poppy

| scottish | ISTP | scorpio | bi | | 19 | | angela giarratana enthusiast |

[lavender-wolfie94]

Me looking for fics but they’re all smut

[pencil-n-pen]

—i’m always on my own

fake boyfriend! jack x eldest daughter! reader

“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back I'm always on my own.” -All Them Horses, Noah Kahan

summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.

wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)

tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat

a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)

acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me

masterlist

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

And you’re not alone anymore. 

[fangirl-dot-com]

okay okay more discussion time on how different characters in the hatosy verse (a continuation of this post) are related in a messed up family tree

so what I've gathered is that we're working with jack abbot (the pitt), brett richards (fire country), grant riley (quinn's "yes, chef" audio) sammy bryant (southland), titus danforth (ready or not 2), terry mccandless (reckless), charlie reid (chicago pd), and andrew "pope" cody (animal kingdom)

IN MY MIND (which can be so different from everyone else's so dw) Jack, Grant, and Brett are the perfect combo for triplets. they're all in that silver-fox shawn era so timelines match up more. jack chose the army, brett chose firefighting, and grant went on to culinary school.

then we have the FIRST set of twins - Pope and Titus. now I know they're so different but both lowkey have baseline mental issues that could have spiraled two different ways. lowkey both smurf and chester d needed an eldest son, so why not split them up for money.

then (their poor mother) the SECOND set of twins - Terry and Charlie who both somehow became corrupted cops....they claim it's a twin thing and I can see them keeping burner phones and chit chatting about new ways on how to tip the scales in their favor

and finally, sammy bryant gives off youngest son vibes to me so HARD, like this kid grew up seeing his eldest brothers do something for the world and decided to become a detective/police officer who sometimes bends the rules (he learned it from Terry and Charlie of course).

now, this can go in such a plethora of ways, but if I had to make my own hatosy verse and write multiple fics, this is the way I'd go about it :)

please I need to discuss with people about how serious I am about this

[redsakura101]

Tricky Fish

As Part of The Shiver Collection

Mateo Diaz x Radiology Tech!Reader, Brendon Park x Sister!Reader

Find My Pitt Masterlist here You were cool. Calm. Collected. The night shift's very own Shark, as you strolled through the ED. You had also become the fascination of a certain nurse. Mateo tried his very hardest to make you crack. Until eventually you smiled. Your cool facade shifting ever so slightly. Before shifting into something a little more... But not everything can be that simple - not when Park the Shark was your brother.

Notes: strong language. two people just trying to navigate their feelings for each other. medical inaccuracies. injuries. Mateo attempts to become something more with you. overprotective Shark.

Word Count: ~5.4k

Mateo had only ever known you in passing. 

Meeting in the overlapping of shifts, as the sun rose and as it dipped in the sky.  

While the day shifters dragged their feet to the exit while the night shifters buzzed alive with fresh coffee and tired smiles. 

You were one of those faces he recognised without ever really knowing. 

A constant. 

Always moving. 

Always somewhere. 

One second rolling a portable ultrasound into Trauma 2, the next disappearing down a hallway with an x-ray machine in tow.

You never seemed rushed. Simply fast.

Efficient.

Like your every move had already been calculated three steps ahead in your mind.

Most people in the department knew your name. Or at least knew of you as the radiology tech of the night who could somehow appear before anyone finished placing the order.

The one who never stood still long enough for small talk.

Mateo had exchanged exactly three conversations with you.

One had been asking if you needed help moving equipment.

One had been asking where Dr Mohan was.

The third had been an exhausted "Morning" at six-thirty after twenty straight hours in the hospital.

That was the extent of it.

Just another coworker.

Polar opposites. 

Day and night. 

Park. 

Your relation to the intimidating ortho surgeon wasn’t unknown to the entirety of the ED. 

Perhaps not common knowledge to those who clung to the day shift. But to those who frequented the nights in the ED. 

They all knew who your brother was. 

And it came as no surprise to them when they saw you side by side. 

The way you both held yourselves. It was eerily similar. Almost identical in the way you behaved. 

Work oriented and blunt, straight to the point. 

Though this was a fact that Mateo had yet to discover. 

Not until he had switched over to the ‘dark side’ as he had jokingly named it when talking with Javadi. 

From afar at times you appeared calm. 

Approachable even. 

Which Mateo would come to understand was not to be mistaken for friendliness.

‘Oh, look, a friendly little dolphin – It's a shark! It's a shark, and it ain't friendly! It looks like a dolphin. Tricky fish! Tricky fish!’ 

At least that was how it seemed when Mateo had begun working nights. 

When he was figuring out how it all worked. How everyone worked together. 

The environment was the same and yet the dynamic of it all was drastically different from anything he’d known from the day shift. 

Like they had warned him, the nights could certainly get…wild.

And then there was you. 

Level headed, calm and collected. 

It was well after midnight by now, and thankfully was quiet…not that anyone would say that aloud. 

So you were taking the opportunity to filter through the imaging requests. Ranking what was most to least urgent.   

Ensuring that everything was in order. Cross checking what had been left over from the day shift. 

Lips pulled tight into a thin line. Brows furrowed whilst you worked. Patience wearing thin. 

And no one knew that better than those on the night shift. They’d worked enough shifts with you to know that when the coffee wore off. 

Your tone would become clipped. 

Short. 

The way your eyebrow would begin twitching whenever someone interrupted you for something stupid. 

So to mitigate that. It would be routine for someone on staff to drop a coffee off for you. 

Tonight that was Abbot’s duty, while he had walked up to you with a fresh coffee in hand, placing it right before you with a small nod. 

As you shot him a thumbs up whilst you took a sip. A small smile forming on your face as a sigh slips from your lips. 

Letting the warmth of the coffee slip in. 

Those on the night shift shared an understanding that so long as you were caffeinated he could stop you from biting someone’s head off until at least 4 am… 

Definitely made it easier to request imaging when you were in a more agreeable mood. 

And from a far, Mateo had looked up catching a glimpse of your smile. 

The rarity of it all. 

Not once had he ever seen you smile before. And then–

He heard your laugh. 

Melodic and almost displaced coming from you. Moreso a chuckle, but it was a laugh nonetheless. 

As Abbot joked with you, just trying to pass the time until the ED would inevitably be thrown into chaos once more. 

But then your demeanour shifted once more. Whilst Abbot walked away headed onto the next case. 

You were headed towards yours. 

Shoulders pushed back. Steely eyes. 

An air surrounding you. One that screamed do not disturb. A woman on a mission. 

No longer smiling, just simply there, working. 

“Did you check the vitals for– Mateo?” the faint clicking of fingers snap in his face, “Mateo”

“Yeah?” he’s broken from his daze, gaze drifting down to meet Lena’s. Her brow raised as she looked at him expectantly. 

“Barely midnight and you’re already dozing off”

He grins with a shake of his head. 

“Well good, can’t have you shifting back onto days, they’ll start thinking we did something terrible to you,” she continued to joke. 

He rolled his eyes. Before changing the conversation, “So what’s Y/N’s deal?”

“Y/N? Oh, you mean Park?” Her eyes follow to find you across the room, as you wheel in a portable x-ray machine. Professional and polite as you work diligently. 

He questioned, “Park?” catching the attention of Ellis as she passed by. 

“You didn’t know?” Lena tilted her head. 

“Know what?” Mateo’s brows knitted together. 

Ellis grinned, jutting her head towards you, “Y/N’s our very own resident shark” 

“Shark as in, ortho’s shark”

“That’s the one,” Ellis and Lena nod. 

“No”

Ellis nods, “Oh yes” 

“But–”

She shrugs, “But what? Haven’t you seen them, they’re almost carbon copies of each other” 

While Lena heads back to the nurses station with a small smile. 

Ellis lets out a small chuckle, clasping her hand on Mateo’s shoulder, “Just be lucky our shark’s more agreeable with a bit of coffee in her, and just hope she won’t bite your head off” 

And so. Mateo had developed a little personal goal. 

A goal to make you smile. 

He knew it was possible. He had seen it done. 

He just didn’t know how. 

One evening he had simply come up to you, cheerful as usual. The exhaustion of the night had yet to seep in. 

“What do you want?” you asked, barely even looking up from the scans you were assessing. 

Stunned by your clipped tone, he tries to shrug it off, “Nothing, just wanted to say hi”

You look up at him. 

Unimpressed. 

You hum with a small nod. 

“Well, hi,” he follows up awkwardly. 

“Hello,” your voice was steady. As your attention turns back to your work. 

That attempt had quickly been determined an utter failure. 

Unaware of you flipping the fuck out inside...

No matter what he tried, he was never quite able to push past your boundaries. 

Not that he didn't try.

God, he tried.

You weren't rude.

That was the thing. 

People assumed you were rude.

They assumed the clipped responses and professional distance meant you disliked everyone equally.

But Mateo had learned that wasn't true.

You were polite.

Helpful.

Reliable.

You'd answer questions.

Show your colleagues and explain how the equipment worked. You’d help them track down scans.

But the second things threatened to become personal? Your guard went straight up. 

There was no getting through.

At least not for most people. 

Your resolve only ever cracking for a select view, and only ever briefly. Whether it be Shen passing by with a sarcastic remark. Or when Ellis would come by to tease you whilst you worked. Abbot would always check in, his humour never failed to make you crack a smile. 

Especially when Abbot would drop off a coffee to you. 

With that in mind. 

Mateo had convinced himself he could speed up the process.

One particularly miserable shift, Abbot had been making his usual coffee delivery rounds.

A sacred ritual at this point.

Everyone knew your caffeine schedule better than some of the patients' medication lists.

Mateo had looked up from his charting, catching Abbot before he could walk past, "Let me take it."

Abbot blinked, "What?"

"The coffee,” Mateo gestured to the cup in his hand. 

"...Why?" Jack raised a brow while he looked towards you. 

Mateo immediately regretted asking. Several heads lifted from nearby computers. Nurses exchanging looks.

Mateo ignored them. While Abbot’s grin widened.

Dangerously so.

"Mateo."

"Just give me the coffee."

"Mateo," Abbot probed once more, with a knowing look in his eyes. 

Mateo does his best to ignore Abbot’s tone, while he asks once more, "Give me the coffee."

The look Abbot gave him could only be described as deeply entertained. Still, he'd handed it over.

Mateo walked across the department.

Coffee in hand.

Trying very hard not to feel like everyone was watching. Because they absolutely were.

You barely looked up when he arrived.

"Abbot's outsourcing now?" you asked dryly. 

He set the cup down beside you, "He was busy."

A lie.

A terrible lie.

You looked up at him. Just for a second. Then at the coffee. Then back to your work.

"Thank you," you nodded. Hand curling around the cup as you take a sip. 

That was it.

No smile.

No conversation.

Nothing.

Shoulders slumped in defeat, Mateo returned to the nurses' station under a chorus of barely concealed laughter.

Abbot looked insufferably pleased.

And somehow that almost made Mateo more determined.

Because there had to be something under all that professionalism.

There had to be.

Turns out the answer was sleep deprivation.

Or maybe shared suffering.

Possibly both.

The shift had been horrific. One of those nights where every ambulance in Pittsburgh seemed determined to arrive simultaneously. 

Too much had happened that night. Too many things that had piled up. A sea of chaos that you all worked to control. 

Until soon it steadied. Adrenaline wearing thin, the coffee barely able to tackle the fatigue from your bones. 

That was when Mateo had started humming, quiet enough that it didn’t disturb anyone, just amusing his tired mind. Something to take it off the shit it just went through. 

Even for just a moment. 

It just so happened that his humming had coincided with you passing by, the squeak of the rolling wheels and the shuffle of your feet filling the air. 

Then the tune hits your ears. 

Familiar. 

Iconic. 

"Dun... dun... dun... dun... dun-dun-dun-dun…”

Mateo hummed with a small grin. 

And instead of snapping or telling him to quit it. He had instead caught a glimpse of the quirk of your lip. 

The small airy laugh slipping from your lips with a shake of your head. 

And that was his way in. 

After that, the joke never died. 

Each time you passed him, or entered the room. Mateo would flash you a smile as he’d start humming the tune of Jaws. 

And it never failed to bring a smile to your face. 

Even as you groaned when you heard the first dun, leave his lips. 

Even as you grumbled to complain. 

“I’m literally carrying imaging equipment,” you said. 

“Dun–dun, dun” 

“You’re how old again?” 

He shrugs, “What’s it matter, you can’t tell me its not catchy”

You’d huff, biting back the grin forming on your face. Even as you complained. Deep down, his humming never failed to amuse you. 

He didn’t know what to expect from you. 

All he had known when starting was that you were;

The radiology tech on the night shift. 

Park the Shark’s sister. 

And well. 

You had a beautiful smile. Whenever it appeared. 

Especially when he was the one to make it happen, it elicited a feeling of warmth to settle into his chest. 

It was surprising to him the way you affected him

But the thing that surprised Mateo the most wasn't your smile. It wasn’t the fact that the theme tune of Jaws made you laugh. 

No, the most surprising thing he had discovered was just how funny you were.

Because nobody warned him about that. Not a single person on the night shift had given him a heads up, that you were hilarious. 

But only with those you let into your inner circle. 

The first time it happened he nearly choked.

Someone was complaining loudly.

Being dramatic. Making everyone's shift harder. Making their problems, everyone else’s problem.

The second they walked away Mateo sighed, "Difficult patient."

Without missing a beat you retorted, "Patient implies patience."

Mateo laughed so hard he snorted.

You looked mildly horrified. Then immediately started laughing too.

After that he began paying attention.

And realized you'd been making jokes the entire time.

Jokes that were dry.

Sharp.

So perfectly timed.

The kind that arrived so deadpan people needed a second to realize you'd said something funny.

You'd mutter things under your breath.

Offer one-liners that made his belly ache from laughter.

Completely dismantle someone's nonsense with a single sentence.

And every time. Mateo laughed.

Every single time.

The sound echoing through the department.

Warm and genuine.

Which only encouraged you.

Though you'd never admit it. You were developing a soft spot for the nurse. Each time you saw him now, it took everything within you to stifle the smile that threatened to grow. 

The changes between you had happened so gradually. 

Shifting. 

From mere colleagues. 

To friends. 

To something that neither of you could quite name. 

You’d let yourself linger for a few moments after your conversations. Seeking him out if something made you laugh. Tucking little stories into the corner of your mind for the next time you’d see him. 

With each coffee delivery, instead of Abbot or Lena, it would now be Mateo’s smiling face that would greet you in the twilight hours. Warm coffee in hand. 

It did not go unnoticed by those that worked with you. 

Watching as you’d soften around Mateo. 

How your eye lines would drift over to meet the other. 

It was obvious. 

That you two were catching feelings for each other. 

Even those from the day shift had begun to catch on. In the overlapping of shifts, as you waved goodbye, curt, a small nod towards your colleagues. 

But Cassie noticed how you wouldn’t leave. Not until you said your goodbye with Mateo. 

And she grinned from afar as she watched you two talk, how Mateo seemed to have this look in his eyes. Sparkling. Alight. 

There was something there. 

And one evening, as he walked in to start his shift, just as Cassie was ending hers. 

She decided to let him know just what she thought was happening. 

“Anything you want to tell me?” she has questioned, with a small arch of her brow. 

He looked at her in confusion, “Uh–No?” 

“You sure?” she continued. 

“What’s this about?” 

She hums with a small shrug, “Just noticed you’ve gotten pretty cosy with Y/N and was wondering if anything was happening–but if not, just tell me to back off and I will” 

His mouth twists, mind racing as it flicks through the memories he shares with you. 

“Ok. Maybe,” he relents. 

“And?” 

“And there’s nothing else. Really”

“But you’d like there to be,” she follows up. 

