I have not.”
“Congratulations!” she continues, undeterred. One of her hands comes down to rest gently over Samira’s, now digging hard into the meat of her own thigh. “You do now. At least for the evening. We’re not a cult—”
“Which is what every cult member says,” she scoffs.
“So if you decide it’s not for you, you are free to leave and never return. But I think you’ll enjoy yourself. I think you’ll find our little organization to be… useful to you. Most of our members do.”
“Members of what, exactly?”
“The Brotherhood of Auctoritas,” Dr. Bratton says brightly. “Not exclusive to brothers anymore, but of course no one can agree on a name change.”
“Auctoritas?” Samira asks, pretending as though her head isn’t spinning. If their driver was going any faster on 329, her stomach would dictate that she upend her dinner into a plastic bag. “I’m going to need some help there, that’s not a term taught in medical latin you took my phone so I can’t—”
“Auctoritas is a concept from ancient Rome,” she answers, cracking the windows an inch on either side of the back seats to allow an inflow of air. Samira wonders what expression she’s wearing on her face. “It signifies a person's moral and social influence, prestige, and power. Built on wisdom, experience, and virtue, it commands respect and supposes the ability to provide guidance. It differs from formal legal power by being persuasive rather than coercive. It represents advice from a respected, difficult to ignore source.”
“So this secret society is for… influential people? Powerful people?”
“Yes, but not in the way that you think.”
“Right,” Samira says, a shot of air gusting out through her nose.
Dr. Bratton laughs, congenial. Still holding onto Samira’s hand with her left, she types out a text message to someone with her right. “It’ll make more sense in a few minutes. We’re almost there.”
Within thirty minutes of her arrival to an old, pre-war building nestled near billionaire’s row in Shadyside, Samira feels more or less like a show pony. She’s grateful that she did not heed her post-shift instinct to just throw her hair up onto her head and forgo makeup entirely, writing off the little voice nagging in the back of her head as overwrought. Dr. Bratton doesn’t care what she looks like, she told herself.
And sure, that much is true.
She has been introduced to physicists and philanthropists and archeologists and politicians. She has little to no hope of remembering every face she has seen, let alone their names. At the Pitt, she only needs to remember a patient’s details for as long as they’re under her care. Here, in a dark, gilded apartment that looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since the 1920s, she feels hopeless.
Until, at last, she spots a familiar visage.
“Dr. Abbot!” she exclaims.
And then wonders if she’s ever seen him not in scrubs or tactical pants. Unlikely; regardless, she’s certainly never seen him dressed as he is now, in dark well-tailored trousers and what looks to be a burgundy cashmere sweater pulled tight over his broad shoulders.
“Glad you could join us,” he greets her, seemingly unsurprised by her appearance. “But here, you can just call me Jack.”
And then, he does something he certainly never has before—holds out his arm for her to tuck into. In her heels, the difference in height between them is negligible. Still, it’s a comfort to press herself against him, to allow him to ground her nerves against his musculature, to permit her spine to slacken as his hand smooths down her back from the hollow between her shoulderblades to her lumbar.
“So everyone here is a rule breaker, in one way or another,” she muses, eyes flickering between Abbot and Dr. Bratton.
“But on the side of good,” he answers, lips hovering over the rim of a cut crystal rocks glass. “I told Naima about your little stunt with the EZ-IO burr hole. But what really impressed her was your dedication in subverting Robby’s orders when indicated.”
“And your little stunt with the pigtail catheter aspiration?” she counters.
Chuffing a fond laugh, he rubs his thumb over the curve at her waist. “It was your hands on the catheter, Mohan. I’d argue that was your little stunt as well.”
“Samira.”
If she’s going to call him Jack, he must call her Samira.
“Samira,” he says as if tasting her name, and then nods. He takes a swallow of liquor from his glass—bourbon, she guesses, from previous discussions deep into the hours of the night shift. “Can I show you around? Or is your dance card full?”
He looks at Dr. Bratton, eyes questioning.
“Be my guest,” she says, waving them off. “Make sure to show her to the open bar, too. Poor thing didn’t know what to do when I pulled out the standard nondisclosure.”
“No one knows what to do,” Jack mutters under his breath, purposefully near Samira’s ear. “They run this shit tighter than the fucking military. Now, come on. You look like you need something that’s gonna burn on the way down.”
Giving the dark, gleaming room one last look, Samira nods.
Synopsis: A very depressed and single Dr. Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch stumbles across a sugar daddy website while browsing the internet. While ignoring friends and loved ones' concerns on his well-being, Robby decides to unburden himself from his loneliness by caving and finding a sugar baby for...companionship. As it tends to happen when lines are blurred, things complicate as the arrangement becomes less transactional and much more intimate than Robby could have anticipated.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Prologue...posted.ᐟ.ᐟ
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Show me how (you care)...coming soon.ᐟ.ᐟ
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Tell me how (you loved before)...coming soon.ᐟ.ᐟ
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Show me how (you smile)...coming soon.ᐟ.ᐟ
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Tell me why (your hands are cold)...coming soon.ᐟ.ᐟ
Series Summary: After a brutal gang rape, your lifelong best friend Andrew Cody helps you get vengeance by tracking down and killing the perpetrators.
Chapter Summary: You and Pope begin the process of hunting down your attackers, starting with the easiest to find. In the aftermath, you discover that Pope is being over-medicated by his mother, essentially stripping him of his alpha nature.
Tags/Notes: alpha!pope, omega!reader, established friendship, pope in his slutty little cop outfit for fan service, reader gets a taste for violence
Content: rape revenge, um stalking i suppose, on-screen descriptive murder with a blade, tw blond adult man, smurf being abusive discussed, medical child abuse/neglect, forced medication
A/N: forgot how much i loved writing murda i fear
Word Count: 5.0k
“Let’s start with the two who didn’t wear masks,” Pope suggests as he sits next to you on the couch with his laptop open on his meaty thighs. “That’ll be a hell of a lot easier if they were caught on camera anywhere in the area. If these aren’t career guys, they might not’ve thought about things like that. We’ll get good info either way.”
You nod tentatively and open up Pope’s notebook, where you’ve been keeping any scribbled details you can remember, no matter how insignificant they seem. With a heavy sigh, you open up a center page and glance over it. “Blondie’s up first, then.”
You hand over the page and he scans the notes. Blond. Average height. Thin. His eyes move rapidly as they try to pick out anything that might be worth going on. When he finds something, his eyebrows go up and he looks at you intently. “You wrote ‘menthol cigarettes.’ Was he smoking and you smelled it? Did you see the package?"
You nod slowly and avert eye contact so you can focus back on the memory, dark and clear. “When I was still on the ground, he took out a pack of cigarettes to smoke one. My eyes were shut while I pretended to be passed out, but I kept track of their movements until they left. It was a brand new pack – he had to unwrap it. I remember the crinkling plasticky sound. Then I could smell the smoke, too, for a few minutes, because the air was so stale in the alley. Definitely menthols.”
It’s a perfect detail, the kind you need; Pope gives your bruised hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s good, pup. Only a couple shops around here will still risk the fine to sell menthols under the table. If they were new, he probably bought them at one of those places pretty soon before.” He shakes his head and scoffs, “First time I’ve been a fan of that legislation.”
With hope that makes Pope rumble slightly in your voice, you ask, “You know some places already?”
“A couple,” he confirms, shutting his laptop. “Let me call Craig; he’ll be able to give me more. Get yourself ready to go. Try to look…sympathetic, I guess.”
You dress yourself in a pair of light jeans and a blank white tee because you don’t know what ‘sympathetic’ looks like and neither does Pope. You skip the makeup; maybe seeming as tired as you are will help the cause.
While you collect your things, Pope emerges from his room in his navy blue cop uniform. It’s not a costume because you know he stole it from a real precinct years ago. Since then, his muscles have filled out, the fabric taut around his biceps and thighs. He looks fiercely protective and strong. Stopping you from ogling too long (at the end of the day, your instinctual omega brain demands you appreciate a well-chiseled alpha), he taps the name plate and tells you in a low voice, “Officer Charleston while we’re out today, alright? The acting is 90% of the work to get us in the back of these places without a warrant or, y’know, other methods. I’d prefer not to take out a gun if I don’t have to.”
You snicker, “Sure thing, Officer Cute Butt.”
Pope huffs and tries not to let his face heat up. Leading you out of the house and into his preferred undercover vehicle, he mutters, “Charleston.”
Andrew takes you back toward the part of Oceanside where you were attacked, near your work. Your skin crawls even being near the alley intersection, heart speeding up and palms sweating. He must be able to tell because he rests one hand, firm and comforting, on your thigh. The simple touch grounds you in reality.
