you stare at robby, seeing the way exhaustion has crept into his eyes and holds his body tense. he just got off a shitty shift, no doubt, and instead of heading home he's ended up here—at your front door with eyes rimmed red and a heavy heart.
"no."
his eyebrows shoot up as his eyes widen. "what—that wasn't a question. i'm breaking up with you."
"and i said no, now come in before dinner gets cold." you leave the door open before returning to your kitchen. there's pasta on the stove, sauce warming up.
you can hear him outside, shuffling still, contemplating. it takes ten seconds longer, and then he's stepping into your place. the door closes behind him. he slips out of his shoes and leaves his bag there with it.
"i didn't mean it," he breathes like he's just realized what you already knew, standing behind you as you take the pot off the fire.
stuck waiting for a flight and i can't stop thinking about john shen after working a horrendous shift.
smoke plumes from the end of your cigarette while you let the burn linger a little longer in your chest. the day has fallen, stalled, and risen. the cold nips at your frigid fingers, but you can't feel—not sure if it's the dropping temperatures or the burn out finally reaching you.
"what is it that people always say—smoking kills?"
your eyes trail after his voice, feeling unmovable as the past eight hours weigh down on you like lead in water. and when you finally find him, john shen stares at you expectantly, arms crossed over his chest while he offers you a ghost of a smile.
"tough shift," he notes.
you can't pull anything wittier out of you than, "understatement of the year."
he nods. "i wish i could say it gets better or easier even, but i think it just—becomes routine. eventually you just get used to it."
you mean to laugh, but it comes out a scoff, disbelieving. you let the cigarette, burnt out now and traces of ember and ash, fall to the ground. you stamp it out with your foot and breathe in the cold air until it starts to hurt.
john stands with you, takes in the weather with you, the cold of a long shift grasping him just as tightly.
he doesn't say anything when he notices you shiver. he's quiet when he hands you his jacket. he's quieter when he zips it up for you. and you're quiet when his fingers don't leave you, lingering at the collar of his clothes on you.
"it's going to smell like smoke," you say, too tired to sink into the flutter in your stomach at his closeness or the realization of being enveloped in him—one breath and you inhale him, the faint smell of sugar and mint.
"we work in the er," he shrugs. "it's smelled like worse before."
you suppose it's true, but a heat creeps up your neck. "won't you be cold tonight?"
drunk af right now so thinking about jack abbot who picks you up after a night out with your friends.
he thinks you're adorable, smiling when you stumble towards him. his hand comes out to steady you as you lean against him, leaning against his car. and maybe you're in a skimpy outfit, something tight and sparkly in black. it makes him clear his throat, especially when you look up at him, not standing straight because the alcohol keeps making your knees buckle.
"hey, baby," he says, licking his lips when he gets a whiff of your perfume. "have fun tonight?"
you hum as you nod, your hands trailing up his chest until you can loop your arms around his neck, locking your fingers together. and you steal a kiss, pressed quickly at the corner of his mouth. "missed you."
he can't help the short laugh that leaves him. "well i'm here now, honey, so let's get ya home."
you let him help you into the car, looking at him lovingly when he locks your seatbelt for you.
"what're you looking at me so intensely for?" he asks softly when he finally climbs into the driver's seat. his hand finds yours, bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss into your skin.
"nothing just," you sigh, eyes a little glassy from all the drinking. "i love you."
his heart squeezes at your admission. "i love you too."
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."
walking into a bar with your lover in tow when you catch jack's eye across the room, sitting with a date of his own, and suddenly the two of you are three years younger, sucked back into memories of each other.
you remember almost tripping over yourself and like a cliche, some over used trope in a tired fairy tale, he caught you.
he remembers the way his chest tightened at the sound of your laugh when you got to your feet and the smile you returned, breathtaking, when he asked you out.
you're stuck in a loop of rare sunlit mornings with him. the sun, warmth incarnate, filtering in past his barely drawn curtains, freckling his face in orange and yellows. you remember watching him wake up, finding eyes filled with love staring back at you.
he's planted in his nights in bed with you, the fraction of time he always kept to himself suddenly shared. still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, he remembers watching your chest rise and fall still in slumber, another reminder of what working the way he does steals from him. he remembers being tempted for the first time in his life to quit work, to spend all his time with you. instead, he settled on pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead, smiling softly against your skin.
but nothing good lasts forever.
flashes of arguments cross your mind; always the same beginning, always the same ending. you fight, you make up, you fight again. tears stain your pillow, sadness carves itself into your heart, and jack drowns himself in his work to avoid feeling the hurt at all.
love soured as quickly as it had sweetened until the feeling was replaced with desolate exhaustion and eventually indifference. two halves of one heart returned to separate places; individual again.