He takes a moment, unable to verbalise the mess of feelings cultivating inside, how you had managed to make his head spin. 

“Just don’t know if she’s interested”

Truly, he still couldn’t get a read on you. Not able to decipher whether your friendliness could lead to anything more. 

At first he'd dismissed it. Dismissing how your presence made his heart race. How he’d turn in an instant at the sound of your voice. 

You were his friend.

One of his favorite people to work with.

The person who could make a twelve-hour night shift feel manageable.

The person whose dry comments could have him laughing in the middle of absolute chaos.

That was enough.

It should’ve been enough. 

And yet. 

Mateo couldn’t help but wonder…what if it could be something more….

Cassie elbows his side, as she praises him softly, “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re funny, kind and completely into her–look the most you can do is try, otherwise you’ll never know”

He nods, taking her words to heart. 

“You should get home, get some sleep before those eye bags become permanent,” he joked. Trying to alleviate the emotions he was feeling. 

Cassie let out a small huff in laughter, rolling her eyes. “Have a good night”

“Always do,” he grinned, while she walked away. 

That conversation had planted a seed in his mind. 

Perhaps. 

With every passing moment as you and he grew closer, the conversation would creep back into his mind. The possibility. Growing more and more appealing. 

Until he had finally said it out loud. 

He had rushed to catch up with you, as the morning sun hung in the sky, the air crisp. A slight chill still lingering from the night. Not yet warmed by the sun. 

As you shrug on your jacket. 

“Hey, wait up–” 

Mateo’s voice slipped past your headphones, just as you were about to pop them in. You turn around, tilting your head at the sound of his voice. 

Brows furrowing as he comes to stop before you, “Did I forget something?” 

“What–No. I just.” 

You asked, “What?” 

Why was this so hard? It really shouldn’t feel this difficult.

He dealt with trauma patients. Critical emergencies. Life or death situations. And yet somehow. 

This was so much harder. 

Here goes nothing.

“I was wondering if…” His voice cracked. Great. Fantastic.

You tried very hard not to smile, amused and curious all at once, “If?” 

Taking in a deep breath, he built his courage once more. 

“If you’d maybe like to go out sometime…With me?” 

Silence. 

Not a long silence. But long enough for panic to brew within Mateo. Preparing for rejection. 

You blink. 

Surprise flooding your features. 

For once your calm, controlled expression cracks. Fracturing into one of complete shock. 

“Oh” 

Oh. Mateo’s stomach sank. 

Your eyes flickering down before meeting his once more, “You’re asking me out?” 

“Yes,” he swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. All confidence dwindles with each passing moment.

“Like–” your mind races as you try to process this all, your hand gestures between you both, “on a date?” 

“I’m hoping so, yes,” he nods. “Unless you don’t–”

You cut him off, “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just. Uh–”

You were speechless. 

Your cold demeanour kept most people at arms length. Had made most people double guess themselves. 

It meant that most of the time you were left alone. 

Never once really being the first choice. 

Not until now. 

“I’m just surprised. I’m not usually the one people ask out,” the words came out so casually, almost jokingly. And yet there was an undertone of something deeper to the words, something honest. Raw. 

Mateo stared at you. 

Then frowned. 

“What?” 

All you can muster is a small shrug, “I don’t know” 

“You don’t know?” 

His question only makes a small laugh bubble from you, airy with no weight to it, tone dry as you remark, “Guys don’t exactly line up”

His response had come out instantaneously. 

He simply couldn’t help it, as he replied, “Then it's their loss” his voice soft. 

Your eyes snapped back up to his.

He hadn't meant to say it so quickly. Hadn't meant for it to sound so sincere.

But it was.

Every word.

"Because you're smart."

You blinked, "Mateo–"

"And funny."

You laughed.

He kept going, "And you somehow make the worst shifts bearable."

"That's a low bar."

"Still counts,” The smile threatening your lips grew.

“So–how about that date?” he smiled, “Is it still an ‘I don’t know’? Or is it a yes? Because I really hope it's the latter”

“Yeah” 

“Yeah?” The look in his eye was so hopeful. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed once more. 

The grin that broke out across his face was immediate. Unrestrained. 

And in light of that. It had made the soft smile on your face widen. 

It was the beginning of something new for you. He balanced out your sharp edges. Breaking past your steely facade. Knowing the real you, with each passing date. 

And just as he learnt more about you.

You learnt more about him. 

More than simply the happy guy that looked out for those he worked with, more than just a nurse who took the extra mile when it came to his work. More than just the guy that never failed to leap at an opportunity to make a joke. 

No. Mateo was more complex than that. 

And you were privy to learning about it all. 

It felt natural. Familiar. 

Like you had both somehow been building towards this for months without ever realising it. 

You learned Mateo talked with his hands when he got excited.

That he sang terribly in the car.

That he could never remember where he parked. Despite that he was always so reliable. 

And so much more. 

All of which you were growing to love. 

While you’d catch his eye from across the room, already looking at you with a softness that made your stomach flutter.

Already wondering how he'd gotten so lucky.

Because somewhere between humming the Jaws theme and sharing coffee after night shifts–

You had become his favorite part of the week.

And judging by the way your smile appeared whenever he walked into a room. 

He was becoming yours too.

There was just one thing you hadn’t quite arranged yet. 

While Mateo was growing to love you. And all that made you, you. 

You hadn’t quite managed to arrange for him to meet your brother…in fact. You were definitely avoiding that. 

While you knew you could be clipped at times. 

Could be blunt. 

Standoffish. 

Your brother was in a whole other league. 

And the ED certainly had stories to tell when it came to your fearsome brother. 

In fact the topic of your brother had taken up a good chunk of one of your dates with Mateo, as you worked to reassure him that–

“Brendon won’t kill you for dating me,” you had huffed, leaning against him as you laid across the couch, brows furrowing as you tilted to look up at Mateo, “–It feels like we’re a few too many dates into this to only now be talking about it.”

To which Mateo replied, “Just thought I should check, baby–I don’t really want to become a patient in the ED, because your brother decided I’m not good enough for you”

That had earned him a shove from you from his joke. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you huffed. 

He argued, voice muffled as he buried his face into the top of your head, "I'm serious."

"You work in emergency medicine," you said with a raised brow. 

"Exactly"

"You see horrible things every day," you added.l 

“Yup,” he agreed. 

Shifting slightly, you move to face him, "And you're scared of my brother?"

"Have you met your brother?"

You opened your mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

It had done very little to quell his worries when it came to your brother. 

He remembered crossing paths with him during his time on the day shift. How easily he could reduce a med student’s confidence into complete rubble. 

And that was to someone who wasn’t dating his sister. 

The man could reduce someone's confidence to dust with a single raised eyebrow.

And somehow he rarely raised his voice.

Which made it worse.

Far worse.

So it was fair to say that you weren't necessarily eager to throw your boyfriend into that particular shark tank.

But sooner or later. 

Mateo was to be thrown into the deep end. 

The department was in the midst of a shift change, as the slough of day shifters stepped into the ED, those on the night shift just starting to hand over. 

When all of a sudden. 

An MVC was called through. 

A report of only one victim. Thankfully just one.

But it was certainly a very close call. 

A female, conscious. Barely. 

Suspected femur fracture and multiple orthopedic injuries. 

Everyone moved with practiced ease, a trait that came with far too many shifts dealing with this sort of chaos. 

Mateo found himself assigned to the incoming patient alongside Abbot.

The woman arrived pale and shaking, tears streaking down her face as EMS rolled her through the trauma bay.

Pain radiated from every movement.

One leg visibly deformed.

The possibility of additional fractures hanging over everything.

"Alright, ma'am, we're going to take care of you," Abbot’s voice was steady as always. 

The patient nodded weakly. A small cry broke out from her. 

Going through the motions as they checked everything. 

Ensuring she was stabalised. 

“Page ortho,” Abbot called out. 

Robby slipped to work alongside him, “and get Y/N in here”  

From the moment your name was called, you were hot on their heels, as you wheeled in the portable imaging unit, slipping in as you tug a set of gloves on. 

Eyes assessing, observant. 

Analytical as you pin point what was needed of you. 

Efficient as you do your job while they do theirs. 

Mateo always loved watching you work. How you moved with certainty. Confidence rolling off of you in waves. 

As the chaos began to settle ever so slightly. Mateo shuffled by your side, with a small quirk of his lips as he hummed lowly. 

But his little tune got caught in his throat when he looked up. 

Meeting the piercing eyes of your brother. 

Brows furrowed while he met Mateo’s eyes. 

You stifled the grin threatening to form on your face, biting the inside of your cheek, looking back down at the scans to hide your face. 

Brendon clicked his tongue before observing the scene before him, gloves pulled onto his hands. 

Firing off questions, straight to the point. 

Barely wasting any time. 

Before striding to stand beside you, sending Mateo a pointed look. Whilst you discreetly elbowed Brendon. 

A narrowing of your eyes as you looked at Brendon. 

He relented, ever so slightly, bending to your will. Eyes shifting to scan over the imagings. 

And that was when Mateo really saw it.

Not just the resemblance.

But the similarities between you both. 

The way both of you carried yourselves.

Your posture, the pushed back shoulders. The expressions, near identical analytical focus.

The way neither of you tolerated unnecessary nonsense once work started.

Standing side by side, nobody could have mistaken you for anything but siblings.

The same sharpness.

The same intensity.

The same tendency to cut straight to the point. The way you both behaved as though anticipating the other’s next move. 

Everyone knew of Park’s reputation. They knew of his fierce domineering presence. The way the room would silence as he entered, voices hushed when he moved through the room. 

But in this moment now. 

Mateo watched as Brendon’s demeanor shifted, almost imperceptibly. 

How his sharp edges softened. Tone not quite warm, but lacking a biting edge when speaking with you. 

Even your own behaviour morphed from your usual clean cut approach, to something a little more akin to what Mateo had seen outside of work. 

“It’ll need surgery,” Brendon commented, eyes flicking between the scans and the woman’s leg. Whilst Mateo does his best to calm her nerves. 

Stood beside Brendon, you muttered ever so quietly, “No shit, sherlock” 

He scoffed at your words.  

“That femurs halfway to another zip code,” you added. Quiet enough that it doesn’t reach the patient’s ears, but it doesn’t go amiss by Mateo. 

A small lilt of his lips holding back the chuckle from your little joke. 

An icy demeanor slipping back into place, professionalism taking over once more, as he directs the shift for them to prepare for surgery. 

As the other ready the patient for surgery, Brendon begins to exit the room before turning to Mateo, pointing at him, “You–”

Mateo points at himself with a raise of his brow. 

“–With me,” Brendon jutted his head. 

As a low hum of oohs, sound out from those nearby. 

You roll your eyes, packing up your equipment, reaching for Mateo’s hand as he passes, murmuring softly, “You’re going to be fine”

Your encouraging words do little to stifle his growing nerves, but he does his best to conceal it, while his feet carry him out of the trauma room. 

Finding Brendon standing by the elevator. 

Eyes observing him. 

Silence stagnant between them. 

His arms crossed over his chest as he simply watched Mateo, waiting. 

Mateo wouldn’t say he was easily intimidated. But right now. Standing before Brendon, Park the Shark – your older brother. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. 

He almost flinched when Brendon opened his mouth. 

“How serious are you?” 

Standing straighter he replied, “Very serious,” the instinct to say sir was definitely one he had to suppress. 

For a moment all Brendon did was look at him. 

Eyes narrowed. 

Lips pulled taut. 

“Good”

Brendon offered a small nod. Satisfied by what he saw. There had been many conversations between you and Brendon before this moment, and he had heard the way you softened when speaking of Mateo. 

How Mateo had made you feel so comfortable. 

How he made you feel free to be yourself. 

How you loved the way he made you feel. 

Mateo paused, blinking in surprise "...That's it?"

"No"

Of course not. Of course it wasn't. Of course there was more–

Brendon sighed, his cold resolve shifting whilst he scratches at his jaw, "Look."

His tone softened slightly. Not by much.

But just enough.

"My sister doesn't let people in."

Mateo smiled faintly, the memory of when he first met you coming to mind, "Yeah."

"You know that now."

"I do."

Brendon nodded. For a moment his gaze drifted back toward the department. Toward where you had disappeared. 

"She's always been like that,” A small smile graced his face. 

It almost felt out of place to see the man smile. The kind of look siblings got when remembering someone long before anyone else knew them.

Catching Mateo off guard. 

"Even when we were kids."

Mateo listened quietly, taking in Brendon’s words.

"If she trusts someone, it's because they've earned it,” Brendon glanced back at him, tone sincere, "And she trusts you."

That one hit harder than Mateo expected.

Because coming from you, it would've meant something. Something soft and so revealing. 

But coming from your brother–

The person who'd known you your entire life–

It somehow meant something even more profound. 

Especially when Brendon was only ever known for his blunt roughness. 

However Brendon immediately ruined the tender moment, "If you break her heart, though–" the firmness in his voice reappearing. 

As Mateo chuckled sheepishly, with a nod. “Yeah, yeah. I understand, you’ll probably break my bones”

Brendon only hummed in agreement, before disappearing into the lift. 

You slip beside Mateo, arm wrapping around his waist, while he tilts his head down to press a kiss to your temple. 

“Told you he wouldn’t kill you,” you grinned cheekily. 

He let out a small chuckle, as he pulled you closer to his side, feet moving as you begin to walk towards the lockers. 

“He did threaten to break my bones”

You scoffed, “Yeah, but he’d be the one who’d have to fix them–besides, I wouldn’t let him hurt you”

Mateo smiled softly, remarking, “Glad I’ve got one shark by my side at least”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” You roll your eyes from his words.

He nods, “I am pretty lucky”

You let your lips curl up into a smile, twisting him as your hands shift to reach around his neck, fingers twisting through the ends of his soft curls.

Reaching up to place a soft peck upon his lips before pulling away.  

“How does getting some breakfast sound?” 

“Sounds perfect” 

Leading you and Mateo to leave the ED.

Hand in hand. Your composure softens just for him. Just for Mateo. Admiring him in the early sunlight as the city awakens. 

Happy that your brother approved. 

Not that his disapproval would’ve stopped you anyway. 

Not when Mateo never failed to make you smile. 

Not when he made your heart flutter in your chest while his hand intertwined with yours. 

Not with the sweetness of his voice, or how he never failed to make you laugh. 

Pushing past your steely facade. 

And Mateo wasn’t going to be dissuaded from seeing you – even if your brother could be intimidating. 

He just wanted to be the one to make you smile. 

That was all he could ask for.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed my very first fic featuring Mateo, tried to keep it quite sweet. Also loved the idea of him knowing your relation to Brendon and still trying his luck anyway, unafraid of your brother. (I imagine it's a sweet thought for you) and these Park siblings are total softies deep down. Let me know what you thought ✨

There will be more to come for the Shiver Collection!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ♥️

Next up will feature Jesse Van Horn x Reader: Just Keep Swimming

Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Or check out my overall Masterlist here

Taglist: @the-sassy-one @ilocuras24 @may-machin @hazydespair @antisirkbitch @thehockeynerd30 @kitkatrina

[katescaffe]

thinking about dennis whitaker who easily subdues a man twice his size.

you're working a shift when a patient, a man who's clearly had too much to drink, is wheeled in with a head laceration. there's something mentioned about a bar fight, but that doesn't deter you.

"sir, i know it's difficult, but i need you to sit still," you say.

he doesn't listen because of course he doesn't. he reeks of vodka and beer and vomit; and he's staring at you like you've sprouted antlers.

he tries to get up and nearly lifts you with him in his confused fit of rage. 'just need to get home,' he keeps saying, speech slurred with glassy eyes.

