summary: you saved jack abbot's life once, and now he insists on returning the favor. (6k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, trinity santos
contents: army medic!reader, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergence, not proofread cw for medical inaccuracies, heavy mentions of ptsd and grief, mentions of blood and gore, and allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
FIC #7 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You find Jack Abbot the same way you left him — covered in bright red blood — though it doesn’t seem to be his this time.
You’re a few hours on your first shift as interim attending when the man rushes in from the ambulance bay. The camo tactical gear sitting heavily over his muscular form is strikingly familiar to you, along with the sweat matting his curls to his forehead. The wild strands are a lot more grey than you remember, and the smile lines that weren’t there before have since etched themselves into the corners of his eyes. The years have been endlessly kind to him, by the looks of it.
“Intubated neck wound. Sats not great. We were diverted here— Is there a trauma room open?” the man rambles all at once, before he’s even glanced up from the plastic mask he squeezes in a gloved hand. He jogs alongside the rolling gurney with a faint limp from his prosthetic. His stride stutters slightly when his eyes finally lift to find you, rushing to the stretcher with Robby at your side.
There’s a faint twitch of uncertainty in his light eyes, like he’s trying to gauge whether or not he’s seen a ghost. You miss the look of flickering amusement entirely as you snap on a pair of blue latex gloves, gaze zeroed in on the blood gushing around the intubation tube in the unconscious man’s throat.
“What’s the story?” Robby asks, following in the man’s hurried stride.
“My buddy, Officer Hiro,” Jack answers immediately, through a series of panted breaths. “High-velocity GSW, warehouse robbery gone sideways. He’s getting harder to bag.”
The windowless trauma room swallows you whole as you wheel the gurney inside. The four walls swell suddenly with the scent of coppery blood and bitter chlorhexidine. Nurses rush to wake the surrounding monitors with a set of electronic chirps, while Jack escorts the officers he came with out of the room. “We’ll take care of him, I promise,” you hear the man say as you slide your stethoscope into your ears.
You press the chestpiece to the man’s bloodied sternum, bare from where his uniform had already been cut down to his waist and sticky with fresh blood. His heartbeat is weak and rapid in your ears, barely maintaining enough pressure to reach his brain.
“Pulse is thready,” you murmur and slide the diaphragm half an inch higher. “Diminished breath sounds on the right…”
Jack appears across from you, mouth curling into a familiar crooked grin. “We have got to stop meeting like this, Doc,” he jokes in a gritty deadpan.
“That’s crazy— I was thinking the exact same thing,” you quip and slip the stethoscope back around your neck. “Dr. Santos, let’s make sure these lungs are up.”
“You two know each other?” Robby wonders aloud. He glances between you and Jack with a pair of suspiciously narrowed eyes as he plucks a pair of scissors from the metal tray beside him.
“Yeah, you could say that…” Jack huffs with his eyes on the blade, which slices mechanically through the end of the endotracheal tube protruding from Hiro’s throat.“Pulling out,” the man announces before sliding the thing out through his mouth. “Bag.”
A silver-haired nurse, whom you’ve yet to come acquainted with, squeezes at the valve mask at Jack’s instruction. Air bubbles at the wound.
“He’s not moving any air,” you call to the crowded room. “Get me a neonatal mask.”
“Neonatal?” Santos echoes with furrowed brows.
“Yeah, we’re gonna put it over the wound to keep his airflow up while Dr. Abbot cuts a full-length tube and Dr. Robby shifts his trachea back into place,” you explain with a firm nod, smiling softly as you turn back to the attendings across from you. “Sound like a plan?”
Robby glances up at you from where he’s hunched over Hiro’s body, with two gloved fingers searching for his vocal cords. A faint smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Do you always explain procedures like you’re assigning homework?” he laughs.
“If you’re asking if she’s always been this bossy, yes, she has,” Jack quips with a crooked grin that widens at the edges when you roll your eyes, turning away to accept the neonatal mask a nurse passes from behind you. “And yes, it saved my life— Santos, cut me down a 6-0 ET tube, will you?”
“Oh, do tell…” Robby hums.
“There’s nothing to tell,” you huff and set the mask of the neonatal tube over the bubbling wound, helping the air move in and out of the unconscious man’s lungs. “It’s just the kinda stuff that happens when you’re an army medic— you win some, you lose some.”
“Oh, she’s just being modest,” Jack croons drily as he irrigates the wound with saline, washing away clotted blood until the displaced trachea emerges beneath the crimson. His gloved fingers move alongside yours as he rambles. “She had orders to leave me after I got hit by that IED… The rest of ‘em were pulling back— didn’t have much of a choice but to, really, but… She didn’t… She dragged me about… What was it? Two-hundred meters?”
Jack’s eyes lift and find yours have gone strangely distant. Your gaze zeroes in on the neck wound below; your mind wanders against your will.
The freezing A.C. of the emergency department grows sweltering in an instant, burning like the familiar desert heat that feels like dry fire in your lungs. Black smoke threatens to fog your vision all at once. The antiseptic smell turns suddenly to burning fuel. And the blood on your hands becomes darker, fresher, running over your fingers like an open faucet.
Your hands start to tremble the same way they did when you tied the tourniquet around Jack’s wounded limb, made of nothing more than exposed nerves and tendons from the knee down. You feel your legs weaken the same way they did when you dragged Jack’s weight across unforgiving ground beneath earth-shaking explosions and whizzing bullets.
Jack apologized through his guttural screams — because, even now, he swears the pain from the tourniquet hurt more than losing his leg — as you sat him up behind an unmanned tank.
“Shut. Up,” you commanded, covering his mouth with your bloodied hand. “Or I swear to god, I will kill you if we make it out of here— Do you understand?”
You made it out. And it became a funny story everyone told back at the VA — that time you threatened the life of the man you were saving — though you still struggle to laugh about it even still.
“…Right, Doc?” Jack presses, head ducking in an attempt to catch your eye.
Your hands remain firm over the small mask pressed to the wound in Hiro’s neck, but your face has emptied into an expressionless sort of look. It takes a long moment for your brain to will your eyes to blink, and only then does the sun-bleached desert in your mind return to the hospital where you plant your feet — buzzing fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, blinding white walls. You list everything you can see until your brain recalculates its surroundings.
Your wide eyes flit across the unblinking stares looking back at you, each of them waiting for a response. Your heart lurches in your chest. Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to recall the last thing you’d heard.
“Uh, n-not quite two-hundred,” you stammer with a trembling smile. “We had a team find us before then, I’m pretty sure.”
“See what I mean?” Jack hums with a surer smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His softened gaze remains fixed on you, studying you despite all your attempts to hide. “Modest.”
The automatic doors of the ambulance bay sigh open and shut every few seconds behind you. Each mechanical breath exhales waves of freezing air into the thick July evening, which smells overwhelmingly of hot asphalt, cigarette smoke, and gunpowder from far-off fireworks.
You stand next to Jack beneath the overhang, with summer wind whipping through the thin fabric of your tied isolation gowns as you wait for the incoming trauma together — roughly five minutes out, Dana had said.
“So…” you start slowly, wringing the loose pair of gloves in your anxious hands as your eyes fall to the man beside you. He’s still wearing the baggy camo pants he’d arrived in, though he’s since traded his heavy plate carrier for the fitted black t-shirt underneath it, which clings ardently to his muscular torso. “…SWAT, huh?”
“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” he jokes with a lazy shrug. “And, turns out, I suck at golf, so… I chose the next best thing.”
You shake your head and turn away, exhaling a quiet laugh in response — perhaps your first real one since the unforgiving shift started. The corner of Jack’s mouth lifts into a grin, proud of himself for having heard the pretty sound. He hadn’t thought to miss it until now.
“…How long has it been, you think?” he wonders suddenly, with a pair of squinted eyes.
You draw a deep breath through your nose. Your eyes scale the milky pink and orange skyline beyond the ambulance bay, where a molten gold sunset streaks across the sky. “A while…” you settle on after a few long moments.
“Anything new with you I should know about?” he asks, rocking gently to ease the weight on his prosthetic.
You scoff like it’s funny — maybe because you can’t remember the last time anyone other than your therapist was asking after you. “Nope…” you sigh. “Unfortunately, I am still the exact same person you knew back then…”
“Doesn’t seem so unfortunate to me,” he insists, brows furrowed, like he’s half-offended by your own self-degradation.
“Well, you’d think after— I don’t know— a decade of pretty intensive therapy that I might be a little different,” you quip with an awkward laugh. The humor dissolves a second later when you realize how pathetic you sound. “But, uh… I’m still working through it, I guess...”
“Aren’t we all…” Jack trails off with a slow nod.
“I don’t know,” you lilt, eyes drifting unconsciously towards his hand, where a black wedding ring sits around his fourth finger. The sight of it makes your chest ache more than you’d like to admit — as if a not-so-distant part of you had expected him to be as single and miserably lonely as you, even after all this time.
Of course, someone loves him, you think to yourself, how could they not?
“You seem to be doing pretty alright for yourself, I’d say.”
Jack follows your gaze and, almost instinctively, clasps his hands behind his back as if to hide them. His anxious grip tightens on the blue latex he holds between them. “Yeah, uh—” He clears his throat, eyes fixed on the street beyond the overhang. “My wife, she… She passed. A few years ago.”
The humid summer air becomes harder to breathe in an instant. Your mouth parts with shock, though it takes a long moment before any words of apology fall out. “Oh— Shit, Jack, I— I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know,” he assures with a gentle smile, rubbing absentmindedly at the ring with his thumb from where it hides behind his back. “It’s my fault for still wearing the damn thing. I just— feel weird taking it off, I guess…”
You nod slowly to yourself and glance away. You’ve gotten well acquainted with grief and its tricky rituals over the years.
“What about you?” Jack wonders aloud, smiling a little wider when you turn back to face him with a pair of raised brows. “You seeing anyone?”
Your first instinct is to laugh. “No. God, no.”
“Oh, c’mon…” he croons. “It can’t be that bad.”
You flash him a cynical look and a sad sort of smile. “Yeah, well… I don’t think most people are looking for a girl like me, to be fair.”
“Yeah?” Jack hums, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” you scoff. “A girl who… works all the time. Who barely sleeps. Who can’t sleep if someone’s breathing wrong in the next room. Who… goes to therapy twice a week— three times if things are real bad— I mean…” A laugh sputters from your lips. “I’m a total nutcase.”
“Hey,” Jack argues, weathered face screwed in a playful offense. “Some guys are into nutcases, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh, really?” you hum drily.
“Me chief among them,” he nods.
“What?” you laugh. “Is that supposed to flatter me or something—?”
Boom! An explosion crackles across the evening sky. Your body reacts before your mind, going into panic mode in a flicker. Your shoulders jerk violently, your heart leaps into your throat, your eyes snap instinctively for cover. A red-hot spark rushes down your legs as though your body was telling you to run.
Your brain catches up a second later.
It’s a firework… It’s just a firework, you think to soothe yourself, and to ease your suddenly pounding pulse. But as the fear fizzles slowly away, the self-hatred comes next — the undeniable fact that your body will always belong to a war that ended years ago.
You force your shoulders to relax once more and pray that Jack hasn’t noticed any of it. But you can see his expression softening in the corner of your eye — first with concern, which flickers thereafter into a softer sort of pity.
At the very least, however, he gives you the dignity of pretending he hadn’t seen it at all as sirens rage in the distance — growing nearer and nearer until the red-yellow lights of the ambulance whip around the corner. The two of you snap your gloves on in tandem.
Jack steps off the curb first when it squeals to a park just in front of you. “You picked a hell of a day to come in, Doc…” he huffs and rushes towards the back doors.
“I’d rather be here than working,” you scoff and follow behind him. “It’s less depressing that way, I think.”
“Is it?” Jack quips with narrowed eyes.
You laugh through your nose. “Yeah, jury’s still out on the one, I guess…”
Fourth of July rages across the city. You pretend not to notice.
You stand in the muffled quiet of the breakroom, tucked away from the chaos of the emergency department, and watch the coffee machine in front of you sputter as it coughs up steam that smells like burnt grounds and vanilla creamer. You let the bitter stench singe your nostrils as the firework show begins in the heart of the city.
Boom!
A firework sounds off in the distance, closer than all the ones from earlier in the evening. You wrap both hands around the paper cup of coffee, letting the scalding warmth seep into your palms. The heat nearly burns you, but it’s half-grounding nonetheless.
Boom!
You swear it’s shaking the ground beneath your feet, and trembling the thick, concrete walls on either side of you. Though, with the way your day is going now, it’s impossible to tell what’s real and what lives only inside your head.
Boom!
Your fingers tighten around the cup to the point of trembling. You close your eyes and attempt to count your breaths — in for seven, hold for four, out for eight. Your brain tries to trick you — tries to convince you that the freezing cold of the emergency department smells like desert heat and metallic blood and burning gunpowder. It works.
“Counter…” you mutter aloud to yourself, despite how strange it seems, flattening your hand along the white laminate below, even as your shoulders jerk from another explosion in the city. You place your hand on the smooth curve of the cold sink next, and then on the rough cloth draped just behind it. “Faucet… Dishrag…”
Your attempts to anchor yourself to reality only halfway work. You opt to abandon your coffee on the counter altogether as your pulse continues to climb. You’re grateful to find the E.R. still waiting for you on the other side of the door, instead of a memory you can’t seem to leave.
“Oh, hey— I was just looking for you.”
Your head whips over your shoulder to find Jack strolling down the half-empty corridor with a tablet in his hands, now dressed in his dark black scrubs instead of the tactical gear he arrived in.
His shift has probably started now, or is about to, at least — which means you should be leaving with the rest of the day shift. But you fear what waits for you outside these walls and those automatic doors; the crushing certainty of solitude that always seemed to be waiting for you back home, to be more specific.
You exhale a trembling breath, falling into step with Jack when he walks by. “Where is everyone?” you wonder aloud.
“Day shift went up to the roof, I think,” he answers with most of his attention on the tablet as he scrolls absentmindedly through it. “Watching the fireworks and drinking beer, I’m sure… Lucky bastards.”
“Santos did invite me to karaoke today,” you tell him.