The two of you start with the closest shops to the intersection and work your way out. The first two are dead ends; one has no security cameras and the other reluctantly scrubs through the night’s tape with no positive identifications.
Pope walks you into the third gas station the same way he did the first two, keeping you just in front of him and holding one hand on his belt with that dumb bow-legged walk cops do to assert dominance. He walks up to the register, gets the attention of the older man behind the glass, and asks, “Are you the owner?”
The guy visibly stiffens at the sight of Pope’s uniform, which you know is a good sign. With darting eyes, he asks, “Something I can help you with?”
“Mind coming out here and joining me for a discussion?” The owner nods shakily and scrambles out from behind the counter. Andrew keeps his posture strong and commanding as he says, “Morning, sir, Officer Charleston from the Oceanside Police. Investigations Department. What’s your name?”
“Stanton. Ah, Arvin Stanton.”
“Good to meet you Mr. Stanton.” He extends his hand and the owner nervously shakes it. Keeping it vague to rattle the man’s nerves, Pope goes on, “I believe you might be able to assist me with one of my ongoing cases.”
You can see him flipping through the rolodex of petty crimes he commits on a daily basis behind his brown eyes. He swallows hard, shoves his hands in his pocket, and asks, “What- what kind of case?”
“There was a multiple-alpha rape against an unarmed omega a couple blocks from here recently and we have reason to believe one of the perpetrators may have been patronizing your establishment in the hours prior to the assault. I’d like to go through the security tapes with the victim to attempt a positive identification.”
The store owner glances down at his shoes. “Do you, ah, do you have a warrant for those tapes?”
“If I have to get a warrant, then I’d be obligated to investigate any potential illegal activity or suspicious persons on the tapes.” Pope leans forward, narrows his eyes, and lowers his voice. “I’m not particularly interested in wasting my time chasing down a bunch of fines for low-level non-drug trafficking charges when there are a bunch of dangerous alphas on the loose.”
The owner looks between the two of you, measuring carefully and weighing his options. He slowly asks, “So if you did see something like that on the tapes…?”
“My priority here is finding the assailant,” Andrew assures, “and any assistance on your end may help the OPD, ah, look the other way on what he may or may not have been purchasing from you that night. Selling menthols under the table isn’t exactly running a cartel, you know what I mean?”
Mr. Stanton gives a relieved, scoffing sort of laugh. He nods once, quick and sharp, and then spares a look at you over Pope’s shoulder. “She’s the victim?”
As you avert your eyes from the bile-inducing shame you wish didn’t rise, Pope confirms softly, “That’s right. See all those bites on her arms? She’s unbonded; they’re all from the attack. She was just on her way home from work. And you might be able to help us catch one of the guys who hurt her. We can stop him from doing it again to omegas in this neighborhood. That means something.”
Mr. Stanton finally straightens up. “Come on; all the security equipment’s in the back. I’ll show you.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Stanton.”
Once his back is turned and all of you are headed through the convenience store, Pope gives your hand a quick, affirming squeeze that helps loosen the knot in your stomach a tiny bit. In the back office, Stanton sits behind a desk with an old computer monitor displaying four surprisingly crisp feeds of the store. He mutters, “Just had the system updated this year; glad it’ll get some use. What night should I be looking at?”
“July sixteenth,” Pope replies curtly. You’re frozen next to him, hands balled into fists as you try not to cry. “Start in the early afternoon and go from there. We’re looking for a blond man. Long hair. Average height. Thin.”
Stanton turns around and gives Andrew a wide-eyed look.
Recognition.
“I think- I think I might know who you’re looking for.” He goes back to the computer and scrubs quickly through the minutes until he reaches a bit after five pm. Two hours before your shift ended. Then he keys through slower, hunting for the exact minute. “I remember thinking he was…I don’t know. Flighty? Just kind of nervous in general. Shaky hands. Kept checking his phone. I figured it was just that he knew he was breaking the law buying the smokes.”
A man matching the description walks into frame and takes a few stilted steps toward Stanton, his posture incredibly uncomfortable, checking around like he’s expecting someone to grab him at any moment. He wears a brown Carhartt jacket despite the weather and a baseball cap that conceals his face – until he turns toward the security camera right above the register.
Your breathing stills and your body goes rigid. Sudden, heavy, thick omega distress ripples off of you and fills the small space. Your lungs tighten up. Stanton excuses himself gruffly from the small room and closes the door behind himself to get away from you; the smell is too intense even for a beta to tolerate. People throughout the store are probably wondering what’s going on.
Andrew switches to breathing through his mouth and digs his fingers into the desk hard enough to splinter the plasticky top. Even through the meds, the acuteness of your smell has him snarling under his breath. He pauses the footage and looks over his shoulder at you. Voice strangled, he points at the grainy picture on the screen and confirms what he already knows, “Him?”
Your voice is tiny, more like a mouse’s squeak, as you confirm, “That’s him. Number one.”
Pope takes screenshots, uploads them to his phone, and then shuts the system down so you don’t have to look anymore. He stands, tugs you into his chest, and slows his breathing to try to guide you back toward calm. You tuck beneath his chest and whimper, nosing up into his scent gland for instinctive comfort.
“You’re okay, pup.” He kisses the top of your head as he feels you start to shake. It's not exactly his specialty, but he tries to think comforting thoughts to even out his scent for your benefit. “You’re safe with me. I’ve got you.”
It takes a few minutes, but your body stabilizes. Your lungs fill and empty on the right schedule. Your goosebumps flatten back out. Andrew lets go of you slowly, releasing the pressure gradually so you don’t feel like you’ve been thrown out of orbit from the safety of his weighted blanket arms and torso.
You stay squarely behind Andrew as he takes you back out into the store. Mr. Stanton is back at the register, helping someone at the checkout, and he gives Pope a ‘wait a second’ gesture as he does. Once he’s done the transaction, he waves the two of you over and hands off a post-it note. “I wrote down everything I could think of about the guy. I wish I could do more, but without credit card records and ID checks, there’s only so much I get.”
Andrew takes the paper and has to suppress a smile. He has exactly what he’ll need.
Stanton gives you a tight smile and tells you both, “Now Officer Charleston, miss, if it’s all the same to you, having the OPD hanging around my store isn’t very…”
Pope raises a hand. “Understood. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Stanton. Have a good day.”
“You too. Hope you find the guy. My daughter’s an omega; I hate knowing there are fuckers like that roaming around the same streets as her.”
Pope reaches into his pocket and takes out a business card. You had no idea he had fake business cards to go along with his fake identities. It almost makes you roll your eyes. He hands it over to Stanton and says, “If she ever has any trouble like that, give me a call. I’ll take care of it personally. For your help.”
Stanton gives an earnest thanks and returns to his work.
Andrew leads you outside with one hand on the small of your back, his protective instincts too activated to avoid ensuring your safety in whatever small way he can. As he guides you into the passenger car of the sleek black SUV he uses for work like this, you ask, “You make house calls for random omegas who might need a hit man?”
He shrugs and gives you a conspiratorial sort of smile. “Never a bad day to kill a rapist.”
It takes Pope less than an hour to track down blondie with the information Stanton put on the post-it note: Namely, a Venmo handle. It’s almost embarrassingly easy; you sort of wish it felt more like a spy movie and less like just Googling a username and getting three different social media accounts with the same handle.
“Tyson Brennan,” Pope says as he turns his phone to you, showing an Instagram profile that definitely belongs to a guy local to Oceanside. You take it in your shaky hand and scroll while Pope narrates his findings: “28, typical asshole, no job I can find, surfs a lot of the same beaches as Deran and Adrian.”
Staring at the top of the account, you whisper, “You have a mutual friend.”
Pope huffs in annoyance, “Craig. Dumbass. This Tyson guy’s probably into illegal shit a lot stronger than menthols.” He shakes his head and brushes your cheek tenderly. “My world is too small for comfort sometimes.”
“Does that mean he’ll recognize you when we grab him?”
Pope shrugs, but the intensity doesn’t fade from his taut expression. “Maybe. Doesn’t change anything.”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble with your family over me.”
“In trouble?” He raises an eyebrow and chuckles, “Craig follows about six thousand people on Instagram. If they were close or he was, y’know, a family friend, I would’ve recognized him.” Then, quieter, almost nervous, he adds, more of a promise than anything, “Nothing’s going to stop me from doing this for you. Not my family. Not anything.”
In the passenger seat of Andrew’s Jeep, you bounce your knee as he parks in an alley next to a bar in an iffy part of town. He cuts the engine and kills the headlights, plunging you both into near total darkness, only a flickering lamp hanging over the staff exit coaxing any dimness from the shadows.
