FLORA

25 | She/Her | MDNI Multifandom and Writing Practice Ao3 Link ✽ StoryGraph ✽ Icon Credit

[kaprifolie]

About

Hey, there! I'm Flora and this is an 18+ blog for me to share some of my favorite characters, stories, etc. I'm trying to get back into writing so I might be posting a fic from time to time! Please feel free to message me about anything so long as you're sweet or respectful. I love rambling about my favorite stuff! This blog is anti Ai and does not approve the use of it to generate fics or create/interact with chatbots.

fandoms: bg3, cod, love and deepspace, dragon age, skyrim, books in general, x-men, dc comics (especially anything related to gotham), k-dramas, otome games and visual novels

Masterlist

Fandom

Dragon Age

Original

Nothing yet !

[kindarella]

hollanov medical au but it’s that one anesthesiologist and peds nurse that def have something going on

[lyjerria]

as you get older, you realize that you’re not always right and there’s so many things you could’ve handled better, so many situations where you could’ve been kinder and all you can really do is forgive yourself and let your mistakes make you a better person.

[lyjerria]

as you get older, you realize that you’re not always right and there’s so many things you could’ve handled better, so many situations where you could’ve been kinder and all you can really do is forgive yourself and let your mistakes make you a better person.

[pellucid-constellations]

Source Material

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You had always been a reader—always drawn to worlds outside of your own. Always seeking more. This world, Azriel's world, was trying to teach you something; you were sure of it. Or, maybe, it was where you were always meant to be.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Confusion, self-harm in desperation/confusion, angst, reference to a psychiatric hold

a/n: Okay I love this trope so bad so thank you to those who requested it :) This first part has a lot of... thinking in it so make sure to heed the warnings. Themes may continue, but this fic will also have a lot of humor, pining, and fluff. Happy ending as always <3 I love you okay bye :)

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

There was a humming in your ears—constant enough to be considered ringing, but not quite as sharp. Moments ago, the pull in your gut had you keeling over in bed, and then you had stumbled to your bedroom door, trying to alert your roommates that something was… wrong. Off. Unusual in a bad way, and you had no frame of reference for the feeling. You could remember falling into the hallway as the door swung open, and then the pulling intensified. And then it stopped. 

You figured you were in the hospital; that was the only reasonable explanation, unless your roommates had decided to leave you for dead in the hall, but they wouldn’t do that. They had terrible penchants for eating your cereal, leaving dishes in the sink, and having guests over without warning, but they weren’t evil enough to deny you medical attention. Hopefully.

It was probably your appendix. That was the first ailment your brain always went to when you were sick, and the hyperfixation was finally coming to fruition. You couldn’t remember any pain, any fever prior to passing out on the carpeted floor, but you were sure that was it. The heaviness of your eyelids lessened as you worked through the explanation in your mind. 

Your body still felt off. It was stiff in a way you hadn’t experienced, but also light and airy in a way that felt preternatural. Sounds had begun to filter through the staunch wall of your brain, and they felt sharp, biting. There was an underlying panic that perhaps you had been out for much longer than you first estimated, but something else soothed that panic each time it rose. It made you feel right, despite every wave of confusion, and you leaned into that feeling rather than giving in to the fear. 

Something was buzzing beneath your skin. It flowed in your blood and seemed to zap your veins. Drugs—it was definitely drugs through an IV. Probably pain killers and antibiotics and several other things keeping you alive as your appendix acted against you. There was a chance it had already been taken out, and you preferred that narrative. No time to be anxious about surviving a surgery that already happened. 

Low murmuring suddenly ripped past the mundane sounds of whatever room you were in, and then the panic was back in full force. 

“Explain it again?” 

“The priestesses said it was sudden. Bryaxis was unsettled—and then she was there. Unconscious.” 

The content of the conversation was enough to make your breathing shallow, but it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just that there was nothing medical about the words floating above you, or that you were suddenly concerned you had been taken to a… convent? A church?

No, it was that the words sounded so, so foreign, each consonant and vowel weaving together to form echoes of a language you had never heard before, not even in passing. It was unusual, possibly European, but also not in the slightest. You thought it could have been Latin, but even that didn’t sound correct. The worst part, the terrifying part, was that you understood it. You could tell it was different, and still, everything was so clear in your mind. Like it was relayed through a translation app and inputted directly into your brain. 

You felt yourself shift as the fear tightened your throat, and to your surprise, nothing was dragging against you—no wires or IVs or tubes helping you stay afloat after a major surgery. You took in a deep breath and smelled no antiseptic or starched linen sheets. Instead, the air held an herbal hint, spices and heady plants alarming your senses.

Were you kidnapped? Had your organs been harvested? You began to second-guess the integrity of your roommates, running through their university housing profiles in your head. Two grad students, quiet, no parties, night-owls—nothing about being part of an underground organ-harvesting ring. But, then again, maybe they had been waiting for the perfect moment, for you to be vulnerable enough to cart off without a fight.

Your breaths became even more difficult to capture. 

“She’s waking up,” one of the male voices said.

You choked on the strange scent of the air, and then your eyes opened and adjusted to the dim, humming light in the room. You were in a room that was, as predicted, not in a hospital. Deep, polished wood made up the roof beams, with red rock twining between tiny cracks and fissures. There were pictures on the walls depicting a town with sprawling lights and a rushing river, and mountains with snow-capped peaks and figures outlined upon them. A window was allowing light in from the far side of the room, and you snapped your head up once the rush of consciousness became less novel. 

Two men stood by the door, both imposing in their statures, neither looking like the type to steal someone’s organs. They were well-dressed and put together, calm with their attention fixed on you, and you’d never witnessed any organized crime, but the lavish room you were in, paired with the careful, guarded looks you were receiving, didn’t add up to the assumptions in your head. The comparisons didn’t help you feel calm. 

Your hands hovered over the plush blanket on your lap, fingers shaking. You let out a sudden gasp of air that quivered in your chest and flinched as the two men reacted to the sound. Neither had moved from their positions by the door, though you knew by their expressions that they would if they had to. The shorter one, his eyes more cunning and knowing, tilted his chin up and began to speak. 

“Where did you come from?” he asked, tone clear. “And how did you land in my library?” 

The lack of malice in his curiosity told you he was in control of the situation. The taller man behind him, lean but still taking up so much of the doorway, looked on with equally searching eyes, but he was more guarded, more reserved, his brow twitching as you observed him. You had a hard time discerning which of the two was more dangerous. 

“Um,” you stammered, still frozen in place. Your voice was more melodic than you had expected. “I don’t—exactly know how I got here. I’m from the—I, um, I’m in grad school on the east coast.” 

“The east?” the man in the back echoed. His voice was so low you felt it in your chest. “Of what court?” 

You paused. “New York?” 

The one with the deep blue eyes squinted. “Where is that?”

Confusion overrode panic. “New York? As in, the state?” 