he remembers the silence, the aftermath of you leaving. he remembers the ache that didn't subside and the bittersweet acceptance when he heard you'd found someone new. he remembers learning how to live again, how the heaviness eventually melted because there was more hurt than love left between the two of you anyway. he remembers slipping into a comfortable routine and settling his memories of you into a corner of his mind, happy to have experienced all that was you but understanding time had its run its course.
you remember the relief, the feeling quietly slipping into the confines of your life, when you realized love wasn't supposed to be as hard as this was. you remember grieving a relationship you thought would last longer but realizing there's no waste in having loved and having been loved. you remember respite when you heard he'd started dating again because you didn't stop wishing him well when he stopped meaning something to you. you remember feeling at ease with life, memories of him and your love fading into some corner of your mind (of your healed heart).
you don't wave at jack. you don't say hi. and neither does he. but there's a moment, a second that feels like hours where you're looking at him and he's looking at you. a room full of people and years of history stands in between you two, and yet acknowledgement shines in your eyes, a mutual understanding of the love that was had, of time cherished.
and just as quickly as the moment comes, it passes.
you turn to your lover, finding a spot to sit so you can order drinks and enjoy date night, celebrate a promotion, of happiness together.
and jack turns back to his date, smiling at something funny said and saying something equally as witty, comfort etched into his once heavy heart.
jack abbot is committed. he is professional in his work, but he cares too much. love is a double edged sword he wields, understanding spilling past the confines of his heart just as the fear of heartbreak wraps itself around him. so when he finally meets you—the gift of love itself, every alarm bell rings till his ears run silent.
the first time you argue, he disappears. your apartment is empty of him even when traces remain. you deal with the aftermath alone, quiet, until he comes back.
"please," he breathes, voice breaking and looking small in your living room. "i'm sorry."
and you believe him.
until the next time it happens. (his toothbrush haunts you for two days—dry, brushes brittle, and a splintering reminder of your predicament.)
and the next. (his side of the bed remains untouched, and when you roll over in the morning, you try to ignore the gnawing feeling in your stomach.)
and the next. (breakfast is quiet, not quite sad anymore, when it's just you and the silence.)
until one night you're not there to come back to.
you changed the locks two hours ago. a box of his things remains carefully outside your door. and all at once jack abbot is struck by the realization that leaving is better than being left, but the pain feels the same regardless.
samira mohan loves meticulously. she remembers your coffee order the morning after you first spend the night. she takes note of all the things you need to fall asleep; and she's stocking them on her next grocery run. she remembers anniversaries, birthdays, special occasions—all color coded in her phone's calendar; and even if she doesn't have the energy, she makes sure to take you out. but samira mohan is prone to burnout. she spirals easily and hates that you have to sit with her until she feels better. she forgets to take care of herself; and she can only smile at you guiltily when you ask her when she last ate. she is overwhelmed by the weight of her past. she thinks knows she isn't always enough, and you watch, helpless and heart aching, as she drowns in her own mind. because samira, as meticulous as she may be in all she does, puts herself second to everyone.
"you're wasting your time with me," she mumbles, drunk, one night.
but you just hold her tighter, "it's not a waste if it's you."
and you mean it. beautiful, intelligent, amazing samira. luck has blessed you in the form of her, and she doesn't see it, but you do. so you don't mind having to spend the night because you know she gets night terrors. you don't mind holding her when she can't feel her fingers, heart racing and breath stuttering from a panic attack. you don't mind making dinner so she has something warm to come home to and packing lunch because you know she forgets. you don't care about sharing her burdens because to love is to sacrifice even when it doesn't feel like it. to love is to share joy as much as it is to share suffering. and what would love be if not with her?
jack abbot treks through a blizzard to get to you when he realizes you're home alone, sick with the flu. he nurses you to health, and he doesn't complain because 'this is what love is, sweetheart.'
jack abbot picks you up from work when your car breaks down. he doesn't care that he was busy or if you caught him at a bad time because 'you called. that's all i need to run to you.'
jack abbot has some sixth sense, an alarm that goes off in the form of his heart dropping to his stomach when it comes to you. he doesn't know how, but somehow he always knows; and when you need him most, he shows up like some knight in shining armor because 'i will always be there for you.'
thinking about reader who is quieter than most but unknowingly the object of samira's attention.
you're a good worker, diligent and empathetic. you know when to step up and when to fall back, but you don't really stand out. at least you don't think you do. like the last five seconds of a song, you fade easily, comfortably into the background.
"is it better to speak or to die?"
the question come from your patient, a lanky teenager who came in for stitches after getting into a brawl after school. she'd claimed she was defending a friend's honor, and you don't doubt it. she looked expectantly at you, awaiting your answer as if your ability to sew into skin and heal her meant you also had the answers to the universe.
you sit in the silence that follows, not looking up when you finally answer. "i think it's better to die than be misunderstood."
your patient nods, mulling over your words seriously. when you finish her stitches, amidst preparing her for discharge a voice catches you off guard.