"sir, please if you could just—"

when he realizes you're not letting up, still trying to get him to settle back into the bed, he's had enough. his hand comes out faster than you can react and knocks you backward so forcefully your feet can't move fast enough to catch you.

dennis makes it to you a step too late. you hit the floor with an unceremonious thud as your back slams against the wall.

and all at once, there's a quiet that rings in your ears as you watch, still on the ground, as dennis takes a punch to the face. the man's surprised, evident by the way his eyebrows shoot up, when dennis doesn't so much as move let alone stumble back. instead dennis spits the blood out of his mouth, painting the floor red, and takes the man's arm, twisting it back as he maneuvers him back into his cot.

"this is a hospital, sir," dennis says, blood now starting to drip from his nose. "if you want to leave ama, against medical advice, then i can get that paperwork started for you; but when that nasty cut on your forehead becomes a problem for you at home, especially because you drank tonight, i guarantee you won't be able to get here fast enough before you—pass."

the man pales.

"now, i'd appreciate it if you apologized to my coworker."

bonus:

"is it bad that i'm turned on right now?" you say, not realizing before the words have already slipped out.

"honey, i think everyone's a little turned on right now."

[wesandresons]

random pope moments that make me bark

[sun-snatcher]

( gif from this beautiful set by the lovely @jackrrabbot ! )

☤ ─ SOLDIER BOY ! ; jack abbot

summ. It's the first time you see Jack in fatigues. It may or may not also be your last. pairing. jack abbot / f!reader w.count.  2k! a/n. Watched 2x07 & had the itch to write Abbot doing what he does best (with a lil' PTSD, angst & religious imagery, kinda) because him in uniform is. WHEW!

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ YOU’RE ALRIGHT, SAYS the Saint donned in full-gear fatigues. He recites it akin to pious scripture. I got you. I got you.

You’ve been settled against the frosted cornerstone of a building. It’s rough, bites a chill against your back. Your vision is lulling, but you can feel fingers tuck your loose hair away to gently lean your head back upright.

“Abbot?” you realise, blinking hazily. “Huh. Hello there, soldier boy.”

You can’t hear what he says. A stream of static is erupting— it’s chatter, you piece, coming from the radio attached to his plate-carrier. Darling girl, you think you can make out, You’re gonna be okay.

“Darling girl?” you parrot, letting out a wet laugh. It’s difficult to speak— let alone breathe, or move. Something thick is collecting in your lungs, drowning you from the inside out. “What is this, the forties?”

He holsters his sidearm and musters an amused smile. It’s tense, you can recognise it in the dent of his cheek: the kind he flashes his patients with when they’re rolling into the ED, nervous out of their mind and asking if they’ll be okay.

“Well, you started it,” he says, deceptively calm as he thumbs at your carotid: it’s weak. Too weak. Abbot wills away the reflexive dread from taking over him. “Besides, I’m a classic kind of guy, y’know?”

“Take me home, then,” you murmur, delirious. The world flickers like a lightbulb on the fritz. “I’m… tired.”

“No, no, hey.” He breaks through your dizzy spell. “Not yet. We haven’t even gone out on a date yet, right?”

Groggily, you can see him sling his rifle aside and dig into his vest as he keeps an eye out. “You flirting with me, Jack Abbot?”

“Have been for the past year, sweetheart,” he hums, tearing a QuikClot packet with his teeth and ducking down towards you. “‘Bout time you caught on—”

You cry out. 

A sudden bolt of lightning has rippled through you, and you catch yourself fisting at his sleeves out of blind instinct. 

Easy, easy, I know, he apologises, still packing the gushing wound as tightly and quickly as he can. 

The burst of white-hot pain has you jolting back into reality:

The street team. Routine outreach. You’d been right beside Whitaker when a thunderclap echoed through the winter air, sharp as the pop of a starting pistol. Then everybody had scattered in shrieks, and before you knew it you were looking skyward at the clouds, watching the snowflakes flutter down, down, down, to meet you.

“..itaker,” you choke, eyes bright with alarm, “Whitaker.”

“Safe,” he promises, ripping through a sterile dressing and pressing it over your bleeder. The dump of adrenaline won’t last you more than a few minutes at the rate you’re losing blood. “Hey, listen to me. Listen. EMS is coming, then we’ll get you to PTMC.”

You can hardly hear him through the battledrum in your ears and the firefight taking place only a street away from you. Gang-violence, you realise. That’s why Abbot is here with the SWAT team in full gear.

You’re gonna be fine, y’hear me?

“I’m bleeding out,” you slur, finally looking down at your torn scrubs, where Abbot’s gloved, red hands are coming away sticky; drenched up to the seams of his camo with cruor that’s too dark and too much and—

You remember now. You had taken a round straight through the gut.

What is it he told you, once?

Nipples to navel is no man’s land.

“Oh god,” you shiver, feeling your breath give way as the reality set in, “I’ve been bleeding out. That’s why you’ve— that’s why you’re being so sweet. I’m dy—”

“No one is dying,” Abbot cuts to the quick, chasing to meet your drowsy gaze. His voice is a low, fetching timbre. “Hey, hey. Look at me. That’s it. How does dinner sound?”

What? you say. Atleast you think you do.

He reaches up to touch your cheek, but hovers over the thin of it instead when he realises how bloody his palms are. 

“Dinner. At a restaurant.” He spares a glance past the corner to where his unit has begun closing back in. “Somewhere classy, so we can dance, yeah?”

Gossamer. Periphery vignetting. 

Okay, you agree. I’ll wear my finest.

The world tips like a cradle into a gaussian blur. 

“…eetheart. Hey. Hey!” 

You blink. Suck in a pained breath.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Abbot reminds, jostling you with a start. “You gotta stay awake, okay?”

Had you closed them? You didn’t notice. All you can tell are sirens blaring closer, and you imagine the ambulance, skidding in somewhere off in the distance.

“I can’t dance,” you admit, taking whatever precious time you have left to look at him; to carve into your memory the profile of his face, the colour of his eyes and the dimple whenever he speaks.

( Abbot looks different like this. Battle-worn and stalwart. But the light breaking through the snow behind him is casting a silver halo over his head, softening his rough edges. He looks like—

Like an avenging angel; armed to the teeth with nothing but gunpowder bullets and his healing hands. )

“Me neither,” Abbot soothes. “Just, just stay with me, can you do that?”

“Okay,” you say. “Okay. I will.”

Attagirl.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He doesn’t shake. He never allows himself to do so in times like these— it’s what had made him a good combat medic. Clarity in crises. 

He doesn’t shake. Not when he’s forced to switch out between his medkit and his sidearm to return fire until Hiro had him covered; Not even when he’s forced to collar you a little further into safety, and it slashes a terrible, sickening dragpath of your blood across the glittering snow.

“You’ll be alright,” he’s saying. Ordering. It’s half for him and half for you. The firefight had long since passed and been handled, and he has you safe in his arms. The whole ordeal since he’d slid over to your side and carried you off had only been five minutes at best. 

“I got you. I got you.”

When EMS hauls you both in and tears away, he doesn’t shake. 

When they hook you up to drugs and bag you, he doesn’t shake then either. 

Abbot might’ve even been mistaken for the calmest of the entire EMS crew as they wheeled you into the PTMC’s ambulance bay, where everyone’s already been prepped and waiting for your arrival. 

Lateral transfer is smooth. They whisk you into Trauma-1. 

Abbot gives a rundown of the situation; of mechanism of injury. He reports when and lists what’s been administered en-route to the trauma centre, and asserts that you “…won’t be stable for long, not unless we do something about her bloodloss and collapsed lu—” 

Something blares from the monitors.

Jack’s heart seizes.

He reckons your vitals in a blink. O² is dropping, Jesse declares, and the bay runs more amok as other numbers begin to tank into catastrophe. You’re crashing. He has to move. He has to do something. He’s a doctor. He—

—grabs your limp hand; Feels your radial pulse deteriorating, thready with little life.

“You’re cold,” he announces, uselessly. It subsides into a whisper of “No,” and “Sweetheart,” and “Didn’t you say you’ll stay with me?” 

Robby’s gaze snaps to Jack.

In a flash, someone is rushed in and is prying his fingers apart from you. 

It takes Jack a moment of stubborn resistance to realise it’s Dana, tugging him aside. 

“Listen to me. We gotta let ‘em work,” she avers. “Why don’t we patch you up too? Robby is on the case. He knows what he’s doin’, you know that.”

Robby. Right. Robby is a good doctor. An excellent doctor. He’s competent; not shaking— When did Jack start shaking? He never does. 

…Not until now. Not until you. 

( No amount of combat could’ve prepared him for this. No field manual ever said anything about witnessing your proverbial heart bleeding out in your arms, while you lie to their face that they would be fine. You just have to stay awake. Stay with— )

Like a good soldier, he has enough sense to let himself be led out and away from the fray despite his instincts clawing against it. But, “I’m not letting her out of my sight,” he says. 

He’s shocked to find his voice fraught with desperation. 

“Dana,” he startles. It’s his adrenaline, crashing. “Dana, I— I can’t— I can’t let her out of my sight—”

Something in her fractures along with the crack of his wavering voice.

“I know. I know, Jack. It’s alright,” she overrides in a hush, and like the clever woman she is, reasons with: “Look here. We can watch her from the Nurses station. How ‘bout we park you there, and you can keep an eye on her while we stitch your shoulder up. No rooms or beds, I promise. Sound like a plan?”

Yes. Good. Okay, he moves, since words are betraying him. There’s a ball in his throat he’s not sure how long he’s been swallowing down, and there’s a burn licking up the back of his eyes. He hadn’t even noticed he was clipped until it was mentioned.

Dana peels his gloves off. They’re slippery with your blood. She’s regarding him with that same, gentle look she spares for her most doleful patients. Then, once more like the clever woman she is, distracts his mind by turning its wheels as Perlah makes quick work of the wound on his shoulder: 

She tells him that his SWAT team is safe and his unit is right behind him, ETA-5; that the rest of the hospital street team had made it out safely and were being treated too for minor injuries. That the men— gangsters— responsible for this whole shitshow in the first place are being apprehended as they speak. 

Jack is grateful for her, in spite of however much of what she’s said almost certainly coming through one ear and out the other. It’s kept him, successfully, from spiralling into an anxiety attack.

He bristles, paces, hovers impatiently, until his adrenaline grinds to a stop. When they finally stabilise you and sweep you upstairs for emergency surgery, he tails you, helpless, where Walsh ends up having to step between him and the threshold of the doors leading towards the OR. 

Abbot doesn’t argue.

Just stands outside at attention again until an hour— maybe several, he couldn’t tell anymore— had passed; and Dr. Shen must have come in already for the nightshift, because Robby is here now by his side to tell him the procedures he’d done on you in the trauma bay, and is pleading him to Stop doing guard duty, Jack. Stand down. It’s alright. The fight is over.

“Is it?” he cuts. You’re fighting for your life on a table right now, he can’t bring himself to say. And I never got to tell you that I—

“Robby,” he resigns, after a long while, “I won’t survive this.” 

He had been picturing everyone he’s ever had taken from him since your gurney disappeared out of sight. 

There’s Afghanistan— Curly and Vega and Yeti during Kandahar; Pope and Genie and Milo during Helmand— who he’s lost to the dogs of war. There’s his deceased MVC vet Raymond Orser who he coded for two hours straight to no avail, and there’s the ghastly weight of his wedding ring from when he lost his wife, and jesus fucking christ now he’s going to be losing you next, and—

Robby squeezes his good shoulder.

“I can’t. Not again,” Jack confesses. “I won’t survive it.”

It.

“She’ll pull through,” Robby insists, because there’s nothing more defiant than saying that at the face of Death; and lets his dearest friend cry at long last, lets him lean into him for a settling embrace. 

The day’s events have caught up with them: they were anguished, and exhausted. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ You wake up with the sun, an induced coma later.

Blearily, you make out what can reasonably be a rainbow of cards— is that a balloon?— and fresh flowers clogging your bedside, poking between the beeping medical paraphernalia that’s pumping drugs through countless lines. It feels like being a puppet with tangled strings.

You vaguely recall this isn’t the first time you may have been conscious as you recovered, but the first time fully awake and oriented. 

There’s the ghostly warmth of a hand clasping yours you can still feel, after all, and the memory of muffled murmurs around you as you were sleeping.

Despite being sluggish, though, you manage the call button once you’ve gathered enough strength. A nurse materialises into your room, who briefly catches you up until your ICU doctor arrives with surgical consult: It’s Garcia, looking unimpressed with her pager pointed accusingly at you.

“You bitch,” she bites, without heat. “You scared the shit out of all of us the past week, y’know that?”

You make a face as you sip your cup of water. “Oof. Oh god. Don’t make me laugh.”

Then, not a split-second later:

“Oh, hello there,” you greet, to the Saint stunned at the door—

—And Abbot has to physically steady himself, out of the sheer overwhelming relief in his marrows. 

“Soldier boy,” you finally call out. Your radiant smile, weak as it is, still washes over him like pure, incandescent sunlight. 

“Darling girl.” His heart sighs at last. “I owe you a dance.”

[sun-snatcher]

( all gif credits to @vole-mon-amour from this lovely set ! )

☤ ─ HO'OPONOPONO ; The Pitt

summ.  Your story does not come to an end when you do. So keep going. Live to see it with others. w.count.  1.5k tags. gen!fic , genderneutral!reader , no y/n , 4th wall break , meta , talk of death . TRIGGER WARNING for heavy descriptions of grief & loss , in regards to suicide & suicidal ideation . a/n.  Feeling weary as of late. In response to that concerning ep release (2x09), here is my letter to all those who are struggling with Depression or anything of the like— & above all, my dedication in honor of those loved & lost in my or anyone else's life.

Do read the tags & tw above. Thank you!

i. — I LOVE YOU.

Come July, the fresh MS and interns will pass by the framed portrait of you everyday, and never dare to think to ask who you are. It’s not the kind of thing a student ought to ask about, anyway. Don’t want to be insensitive and step on any toes, y’know?

But it’s more welcome than they think.

(The youth, given time, will come to learn that as you grow older in age, grief can sometimes be a welcome thing.)

“Oh,” Dana smiles. It’s the fond kind. Facing a timestamp of an old haunt that she’s weathered, come to rue, come to remember. 

She reads the syllables of your name out casually. 

Some of the staff in the vicinity don’t openly turn, but Emma can somehow physically feel their ears perk to the sound of your name. A reflex; as if you’re still here, and they’re expecting to see you step back through the doors.

“One of our finest, best and brightest,” she continues, laying a hand on her shoulder with a squeeze. Emma recognises the gesture: more a desperate reach for comfort— for Dana to ground and anchor herself than it is for her: a fresh-faced student nurse who’s only encountered a handful of names to remember.

“Y’would’ve loved ‘em,” Dana nudges, in a bid to lighten the mood. “Was a hell of an easy thing to do.”

Emma’s reply is a gracious, sincere thing. Punctuated with a gentle smile. “I wish I could’ve met them.”

“Yeah?” hums Dana, after a shaky moment's pass. Her voice is thin. “Me too, kid.”

ii. — THANK YOU.

“Alright, uh. Group huddle,” Dr. Shen sighs, to the band of tenderfoot MS under his care. Tensions are high. They’re arguing between themselves in an undertone on what could have or could have been done for their now-deceased patient. 

“A close friend of mine once asked me,” Shen begins to address once they settled, “What do you think is the worst possible thing that can happen to you?”

Ellis glances curiously at him. Wonders where he’s going with this. She answers first, anyway, if only to have his back; start the ball rolling: “Paralysis,” she answers.

Amputation, shudders an MS2. Blindness, goes the next. And then on, and on with varying levels of grimaces and winces: Dementia. Sickle cell. Locked-in Syndrome. 