Everyone knew about New York, even if they only conceptualized it in terms of taxi cabs and hot dogs and the Statue of Liberty. It was possible, though highly unlikely, that you had been taken to a remote island, on which no one had a map, or access to the news, or even an internet connection, but these men looked… knowledgeable. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, but they didn’t seem the type to be uninformed. 

You glanced out the window to get a better concept of your surroundings, but saw only a clouded blue sky. You were high up, then, granting even more evidence against your remote island theory—if they could build a house several stories high, they would know about New York. 

You worried your bottom lip as the clouds inched their way across the window, the room silent. Through the corner of your vision, you saw the men looking at each other—furrowing and straightening their brows, squinting and grimacing and huffing out breaths. If there were words accompanying their expressions, it would have made more sense, but as it stood, you were beginning to amount a new fear: that you were kidnapped, and your kidnappers were clinically insane. 

The most reasonable avenue would be the escape, but you would need to scope out your surroundings first, and each time you even shifted on the bed, eyes shot to you. Were you not allowed to move? Were you chained to the bed? You took stock of your legs and feet under the blanket, not feeling bound by anything other than the tucked-in sheets. There were no bars on the window, either, and the room itself was rather welcoming. You glanced over at the side table, tinctures and small vials labeled with scrawling text. Your fingers spasmed as you read the words clearly, despite the letters looking foreign. 

This could have been a very, very realistic dream. 

After another moment of the men staring at each other, you decided to take a chance, feeling resolute in both the dream and the insane kidnapper theory. You slid one leg out from under the blanket, but movement by the door stopped you. 

The taller man had turned to you again, expression watchful, feet moving on the plush carpet. You sucked in a breath and stalled your attempt to get to the window. And then you felt yourself scream. Just one scream—an accident, really, your hand coming out to cover your mouth as the men stood at alert. Your breaths were making strange sounds past your fingers, and your shoulders were unintentionally raised. 

Wings. 

The man had wings, and they didn’t look fake. They moved along with him, membranes allowing light to pass through and highlight the veins tracking back to the roots. And the closer you looked at him, the worse it became. There were glowing, blue… gems—no, sconces of light attached to his body, and they seemed to move with him too. They sparked and swirled as he took you in, responding to him in a way that couldn’t be manufactured. 

But what had you jumping from the bed were the shadows emanating from him, wisps of darkness flowing from his shoulders. Some of them seemed to tug at him, others cloaked him in their murky air. You jolted up and got caught on the sheets, tugging your ankle loose until your hands finally met the carpeted ground. Someone was saying something, but you couldn’t hear them, too panicked to make sense of this strange language you suddenly understood. You ended up with your palms flat on the ground and your knees supporting you, vaguely aware that you were wrapped in some sort of silk material that you were positive did not come from your closet. 

“Easy,” the winged man warned, but his hands were up in a placating gesture, and he had begun to crouch to meet you at your level. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

Your chest had begun to sting with your quick inhales. The man took the smallest step forward, and you rushed back, your head slamming into a table and making your vision blur. 

“Azriel, you are scaring her,” the other man patiently said. He hadn’t moved from the door, but something about him felt more imposing. Your head was throbbing too much to make sense of it. 

Azriel looked over his shoulder. “Well, what would you like me to do instead, Rhys?” he quipped out, as if this were some kind of game and you weren’t being held hostage. 

Okay. 

You were the one going insane. That had to be it. You had fallen into the hall back at your apartment and had some sort of psychotic break, prompting your very appropriately acting roommates to put you on a psych hold. That was it. That was why you were seeing shadows and wings and glowing bulbs. You blinked hard and tried to orient yourself to that truth, hoping that some clarity would come with the revelation, but when you opened your eyes, you were still there. 

“This isn’t real,” tumbled from your lips, sounding breathy and light. “You—you aren’t real. And I’m going insane.” 

Azriel shook his head. “This is real. You are in the Night Court. Is that where you’re from? Or are you from somewhere else?” 

“Night Court?” you mumbled to yourself, gaze falling to your fingers as you fiddled with the hem of the satiny dress. And you focused on them, then, more intently than you had when you first woke up. You flipped your palm over and looked at the length of your fingers, at the elegance that flowed along your wrists and up your arms. They were your hands, but they weren’t. Not at all. 

Night Court. 

You couldn’t focus on just one thing anymore, your eyes traveling around the room without abandon. They went from Azriel, to the man at the door, to the window, to the paintings along the wall. 

Were you from somewhere else? You were from New York. You were getting your master’s in library science, and you were going to be a librarian. You had a tiny, cramped apartment in Syracuse with roommates getting grad degrees in STEM. Night Court—that didn’t make sense. 

It didn’t make sense because you were crazy. You had gone crazy. The energy drinks had driven you insane with their promises of copious vitamins and energy and a faster metabolism. This was the price. 

At some point, Azriel had dropped to his knees to mirror you on the ground. “I don’t think she’s going to answer us, Rhys,” he quietly called out, eyes never leaving you. “Maybe Feyre would be better.” 

“I’m not sending Feyre in when I can’t see if she has… motives.” 

Something clicked in your brain. Things lined up, information being shelved in alphabetical order until confusion made way for understanding, and then that understanding lingered. 

“Feyre?” you mumbled again. The man, Rhysand, your brain provided for you, perked up in the doorway. “That book.” 

“What book?” Rhysand quickly asked. 

“The—series. It’s… I read it a few years ago, but I don’t think it’s—” Your next breath was an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god. I am actually going insane. I’m hallucinating, and it’s—I should have gone to law school, oh my god.” 

“Law school?” Azriel echoed. 

You snapped your gaze up to look at him, finally taking in the hazel of his eyes and the shadows that weaved into his dark hair. Then you found his hands, confirming something to yourself when scarred tissue rested atop his thighs. Rhysand was next, and you located his pointed ears and elongated features almost instantly. 

Another disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. Azriel moved again, and you shot back, head connecting with the table for a second time. Pain split down your neck, something rattling on the surface above. You brought your hand up to tame the ache, but Azriel’s hand had raised too, and for a second, the shortest second, your fingers brushed. You tore your hand away, pressing it into the base of your skull, snapping your eyes to his. 

Something pulled. The air stagnated. 

It felt like the pull from right before all of this happened, before your brain short-circuited and threw you into a fantasy land you’d read about during your gap year. You leaned into it, hopeful that somehow, it would zap you back into reality. That maybe if you honed in on the feeling, you would find that this was all some coma-induced dream you could forget about with time, but always reference when you told the story of your appendix bursting—because you were still holding out hope that it was actually that. 

It did the opposite. You gave in to the pull, tugging on the glowing thread, and it made you feel more rooted in the spot. More concrete in the make-believe. Still just ahead of you, Azriel made a gasping sound that echoed each of your panicked breaths from before. You scanned his expression, etched your gaze into the high corners of his face, but he was seemingly frozen. His chest didn’t move. His shadows paused. 