“A karaoke invite on your first day, huh? Impressive,” Jack croons, laughing softly through his nose when you lean to knock your shoulder against his broader one. He gets a faint whiff of the perfume still lingering on your clothes, beneath layers of antiseptic and hospital soap. He misses your warmth the second you’re gone. “You gonna go?”
Your shoulders sag with a sigh. “I don’t know… I’m kinda liking this adrenaline rush, to be honest. Might try and ride it ’til the wheels fall off.”
“Well, that always ends well, in my experience,” Jack quips with a lopsided smile as he slows to a stop in front of you, tucking the tablet under his bicep. He towers a few inches over you, close enough to make you lift your chin to properly meet his eyes. “But I do have something you could help me with, if you have a few minutes to spare…”
“Of course.”
“I, uh…” he trails off, turning to glance awkwardly at his left shoulder. “I took a hit… You know, in the field earlier… I’m pretty sure the vest caught most of it but—”
“You were—” You catch yourself before your voice can carry down the hallway. You take a step closer, lowering your voice into a harsh whisper as you scold him. “You were shot?”
“Shot at,” he corrects, with his brows raised to his hairline. “And it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. I tried to clean it up myself, but it’s pretty… inconveniently located…”
He rolls his shoulder in an attempt to ease the discomfort building there from his scrubs rubbing against the wound. His scruffy jaw tightens with a faint grimace, enough for you to notice the pain in his weathered features that he’d been pretending wasn’t there before now.
Concern flares white-hot in your chest. “Let me see it.”
The tone leaves little room for argument. It’s the same one you’d used on him all that time ago, when you ordered him to shut up and quit apologizing for bleeding out before the people trying to kill you could find you.
“Yes, ma’am,” he nods.
Jack leads you to the nearest empty exam room and slips inside while you gather the supplies you suspect you’ll need from the cart outside the door. You hold them to your chest when you return to the room, where you find Jack undressing, tugging his scrub top off by the collar.
The pale tendons in his back flex unevenly when he pulls the fabric off completely. The milky white canvas of his back is exposed to you then, along with the raging scrape glowing a bright scarlet along his left shoulder.
The door clicks shut behind you and garners the man’s attention. Jack turns to face you. You find he’s grown strangely broader with age. His stomach is full but toned, and his chest is filled out with a similar strength. Both are dusted with faint freckles and light colored hair that trails down from his sternum and disappears beneath his scrub pants.
He seems to mistake the subtle shock on your face for concern.
“I’ve had worse,” he assures you.
“I know, Abbot,” you deadpan, reaching for the glove dispenser on the wall with your free hand. “I was there.”
Jack settles on the edge of the exam table while you arrange the supplies on the metal tray before you — gauze, saline, antibiotic ointment, steri-strips. Your hands remember the motions before your mind has to. It comes to you as easily as muscle memory. You work with an effortlessness that only comes with years of experience; and Jack weathers the pain with an effortlessness that only comes with years of aching.
“You wanna know something funny?” he announces suddenly. The muscles in his back tense slightly when he twists to glance at you over his bare shoulder.
“You getting shot at and not telling anyone for half a shift?” you answer in a monotone.
He exhales a quiet laugh and turns back around.
“I had… the biggest crush on you,” Jack confesses in an achingly gentle voice, and pretends not to notice when your hands still suddenly behind him. He inhales slowly through his nose, as if he’d been sitting on those words for some time, and crosses his arms over his bare chest as if to shield himself from them in some way. “I was, uh… I was gonna ask you out, actually. You know, when we got back home, but… You disappeared before I could.”
His quiet laugh sounds much louder in the silence that settles heavily between you.
“I, uh— I’m pretty sure I still have the letter I wrote you, actually, when I figured out your address— in a box somewhere in the attic probably, but… It felt a little too stalkerish to send it, and… Then I met my wife, and I figured you moved on, too, and…” he trails off, struggling to find the right words. “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re here now.”
“It was probably for the best,” you tell him, and clear your throat when your voice shakes. You pretend not to notice your fingers trembling when you smooth down the edge of the bandage you press over his wound. “I wasn’t exactly… the best company back then.”
“You were always good company,” Jack scoffs. “Even when I thought I was gonna die, I was glad I was with you. I mean, I hated that you were gonna have to witness it obviously, but… I was still glad it was you— Even when you were threatening to kill me.”
You’re pierced almost physically by his words. You blink rapidly to clear the haze of them when your vision starts to blur, another memory threatening to drag you under. Memories you’d spent years and a shit ton of money working through in therapy, that are now eating away at you from the inside out.
His shoulder beneath your fingertips is covered suddenly in shredded camouflage. The bandage on his freckled skin stains red until it gushes once more with warm blood. His laughter turns to screams. The air turns to smoke. The fluorescent lights turn to a white-hot sun.
Jack frowns to himself when he feels your hands freezing once more behind him. He glances over his shoulder and finds that your eyes have gone empty again, fixed somewhere far away — the same way they had earlier that day. His chest pinches with an instant worry.
“You okay?”
His words sound like they’re muffled by water or light-years of space. You can’t hear them over the heartbeat whoosh, whoosh, whooshing in your ears, pounding harder against your pulse with every second that passes that you can’t catch your breath.
Another firework explodes outside like distant thunder. Your body jolts in response, and reality slams back into you a second later.
“I, uh…” You swallow hard, eyes flitting wildly around the room, like you’re struggling to place yourself inside it. “I-I’m all done here, I think.”
“Hey…” Jack coos and turns around to face you completely. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
You step back from him and rip off your gloves with two dull pops. You chuck them hurriedly into the bin, feeling overwhelmingly like the walls are closing in on either side of you.
“I, uh... I just need… I’ll, um…” You shake your head when the words don’t come out right. The next ones leave in a whimper when you try and fail to catch your breath. “I’m sorry.”
You rush out of the room, gone before Jack can gather his shirt.
“No…” That’s the only thing you can seem to make out as you hide yourself in the breakroom. The word scrapes against your throat, still too narrow to properly let air flow through. You wedge your pointer fingers painfully in your ears when the far-off fireworks become unrelenting gunshots in your skull. Your vision tunnels, the room blurs, every breath seems to catch somewhere in your chest. “No, no, no—”
The words dissolve into a half-strangled whimper in the back of your throat. You crouch slowly down in the center of the room and curl inward on yourself, forehead nearly touching your knees. Every muscle draws tight enough to ache. Your body makes itself smaller on instinct, as if it still believed that smaller targets survived the longest.
You vaguely hear the sound of your name coming from behind you — far away at first, like a voice carried underwater — and then much closer, when a pair of warm, calloused hands curl gently around your forearms. Despite the inherent softness of the touch, you flinch violently in the sudden hold.
“Hey… It’s just me,” Jack coos.
His voice cuts through the buzzing panic with a remarkable steadiness. Your head snaps in his direction. You find him looming just beside you, bent over at the waist. His face is slow to flood into focus. For a gutwrenching flicker of a second, he’s the same dark-haired, bloodied, and crying man that nearly died in your arms.
Reality settles in a moment later.
The silver threaded in his curls catches the buzzing fluroscents overhead. His light eyes, still so soft despite the carnage they’ve witnessed, dart over your features with a silent concern.
“It’s just me,” he continues. “You’re okay. Just keep looking at me.”
You try to until— Boom! Another firework crackles in the distance. Your eyes squeeze shut despite yourself. Your entire body recoils. “I can’t—” you whimper through a ragged breath that catches in your throat. Your chest sears white-hot accordingly.
“Okay. That’s okay,” he nods. “Just breathe with me. Don’t fight it, okay? Just breathe.”
Jack inhales slowly, drawing in one exaggerated breath until his chest rises beneath his scrubs. You try to mimic it, but it stutters painfully halfway through. Your lungs seize despite yourself. Your face twists into a pained sort of look.
“That’s okay. There you go,” he praises. The corner of his mouth lifts into the faintest hint of a smile. His thumbs rub softly along the buzzing skin of your arm. “I know it doesn’t feel good. Just keep trying for me.”
It takes several long moments for your breaths to finally even out. Jack holds you through every single one of them. Only when your hands slip from your ears and your shoulders stop trembling does Jack carefully guide you to your feet, with a pair of warm hands clasped gently around the outside of your elbows.
He keeps you stable on unsteady limbs as he guides you the short distance to the plastic chairs gathered around the breakroom table. You collapse into one. He pulls up another to be nearer to you — close enough for your knees to slot between each other’s and for his fingers to thread with yours when he reaches for you again. His palm is warm and gently calloused; a little like velvet as it glides against yours.
You rest your other arm on the table beside you, hiding your face behind the palm of your free hand. When you regain your breath, the first thing you think to do is laugh — a wet, brittle, exhausted sort of sound.
“What the hell am I doing here?” you ask within a weak chuckle, shaking your head at yourself. “The VA recommended me because I was supposed to be good at this, but… I’ve been here for one shift… And all I’ve done is make everything worse—”
“C’mon,” Jack hums. “You know that’s not true.”
“Look at me!” you laugh, gesturing helplessly towards yourself when you lift your head to meet his eyes. Tears glisten in your gaze, clumping your bottom lashes together. “I’m supposed to be taking care of people, Jack! I’m not helping anyone like this!”
The man studies you for a long moment. His eyes narrow with a careful curiosity. “Does this happen a lot?” he wonders gently. “These… spells?”
You shake your head, eyes fluttering shut. “No. Not in— years. I thought they were gone. I mean, I certainly pay my therapist enough; they should be gone by now, but…” You end your ramble with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know… I think… Seeing you, you know, for the first time since… Since we came back home, it just… Opened something…”
Jack’s thumb swipes across your knuckles. You expect him to be half-offended at your confession. He smiles instead.
“Well, you know how we fix that?” he asks, with something short of amusement on the edge of his voice. “We go get a beer tomorrow night. Or whenever you’re up for it. And we talk about all this shit. All of our— trauma or whatever. We just… We have it out.”
Something like sunshine threatens to swell in your chest. It burns out quickly, though.
“But what about everything else?” you wonder in a small voice, wet eyes drifting towards the closed break room door. “I can’t go back out there. Not like this. What if… What if I freeze again? Three seconds is enough to… to kill someone if they’re in critical condition.”
“We’ll make sure you have dual coverage— if you freeze again, you’ll have another attending to step in for you,” Jack answers with a firm nod and unwavering gaze, confident enough to soothe you. “But, for now, we take you upstairs to neuro. Maybe do an EEG since you’re having new symptoms, just to rule out anything structural. And then tomorrow, you book an appointment with your doctor, and I’ll drive you— I don’t care when it is. Just call me, alright? I’ll give you my number.”
You crumple under the weight of his tenderness, of his thumb running soothingly across the ridges of your knuckles. You shake your head, brows knitting softly together. “Why—?” you go to ask, but the words get caught halfway through.
Why are you doing this? you want to say. Why are you doing this for me?
“Well, you pretty much carried me through hell, in case you forgot,” Jack answers with a tired laugh. “And I spent a long, long time wishing I could’ve helped you the same way you helped me.”
Silence settles comfortably between you once more. Your wet eyes fall to your joined hands, where his larger one engulfs your own. His are warmer, slightly rough around the knuckles, and calloused at the palms. It’s hard to imagine, you realize, that the hands that once clawed desperately at the sun-hot desert when you tended to his leg are now reaching so gently out for you.
A series of voices race down the hall all at once, yelling over the buzzing wheels of a gurney. “—What do you mean he lit it in his mouth?”
“He thought it’d shoot out the opposite way—”
“Sir, please, stop trying to pull the bottle rocket out yourself—”
“There it is…” Jack huffs. “The annual reminder that fireworks are nature’s way of thinning out humanity.”
You exhale a quiet laugh through your nose, too weak for anything else, and follow Jack when he stands to full height. The distance between you is barely a step. You feel yourself closing it before your mind can catch up, sliding your arms experimentally around his shoulders and pressing your chest against his.
For the faintest fraction of a second, Jack goes still. His breath leaves him in a quiet rush at the feeling of having you so close. His arms raise slowly, wrapping around your waist with a tenderness that threatens to undo you all over again. One broad hand settles warmly between your shoulder blades, while the other spreads carefully along the small of your back.
You haven’t been this close to him since the day he almost died. In fact, the last time you held him, your hands had been slick with his blood — so much of it, that the dirt turned to sticky paste on your palms. But now, he no longer smells of the metallic blood and burning gunpowder and death that haunts your dreams. Instead, he smells of fresh laundry, expensive cedar cologne, and hospital soap. Like home. Like life.
You breathe in through your nose, inhaling him deep into your lungs.
“Thank you…” you hear yourself say, chin bobbing on his shoulder, words brushing over the fabric of his scrubs.
“Don’t thank me,” Jack scoffs humorously, though his hands drift up and down your spine with an unyielding tenderness. “I’m still paying off a debt.”
“What debt?”
“You’re the one who refused to leave me behind, remember?” he asks. “Well, now it’s my turn to make sure nobody leaves you.”
Outside, another firework climbs high into the starry summer sky and bursts into a thousand brilliant stars with another far-away explosion. Only this time, you hear it without hearing the war.
Summer softens slowly into autumn.
The relentless early-July heat gives way to crisp mornings and cool evenings. Dusk arrives a little earlier every day, spilling through the closed bedroom curtains in silvers of honey-colored rays. Outside, a late afternoon breeze stirs the trees until the copper-colored branches brush the window — tires buzz across the worn pavement while the streets fill with the comforting chorus of the early evening.
Life always has a way of finding its rhythm, you find.
You continued working at the PTMC even after Robby returned from his sabbatical, settling into permanent dual coverage on the night shift with Jack. Your symptoms subsided after that first shift — no more blank spots since you switched medications; no more nightmares since you started spending the majority of your nights in Jack’s bed. Your mind feels like home again.
You lay there, tangled in the rumpled gray comforter, the majority of which you had unconsciously stolen during the night, and listen to the man’s even breaths as he sleeps soundly just beside you.
Jack lies on his stomach with his strong arms folded beneath the thin pillow under his head, facing away from you. You watch the gentle rise and fall of his back from where the dark sheet has slipped around his waist, exposing the freckled canvas of his back — and the healed scrape along his shoulder, now a thin scratch of marred, pink skin.