“See?” Shen cuts in, at last. “Everything you all have listed has a thread of torture in it. Pain. Suffering. Little to no hope for recovery. But not one of you said death, did you?” 

Something clicks in place in the MS students’ heads: Quality of life. That death, on rare medical occasions like their previous case, might be seen as a kindness. 

“Alright, spill,” Ellis snorts, when everyone had eventually scattered back to their own patients. “Who do we have to thank for that fire mentoring story you just pulled in there?”

John, for the first time in a long while, has something uncharacteristic in his usually-deadpan expression: Grief.

When he voices your name, it hangs in the air long enough for Ellis to feel something startle in her heart— 

How after all this time, she’s still learning plenty from and about you.

iii. — I FORGIVE YOU.

“You said the anger comes and goes?”

In the quiet of his therapist’s office, Abbot distracts himself with the ticking of the wall clock. Crosses and uncrosses his arms; fidgets with his wedding ring.

“Ever since Admin cleared out their locker, yeah,” he says, instinctively beset by the memory. “Or when I look at a chart and see their name on it like they’re still here. Or when one of the newer juniors sit on their chair, even though it’s— it’s no one’s chair.”

“You’re not angry at Admin, or the Med-students,” his therapist lays bare, carefully. “And I think you’re aware of that.” 

He purses his lips out of frustration, leans back into the sofa to gather himself. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I shouldn’t, I can’t—” He runs a hand down his face. “I can’t be angry at— the victim. They don’t deserve that.”

“Why not?” comes the odd challenge, slowing Abbot down considerably. “You deserve it, too: to feel a certain way about what happened.” 

“Yeah, but, not— Not anger. Anger implies a wrongdoing,” he explains, shaking his head in disagreement. “And I don’t blame them for what they did. That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because!” he bites, in an outrage, “When someone wrongs you, it means you face a choice to—”

Abbot stops himself short. Shame and disgust curls in his heart. There it is: the pulsepoint of the problem. 

“Forgive them,” his therapist finishes, for him. “You have to forgive them, Jack. For your sake. Whether or not it feels incredibly selfish of you to be angry or disappointed— And even if there’s nothing, really, to even forgive.”

iv. — PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

It’s Dr. McKay, befittingly, who manages to get through to one of her patients, and convinces them to speak with Kiara for a discussion on PTMC’s number of therapy programmes.

Robby is proud. He makes sure to go out of his way to tell her this, briefly but sincerely; that she’d done a phenomenal thing, before pointedly ignoring the discerning look she’d given him when she caught the tail-end of his anguished gaze as he excused himself for a breather.

The rooftop door creaks when he swings it open. The guardrail is empty, and the parapet is reflecting the golden hour of a sunset. 

Robby indulges himself, for a moment, to think about a Universe where he stumbles into you still up here. Closes his eyes and childishly allows an imagination of him standing next to you, speaking to you. Perhaps a second chance, or one last conversation at the very least—

But he tells himself he doesn’t deserve it. 

What good of a mentor is he if his own junior had slipped through the cracks? He ought to have noticed the signs, hadn’t he? It’s his duty. The responsibility, above all else, lies on Robby’s shoulders. It’s what he signed up for when he took the role, didn’t he? 

And he’d failed.

This burden is his; an eternal cross to bear.

Your death; your blood metaphorically staining his hands.

He’d failed you. Just like he’d failed Adamson; failed Leah, and Jake, and Frank and everyone who’s ever—

In Robby’s mind, he entertains the idea of a final conversation with you; and he never gets to say all that he wants to say, because he always finds something more to want to tell you. It ends the same way in each and every one of them:

A bow of his head to guiltily say, I’m so, so, sorry.

n. — STAY.

Do not hang your stethoscope at the rooftop guardrail tonight. 

It is not yet time for farewells.

You’ll miss Donnie’s upcoming babyshower, and Javadi’s birthday party celebration. Matteo embarrasses himself somehow during it, but he’ll wish, regardless, that you’d have been there to see it. 

You’ll miss out on hitting the jackpot on the latest bet Ahmad had on the roster, which means Jesse will finally beat your record and be ahead of the winning-streak. A Pyrrhic victory, ofcourse— he wishes he never won this way.

You’ll miss the latest goss Princess and Perlah have on that one EMS crew girl constantly trying to sneak a look at Langdon a.k.a ER-Ken— who, speaking of, will be quietly wondering where you’ve gone once he’s back from rehab; the same way Collins will find out should she ever drop by again.

You’ll miss the domesticity of Samira’s texts and calls and links to medical journals she finds interesting; miss Whitaker’s random pictures of farm animals sent every off-day he has; miss Santos’ late night trash talking over life in general; miss Mel’s ramblings and childhood stories of her sister.

McKay will wish her son could have known you in the same way Dana wishes Emma could have met you earlier. John will get your drink order every once in a while whenever he misses you despite disliking the taste, and Ellis will mistakenly glimpse your face moving amidst the havoc of a trauma case more times than she can count.

And Abbot and Robby will carry another face in their memory; another tally in their heart: They will miss you every time they see you in each junior that they come to mentor, and they will miss you when they both stand at the rooftop together on the darker days.

All this to say:

You’ll miss out on plenty if you take that step beyond. 

The expression “taking your own life” speaks for itself. Who are you taking it from? This life you have has never wholly been your own; it’s shared. An impact— say a dent, or the black hole of an absence— will be felt in the little Universe you’ve come to build and share as home with friends, family, loved ones.

I promise you they will look for you whenever that dent resurfaces, or that black hole reappears. 

So just stay for this night and the next, and the next. 

One day at a time.

It is not a time for farewells.

Do not hang your stethoscope at the rooftop guardrail tonight.

— International Suicide Hotlines for accessibility, — Or, at the very least, talk to someone who is a safe space. Hell, talk to me, my blog is open!

[sun-snatcher]

( gif from this beautiful set by the lovely @doctorjackabbot ! )

☤ ─ DEATH KNELL ; jack abbot

summ.  You & Dr. Abbot have always locked horns. But Death has a way of changing people. pairing. jack abbot / f!attending!reader w.count.  5k ! a/n.  medical inaccuracies , mentions of death & suicidal ideation , no y/n . Ah yes the classic 'enemies-but-not-really'-to lovers/the 'nobody bullies you except me' trope!

A POPLITEAL INJURY sends Trauma-2 running amok.

You reach for the landline to contact Surgery just as Shen suggests it on an exhale.

“They’re running circles upstairs with the MVC pile-up from earlier. He’ll be ischemic by then regardless of the tourniquet," Ellis points out.

“Ah-ah. Vascular shunt can do the trick, wouldn’t you say?” someone chimes, but you’re too distracted with dialing in the extension. 

“Sure, why the hell not,” you relent, holding the handset loose at your ear. It’s a crazy idea, yes, though fortunately isn’t a stupid one. “But that’ll risk exsanguination. I’m paging for a consult. Walsh has a better eye on this anyw—”

Something clicks; the line goes dead. 

You blink in confusion to see:

Abbot, with his fingers pressed down the receiver. 

He’s braced himself against it, the flex of his freckled arm outstretched as he proceeds to lean down towards you to meet your affronted glare, voice low as he closes in on you. 

“I’ll do it,” he croons.

You reason the stumble in your heart as a startle reflex. Shake your head back in focus.

“Am I running this, Dr. Abbot, or are you?”

“You are. But you’re also uselessly running the standard of care, so I’m inclined to override,” he censures. “Like Ellis said: Surgery is tied up with people who have minutes to live. I can buy our MasterChef here an extra golden hour if we restore perfusion.”

“And trust me of all people when I say I wanna save this guy’s leg,” he continues. “Hell, might even buy enough time for Walsh to stop by the vending machine before your little consult.”

You let the dig pass and the amputee joke go unnoticed. “That knife is the only thing tamponading him from a call lighting up the blood bank, cowboy.”

“You’re right. So call them to standby MTP,” he agrees surprisingly easily, releasing the receiver and— much to your chagrin— begins to dial their extension for you; and all while still confidently, deliberately, holding your frustrated gaze for maximum tension.

The call goes through. You muffle the handset on your shoulder as you narrow at him.

“A vascular shunt is a surgical procedure, Dr. Abbot, temporary or not.”

He shrugs, shooting that cocked-head-and-deadpan-stare he always does that makes you want to wipe out of his face. “So put the word emergency in front of it.”

You scowl. Rear your head back and break away from his eye-contact in metaphorical defeat. 

Jerk, you mouth, just before you begin rattling off the case to the line.

Punk, he murmurs back, finally pulling away from your personal space to glove up. “Gowns up everybody,” he announces. “Get the med-students in, Ellis, they’re gonna wanna see this.”

You hang the landline up at last. “Just so you know, I called the morgue too while we’re at it,” you joke, dryly.

Abbot snorts dismissively. “Ye of little faith. I’ve done this a hundred times in field hospitals. Trust me, punchy.”

“Oh, the morgue’s not for the patient,” you say, sidling past him as Princess ties the back of your PPE gown. “It’s for when I’m done beating you with your own leg for undercutting me in my trauma case.”

“Yeah?” Abbot narrows, his half-hearted smile flashing canine-sharp. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” 

So it goes. 

The dynamic between you has always been a pointed, inflammatory thing; be it in disagreements over patient treatment (“Aw, relax, punchy. It’ll be my head on the inevitable Gloria-guillotine, not yours. Who knew you cared about me that much—?”) or bickering over things as small as accidentally drinking someone else’s coffee order (“Yes, ‘Jerk’ written on it means it’s your drink— who else do you think the drawn-on one-legged stickman is supposed to be?”). 

For frequent flyers and medical staff, the friction eventually settles into background noise: a familiar cadence of clipped exchanges, cheap jabs and catty banter threaded into the humdrum tapestry of rolling carts and beeping monitors. A daily occurrence enough that, if neither of you lock horns or go after each other’s throats, would sow a discordance into the Pitt’s rhythm more than they’d realise.

Not that it ever intervenes with patient care, ofcourse. 

The both of you may conflict or fall into disparaging hisses and crows at each other, but you two are still the professional duo for when the calls come in and and traumas start thundering down the bay (The PittFest MCI had not only sharpened your respect for one another since, but also strengthened your trust in each other’s inner compass and capabilities— Not that you’d ever admit that to each other.):

You can contradict each other without the cruelty when absolutely necessary; can quarrel while intubating flawlessly; can hand him the ten-blade intuitively while deep mid-argument. But when a patient threatens to get combative with you, Abbot is first to step in and intervene; And when a visitor or family member thinks to browbeat him, you’re first to jump to his defense.

A symbiotic relationship; Part of the natural order in the department, however jagged it appears to outsiders. 

(Ahmad already has a betting pool up for who’ll bend or break first. Half the staff already sees the hostile dynamic as something intimate and borderline romantic, after all, so why not profit? “$40 says those two are secretly exes.”)

And so it carries on, and on, and on. 

Until—

“Keeping up, punk?” Abbot says offhand, yanking the bougie out an emergency cric.

The room perks their ears for the snap, the bite, the caustic remark. Your unimpressed tone that’d have clapped back against him in an instant with something along the lines of, You’re the one with the limp in your step, jerk.

But it never comes. Just Perlah’s relieved declaration of a yellow end-tidal.

The entire bay’s anticipated gaze pins you down in surprise.

“What do you think?” you simply reply. It’s a lazy retort— uncreative. Flat. As if you’d been drained of the energy you usually have to take the bait and turn it against him. 

The nurses glance curiously at one another in silent conversation. 

From where he’s standing by the patient, Abbot cocks his head ever so slightly, taken aback. Even tries to chase your gaze when it’s pulled away towards Lena, who’s popped her head into the room to inveigle you: one of your patient’s visitors wanted to speak with you, it seems.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Abbot calls out as a last ditch effort, unable to hide the quiet dismay in his voice as he tries to tease you with, “You haven’t even called me Jack-ass in the past hour. You must be feeling generous today.”

You take a deep breath and smile at him as you back out the trauma door. It’s tight; performative. A poor attempt to lighten the mood.

“I guess I am, huh?” you shrug, and disappear round the corner.

Abbot blinks. Tries to wrap his head around the entire exchange; think back on whenever he’d pushed a button he shouldn’t have and made you stonewall him— But nothing comes up. 

The ordeal bothers him the rest of the shift. 

…And then the next.

And the next.

And the— 

There grows, for lack of a better word, a newfound peace within the Emergency Department. 

Ironically, it’s the most unpeaceful the place has ever felt, too.

Contesting between you both have now slowed to a crawl. Habitual head-butting in regards to dosages, imaging, consults, or whatever else, thins out. Childish arguments with him eventually shorten, tempering out into mild retaliations and half-baked barbs, where Abbot’s compromises are miraculously met without the usual amount of needling and bickering from your end.

Nothing has grinded to a halt completely, no, but the thrum of life in the air has gone. A notable absence.

It unsettles everyone.

It unsettles Abbot, most. 

Knocks him off-kilter; spikes a dread in his heart. He’d chalked the initial shift in you off as fatigue, went out of his way to deliberately get a rise out of you (“You’re slipping, punchy.”) only to receive in return a half-hearted scoff that only carved the concern deeper into his marrows— makes him want to grab at you and rattle you back awake.

Is it me? Did I say or do something? Have I crossed a line?

It isn’t. He knows it. A basal part of his soul that has come to entwine itself into your own, after all this time, knows instinctively that it isn’t his fault.

There’s the way your jaw tightens whenever your phone buzzes from a notification, after all, and the too-carefully-arranged composure you carry in your calm demeanor after you answer your phone calls outside mid-shift.

It’s an external thing, he pieces. Personal. 

Something Abbot isn’t allowed to be privy to, and won’t yet be anytime soon, it seems.

He just wishes you’d talk to him.

A black cloud hangs in the ED today.

“Rhythm check, hold compressions,” you say, not even bothering with looking at the monitor.

The EKG sings like a clarion.

Asystole.

“…Call it,” you order aloud at last.

05:47AM, Ellis declares, warily. She had honestly expected less give from you. (Earlier in one of your previous patients, you’d flashed your teeth against Shen in defiance on the mere suggestion of calling time of death— it hadn’t felt like your usual bites. It had felt unreasonably, uncharacteristically personal.

Now, though, you just seem to deflate. 

She doesn’t know which to be more afraid of.)

It’s been a shitty nightshift for everyone. You in particular, having lost your third patient in a row. You’re beginning to crack in front of everybody’s eyes: hairline fractures, in that your quips are meaner now; words blindly callous, derision more intentional. 

Worst of all, Abbot isn’t in today to soften your blows and weather your pain with you.

The monitor continues to whine.

Asystole. 

A flat and dull sound that somehow slices through your head akin to a rusted, serrated edge grating into your eardrums. Eternal tinnitus. A crooked blade cleaving your heart— your soul— unevenly; brutally.

Signifies a harrowing death knell that peals and tails you like a banshee’s cry through every failed patient, every family member’s tearful goodbye. An incessant, painful, beep that goes on and on and on and on and—

“Will someone turn that fuc— the damn monitor off, please?”

A tense beat passes as eyes flicker across the bay.

Jesse, closest to the EKG, blinks owlishly at you. 

“It’s already off, Doc,” he awkwardly says.

Oh, you realise. It is.

The ringing is in your head. Has been. It’s been following you down all the way from the Oncology patient wards since weeks ago, and been echoing like a swan song inside the hollow of your ears and into your skull until now. 

“I’m—” Sorry, you don’t get to finish. 

Lena has barged into the door. Got a call for an MVC. Two traumas incoming ETA-5. We gotta clear this place, hon’.

So you do.