“What—” 

You didn’t get the chance to finish your question, not that it had ever been formed in your head. Azriel shot to his feet, stumbling back and causing you to flinch again, to cower into the table that you had been trying to inch away from. He looked down at you, and his expression pinched, looking pained, before his hand gripped at his chest, covering his heart as his shadows wove between his fingers. One came down and brushed your cheek, and you screamed, jolting into the light of the window. 

Azriel flinched at the sound. He took another step back, and then another. You hadn’t realized you were breathing hard again until your shoulders met the far wall, your bone digging into the wood. Your mind was racing at an impossible speed, all your theories and concerns and all of the confusing sensations melding together. And maybe you could have handled it, maybe you could have collected yourself, but there was a mirror just across the room. You looked at it with your blurry, unfocused vision, and you thought it was another painting. At first. But then you moved, and the figure etched within it moved with you. And it was a mirror, and it was you, but it wasn’t. 

You looked like yourself, could recognize yourself, but you were changed. 

Made. 

The thought sang in your head, unfounded, and your panic turned to terror. Because this entire time, thoughts had all been yours. They had been unorganized and scary and untrue, but they had all come from you. But that one hadn’t been. 

So, you did the first thing you could think of on your own, the first thing that truly felt like it could bring you back to yourself. You reared your head forward, and then you let it fall back with force. The pain was similar to before, but it was numbing, almost. And it didn’t bring you back. Someone shouted, panicked, but you thought maybe the numbing was reality, so you edged forward again. 

You didn’t have the chance to try a second time. 

Your head slammed back, but it hit something soft, something that gathered the momentum and didn’t let it continue. Azriel was in front of you again, no longer edging out of the room, and it was his hand that stopped your assault. He was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, and then he wasn’t. He yelled something over his shoulder, and then Rhysand was in front of you. The door opened. Footsteps followed. 

“Do something.” 

“I can’t—”

“Anything.” 

And then there was nothing. 

[burgerdotcom]

reblogs were off

[honeyfaer]

"theyll hate you for this" "but theyll be alive" is THE juiciest thing to me

[honeyfaer]

i will ensure you stay alive above all else. even if what i do to make it happen is horrendous. even if it violates all your wishes or moral principles. even if you can never look at me the same way again, even if you hate me for it. because at least if you hate me it means youre alive

[hollanov-fics]

Operation O Canada, or The Hollander-Rozanov Method of Soft Launching a Marriage

by robbinscinquefoil

“Can’t hang out tonight, Hayd. I have plans.” “Bullshit,” Hayden responds. “You never have plans.” Objectively, this used to be true. Nowadays Shane has many, many plans, between his nightly plans to look at Ilya’s penis through Skype and his various long-term plans laid out helpfully in his notebook, Canva (For Ilya’s sake. He is a visual learner), and more recently, Excel. Shane loves that excel sheet. He’s colour coded it. In 2017, Shane Hollander spirals and proposes to his boyfriend of 4 days (or 7 years, or 9 years, or not his boyfriend at all, depending on how you look at it), which leads to a lot of plans, weird theories in the Montreal Voyageur locker room, some Twitter drama, and Ilya Rozanov entering his WAG era.

[pmamtraveller]

Feelings about AI generated art by Veronika Kozlova

[hollanov-fics]

Better Days To Come

by PlatitudinalTeen

Refusing to let Ilya ruin his career by signing with Ottawa, Shane chooses to really give their relationship a try and moves to Boston to live with Ilya and become a Raider. What follows is enough public scrutiny and backlash from his team that it has him questioning if he made the right decision. Until moments with Ilya and the Raiders show him exactly why he chose correctly. --- Hayden’s eyes flickered to Shane as he sat on the bench, chewing on the edge of his mouth guard. “Don’t fucking look at him,” Ilya insisted as he bent down for the faceoff. “Excuse me?” Hayden mumbled, eyes darting back to him. “You heard me,” he retorted, his tone clipped. “He’s not your teammate anymore; he’s mine. If you think Marlow is a problem to your game, wait until you see what I will do to your team if you hurt anyone on mine again.” Hayden scoffed, dipping his head as he tried to focus on the game. Something about Ilya’s words still rang through his head though, sounding so definitive that he didn’t want to risk seeing what he was actually referring to when he said that. The puck dropped again, and Ilya stole it before he could comprehend how quickly it happened.

[eatyourmirror]

“ if i had known the taciturn man glaring at me from horseback was my future husband, i might have been slightly more polite. slightly... ” content: zuko x f!oc. 18+. mdni. arranged marriage, political betrothal, hidden identity, deception, forced proximity, bodyguard romance, travel peril, minor violence/threat of violence, emotional betrayal, mutual pining, slow burn. summary: she is sent south to marry a man she has never seen. the road to him comes with a silent escort, a hidden face, and far too many reasons to look twice. by the time the capital rises on the horizon, the stranger at her side has already become the most dangerous part of the journey. pulpit: if it has not already become painfully obvious, zuko is the current affliction. i mean. look at him. really look at him. this is the first of five parts. all of them are already written. i’m only trying to grant myself the rare dignity of editing before i throw the rest at you. this first one, unfortunately, did not survive that mercy.

They packed my marriage into six lacquered trunks.

Silk first. Then jade combs wrapped in cotton. Then winter furs, though the capital sat in a warmer country and would have no use for half of what my mother had chosen before she died. Pearls in a shallow box. Gold pins. Letters of introduction. Medicinal herbs tied in paper packets with my aunt’s careful hand. At the very bottom of the last trunk, beneath two folded robes and a brush set carved from pale bone, lay the treaty copy that had arranged my life into a road.

My father had sealed it with blue wax three weeks ago.

He still had not looked me in the eye for longer than a breath.

I stood in the middle of my chamber while my maid fastened my traveling cloak at the throat and felt like cargo with a pulse.

“Too tight,” I said.

Her fingers flew to the clasp at once. “Forgive me.”

“It was not a condemnation.”

“No,” she said, though she still loosened it.

Everyone had been speaking to me as if I were already halfway gone. Too gently. Too carefully. As though one careless word might send me running barefoot into the surf and ruin a season’s worth of negotiations.

The truth was less dramatic. I had nowhere to run. My father governed a stretch of northern coast too small to matter until a map was set beside another map and a line had to be drawn through both. The Fire Nation wanted trade steadied before winter. My father wanted protection for our ships and a name large enough to discourage the men who had lately begun circling our waters like sharks scenting weakness. Somewhere between those desires, somebody had decided a daughter would do nicely.

So here I was.

Betrothed to a man I had never seen.

The Fire Lord.

The title had no face in my mind. Only heat, banners, old stories, and the quiet way people at court stopped speaking whenever I entered a room these last few weeks, as if the word husband had become too sacred or too ugly to survive being said in front of me.

A knock sounded.

Not the hesitant brush of a servant. My father.

My maid stepped away at once. I told her to finish the clasp. She pretended not to hear me and curtsied herself from the room with her eyes on the floor.

Coward.