“He’ll be out any minute now,” Pope murmurs. He turns to you and checks one last time, “Are you sure about this?”
Your voice is breathless, but you’re still certain. “Yes.”
He cups your face in one nitrile-gloved hand. “Are you scared?”
“Yes,” you reply, “but I’m ready.”
“Then let’s do this.” Pope unzips his, well, murder kit and hands you a capped syringe of something clear and menacing. “I’ll get him on his knees, then you stab this in any major muscle, push hard and fast, and he’ll pass out.”
With a grimace, you take the syringe and examine it. “Very Dexter.”
Andrew wrinkles his nose in a way that would be adorable if he weren’t also tucking his gun and butterfly knife into his tool belt. Actually, it does still manage to be pretty cute. “I never liked that one. Too much mess for my taste.”
You shrug. “He always did a good job cleaning up.”
He gives you a teasing glance. “Better not to make the mess in the first place. And all that single-use plastic – just think of the planet.”
“Andrew Cody the environmentalist,” you snort. Then a shadowy figure emerges from the bar with a cigarette between his fingers and you still. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
“Right on time,” Andrew confirms, lowering his voice to a near growl. You don’t miss how his scent deepens and sharpens into something fierce. “I’ll get out first; hang back until you’re certain I have him restrained, alright? I’ll call for you. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
You nod and work to steady your breathing as Andrew leaps out of the car. He wastes no time lunging at Tyson, relying on the element of surprise to fell the lean man like a dying tree. With the driver’s side door open, you listen carefully to the barely visible conflict. Andrew’s relentless grunts, Tyson’s wailed appeals.
When Pope shouts for you, you’re surprised by how effortlessly your body reacts to the command. The fear melts off, replaced by something else. Something you’re definitely not supposed to experience as an omega.
Wrath.
You cross the space between the Jeep and the men as fast as possible. Tyson thrashes against Pope’s grip but your Andrew is nothing if not steadfast. Unwavering. His hands are iron chains that no man could escape.
Tyson recognizes you.
You can see it in his watery blue eyes when you step into what little light is available in the alley. You’ve seen those eyes in your nightmares. You remember how they looked fully dilated, on the verge of reality. Now, his eyes widen and he moves to speak, but Pope shoves his knee deeper into his spine to stop him. You uncap the needle slowly, careful not to prick yourself, and plunge it just as Pope instructed into the meat of Tyson’s thigh.
When he goes limp in Andrew’s arms, you can’t stop from grinning.
Within an hour, Pope has Tyson strapped to a sturdy chair in one of the empty warehouses the Codys use for…this sort of thing. The cracked concrete floor is already stained in different ages of brownish from years of hostages, torture sessions, and worse. Tyson won’t be the first to die here. Not by a long shot.
But he’ll be your first.
Your first kill.
The feeling settles with a gray kind of discomfort. An itch that needs to be scratched to be gotten rid of.
While Pope lays out supplies on the floor nearby, Tyson begins to stir with a jolt. With a rag gagging his mouth and straps holding him back by the neck, waist, arms, and legs, he can’t do much more than strain and grunt. His eyes aren’t wide anymore; they’re narrow with anger.
You step forward and tug the gag from his mouth, immediately met by teeth gnashing toward your hand. Knowing that Andrew’s right there if anything goes wrong, you fling your palm across his face with as much force as you can muster and sneer, “You’ve bitten me enough already, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t bite you, bitch,” he spits as he strains forward to get at you. Ice coats and hardens your veins. “Wouldn’t give my bite to some worthless slut.”
The way Pope’s scent flares and his fists curl makes your spine tingle; he’s only holding back because you want to be in charge of this. You jam your knee up into Tyson’s gut and slap him again, pleased when he grunts with annoyance. “You’ll stick your disgusting knot in whatever hole your friends pick out and I’m the slut? Couldn’t find an omega who actually wanted you so you take a bigger alpha’s leftovers?”
“I could have any omega I want.” He puts on a cocky smile. His bitter, too-familiar scent makes your stomach turn. “I only did you for the money.”
“Money?” Interest piqued, Pope moves forward and presses the flat of his butterfly knife to Tyson’s neck. “If this attack was for money, then who paid you?”
Tyson smirks like he’s got a getaway car idling outside. “They paid me enough not to tell you.”
“Loyalty’s expensive,” Pope tuts. He digs the edge of the knife in just enough to draw a single bead of blood down his neck every time Tyson swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing helplessly against the blade. “Whatever they paid – that’s what your life’s worth?”
“Please. You’re not gonna kill another alpha for some omega. She’s not even your mate; what’s the point?”
Unceremoniously and without hesitation, Pope shoves the gag back in Tyson’s mouth. He looks at you, expression softening right away, and says, “He won’t say anything that’ll help. He’s just gonna piss us off. Let’s finish this.”
You nod slowly and collect yourself with a roll of your shoulders. Pope warned you about this. How these men would try to egg you both into a rage so they could take advantage and get the upper hand. Your heart’s already pounding and you have to take a few deep, shaky breaths to try to calm it down.
Andrew touches your shoulder gently and murmurs, “You don’t have to do this part, sunshine. I can take care of him.”
But you shake your head and set your jaw. “No. It has to be me. I want to. I need to.”
Pope nods solemnly and starts to explain, “There are a lot of ways to end someone’s life.” He takes a few implements from his black duffel, including your holstered S&W and a 12” knife. Then he takes your hand in his and guides it to the side of Tyson’s neck, right over his rabbit-fast heartbeat. Tyson flinches away from the touch, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “Feel that? That’s the carotid. He’ll die fast if you slice there, but it’ll be a huge mess. A bullet to the head or heart is instant, but the splatter is ridiculous. Especially brains. Trust me; we do not want to spend the night cleaning up brains. They’re sticky and jiggly and-”
“I get the image, Andrew,” you cut him off with a queasy grimace. “Show me what to do.”
“I prefer one clean, easy thrust through the heart,” Pope murmurs, gently lifting the forearm-sized blade. He hands it over to you, helping you wrap your fingers around the black handle. It’s heavier than any kitchen knife you’ve ever held. When he turns back to Tyson, the man’s eyes are full of fear. The realization that you’re not here to get answers out of him. He’s whimpering softly now and not moving, frozen like a shot deer. Pope reaches out, unafraid, and touches Tyson’s chest slightly off center. “If you get the right spot, death is nearly instant. They just…slump over and disappear. No fighting back, no fuss. It’s a lot of blood, but it’s steady. Not overwhelming to deal with.”
Pope sounds almost wistful saying it and, for a second, you think about how many times he must’ve been in this position. You know he doesn’t relish in the work he does for his family, but doing it for you must feel different.
“The only thing,” he goes on, bringing you forward a step by the small of your back, “is that it takes more force than you’d think to get through the breastplate. You don’t want to wind up and jam down haphazardly; you want to be precise and clean. So it has to be firm, even pressure.” He leans into Tyson’s face and sneers at his crying eyes, “No need to make the poor man suffer more than he already has.”
With a slow nod, you point the knife to Tyson’s chest. Both your limbs and your voice shake. “Hold my hands so I can tell how much pressure, okay? Help me.”
“I’ve got you, pup,” he assures, lining up his body behind yours, his chest pressing into your back, his hips tilting into yours. A sadistic sort of embrace. You feel the power of his foreboding body pulsing through yours. Andrew wraps his warm, large hand around yours and maneuvers the point of the knife down an inch and over a bit, atop the widest part of the muscle. He angles the knife for maximum impact. Then he moves his left hand to your waist, steadying your body, and murmurs against your ear, “Deep breath.”
With Pope’s hand cradling yours tenderly as a lover’s, you shove the large blade through the near-center of your rapist’s chest like you’re cutting your wedding cake. Tyson lets out one final, wheezing grunt as Andrew helps you tug the knife back out.
Something releases inside of you as you watch the life fade and shrink out of Tyson’s eyes. The level of relief that shudders down your spine frightens you, but it’s addictive, too. Especially when you look over your shoulder and see Andrew gazing at you with features made of pride.
You whisper to him, "Thank you."
The knife clatters to the floor and you're flooded with too many emotions to name. Andrew wraps you in his arms as you begin to shake. He kisses the side of your head and murmurs, "Four to go."
Late that night, after Pope’s dropped you off at home, left, and then returned from cleaning up your mess (he insisted on doing that part alone and you didn’t argue), you’re rummaging through his medicine cabinet for something to take the edge off your sore back when you make a discovery that changes the trajectory of your life.
Staring down at the large prescription pill bottle in your hand, you shout into the house, “Andrew? Can you come here a sec?”
His footsteps start immediately; your voice is an order to him. He pokes his head around the bathroom’s door frame. His sweet boyish curls are still damp from showering. “Need something?”