Everyone jumps into swift action. Your deceased patient is whisked off to be cleaned and put in the viewing room. The bay is sanitised, prepped and reset thanks to housekeeping and techs. In no time two gurneys barrel in, and the picture EMS paints for everybody is automatically clear to the room: 13-year-old victim, 19-year-old drunk driver.

You swallow it down and get the job done. 

As Senior Attending you’re bouncing between the connected bays, pulling all the stops to save a life; shooting medical orders and guiding the Residents’ hands where you can. 

MTP is dialed in for the 13-year-old girl in Trauma-2. It doesn’t look good. You try anyway.

In Trauma-1, OR has been called down to assist with the 19-year-old patient. Walsh materialises in a moment’s notice, and the next time you’re checking in on her she’s gone elbows deep in guts with her team in an emergency thoracotomy. 

His vitals, however ugly, look promising. 

They wheel him upstairs as soon as he’s somewhat stabilised. You tell his family that’s been pacing outside the bay for the last fifteen minutes on what the update might be; what to and what not to expect, that Your son was in severe condition from the accident, and right now they’re in the best hands possi—

“She’s crashing!” 

You fly into Trauma-2. Reckon the vitals in a flash. Bradying. BP tanking. It doesn’t take much to tell she’s decompensating.

Shen is on chest compressions with Ellis on standby before you even feel the carotid disappear beneath your fingertips. An MS4 is on airway. Nurses declare labs and run transfusions. Jesse hangs up the cell-saver, and another unit of blood and FFP at your behest. And then another unit. And another. 

He doesn’t argue with you. No one will argue when it comes to saving the life of a 13-year-old girl.

PEA, resume compressions…

…Rhythm check, pause compressions.

Asystole, resume compressio—

You spend the better half of the hour coding her. 

Outside, her parents and brother weep into each other’s arms. It takes everything in you not to hurl at the idea of calling them into the room for their goodbyes, the adrenaline running through your veins in a sick and twisted fight-flight-freeze. 

It’s part of the job. You do it anyway. 

You listen to them scream, and shout. You listen to the EKG monitor— no, the ringing in your head, because Jesse’s cut the sound for everybody since you called it— and listen to them beg and plead and wail for my babygirl, my twin sister, my darling, why can’t you save her? Isn’t that what you do?

You let them berate and abuse you. Let them hurl curses and crucify you. They shriek and claw at your scrubs to get the fuck out, and in a blind glimmer of hope you mistake the figure stepping between you two to be Abbot— but it’s merely security breezing in. 

I’ll go, you tell Ahmad. Let them stay. 

Dr. Shen shoots you an apologetic look, and takes over the case. Even he, stalwart and unflappable, is rattled by the grisly scene.

“Christ, hon’,” you hear Lena wince once you’ve backed out the trauma bay, “Your face—”

“Just a minor scratch,” you dismiss, waving her away and mumbling something along the lines of, Courtesy of mom there. But it’s alright. I’ll… clean up. Call me if you need me— I just, I just need to get some air, okay? 

You can’t recognise your voice. 

You haven’t been able to for weeks, really, since the last time you sat at the bedside holding a cold hand in the Oncology ward. 

Haven’t been the same when you first heard the diagnosis, infact; up until you listened to the final, agonal breaths; up until the nurse had shut the monitor off when the flatline had come and rung its way like a harrowing tocsin into your head that’ll follow you for the rest of your life.

Haunting you in increments: Across the weeks from the ward, to the Sunday funeral, to the patients you’ve lost, to your fourth patient in a row today, and further on now—

Echoing up, up and up the stairwell towards the roof. 

A low-grade droll in the back of your mind that you can’t shake, can’t palm your buzzing ears over. It hums like a Call of the Void when you peer over the edge of the rooftop, and take an inhale of fresh air deep enough it stings your lungs.

It’s a beautiful morning. 

The sun isn’t out yet, but it still is a sight. In the dark horizon, distant God-rays threaten to slip through the gaps between soft clouds and wake the sleepiness of Pittsburgh. 

You stagger. Shift your weight from foot to foot. Let the burn at the back of your eyes creep its way into tears that blur your vision into a bokeh effect over the cityline. 

When you stuff your hands into your pockets as you consider it, you skirt at the idea of allowing your shoes to toe further past another foot— to take that damning step onto the metal parapet edged around the roof.

Asystole.

Still, nothing can cut through that palpable sound of a flatline in your skull. 

Nothing. 

It continues to drawl its Siren song; like Death itself is seeking you out, unhinging its jaw into the gaping maw beyond that’s only one step away.

Asystole. 

Nothing cuts through the blaring sound of Death’s croons. It’s deafening.

Asystole.

Nothing will help. Nothing and noone—

The door creaks.

“Hey, punchy,” comes a familiar voice.

You’re surprised to find the world clears into silence for the first time today.

✆ …the number you have dialed is currently unavailable… ✆ …the number you have diale‎d is currently unavailable… ‎‎[…] 6:32 | U ok? Pick up 6:33 | Would u atleast leave me on read  6:33 | So i know ure okay?

“Hey, punchy,” says the voice, sliding his cellphone into his jeans. “Little rude of you not to pick up my calls, don’t you think?”

Behind you, you can hear the creak of the rooftop door swing shut; the nigh-imperceptible tap of shoes on concrete approaching. If he hadn’t spoken at all, you would’ve recognised Jack Abbot by gait alone regardless.

“What’re you doing here?” you say, trying for scorn. It comes off as a choke instead— there’s still that ball in your throat from the grief you’re battling inside out, even if the phantom alarm in your head has seized now that he’s here.

“Oh, you know,” Abbot shrugs. “I missed you.” 

He turns to narrow his sight at the short step-up away you are from the ledge. The stethoscope— your proverbial yoke around your neck, ironic as the situation is— is now hanging listlessly on the guardrail like a bid farewell. 

Abbot has to tamp the dread in his heart, the hammering against his ribcage.

“Sure,” you hum, unfazed by his attempt to jest. A presence looms by you: it’s him, leaning on the guardrail. You can feel his classic gaze burning through the profile of your face like a brand on your skin. Can imagine the gentle look he’d give you in your mind's eye.

“I do miss you,” Abbot repeats, and you can hear the sincere honesty in his murmuring voice. “We all have.”

Then, carefully: “What happened tonight?”

That lets out a genuine huff of laughter from you. A half-hearted, bewildered sound. Where do you begin, from the Oncology ward? From the funeral? From everything at work that led up to today? 

“Life happened,” you summarise wryly, shaking your head. “Let’s see… 26-year-old fresh graduate who stroked out after an overdose in a party. Then Ruth— our frequent flyer— seized her heart out into arrest. Didn’t make it into the ambulance bay, EMS pronounced her dead.”

“No time to grieve her though,” you say, breath skittering. “No, no. 29-year-old officer with a GSW through the neck rolls in. Neuro barely stepped into the room before he started tanking. Took me long enough before I had to call it. Can’t heal a cervical fracture, anyway, can we?”

Your joke is raw and bitten out. Something in Abbot splinters at the sight of you like this— unraveling at the seams, lips curled and cheeks bitten from the inside to stop a sob from escaping.

“Had a MVC after that, too,” you continue. And this must be it, Abbot thinks— the tipping point that had sent you over the metaphorical edge; that had made you want to follow it by climbing your way to the roof— because your voice is barely hanging on by a thread now, shaking with effort. 

“13-year-old girl who snuck out to have icecream with her twin brother meets 19-year-old drunk driver who took his dad’s car for a late night joyride.”

Abbot openly grimaces. The horror of being a Doctor, sometimes, is that it’s far easier to imagine the scene already: Abbot figures the orders he’d have given, the calls he’d have made, the drugs to be pushed into lines— even if you give him little to no detail.

“She pushed her brother out the way. Coded her for an hour, maybe. Had to look at her family in the eye and tell them that their, their little girl is—” 

You grit your teeth. Whip your face leftwards, so he can’t spot the tears that’s running freely down your cheeks.

“Oh, but don’t worry, Jack. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, see? I managed to crack the chest and save the life of the 19-year-old who murdered their daughter,” you wave, in mock-dismissal. “Because that’s the job isn’t it? The Hippocratic Oath we solemnly swore to. So there’s that.”

…I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures that are required—

A painful beat passes.

You exhale, hard, when you hear Abbot’s clothes rustling: he’s ducked under the rail to come stand beside you now. 

He gathers what to say in his head just as a frigid breeze passes, carrying away the tiny tremble of words you’d very suddenly, quietly spoken.

And I lost someone close to me to cancer.

“…What?” he startles, before the words could fully hit him.

Then it clicks perfectly into place: the buzz of notifications in your phone then, the long calls mid-shift that wore you out, the slow descent of your hope that had eaten away at you as you braced to face the inevitable end.

“I’m sorry,” he corrects himself, instantly. “I know what that’s like,” he adds, which, well—

It snatches a vicious, incredulous laugh from you. It’s unreasonable and disproportionate of a reaction, but you couldn’t help but go for the jugular and lash out at him. 

“How could you possibly—? You don’t understand a thing, Jack,” you begin, turning to face him now.

(There’s an agitated mark on your face he zeros on. Has half the mind to reach out to run his finger over the thin, clotted line. Holds the reflex to ask, How did you get that? Who hurt you?)

“I do,” he says. “I do understand.”

He tries to set a comforting hand on your shoulder, but you’re snarling.

“No,” you wrench from his grip, voice cracking from grief. “You have no idea what it’s like. You don’t know a damn—”

“I do know,” he overrides steadily, which pisses you off because he’s so incredibly fucking patient with you still, despite how much of an asshole you’ve been this enti—

You stop.

Blink.

His words hang for a moment. A shudder washes over. 

“…You do, don’t you?” comes your realisation.

You remember now. He’d lost his wife to cancer too, once upon a time.

“Yeah,” he says, resolutely. A voice of someone who’s weathered the worst. “I do.”

The fight leaves your body.

A wretched exhale escapes you, and before you know it you’re finally burying your face into your hands as you stumble back to the railing, crumbling apart.

This is how it is in this field, isn’t it? You work and see the worst long enough you start forgetting it might happen to you next. Too complacent. Too busy with saving people’s lives to think about your own. Your own circle; own circumstance. Then the blow comes, and the wind is knocked right out your lungs, swept right off your sails. 

You get the rug pulled from right under your feet and you’re brutally reminded just how insignificant life is when Death points its merciless finger to its next victim— whether young or old or saint or sinner.

“Jack,” you hiccup at long last. “I’m so fucking tired.”

It’s the brittlest Abbot has ever heard or seen you. 

He never wants to hear it again.

“You must be,” he relents, softly, and reaches to fold you into his arms. “C’mere.”

And you do. 

That, he supposes, is what undoes him.

Neither reflexive resistance nor censure. You just step forward to him like he’s a beacon of light amidst the mire of tonight’s atrocities, and let him pull you safely close as you choke back tears.

An embrace is unexpected considering your dynamic. But it’s a quiet surrender that feels neither unceremonious nor graceless. This closeness that both of you have always disguised as petty combat isn’t unwelcome— has never been, come to think of it. If anything it’d felt like you belonged, like a slotting piece of a puzzle, perfectly fit in the shelter of his arms.

I’m sorry, you sniffle, for all of it. 

You’re not sure for what exactly, or why it felt right to apologise, but it slips out from you anyway as you fist at his jacket and curl into the warmth of him; press your ear to the constant of his heartbeat in a bid to anchor yourself someway, somehow between your spiralling.

He tightens his hold without thinking when you bury your face into his neck. Feels the tremor of your shoulders. Listening to your hitches, your stumble of breath as you try to contain your crying into something discreet. 

“Yeah,” Abbot offers, inadequate as it is. “I know.”

He’s settled a hand at your nape, threaded his fingers into your hair. The other has wrapped firmly around the small of your back; a plinth. Steady, firm. A physical pillar to keep you from unravelling.

This high upon the rooftop, the wind cuts sharper, so he angles himself just enough that you’re shielded from most of it. Then Abbot simply keeps you close, chin resting lightly against the crown of your head, and waits. 

(He can wait. Will wait, for however long it takes.) 

He’s never been one for words or a speech, anyway. He prefers contact; prefers the comfort a touch could translate.

By and by, the city rouses from its daze and begins its waking routine of distant sirens and bustling traffic. Sunlight begins to reflect and cast a saffron glow across the skyline. When you finally sniffle, finally shift away from his space to look up at him past your wet lashes, your eyes are red-rimmed.

Abbot dashes a stray tear before it falls, then courteously lets his arms drop. 

“Morning,” he greets humorously, hoping for a reaction. (His voice is drowned, it feels like, in affection.) 

Under the daylight, you look younger like this. Smaller. The bone deep exhaustion that’s hollowed you out is clearer to see in the open air. You look— diminished.

(Pretty, still. Beautiful. In the way Abbot has always found you to be and only ever admitted by hiding it behind snarky remarks. Your sharp-wittedness has given way for a rare softness in your edges now, looking the most unguarded he’s ever seen you. It makes him itch to tuck you safely back in his arms.)

“Robby’s morning shift,” you say, looking at Abbot’s clothes: sleeved jacket over a black tee and jeans. “You came all this way on an off day.”

Tonight had been a watershed moment, you realise, between the two of you. The intimacy of falling apart in another’s hands; the disarmament of your armour, heart and soul vulnerably bared out for him.

And he’d held it— you— as gently as he could.

He shakes his head before you can continue. “S’fine, punchy.” 

“Lena snitched?” you guess.

“John,” he corrects, and does his signature duck where he chases to meet your exasperated, downturned gaze. “What? I’m serious. He called me. Afraid. Can you believe that? I actually thought Hell froze over.”

“Today is a first for everything, I guess,” you hum, resurfacing the ghost of your usual self to make a joke. “Just… Don’t get used to it.”

(It’s a loaded line. A nervous ease back into normalcy. Don’t get used to being my hero.)

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Then, like the gentleman he is:

“C’mon,” he chides, without bite, “It’s freezing out here,” and shrugs his jacket off in favor of wrapping it around you. Vintage carhartt. Thick. Warm from the heat of his body.

It smells dizzyingly of him. Something half-masculine and half-heady and above all— homely. 

Jack Abbot smells like coming home.

“Prince Charming, wow. Did you practice that move in front the mirror? Be honest,” you rib, sheepishly nestling into the scent and warmth like a cat that got the cream as he tugs at the front of the jacket. 

“Mm. Yeah, totally,” he nods, if only to see you secretly light up at him taking the bait. “I actually even scribbled an elaborate script into my palm too, if you wanna see—”

Your burst of laughter is bright, however small. Meets the gleam in your eyes and rounds your cheeks in song.

There it is, Abbot thinks, breaking into a dimpled smile. There you are.

A pelvic injury sends Trauma-2 running amok.

“Rummel tourniquet,” you deadpan, outraged. “Are you shitting me right now?”

Vascular is on the way down, Princess declares, hanging up the line. 2 minutes out!

“Yeah? Safer. Quicker. We can tie the bleeders shut in 30 seconds, tops,” Abbot shrugs distractedly, voice aloof as he peers past the suction. “Could even let Vascular skip their way here instead of running.”

“Pressure’s 40,” you grit, sidling past the nurses handing him his loops and equipment. “He needs a damn REBOA—”

“Which is overkill for this patient,” he interjects. “You heard the numbers from labs. His lactate is sky-high. Hemorrhagic shock. You balloon him now, you’ll risk ischemia on his super duper important organs, don’t you think?”

The condescending tone has one of the more tenderfoot MS glancing nervously between them. The others, though, seem to drift around the scene completely ordinarily.

You roll your eyes with a lazy scowl, but you’re grabbing the tubing anyway and handing it over to him. “You’d have done it either way even if he wasn’t in shock.”