My father entered already dressed for the harbor wind in dark wool and sealskin at the collar. He smelled faintly of cedar smoke and the oil he used on the hinges of things he could not trust other hands to maintain. There had been more gray in his hair this winter than last. More around his mouth too. He looked like a man who had slept badly and intended to continue.

“You're late,” I said.

“You're dressed.”

“I can manage many miracles before breakfast.”

A breath that might have become a smile in a kinder season touched his face and passed on. He closed the door behind him. In his hand he carried the family signet I had not worn since my mother’s death. He turned it once between thumb and forefinger before holding it out to me.

“You should have this on the road.”

I took it. The metal was cold. “For sentiment.”

“For authority.”

“You have spent twenty-three years teaching me the difference.”

His gaze lifted at last and met mine. Guilt sat in it so plainly that for one brief terrible second my irritation faltered. Then I remembered the treaty waiting in the last trunk and the feeling passed.

“You will not be alone,” he said. “The Fire Lord has sent an escort from the capital. They arrived before dawn.”

An escort.

I slid the ring onto my finger and watched it settle there as though it belonged to another woman. “How flattering.”

“He is trusted.”

“By whom.”

“By the palace.”

“Then I am reassured beyond measure.”

His jaw set. That old sign. The one that meant patience was being chosen over temper by force rather than inclination. “You may use your wit on me if you like. I would prefer you did not use it on the man responsible for bringing you safely south.”

I looked up. “Responsible for bringing me.”

“Safely.”

“No,” I said. “That was not the word I objected to.”

Outside, a horse stamped. Harness rang. My father glanced once toward the window as though the hour itself might intervene and save him from finishing the conversation. It did not.

“He will ride at your side,” he said. “You will listen to him if there is danger. You will not dismiss him because you dislike being watched.”

“I dislike being traded. The watching is merely decorative.”

That one landed. He took it in the chest and did not show the bruise. A talent of his. One of many I had inherited badly.

“The world is not made of what we prefer.”

“No,” I said softly. “Only what men arrange.”

Silence opened between us with all our dead standing in it. My mother gone three winters. My brothers drowned before they learned to shave. Every woman who had ever been told to call necessity by prettier names.

My father looked at me for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its authority and become only tired.

“I would have chosen differently if I could.”

“Would you?”

He did not answer.

Someone knocked again. A man this time. Two measured raps. My father’s face changed before he reached the door. Changed into something nearer to formality, though too alert for any ordinary guest. He opened it at once.

The man beyond the threshold bowed only slightly.

That was the first thing I noticed.

Not because the bow was insolent. Because it was not. It held a precision to it that felt stranger than offense would have. A man who understood rank perfectly well and declined to abase himself anyway. He wore traveling black from throat to boot, the cut plain enough to pass anywhere and expensive enough not to. A dark cloak hung from broad shoulders. Leather gloves. Sword at the hip. The lower half of his face was covered by a wrap drawn high, more common on winter roads than in noble houses, and the hood shadowed the rest. I could see only the line of his cheekbone, a mouth half-hidden beneath dark cloth, and eyes the color of old amber if amber had learned severity.

He did not look at me first.

He looked at the room.

Windows, door, trunks, distance to the hearth poker, the servant passage half-concealed behind the screen.

By the time his gaze reached me, I already disliked him for being so difficult to ignore.

“My lord,” he said to my father.

Not captain. Not messenger. Nothing that explained him.

My father stepped aside. “Come in.”

The man entered without haste. Cold followed him into the room in a clean salt-edged draft. Up close, he smelled of horse, wind, and smoke faint enough to belong to old fire clinging to cloth.

“This is my daughter,” my father said.

The stranger inclined his head to me. “My lady.”

His voice sat low and roughened at the edges, as if it had seen hard use and resented being summoned indoors. Not old, not young either. Somewhere in the age where a man has already learned what he is willing to become.

“And you are,” I said, “the nameless shadow sent to deliver me to my husband.”

My father made a sound under his breath. Warning.

The man’s eyes remained on my face. Steady. Entirely unoffended. “I am the man tasked with getting you safely to the capital, yes.”

“Then you have the easier part of the bargain.”

At that, something changed at the corner of his gaze. It wasn't amusement. The idea of it, perhaps. Gone before it could settle.

“You may call me Lieutenant... Lee,” he said.

I almost smiled. The falsehood of it was too neat by half. No one with that posture had ever been merely anybody’s lieutenant.

“May I,” I said. “How generous.”

My father moved past him toward the trunk nearest the door. “The tide will turn within the hour. We should leave.”

We.

Interesting. My father had intended to see us to the harbor himself. I looked back at the stranger. He had gone still in that unnerving way men do when stillness is not idleness but attention gathered into a blade. His gaze had dropped to my hand.

The signet.

Only for a second. Yet I saw it. Recognition of the seal. Recognition, too, of what it meant now that I wore it again. Daughter. Bargaining piece. Bride.

“You will travel with six riders and two wagons,” my father said. “You will take the inland road after the third crossing.”

“No,” said Lieutenant Lee.

My father stopped.

The word had not been rude. It had only been final.

“The inland road narrows at White Pine,” he continued. “Too easy to box a carriage there. We take the coast as far as Hama’s Cut, then turn south.”

My father stared at him as though surprised enough to forget himself. “That will add a day.”

“It will add safety.”

I watched the exchange carefully. My father was not a man easily overruled in his own house. Yet the argument died in him almost as soon as it began. He nodded once.

“As you think best.”

I felt my brows rise. My father saw and looked away.

Very interesting.

Lieutenant Lee turned to me again. “You should wear the heavier cloak.”

“I am wearing a cloak.”

“The heavier one.”

The nerve of him.

Before I could answer, he crossed to the chest at the foot of my bed, lifted the fur-lined traveling mantle my aunt had insisted I pack, and held it out. The motion was so matter-of-fact that for one infuriating second my body nearly obeyed before my pride caught up.

“I do not take orders from strange men in my chambers.”

His gaze lowered to the clasp at my throat, then rose again. “Then take advice from one. The wind will sharpen after noon.”

“You have a great deal to say for someone employed to watch the road.”

“And you have very little sense of weather for someone born to the coast.”

My father turned away abruptly and became very interested in whether the trunk latch had been secured.

Traitor.

I stepped forward and took the heavier cloak from the stranger’s hand harder than necessary. His fingers brushed mine through the wool.

Warm. Even through the glove. Even through my irritation.

It annoyed me out of all proportion.

“You seem remarkably comfortable in my father’s house,”

“I’m comfortable anywhere with exits.”

That answer should not have pleased me. It did, faintly, like the first sip of something bitter enough to be good for the blood.

I fastened the heavier cloak without help. By the time I looked up, he had moved to the window and lifted the curtain by a finger’s width to scan the courtyard below. His profile sharpened against the silver light. The wrap hid his mouth. The hood, his hair. Still something about the line of him seemed wrong for obscurity. Too self-contained. Too accustomed to being obeyed.

“What danger,” I asked, “do you expect on a road lined with my father’s own guard and watched from one harbor to the next.”