Then his eyes fall to the bottle in your hand. Before he can ask, you do. “Why are you on Ferotrex?”
Andrew shrugs, barely even giving it a thought. “I had those feral episodes when I was younger, remember?”
“Ferotrex is supposed to be a temporary medication,” you tell him carefully. Gauging his every reaction. Pope always works hard not to give much away with his features, but you can see the confusion plain as day in the crinkle of his brow. You go on, “I learned about it when I worked at that crisis clinic before the hospital. They give it to alphas in acute feral episodes to calm them down in the moment. You’re not supposed to take more than a couple consecutive doses.”
Andrew chews on that. He flexes his fingers and you can tell he’s trying to put puzzle pieces together in his mind. When his voice comes out, it’s tentative: “What do you mean?”
Brows furrowed, you pull out your phone, scroll for a long time, and open up the old work training document that made you think of it. Andrew comes in close, chin resting on your shoulder, and listens with quiet rage building inside him. “Here, look. ‘Ferotrex and similar pheromone-stopping medications should only be used as a last resort when a patient cannot be calmed with other interventions due to their serious side effects. Only administer up to three doses in order to prevent long-term complications.’”
Things start to click together. Not wanting to believe it even as the dots connect, he bashfully mutters, “What are the, ah, the long-term complications?”
“Insomnia, obsessive thoughts, anxiety, suppressed libido, sexual dysfunction, reduced muscle growth,” you read off the next page. You turn around, breathlessly close to Andrew, and hold his bicep. “I’m not a doctor or anything, but, from what I picked up at the clinic, Ferotrex is basically a tranquilizer for alphas.” You examine his unreadable expression and ask gently, already knowing the answer, “Do you see a doctor for these? Did a professional tell you to take them every day?”
Blinking fast – you see tears threatening his hazel eyes and he hates crying – Andrew sighs and confirms the harsh reality: “Smurf picks them up for me. She’s always- she’s always handled that.”
As you think about how much he’s gone through because of his mother’s cowardice and selfishness, you whisper, “She’s…sedating you, Andrew. She’s using these to control you. To stop you from being yourself.”
It hangs for a while. Neither of you speak. You watch as a tear slips over Andrew’s waterline and tarnishes his clean, pink cheek. He doesn’t sniffle or sob. Just cries like that. Silently.
In the space of an instant, Pope thinks back on his life since he presented as an alpha. That list of effects has been a roadmap of his adult life. Anxious, obsessive, emotionally stunted. Sleeping four hours on a good night. Never as big as others despite working out constantly. And…the other pieces. He won’t tell you because it’s too shameful, but he’s never even had a knot. Never been able to on these meds. He realizes in a moment of total clarity that he’s been chemically castrated, his very status as an alpha stripped away.
And Smurf has always let him believe all of that – weaknesses and heartbreaks and insecurities – is just who Andrew Cody is. He’s heard that refrain a thousand times over the last decade.
That’s just Pope.
That’s just how he is.
That’s just his personality.
The next thought has enough power to break him: What if it doesn’t have to be?
Suddenly you hug him fiercely. So tight it hurts your arms. You dig your fingers into his back and press your nose to his neck and cry with him.
He lets you.
Andrew clings to you. Nestles into your shoulder, breathes in the warm cinnamon of your scent gland, feels the wholeness of your love for him. The way you care for him how nobody else ever has, even and especially his family.
Then the natural continuation hits him at once: Without those meds, he could be someone else. Something closer to who he wants to be.
Andrew breathes, so quiet you’d miss it if you weren’t waiting for him to speak, “So, without these pills, I could- I could change. Get better. Feel better.” Even softer, he whisper-weeps, “I could fall in love. I could have a mate. A family. I could- I could rest. I could sleep. Oh, god, I could sleep.” His voice breaks. “Is that what this means?”
Because he hasn’t pulled back from the embrace, you don’t either. You let him hold you as tight as he needs, both your breaths hard and intense. Mouth softly brushing the skin of his shoulder, you reply, “I don’t know what it means, Andrew, but I know you’ll be better off. I know you’ll be in control, not someone else.”
Andrew slowly releases you. His eyes rove over you: Your face that he sees whenever you’re away, your body that calls to his in dreams. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. Seeing not just you but the possibility of you.
He gives one sharp nod, takes the bottle from your hand, dumps the pills into the toilet, and flushes. “Let’s get some sleep, sunshine.”
Series Summary: This companion series to “bond” features a collection of moments of you and your alpha, Dr. Robby, going through your first pregnancy together, no matter what it holds.
Summary: After a ribbing from your alpha friends, Robby laments that he hasn't yet found the right engagement ring for you.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!robby x omega!reader, pregnant!reader, cast shenanigans, instincts, smut, oral (m extremely briefly, f receiving), piv, bite marks
Content: just smut i believe
A/N: i thought about also including robby & jack ring shopping in this chapter but idk how long it'll be before i get around to writing that in particular so i figured id give yall Something to nibble on
Word Count: 2.8k
Everyone’s swooning as they look at your first ultrasound picture around your large dining room table, extra chairs crammed in to fit your friends from the Pitt. You’re sitting at the table while Jack and Robby follow your orders to set it with platters of food you’ve spent the day slaving over.
Once everybody’s taken a turn admiring the two eight-week blobs on the print-out, Trinity’s the one to finally ask, sighing like she’s a hopeless romantic, “So when’s the wedding? Please tell me you’re gonna have one of those gorgeous third-trimester weddings where the omega looks like a literal angel all pregnant and glowing in a big fluffy dress and the alpha is just so happy preening and showing them off and crying like an idiot.”
“Wedding?” You cut a teasing look over your shoulder at Robby, who’s making his last trip in with the centerpiece roast steaming and smelling of garlic. Presenting your left hand to Trinity, you lilt, “I don’t even see a ring, do you?”
Dana frowns and cuts a look over at Robby as he sits down next to you. Like it’s a personal slight, she lowers her gaze over her glass of wine and nudges, “And why is that, Michael? Why doesn’t your pregnant mate have something shiny on her finger?”
Robby places his hand on your leg and huffs, “I’m working on it, alright?”
“You know you’re a doctor, right? It’s not like it’s rocket science and it’s not like you don’t have the money,” Samira agrees, narrowing her eyes. “There’s really no excuse for letting her walk around not knowing if she’s going to get a wedding before she has her pups. If she were my omega-”
“You should stop there before he starts growling,” you interrupt with a lighthearted giggle as Robby’s hand tightens possessively around your thigh, ready to snap that of course you’re going to get a wedding, of course you’re going to have the most perfect life, of course he’s going to provide for you and the babies the way an alpha should. You tilt up, kiss him softly on the cheek, and repeat, “He’s working on it.”
“I’ve been to three different jewelry stores,” Robby gripes as he gestures for everyone to start eating. He passes around serving dishes to make sure everyone can tuck in and goes in, “I just don’t understand how I’m supposed to pick out a piece of jewelry for the most perfect person I’ve ever met. I mean, just look at her fingers,” he insists, taking your hand and presenting it to everyone as you laugh and blush. “You’re telling me there’s supposed to be a single piece of jewelry on this earth that’s supposed to be as perfect as these fingers? It’s an impossible task.”
Your heart flutters and you give him another giggling kiss. It’s too cute to listen to a bunch of alphas nagging each other while you sit there getting all the praise and attention you want.
“As sweet as that sentiment is,” Santos chides, “you know that if she doesn’t have a ring by the time she’s showing, every alpha in a fifty mile radius is gonna make it a problem for her, myself included.”
Robby plates up all your favorites and tops off your glass of apple juice, your very first pregnancy craving, without asking. As he starts slicing the roast on your plate – not because you need him to (the damn thing is divinely tender after a whole day slow roasting) but more like a nervous twitch, a compulsion to take care of you – he mutters, “She’s got a bite mark that everyone can see.”
“Bite mark shows she has a mate,” Mohan says as she points her fork at Robby like she very well might stab him with it in between bites, “but a ring says she has a good one. One who courts her and treasures her and won’t let another alpha get too close. Any idiot can leave a bite; it takes a real provider to come up with something sparkly that screams ‘taken.’”
Jack, who’s been quiet thus far, pipes in with a scoff to defend his friend, “When did you all become such traditionalists? Last time I checked, these two are emergency room doctors, not a ‘50s couple who needs to show off their bond everywhere they go.”
Before Robby can redirect the conversation in that direction, Samira raises an eyebrow at Jack and challenges, “If you had an omega, you wouldn’t have gotten them a ring by now?”