He makes a face and a noise of assent. “Well, REBOA takes precious time compared to a Rummel, punchy, y’know this. Besides, I can see the artery right infront of me, so relax. Take a look. Textbook external iliac—”

“Yeah, yeah, I see it,” you bite, before sighing out a, “You’re a goddamn Jack-ass, y’know that?” 

If Abbot could’ve paused to meet your gaze he would have.

“Punk,” he counters.

“Jerk,” you volley.

But a relieved smile blooms across his face instead. 

[sun-snatcher]

ABSOLUTELY LOVED how you wrote pup to be the protegé of Park the Shark!! Something about him taking pride in her after he's moulded her to be the perfect Orthopod... everyone in the ED coming around to defer to her too,,, yeah I fear he'd only get more obsessed over her

( gif credits to the lovely @parktheeshark for this crisp gifset ! )

☤ ─ MIRAGE ; Park the Shark

a/n.  Dynamic previously established here in this fic. Don’t worry folks this 700wc drabble is NOT the continuation of Pearls Before Swine— Just a part 1.2 to buoy the Shark frenzy rn while I work on part 2. Enjoy!

         A COLLAR BONE displacement sinks you to the demersals of PTMC, much to your obvious chagrin.

“Alright,” you sigh, snapping your gloves on while sailing into Trauma-2 swiftly. A streamline path unconsciously parts open for you like water slicing through the prow of a ship. The Med Students comically shrink from you like anemone. “Let’s quickly get this over with, please?”

“Look’s like Shark’s favourite pup is in,” Garcia, brows to hairline, hums. She watches you eerily circle the gurney like Park would, shark-like; the same pensive look in your eyes as you zero in on the angry, violaceous mottle swelling right above the patient’s sternum.

“I said please, didn’t I?” you shoot lazily over your shoulder. 

Robby and Garcia share a look. Half-amused, half-stunned. Enough for the bay to shift and click into place: It appears you’ve inherited a bit of Park’s notorious bite since they’ve last seen you down the ED.

“Got pulled out a once-in-a-lifetime procedure for an open scapular fracture all for a…” You straighten up from the bedside expectantly. “X-Ray, please? Thanks.”

You lean towards the machine revealing a—

“Posterior sternoclavicular displacement,” jumps in an obvious gunner, “which, presents rarely at 3% of all shoulder-related dislocations. So, kind of once-in-a-lifetime, too.”

A glacial beat drifts pass.

Beside him, Robby can see Whitaker visibly grimacing; steeling for the familiar, sharp Orthopaedic snap of, I’m not blind, to spear poor Ogilvie through like a hapless carp the same way he’d endured the humiliation from Park the Shark. 

But—

A snort is all you allow; and there ends all acknowledgement of the lanky MS’s existence.

…Arguably worse.

Garcia has to bite back an unnerved laugh. Fills in the chilling silence by presenting the case as you move to palpate the unconscious patient until Robby eventually runs down the list of concerns. 

Head, chest, abdomen clea… nd O2 looks good… irway patent since transport… don’t think it’s pressing up against her tra… Radial pulse has been strong and stea… hoping for a… 

“Closed reduction should be possible,” you conclude, after taking one final look to reckon the dislocation on-screen of the mobile X-Ray. “But I want her sent up to CT before she wakes. It’ll be the only window we can get her flat on her back without any complaints.”

“Alright,” Robby begins—

“Uh,” cuts in Whitaker, before he can stop himself, “Will the Shark be on this, considering it’s an uncommon case?”

You suck in a sharp breath at that, unimpressed. It’s enough to suspend the bay again into quiet stillness.

“There’s always a bigger fish,” comes your curt answer. It’s not hostile at all, but subtly edged enough to feel the nip from a familiar set of jagged, serrated teeth. 

It makes Whitaker wince again. 

“Doctor Park,” you correct, “sent me down personally to consult this case.” You circle back round to the exit in an efficient glide once more, snapping your gloves off pointedly. “If you have a problem with that,” you make a vague, cavalier jerk of your head upwards, “take it up to the Shark.”

The Resident deflates, wide-eyed. “Oh, no, no, I just… he’s my patient— I’m just, concerned—”

“Hey. I get it,” you dismiss, as courteously as you can muster. Try to shed that bracing energy that seems to follow you and have people defer uneasily at your feet. “Go follow her up, then. And make sure the dislocation isn’t agitated into something acute enough that’ll need a signed consent trip to the OR.”

Whitaker looks to Dr. Robby for assent, who shoots an amused nod of consent in return. “Go ahead. Dr. Park sent her down— means he trusts her.”

“Thank you. And you’re welcome, bottom-dwellers,” you mock-flourish, turning on your heel and immediately out the door. 

Then:

“Are all of them like that upstairs?” Ogilvie shudders, once he’s sure you’re out of earshot. 

The bark of laughter Robby lets out is met in unison with Garcia’s.

“Better toughen up, kid,” she scoffs. “She said please, thank you and you’re welcome. That’s the kindest Ortho consult you might ever experience in your entire career yet.”

The next time he’d been caught in an elevator trip up with the one and only fabled Shark of Ortho, Robby couldn’t help but muse aloud, “You sent your finest the other day.”

(If Robby had noticed the way Park visibly perked up at the mention of you, however, he didn’t make it known. Files it away with the other curiosities he’s noticed between you two inside his head.)

“Scared the shit out of my poor juniors,” he continues.

Park simply hums in amusement. “Good.”

And if the tinge of uncharacteristic pride in Park’s tone isn’t enough to stun anyone into place— then the unexpected, tiny, curl of his lips in a rare flash of open affection, would.

[sun-snatcher]

Park the Shark x overprotective trope... i just wanna see him flash his teeth at a patient for being combative with y/n. 'Nobody can bully her except me' shtick hhhnnnggg

( gif credits to the lovely @parktheeshark for this crisp gifset ! )

☤ ─ PEARLS BEFORE SWINE

summ.  Ortho is paged to the ED. Park the Shark fortifies his fierce reputation. pairing. brendon 'shark' park / f!resident!Reader w.count.  2.5k! a/n.  Implied power-imbalance , corrupted mentor/mentee dynamic if you squint , an annoying amount of eldritch maritime motifs . Apologies if Shark is ooc here given he had like 3 minutes of total screentime— I hope y'all enjoy nonetheless! & Thank you @lumissandbox for beta-reading this shipwreck of an imagine 🥀

          UNCANNILY SHARP MOLARS are a common sight when Dr. Park snarls out and berates hapless surgical interns amid long procedures. 

Anyone who’s ever worked with him— let alone heard of him, is aware of Park the Shark, who’s come around to be some cautionary, fantastical fable.

A mythological creature of PTMC’s Orthopaedics Department— some beastly, thalassic leviathan— who’s all jagged rows of endless teeth and killer instinct; Made out to be a divine, merciless warden of the sea responsible for piecing together centuries old bones buried five fathoms deep into bedrock.

A virtuoso of his field who you owe your knowledge to. Who’d taught you the fearlessness common of surgeons, but also instilled in you the fear of failure that’s needed to temper it.

What is it that Garcia and Walsh like to call you residents under his wing (or fin—), again? 

Shark pups. 

Left to fend for yourselves most of the time. Sink or swim. A dogfight of devouring each other alive in a desperate attempt to keep your head above water; to make it through this riptide of a Residency and be the best of the best.

Park the Shark stands on a mantlepiece of his own making. A faultless reputation sharp enough to cut, and the stringent attitude to match that’s a given considering his medical prowess and achievements. The other juniors— aw, these your shark pups, Park?— tenderfoot and wet behind the ears, worship the ground he walks on like suck-up remoras.

You admire him, yes. But most of the time you just… try to get by. Keep your head down and stay out of his way. 

(Not that you never advocated for yourself, that is. Being a woman in a particularly male-dominated specialty has only drilled into you an extra layer of thick-skin from criticism and inherent misogyny. You don’t fawn to the quote-unquote Ortho-bros, and have enough clever sense to know when to be candid without crossing the line.)

Perhaps that’s why he’d quickly clamped his jaws around you.

Always seen as the ‘favourite’; the ‘Prodigal Daughter/Mentee’, even if it never remotely feels like you’re worth any of Park’s precious time. 

Resentful, the other Residents eventually came to the conclusion that competition starts with you: 

Always the one personally selected to assist in Park’s odd cases, always the one his shark-like gaze searches for first in a crowd, always the one getting teeth sunken into and then humiliatingly chewed out for the smallest, mindless things because You’re supposed to be the competent one out of all the others, for fuck’s sake. 

They spin yarns of boyish rumors. Call you names that stick. Sharkbait, Catch, when they’re feeling particularly bitter. Or the Jewel of the Sea; Park’s prized (Mother-of-)Pearl, when they’re feeling particularly childish.

It’s fine. You can ignore those, and let your work do the talking. Besides, they never do address you that way around Dr. Park, anymore— not after he’d nearly bitten the head off of one of the R3’s after he’d overheard you openly be called Chum-dump in passing.

(“The fuck did you just say?”

“Uh… Nothing. I— It won't happen again. Sorry, Dr. Park.”

“The hell you apologising to me for and not her?”)

You tell yourself it’s just because Park doesn’t want to be associated with the likes of you; that it’s nothing to do with him being chivalrous— he’s just being professional. Doing his due duty as your Senior Attending to browbeat workplace misconduct.

(Don’t think too much of it. He doesn’t care. You’re not of value to him in any way you think.

How does the saying go? Never cast pearls before swine—)

You wonder if he’s aware of how much his implicit bias has you isolated in an already isolating field for a woman. A target on your back. How his apparent unspoken ambition for you and your capabilities alone have become somewhat of an albatross around your neck. 

You’ve done the work to get here, you remember him muttering mid-procedure once. I might make a surgeon out of you yet.

Park is utilitarian; he doesn’t waste time on petty endeavours— he couldn’t possibly be doing it on purpose, could he? To keep you orbiting close to him whether you like it or not, lonely from the ostracism you receive from your fellow peers, all for the sake of imparting in you what’s best. Deliberately exploiting his influence into favouritism so you rely on him and only him for company; starved for kinship.

None of which he ever gives you, either way.

Just his stoic, brooding silence. A single hum of assent or curt nod when you answer his questions flawlessly during one of his rare moods of actual teaching (“Hm. You’ll close after I’m done, pup.”); Or his lingering presence over your shoulder in the breakroom when you’re brewing a fresh pot of coffee, shoulders brushing (“I take it black.”).

Feels more like bait, really. Dangling right in front of you; waiting for you to take the bite. 

Or have you already bitten?

“ED’s paging. You don’t need me in here,” Park declares, over a traumatic pelvic crush injury slowly coming to its end. He nods to the surgeons in Vascular when they say they’ll finish up the rest of the procedure, and jerks his head at you to degown. “You. With me.”

The elevator sinks both of you all the way down to the bottom-dwellers. Emergency Medicine: a never-ending bustle of nervous energy and raucous commotion of sounds that grates at Park’s ears. When he sails into Trauma Bay 2 with you tailed close behind, medical staff part for him like the Red Sea; shoal of fish dispersing from an apex predator.

Robby greets him calmly despite the patient groaning his lungs out. Garcia is already rattling off an efficient presentation. …Crush injury to foot and ank… Compartment syndro… torn between salvaging the limb t… what do you think? 

Meanwhile, a pair of impressionable Med Students observe, rapt, as you glove up and curiously round the writhing patient in the exact same way Dr. Park does— an unconscious habit you’ve picked up from him; circling calculatingly like a shark sniffing out blood in the water. (Do you hear that? quietly nudges one of the Residents, the JAWS theme?)

They watch as you shadow Park, comically insignificant against the hulking brawn of him, scrutinising the X-Ray of the patient’s shattered foot. It’s a unique case, alright: a complex multiple fracture of practically every bone in his foot up to his ankle from a freak accident. 

Even Park reacts with a tiny, impressed snort that only you manage to catch by chance proximity.

“Give me something for the fucking pain already!” a voice lashes out, synchronising you and Park into sparing a narrow glance up from the bedside of the patient’s gurney.

“Mr. Aldrich, we’ve already given you more pain meds after the regional block,” soothes one of the ER nurses, “the ketamine will take a minute to kick in—”

“Screw you nurses!” he hisses, thrashing his head pointedly at you as he squirms in place. “Get me a real doctor!”

“You’ve got multiple in one room here to help you, Sir,” Garcia overrides, humorously, “take your pick.”

An exasperated growl. “Fucking, I don’t know, a bone doctor?!”

“Good news! You’ve got Orthopaedics to your left,” she gestures, shooting you an amused look.

Mr. Aldrich glares harshly at you. “Well? Move, bitch, and let me talk to the big guy behind you.”

Across the bay, Robby doesn’t get to snap at the verbal harassment in time. No, it’s—

—Dr. Park, pinning his tenebrous gaze at the patient as he cocks his head ominously.

“You’re gonna wanna speak respectfully to the ‘bone doctors’ responsible for getting you back on your feet, Sir,” he drawls, sangfroid as always before returning his attention completely to Robby.

(You don’t try to pick apart the notable undercurrent of… something in his tone. Chalk it off as non-negotiable decorum. If it isn’t Dr. Park who’d have said something, you’re sure someone else would have.)

Hell of a fracture, you ignore the patient, running a mental map of the potential procedures it’d take and what the prognosis would look like. Dr. Park busies himself with more details regarding the injury: mechanism, labs, drugs. Pokes and prods clinically at the patient’s numbed foot.

“We’re gonna need your consent, Sir,” comes everyone’s eventual finalised conclusion, where you keep your tone as calm as possible in a bid to deescalate the tension, “before we get you prepped for surgery.”

“You better fucking make sure I walk again,” he seethes. “My legs are my livelihood, you know that? Do you know who I am?”

“Mr. Aldrich,” you answer, patiently. “I’m taking that as a yes?”

“Oh, you think you’re fucking funny, do you—?”

An iron-grip stops the patient’s forearm short well before you even register it:

A swing at you. An attempt to snatch at you from the bedside to drag you like an undertow.

Sharks are a predatory species born with sixth sense. An innate electroreception that helps them zero in on the most sensitive of muscle movements within close-range. Top of the food chain. Evolutionarily driven by pure, lethal instinct leading them to their prey.

You wonder, idly, if Dr. Park has it too—

Bloodlust. Untamed animalism prowling somewhere behind his hunter eyes. His scrub sleeves are pulled tight from the flex of his biceps, tension of corded muscles in his forearms taut with brutal force from where he’s canceled out the threat in a whipcrack of a second: shackling the patient’s wrist effortlessly in a dizzyingly lightning-quick reflex.

Your heart stutters at the scene.

“Go on,” Park dares, voice glacially cold and sea-pelagic dark. “Take a swipe at my resident again, and I will break each and every single bone in your hand before resetting all 27 pieces of it back together.”

A beat.

You’d have been able to hear a pin drop in the trauma bay, somehow, from how suspended everything feels.

Akin to witnessing an abyssal leviathan come to breach ashore after being provoked.

It makes something treacherous take flight in your chest. 

That for as much as a supercilious asshole Park is sometimes, he still keeps a controlled, watchful eye on those in his wake as a mentor. Utilises that intimidating, ubiquitous command of presence he carries to his unfair advantage when things go leeways into dangerous waters.

It’s not heart, per se. But it’s certainly something rare. Some abstract, omnipresent patina of his that surrounds your being like a levee and safely harbours you. Shoreline rock armour, almost: Feeling like the broad, muscled stonewall that is Dr. Park has become your own living, breathing, metaphorical breakwater. 

You find yourself foolishly replaying his words like a broken record in your head.

My resident.

The patient visibly deflates, snatching his weak arm free from Park’s vice-like clutch as he rears back and loses all bravado. “I consent to the surgery,” he grits out, still turning his nose up against everybody. “After that I’ll sue all of you assholes for— for harassment. And you! For threatening me.”

