SUMMARY: The ER is not a pleasant place to work when you’re six months pregnant. The constant check-ins from your coworkers and patients is one thing, but the attention from Jack Abbot? That’s another thing entirely, and it thrills and terrifies you all at once.
NOTES: Pregnancy, single mother reader, mentions of absent co-parent, canon-typical workplace stress + scenarios, mentions of Jack’s wife, vulnerability, Jack is so sappy and sweet in this.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You hated being treated differently. The frustrating thing was that everyone seemed to think they were being kind.
Ever since the pregnancy had become impossible to hide, people had started looking at you differently. Patients asked if you should really be working. Nurses tried to take things out of your hands. Residents hovered whenever you lifted anything heavier than a clipboard. Every conversation seemed to begin or end with somebody asking if you were alright.
You knew they meant well, and that somehow made it worse. You were twenty-six weeks pregnant, not made of glass.
Most days you could ignore it. Most days you smiled politely, accepted the concern for what it was, and carried on. You had chosen to keep working. You loved your job. The emergency department was exhausting and chaotic and occasionally heartbreaking, but it was yours. It gave structure to days that might otherwise have been swallowed whole by anxiety.
The anxiety was harder to admit, but nobody seemed concerned about that part. Nobody saw the moments you sat alone in your apartment after a shift with one hand resting over your stomach, wondering if you were making the right choices. Nobody saw the nights when you woke up terrified by the sheer scale of what was coming.
You were going to be somebody’s mother. The thought still knocked the breath out of you. You were going to do it alone, and that part was worse.
The baby’s father had left months ago, long before anyone at work knew about the pregnancy. There had been no screaming argument. No dramatic betrayal. Just a gradual retreat until one day you realised you were the only person still fighting for something that no longer existed.
You had survived it. You would continue surviving it. You didn’t have any other choice. Which was why you absolutely refused to become somebody else’s responsibility, especially Jack Abbot’s.
“Why have I got room fourteen?”
The question escaped before you could stop yourself. Dana looked up from the desk.
“What about room fourteen?”
You stared at the assignment sheet in your hand. Room fourteen contained the sweetest little old lady currently waiting for discharge paperwork. Room twelve contained a man with a minor fracture. Room nine needed routine medication.
That was it. No aggressive intoxication. No psychiatric hold. No combative family members. No complicated trauma patients. Nothing.
It was practically a holiday.
You narrowed your eyes. Across the department, Jack was discussing scans with one of the residents, words thorough and professional despite the toll the rare day shift was taking on him.
Your gaze lingered. Unfortunately, Jack’s eyes lifted almost immediately. Straight to you. The man possessed some supernatural ability to know when you were looking at him.
Your stomach performed an irritating little flip. That was becoming a problem. Actually, no. The crush was the problem. The stomach flipping was merely a symptom.
Jack’s expression remained perfectly neutral. You pointed at your assignment sheet. He looked away immediately, seemingly guilty.
You knew it.
Ten minutes later you cornered him near the medication room. “Stop it.”
His eyebrows rose. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You keep changing my assignments.”
“I don’t make assignments.”
“Jack.”
His mouth twitched. That tiny almost-smile somehow made him more infuriating.
“You have no proof.”
“I don’t need proof.”
“Yes, honey, you do.”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Jack. You keep giving me easier patients.”
Jack folded his arms. The movement pulled at the sleeves of his scrub top. Your traitorous brain noticed entirely too much about him these days. The broad shoulders. The wedding ring he still wore. The permanent exhaustion around his eyes.
The gentleness he tried so hard to hide beneath sarcasm. “You think I have nothing better to do than secretly manipulate patient assignments?”
“Yes.”
That earned an actual laugh. A short one. Rare enough that it briefly distracted you. Jack shook his head.
“I think that’s insane. You’re being a bit… God, what did Javadi call it? Delulu?”
“Never say that again. I’m serious.”
“God forbid a guy try something new.”
You stared at each other. The familiar tension settled into place almost immediately. Neither of you ever acknowledged it. Nobody else seemed to notice it either, which felt impossible.
You noticed everything when it came to him. The way his voice softened around frightened patients. The way he instinctively positioned himself between vulnerable people and whatever was upsetting them. The way he always appeared beside you whenever a shift became overwhelming.
That last one was definitely intentional.
The problem was that Jack never did anything obvious enough to challenge. Every act of care was disguised as practicality.
A patient would need transferring and somebody else would mysteriously volunteer before you could. You would arrive at the break room to find tea already waiting. A difficult relative would somehow end up redirected towards an attending physician instead of a pregnant nurse nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift.