Your hand wanders slowly beneath the blankets — finding his clothed hip first, then crawling up the familiar landscape of his spine, before settling in the strands of silver curled at the nape of his neck.
The man wakes with a sharp inhale and turns his wild head slowly to face you, still not quite awake.
“Jack…” you whisper to him, fingers still twisting in his curls. “Jack.”
“Mm?” he grunts without opening his eyes, brows pinching in protest.
“We gotta start getting ready.”
Your hand parts from his neck to reach for the phone charging on the other side of you. You don’t make it far before a large, warm hand catches your wrist.
“No,” Jack grumbles halfway into his pillow, voice still gruff with sleep. He tugs your hand back to the back of his neck. “Keep going…”
You exhale a quiet laugh but oblige him anyway. His shoulders deflate with a contented sigh when your fingers return to his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “Why is it you make me do this every morning, but when I ask you to scratch my back before bed, you’re asleep in two minutes?”
“I have a medical condition,” he slurs into his pillow, with his eyes still shut.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“Mm… Pretty sure that’s a HIPAA violation, honey.”
A laugh escapes you before you can help it. “You’re so annoying.”
“Here— We’ll do it at the same time,” Jack mumbles.
He grunts quietly as he twists on his left shoulder until his facing you properly. His right hand slithers around your waist, urging you closer until your knees bump beneath the blankets. His hand is warm and gently calloused when it slips beneath the hem of your oversized shirt. His dull nails scratch lazily up and down the length of your spine. Still without opening his eyes.
“See?” he hums. “Teamwork.”
You exhale a satisfied sigh, then joke drily despite yourself. “Your breath smells, by the way.”
He peeks a tired eye open at that. “Oh, yeah? And what do you think yours smells like, huh? Sunshine and rainbows?”
He leans in to kiss you anyway — a mere brushing of your lips for no longer than a second. But then the second lingers, and so does his mouth against yours. The kiss turns sleepy and slow, mouths gliding and tongues brushing.
Jack lifts himself onto the elbow of his free hand and urges you onto your back until half of his heavy weight is resting on top of you. The stiffness tucked in his boxers rubs against your thigh. A smile curls slowly on your mouth.
“We only have an— an hour to get ready—” You just barely manage to protest between his kisses. “You know that right?”
His mouth slides down to your neck to smear wet-hot kisses along your pulse. His hips flatten further against yours, pressing his hardening length more ardently against you. “I only need five minutes, honey. I promise.”
“Oh, trust me,” you scoff drily. “I’m well aware.”
Jack pulls off of you with the quiet smack of his mouth parting from your jaw. His sleep-swollen features twist in a feigned offense. Slumber clings stubbornly to every inch of him — curls flat on one side and wild on the other; stubble a shade darker on his jaw; pillow creases stamped along his cheek.
“Oh, you are just asking for it, aren’t you?” he squints.
“Clock’s ticking, Dr. Abbot,” you tease with a lazy smile, fingers dancing through his silver curls. “I’m gonna be in that shower in five minutes— With or without you.”
A flicker of amusement flashes across his face, right before he ducks back down to swallow you whole in a searing kiss. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
summary: you saved jack abbot's life once, and now he insists on returning the favor. (6k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, trinity santos
contents: army medic!reader, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergence, not proofread cw for medical inaccuracies, heavy mentions of ptsd and grief, mentions of blood and gore, and allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
FIC #7 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You find Jack Abbot the same way you left him — covered in bright red blood — though it doesn’t seem to be his this time.
You’re a few hours on your first shift as interim attending when the man rushes in from the ambulance bay. The camo tactical gear sitting heavily over his muscular form is strikingly familiar to you, along with the sweat matting his curls to his forehead. The wild strands are a lot more grey than you remember, and the smile lines that weren’t there before have since etched themselves into the corners of his eyes. The years have been endlessly kind to him, by the looks of it.
“Intubated neck wound. Sats not great. We were diverted here— Is there a trauma room open?” the man rambles all at once, before he’s even glanced up from the plastic mask he squeezes in a gloved hand. He jogs alongside the rolling gurney with a faint limp from his prosthetic. His stride stutters slightly when his eyes finally lift to find you, rushing to the stretcher with Robby at your side.
There’s a faint twitch of uncertainty in his light eyes, like he’s trying to gauge whether or not he’s seen a ghost. You miss the look of flickering amusement entirely as you snap on a pair of blue latex gloves, gaze zeroed in on the blood gushing around the intubation tube in the unconscious man’s throat.
“What’s the story?” Robby asks, following in the man’s hurried stride.
“My buddy, Officer Hiro,” Jack answers immediately, through a series of panted breaths. “High-velocity GSW, warehouse robbery gone sideways. He’s getting harder to bag.”
The windowless trauma room swallows you whole as you wheel the gurney inside. The four walls swell suddenly with the scent of coppery blood and bitter chlorhexidine. Nurses rush to wake the surrounding monitors with a set of electronic chirps, while Jack escorts the officers he came with out of the room. “We’ll take care of him, I promise,” you hear the man say as you slide your stethoscope into your ears.
You press the chestpiece to the man’s bloodied sternum, bare from where his uniform had already been cut down to his waist and sticky with fresh blood. His heartbeat is weak and rapid in your ears, barely maintaining enough pressure to reach his brain.
“Pulse is thready,” you murmur and slide the diaphragm half an inch higher. “Diminished breath sounds on the right…”
Jack appears across from you, mouth curling into a familiar crooked grin. “We have got to stop meeting like this, Doc,” he jokes in a gritty deadpan.
“That’s crazy— I was thinking the exact same thing,” you quip and slip the stethoscope back around your neck. “Dr. Santos, let’s make sure these lungs are up.”
“You two know each other?” Robby wonders aloud. He glances between you and Jack with a pair of suspiciously narrowed eyes as he plucks a pair of scissors from the metal tray beside him.
“Yeah, you could say that…” Jack huffs with his eyes on the blade, which slices mechanically through the end of the endotracheal tube protruding from Hiro’s throat.“Pulling out,” the man announces before sliding the thing out through his mouth. “Bag.”
A silver-haired nurse, whom you’ve yet to come acquainted with, squeezes at the valve mask at Jack’s instruction. Air bubbles at the wound.
“He’s not moving any air,” you call to the crowded room. “Get me a neonatal mask.”
“Neonatal?” Santos echoes with furrowed brows.
“Yeah, we’re gonna put it over the wound to keep his airflow up while Dr. Abbot cuts a full-length tube and Dr. Robby shifts his trachea back into place,” you explain with a firm nod, smiling softly as you turn back to the attendings across from you. “Sound like a plan?”
Robby glances up at you from where he’s hunched over Hiro’s body, with two gloved fingers searching for his vocal cords. A faint smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Do you always explain procedures like you’re assigning homework?” he laughs.
“If you’re asking if she’s always been this bossy, yes, she has,” Jack quips with a crooked grin that widens at the edges when you roll your eyes, turning away to accept the neonatal mask a nurse passes from behind you. “And yes, it saved my life— Santos, cut me down a 6-0 ET tube, will you?”
“Oh, do tell…” Robby hums.
“There’s nothing to tell,” you huff and set the mask of the neonatal tube over the bubbling wound, helping the air move in and out of the unconscious man’s lungs. “It’s just the kinda stuff that happens when you’re an army medic— you win some, you lose some.”
“Oh, she’s just being modest,” Jack croons drily as he irrigates the wound with saline, washing away clotted blood until the displaced trachea emerges beneath the crimson. His gloved fingers move alongside yours as he rambles. “She had orders to leave me after I got hit by that IED… The rest of ‘em were pulling back— didn’t have much of a choice but to, really, but… She didn’t… She dragged me about… What was it? Two-hundred meters?”
Jack’s eyes lift and find yours have gone strangely distant. Your gaze zeroes in on the neck wound below; your mind wanders against your will.
The freezing A.C. of the emergency department grows sweltering in an instant, burning like the familiar desert heat that feels like dry fire in your lungs. Black smoke threatens to fog your vision all at once. The antiseptic smell turns suddenly to burning fuel. And the blood on your hands becomes darker, fresher, running over your fingers like an open faucet.
Your hands start to tremble the same way they did when you tied the tourniquet around Jack’s wounded limb, made of nothing more than exposed nerves and tendons from the knee down. You feel your legs weaken the same way they did when you dragged Jack’s weight across unforgiving ground beneath earth-shaking explosions and whizzing bullets.
Jack apologized through his guttural screams — because, even now, he swears the pain from the tourniquet hurt more than losing his leg — as you sat him up behind an unmanned tank.
“Shut. Up,” you commanded, covering his mouth with your bloodied hand. “Or I swear to god, I will kill you if we make it out of here— Do you understand?”
You made it out. And it became a funny story everyone told back at the VA — that time you threatened the life of the man you were saving — though you still struggle to laugh about it even still.
“…Right, Doc?” Jack presses, head ducking in an attempt to catch your eye.
Your hands remain firm over the small mask pressed to the wound in Hiro’s neck, but your face has emptied into an expressionless sort of look. It takes a long moment for your brain to will your eyes to blink, and only then does the sun-bleached desert in your mind return to the hospital where you plant your feet — buzzing fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, blinding white walls. You list everything you can see until your brain recalculates its surroundings.
Your wide eyes flit across the unblinking stares looking back at you, each of them waiting for a response. Your heart lurches in your chest. Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to recall the last thing you’d heard.
“Uh, n-not quite two-hundred,” you stammer with a trembling smile. “We had a team find us before then, I’m pretty sure.”
“See what I mean?” Jack hums with a surer smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His softened gaze remains fixed on you, studying you despite all your attempts to hide. “Modest.”
The automatic doors of the ambulance bay sigh open and shut every few seconds behind you. Each mechanical breath exhales waves of freezing air into the thick July evening, which smells overwhelmingly of hot asphalt, cigarette smoke, and gunpowder from far-off fireworks.
You stand next to Jack beneath the overhang, with summer wind whipping through the thin fabric of your tied isolation gowns as you wait for the incoming trauma together — roughly five minutes out, Dana had said.
“So…” you start slowly, wringing the loose pair of gloves in your anxious hands as your eyes fall to the man beside you. He’s still wearing the baggy camo pants he’d arrived in, though he’s since traded his heavy plate carrier for the fitted black t-shirt underneath it, which clings ardently to his muscular torso. “…SWAT, huh?”
“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” he jokes with a lazy shrug. “And, turns out, I suck at golf, so… I chose the next best thing.”
You shake your head and turn away, exhaling a quiet laugh in response — perhaps your first real one since the unforgiving shift started. The corner of Jack’s mouth lifts into a grin, proud of himself for having heard the pretty sound. He hadn’t thought to miss it until now.
“…How long has it been, you think?” he wonders suddenly, with a pair of squinted eyes.
You draw a deep breath through your nose. Your eyes scale the milky pink and orange skyline beyond the ambulance bay, where a molten gold sunset streaks across the sky. “A while…” you settle on after a few long moments.
“Anything new with you I should know about?” he asks, rocking gently to ease the weight on his prosthetic.
You scoff like it’s funny — maybe because you can’t remember the last time anyone other than your therapist was asking after you. “Nope…” you sigh. “Unfortunately, I am still the exact same person you knew back then…”
“Doesn’t seem so unfortunate to me,” he insists, brows furrowed, like he’s half-offended by your own self-degradation.
“Well, you’d think after— I don’t know— a decade of pretty intensive therapy that I might be a little different,” you quip with an awkward laugh. The humor dissolves a second later when you realize how pathetic you sound. “But, uh… I’m still working through it, I guess...”
“Aren’t we all…” Jack trails off with a slow nod.
“I don’t know,” you lilt, eyes drifting unconsciously towards his hand, where a black wedding ring sits around his fourth finger. The sight of it makes your chest ache more than you’d like to admit — as if a not-so-distant part of you had expected him to be as single and miserably lonely as you, even after all this time.
Of course, someone loves him, you think to yourself, how could they not?
“You seem to be doing pretty alright for yourself, I’d say.”
Jack follows your gaze and, almost instinctively, clasps his hands behind his back as if to hide them. His anxious grip tightens on the blue latex he holds between them. “Yeah, uh—” He clears his throat, eyes fixed on the street beyond the overhang. “My wife, she… She passed. A few years ago.”
The humid summer air becomes harder to breathe in an instant. Your mouth parts with shock, though it takes a long moment before any words of apology fall out. “Oh— Shit, Jack, I— I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know,” he assures with a gentle smile, rubbing absentmindedly at the ring with his thumb from where it hides behind his back. “It’s my fault for still wearing the damn thing. I just— feel weird taking it off, I guess…”
You nod slowly to yourself and glance away. You’ve gotten well acquainted with grief and its tricky rituals over the years.
“What about you?” Jack wonders aloud, smiling a little wider when you turn back to face him with a pair of raised brows. “You seeing anyone?”
Your first instinct is to laugh. “No. God, no.”
“Oh, c’mon…” he croons. “It can’t be that bad.”
You flash him a cynical look and a sad sort of smile. “Yeah, well… I don’t think most people are looking for a girl like me, to be fair.”
“Yeah?” Jack hums, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” you scoff. “A girl who… works all the time. Who barely sleeps. Who can’t sleep if someone’s breathing wrong in the next room. Who… goes to therapy twice a week— three times if things are real bad— I mean…” A laugh sputters from your lips. “I’m a total nutcase.”
“Hey,” Jack argues, weathered face screwed in a playful offense. “Some guys are into nutcases, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh, really?” you hum drily.
“Me chief among them,” he nods.
“What?” you laugh. “Is that supposed to flatter me or something—?”
Boom! An explosion crackles across the evening sky. Your body reacts before your mind, going into panic mode in a flicker. Your shoulders jerk violently, your heart leaps into your throat, your eyes snap instinctively for cover. A red-hot spark rushes down your legs as though your body was telling you to run.
Your brain catches up a second later.
It’s a firework… It’s just a firework, you think to soothe yourself, and to ease your suddenly pounding pulse. But as the fear fizzles slowly away, the self-hatred comes next — the undeniable fact that your body will always belong to a war that ended years ago.
You force your shoulders to relax once more and pray that Jack hasn’t noticed any of it. But you can see his expression softening in the corner of your eye — first with concern, which flickers thereafter into a softer sort of pity.