He let the curtain fall. “The sort that likes certainty.”

Not helpful. Also not foolish.

My father gathered himself with the visible effort of a man stepping back into a role after nearly losing it. “Enough. The wagons are loaded.”

He came to me then, close enough for me to see the small burst capillaries at the edges of his eyes. He put a hand on my shoulder and hesitated there. Fathers are given too little training for farewell when the daughter remains alive.

“The capital is not your enemy,” he said.

“No,” I answered. “Only where you sent me.”

Pain crossed his face in a quick quiet line and was gone. He bent and kissed my brow anyway. His beard smelled of salt and cedar and home.

When he stepped back, Lieutenant Lee had turned away to give us privacy.

That, more than courtesy would have, unsettled me.

We descended together.

The house had become a corridor of lowered eyes. Servants bowed. My aunt clutched my hands and pressed a prayer charm into my palm hard enough to leave its imprint. One of the stable boys wept openly until someone cuffed him behind the ear. Outside, the courtyard rang with preparation. Gulls wheeled overhead. A wet wind came off the harbor and found its way under every seam.

My carriage stood ready between the wagons, dark blue lacquer, iron-bound, practical enough to survive the road and just handsome enough to remind everyone whose daughter rode inside. Six mounted guards waited by the gate. Two of them wore my father’s crest. Four did not.

They all looked toward Lieutenant Lee when he emerged from the doorway.

Every one of them.

Not openly. That would have been too obvious. Yet their attention bent in his direction with the unconscious precision of men who know exactly where command lives even when it is dressed in ordinary cloth.

He checked the harness himself. Touched one wheel spoke. Spoke briefly to the driver. Moved along the line of riders and said something too low for me to catch. A path opened around him without anyone seeming to make way.

The wind tugged his hood back a fraction as he turned. For a heartbeat I saw dark hair at his temple and, beneath the edge of the wrap, a glimpse of scarred skin high on one cheekbone before the cloth shifted again.

I stared.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His hand rose at once to settle the hood more firmly.

“A charming mystery,” I said when he came near enough to hear.

The glance he gave me held dry patience. “A road is kinder when people know less about you.”

“I am discovering that everyone in this house knows more than I do.”

He looked at my father standing near the gate, then back to me. “That will not kill you.”

“No,” I said. “Marriage may, though.”

That did it.

It wasn't a smile, he did not seem to spend those lightly. But something in his gaze shifted and warmed with unwilling interest.

“You speak very freely for a bride.”

“I speak honestly for a woman being sent away.”

His eyes stayed on mine for one beat too long.

Then, quietly, “Keep doing that.”

It was not flirtation. That would have been easier. It was something stranger and therefore more dangerous. Approval from a man who seemed to despise useless noise. Approval that landed like a hand briefly at the back of my neck.

He turned to the carriage and held out a gloved hand to help me inside.

I looked at it, then at him. “If I fall to my death from the step, at least my father will have to renegotiate.”

“That is one strategy.”

“You disapprove?”

“I dislike paperwork.”

The answer escaped me before caution could intervene. A laugh, bright and unwilling. It vanished into the wind almost at once. Still, he heard it. I knew he had because his hand remained where it was, steady, patient, while the corner of his covered mouth shifted beneath the wrap as though some private thought had nearly reached the surface and been denied entry.

I placed my hand in his.

He helped me up with effortless care. No overbearing grip. No performative gentleness. Only a sure controlled lift that left me more aware of my own body than the act warranted. Irritating. The road had not even begun and already I was being inconvenienced by nerves that ought to have shown better breeding.

Before the footman closed the carriage door, I leaned back out.

“Lieutenant.”

He looked up.

“What sort of man is the Fire Lord?”

There. Let him answer that. Let the palace shadow speak of the palace sun.

The wind moved through the yard and pressed his cloak briefly to his frame. Somewhere above us, rigging clattered in the harbor. My father had gone very still at the gate.

Lieutenant Lee’s gaze held mine with that grave impossible steadiness of his.

“That,” he said after a moment, “depends who is asking.”

Then he stepped back and signaled the driver to move.

The gate opened.

My father became smaller between the stone posts. The house, then the courtyard, then the line of roofs fell behind us as the wheels found the road and the harbor wind struck hard enough to rattle the shutters. Ahead lay the coast, the turn south, the capital, the wedding fire, the stranger waiting at the end of all of it.

Beside the carriage, my escort rode in silence with his face half-hidden from the world.

I watched him through the glass until the house disappeared.

By noon, I had already begun to understand two things.

The first was that my father had entrusted me to no ordinary guard.

The second was worse.

I was beginning to want the truth from him more than I wanted the road behind me.

to be continued.

© 2026. eatyourmirror. do not repost, translate, alter, or feed my work to ai. respect the labor. respect the text.

[tiferet]

the midnight gospel (2020)

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

AO3 changed their beta status to omega for April fools. Everybody else can go home because we already have a winner

[ciricearts]

oh the boy is safe, he even graduated!

[pellucid-constellations]

Staying Overtime

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Psych Resident!Reader

Summary: You and Jack had been dancing around each other for months, playing a game that neither of you would label. But then you took that leap, pushed the boundaries, and Jack had to confront just how much he cared about you. He just wished it hadn't been like this.

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: Injury, blood, workplace violence in a psych setting, angst!, yearning tho and hurt/comfort hehe <3

a/n: My first fic for the pitt!! Branching out to new fandoms can be scary so hiii :) idk what I'm doing but I hope you enjoy! More to come probably :) Maybe a part two but also idk love you

~~

It wasn’t unusual for you to stay overtime, even in the absence of work. You enjoyed the view out the window of the sun setting over Pittsburgh, the way the sidewalks filled and then depleted as everyone made their way home, and you stayed put. There was a gentle hum in your office that could only be heard at this time, a placeholder for the constant conversations and voices and requests that typically filled the space. It was tranquil, a time to ground when your day was filled with emotional weight. 

And, perhaps you also enjoyed the tiny bleep of your pager sounding off just around 7 pm. Your coworkers hated that sound. It meant you had to head down to the ED to take a history on a patient you had just met and make decisions under duress. It meant probably being screamed at, glared at, maybe even hissed at, on a few occasions, but such was the job description. You all knew what you were getting into when you took this psych residency, ED consults and all. 

To be fair, you didn’t really enjoy the pager yourself, especially when you had a mountain of notes to complete and not enough time in the day. But when it went off around 7, around shift change downstairs, the sound elicited something strange within you. Something exciting. 

You fixed your hair in a passing window as you made your way to the elevators, praying that the silent halls meant every office was empty. The last thing you needed was your coworkers becoming more suspicious; they had begun to question your eagerness to take afternoon psych consults and asked one too many times about your obsessive use of lip gloss. 

The ride down to the pitt had you bouncing on your toes, the uncomfortable shoes the hospital required you to wear making your heels throb. Damn the Joint Commission and its penchant for business casual. But, at the same time, the pretty blouse you had chosen this morning was perfect for your not-so-impromptu consult. 