Jack bites the inside of his cheek and averts his eyes, unable to look at Robby as he admits, “I would’ve given them a ring as soon as I bit them. Maybe even before, if I was sure.”
Robby rolls his eyes and punches him on the arm. “Et tu, Abbot?”
He grimaces and shrugs. “Sorry, man, there are just some things you don’t wait on when you’ve got an omega. This is one of them.”
A few hours later, everyone back at their homes and leftovers packaged and kitchen cleaned, Robby’s half-hard dick is in your mouth when he sighs heavily, strokes his hand over your cheek hair, and asks, “It really doesn’t bother you that I haven’t given you a big fat diamond in a cinematic proposal yet?”
You pull off of him and give an amused, disbelieving look. “I’m sucking your dick and you’re worried about what your alpha friends tease you over?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and pouts. “No, you’re sucking my dick and I’m thinking about how much I love you and need to make you happy and give you everything you want in life.”
You sigh, stand up, and push him back so that he’s sitting against the headboard. In your panties and a tee, you sit in his lap and kiss him softly, His restlessness settles slightly when your lips touch, but you can tell he’s worked himself up about it when you pull back. You scratch your fingers through his beard how he likes and assure, “Robby, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don’t care nearly as much about the details of getting there.”
He presses gingerly, like he’s exposing an old scar, “But didn’t you grow up dreaming about a huge proposal and giant diamond and everything?”
“I always dreamed about being a mom and a doctor more than anything else.” You shrug modestly and tell him, “You’ve already given me a blank check for whatever I want for the wedding and that’s what I’m most excited about, so, no, it doesn’t bother me that you haven’t found the right ring yet. I’m sure you will. And however you ‘propose’ is good enough for me. Slide it on my finger here in bed and I’ll be thrilled by being yours.”
“I just want you to have everything. The whole world.” He sighs and searches your face. Sheepish almost, he admits, “And I really don’t want to deal with any other alphas questioning if I’m good enough for you. If I’m doing enough for you. I want to show off that you’re mine in every way I can. I feel all…insecure, I guess. It’s weird.”
“You know, Michael,” you reply tentatively, not wanting to step on his sensitive ego, “our proposal and wedding don’t have to just be about me.” You card your fingers through his hair and offer, “It kinda sounds like you want a big romantic proposal with a boulder of a diamond. And if that’s what you want, I will very happily put on a poofy dress and a flower crown like a cute little Pinterest omega and show off my giant diamond to every single alpha who even looks at me.”
You feel him starting to rumble beneath you even though he averts his eyes. He stays bashful and gentle, his hands not claiming on your hips like they so often are. This is a rare side of Robby, soft and vulnerable and tentative. “I don’t want you to think I’m some insecure stereotypical alpha who needs to-
Placing a hand at the center of his chest, you steady your gaze and hold Robby by his pronounced traps that you literally want to dig your teeth into while you ride his brains out. “Bear, this is extremely embarrassing, so I’m only going to say it once, alright?”
Robby chuckles, getting a sense of where this is going. “Funny; I said something very similar to Jack two weeks ago when he touched your hair.”
With your cheeks flaming, you tell him, “Robby, look, our hormones are going absolutely crazy right now telling me to be a demanding little gremlin who gets everything she wants and telling you to be a cocky bastard who snaps at anyone who bothers me. And, I have to be honest, I like you feeling that way. I like knowing you always have my back no matter what. So you have my complete and total permission to be as much of a stereotypical, intense, proud alpha as you want from here on out. Got it?”
He quirks an eyebrow as his rumbling gets stronger, the vibration warming up your insides and making you want him more than you did before the conversation started. “So that you can be a demanding little gremlin who gets everything she wants?”
You pout. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”
“Of course I do,” he relents with a chuckle. His hands moves up and down your waist, absently squeezing and rubbing in a way that has you dizzy in an instant. “You actually letting me do things for you is amazing. The best. I love taking care of you and showing you off to everyone and- Are you alright, baby?”
You bite your lip, eyes fixed on his but strong hands, and nod a bit. “It’s, um, well, I just really like when you get all preeny and possessive and stuff. Don’t tell people, okay?”
With a smirk, he gazes down at your lips and mutters, “Wouldn’t dare. Secret’s safe with me.”
Slowly, you meet his eyes and ask, “So, if that’s all settled, can we have sex now? I’m crazy hormonal and you’re looking at me with those big puppy dog eyes all protective and your beard’s kinda grown in and you look really broad lately and I just-”
He silences you with a smiling kiss, pushing you onto your back and caging you between his forearms. Everything feels much more right when he’s bearing down on you like this. “I look broad? Is that code for something?”
Unable to stop blushing, you tell him, “I feel dumb admitting it turns me on so much but you’re all ‘big daddy alpha with a heart of gold’ and-”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Daddy?”
“Not like that,” you groan, smacking him with a pillow. But then he dips down and kisses your neck hard and you whimper, “Okay, maybe a little like that.”
Robby laughs darkly into your skin. He rucks up your tee and tugs it over your arms. Then he shakes his head and repeats, “Daddy,” replaying the word on his tongue. His rough hands go to your over-sensitive nipples and you gasp. He growls against your ear, “Y’know, I think you don’t mean ‘daddy’ the way all these kinky kids do. You really like that you’re making me a daddy.” The eye contact is technicolor as he grins and pushes, “You like knowing I knocked you up, don’t you? Being full of my pups?”
Your hips twitch upward and you squeak, “Yes.”
“Yes?” Robby tugs your lower lip between his teeth and turns it into a kiss full of lust. He pinches your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers until you hiss in a moaning breath. “I think you can do better than ‘yes,’ honey. Tell me what gets you off so much about me being a big daddy alpha.”
Back arching as he kisses down between your full breasts, you tell him, “I love being yours like this. Knowing you’ve claimed me completely. For good. Forever. Knowing everyone can smell you on me no matter what.”
“That’s right.” He groans as he slips his fingers beneath the sides of your panties, slides them off, and tosses them aside. Pushing your legs apart and gazing down at your slick and begging pussy, he sighs wistfully. “There’s my pretty omega. All swollen and needy because you’re full from my knot. My pups.”
Robby’s mouth descends on your pulsing clit and you let out a breathy moan that makes Robby feel calm. Sex with you is different; he doesn’t feel worked up so much as slowed down. The anxieties of his life fizzle into radio static the moment he tastes your wetness on his tongue, sweet and tart and undeniably you. Undeniably his. He loves eating you out especially now that you’re pregnant; it’s so intimate and personal and does so much to get him off that it’s almost like an act of masturbation now. Every time, he’s convinced this is going to be the one where he cums all over the sheets just because of how good you taste letting go. Something about the biological instinct of it all – his mate, his seed, his pleasure.
Regardless, he’ll spend all night between your legs if you let him. Every once in a while, you actually do. God bless your hormones. This is exactly where Robby needs to be, baptized and made new by the sweet permission of giving you what you need. He feels every quake of your thighs in his own body, hears every deepening moan like a shiver, and knows every inch of your hot and begging and pulsing cunt around his fingers. He coaxes out your need with deliberate licks and strokes, each one completely confident.
When you cum, it’s with your hands on in Robby’s head and his name on your softly parted lips. His lashes flutter shut, eyes rolling back, as he grinds into the mattress to the taste of your orgasm, the slick sweeter and milder as you reach the peak of pleasure.
He’s still licking you relentlessly when you have to push at his shoulders, whimpering out, “Too- too much, Mikey. Too sensitive.”
The pathetic sound Robby makes when he has to stop tasting you almost convinces you to let him keep going. But now your cunt is spasming around nothing, begging to be filled, so you scooch back against the pillows and grab his hand to join you at the top of the bed.
Robby smiles and shakes his head affectionately as he spreads your knees apart to make room for his body. He kisses over your bite mark, extra sensitive from your hormones, and pushes slowly into you. The way you whine and squirm has him way too close to spilling inside of you right away like he’s a damn teenager.
You whine as your hips involuntarily buck from the sensation, “Bite.”
Robby kisses your neck, begins to thrust into you earnestly, and murmurs, “I don’t wanna hurt-”
“Please,” you cry back. You strain your head so that your neck arches toward his mouth again. With each syllable, you roll your hips into his, chasing the full depth of his cock. “It’s so sensitive, Michael, please. Feels so good.”
“So sensitive, huh?” He blows cool air over the spit-wet mark and you shiver from the intense pleasure that comes with it, goosebumps prickling all down your shoulders and forearms. The pace of his hips stutters slightly and he whispers in delight when he feels your cunt tighten around him, “Jesus, you really are sensitive.”