At the very least, however, he gives you the dignity of pretending he hadn’t seen it at all as sirens rage in the distance — growing nearer and nearer until the red-yellow lights of the ambulance whip around the corner. The two of you snap your gloves on in tandem.
Jack steps off the curb first when it squeals to a park just in front of you. “You picked a hell of a day to come in, Doc…” he huffs and rushes towards the back doors.
“I’d rather be here than working,” you scoff and follow behind him. “It’s less depressing that way, I think.”
“Is it?” Jack quips with narrowed eyes.
You laugh through your nose. “Yeah, jury’s still out on the one, I guess…”
Fourth of July rages across the city. You pretend not to notice.
You stand in the muffled quiet of the breakroom, tucked away from the chaos of the emergency department, and watch the coffee machine in front of you sputter as it coughs up steam that smells like burnt grounds and vanilla creamer. You let the bitter stench singe your nostrils as the firework show begins in the heart of the city.
Boom!
A firework sounds off in the distance, closer than all the ones from earlier in the evening. You wrap both hands around the paper cup of coffee, letting the scalding warmth seep into your palms. The heat nearly burns you, but it’s half-grounding nonetheless.
Boom!
You swear it’s shaking the ground beneath your feet, and trembling the thick, concrete walls on either side of you. Though, with the way your day is going now, it’s impossible to tell what’s real and what lives only inside your head.
Boom!
Your fingers tighten around the cup to the point of trembling. You close your eyes and attempt to count your breaths — in for seven, hold for four, out for eight. Your brain tries to trick you — tries to convince you that the freezing cold of the emergency department smells like desert heat and metallic blood and burning gunpowder. It works.
“Counter…” you mutter aloud to yourself, despite how strange it seems, flattening your hand along the white laminate below, even as your shoulders jerk from another explosion in the city. You place your hand on the smooth curve of the cold sink next, and then on the rough cloth draped just behind it. “Faucet… Dishrag…”
Your attempts to anchor yourself to reality only halfway work. You opt to abandon your coffee on the counter altogether as your pulse continues to climb. You’re grateful to find the E.R. still waiting for you on the other side of the door, instead of a memory you can’t seem to leave.
“Oh, hey— I was just looking for you.”
Your head whips over your shoulder to find Jack strolling down the half-empty corridor with a tablet in his hands, now dressed in his dark black scrubs instead of the tactical gear he arrived in.
His shift has probably started now, or is about to, at least — which means you should be leaving with the rest of the day shift. But you fear what waits for you outside these walls and those automatic doors; the crushing certainty of solitude that always seemed to be waiting for you back home, to be more specific.
You exhale a trembling breath, falling into step with Jack when he walks by. “Where is everyone?” you wonder aloud.
“Day shift went up to the roof, I think,” he answers with most of his attention on the tablet as he scrolls absentmindedly through it. “Watching the fireworks and drinking beer, I’m sure… Lucky bastards.”
“Santos did invite me to karaoke today,” you tell him.
“A karaoke invite on your first day, huh? Impressive,” Jack croons, laughing softly through his nose when you lean to knock your shoulder against his broader one. He gets a faint whiff of the perfume still lingering on your clothes, beneath layers of antiseptic and hospital soap. He misses your warmth the second you’re gone. “You gonna go?”
Your shoulders sag with a sigh. “I don’t know… I’m kinda liking this adrenaline rush, to be honest. Might try and ride it ’til the wheels fall off.”
“Well, that always ends well, in my experience,” Jack quips with a lopsided smile as he slows to a stop in front of you, tucking the tablet under his bicep. He towers a few inches over you, close enough to make you lift your chin to properly meet his eyes. “But I do have something you could help me with, if you have a few minutes to spare…”
“Of course.”
“I, uh…” he trails off, turning to glance awkwardly at his left shoulder. “I took a hit… You know, in the field earlier… I’m pretty sure the vest caught most of it but—”
“You were—” You catch yourself before your voice can carry down the hallway. You take a step closer, lowering your voice into a harsh whisper as you scold him. “You were shot?”
“Shot at,” he corrects, with his brows raised to his hairline. “And it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. I tried to clean it up myself, but it’s pretty… inconveniently located…”
He rolls his shoulder in an attempt to ease the discomfort building there from his scrubs rubbing against the wound. His scruffy jaw tightens with a faint grimace, enough for you to notice the pain in his weathered features that he’d been pretending wasn’t there before now.
Concern flares white-hot in your chest. “Let me see it.”
The tone leaves little room for argument. It’s the same one you’d used on him all that time ago, when you ordered him to shut up and quit apologizing for bleeding out before the people trying to kill you could find you.
“Yes, ma’am,” he nods.
Jack leads you to the nearest empty exam room and slips inside while you gather the supplies you suspect you’ll need from the cart outside the door. You hold them to your chest when you return to the room, where you find Jack undressing, tugging his scrub top off by the collar.
The pale tendons in his back flex unevenly when he pulls the fabric off completely. The milky white canvas of his back is exposed to you then, along with the raging scrape glowing a bright scarlet along his left shoulder.
The door clicks shut behind you and garners the man’s attention. Jack turns to face you. You find he’s grown strangely broader with age. His stomach is full but toned, and his chest is filled out with a similar strength. Both are dusted with faint freckles and light colored hair that trails down from his sternum and disappears beneath his scrub pants.
He seems to mistake the subtle shock on your face for concern.
“I’ve had worse,” he assures you.
“I know, Abbot,” you deadpan, reaching for the glove dispenser on the wall with your free hand. “I was there.”
Jack settles on the edge of the exam table while you arrange the supplies on the metal tray before you — gauze, saline, antibiotic ointment, steri-strips. Your hands remember the motions before your mind has to. It comes to you as easily as muscle memory. You work with an effortlessness that only comes with years of experience; and Jack weathers the pain with an effortlessness that only comes with years of aching.
“You wanna know something funny?” he announces suddenly. The muscles in his back tense slightly when he twists to glance at you over his bare shoulder.
“You getting shot at and not telling anyone for half a shift?” you answer in a monotone.
He exhales a quiet laugh and turns back around.
“I had… the biggest crush on you,” Jack confesses in an achingly gentle voice, and pretends not to notice when your hands still suddenly behind him. He inhales slowly through his nose, as if he’d been sitting on those words for some time, and crosses his arms over his bare chest as if to shield himself from them in some way. “I was, uh… I was gonna ask you out, actually. You know, when we got back home, but… You disappeared before I could.”
His quiet laugh sounds much louder in the silence that settles heavily between you.
“I, uh— I’m pretty sure I still have the letter I wrote you, actually, when I figured out your address— in a box somewhere in the attic probably, but… It felt a little too stalkerish to send it, and… Then I met my wife, and I figured you moved on, too, and…” he trails off, struggling to find the right words. “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re here now.”
“It was probably for the best,” you tell him, and clear your throat when your voice shakes. You pretend not to notice your fingers trembling when you smooth down the edge of the bandage you press over his wound. “I wasn’t exactly… the best company back then.”
“You were always good company,” Jack scoffs. “Even when I thought I was gonna die, I was glad I was with you. I mean, I hated that you were gonna have to witness it obviously, but… I was still glad it was you— Even when you were threatening to kill me.”
You’re pierced almost physically by his words. You blink rapidly to clear the haze of them when your vision starts to blur, another memory threatening to drag you under. Memories you’d spent years and a shit ton of money working through in therapy, that are now eating away at you from the inside out.
His shoulder beneath your fingertips is covered suddenly in shredded camouflage. The bandage on his freckled skin stains red until it gushes once more with warm blood. His laughter turns to screams. The air turns to smoke. The fluorescent lights turn to a white-hot sun.
Jack frowns to himself when he feels your hands freezing once more behind him. He glances over his shoulder and finds that your eyes have gone empty again, fixed somewhere far away — the same way they had earlier that day. His chest pinches with an instant worry.
“You okay?”
His words sound like they’re muffled by water or light-years of space. You can’t hear them over the heartbeat whoosh, whoosh, whooshing in your ears, pounding harder against your pulse with every second that passes that you can’t catch your breath.
Another firework explodes outside like distant thunder. Your body jolts in response, and reality slams back into you a second later.
“I, uh…” You swallow hard, eyes flitting wildly around the room, like you’re struggling to place yourself inside it. “I-I’m all done here, I think.”
“Hey…” Jack coos and turns around to face you completely. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
You step back from him and rip off your gloves with two dull pops. You chuck them hurriedly into the bin, feeling overwhelmingly like the walls are closing in on either side of you.
“I, uh... I just need… I’ll, um…” You shake your head when the words don’t come out right. The next ones leave in a whimper when you try and fail to catch your breath. “I’m sorry.”
You rush out of the room, gone before Jack can gather his shirt.
“No…” That’s the only thing you can seem to make out as you hide yourself in the breakroom. The word scrapes against your throat, still too narrow to properly let air flow through. You wedge your pointer fingers painfully in your ears when the far-off fireworks become unrelenting gunshots in your skull. Your vision tunnels, the room blurs, every breath seems to catch somewhere in your chest. “No, no, no—”
The words dissolve into a half-strangled whimper in the back of your throat. You crouch slowly down in the center of the room and curl inward on yourself, forehead nearly touching your knees. Every muscle draws tight enough to ache. Your body makes itself smaller on instinct, as if it still believed that smaller targets survived the longest.
You vaguely hear the sound of your name coming from behind you — far away at first, like a voice carried underwater — and then much closer, when a pair of warm, calloused hands curl gently around your forearms. Despite the inherent softness of the touch, you flinch violently in the sudden hold.
“Hey… It’s just me,” Jack coos.
His voice cuts through the buzzing panic with a remarkable steadiness. Your head snaps in his direction. You find him looming just beside you, bent over at the waist. His face is slow to flood into focus. For a gutwrenching flicker of a second, he’s the same dark-haired, bloodied, and crying man that nearly died in your arms.
Reality settles in a moment later.
The silver threaded in his curls catches the buzzing fluroscents overhead. His light eyes, still so soft despite the carnage they’ve witnessed, dart over your features with a silent concern.
“It’s just me,” he continues. “You’re okay. Just keep looking at me.”
You try to until— Boom! Another firework crackles in the distance. Your eyes squeeze shut despite yourself. Your entire body recoils. “I can’t—” you whimper through a ragged breath that catches in your throat. Your chest sears white-hot accordingly.
“Okay. That’s okay,” he nods. “Just breathe with me. Don’t fight it, okay? Just breathe.”
Jack inhales slowly, drawing in one exaggerated breath until his chest rises beneath his scrubs. You try to mimic it, but it stutters painfully halfway through. Your lungs seize despite yourself. Your face twists into a pained sort of look.
“That’s okay. There you go,” he praises. The corner of his mouth lifts into the faintest hint of a smile. His thumbs rub softly along the buzzing skin of your arm. “I know it doesn’t feel good. Just keep trying for me.”
It takes several long moments for your breaths to finally even out. Jack holds you through every single one of them. Only when your hands slip from your ears and your shoulders stop trembling does Jack carefully guide you to your feet, with a pair of warm hands clasped gently around the outside of your elbows.
He keeps you stable on unsteady limbs as he guides you the short distance to the plastic chairs gathered around the breakroom table. You collapse into one. He pulls up another to be nearer to you — close enough for your knees to slot between each other’s and for his fingers to thread with yours when he reaches for you again. His palm is warm and gently calloused; a little like velvet as it glides against yours.
You rest your other arm on the table beside you, hiding your face behind the palm of your free hand. When you regain your breath, the first thing you think to do is laugh — a wet, brittle, exhausted sort of sound.
“What the hell am I doing here?” you ask within a weak chuckle, shaking your head at yourself. “The VA recommended me because I was supposed to be good at this, but… I’ve been here for one shift… And all I’ve done is make everything worse—”
“C’mon,” Jack hums. “You know that’s not true.”
“Look at me!” you laugh, gesturing helplessly towards yourself when you lift your head to meet his eyes. Tears glisten in your gaze, clumping your bottom lashes together. “I’m supposed to be taking care of people, Jack! I’m not helping anyone like this!”
The man studies you for a long moment. His eyes narrow with a careful curiosity. “Does this happen a lot?” he wonders gently. “These… spells?”
You shake your head, eyes fluttering shut. “No. Not in— years. I thought they were gone. I mean, I certainly pay my therapist enough; they should be gone by now, but…” You end your ramble with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know… I think… Seeing you, you know, for the first time since… Since we came back home, it just… Opened something…”
Jack’s thumb swipes across your knuckles. You expect him to be half-offended at your confession. He smiles instead.
“Well, you know how we fix that?” he asks, with something short of amusement on the edge of his voice. “We go get a beer tomorrow night. Or whenever you’re up for it. And we talk about all this shit. All of our— trauma or whatever. We just… We have it out.”
Something like sunshine threatens to swell in your chest. It burns out quickly, though.
“But what about everything else?” you wonder in a small voice, wet eyes drifting towards the closed break room door. “I can’t go back out there. Not like this. What if… What if I freeze again? Three seconds is enough to… to kill someone if they’re in critical condition.”
“We’ll make sure you have dual coverage— if you freeze again, you’ll have another attending to step in for you,” Jack answers with a firm nod and unwavering gaze, confident enough to soothe you. “But, for now, we take you upstairs to neuro. Maybe do an EEG since you’re having new symptoms, just to rule out anything structural. And then tomorrow, you book an appointment with your doctor, and I’ll drive you— I don’t care when it is. Just call me, alright? I’ll give you my number.”
You crumple under the weight of his tenderness, of his thumb running soothingly across the ridges of your knuckles. You shake your head, brows knitting softly together. “Why—?” you go to ask, but the words get caught halfway through.
Why are you doing this? you want to say. Why are you doing this for me?
“Well, you pretty much carried me through hell, in case you forgot,” Jack answers with a tired laugh. “And I spent a long, long time wishing I could’ve helped you the same way you helped me.”
Silence settles comfortably between you once more. Your wet eyes fall to your joined hands, where his larger one engulfs your own. His are warmer, slightly rough around the knuckles, and calloused at the palms. It’s hard to imagine, you realize, that the hands that once clawed desperately at the sun-hot desert when you tended to his leg are now reaching so gently out for you.