Pros and cons, then. 

The ED was buzzing with handover reports, hallway beds, and nurses zipping across rooms, as it always was. You took in a deep breath and entered the madness, not yet seeing the target of your visit, but comfortable enough to linger by the nurse’s hub. You were down there often. People knew your face. 

That fact was evident in the subtle brow raise Princess sent you when you leaned against the counter, her face in a humorous grimace as she typed away on a charting computer. “I wasn’t aware we had a psych case.” 

“Hi, Princess,” you drawled out, tapping your fingers on a near-empty tissue box. “Nice to see you, too.” 

She threw you a look. “I see you almost every day. You don’t get pleasantries anymore.” 

“What do I get then?” you teased. 

She pretended to think, tapping quickly to lock her computer and whisking a discharge summary from the printer. You looked at her expectantly, but a smirk had taken over her face, and she spun on her heel after a glance over your shoulder. 

“I swear you’re getting faster.” 

You felt the breath punch from your lungs at the sound of Jack Abbot’s voice, quickly reigning in your smile as you turned and leaned your back against the nurse’s station. He was there in all his glory, arms stretching long beneath his scrubs and crossed over his chest, hair just a touch out of place. His mouth was already quirked into a half-smile, but when you met his eye, you were almost sure it grew just a little bit wider. 

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a smile. Not yet. “Well, I have to be fast. I was supposed to go home an hour ago, but I keep getting paged right when I’m finally about to leave. It’s the strangest thing.” 

“That right?” he posed, his eyes drifting down your body and back up. It really was a pretty blouse. 

“You should know,” you accused. “You’re the one who always seems to have a psych consult as soon as you walk in the door. Have you even finished your handoff from Robby?” 

“I don’t think they pay you to ask all these questions, sweetheart.” 

“I get paid to ask questions all day. That’s, like, the whole job.” 

Jack huffed out a laugh, shaking his head in place of a response. He stepped forward until you could smell the soap lingering on his skin and reached over your shoulder, his nose edging just a little bit closer to your temple. You tried to ignore it, but he was chipping away at making you smile. Proximity was always an easy one. He was going for the low blows, then. 

“Dropped this,” he said as he pulled back, waving your badge between you. “Still haven’t fixed the reel?” 

You stared at the shining plastic between his fingers, over-correcting and grasping his full hand in yours as you took it back. “I don’t want to fix it. The entire thing is broken, and I don’t want to get a new one. I like this one.” 

Jack tugged it loose from your grip and examined the badge holder. He let the rhinestones shimmer against the hospital lighting and hadn’t dropped his smile as he threw you a disbelieving look. “Mental health is your jam?” 

You snatched it back. “Yes! It’s cute. I’ve had it since med school.” 

“There’s a little jam jar on it. And glitter.” 

“Exactly. It completes all of my outfits.” 

Jack was shaking his head again, still close enough for you to feel the heat of his body. He did that often—got close enough to leave you flustered and flirted relentlessly until he decided it was enough. You never wanted it to be enough, but you were still at work. Technically. 

“Are you going to tell me what you called me down here for, or was the page just to make fun of me?” you asked, chin turned up to look at the attending. 

“Never making fun of you,” Jack rumbled from deep in his chest. He took a step back, watching the way your gaze finally lowered with the distance. “Got an early 20s male with new onset psychosis. Family history of bipolar disorder. Mom’s on meds for it. He’s been pretty disoriented and doesn’t trust any of the doctors.” 

You eyed him skeptically. “Your shift doesn’t start for another 30 minutes, Dr. Abbot. How do you already know all of that?” 

“He asks about the psych cases first,” a voice spoke up from behind you. You glanced over your shoulder to find Robby setting up a home on the charting computer, glasses low on his nose. He gave you a fleeting smile. “Real interested in psych cases, that guy.” 

You let your head fall back in a laugh, missing the way Jack tracked the sound. “What a coincidence, then, that I keep having to stay late.” You patted Jack’s chest on the way to the observation room. “I think I win this one, Dr. Abbot.” 

He craned his neck to the side and quickly trailed after you. Sometimes, your meetings in the ED were shorter, more fleeting. He would page you down, and you would catch a glimpse of him just long enough for him to report to you, stare at every inch of your face, and then get whisked away by a resident or a patient or a trauma. The consults were never urgent enough for you to really be needed—you had an on-call attending for a reason—but you figured the 10 seconds he took to stare at you and smile meant something, so you didn’t mind the extra work. 

Other times, like today, you had more leeway to enjoy each other. To play the game. Sometimes he won, and sometimes you won. It boiled down to a game of flirting and never quite saying the words out loud, but he liked it that way, and you weren’t going to push. You were just going to win. 

“Win?” Jack parroted. “What are you winning?” 

“Oh, you know,” you hummed, logging into the computer outside the observation room and skimming the patient’s chart. “The knowledge that I’ve bested you today.” 

Jack crossed his arms again. You were sure there were several things he needed to be doing at the start of his shift that did not involve talking to you, but there he was, anyway. “You haven’t bested me.” 

“Haven’t I?” 

“No,” he scoffed. “You were blushy and giggly over there. I saw it.” 

You raised your brows over the computer. “So you admit that’s your goal? That this psych case could have waited?” 

A smirk accompanied Jack’s next scoff. He looked at you for another long moment, the same way he did when he didn’t have the time, when he was busy and overworked and still called you down in the hopes you hadn’t left yet. You looked back at the chart. Jack spoke. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing, sweetheart.” 

Another flash of your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Means I’m old. Got a lot that comes with me. You don’t want all of that.” 

“I think I’m quite aware of the things I want—” 

“I’m serious.” 

His low tone had you locking the computer, finally taking him in the way he did to you. His brows were low over his eyes, and while he was still staring at you intently, something had shifted. Your arms fell to your sides. 

“Jack—”

“I don’t—” he began, hands on his hips as he stared up at the ceiling for a beat. “—I don’t think this is like that for me anymore, the winning and losing. But I don’t think that’s fair to you either, really. Maybe—I don’t know, maybe I’m not making sense.” 

Months of build-up had led to this. Months of dancing around each other. Both your departments knew something was going on, but neither of you had had it in you to label it. To speak it out loud. The current conversation was the closest you’d gotten. 

Stepping around the rolling table, you stared back up at Jack, resolute. “After this consult, I’m going to walk to my car. Outside of the hospital. I think you should ask me on a date.” 

“What—” 

“Don’t ask me in here. We’re always in here. Do you know which car is mine?” 

Jack furrowed his brows. “Yeah.” 

“Right,” you nodded. “So, I’ll wait there then.” 

A long pause. Jack didn’t look away. Not until you were walking into the observation room and leaving him alone in the hall. 

~~

You were distracted. You shouldn’t be, but you were. You asked all the questions, assessed what needed to be assessed, and reassured the patient several times that you were not part of the group out to get him. Working with psychosis took a lot of patience, a lot of carefully placed words when interventions were new. You knew this, and still, you were distracted. 