“You’re teasing your pregnant omega while she’s horny and begging,” you whine. “Please don’t make me-”
Robby silences you by clamping his teeth over your bite mark, nearly as hard as when he first made you his. Your whole body goes limp in the best way and Robby can’t deny the immediate tightening of your incredibly sudden orgasm gripping him like a vice out of nowhere. He knows he won’t last long with the way your walls suck him in like you want to become one body. All he can do is ride out the pleasure by your side.
As Robby’s cum plasters your insides, you start to cry, little sniffles and weepy moans that make him laugh as he removes his teeth from your neck and coaxes you through those final flutters. He nips your ear and brushes a tear from your cheek. “My sensitive girl. You okay? Just hormonal?”
You nod hard and fast, wrapping your arms and legs tight around him as he shifts both of you onto your sides. You press your forehead to his neck and breathe deeply at his scent gland. “So good. Love you like crazy.”
“Love you too, sweetheart,” he sighs sweetly, sounding so perfectly content it makes your heart glow. He takes your left hand in his and kisses it over and over. “I’m gonna go out and find your perfect ring tomorrow. Promise.”
Warnings: By this point I think you know what you're getting. - Torture - broken bones, removed body parts, there's a pickaxe involved... Blood...
Summary: Torture is just the foreplay, it's death that's the main event.
Companion piece to:
The Game - Tonight's game night is a special event.
It’s Titus that gets the killing blow.
“You’re owed it.” You tell him as you gesture to the pickaxe, propped up against wall. It’s a medieval affair, the memory of an older, more brutal world forged in black high carbon steel and fibreglass. Your husband, he likes relics, shards of the past, however one must be practical, especially when it comes to choosing your toys.
His gaze fixates on François, sprawled out across the concrete floor, trying to crawl towards the closed door. His breaths come out in short, agonised rasps, catching before his lungs can fill with oxygen. There must be a rib puncturing his lung you think, it’s usually what makes that wet noise.
Blood streaks the grey underneath him as he extends his arm, attempting to drag himself across the metal drain set into the floor. The hole in his hand from the railway spike glistens in the light as the mangled mess of fingers scrape against the concrete, scratching uselessly. Below the waist only his thighs move, barely working to propel him forward. Titus had shattered his kneecaps with the sledgehammer during one of his turns, pulverised his ankles with the next.
You place your foot on François’s back, and he hisses through his teeth as you exert just enough pressure to make it hurt. It’s nothing quite like the boot he put on the back of your neck five years ago but it’s enough to remind him of his place in this room.
“Do you remember what you said to me when you had me on the floor like this in France?” You ask him conversationally, raking the stiletto heel down along his ribcage. It bumps over each and every bone until you find the one you like. “You said ‘I own you now bitch’ and I laughed because silly little boys like you, they’re always such a cliché. They don’t really understand their role in the game, so they play without fully appreciating the rules.”
A muffled whimper emits from his lips, nothing more than a blathering noise since you cut out his tongue during the last round.
It was tit for tat really, he took your husband’s voice, so you’d taken his.
“You thought you were a king on this chessboard, but the reality is you’re just a pawn, a petty foot soldier who wanted to impress daddy.” You drive your stiletto right into his rib. the loud crack reverberates through the room, and he howls that devastating, stifled groan into the concrete. “Well daddy isn’t going to be very impressed when I send him your body is he? He’s going to see what an embarrassment you really are, getting yourself all broken up like this.”
You slip your foot underneath his body, using it to turn him onto his front.
Eyeless sockets stare back at you, dark unseeing caverns with crimson tears that have dried on his cheeks. You’d used an ice cream scoop for those. Usually, you prefer to be a lot cleaner, but you’d wanted this to be messy, you wanted Charles to see what you’d done to his son.
“I don’t think he can hold on much longer.” You say to Titus, your lips forming into a pout as you study the patch work of flesh missing from François’s torso. “It’s disappointing really.”
On the opposite side Titus looms over him, his arms crossed over his chest as surveys his prey. The navy-blue blazer he was wearing has been stripped off, folded over the arm of the oxblood Chesterfield situated in the corner. It’s an odd addition with the grindhouse horror basement décor but sometimes you like to sit back and watch your husband work. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt have been rolled up to his elbows, revealing freckled muscular forearms speckled with merlot droplets. His lips purse together, his dark brows furrowing into a deep frown before he glances up at you in question.
“No.” You say softly from across François’s wretched form. “You weren’t like anything like that, you were strong even when you thought you were going to die. You were…” You taper off, emotion rising up in you as you think of his stoic expression, even when the blood was leaking through his fingers, staining the soil underneath him. “You were my king, right up until the very end, until I snatched you back from the jaws of death.”
The left side of his mouth tips up before his fingers wrap around the handle of the pickaxe. His knuckles tighten around the grip, turning the skin across them white and you know that he’s thinking about that night, about a bloodstained sky-blue dress and the stench of burnt human flesh.
The first blow completely obliterates what’s left of François’s face, it crushes the bone, driving the bone fragments deep into the recesses of the tissue as grey matter and viscera explode across the concrete floor. He hauls it back again, the cast-off blood streaking across your cheek, lips and chin on the backswing. The warmth of it, the scent of copper, it stokes that fire inside you, the one that demands to be stated.
The torture, it’s all just foreplay. It’s the death that’s the main event, the extinguishing of a life that deserves to be taken.
Titus grunts as he swings the pickaxe down again, and again, and again until François’s body stops twitching, until the metal head clanks against the concrete underneath because there’s nothing left to destroy.
His head raises, a slow predatorial motion that quickens your pulse. There’s blood on his face, his curls, his shirt. Those ferocious eyes meet yours, heated and wild, his upper lip curling like a hound of hell. An eyebrow raises. A question.
Keep playing?
You bolt for the door and that’s all the answer he needs. He takes off after you as wrench it open, slipping through the gap. His fingers graze your arm, a light brush of skin, and then you’re gone, disappearing down the basement corridor towards the wine cellar. He gives chase, following the sound of your heels clicking across the original oak floors after you round the corner and then they stop.
He finds them neatly placed at the threshold to the wine cellar, along with the remains of your emerald jumpsuit. The heavy oak door is ajar; the darkness inviting him inside to come and play. He uses the flat of his palm to open it the rest of the way, spilling warm light across the square mahogany tasting table that sits in the centre. Bottles line the walls in matching racks, rare editions from vineyards no longer in existence.
He steps into the room, not bothering to use the light switch.
Come out, come out wherever you-
An arm snakes around his throat, your teeth sinking into his neck, a sharp nip reminding him he needs to watch his six. A rush of ecstasy races through his body as your lips ghost over his ear, whispering. “Got you.”
His arm reaches across his chest like a snake, quick, silent, deadly. His fingers wrap around your bicep, grasping the arm holding him before he uses his body weight and your lack of momentum to flip you over his shoulder and onto the tasting the table. You hit the furniture with a thud, the air rushing from your lungs and then he’s on you, driving your thighs apart with his hips, his calloused hands chasing over the apricot lace as he seeks out your wrists, pinning them above your head.
“Oh.” You say as you lay spread out underneath him like a prize, the blood on your face smeared like warpaint. “It looks like you got me.”
His gaze rakes over you, drinking in the breasts that threaten to spill out of the cups of your bra with every breath, the grey scale tattoo of Nemesis – The Goddess of Vengeance and Retribution inked down along the curve of your waist, ending at your hip. His fingertips doodle over it, tracing over the scar buried underneath, the brand of an L scored into your skin by the Laureates the night they took you both.
You were meant to be theirs before you were his, promised to François’s father Charles on your 21st birthday. He’s never gotten over your decision to marry Titus, the audacity of you choosing newer money over old. His wealth maybe generational but the Laureates, they were a dynasty dating back to Louis VII, when their ancestor Eleanor became Queen.
His fingers trail down to the lace of your underwear, dipping underneath making your hips arch, grinding your core against his desperate cock. He’s been hard since the game started. He can’t explain what it does to him, watching you take apart a man, reduce him to nothing. His fingers dip lower, seeking out your wetness through the fabric before they slip underneath. You exhale at his touch, that brief second of connection before he tears the damn panties from your body. The lace rips and he tosses them to the floor in a damp balled up wad.
His grasp on your wrists tightens as he uses one hand to unfasten his belt, shoving his trousers and boxer briefs down his hips. His cock slaps against his stomach, smearing his treasure trail with pre-cum before he takes it in his fist and guides it between your legs. He notches the tip against your entrance, stroking the shaft so the top of his hand caresses your pussy with very rapid motion.
“Don’t be a fucking tease.” You mutter, your thighs clenching around his hips, trying to draw him deeper.