A series of voices race down the hall all at once, yelling over the buzzing wheels of a gurney. “—What do you mean he lit it in his mouth?”
“He thought it’d shoot out the opposite way—”
“Sir, please, stop trying to pull the bottle rocket out yourself—”
“There it is…” Jack huffs. “The annual reminder that fireworks are nature’s way of thinning out humanity.”
You exhale a quiet laugh through your nose, too weak for anything else, and follow Jack when he stands to full height. The distance between you is barely a step. You feel yourself closing it before your mind can catch up, sliding your arms experimentally around his shoulders and pressing your chest against his.
For the faintest fraction of a second, Jack goes still. His breath leaves him in a quiet rush at the feeling of having you so close. His arms raise slowly, wrapping around your waist with a tenderness that threatens to undo you all over again. One broad hand settles warmly between your shoulder blades, while the other spreads carefully along the small of your back.
You haven’t been this close to him since the day he almost died. In fact, the last time you held him, your hands had been slick with his blood — so much of it, that the dirt turned to sticky paste on your palms. But now, he no longer smells of the metallic blood and burning gunpowder and death that haunts your dreams. Instead, he smells of fresh laundry, expensive cedar cologne, and hospital soap. Like home. Like life.
You breathe in through your nose, inhaling him deep into your lungs.
“Thank you…” you hear yourself say, chin bobbing on his shoulder, words brushing over the fabric of his scrubs.
“Don’t thank me,” Jack scoffs humorously, though his hands drift up and down your spine with an unyielding tenderness. “I’m still paying off a debt.”
“What debt?”
“You’re the one who refused to leave me behind, remember?” he asks. “Well, now it’s my turn to make sure nobody leaves you.”
Outside, another firework climbs high into the starry summer sky and bursts into a thousand brilliant stars with another far-away explosion. Only this time, you hear it without hearing the war.
Summer softens slowly into autumn.
The relentless early-July heat gives way to crisp mornings and cool evenings. Dusk arrives a little earlier every day, spilling through the closed bedroom curtains in silvers of honey-colored rays. Outside, a late afternoon breeze stirs the trees until the copper-colored branches brush the window — tires buzz across the worn pavement while the streets fill with the comforting chorus of the early evening.
Life always has a way of finding its rhythm, you find.
You continued working at the PTMC even after Robby returned from his sabbatical, settling into permanent dual coverage on the night shift with Jack. Your symptoms subsided after that first shift — no more blank spots since you switched medications; no more nightmares since you started spending the majority of your nights in Jack’s bed. Your mind feels like home again.
You lay there, tangled in the rumpled gray comforter, the majority of which you had unconsciously stolen during the night, and listen to the man’s even breaths as he sleeps soundly just beside you.
Jack lies on his stomach with his strong arms folded beneath the thin pillow under his head, facing away from you. You watch the gentle rise and fall of his back from where the dark sheet has slipped around his waist, exposing the freckled canvas of his back — and the healed scrape along his shoulder, now a thin scratch of marred, pink skin.
Your hand wanders slowly beneath the blankets — finding his clothed hip first, then crawling up the familiar landscape of his spine, before settling in the strands of silver curled at the nape of his neck.
The man wakes with a sharp inhale and turns his wild head slowly to face you, still not quite awake.
“Jack…” you whisper to him, fingers still twisting in his curls. “Jack.”
“Mm?” he grunts without opening his eyes, brows pinching in protest.
“We gotta start getting ready.”
Your hand parts from his neck to reach for the phone charging on the other side of you. You don’t make it far before a large, warm hand catches your wrist.
“No,” Jack grumbles halfway into his pillow, voice still gruff with sleep. He tugs your hand back to the back of his neck. “Keep going…”
You exhale a quiet laugh but oblige him anyway. His shoulders deflate with a contented sigh when your fingers return to his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “Why is it you make me do this every morning, but when I ask you to scratch my back before bed, you’re asleep in two minutes?”
“I have a medical condition,” he slurs into his pillow, with his eyes still shut.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“Mm… Pretty sure that’s a HIPAA violation, honey.”
A laugh escapes you before you can help it. “You’re so annoying.”
“Here— We’ll do it at the same time,” Jack mumbles.
He grunts quietly as he twists on his left shoulder until his facing you properly. His right hand slithers around your waist, urging you closer until your knees bump beneath the blankets. His hand is warm and gently calloused when it slips beneath the hem of your oversized shirt. His dull nails scratch lazily up and down the length of your spine. Still without opening his eyes.
“See?” he hums. “Teamwork.”
You exhale a satisfied sigh, then joke drily despite yourself. “Your breath smells, by the way.”
He peeks a tired eye open at that. “Oh, yeah? And what do you think yours smells like, huh? Sunshine and rainbows?”
He leans in to kiss you anyway — a mere brushing of your lips for no longer than a second. But then the second lingers, and so does his mouth against yours. The kiss turns sleepy and slow, mouths gliding and tongues brushing.
Jack lifts himself onto the elbow of his free hand and urges you onto your back until half of his heavy weight is resting on top of you. The stiffness tucked in his boxers rubs against your thigh. A smile curls slowly on your mouth.
“We only have an— an hour to get ready—” You just barely manage to protest between his kisses. “You know that right?”
His mouth slides down to your neck to smear wet-hot kisses along your pulse. His hips flatten further against yours, pressing his hardening length more ardently against you. “I only need five minutes, honey. I promise.”
“Oh, trust me,” you scoff drily. “I’m well aware.”
Jack pulls off of you with the quiet smack of his mouth parting from your jaw. His sleep-swollen features twist in a feigned offense. Slumber clings stubbornly to every inch of him — curls flat on one side and wild on the other; stubble a shade darker on his jaw; pillow creases stamped along his cheek.
“Oh, you are just asking for it, aren’t you?” he squints.
“Clock’s ticking, Dr. Abbot,” you tease with a lazy smile, fingers dancing through his silver curls. “I’m gonna be in that shower in five minutes— With or without you.”
A flicker of amusement flashes across his face, right before he ducks back down to swallow you whole in a searing kiss. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
3 times the pittlings suspect Robby is married and the 1 time it’s confirmed
cw: married!robby, robby and reader have a kid, godfather!jack abbot, medical inaccuracies (trying my best), age gap (unspecified)
wc: 4.7k
a/n: i couldn’t decide a name for their daughter so i just used a nickname ‘bug’ for her!
Doctor Michael “Robby” Robinavitch was not a married man.
Or so his residents thought.
The Chief Attending Physician never mentioned being married, kids, or any other indicators that typically pointed to a relationship.
Besides, while Robby was brilliant, he was also incredibly cynical. They weren’t quite sure that trait screamed husband material.
That was until one by one the ‘pittlings’ as they were called slowly uncovered aspects of Robby’s life that were more than meets the eye.
1. The Rings
Robby didn’t wear a ring.
His left hand was left completely barren during the duration of his shift.
He dodged questions about his love life left and right, especially from the older patients who learned of his last name origins and wanted his whole life story.
Never denied having a wife, just danced around the topic.
Even Abbot who was widowed still wore his wedding ring
Naturally, those who saw his left hand (including those who worked at PMTC), all assumed he was unmarried.
The Emergency Room today is scarily quiet. Not quiet necessarily, just not the typical rush of screaming patients and understaffing issues.
Robby stands by Dana at the central hub, typing away at the tablet to update charting information. Dana works by him silently, clearly savoring the moment of calm before the inevitable storm.
And then the peace is broken by two paramedics bursting through the ambulance bay doors.
Robby discards his tablet immediately and slings his stethoscope back around his neck.
“What do we got?”
“42 year old male. Experiencing chest pains and shortness of breath. Likely a stemi. EKG has been applied.”
“Whitaker! Jesse! You’re with me,” Robby demands.
The two men follow him right into Trauma 2, gloving up immediately and awaiting further instructions.
They know the procedure at this point. Stabilize the patient, call surgery, don’t lose the heartbeat.
Of course that last one is a lot harder to ensure.
But when they lose the heartbeat, Robby immediately springs into action. He rambles off something about the proper number of compressions.
Robby places his hands on the patient’s chest and began the familiar rhythm of CPR.
Whitaker takes over securing the airway while Jesse preps the defibrillator.
They’ve seen many stemi’s in Trauma 1 and 2 but each time it’s a stressful race against the clock.
Robby pauses his compressions, waiting on his internal clock before he starts again.
Still no pulse.
He places his hands once more, applying slightly more pressure as he begins his second wave.
Whitaker stands on deck, fully ready for Robby’s next set of instructions. The endotracheal tube was successfully inserted into the trachea. All he could do now was wait.
And even something catches his attention.
A shiny piece of gold slips out of Robby’s shirt, hitting his chest as it’s stopped by the chain it’s connected to.
Whitaker probably wouldn’t have noticed if the ring hadn’t caught the fluorescent emergency room lights. And then it hits him. Robby has a wedding ring around his neck.
“Whitaker!”
The resident doesn’t respond immediately. He’s too focused on the newest gossip point he may have just uncovered.
“Whitaker!” Robby yells again.
“Right! Sorry!” He rushes out before rambling off the patient’s vitals.
And then…..
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Robby removes his hands, a sigh escaping his lips as he allows the others to take over with the proper procedures.
Whitaker watches as he reaches for his exposed necklace. The attending runs his finger around the band before tucking it securely under his scrubs.
Like wearing a wedding band was nothing at all.
Whitaker doesn’t wanna ask. It isn’t the time, place, or status to question if Robby was married. Just morbid curiosity.
He’ll have to mention it to Santos if he remembers.
Robby shoots two thumbs up as the stemi patient is moved out by surgery.
“Good work everyone,” he announces before slipping out to see where he’s needed.
Huh.
Maybe Dr. Robby is secretly married.
2. Stitches
You don’t expect to end up at the Pitt, truthfully you never had.
Frankly, if you had a choice you would rather head to Westbridge. Okay, maybe that was a stretch but something about going to the Pitt felt like teetering in your husband's territory.
But now your hand is bleeding bad and if you were able to look past the blood, you swear you could see bone. You cursed yourself out for causing such a disastrous scene from simply trying to cook dinner.
You were incredibly grateful your daughter was being watched by your parents for the night.
You drive to PTMC in a haze. Your hand is throbbing and the blood has already started seeping through the thick towel you wrapped around. Should you be driving? Maybe not. But calling an ambulance for a deep wound wasn’t realistic.
In your dazed state, you don’t even think about texting Robby.
It must be your lucky day when you walk into the emergency department and there’s actually empty chairs available. Robby had come home many nights complaining of being understaffed and overrun.
Check-in went smoothly and when the triage nurse saw your hand, she called right for a nurse to bring you back.
You didn’t see Dana at the nurses station and you knew Jack wasn’t due in for another hour or so. Robby also seemed MIA, probably back with a patient.
Instead, a nurse named Sam shows you to your room. “You can have a seat on the bed. Someone should be with you momentarily.”
The pain in your hand continued to increase. Maybe it was the blood loss or the adrenaline fading but you let your eyes shut until there’s a knock on the door and the curtain slides open.
You're greeted shortly after being shown to North 14 by a dark haired doctor.
You squint your eyes to read her badge. Doctor Trinity Santos.
Ah. So that was Santos.
Robby subtly talked about almost all of his coworkers at home. You knew Whitaker was resilient, Javadi was young but highly gifted, Mel was brilliant, and lastly you knew that Santos, begrudgingly, was a lot like Robby.
“I’m Doctor Santos and I’ll be taking care of you today,” she starts. “What’s going on?”
You lift your band up weakly to show the blood stained towel. Despite all, you manage to force out a laugh.
“Kitchen accident. Knife slipped right down my palm.”
Santos sits in a stool and slides over to the edge of the bed.
“Mind if I take a look?”
You nod, only wincing slightly as she unwraps the towel.
“Yeah you got a nasty cut here. I’ll clean it up and we’ll probably need to do a few stitches. How’s the pain?”
“Not great.”
Santos stands up. “I’ll get you something to numb your hand. You should be in and out.”
You give her a warm smile. “Thank you Dr. Santos.”
She’s gone for another few moments before entering the room with the proper supplies. You swing your legs over the bed and rest your hand on the table and bring it over.
Robby is taking a lap around the floor when he double takes at one of the hospital's newest admitants.
Santos is at your bedside, saline flush in hand as she works to clean out the blood from your wound.
“Doctor Santos? What do we have here?” An all familiar voice enters the room.
Your eyes shoot up. Busted.
“Uh,” Santos starts. “Just a deep hand laceration. Kitchen accident. I gave a low dosage to numb the area. Should be good after I finish cleaning and stitch it up.”
The young doctor doesn’t seem to notice the intense eye contact between you and Robby. There’s a silent conversation between you and him. Something between an are you okay? and a why didn’t you ask for me?
“I’d like to take over here if you don’t mind Dr. Santos.”
There’s a long pause of silence in the room.
“Are you sure?” Trinity draws out each word.
“Yeah, I got it,” Robby starts. “Haven’t done some stitching in awhile. Need the practice.”
“I watched you stitch up someone this morning.”
You stifle a laugh, though clearly not well enough for Robby and Santos to not hear.
Santos stands. “But she is all yours. I’ll be back to discharge her when she’s ready.”
Once Santos leaves, you finally have the courage to look your husband in the eye.
“Michael-“ you start.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine. I was just being stupid in the kitchen.”
Robby sighs. “Accidents happen. I just wish you called me. Or texted.”
The saline continues to clean your hand as silence overtakes you.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble after a moment.
“Bother me?” Robby quietly laughs. “Honey, I'm your husband. You’re allowed to bother me when you're hurt. I’d actually prefer it if you did.”
It feels stupid to you now. You were married with a child for god's sake and you still felt guilty asking for help when you had a huge gash down your hand.
“I was trying to make you dinner,” you winced as Robby began his stitches. “Since my parents are watching Bug I wanted us to have a romantic night.”
Robby laughs. Not in a mean way but simply at your kindness.
“We can still have a romantic night. Just gotta be careful of these stitches.”
“Yeah without dinner I guess.”
“I’ll grab something on my way home,” Robby responds to your quip without missing a beat.
He says it so casually too that you can’t help but smile.