None of it was dramatic. None of it could be called out without sounding ridiculous. Still, you knew.
“You don’t need to look after me.”
The words came out quieter than intended. Something changed in his expression. Not much. Just enough.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the department seemed strangely distant.
“You know,” Jack said eventually, “it’s possible for people to help each other without it meaning something.”
The statement should have reassured you. Instead it hurt. You weren’t entirely sure why. Perhaps because you wanted it to mean something. That was the truth you kept trying not to examine too closely. You wanted his attention. You looked for him at the start of every shift. You noticed when he wasn’t there. You noticed when he looked tired. You noticed everything.
The feelings had arrived slowly and then all at once. Now they sat heavily in your chest, impossible to ignore.
You forced a smile. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“You still need to stop.”
His eyes held yours. For a second you thought he might argue. Instead he sighed.
“You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”
You laughed despite yourself. “That’s rich coming from you.”
A trauma alert sounded overhead. The moment vanished instantly. Jack pushed away from the wall. Professional mask sliding neatly back into place.
You hated how easily he could do that.
As though he could simply lock parts of himself away whenever necessary. You wondered what it would be like to be that controlled. To not feel everything so intensely all the time.
“Come on,” he said. “Work calls.”
You fell into step beside him. Close enough to hear his breathing, and to smell hospital soap and coffee. Close enough that the ache in your chest returned before you’d even reached the trauma bay.
You wished it would stop. You wished it would get worse. Neither option seemed particularly safe.
Especially not when Jack glanced at you as the doors opened and asked, quietly enough that nobody else could hear,
“You feeling alright today?”
The concern in his voice was genuine. Simple. Uncomplicated. Somehow that made it harder to answer than any question you’d faced all week.
The trauma ended up being far less dramatic than the alert had suggested. A motor vehicle collision. Two patients, both conscious. One broken wrist, one nasty laceration that looked significantly worse than it actually was. Nobody needed a miracle.
For once, the emergency department managed to survive a trauma call without the world ending. You should have felt relieved. Instead, the restlessness that had settled beneath your skin earlier refused to leave.
Jack’s question kept replaying in your head. ‘You feeling alright today?’. Such an ordinary thing to ask. People asked it all the time. The difference was that most people weren’t really asking. Most people wanted reassurance. A quick smile and a simple yes.
Jack always seemed to want the truth. That was what made him dangerous. He paid attention. It would have been easier if he didn’t. Easier if he were merely an attractive older guy with freckles and muscles and curls. A crush based on appearances would eventually burn itself out.
Unfortunately, every shift seemed determined to reveal another reason to fall for him. You hated that. Mostly because there was absolutely nothing sensible about it.
Jack was older than you. Widowed. Emotionally complicated in ways you suspected only a therapist fully understood.
You were carrying another man’s baby.
The timing couldn’t have been worse if someone had deliberately arranged it.
Yet every time he looked at you, some foolish part of your heart seemed convinced there was still something worth hoping for.
By three, your lower back felt like it had been replaced with concrete. The baby had apparently decided sleep was for cowards and had spent the last hour enthusiastically rearranging your internal organs.
You were updating notes at the nurses’ station when a sharp kick landed beneath your ribs. The involuntary wince escaped before you could stop it.
Unfortunately, somebody noticed. Of course somebody noticed. “Everything alright?”
You looked up. Jack. Again. The man appeared with the consistency of a haunting. You straightened immediately.
“Fine.”
“You know I was literally standing here when that happened, sweetheart.”
“I’m still fine.”
“You made a face.”
“I make faces all the time.”
“You looked like somebody stabbed you.”
“That’s slightly dramatic.”
His expression remained unconvinced. The irritating thing was that he wasn’t hovering. Not really. He wasn’t fussing or ordering you to sit down. He was simply standing there looking concerned. Which somehow made it impossible to dismiss.
The baby kicked again. Your hand moved automatically towards your stomach. A subconscious gesture. One you’d barely realised you’d started doing.
Something softened in Jack’s face. The sight of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No awkwardness. No discomfort. Just warmth.
Your pulse stumbled. Dangerous. Very dangerous.
“You should take ten.”
“No.”
“Five.”
“No.”
“Two and a half?”
A laugh escaped despite yourself.
“You negotiate with trauma surgeons like this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They aren’t as terrifying as you.”
You rolled your eyes. Jack looked suspiciously pleased with himself. The sight made something warm spread through your chest. You hated how often that happened around him. The feeling had become increasingly difficult to ignore. Particularly during the quieter moments.