He huffs out a soundless laugh before he leans over you, the fabric of his bloodstained shirt brushing over your bare skin like a kiss. His captures your mouth, revelling in the taste of copper on your lips as he eases inside inch by inch. You moan into his mouth, your teeth grazing his lower lip as your legs wrap around him, keeping him buried all the way to the hilt.
He loves this sensation, buried deep, his cock nestled against that sweet spot. He could stay here all day, playing with your tits, licking and sucking the nipples until he got you to the edge before stopping and starting all over again. He’s a man without mercy on the nights the mood demands it.
“Well, are you going to fuck me?” You murmur against his lips, your impatience showing. “Or am I going to be warming your cock as you sip that 1904 Salon over there.”
That fucking mouth…
He pulls back, thrusting hard, slamming back into you. The noise that tears from your throat makes his nerve endings combust like stars underneath his skin as his hand slides to your throat, fingertips digging into the tender flesh. He can feel your pulse, quick and rapid like a hummingbird against the pads of his fingers. He squeezes as his hips surge forward, the slap of skin on skin erupting in the air as he fucks you. Pleasure chases through his system, a raw untamed fire that rages with every whimper, every thrust, every sharp gasp of breath.
A flush climbs your collarbone, staining your neck and cheeks as he pursues your climax. You clench with every stroke, hugging his dick like you were put on this earth just for him and in this moment, Titus thinks you were. That you were plucked from the stars in the nighttime sky, the perfect light to accompany his darkness.
The rapture’s upon him, searing through his entire body as the inferno takes hold, consuming you both. This fire of yours, it’d scorch the earth if you’d let, burning up every single thing in it’s path until there’s nothing left but smoke and white hot ash. You grasp his cock like a vice as he spills into you, spurt after spurt of liquid heat filling up into that molten pussy. His hand slips from your throat, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he uses his palm to chase away the hair that’s plastered to your features.
Your thumb follows the pattern of the freckles that line the apple of his cheek, smoothing over the crows’ feet etched into the furrows of his skin.
“One down baby.” You whisper against his lips as his palm settles on your waist, covering the raised skin hidden underneath your ink. “Only one more to go.”
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You stepped into the exam room with a gentle smile for the middle-aged man on the bed, who looked like a walking commercial for “Try Death, It’s Easier—And Cheaper.”
“Mister Mitchell,” you said kindly. “I’ll be your nurse this evening. How are we feeling right now on a scale of ‘I’m fine to I’m dead?’”
Mitchell sighed through his nose, rather pitifully. “My head is killing me. My back is killing me. My stomach is killing me.” He stared at you mournfully. “Everything is killing me.”
“Rough day,” you agreed. “I just got over the full-body flu. I, too, longed for the sweet release of death.”
You snapped on a pair of gloves and rolled the vitals cart closer. “Let’s do the basics and then I’ll test you for all the fun stuff, Covid, flu, strep, the works. A medical charcuterie board if you will.”
He nodded. You popped the thermometer into his mouth and wrapped the BP cuff around his arm. The machine beeped and you hummed.
“Okay, so we’ve got a nice little fever. Blood pressure’s a bit high, but that could be the fever talking. Or the economy.” You rolled your stool closer and felt along his neck. “Any family history I should know about?”
“High blood pressure. Diabetes,” he said. “But I’ve been trying to do better.”
“That’s great,” you said warmly. “My family’s got the same party favors. So, I get it. Can you lie back so I can check your belly?”
He eased down and you pressed along his abdomen, watching his face. At the lower right you hit a spot and he flinched.
“Tender here?” you assessed.
“Very,” he wheezed.
“Any nausea? Vomiting? Loss of appetite? Constipation or diarrhea?”
“Some. I eat, then I get sick. And I…” He flushed. “I can’t stop using the bathroom.”
You nodded, all business. “Okay. I still want to swab for flu and friends, but this is sounding a lot like appendicitis. Which, absolutely sucks, but it’s not the end of the world.”
You pressed once more, shifting your hand, and then his sweatshirt pocket shifted too.
Something inside moved.
A single hairy leg slid out, flexed, and vanished back in like it was shy.
Your hands froze. Your soul left your body like it had been recalled by God.
Very slowly, very carefully, you asked, “Mister Mitchell…is that a spider in your pocket?”
He blinked, then beamed. “Oh, yes! That’s Blondie. She’s my Arizona Blonde Tarantula. Would you like to see her?”
He slid his hand into his hoodie pocket, and you inhaled on a frequency only dogs could hear.
“Nope. No. No, thank you. No spiders.” You took a dignified step back that looked a lot like a retreat. “Mister Mitchell, why do you have a spider in your pocket?”
“Well, she’s a pet. But she’s also my emotional support, uh, arachnid. I get anxiety.”
You nodded, lips pursed, every muscle screaming. “Right. Of course. Emotional support arachnid. Naturally.”
You pointed at him, then at the bed. “Okay. I am going to step out for just a moment. Please do not move. Please do not let Blondie out. Please do not unpocket that pocket.”
You backed away like he had a live grenade, slipped out the door, and the second it latched shut you let out a noise that could only be described as a barn owl being mugged, and bolted down the hall like Satan’s hellhounds were on your heels.
“JACK! JACK! JAAAAAAACK!” you screeched.
Doctor Jack Abbot stuck his head out of an exam room, brows lifted, expression hovering somewhere between confused and concerned.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping out. You grabbed his arms with both hands like he was your last lifeline. He blinked when he saw the terror in your eyes; his voice lowered, eyes narrowing in worry. “Honey, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
You opened your mouth and produced a noise like a balloon giving up on life. Then you just pointed at Mitchell’s door.
“Him.”
Jack’s gaze slid to the room and back to you. “He making you uncomfortable?”
“I wish he was,” you whined. “I would take a sleazy creep over this any day.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Over what?”
You took a breath that was one hundred percent panic and squeezed his arms, clinging to him like a widow in a Victorian drama. “Jack. Jack, he has a spider in his pocket.”
He blinked. “…Run that by me again?”
You enunciated very clearly, like he was hard of hearing. “My patient has. A tarantula. In his sweatshirt pocket. Just…hanging out. Like it pays rent. A palm-sized, hairy, demon creature just VIBING in there.”
Jack looked down the hall at the door again. “You’re shitting me.”
“I wish I was,” you said fervently to Jack, God, and whatever else was listening. “I saw its creepy little leg peek out and he was so happy about it. He asked if I wanted to see her. Her name is Blondie.”
“Did you hold it?” he asked casually.
You stared like said he wanted to amputate your arm with no anesthesia. “NO?!” you shrieked incredulous. “IT’S A FUCKING SPIDER, JACK!”
“Yeah, but tarantulas are kinda cool,” he mused. “I saw a whole bunch when I was in the Middle—”
“Oho my God,” you interrupted. “Absolutely not. Jack, no.”
He pulled his arms free. “I wanna see it.”
“Be my guest. He’s your patient now and forever.”
“Oh, come on, you’re afraid of a little ole spider, Honey?”
“Anything with more than four legs and built-in fangs is grounds for immediate suicide if it touches me,” you snapped.
Jack just chuckled and walked down the hall into Mitchell’s room like he hadn’t just been told there was a live nightmare on eight legs waiting inside.
You shivered so hard it felt like your skeleton was trying to evacuate your body.
***
You had mostly managed to repress Blondie’s existence. Or at least shove her into the same mental box as Gloria and Press Ganey Scores.
That lasted until you glanced up from your desk and saw Jack walking Mitchell toward the exit, one hand braced on the man’s back.
“I promise, if we find Blondie, we’ll call you first thing,” Jack said. “I’ll make sure no one hurts her.”
“Okay,” Mitchell said sadly. “But you have to be gentle. She’s a good girl. She doesn’t bite unless she’s really scared.”
“So do I,” Jack deadpanned.
Mitchell huffed a laugh despite himself.
You watched Mitchell leave, the doors swishing shut behind him. Jack turned and headed your way.
You folded your hands on the desk, very prim, very proper. “Jack. Please tell me Mister Mitchell left with his eight-legged demonic spawn.”
Jack looked at you. A slow, evil grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Smug bastard.
“Well now,” he said mildly, “would that make you feel better?”
Your jaw clenched. “Jack Abbot. Is there a goddamn tarantula loose in my ER?”
“It’s…quite plausible,” he answered.
You shot to your feet so fast your chair rolled back. “Oh, nope. Nope. I’m going home. Tell Dana and Robby I loved them while it lasted.”
He snorted. “Relax. We’ll probably find her in room ten where he was. She’s probably under the bed.”
“Great, amazing even,” you agreed. “I’ll send flowers to whoever finds her body first. It won’t be mine.”
You grabbed your bag, then froze. Slowly, you opened it and peered inside like it might hiss. You’d read that tarantulas can hiss. Not that that was fucking terrifying or whatever.