You were not supposed to be distracted. 

Things with Jack were never difficult. He called you, he flirted, he watched you until you sent a wave over your shoulder and went home for the night. You liked the way he made you feel. You liked how he looked at you. 

Today, he made things… difficult. Or maybe you made them difficult by framing this as a game. It had never been a game to you, but the undertones of playfulness acted as a shield, and both of you had decided to throw the shields to the ground. 

I’m old. Got a lot that comes with me.

You knew he was older. You knew he had hang-ups. God, you were working in the mental health field; did he forget that? You tapped your fingers against the keyboard and considered that you had just made a fool of yourself. Asking him to ask you on a date—who does that? Idiots. Idiots do that. 

With your years of training and several more years of spouting knowledge, you recognised the spiral immediately. You were spiralling. You were not in the setting to have a spiral. You shook your head at yourself and cataloged every CBT skill in the book to set your thoughts straight. 

This was fine. 

What was the worst thing that could happen, and then how much would that actually suck? How could you recoup? 

“Mr. Nelson, I’m going to step out now, okay? Remember, there are going to be a few nurses in and out of this room just to check on your physical health, but in the morning, I’m going to come by and move you to another room upstairs,” you calmly explained, tucking your hands behind your back. 

Mr. Nelson’s eyes were blown wide as he nodded back. “Who’s upstairs?” 

“A few people like me who can help. I know this is all very stressful and confusing, but this is the right place for you. You are safe here, and you’ll be safe there.”

“Safe from them?” 

You nodded softly. “A safe place for us to help you.” 

Mr. Nelson nodded back, jerkily, and you offered him a gentle smile before heading out. The walls outside the observation room were much brighter, busier, and distracting. You let out a long breath and steeled your shoulders back, still determined despite every thought making you second-guess. 

If he didn’t show up—if he didn’t ask—that would be okay. You worked upstairs, anyway. He would probably stop paging you so much, and the distance would be good. It would set boundaries, and even though you didn’t want those boundaries, they would make sense. 

You were good at this. Reframe, set boundaries, redirect. Box breaths, progressive-muscle relaxation, mindfulness. Right. You were good at this. 

Your fingers curled into your palms as you paused outside of the room, unwilling to face the entirety of the pitt just yet. He could catch you before you walked out, convince you that this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you’d never know if you didn’t try. 

Tension began to seep from your shoulders as you replayed that last thought. You wouldn’t know unless you tried. You wouldn’t know anything past Jack’s lingering touches, or his playful quips, or the way his smile looked, but only under hospital lighting. You liked the way things were now, but there were so many other possibilities, so much more that could be waiting just past the window of tolerance. 

That window would be passed as soon as you got to your car and waited. 

Only, you weren’t moving towards your car anymore. You had told your body to move, to take a step, but suddenly, pain erupted along your scalp, striking and hot, and you were yanked back instead of moving forward. Tears spring to your eyes instantly, blurring your view of the man who shoved you against the wall. 

“You are a liar,” he seethed, face close to yours. “You’re with them. It says it on here.” 

Your badge was shoved into your face then, the sparkles flashing against the light and making you blink. It was how he got out of the observation room. It must have fallen off in the doorway. 

“Mr. Nelson,” you choked out, your arms in an abrasive hold, your mind going into overdrive because you were pretty sure you were trained for this. You could remember a training on non-violent crisis intervention. “Let me speak to you about this. Please, just take your hands off of me, and we can talk.” 

Your head was throbbing, the feeling becoming duller as his fingers created divots in your biceps instead. No one was looking yet. Too many people were in patient rooms receiving reports for shift change. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he spat out. “You didn’t mean what you said. You don’t want to help me. You want to get inside, like they do.” 

Low and slow. Don’t be combative. Don’t try to explain yourself. “I know you’re very upset about feeling watched, and I don’t want to make that worse, Mr. Nelson. From what you’ve told me, it sounds—” 

“No!” he screamed. You could hear shoes squeaking against the sanitized floor then. But it was too late. He was already upset, and you were alone. “You don’t know anything!” 

“Hey!” It was Robby who called out first, a rushed sort of sound that startled your patient. Mr. Nelson’s eyes flashed, and he slammed your head against the wall once, and then twice, before he was ripped away from you. The room was buzzing, and something tasted bitter in the back of your mouth. 

“Don’t—don’t hurt him,” you stumbled out, fingers coming up to rest against your temple. The air felt heavy. “A-ativan. Push Ativan and soft restraints.” 

You weren’t sure if your orders were actually coming out of your mouth in clear sentences or if they jumbled together to match the state of your brain. Adrenaline mixed with sharp, intruding pain, and you heard a commotion that you couldn’t quite focus on. Your eyes were still blurred with tears, and your head felt both light and too heavy at the same time. That probably wasn’t good. You had the fleeting thought that you should go to your car before you left Jack waiting too long. 

“What the hell?” a familiar voice echoed. Jack’s voice. Jack was here. “Hey. Hey, what happened?” 

Your face was taken into sturdy hands, and you blinked to orient yourself to the new feeling. Jack had touched your face before—moved a stray hair away, tapped your chin, brushed an eyelash from your cheek that wasn’t actually there. But he was holding you, then, scanning your face with a precision he didn’t usually harbor when he looked at you. 

“Jack?” you mumbled out. 

“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, it’s me. What—what happened? You alright?” 

“Patient was confused. Scared. He didn’t mean to. He needs restraints, or he might—maybe hurt himself.” 

Jack’s face screwed up into displeasure, and he tilted your head back slightly to take you in. “You. Are you alright? Patient’s got a team of doctors in there right now, but you don’t. You were the one attacked.” 

“‘Wasn’t attacked,” you slurred back. “He was—” 

“Scared. Got that part. Think you can walk to a bed for me? Let me check you out?”

You tried to shake your head, but Jack had you firm in his grip. “‘M just shaken up. I’m alright.” 

“You’re slurring your words. I’d like to be sure, okay? Can you do that for me?”  

The sigh you let out was half-hearted and tired and still a bit wobbly from the adrenaline, but you couldn’t say no to Jack. Not when he was looking at you with so much concern and holding you the way he was. When you finally gave him some semblance of a nod, Jack pulled his hands away to guide you by your elbow. He stopped halfway. You both stopped, staring down at the shining red coating on his fingers. 

“Is that mine?” you shakily asked. It seemed like a lot of blood. The dripping sensation on your neck made you think it was a lot. 

Something flashed across Jack’s face, but he quickly stashed that reaction away and replaced it with calm. With measured responses. He was a doctor, and you were bleeding. You were sure that was normal for him. A common occurrence. 

“It is, but, hey—” he moved again at the sound you let out, hands on your waist as your knees began to shake. “—I’m gonna fix it, alright? Easy fix. Just need to take a look and—someone get me a chair! I need a stat CT!” 

 “I think I’m going to throw up.” The words tumbled from your lips before you had even thought them. “I’m—Jack, I’m going to throw up.” 