Those moments were always the worst. Those were the moments when you remembered how easy it felt to talk to him. You couldn’t pinpoint when it had started. At some point he’d stopped feeling like an attending physician and started feeling like Jack. The distinction mattered more than it should have.
“You know,” he said eventually, leaning against the counter beside you, “it’s alright to admit that you’re tired.”
You stared at the computer screen. The blinking cursor suddenly seemed fascinating.
“Who says I’m tired?”
“You’ve had three cups of coffee in ninety minutes.”
“Maybe I like coffee.”
“You hate coffee.”
Your head dropped backwards. “Oh, come on.”
His smile widened. “You told me.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
You looked at him. Actually looked. The man remembered entirely too much. The realisation struck with uncomfortable force.
Six months ago.
You couldn’t remember half the conversations you’d had yesterday. Jack remembered an offhand comment from six months ago.
Your chest tightened. The feeling wasn’t entirely pleasant. Part of you wanted to bask in it. The rest wanted to run. Nobody had paid attention to you like this in a very long time. Not before the pregnancy. Certainly not after.
The baby’s father had forgotten things constantly. Appointments. Plans. Conversations. You had spent months shrinking your expectations just to avoid disappointment.
Now here was Jack remembering your coffee preferences. The comparison felt unfair. Your emotions didn’t seem particularly concerned with fairness.
His gaze lingered. Not challenging. Not pushing. Just waiting. You wondered whether he knew how difficult that made things. Most people demanded explanations.
Jack simply offered space. The urge to step into it was becoming overwhelming.
A sudden rush of emotion caught you completely off guard. Exhaustion. Fear. Hormones. Loneliness.
Whatever combination was responsible, it hit hard enough to sting behind your eyes. You looked away immediately. Embarrassing. The last thing you needed was to start crying at the nurses’ station.
Jack didn’t comment. Another kindness. He simply moved slightly closer. Close enough that you could feel the steady presence of him. Not touching. Never assuming. Just there. Ready if needed. The gesture nearly hurt.
“You’re allowed to lean on people sometimes.”
The words were quiet. Careful. As though he wasn’t entirely sure he should be saying them.
You laughed softly. A humourless sound. “That’s easy for you to say.”
His expression shifted. Something sad flickering briefly across his face. “You’d be surprised.”
The answer lodged somewhere deep. You knew enough about Jack to understand what wasn’t being said. The grief he carried everywhere despite pretending otherwise. Perhaps that was why being around him felt so different.
He never treated pain like weakness. He understood it too well.
A call light sounded down the corridor. The interruption should have felt annoying. Instead it came as a relief. The conversation had wandered dangerously close to honesty. Neither of you seemed entirely prepared for that.
You pushed away from the desk. Professional instincts taking over. Work was easier. Work always had been. People made sense when they were patients. Charts and medications and treatment plans were infinitely simpler than feelings.
Jack watched you stand. Something unreadable lingered in his eyes. Then it disappeared, locked away behind professionalism once again.
You found yourself wishing, not for the first time, that he would let you see what lived underneath it. The frightening thing was that you suspected he wished exactly the same thing about you.
The shift should have ended an hour ago. That was the thought repeating itself through your head as you stared at a computer screen that no longer seemed capable of forming coherent words.
Every part of you ached. Your feet hurt. Your back hurt. Your shoulders felt impossibly tight. Even the baby seemed exhausted, the constant movement from earlier reduced to occasional sleepy stretches beneath your ribs.
The emergency department had entered that strange period between night and morning. The chaos was winding down. Exhaustion was settling over everyone like a heavy blanket.
Those were always the dangerous hours. The hours when emotions started slipping through cracks you’d spent all shift holding together.
You rubbed a hand across your face and tried to focus on the discharge paperwork in front of you. The words blurred. For a moment you simply sat there staring at them.
Then, completely without warning, your eyes filled.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” You muttered it to yourself.
Nobody else heard. At least, that was what you thought. You blinked rapidly and forced yourself to take a breath. You were not going to cry.
Not here. Not now.
The ridiculous thing was that nothing had actually happened. It was just exhaustion. Pure, relentless exhaustion. The kind that seemed to hollow you out from the inside.
You loved your baby already. Loved them with a fierceness that still startled you.
That didn’t mean you weren’t frightened.
Every day seemed to bring a new thing to worry about. The nursery. Money. Childcare. Labour. The future. The endless responsibility waiting just around the corner.
Most of the time you managed to carry it.