Robby and Garcia bite back a laugh at the irony.

“Looking forward to it,” Park sneers, aggressively snapping his gloves off. He turns back to you and, uncharacteristically, nods at you to sidle past first and make headway towards the exit. “I’ll book an OR.”

Thanks, Shark, Robby calls out, gaze flickering curiously between you two before it lands as a side-eye to Garcia— who also seems to be trying to decipher something nameless as Park hovers close behind you.

The entire ordeal leaves a buzz under your skin.

My resident, you repeat again. His chum. His catch. His coveted pearl; his favourite pup—

The words are muffled in your memory. Underwater. The flash of canine-sharp teeth as he bit the threat out, cavalier, deceivingly calm. The unbidden warmth of safety blooming in your ribcage after he’d put himself between you and danger, and you’d essentially been tucked protectively behind the fabled Shark of PTMC’s Orthopaedics.

You should neither be allured nor girlishly thrilled at the idea of Park showing any semblance of anger at your behest— you’re in a hospital, for christ’s sake, not the cold open of a romance novel— But who doesn’t like to be defended at times? Let alone by the most notoriously unsympathetic surgeon you’ve ever come to know yet? 

“Thank you,” you muster the courage, once both of you are taking the silent ride back up to the Ortho-wards, “for earlier.”

He scoffs. It’s delivered, surprisingly, with less bite than you steeled yourself for.

“How about you keep your head on a swivel,” he advises pointedly, glaring down at you with disapproval. “Should’ve just let him grab you. Might’ve learned a lesson or two.”

But you’ve worked alongside him long enough to catch the minutest of tidal shifts in his callous voice— an antsiness; the faux-calm of doldrums out at sea. Something hadal in you knows that had the patient actually managed to snatch you in that riptide grip of his, Park would have ensured the man left the hospital with no functioning hands at all.

Or perhaps it’s just a delusion. Feverish calenture. A self-indulgent desire to have secretly collared the terrifying Park the Shark to be your own proverbial seadog: 

Bristling and snapping his serrated teeth at anyone that got too close; orbiting you like a predator possessively guarding their own claimed territory. Exclusively yours. 

(“Only I get to call you pup,” he’d said, once upon a time. Out of context, it makes your head reel every time you recall it.)

“Yeah. Sorry,” you say, pathetically. A force of habit; defaulting into deference.

Only—

“Are you?” he narrows, shrewdly.

It feels like something’s buried itself right into its target. Harpoon to a siren’s heart. 

“I—I…” you blink. Stumble your words. No, comes the candid instinct. You think of how he’d stepped in, how he’d handled the danger; All for you. I liked it.

“Don’t get used to me playing nice,” he continues at last, looking damningly straight into your soul.

It lights your body aflame. Feel a rush to your cheeks at the unintended (perhaps?) implication of his words. “That’s your nice, Dr. Park?”

The elevator dings through the charged air. He turns back forward lazily.

“For you,” he grunts dismissively. “Yeah.”

You blink. The doors slide open. 

Park the Shark stalks off, and you don’t get to answer.

[jadeittic]

Affair?

summary: the ER knows you're married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone's convinced you're having an affair.

pairing: brendon park + attending!pregnant!reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy, workplace misunderstanding

notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!

reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo

The first rumor started because of a protein bar.

Not because of anything dramatic. Not because someone saw you sneaking around hospital corridors or caught you pressed against a wall with Brendon Park's hand around your waist.

No.

It started because at two in the afternoon, during a brutally understaffed Friday day shift in the ER, you looked up from charting and said with exhausted fondness:

"My husband is going to kill me if he finds out I skipped lunch again."

And Dana, who had worked enough years in emergency medicine to survive on caffeine and spite alone, snorted.

"Husbands," she said. "They worry too much."

You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."

"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"

"He labeled every container by protein count."

"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.

"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."

Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.

Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.

They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.

They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.

And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.

That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.

So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.

And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.

Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.

Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.

The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.

The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.

Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,

"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.

Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.

"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."

Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"

"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."

Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.

"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."

The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.

Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.

Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.

"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.

"Hello to you too."

"Did you eat?"

The room paused.

You looked midly defensive. "Yes."

"You're lying."

"I had crackers."

"That's not food."

Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.

You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."

"You're pregnant."

"And?"

"And you require actual nutrition."

Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.

Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.

The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.

Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"

You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."

"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.

You looked confused. "Brendon?"

The entire station froze at the first-name basis.

"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.

"That's his name."

"No one calls him Brendon."

"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."

After that, people started noticing things. Little things.

Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.

How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.

One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.

"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."

Dana laughed. "Six?"

"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't even want to know."

Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"

You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."

"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"

"Oh, that was ours."

Silence.

You blinked up. "What?"

Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"

"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."

Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.

"You're... close with him?"

You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."

Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.

You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.

And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.

Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.

The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.

And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.

Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.

"You can't have that much caffeine."

You looked offended. "It was half-caf."

"It was basically battery acid."

"You tasted it?"

"You left it on the counter this morning."

Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.

You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"

"You wanted fries."

"I mentioned fries once."

"You cried about it."

"I was emotional that time."

"You threatened divorce."

The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.

Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.

Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.

Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.

"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."

Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."

You looked at him. "I know."

"You forgot."

"I remembered eventually."

"You remembered because I reminded you."

The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.

Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.

The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.

The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.

"Oh my God."

You frowned. "What?"

He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"

You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"

"That man practically tucked you in!"

"He's just—"

"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"

"My husband!"

"Exactly!"

You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.

"Oh my god."

"So, you are!"

"No I'm not, Frank."

"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"

"Because he made it."

Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."

"He color-coded the whole calendar."

He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.

Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.

Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.

Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.

But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.

And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.

That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.

Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.

You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.

"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."

The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.

"No."

Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.

"Repeat what you said."

The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"

"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."

The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.

"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."

Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.

The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.

"You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.

It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.

And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

Dennis looked at her. "What?"

But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.

At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.

Not like a lover, like a husband.

"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.

You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.

Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."

You blinked. "Yeah?"

Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.

You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.

Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."

"You never said—"

"Well, nobody asked."

"You literally acted like you hated each other!"

You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."

Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.

Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.

Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.

And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.

The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.

The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.

And worst of all?

Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.

Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:

"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"

thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)

[snoopy-abbot-archives]

I really fucking hated how that AI-generated picture spread, so I made this quick edit of Pope and Shawn like a week ago. Use the damn Photoshop instead of using AI, guys.

Edited by me—you're welcome to use it.

[richeeduvie]

Jack spends an entire post-sex cuddle session emotionally suffering from the fact you’ve figured out he used to be ginger because…despite all the silver curls and stubble, there is a very incriminating copper color that still exists south of the border.

Or, to put it frankly, you realize he used to be a ginger from his pubes that haven’t gone fully gray.

You’ve been brushing up against them enough to notice.

“Jack Audrey Abbot, You seriously expect me to find out my silver fox boyfriend used to be ginger and not demand evidence? This is the best day of my life!”

You, naturally, react like you’ve found God. Jack wants to die, because you become obsessed with the idea of young ginger Jack. He gets gruffly, pathetically flustered in ways you’ve never seen before.

“You know what, you wanna talk about pubes? Let’s talk about how you thought shaving down there would be a fun surprise for me. That was stupid.”

“Shut up. I want photossss!!”

Fuck. Apparently all it takes to reduce him into a blushing mess is his hot girlfriend nurse young enough to be his kid is her being too delighted by the fact that he used to look like a fucking stocky Irish farm boy.

“I have some…I have some photos. Hopefully you’ll stop sexually harassing me.”

“Yay!”

But unfortunately for him, the more embarrassed he gets, the much more attractive you find him. Which, that should be impossible by now.

[tomr1ddleswhorecrux]

His reaction to Robby smacking his wounded shoulder, is so unnecessarily attractive

[redsakura101]

Before You Ask...It Was A Shark

As Part of The Shiver Collection

Jack Abbot x Reader, Brendon Park x Sister!Reader

Find My Pitt Masterlist here Jack could be relentless when it came to stirring up trouble. Especially when it came to poking a little fun at PTMC's Shark. What no one could quite understand was why? Or how Jack managed to get away with it. Not until you, Jack's fearless firefighter of a wife, comes rushing into the ER. Turns out your presence worries more than just Jack.

Notes: strong language. established relationship. medical inaccuracies. injuries. Jack being relentless when it comes to teasing his brother-in-law. overprotective Shark.

Word Count: ~4.5k

Jack was known to poke a little fun here and there. 

Known to keep a steady head, a calm resolve.

Keeping things light hearted despite the weight of the work. Whatever troubles he had he buried them deep inside, something very few people knew.. 

It was a trait most carried whilst working the night shift. 

An air of indifference, so polarising from the dayshift’s tightly wound energy, it could give someone whiplash. 

But one thing remained the same between the day and night shift. 

Was its need to feed on gossip.  

Gossip was what made the ER spur on. Or at least, simply helped maintain a little sanity for those who worked there. 

He loved stirring up a little humour. 

His therapist had told him more than once that it was a coping mechanism – but he countered that comment by asking what harm could a little laugh here and there really do?

Whenever someone new came aboard. 

One of the inevitable questions that came to their mind was – How did you lose your leg? 

Now it wasn’t like everyone outright asked him, most skirting around the topic, too afraid to ask, too timid to broach such a personal topic. 

But there were times where some intern or student let their curiosity get the better of them. 

Had let the question pass by their filter. 

And that such time was now. 

As Ogilvie raised a brow, pointed at Jack’s leg and straight up asked, “How’d you lose it?” 

A hush falling over those nearby, a huff of annoyance at his blunt question. The insensitivity of it all. 

But in Jack’s eyes, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. 

As Jack catches sight of PTMC’s Shark. The chilling orthopedic surgeon that made everyone’s blood freeze at the sight of him. 

That made people part and duck their heads, averting their gaze. 

Only a select few found the ability to stand toe-to-toe with him. To not waver in his presence. 

And one of those few, was Jack Abbot.  

A grin slipping onto Jack’s face as he answers dryly in response to Ogilvie's question, “Bitten off by a shark" 

Jutting a finger over towards Park, "That one, that one took my leg,” the words were so blatant, and dry. 

An expression of complete seriousness taking over Jack’s features as he spoke. 

One that Ogilvie honestly couldn’t decipher from being real or false. His mind knew it was a joke, and yet Jack’s delivery couldn’t have sounded more honest. 

Catching word of the joke, Park merely scoffed with the slightest shake of his head, concealing the faintest chuckle beneath his breath. 

It wasn’t the first time Jack had made that joke. 

And both knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The joke never once got old, for either of them. 

Jack often brushed off questions about his leg with a simple, before you ask…it was a shark. It was one of Jack’s favourite jokes when avoiding the topic. 

Jack shot a look back at Ogilvie, “Now shouldn’t you be helping with hand-offs?”

“Uh–yeah, course,” His eyes widened, stammering slightly with a nod of his head, ducking away. 

Jack clicks his tongue, turning to face Park, “I swear that kid is going to make a fight break out in here if he doesn’t learn to bite his tongue” 

An air of mutual respect hangs between them. A silent understanding between the two. 

“And this is why I chose to go into surgery and not emergency med”

“Hm, and why’s that?”

“The patients tend to be less chatty,” Brendon’s eyes glance up at the clock, eyes furrowing as he simply nods towards Jack. “Makes it easier to talk shit” 

Jack merely chuckles from his response, patting his back before Park disappears back upstairs. 

It was rare. 

But not an uncommon sight to see Jack and Brendon get along.  

Whenever they passed each other, every one could tell that there was a friendliness between their interactions. 

No one could quite pinpoint why. 

Or how. 

But it was clear that Brendon tolerated Jack. 

But this mutual respect didn’t mean Jack didn’t divulge himself in a little gossip here and then about the Shark. 

Whether he’d be passing by as his colleagues spoke, catching wind that the topic was about Park.

He’d add certain little things, “I heard he only ever listens to the soundtrack of Jaws whilst he operates” True or not, he liked to poke fun at the man. 

“And how do you know that?” Santos would raise a brow in question. 

Jack would simply shrug, “Heard it from someone I know”

It’d be simple things, small things that amused Jack. 

Slipping in little truths here and there. 

The information always chalked up to having heard it from someone he knew. 

Now this someone as far as anyone knew could’ve been anyone, from admin, to a scrub nurse to a fellow doctor in the hospital that Jack was friends with. 

No one any wiser to the fact that he was, in fact, referring to his wife.

Brendon Park’s sister. 

You. 

It was no secret to the staff of PTMC’s emergency department that Jack was happily married. 

He proudly wore his wedding ring for all to see. 

Speaking highly of you, a clear pride and deep devotion in his tone as he spoke of you. 

He kept a photo of you in his wallet, and his camera roll was filled with photos of you and him, simply happy. Just waiting to be pulled out and scrolled through. 

The sight of you never failed to bring a smile to Jack’s face.  

Slipping you into the conversation with ease. Without even realising it, he could easily spend minutes talking about you to anyone that would listen.

On occasion even doting about you to his patients whilst he worked. 

Going on and on about how strong and courageous you were. Fearless. Compassionate.

…

From the moment Jack had laid eyes on you. 

His first thought was that you were smoking hot. 

Literally smoking as you brushed away at the ashes from your suit, smoke curling from behind you. 

Whilst you walked out of the building you and your team had just wrangled with, containing the burning embers until they were out. 

He was on the scene assisting the SWAT team as a medic. 

And he simply couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you carried yourself with confidence. Words firm as you made the next orders for your team. You were captivating. As you took control of the chaos around you. 

How you had taken the time to crouch down and console one of a young boy who had gotten caught up in this mess. 

It was that little boy that had brought you over to him. 

Having tugged off your glove, your hand was wrapped with his, as you stopped before Jack. The slight dusting of embers on your cheek. 

“Do you mind checking up on him? Just want to make sure he didn’t inhale too much of the smoke,” you had asked. “I’d go to the EMTs, but they’re all a bit preoccupied at the moment” 

Jack nodded, “Of course,” his eyes moving down to the boy, whilst he crouched before him, to appear a little more friendly. 

“What’s your name, kid?” 

“George” 

“Well George, I’m Dr Abbot, but you can call me Jack. Do you mind if I take a look at you, make sure everything’s ok?” 

George nods, “Ok,” his hand never lets go of yours. Clutching it tightly. 

“You were pretty brave in there,” Jack said whilst glancing up at you. 

You shrugged slightly, “All part of the job, isn’t it?” 

Eyes drifting down to the little boy by your side, “Though I think you were braver than me George, maybe you’ll be a firefighter one day huh?”

“Or you could be a doctor?” Jack added. 

While George’s nose scrunched up laughing at the two of you. His mind drifted away from the stressful events, as he focused on you both. 

“Saving lives, and helping people,” Jack continues to say. 

While you twist your mouth, debating his words, “Firefighters do all that too, and we get to ride in a pretty cool truck, what do you say George?” 

Whilst George tilts his head in thought. 

Jack chuckles, feigning defeat, “When you say it like that, being a firefighter does sound pretty cool” 

“Then I’ll count on seeing you at the sign ups,” you remark jokingly. 

Jack’s hands moved swiftly, announcing anytime he did something, and what he was checking for. From checking his pupils, to listening to his heartbeat, Jack was thorough.

“Can you take a deep breath in for me George?” Jack asks, while George agrees, “One, two, three, and out, that’s it.”

Your eyes watch as Jack continues to be gentle, humorous as he makes the young boy laugh. 

There was something soothing about Jack. 

Something that made the adrenaline coursing through you begin to rest and settle. Heart steadying. 

“Seems like everything is in order, George, I’d offer you a lollipop but it seems like one of the only things I don’t have in my pockets,” Jack jokes. 