“I like seeing you in your scrubs.”
“Oh yeah?”
You loll your head to the side so it’s resting on your arm. “Sorry, I just find my husband looks too good taking care of me.”
“Careful,” he warns.
“Always am.”
Robby’s mind is still in doctor mode. You managing to flirt with him despite your hand was a good sign.
You grimace one final time as Robby makes the final knot.
Your hand already looks miles better.
“Once I wrap it up for you you’ll be all set.”
Robby turns your hand over and wraps his fingers gently around yours. Still careful of your pulsing wound, he brings your hand up to his lips and places a gentle kiss.
His lips linger for a moment, just long enough for Santos to go wide-eyed as she walks past the room. Despite Robby taking over your stitching, you were still technically her patient.
Now, instead of entering your room, she turned on her heel and made a mad dash for where Whitaker sat charting.
“Huckleberry,” Santos sharply whispers.
The boy looks up at her. “What’s up?”
Santos looks behind her back, clearly afraid that her attending could sneak up and hear her gossiping about his personal life.
“My patient in North 14, the one that Robby hijacked?”
Whitaker’s brows furrow in confusion. “Yeah?”
“I swear Robby just kissed her.”
This immediately grabbed Whitaker’s attention. Chart now forgotten, he peers over Santos’ shoulder to see if he can catch a glimpse of the room. No luck.
“What? There’s no way.”
Santos pushes her stray hairs back. “I am so beyond serious you have no idea.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
They’re both silent for a moment before Whitaker speaks up. “You know maybe that’s just his girlfriend?”
“No,” Santos shakes her head. “She had wedding rings on. A massive one too.”
Whitaker finally scoffs. “Huh. Maybe Robby does have a secret double life. You know he wears a necklace with a ring on it?”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t think it mattered until now!” He defends himself.
“So you’re saying I may have just taken Robby’s wife as my patient,” Santos starts.
“Yup.”
“Oh wow. Huh.”
Silence once more. Santos stays deep in thought as Whitaker goes back to charting. She can’t help it, she’s behind nosy.
“Do you think I should just ask?”
“Absolutely not,” Whitaker replies immediately.
Santos rolls her eyes. Curse her roommate for always being the voice of reason.
After checking up on her kid with severe road burn and an older man with chest pains, Santos decides it’s time to check in on you. That is until she sees Robby by the hand sanitizer station.
“Hey Dr. Robby!” Santos calls after her attending.
Robby promptly stops in his tracks and spins around.
“I’m about to go discharge North 14 and then I’ll need a consult in South 6,” Santos explains.
“No need, I already took care of discharge.”
Oh. Robby discharged her patient. Her patient. While Santos was getting better, she still struggled with when to stand up for herself or step down.
“You discharged my patient?”
“Is there a problem Dr. Santos?” Robby inquires.
Oh shit. Santos knows immediately that’s his tone of voice saying are you questioning my authority?
She backtracks immediately. “No, not at all. You are the boss.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at South 6 in a few.”
Santos stays glued to her spot for a moment after Robby walks away.
“Huh,” she thinks to herself. “Maybe I did just stitch up Mrs. Robinavitch.”
3. Little Bug
Jack Abbot walking in the E.R. is an immediate sign that shift change had begun and day shift was finally off the hook.
Jack Abbot walking in with a child on his hip, however, was a totally different story.
Plus, the Paw Patrol backpack he had strung across his shoulder.
Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi sit around their desks. All three are frantically typing away at their charts, desperate to get out of the hospital at a seemingly normal time.
It’s Javadi that spots the scene first.
“Holy shit,” she starts. “Is Abbot holding a kid?”
It felt like the entire E.R. at that moment noticed the attending.
It’s a silent game of if anyone needs to react or not. On one hand, a child in an emergency room is a clear red flag. On the other hand, that kid was with Dr. Jack Abbot.
Jack is unbothered by the wandering eyes.
He heads right to the central hub. Dana spotted them minutes ago and already circled around to greet the pair.
“Day-Nuh!” Bug annunciates both syllables in the nurse's name when she spots the charge nurse.
“Hi Jellybean,” Dana beams, accepting the transfer from Jack and fixing the girl to sit on her hip.
Bug’s hands grasp at Dana’s stethoscope.
For your daughter's birthday, you and Robby had gifted her a play doctor set. She was familiar with the basics and was clearly interested in the real-life thing.
“You have fun with Uncle Jack today? Dana asks.
The girl nods.
“Pirate Jack,” Bug corrects as she points down.
“Pirate huh?” Dana chuckles.
“She learned about my leg a few weeks ago. Started calling me a pirate once she stopped crying,” Jack spoke.
Dana boops the girl on her nose. “Well aren’t you the cutest.”
The attending and charge nurse chat for a few minutes as Bug grabs at everything in her reach: Dana’s badge, her cross necklace, and even the pen that’s clipped to her pocket. Dana, of course, doesn’t mind in the slightest.
Bug quickly gets distracted and wiggles out of Dana’s arms the second she spots Robby in her sightline.
“Da-da!” Bug exclaims. It takes Robby only two quick strides to get to her.
God knows he doesn’t want his daughter running around this place.
Robby, as if he had already sensed his daughter's presence in the E.R., had gathered his things from his locker.
“Oof. Hi Bug,” Robby grunts as he’s hit full force in the legs by the toddler.
The second he picks her up, it’s like his entire demeanor changes. The tension in his shoulders eases and for the first time all day, he doesn’t look steps away from a breakdown.
Robby takes note of his daughter’s outfit that was certainly not the one he dressed her in this morning.
A jersey meant only one thing.
“You took her to a Pirates game?” Robby questions his friend.
Jack nods. “Yeah. They won.”
Robby slides a hand down his face. “So let me get this straight. You took my daughter to a 1:35 start game and are now here to work a 12 hour shift.”
Jack nods again like this isn’t difficult to comprehend. “I’m a shoe-in for uncle of the year.”
That gains a laugh from Robby.
“You’re insane,” he begins. “I’m assuming the jersey was a new addition.”
“Of course. Her cleaned ice cream helmet and hat are in her backpack.”
Javadi turns to their little group who has long abandoned their charting to watch the two men interact.
“You think that’s Robby and Abbot’s love child?’ Javadi inquiries.
That elicits a laugh. The new sound causes Bug to immediately lose her attention on her dad and look over towards the three doctors. Her little hands grasp at the hems of Robby’s scrubs as she focuses mostly on Javadi.
“Looks like she chose you,” Santos says quietly.
Javadi raises her hand tentatively to wave, clearly not wanting to overstep any boundaries with the dynamic most of the emergency department just learned about.
Bug shows a toothy grin as she waves back.
Robby feels Bug shifting around and turns to face the group who suddenly look like deer in headlights. Like Bug when she gets caught pulling puppy dog eyes on Dana for another cookie.
To the pittlings shock, Robby laughs.
“You guys are allowed to say hi.”
Robby points to Santos first. “That’s Trinity.”
“Trin-ty!” Bug repeats.
“Dennis.”
“Dennis!”
“And Victoria.”
Bug’s face scrunches up in concentration. More than two syllables were rough. “Vic-tora!”
Robby shrugs. “Eh close enough, Bug.” He then turns his attention away from the girl. “We’re working on phonics right now.”
Santos holds her hands up. “Alright I’ll bite. You have a kid? And it’s not yours and Abbot’s?”
Dana bumps Jack with her shoulder. “Told ya people would say something.”
Robby glares at the two before turning back to Santos.
“Yes, I have a kid. Yes, I am married. Yes, Jack has been helping me while my wife is out of town. Any other questions?”
Whitaker clocks Santos’ look immediately. So their suspicions were correct.
“Was your wife my patient that you stitched up?” Santos bursts out. She can’t help it. The curiosity has been eating her up.
“Yes it was. She didn’t want to bother me for help.”
“Aw. No wonder you two get along.”
Bug is growing not just tired, but restless too. A bad combination for a toddler.
“When does the missus get back?” Dana asks.
“Tomorrow night,” Robby starts. “Can’t thank you guys enough for everything.”
To everyone in the room, this made perfect sense. Two of Robbie’s close support systems helping him out with his daughter.
“But this little one seems pretty tired from romping around with Uncle Jack. Can you say thank you, Bug?”
Bug turns her head to her uncle. “Thank you pirate Jack!”
Dana squeezes the young girls cheek and with a final wave goodbye, Robby is out the door. Probably the earliest he has ever left PTMC.
Safe to say he left the Pittlings in shock.
+1. Meeting
Your hand takes a bit to heal. Given how deep the cut was, you were fully expecting a long road to recovery.
Robby checked over the wound almost daily. He explained in simple terms to Bug that “mommy’s left hand was hurt right now” and that “she needed to be extra careful.”
Of course Bug was determined to kiss it better. Just like her dad had done to you.
Robby insists that you set up a 3-week checkup.
He told you that the surface skin should be healed by three weeks (sometimes longer with it being such a utilized area), but there would be a road ahead for deep tissue recovery.
Your phone pings as you’re packing your purse.
What time are you coming in?
About to leave! Need anything?
All good. I let the triage nurses know you’re coming so you should be able to come right back. See you soon. Love you
Love you too!
After your initial incident, PTMC didn’t feel as scary. Also probably given the fact that you and your husband had a long conversation about it being okay to ask for help.
The irony was there best believe it.
You’re waved through once you enter the waiting room. This time, thankfully, you spotted Dana immediately at the central hub.
“Well look who’s back!” Dana exclaims.
You hold your wrapped hand up. “Michael insisted I come for a checkup.”
Dana rounds the hub and wraps you in a greeting hug. “Sounds like him.”
She pauses to notice there is no toddler trotting in with you. “No Bug?”
You roll your eyes playfully. “You know I do have a life outside of my daughter.”
“Eh. Debatable.”
You glance around the bustling emergency room. No signs of Robby. “Is my husband around?”
“Let me page him.”
Robby appears just moments after being paged. He looks tired and worn. You can’t imagine what the day has already thrown at him.
But when he sees you, he slaps on a tired smile and walks like the day hasn’t beat him down.
“Hi honey,” Robby greets you, shocking even you as he places a soft kiss to your forehead.
You know he prefers private displays of affection. Can’t live without it actually. In public, however, holding your hand suffices for both of you.
“I can get you set up in a room so we can look at that hand. In and out promise.”
You wave him off. “Take your time. I know you’re busy.”
Dana scoffs and laughs. “When is he not.”
“Tell me about it.”
Robby shoots both of his hands up in the air as an ‘i’m innocent!’
“South 10’s open.”
You’re so close to stealing your husband away to do your checkup when the phone rings and Dana’s face falls.
“Car pileup on 376. Incoming in 5 minutes.”
Robby slides a hand down his face. You squeeze his arm.
“It’s okay Mike. I can wait.”
Robby shakes his head as his eyes dart around the emergency room.
“Santos!” Robby calls. The young resident’s head snaps up, eyes immediately locking on you. “You free?”
She stands up. “I can be.”
“Mind doing a three week checkup? Since I hijacked it last time.”
You chuckle. “Don’t worry, I chewed him out for it.”
You and Robby can both tell Santos is treading in uncharted waters.
“I’m assuming this is your wife?” Santos asks.
You stick your uninjured hand out for her to shake. “Yes I am and Y/N is fine.”
Oh she can’t wait to tell Whitaker.
“Sorry about last time,” you apologize.
Santos shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. Nice to meet you.”
Dana looks at the group and repeats. “South 10.”
“Right,” Santos presses her lips together.
You can sense that Robby is on edge about the incoming trauma. “I’ll be okay Mike. It’s just a checkup. Besides, based on what you’ve told me I’m in good hands.”
Santos tries not to glow with pride.
“Okay okay. I’ll swing by when I can.”
Santos guides you to South 10. You take a seat in the chair before she slowly unwraps your bandage. While Robby’s stitches were flawless, it was still a nasty injury to heal from.
“I’m gonna do another cleaning and then test your movement,” Santos explains. “Just gotta grab the stuff and I’ll be back.”
True to her word, Santos is back but this time she’s accompanied by Robby.
“Thought you had an incoming trauma?” you inquire.
“Got re-routed to Westbridge.”
You nod, winching only slightly as Santos begins poking the area for tenderness. Safe to say she found it!
“Do you want to remove your rings?” Santos asks
You nod before sliding the two bands off. “Don’t want them in the way for either of us.”
Robby steps forward and opens his palm. You drop them down as he unclips his necklace chain and slides them on. They hit his respective wedding band with a satisfying clink.
“Want me to stay?” Robby offers.
“Not if you’re going to terrorize Santos,” you fire back.
Santos is enjoying this a bit too much.
“I will go see if someone else needs help then. Please call if you need anything.”
The young resident works in silence. Despite Robby not being in the room, his presence lingers over. If she fucked up working on his wife, she was screwed.
But surprisingly, you’re the one to break the silence.
“Robby told me you’re interested in general surgery,” you speak.
Once again, Santos is taken aback. Robby doesn’t just talk about her outside of work but he talks highly of her outside of work.
“Yeah I think so. I’m still figuring it out.”
“Eh you have time. Don’t tell him I told you this but he thinks you’ll be a great fit.”
Santos smiles. “I think I’m just in shock to be treating you now that I know who you are. And your daughter too.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have no problems telling Robby off,” You laugh. “Just didn’t want to make a big deal last time.”
“I get it. How long have you to been together?” Santos asks and then immediately freezes. “Oh I’m so sorry I don’t mean to interrogate.”
What has Robby been doing to these poor residents to make them so scared?
“We’ve known each other for 10, married for 8, and we’ve had Bug for three years now.”
“She’s adorable. She waved to us when Dr. Abbot brought her in.”
“Yeah she likes Jack more than me sometimes,” you grin.
Your checkup doesn’t take much longer after that. Santos wraps your hand up once more and goes through aftercare instructions. “But I’ll let Dr. Robby know as well,” she finishes out.
You walk back to the central hub as you make small talk with Santos. She tells you about how she used to be an athlete and how she’s fluent in Tagalog. You, in turn, tell her about your own work and all the details that come with that.
Robby strategically positioned himself to be waiting with Dana when you’re done.
“Dr. Santos is fantastic,” you praise when you find him. “Everything looks a-okay.”