Tonight it suddenly felt very heavy.
“You missed a spot.”
You jumped.
Jack was standing beside the desk, a takeaway cup rested in one hand.
You stared. Then frowned. “What?”
“The discharge summary.” He pointed towards the screen. “There.”
Sure enough, you’d missed an entire section. Your shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
Jack studied you for a second. Long enough that you knew he’d noticed. The tears. The exhaustion. All of it.
You looked away first. Humiliation immediately flooding your chest.
“You should go home.”
You laughed quietly. “I was planning to.”
“No.” His voice softened. “I mean now.”
The concern in it almost made things worse.
You swallowed hard. “I’m nearly finished.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.”
“Then go home, sweetheart.”
Something inside you cracked. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that holding everything together suddenly became impossible.
You looked down at your hands, at the hospital ID badge hanging from your neck, at anything except him.
The words came out before you could stop them. “I don’t get to stop.”
Silence.
Your throat tightened. You hated this. Hated feeling exposed. Hated feeling weak. Most of all, hated how desperately you wanted somebody to understand.
“I don’t get to fall apart,” you continued quietly. “Everybody keeps telling me to rest and take breaks and ask for help, but at the end of the day it’s still just me.”
The confession hung between you. Entirely honest. You hadn’t meant to say any of it. Months of fear seemed to have slipped free without permission.
“I go home and it’s just me.”
Your voice wavered. You pressed your lips together immediately.
For a long moment neither of you spoke. The department carried on around you, life continuing exactly as normal. Meanwhile your entire chest felt like it had been turned inside out.
Then Jack set the coffee cup down. Carefully. As though sudden movements might break something. And, maybe they would.
His gaze never left yours. “You know what’s been driving me insane for the last few months?”
The question caught you completely off guard. You frowned. “What?”
“You.” Jack huffed out a short laugh. Not amused. Nervous. The sound alone was shocking. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him nervous before. “You refuse help from everybody.”
Your mouth opened.
He continued before you could interrupt. “You carry everything yourself. Every shift. Every appointment. Every problem.”
“Jack—”
“You never let anybody look after you.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Emotion immediately tightened your throat again. You looked away. He wasn’t finished. You could tell. The realisation sent your pulse racing.
“I keep telling myself to stop.” His voice had gone quieter now. Rougher. “I keep telling myself you’re perfectly capable and none of this is my business.”
You slowly looked back at him. Neither of you seemed capable of looking away anymore. The space between you felt impossibly small, despite the fact neither of you had moved.
“I know you don’t need me.” The confession sat heavily between you. “I know that.”
His jaw tightened briefly, the way it always did when he was forcing himself to continue.
“But every time you walk into a shift looking exhausted, I want to help.”
Your heart stumbled, then stopped entirely.
“I want to take the difficult patients.” His eyes never left yours. “I want to make things easier.”
Another breath. Another heartbeat.
“I want to be the person who carries some of it when it gets too heavy.”
The world seemed strangely quiet. Every sound fading into the background. Your eyes burned again. This time you didn’t care. You’d spent months convincing yourself you were imagining it. Misreading kindness. Projecting your own feelings onto harmless gestures.
Now Jack was standing in front of you looking like he’d rather face another mass casualty event than this conversation.
The sight nearly broke your heart.
“You know why that’s a problem?” he asked softly.
You shook your head. The answer came anyway.
“Because somewhere along the way I stopped doing it just because I care about my staff.”
The breath left your lungs. “Oh.”
Brilliant response. Truly. Jack laughed quietly, a little helplessly. The sound made your chest ache.
“Oh,” he echoed.
For one terrifying second neither of you spoke. Then something shifted. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or relief, or simply the fact you’d both spent too long pretending.
Whatever it was, it finally pushed you forward.
“You make me feel safe.”
The words escaped before you could second-guess them. Jack froze. You continued anyway.
“If that’s a horrible thing to admit, then fine.”
A shaky laugh slipped out. Your eyes filled again.
“You make me feel looked after. I keep trying not to need that.”
Jack’s expression softened completely. “You don’t have to earn being cared for.”
The sentence hit harder than everything else combined. Nobody had ever said that to you before. Not like that. Not as though they genuinely believed it. A tear escaped, and then another, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.
Jack stepped closer. Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn’t. His hand settled against your arm. The simple contact nearly undid you.
For months you’d been carrying everything alone.
Not because you wanted to, but because you thought you had to. The difference suddenly felt enormous.
Neither of you said anything for a while.