"do you really think it's better to die?"
your surprise must be apparent because samira launches almost immediately into an explanation. "it's just i heard you talking to the girl who came in for stitches, and i've never—it's a different take than the ones i usually hear."
you blink. "i didn't realize anyone was . . ." looking at me. "listening."
and samira looks bashful at that, as if she'd been caught doing something she hadn't meant to. "when it comes to you, i try to."
i don't know if this is a hot take but i actually hate when i'm reading something and jack calls reader "kid." i can handle it maybe twice before i'm getting the ick 😭
the other person nods, but jack doesn't think they get it, not really.
you and jack met far too late in life. he'd already lived three lifetimes, hair greying, when you walked into the coffee shop with a smile so bright, his steps slowed to a halt. and when he struck up a conversation with you, heart picking up with your every word, he could only thank god he left with your number punched carefully into his phone.
one date turned into two and five and seven until you were moving in with him. loving you was as easy as breathing because you fit right into the empty slot in his life, like he'd been walking around a heart split in two and finally found his other half in you. you were the last drop of sunshine at dusk; and jack had lived so long in darkness, he'd forgotten the sun rises again after it sets.
"marry me."
to him, it was as simple a request as any other; and when you agreed, eyes bright, he knew you felt the same.
the wedding was quiet—quick, but not rushed. he'd always been a private person, so there wasn't much of an audience when you two got married at city hall. but it was perfect in your own way.
two years later (and three years ago), a drunk driver, 23, died upon impact and took you with him.
the funeral felt just as quiet—drawn out and tortuous. the air smelled stale and felt stiff. he'd donned a suit, much like the one he wore when he'd sworn his life to you and you to him.
he remembered standing up there, in front of everyone. he remembered looking out at familiar faces, most of whom had showed up for him, as regret overwhelmed him. he remembered how all at once he realized it had become too late to share the happiness that was you. because none of them knew your laughter, your kindness, your bad habits, your suffering—none of them knew you.
and his mind, obsessively, parsed over every time he'd wave away questions about his ring, how he kept to himself, stole moments of you away from the world.
to speak was better than to die because perhaps if he hadn't been so silent, losing you wouldn't have been so lonely.
a/n - not sure if this even makes sense. feel like i've been writing listlessly and my words are just barely sentences.
more on toxic!dennis whitaker except reader can also play games / also link
jealousy is a disease, and dennis is sick.
"so you think i'm weak," he says, and even though he tries to means it jokingly, you know he's serious.
you're doing paperwork, occupied by the stack amidst the lull in the er. "what are you talking about? you're built like a horse."
he leans against the desk, arms flexing subconsciously against his scrubs. "there's a bet on the board."
your eyes don't leave the computer, still typing. "ahmad's got at least twenty ongoing bets."
"something about you and dr. shen."
you pause. "we've grabbed coffee once."
"something about you drooling over his arms."
you roll your eyes. "listen dennis, you're the one who wanted to keep things casual, not me."
he scoffs, "we're still casual. i'm casual. it's just . . ." you look up from your work for the first time, waiting. "i don't know how i feel about you going on—"
you finally look up, and you wonder if he can read the mild annoyance on your face. "the next word out of your mouth better not be dates."
he pauses, standing up straight now, arms crossed over his chest, filling out his shirt in all the right places. you look back to your screen, but you can't help the heat that crawls up your neck.
"i just don't like sharing," he says, simply.
"well, you can't exactly share what's not yours," you reply. "so either ask me out or suck it up."
dennis stares at you for a moment, and for a moment you think he might actually ask you out; but instead, he breaks out into a shit-eating grin. "two can play at this game."
unbothered, "can you?"
spoiler alert - he folds after exactly two (2) hours when he spots you talking to jesse. you don't know where he got flowers, but they're waiting for you on your next break with a shitty little note—something about a dinner reservation next week.
thinking about dennis whitaker who's a little toxic because he's just struggling so much in all other areas of his life. the two of you have been fooling around for a little now, and every night it happens, he evades the elusive 'what are we?' conversation. but as charming as he may be, you've grown a little tired of not standing on steady ground. so when you're at work the next day and jesse happens to brings you coffee, you don't shy away from any of his flirty comments. you know they're harmless. you're having fun, but dennis—staring at you from across the room—suddenly finds himself a lot more irritated than when he first walked in. he grips the chart a little tighter, and he shoots down ogilvie before the med student can add to his stress. he's stalking over to you before his brain can catch up with his feet. flashing jesse a brief but forced smile, his hand lands gently on your arm, pulling you into the back with him.
"i was busy," you say, not meeting his eyes.
but he was still zeroed in on the coffee in your hand. "when do you get off today?"
"my schedule hasn't changed in—"
"let's get dinner," he says, eager now. "like a date. let's go on a date."