Santos slides past you to sit down at her desk with Whitaker and Javadi.
“Just treated Mrs. Robinavitch,” she whispers. The other resident and student doctor lean in close. “She’s so nice. Like scary nice. And smart too.”
And just like the pittlings feared, Robby appears behind them to interrupt their gossip session.
“Well I’m glad you find my wife nice and smart,” Robby muses.
Then you’re popping up right behind them. “Cut them some slack, Mike. They’re just curious.”
It’s like you have him under a spell with the way he relaxes at your touch.
“Wanna walk me out?” you offer.
Robby points at the group of three. “Any of you need anything?”
It’s amusing so see how quickly they shake their heads no.
“Alright, I’ll be back soon.”
As Robby turns to leave, you grab his arm to stop him.
“It was nice to meet you guys! Thank you again Dr. Santos for all your help.”
Dana laughs loudly at their shocked expression. It was definitely weird to see their strict attending doctor be so relaxed around his wife.
“So you do have a wedding ring,” Whitaker points out.
Robby reaches under his scrub top to pull out the chain. “Eight years.”
“And a child together,” Javadi jumps in.
“Three years,” Robby adds.
“I’ll have to bring her back sometime. She’s been asking about you guys non-stop,” You laugh.
Your phone pings. It’s daycare sending you and Robby Bug’s report of what she did today.
“Well duty calls. See you guys!”
Robby wraps his arm around your shoulder as he steers you out of the emergency room.
Santos, ready as ever to pounce on an opportunity to hype herself up, looks at Whitaker.
“Y/N told me that Robby thinks I’d thrive in surgery.”
She pushes away from her desk, laughing loudly and ready to go check up on her next.
Whitaker and Havadi follow immediately, a chorus of “What!” and “Did she say anything about me!” fall from their lips.
Santos gloats.
“You’ll just have to find her next time.”
And just like that she escapes, still riding on the high of Robby’s praise.
And above all, the emergency room feels a little lighter.
Summary: Jack Abbot's relaxing day off takes a turn for the worse when he hears his phone ring. After all, his phone is on do not disturb and there's only one person that he's allowed to interrupt his peace — you. Even worse, your voice isn't the first thing he hears when he picks up.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x nurse!reader
Warnings: f!reader, violence against healthcare workers, language, mentions of bodily harm, mentions of blood, mentions of injuries sustained at the workplace, use of the word 'assault', Jack Abbot's dead wife mentioned, description of a drunk driving accident, Frank Langdon catches some strays, use of the nickname 'sweetheart', use of the nickname 'slugger', no use of y/n, mutual pining, fluff, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 5.5k
Author's Note: Yo — so I'm still alive. I have been stuck in The Pitt for awhile now. This one has been sitting unfinished in my drafts for a hot second. I also have a Robby fic sitting in there that I desperately need to finish. Those two men have truly bewitched me. Anyways, hope y'all are ready to be stuck in The Pitt with me for the time being. Hope you guys enjoy this one!
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP
“Motherfucker!”
You angrily hit the coffee maker that has been causing the entire emergency department trouble for the majority of today’s shift. Langdon had watched you struggle earlier this morning before swooping in to fix the problem with a swift hit to the side of the machine and an off hand comment about having the ‘magic touch’. So, you imitate his actions now — hoping another dose of caffeine will help get you through the last couple hours of your shift. The machine stops its incessant beeping just as it had hours ago, but instead of brewing a fresh cup of mediocre coffee, the interactive screen goes completely black.
Great.
You squeeze your eyes shut and take in a deep breath. If Jack were here, he’d miraculously show up beside you with a latte in hand. You don’t know how he does it, but the man just knows exactly what you need and when you need it — you’ve taken to calling it his ‘sixth sense’. In reality, that’s Jack — observant and steadfast.
You miss the night shift.
It’s not that you dislike the day shift. In fact, you happily accepted Dana’s request for your help covering for Donnie during his paternity leave. In Robby’s words: they needed another nurse practitioner on the day shift and there’s only one that he trusts. A part of you thinks that it was just flattery to get you to come to the light side, but deep down you know that Robby only knows how to speak honestly. Lena wasn’t necessarily happy to let her best help switch shifts for an extended period of time, but she also knows that the ED is a team — sure the staff is split between day shift and night shift, but things only run smoothly when the shifts help each other out.
Jack wasn’t too keen on the idea.
He couldn’t stop you of course — Lena is your supervisor, not him. But that didn’t stop him from voicing his concerns. Jack Abbot has always been protective of his nightcrawlers, but there was something verging on possessive in the way he told Robby that this is simply a temporary arrangement after he realized he couldn’t change your mind.
“Should I call Ahmad to escort the caffeine criminal off the premises or do you have a handle on the situation?”
Robby’s voice breaks through your thoughts. You let out a sigh before turning to face the day shift’s senior attending. His expression, usually threaded with deep exhaustion and stoicism, is teetering on the edge of playfulness while a small smile tugs at his lips.
“Y’know what, Robinavitch? We never had this problem when we had the old machine. Mr. Coffee only had three buttons and never betrayed me.”
Robby lets out a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh, but the closest he’ll get to one this late into his shift. Gloria had decided to get the department a fancy new coffee maker that makes individual cups instead of a full pot a few weeks ago to celebrate improved patient satisfaction scores. What was meant to be a gesture of goodwill from upstairs has become the staff’s worst nightmare.
“You sound like Jack.”
You roll your eyes, but you also know no one has been more upset about this change than the night shift’s senior attending. Robby has always brought his own coffee from home, but Jack has been relying on the emergency department’s supply of shitty coffee for the entirety of his career at PTMC. You’d asked him about it once when you first started working together and he’d revealed under fluorescent lights that there was something comforting about the way it reminded him of the coffee rations he’d receive during his deployments.
“Have you talked to Jack recently?”
Robby attempts to sound nonchalant; however, you know him better than that. You’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s worse than the night shift nurses. Always needing to be in the know about everything and everyone. He swears that it’s because he’s the senior attending, so it’s his responsibility to keep an eye and ear on all of his staff. But Jack isn’t like that. He’s always been reserved and professional during shifts, always keeping his staff at a distance so he doesn’t get too attached — everyone except for you. In between cups of coffee and rooftop conversations, you managed to slip through the cracks of that cool, steely exterior.
“We talk during handover, but that’s not exactly the same as working a twelve hour shift with someone. Why? Anything I should be concerned about?”
Robby’s lips pull into a tight smile at your response, but anxiety finds its place in your chest. During handoff about a week ago, Mateo had pulled you aside to ask if you had any idea what was going on with Jack. Your brow furrowed as Mateo filled you in about Jack’s sudden change in demeanor with his staff — the once calm and collected attending has been increasingly impatient and scattered. You’d reassured Mateo that it was probably just stress related since Jack hadn’t had a day off in months — and even then he spent his rare off-call moments volunteering as a SWAT medic. You figured that Jack had finally hit a wall and was running on fumes, but Robby’s words were now making you second your assumptions.
“Nothing of concern, just looking out for you and Jack.”
Robby has this tone that makes it seem like he knows more about your relationship with Jack Abbot than you do. You know about his history with the night shift’s senior attending physician, but Robby hasn’t been there for the close calls at three o’clock in the morning when Jack puts his complete trust in your hands without a second thought. He hasn’t been there for the nights that seem to drag on for days when it seems like the sun will never rise again. He hasn’t been there for the hushed conversations in stairwells when the night feels darkest and the only comfort to be found in PTMC is in each other’s presence.
It’s not a bond built on flirtation — God knows, Jack Abbot flirts with everyone. And does that make you a little jealous? Maybe. And were you hoping that the distance created due to being on day shift for a few weeks would help you create some boundaries with the man? Possibly. But here you are, still infuriatingly infatuated with a man you have absolutely no chance with.
“I can assure you there’s no Jack and I.”
“Mhm.”
That damn tone again. You want to smack that smug look right off of his stupid face, but before you get the chance to fire back a commotion outside abruptly ends your conversation. The two of you move in tandem, Robby holding the door to the break room open as you duck under his arm before surveying the scene. Your eyes immediately widen as you spot Langdon attempting to keep two infuriated men on their separate gurneys as they yell over each other. He meets your eyes before moving his gaze to Robby, relief flooding his features.
“A little help here?”
You and Robby share a brief, knowing look before dividing and conquering the situation. Robby steps in, wheeling one of the men away while you follow after Landgon who is moving with the other.
“What’s the story here?”
You have to shout over the man’s incessant yelling, but Langdon ducks his head down slightly as he navigates the gurney through the ED to hear you better in the chaos. From not too far away, you hear Robby yell for Whitaker to take over his unruly patient so he can go find Ahmad for back up. Langdon’s shoulder bumping into yours pulls your attention back to your own situation.
“Bar argument gone ugly.”
The man laying on the gurney is bleeding profusely from lacerations on his forehead, but is cognescent enough to keep loudly threatening the other patient that came in with him. You manage to get a closer look at his wounds once Langdon locks the gurney in place and through the deep crimson you see little, semi-translucent pieces of debris. Your brow furrows as the light catches one of the pieces.
“Is that glass?”
Langdon nods before meeting your eyes with a crooked smile plastered on his face.
“Beer bottle to the head. Told you it got ugly.”
You let out a breath before gloving up with Langdon. As the two of you attempt to assess his injuries the man begins to fight you both off, pushing your hands away before either of you can start getting control of the bleeding. You pull back hoping to get the man’s attention so that Langdon can start giving him the care he needs.
“Sir, I’m gonna need you to calm down so that we can take a look at your injuries. Can you tell me your name?”
Finally, the man’s eyes land on you but they are filled with nothing but unbridled fury. You fight off the urge to take a step back from the situation and, instead, stand your ground.
“What I need is to get my hands on that son of a bitch who tried to fucking kill me. Can you help me with that?”
You raise both of your hands as the man fights off Langdon once again. He gives you an exasperated look as his shoulders slump in annoyance.
“I can not, this is a hospital not a fighting ring. What I can help you with is getting your bleeding under control and taking that glass out of your head before you get a nasty infection. How’s that sound?”
Your tone is stern but gentle as you attempt to talk the patient down. For a moment, his face softens in understanding and you almost let out a sigh of relief after having gotten through to him, but then Whitaker’s voice tears through the moment.
“I’ve got a runner, incoming!”
“Oh, shit.”
Langdon’s tone makes your heart rate spike, but before you get a chance to turn towards the commotion Whitaker’s very angry patient shoves you into the wall.
“We need some help in here! You good?”
Langdon’s worried eyes are locked on you as he tries to keep the two patients from tearing each other apart. Your shoulder took the brunt of the impact, but you had managed to stay on your feet which saved you from any additional trauma. After catching your breath, you leap in to help restrain the patient who just assaulted you.
“Sir, please. We need you to calm down!”
Your words fall on deaf ears as he continues to lunge at your patient who is now being held back by Langdon. What a fucking mess. You haven’t had a situation like this since last year’s Fourth of July night shift when two drunken men came into the E.D. after one of them practically eviscerated his buddy’s legs after shooting off a firework directly at him. Your eyes desperately meet Langdon’s, hoping he’s in the same boat as you, and he gives you a similar look of bewilderment.
“Whitaker! Ahmad! Anyone!”
Langdon’s voice is strained as the man in his arms struggles against his hold. You’re using all of your strength to pull Whitaker’s patient away from your own, but he’s got at least a foot and a hundred pounds on you. Keeping him restrained is taking all of your strength. Finally, Whitaker’s shoes squeak as he slides into the room.
“Woah, what can I do?”
Langdon gives him a ludicrous look before his eyes land on you.
“Give them a hand, will ya?”
Whitaker immediately jumps in to help you. You were hoping the additional body could help even the odds with these men; however, they seem to be getting more violent by the minute. The man in your grasp reels back and shoves Whitaker, who stumbles back. Now with only you holding him back, he takes this as a chance to take a swing on Langdon.
“Absolutely not!”
You grab his arm and pull back before he can land a punch. The man lets out a desperate, angry cry and swings his arm back hard. His elbow connects with your nose with a loud crack. The room explodes further than you thought was possible as you spit out the blood draining into your mouth due to the blow. The searing hot pain blooming across your face blinds your vision.
Fuck, that hurt.
You blink once, then twice — your eyes finally adjusting to the damage. Your patient has seemingly settled down enough to be left alone, while Langdon has your assailant in a chokehold as Whitaker tries to pin his arms behind his back.
“What the hell is going on in h—?”
Robby’s words die in his throat once his eyes land on you. His face twists into concern for a brief, fleeting moment before a dangerous rage washes over his hardened features.
“Knock it off before I knock you out.”
Robby’s voice is ice cold and it suddenly pauses the entire room. The only noise filling your ears is everyone’s heavy breathing. Robby lets everyone cool down for a moment before barking out orders.
“Ahmad, get this man out of here. Whitaker, take over the patient who didn’t attack one of our nurses. Langdon, with me.”
Everyone complies instantly and you let out a relieved sigh as the tension in the room finally dissipates. Robby makes his way to you in two large strides with Langdon behind him. He drops his head to meet your eyes which have regained their comforting warmth.
“How you doing, Slugger?”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing, really.”
Robby raises a brow as you spit more blood on to the floor, narrowly missing his sneaker. Langdon gives you a similar incredulous look. Obviously, your attempts to brush off their concern have fallen on deaf ears. Great. Two hours from shift change and now you’re a patient.
This day can’t get any worse.
Robby takes another step forward and carefully places a hand on your chin and gently tilts your head up toward the ceiling. You grimace immediately at the bright, fluorescent lights above you.
“You’ve got two black eyes, a broken nose, and you’re bleeding all over the floor. This isn’t nothing.”
His voice is surprisingly gentle and his features soften into a look you can only describe as brotherly concern. You sigh defeatedly, squeezing your eyes shut as the adrenaline in your body begins to subside giving way to an invasive and persistent shooting pain in your head. Robby’s hands find your shoulders — you aren’t sure if the physical contact is meant to provide you comfort or a precaution in case you pass out. Either way, you appreciate the way his delicate hold grounds you back into this moment.
“I’m going to have Langdon take you to an empty room and do a full exam. Okay?”