You clutched at his arms as you felt the overwhelming wave of nausea push past the pain and confusion. There was a bag shoved in front of you, several hands entering your line of sight and alerting you to the fact that it actually hadn’t just been Jack assessing you. Someone pressed you into a seat, and you felt deft fingers bringing your hair back as the nausea won out. 

“That’s okay. Breathe through your nose,” Jack hushed, his thumb rubbing against your temple. “I’ll fix it.” 

You groaned when the lurch of your stomach finally subsided, grimacing as someone—you thought maybe Jesse—whisked the bag away and replaced it with a new one. You scrunched your eyes open to the abrasive lights of the ED and found Jack still kneeling before you, his expression pinched, assessing. His jaw twitched in small bursts. 

“I’m sorry,” you groaned out, feeling equal parts mortified and disoriented. “That was gross.” 

“Hey,” Jack hushed again, tilting his head up to show his seriousness. “No apologizing. We’re gonna move you now. Probably gonna get dizzy.” 

He gave you one last squeeze of your shoulder that caused you to hiss in pain, eliciting another flinch from the attending’s face. He shook his head slightly and rose with a grunt, but he didn’t pause. His leg was probably bothering him after the position he held, but he didn’t pause. 

You did get dizzy when you moved, and you got more confused when light was shone into your eyes, and then you got overly sleepy when something was pushed into an IV, and Jack was urging someone, again, about CT. The buzz around the room had started to quiet after his last press, and you blinked against the spinning in your head. Your legs hung off the side of the bed, unwilling to lie down and look ridiculous even with several nurses encouraging you to do so, and Jack was soon between them, kneeling again. 

“Can you tell me where you are?” he quietly asked. 

You felt yourself smile weakly despite the situation. “That’s the third time you’ve asked me that.” 

Jack placed a hand on your knee. “Just answer.” 

“Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.” 

“And the year?” 

“Jack—” 

“Just one more time. You're next up for CT.” 

You sighed and relayed the year, and then your full name, and then the president. Jack’s fingers were creating unintentional patterns against your knee, and you wanted to find a way to make him look a little less serious. To make him get off his knee, because even though he tried to hide it, you could tell it hurt. 

“So, is my brain going to explode?” 

That gave you a smile. But his brows were still furrowed, and he didn’t get up. “Probably not. As long as your CT comes back clean, we’re not looking at anything life-threatening. You’ll have a pretty nasty concussion, though. Head wounds bleed a lot. It looked scarier than it was. We’ll stitch it up.” 

“So I’m fine,” you concluded, blinking quickly as the room swayed. 

Jack was up on his feet before you could settle. He met your eyes, serious again, and steadied you by your shoulder. “Nasty concussion. Not fine.” 

“But not life-threatening.” 

“I don’t know if I can separate the two. Not with you.” 

The admission gave you pause. You glanced down at your hands on the bed and clutched the starched blanket until your knuckles changed colors. You could hear Jack’s breathing, and it grounded you amidst the painkillers and the airy feeling in your head. 

“Can I look at your arms?” Jack asked, low enough to blend in with the hum of the central heating. 

“What?” 

“You flinched when I grabbed you earlier. Can I look at them?” 

“I think they’re just bruised.” 

“C’mon,” Jack whispered, playfulness seeping back into his tone. “Give an old guy a break. You scared the shit out of me.” His fingers flexed on your shoulders. You saw red still staining the crevices. “Let me just make sure.” 

You relented. You always relented when it came to Jack. With permission, he brushed your shaky hands to the side and began to unbutton your blouse, careful in his movements, slow and purposeful and trying not to scare you. But he never scared you. You weren’t scared. 

“I really liked that top,” you sighed, staring longingly at it as Jack placed the stained satin to the side. 

“It was pretty,” Jack hummed. He leaned down and narrowed his eyes at the already-formed bruises on your arms. His eyes skimmed over the blood that had seeped to the chest of your undershirt and pressed his lips together. 

“I knew you worked today. Maybe I chose to wear it because I knew that.” 

“Maybe if I hadn’t been working, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” 

That made you scoff out a laugh, pressure shooting through your head. You winced and went to tap your fingers to your forehead, but Jack’s hands were already there. He was always there. 

“Take it easy, okay? Especially before we can get a good look inside.” 

“Well, maybe if you didn’t say such ridiculous things, I wouldn’t have to risk my brain and laugh.” 

“Wasn’t ridiculous,” Jack murmured, lifting your eyelid again to look at your pupils. He’d done that several times. Nothing had changed. 

“It was. You had nothing to do with what happened. It’s an occupational hazard.” 

“You were supposed to be home already. You stayed.” 

“Jack, enough,” you finalized, pushing his hand away. He compensated by resting against the bed, his hands on either side of your thighs, his weight over you. “I wanted to stay. I’m a big girl who can make her own decisions, and just like I chose this specialty, I chose to stay. So enough with this crap about me not knowing what I’m doing and you not being right. I’m glad I stayed. I’m glad you were here.” 

The air became static, and Jack hung his head between you. You weren’t sure if it was the pain medication lowering your inhibition or the seemingly near-death experience that made you so brazen, but you figured the crack had already been there. It had always been there. There was no going back after today, and you were good at this. You were good at boundaries and reframing and— 

“You scared the shit out of me.” 

Your shoulders fell. “Jack, I know. But—” 

“No. You scared me. Badly. You were out for a couple of minutes. Do you remember that?” When you didn’t respond, he looked up. “Went limp before we got you into a chair. And I know concussions. I’ve treated hundreds. But your blood was on my hands and you were unconscious and I kept thinking about how much of a damn idiot I’ve been.” 

You tilted your head to take him in, and he looked down at the bruises on your arms. 

“Robby’s been on my ass about asking you out. I kept telling him it wasn’t the right time. That it wouldn’t be right for you. And then you show up today and call me out, and I panicked. I was in the breakroom drinking a damn lavender tea to calm down because it’s supposed to be a coping skill or whatever it is my therapist was trying to push.” 

“Lavender can be very soothing—” 

“Not done,” Jack chastised, standing fully. He took your face back into his hands. Your lashes fluttered, but not from the pain or the dizziness or the meds. “This shouldn’t have happened because I should’ve gotten over myself a long time ago and asked you. Shouldn’t have taken this for me to get my act together.” 

“This wasn’t your fault, Jack,” you reminded him. 

He nodded, but you could tell he wasn’t taking the message to heart. “I know.” Another upturn at the side of his mouth. A sweep of his thumb along your cheek. He looked at you, and it felt like it always did. “But I’ll fix it.” 

[kaprifolie]

You are looking at a woman with a new job, a degree, and season tickets for hockey come next season. I'm feeling pretty accomplished this month.

[sunflowers-and-scales]

“this character did not act in the most objectively logical way possible!” is not ! actually valid literary criticism

[sunflowers-and-scales]

i have trust that the media literacy enjoyers will find this one idk