“Hey Park! We’ve located the kid’s mom,” one of your colleagues called over. Whilst you nodded in acknowledgement, before looking back at Jack. 

“Thanks again for the help, doc”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Jack nodded. 

You both hesitate for a moment, not yet wanting to part. “I don’t know what it is about you Abbot, but something tells me you’re trouble” 

“Hopefully the good kind,” he replies, with a small quirk of his lip. 

“–Park, c’mon!” you’re urged once more. 

“I’m coming,” You hum, with a small nod of your head as you wave at Jack. “I’ll see you around” 

“See ya” 

One of his colleagues comes up to his side, as Jack’s eyes follow you. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like to,” he replied. 

Clapping his shoulder, Jack’s attention snapped to the side, “Maybe next time Romeo,” and with that Jack is pulled away to attend to another injury. 

From that moment on. 

It felt like each time Jack saw a fire truck or a cluster of firefighters, he always, without meaning to, searched for your face in the crowd. Had kept an eye out just to see you once more. 

Until eventually it had faded.

His hope had begun to dissipate. Pittsburgh was a big city afterall. The chance of seeing you again was slim to none. 

Days turned into weeks, which had turned into months. 

Until you had become a distant memory, simply a nice idea. 

Well. 

That was until you had tapped on his shoulder. Whilst standing in line at a coffee shop one late afternoon, smiling as he met your eye. 

You would be lying to say your mind didn’t drift to the memory of the medic you had met all those months ago. 

The image of him flitting into the forefront of your mind. How his eyes held a depth to them, unwavering, calculating. The way he held eye contact with you. Softening ever so slightly. 

There was a story behind those hazel eyes. 

A story you wanted to know. 

Eyes tracing his features, as you took in his appearance. No longer wearing the camo tactile suit of a SWAT medic, instead simply in a black t-shirt and cargo pants. 

Upon meeting your eyes, they blinked in surprise, before a smile graced his features. 

“Well if it isn’t Pittsburgh’s finest firefighter,” he tilts his head, “It’s good seeing you again”

“I see I made quite an impression,” you grinned. With this look in your eye that had him enthralled. 

“As if I could forget, Park wasn’t it?” he said. 

With a smile you nodded in confirmation, “But you can call me Y/N” 

“Well if you’re not busy, how about you join me for some coffee?” 

You pause for a moment, letting the offer stand in the air. Before you eventually nod, “I’d love to”

“Great,” a twinkle sparked in his eyes. 

Intrigue developing. 

Laughter and smiles shared over coffee. Swapping stories from your own funny moments as a firefighter to Jack’s own mishaps in the ER. 

A friendship gained, with the feeling that something more could develop. 

When schedules aligned. You’d share a coffee or tea, or whatever you felt like, maybe even breakfast before your shift started and after his shift ended. 

You had grown closer until soon, the line between friendship and something more had become blurred. 

As Jack leaned in, hand caressing your cheek gently. Waiting, tentative, longing to cross that line. Until you tugged him down, crashing your lips against his, melting into his embrace with a sigh. 

It was messy at first, clumsy and new. 

Trying to find your rhythm together. But once you did. It was absolute bliss. A peace harbouring between you both. 

Understanding one another, even in the silences when words felt too difficult to say. 

That wasn’t to say it was all perfect. 

That there weren’t times you wanted to pull your hair out in frustration as he’d shut you out. Or times where you would be reckless coming home worn out from a shift as Jack would incessantly worry over you. 

But you both pulled through. 

You learned to grow, to be better. For yourselves. And for each other. 

Jack should’ve known that a life with you would always be full of surprises. 

Especially when you insisted he meet your brother. 

The brother you had mentioned a handful of times, how he was scary but a real softy once you got to know him. 

Imagine Jack’s surprise when he opened the door to your home, only to be confronted by the sight of Brendon Park. 

The orthopedic surgeon known as the Shark of the very hospital that Jack worked at. 

It definitely started out as a tense meeting. 

Whilst you tried your best to melt the tension. It didn’t go past you to see how Brendon’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at Jack. How Jack held his gaze. Cool. Unflinching. 

Both simply, polite. But nothing more. 

A stale mate. 

Only once you slapped him in the arm did his cold facade begin to fracture. “Cool it,” you muttered to Brendon with a pointed look.  

Jack watched as Brendon relaxed, how it was clear he cared for you. The way you both interacted with ease. A clear bond. 

A side to Brendon he never thought he would get to see. 

Jack followed your lead as you teased Brendon, whilst Jack would add his own quips, growing bolder with each passing meeting. 

And though Brendon was never one to reveal the cards closest to his chest. 

He was glad to see you so happy with Jack. 

And even happier when he watched as you and Jack had exchanged your, I Dos, words of cherished promises and love. Brendon couldn’t believe it, the little girl he once grew up with was now grown and married. 

Hell, Brendon still couldn’t believe the risks you put yourself through day in and day out as a firefighter. 

Even if at times all Brendon wanted to do was wrap you up in bubble wrap and ensure you were ok. He knew that wasn’t a solution. 

But no matter what, no matter how much time would pass he would always worry over you. It was part of his job as your brother.

Even if you were confident and able. 

Fearless. Bold. 

When you walked into a room it was as though you would gain control of it. Eyes would look to you. Your shoulders pushed back, a keen look in your eye. 

You and Jack made quite the pair. 

That was the you that those in the ER had grown to know. In the fleeting moments when you’d drop by, You’d always take a moment to say hello to everyone whenever time allowed. 

Even sometimes bringing in a little something for everyone to eat – knowing all too well the negative impact an empty stomach can have on morale. 

You were always a welcomed sight.  

Unfortunately. 

Tonight was one of those nights they wished they didn’t see you. On the cusp of changeover, just as the night shifters had begun to filter in as those from the day began to file out. 

A trauma had been called through. 

Another trauma. 

Nothing out of the ordinary, especially for those in the Pitt. Barely batted an eye at the information, simply going through the motions as they prepared for it. 

Female, a firefighter that had simply got caught in a bad accident. 

What no one had expected however. 

Was you. 

The moment the gurney rolled through the doors it felt like everyone had their breaths caught in their throat. 

Snapping back into motion as they hear your muffled groans. 

Jack felt like he couldn’t move. 

It felt like his heart had stopped. 

You were lying there. 

Covered in soot. Your gear, partially cut away. A cervical collar wrapped around your neck. One of your legs securely stabalised in an inflated splint. 

Bruises already blooming across your jaw. 

Yet somehow. 

Somehow. 

You still managed a grin, running high on adrenaline or on the medications, that was something you couldn’t decipher. 

“Hey–” you managed to choke out, voice strained. 

“Jesus Christ," Jack had muttered, feet moving fast as he moved beside you. Eyes flickering to everything and everyone as they work around you. 

You pull his attention back to you, as you grasp his hand. “Look at me,” you said firmly. 

His brows knitted. Worry plastered all over his face. 

“Don’t do that”

“Do what?” 

“That face, that terrified look doesn’t suit you,” you mumble out, breathing short between your words. “Especially on your handsome face”

A few of the others in the room stifle a laugh. 

Jack bites his lip, before sucking in a harsh breath, “I’m sorry love,” his hand clasps yours tighter. Unable to shake the worry from his features. 

“I’m going to be fine” 

No matter how many times you might say that to him. Jack’s shoulders remained tense. On edge. His attention flickers between you and your vitals. Doing his best to keep you alert. 

To keep you talking.

To keep you breathing. 

To keep you smiling. 

Because smiling meant that you were okay. At least, okay by your standards.  

Robby moved fluidly, quick and efficient, doing his very best to ensure you were going to make it through this. He was not going to be the reason Jack lost another wife…

“Page ortho,” he had directed, eyes assessing your leg. No signs of broken skin tissue, which was good, less risk of infection. But there was clearly something wrong with your leg. 

Ordering scans as they assess the damage. 

Shit.

That was the thought that had crossed Jack’s mind once the word ortho filled the air. Eyes glancing down to his watch.  

There was no way Park would still be here.

No way that he would be the surgeon called down. 

A wave of relief had washed over him as the orthopede that had appeared, was instead one of the residents. 

Watching intently as they worked upon you, feeling the weight of Jack’s eyes. 

It seems. 

That Jack’s slight relief was short lived. 

“What’s the verdict?” Park’s deep voice echoed in the room. 

The universe has a strange sense of humour. 

The room stilled. 

As Brendon appeared at the door. Eyes stern, cold, calculating as he glances at those around the room. 

But once his eyes land on you. 

He freezes. 

Eyes widening, a lump forming in his throat. Dana might have called him down here. 

But this was not what he had expected to see. 

Not who he had expected to see. 

When she had said the words urgently. He imagined a lot of different scenarios. But he never once expected to see you here. 

“It appears to be a fractured tibia,” the resident reported. 

You snorted, “Think it’d be okay if I borrow your crutches?” you teased Jack. 

“Do you really think this is the time to be joking?” 

“You could teach me how to use ‘em,” you continued. 

Those around you laugh lightly from your jokes.

All except for Brendon and Jack. 

“What happened?” Brendon’s face hardened. 

Just as the resident was about to speak up, about to explain the details of your fractured tibia. They stopped short, noticing that his attention was directed at you. 

“I’m fine,” you replied.

Brendon shook his head, moving to assess the imaging himself, “Fine people don’t get wheeled into the ER” 

“Everyone has a bad day,” you shrug, wincing slightly from the movement. Jack’s hand grips yours tighter. 

“And what did your bad day include?” he asks, words clipped. 

“Building collapsed, that’s all,” you murmured. Your other hand waved lazily, trying to decrease the situation. 

“Y/N?” he asked once more. 

You simply complained, “Oh my god, you’re hovering”

His brows knit at your words, “I’m not hovering, just worried. Right Jack?”

“Right,” Jack nodded. 

Brendon crosses his arms over his chest, lips pulled taut. 

"I am making sure you're okay."

But there was this glint in your eye, one that Jack had seen far too many times to count. One he had recognised immediately. 

Oh no.

Robby arching a brow at the sight. 

Whilst the others watch in confusion, completely left in the dark as to what was happening. Never had Park shown such interest in a patient. 

Before Jack could stop you, your arm had reached up. 

Your finger pressing against Brendon’s nose.

As you booped him. 

You had fucking booped Shark’s nose. 

Everyone held their breaths, waiting for his reaction, waiting to see what would happen. 

The look on Brendon’s face was one of blinking shock. 

Whilst you bore a delighted grin. 

“What the fu–” he had grumbled out. 

Until you had booped his nose again, his hand catching your wrist. Firm but not harshly. 

“What are you doing?” he raises a brow as he looks to you, eyes narrowed. 

Whilst Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I read somewhere that sharks back down if you bump them on the nose,” you had explained, a small laugh escaping you before forming into a harsh cough.  

Instead of a growling rage. Instead of a harsh retort. 

The whole room watched as Shark, PTMC’s fiercest orthopedic surgeon. The very man that could make medical students and interns cry with a simple click of his tongue. 

Any harshness had been bitten back, as he instead crouched by your side, grasping your free hand. 

Here he was. 

Softening. 

“Are you ok?” he asks you, softly. 

“I will be if you let anyone here do their job,” you squeeze both of their hands, eyes moving to glance between them both. 

“It’s not my first broken leg, and you know it,” you looked at Brendon.  

He remarks, “Don’t blame me for worrying over you”

Your hand slipped from his, as you pinched his cheek, “I know you’re just being a good brother” 

Brother.

The word travelled through to the ears of those nearby. Eyes widening in shock. As if today couldn’t have brought any more surprises. 

“As the break is clean and transverse, surgery isn't necessary,” someone had announced. “It’ll likely be a cast for several months to allow it to heal”  

You sigh. 

Whilst you had been putting on a brave face you had a genuine feeling of relief rush through you. No surgery was a good sign.  

Even if you were feeling good now. Anything could happen. 

“I love you both, a lot–” you had begun to say. 

Jack clenched his jaw, shaking his head, “Don’t speak like that” 

You send him a look, “I’m just saying I love you”

“That tone says something else,” his words hang between you. 

“I love you too,” he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head. 

Robby lets out a chuckle as he catches a glimpse of outside the trauma room. Knowing that this incident had added fuel to the flames, gossip spread like wildfire. 

Just outside of the trauma room, where you laid, Brendon on one side, as Jack stood on the opposite. 

The second it became clear that you weren’t dying. 

That you were in the clear. 

The second everyone realized your injuries amounted to a cast, a handful of bruises, and a mandatory period of sitting still that would undoubtedly drive you insane—

The gossip began.

Dana bit back a grin as she overheard the murmurs that passed through. This was something that was definitely going to stick around. 

“Well this explains it.” Santos said arms folded over her chest. 

Whitaker raised a brow, “Explains what?” 

She elbows him as though it were obvious, “Explains why Abbot and Shark get along”

“They’re obviously playing civil for her sake,” Princess comments, nodding in agreement. “Seems like Mrs Abbot was once Miss Park” 

“They’re always acting like this” Ellis stated as she came up to check up on charts. 

“Did you know?” 

Ellis stared at them confused. “You didn’t?” her eyes scanning those before her. The dayshifters who had gotten caught up once more with overtime. 

And those who simply didn’t want to leave until they knew you were ok. 

“No,” Santos exclaimed. 

Javadi shook her head, “Had no idea” 

“Why would we know that?” 

Their shock had only worsened once Mel joined the conversation. “What’s everyone talking about?” 

“Y/N, Abbot’s wife, the firefighter” Mohan began to explain.

“Yeah?” 

“She’s Park’s sister”

“Oh,” Mel said. 

“Oh?” Santos raised her brow. 

She tilted her head, brows furrowing, “I thought everyone knew that?” her eyes glanced around at those standing there. Meeting Ellis’ eye who nods, believing the same thing. 

“How did you know this?” 

“Dr Abbot mentioned it,” Mel explained. It was in passing and so small, to the point that Mel didn’t think anything more of it. 

“Of course he did,” Javadi sighed. 

Questions brewing in their mind. Their thoughts run wild. 

Questions about what it was like having Park as a brother? 

What was it like having Park as a brother in law? 

How did Abbot not cower when he realised? 

Did Park give an overprotective brother talk? 

Everything and anything that came to mind. 

They would simply have to wait for their questions to be answered just until you were feeling better. 

Your hand not once leaving Jack’s as he stood by your side. Soothing you and consoling you. 

The worry that had pent up within him now finally was able to settle. 

You were safe. 

That was all that mattered to him, and to Brendon. 

At least now everyone could say that one thing was for sure. 

While a shark might not have taken Jack’s leg. 

It was true. 

That a shark’s sister had taken his heart.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. I just loved the idea of Jack using the excuse of a shark biting his leg off, only to tease his brother in law Brendon. Both finding a middle ground when it came to joking about the other. and I totally picture most of the night are already in the know about your relation to Shark as well as Mel!! catching everyone else off guard about it. Just know that no one can look at Abbot or Park the same after this interaction haha Let me know what you thought ✨

There will be more to come for the Shiver Collection!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ♥️

Next up will feature Mateo Diaz x Reader: Tricky Fish

Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 For more Jack Abbot Works check out my series below! Such as my Dr Jack Abbot x Reader Who Would've Thought series here💖 Or my fic Based on Waitress the Musical, Dr Jack Abbot x Waitress!Reader Sugar, Butter, Flour series 🥧 Or for a lil bit of hurt with eventual comfort check out Jack and the reader create a bond through being widowers, I Know You're Hurting series Or check out my overall Masterlist here

Taglist: @the-sassy-one @ilocuras24 @may-machin @hazydespair @antisirkbitch @thehockeynerd30 

[wesandresons]

random pope moments that make me bark