You open your eyes again and nod at his question. Robby’s posture relaxes slightly, obviously relieved that you didn’t stubbornly push back against his orders. He rubs your shoulders reassuringly for a moment before speaking again.
“We’re going to have to document all of this. Dana is dealing with a situation in chairs, but I’ll have her come find you when she’s done.”
You nod again, pursing your lips together into a straight line. You don’t love the idea of making a big deal out of this, but you also know that violence against health care professionals is at an all time high. The last thing this department needs is you trying to push this under the rug. Finally, Robby releases his hold on your shoulders and allows Langdon to step in.
Robby runs both his hands through his hair as he watches Langdon lead you towards a room at the back of the ED. He moves towards the hub in the center of the large room, gripping the countertop as he allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts. This is a nightmare. He needs to call Gloria about the situation that just happened. There’s a stack of paperwork that needs to be filled out. Someone has to alert the authorities. And worst of all, he needs to call Abbot.
Hopefully, the asshole that assaulted you will be off the premises before the night shift attending rips through the emergency department. Not because he cares for the wellbeing of your assailant — more so that he doesn’t necessarily want to bail his best friend out of jail tonight. Robby sighs as he digs his phone out of his pocket. He finds Jack’s contact easily in his favorites and presses the speaker to his ear. To his surprise, the call immediately goes to voicemail. Robby knows that Jack has the day off; however, he’s always easy to reach — especially if you’re on shift. So, he dials the number again and presses the phone to his ear. But just like before, he is once again met with Jack’s voice apologizing for missing the call. That’s odd. His brow furrows, but before he can think about his friend’s odd behavior further he’s distracted by a concerned voice behind him.
“I heard about what happened. Dana’s almost done in chairs. How can I help?”
Robby turns to look at Perlah who is currently trying to catch her breath from her obvious sprint over to him.
“Do you know who their emergency contact is?”
If he can’t get ahold of Jack, he might as well let your other loved ones know what happened. Perlah side steps the attending and logs in to one of the computers on the other side of the counter. It only takes a couple seconds to pull up your digital file and a smile spreads across the nurse’s features as she spots the name listed.
“Abbot.”
Of course he is.
“I can’t get a hold of him.”
Perlah’s expression reflects his own confusion for a moment until she remembers a conversation she had with you in the break room earlier this morning.
“He’s gone fishing.”
Robby’s eyes shoot to his hairline as a laugh bubbles in his chest. He attempts to picture his friend in a boat by himself on the river with a fishing rod in his hand, but his mind cannot seem to compute that absolutely ludicrous concept.
“Abbot is fishing?”
“Apparently they convinced Abbot to actually take a day off, put his phone on do not disturb, and find a hobby that doesn’t involve getting shot at.”
Robby’s eyes drift to the room he watched Langdon escort you to as he attempts to wrap his head around the information he was just given. Jack Abbot is fishing on his rare day off because you asked him to find a hobby that doesn’t involve putting himself in harm’s way — and he listened. He wants to be impressed, but instead he’s just annoyed at the two of you — he’s fucking tired of watching the two of you dance around your feelings for one another. He looks down at his phone again, still confused at how his paranoid best friend could actually relax when he’s unreachable while you’re still on the clock.
Oh.
The realization hits him like a slap to the face and he looks up at Perlah who is still anxiously waiting for the attending to start barking out orders.
“Do you think you can manage to get their phone?”
Perlah frowns for a moment, confused by his question. And then her face lights up as she comes to the same realization as the attending standing in front of her. A smile pulls at her lips as she nods at Robby’s request.
“I think I can manage that.”
Jack Abbot enters the emergency department like a hurricane — his presence immediately disrupting the fragile peace they’ve managed to establish since your assault. Robby meets him at the door, stopping him before he can cause any unnecessary damage.
“Where is she?”
Robby frowns. Abbot’s voice is lacking its usual warmth — in its place is a fiery, impatient intensity.
“Let’s just cool down for a second. She’s alright — getting checked out by Langdon as we speak. Okay, Jack?”
Abbot’s brown eyes darken at Robby’s words. His posture stiffens and he’s suddenly aware that he’s no longer looking at his best friend. No, the man standing before him is a devoted soldier with one mission and God help anyone who gets in his way — he certainly isn’t dumb enough to stand between the two of you.
“Exam room 11.”
Abbot brushes past Robby without another word and marches toward the back of the emergency department. He finally feels like he can breathe again as he enters the doorway and watches Langdon press an icepack to your nose. You flinch away from him and Frank lets out an exasperated sigh.
“You are a horrible patient.”
“Well, you’re a horrible nurse. You have to be gentle.”
Abbot leans against the doorframe, his body relaxing now that he’s heard the sound of your voice. A smile pulls at the corners of his lips at your defiance. Eventually, Langdon pulls the icepack away from your face and his blood runs cold as he gets a look at your injuries. It takes every ounce of what’s left of his self control to stay put, instead of forcing Robby to let him know who did this to you.
“I’ve got it from here, Langdon. You can get back to work.”
Both of your heads snap towards the attending standing in the doorway, but Jack’s eyes never leave yours. He watches as your expression shifts from confusion to relief before taking a few steps into the small exam room.
“Hey, Abbot. I’m actually almost done here. The rest of the exam will only take a minute.”
Jack finally regards the other man in the room, but his demeanor shifts to annoyance as Langdon continues to occupy your personal space — as he watches another man’s fingers glide gently over your cheek while he’s standing right there. The sight makes him sick to his stomach as a pervasive, ugly feeling claws at his chest.
“Langdon. Out. Now.”
Langdon’s movements suddenly still and the room immediately feels too small for the three of you. Luckily, the resident does what Jack says and exits the room without sparing you a second glance. Jack’s cold demeanor melts as soon as he hears the door close behind Langdon.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Jack’s voice fills the room and you finally feel safe. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you hear his boots take careful, calculated footsteps move towards you. This is a dream — it must be. Jack’s fishing today, unreachable until after your shift ends. But then he’s standing in front of you, invading your personal space in a way that’s so undeniably him. You finally look up, meeting his piercing gaze and you swear his jaw ticks slightly as he takes in the full extent of your injuries.
“It looks worse than it is.”
It’s a lie, but all you want is to smooth out the worried creases on his forehead. Jack tilts his head slightly at your words — considering them for a moment. His hands move slowly allowing you time to pull away, but you let him cradle your face with a tenderness that feels misplaced in this environment. His thumb gently brushes under your eye, where deep purple bruising has made its temporary home, and you flinch away from his touch before he even makes it to the worst of your injuries. Jack pulls his hands away from you and you involuntarily frown — a smirk plays at the corner of his lips as he watches the way you chase his touch.
“Do me a favor?”
You nod at his question — not fully trusting your voice at this moment. Jack bows his head slightly, meeting you eye to eye. His gaze is a raging wildfire of emotions. It’s a stark contrast to his calm demeanor and steady hands.
“Don’t lie to me.”
You roll your eyes at this as he stands to his full height again. His hands find their way back to you again, settling on your knees as he begins assessing your injuries further. You lean in closer to him without even thinking about it — it’s like Jack Abbot is the sun and you’re simply a planet trapped in his orbit.
“How are you here?”
Jack’s brows knit together at your question, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. His thumb absentmindedly rubs gentle, grounding circles against your scrubs as his gaze trails over every visible wound on your face.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re supposed to be fishing.”
His face scrunches at your words, but he doesn’t stop his careful assessment of your condition.
“I got a call.”
“Your phone was on do not disturb — you were unreachable.”
“To everyone other than you.”
Your breath catches in your chest at his words. He says it nonchalantly, but the significance of that statement lands harder than the elbow you took to the face. You’re the only person that Jack would let interrupt his day off. Hell, you’re the only reason he took a day off to begin with.
“But how… Perlah.”
Jack’s head tilts as he watches you put the pieces together. Not too long after Langdon got you into the exam room, Perlah found the two of you. She helped Langdon with the exam for a few minutes before cursing that her phone had died before she made an important call. You had offered her your own, thinking nothing of the interaction. But now you understand exactly what transpired when Perlah left with your cell.
“Yeah, scared me half to death when it wasn’t your voice on the other end.”
Your frown deepens at that. You can only imagine the fear that clawed its way back into Jack’s chest — can only imagine the unwanted memories it brought up. Your eyes glance down at his left hand, where a silver wedding band permanently resides. You remember the morning on the roof when Jack finally told you about his late wife after a particularly difficult shift. The two of you had lost a young woman whose vehicle had been struck by a drunk driver. You watched Jack go above and beyond for the woman in a way you’d never seen before. And you noticed the way his entire demeanor shifted once he had to call it after an hour of compressions. Jack slipped out of the ED the moment that the day shift showed up and you followed after once you completed handoff. You found Jack on the edge of the roof — not surprising on any other day, but a concerning visual after what you just witnessed that night. He knew you’d find him — you always do. And as you took your usual place, leaning your elbows against the railing right behind him, he finally opened up about the worst day he’s ever experienced. You listened as he told you about how his wife was in an accident. How she was dead on impact and EMS found her phone on the scene. How Jack was her only emergency contact. How he despises that the last time his wife called him he never even got to hear her voice. How he knows he’s your emergency contact. How his heart can’t go through that again.
“I’m sorry, Jack. The last thing I wanted was for you to worry about me on your day off.”
Jack’s brow furrows at your words.
“Sweetheart, all I do when I’m not with you is worry.”
You both let that sentence linger in the room for a few moments. Jack continues to trace shapes into your shrubs as you attempt to calm your nerves as you realize how intimate this conversation feels. Finally, Jack breaks the silence.
“Can you just come back to the night shift so I can stop freaking out every time my phone rings throughout the day?”
You almost smile at that.
“Donnie comes back in two weeks.”
You mean for that to be comforting; however, this only makes Jack’s body stiffen in response. His head drops as he lets out a long sigh.
“Two weeks is too long.”
“You’re not my boss, Jack.”
Jack pulls his hands away and you watch as he runs them through his short, grey curls. He looks exhausted — and you suddenly feel guilty that his relaxing day off has turned into this.
“You’re right, but sweetheart, I can’t do this without you anymore.”
A part of you wants to throttle him because of that nickname and how easily it falls off his lips — how it’ll only feel right when it’s his voice saying it to you.
“Do what?”
Jack looks at you and his face twists into confusion as he realizes your question is genuine.
“Get through the fucking night.”
A beat passes. You desperately want to just say yes. It’s what you want isn’t it? Returning to the night shift — returning to him. But that’s also the problem. What is this? You thought your switch to day shift would give you some sort of explanation, but your time away has only made you more confused. Would it actually just be easier if the two of you only saw each other during handoff? No domestic moments between cups of coffee, no more mornings spent side-by-side on the rooftop, no more stolen, fleeting touches as he passes you on your way to the hub. You know what you are to Robby — to everyone on day shift. It’s simple. But with Jack — it’s never been simple and maybe that’s the problem.
“What if I want to stay on the day shift?”
Jack recoils like you just threw a punch at him. Guilt claws up your throat as you watch his face fall. It’s a lie — you know that it is. You love everything about the night shift, but you also don’t know how much longer you can keep playing this game with Jack before you simply fall apart.
“Why would you want that?”
“Because at least I know where I stand with everyone here.”
Jack’s brow furrows — you hate that it’s cute. That everything about him draws you in.
“You don’t know where you stand with me?”
You shake your head and he scoffs — the sound is surprisingly cold. He looks at you, brow pinched into a scowl. And then he realizes that you’re serious. Your expression is nothing but unashamed honesty and his head cocks to the side at that. Do you really think he’s been stringing you along this entire time? That this has all been meaningless flirtation? That you mean nothing to him?
He takes a step forward, slotting himself between your knees. Your breath catches as he reaches up and gently cradles your face. His touch is different than before — all professionalism has been cast aside and is now replaced with his overwhelming adoration. Without thinking your fingers grab the hem of his black t-shirt. He smiles as he feels you nervously pick at a loose stitch before he ducks his head and his lips finally meet your own. Your grip on his t-shirt tightens as he moves his hands through your hair. Now this is a dream. The kiss is soft and restrained — you know he’s holding back due to your injuries. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you. Jack pulls away too soon for your liking, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he places his forehead against yours.
“Sweetheart, I’ve been yours since the minute you walked through the fucking door.”
You bite your lip as you attempt to hold back the giddy grin that begs to spread itself across your face.
“You never said anything.”
Jack pulls away at that, not far — just enough to get a good look at you. The look on his face is incredulous — like it’s absurd you don’t know that his entire life revolves around you at this point.
“I thought I made myself abundantly clear.”
You laugh at that and Jack steals a kiss from your lips just because he can.
“I take it Robby gave you the rest of the day off?”
You nod, smiling as you feel Jack thread his fingers through yours.
“He told me to go home after Langdon finished my exam — who you should apologize to.”
Jack’s jaw clenches slightly as his brow furrows.
“Him being here was unnecessary.”
You watch him for a moment, trying to understand what happened between the two men that never seemed to have any sort of animosity prior to today. And then your hand tightens around Jack’s as you realize what happened.
“You were jealous.”
Jack rolls his eyes.
“I have no reason to be jealous.”
You raise a brow at his statement. He’s not wrong — he has no reason to be jealous of Frank Langdon, but you know the resident somehow got under his skin. He may be able to maintain his facade of nonchalance to the rest of his staff, but you see right through him.
“What makes you so confident?”
“Because Langdon isn’t the one taking you home right now, is he?”
⟢ who/what i write for: the pitt (robby & jack), animal kingdom (currently only pope) & sometimes MCU.
⟢ rules & guidelines: i don’t write; smut, assault, racism/prejudice of any kind, incest etc. i will write; age gap, implied smut, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, cannon/non cannon, occasional au’s.
⟢ my requests are currently open !! you can find a fic prompts list & the rules: here.
⟢ note: please give me up to a week to complete requests. i’m on here daily & am always working to get some type of fic out, please be patient. <3
⟢ if you have any questions, requests, or concerns, feel free to reach out & message me !!
⟢ join my taglist here !!
⟢ current writing event !!: just fluff june !!
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⟢ masterlist:
you can find my works masterlist: here!! — i try to update it as frequently as possible !!
i look forward to interacting with all of you & putting more of my writing out for you to read !! :)
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