When you were reasonably certain there was no spider, demon, or IRS auditor in there, you slung it over your shoulder and marched toward the bathroom.
Jack’s amusement evaporated when he saw it.
Nestled right at the small of your back, clinging to the fabric of your cardigan like it had found beachfront property, was Blondie. Palm-sized. Furry. Very, very present. Just hanging out. Vibing, even.
Jack opened his mouth, then thought about all the times you’d teased him and pushed his buttons because you were you and you enjoyed being his personal little menace of forbidden HR romance. Then he closed it.
He watched the bathroom door swing shut behind you, then lifted his hand and silently counted.
“One…two…three…four…aaand—”
A blood-curdling scream tore through the ER, making everyone jump and whip their heads toward the bathroom; half the nightshift nurses stood with trauma sheers.
“JAAAAAACK!”
Jack grinned like the cat that swallowed the canary and sauntered toward the door at a leisurely stroll.
You are assigned to work as a liaison between Deputy Chief Charlie Reid and the Intelligence Unit. Voight doesn't like it, doesn't trust it. If he only knew.
A reader that's very much aligned with Charlie's way of thinking.
A Charlie that's soft only for our reader.
warnings: canon typical violence, smut, morally bankrupt reader and her man.
#mohabbot • thanksgiving • she feels part of something
People burn themselves on Thanksgiving, oven trays, stovetops, somehow an idiot will flash burn half of his face in the process of deep frying a turkey in his yard, it is an inevitability. Someone will carve themselves instead of the meat; someone’s uncle will break their ankle after four beers, football in hand, crashing into patio furniture; someone will have inadvertently caused nine of their nearest and dearest to get violently ill with a recipe they found on TikTok.
There are two kinds of people on Thanksgiving in the ER: the kind who desperately insist that they are okay, wanting nothing more than to get back to their family, and those who appreciate the break from the chaos in their house. “You could always run just one more test, I don’t mind”
Samira does not fall into either of these categories, Samira does not do Thanksgiving. Has not ‘done’ Thanksgiving for seven years. She picks up the extra shifts, she eats pie in the breakroom with a plastic fork, she gives the same answer every year when asked by her colleagues: “I am thankful to be here, helping people.” They roll their eyes.
This year, however, she is not working the holiday. It is a fluke that she tried to rectify, had argued with Heather about it, agreed to switch shifts with anyone who asked, and was told ‘no’, was told, ‘take a damn holiday for once,’ was told to ‘go be with people.’ Samira will finish her shift at 7am on November 27th and will, frustratingly, be off for the next 48 hours. She will not treat the man who has singed his eyebrows off, she will not send the grandmother sans left index finger up to the operating room, instead she is supposed to be bringing a dish to Trinity Santos’ apartment, to eat and be merry. She has not worked out how to get out of this yet.
“You’re here!” Samira beams as Jack strolls up to the hub dropping a yellow cup in front of her. There is a thick scarf around his neck, soft and grey, ruddiness on his cheeks and an easy smile.
“I’m here,” he nods as she takes a sip. Something apple-y, something cinnamon. If nothing else she has the next twelve hours in her favourite place with her favourite colleague. She thanks him and heads off to greet her first patient of the night. It’s reflexive now, not to question why he does this, why there is always something sweet and warm in a cup for her. Several months have passed since Ellis had questioned the ‘special Samira coffees’ and Jack had glared at the other doctor so hard she has backed away with her arms raised. Jack Abbot is kind, he is a good teacher and maybe almost a friend. He brings her coffee. It’s a kindness, it is nothing of any consequence.
“So are you driving straight to your sister’s when shifts over?” Samira enquires dropping into a chair across from Jack in the break room at 2am. He has nieces and nephews, a gaggle of them, siblings and in-laws, parents and an eccentric aunt. He tells her things, in the quiet of the night shift. If Jack cut himself badly enough on Thanksgiving he would be the kind of person who insisted he was fine, he would want to get back to his family, she thinks. He is that kind of person.
“Nope,” he replies, stretching his arms behind his head, “they’ve got me for Christmas this year, you going to Santos’ place?”
“Supposed to…” She trails off, tries to sound neutral, but something gives her away. Something always gives her away when Jack is concerned.
“I know that look Dr. Mohan, you’re not working a double.”
“But I could just…”
“Take the day, be a person, next year when you’re senior resident you can schedule yourself for every major holiday, accept the kindness from Heather. Be with friends.”
She blinks at this, feels the warmth in her chest at his comment, his faith in her future, chooses not to acknowledge it, “I just don’t… I don’t know. I like everyone I do… I just.”
“It’s a lot?” Jack supplies.
“It is, and I feel like I’m expected to perform… something? And I’m just…”
“Don’t talk yourself out of it if you’re just a little unsure, you could wind up having fun.”
“I’m thinking about it,” she says, he raises his eyebrow, “I am, I really am.” He leaves the room before she can ask him his plans.
She has been trying, she really has, accepting more invitations to drinks after work, a pedicure with a nervous Victoria, a movie with Mel, she is better one on one, ramping up from zero friendships to a gaggle of people crammed into Trinity and Dennis’ living room is overwhelming. She doesn’t have any topic of conversation to offer up that isn’t a work anecdote, people don’t like that, people like their friends to have a personality when they aren’t on the clock.
She’s switching out her Hokas with her street shoes when he lightly raps his knuckles on the locker next to hers, “I have a counter offer,” she looks up, blinks, Jack looks nervous, bashful almost.
.
“You do this every year?” She asks him, pulling the metal lid from a large tray of roast potatoes and stashing it on the shelf below the counter, buttery warmth hitting her face.
“Thanksgiving or Christmas yeah,” he replies, bumping her shoulder, placing a serving spoon into her tray. “I was here before work yesterday, helped with some prep. I’ve known Chris and Sandy for years.”
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
Jack shrugs, “I can chop and follow directions, they need the help, I mean they always need the help, but today is huge.”
“I’m happy to be a part of it,” Samira tells him.
“I’m happy you came.”
They stand side by side for the first few hours, heaping plates, serving the line that snakes through the hall, a few people nod to Jack, throw out a ‘hey Doc’ familiarly, he is downplaying it, she thinks, how often he gives his time to this community center.
There is a fair share of attention given to Samira too, mostly by the other volunteers who seem to know Jack well, he introduces her as his colleague with her honourific, and after the third introduction she corners him in the kitchen as they await new trays to be loaded onto the cart. “You can stop telling everyone that I’m a doctor, that’s not why I’m here, today I’m just Samira.” She realises after saying this that she doesn’t think she has ever heard him say her name out loud, knows that he must have said it many times, it appears scrawled on coffee cups, but never for her to hear.
The room is loud, cutlery on plates, thirty conversations ringing out at once, laughter. She feels part of something.
Once the queue has died down and Sandy insists that they have some food they find two empty seats at a busy table and sit with their trays. She watches Jack join in a conversation with ease, three men she guesses to be in their sixties. She eats quietly, doesn’t have much to contribute to a discussion about renaming bridges, he leans over between bites, asks her softly with a hand on the back of her chair if she is okay, breath hot against her ear. She is okay. She talks to two women about her mother back in Jersey, listens to stories of their children, of the first Thanksgiving one is spending without her late husband. It’s different, just listening without the need to diagnose, she isn’t taking a patient history, she really is just Samira today, and today Samira smiles, and is not asked about her job and does not offer up the information.
They don latex gloves, black instead of their normal blue, and join the crew of people scrubbing and scouring plates, trays and pots. She laughs when he says, “IV pump” and places the dish soap into his outstretched hand. It is the same but it is different, working side by side, his presence is just as much of a comfort when he has traded his scrub top for a plain grey t-shirt. They still make a great team.
.
“I didn’t ask the question,” Jack says as they climb into his Subaru long after the sun has set.
“Which question?” She turns to look at him, side profile in the driver’s seat, he looks tired, she’s sure she does too, there is definitely grease on her t-shirt that the apron she has been wearing did not protect her from. But she feels good, centered in a way that nothing outside of work has made her feel in years, purposeful and content.
“What are you thankful for this year then?”
She doesn’t have to think, it’s the same answer she gives every year, but it almost holds more weight. “I am thankful to have been here with you, Jack, helping people.” He smiles in response, a real one, slightly crooked teeth, crinkles around his eyes, the smile that makes her feel a little strange inside, buzzing with something. “What about you?”
He pauses, she watches the way his eyes flicker from hers and away, quick shifts, like he has decided what he wants to say but isn’t sure if he should.
“Oh c’mon, surely you have something to be tha–” he cuts her off.
“I’m thankful for you, Samira.”
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