There wasn’t much left to say. The truth was already sitting between you. Visible at last. Jack’s thumb brushed lightly against your sleeve. A tiny movement so careful that it made your chest ache.
The man looked at you as though you were something precious. The realisation was terrifying. It was also wonderful.
For the first time in a very long while, the future didn’t seem quite so frightening.
Nothing had magically been fixed. You were still pregnant. Still scared. Still facing a thousand uncertainties.
Jack was still carrying grief of his own. Life remained complicated. Messy. Difficult.
Yet standing there beneath fluorescent hospital lights, with exhaustion pulling at both of you and dawn beginning to creep through distant windows, something fundamental had changed.
The loneliness wasn’t quite so sharp anymore.
For months you’d been trying to convince yourself that strength meant carrying everything alone. Looking at Jack now, you finally understood how wrong you’d been. Sometimes strength looked a lot more like letting somebody stay.
pairing: dr. jack abbot x younger resident!reader
summary: You’re used to handling things alone, even if handling them means skipping meals, ignoring problems, and laughing before anyone can see where it stings. Then Jack Abbot starts noticing too much. He pays attention in that quiet, maddening way of his, all dry comments and practical solutions, until calling him your sugar daddy stops feeling like a joke and starts feeling like the only safe label for something you’re too terrified to name.
Because the problem with Jack Abbot isn’t that he wants to take care of you. It’s that you want to let him.
wc: 12.9k
a/n: and here it is, the accidental sugar daddy abbot fic i started over a month ago!! was initially toying with the idea to turn this into a multi-chaptered story but eventually settled on a one-shot instead because i have way too many ongoing fics i need to finish at some point lmao. i really wanted to take the sugar daddy trope and make it feel more grounded and in-character for jack, less flashy billionaire fantasy, more quiet practical care that gets way too intimate before either of you knows what to do with it. not beta read.
warnings: age gap, workplace power imbalance, attending/resident turned sd/sb dynamic, class/money insecurity, possessive/soft dom!jack, semi-public sex, piv, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, biting/marking, daddy kink adjacent, public humiliation, no use of y/n
MASTERLIST
By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.
Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.
Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.
The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.
You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.
The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.
“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.
“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.
You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.
You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.
“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”
A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.
The machine beeped.
Approved.
You froze.
Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.
“Bag?” the cashier asked.
“No,” Jack said.
You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
He finally looked at you.
Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.
“What?” he said.
You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“That’s my lunch.”
“Looked like it.”
“You paid for it.”
“Sharp today.”
You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”
That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.
“Eat the sandwich,” he said.
“I was going to.”
“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”
You opened your mouth.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
You closed it again.
Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.
“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”
Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”
“I don’t faint,” Santos said.
“You got lightheaded during central line training.”
“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”
Jack looked at her.
Santos looked back.
The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.
“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”
Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”
Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”
Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”
Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”
Your face was still hot.
The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.
Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.
“I can pay you back,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.
“Don’t.”
“I don’t like owing people.”
“You don’t owe me.”
“That’s not how money works.”
“It is when I decide I don’t care.”
You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
You should’ve let it go.
You really should’ve.
But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.
“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”
Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.
Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”
He walked away before you could answer.
You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.
Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.
“Oh, that was not nothing.”
“It was lunch,” you said.
Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”
You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.
Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”
Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”
“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”
You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.
It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.
But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.
He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.
Jack was worse.
Jack was practical.
He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.
Robby noticed before you did.
Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.
It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.
“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.
You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”
Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.
“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”
“He bought me lunch once.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And coffee.”
“Sure.”
“And maybe pasta.”
Robby’s eyebrows rose.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”
“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”
That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.
Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.
Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.
“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”
You swallowed. “I know that too.”
Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.
“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”
“There’s nothing to notice.”
“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”
You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.
Across the department, Jack glanced up.
For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.
He didn’t smile.
He just looked.
That was becoming the problem.
Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.
You wished he’d be less good at it.
You wished you liked it less.
The car thing happened on a Thursday.
You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.
Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.
Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.
The expensive one.
A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.
You shut the engine off immediately.
“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”
The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.
You tried again.
The sound came back worse.
A knock hit your window.
You screamed.
Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.
You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”
“No,” he said. “Just me.”
“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”
“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”
“It’s fine.”
Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.
“That’s not a fine sound.”
“It does that sometimes.”
“It shouldn’t do that ever.”
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”
“You’re not driving it until then.”
A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
Your stomach dipped.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Something else.
Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“Pop the hood.”
There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.
You popped the hood.
The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.
It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.
He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.
“Do not drive this,” he said.
You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Jack.”
He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”
You did not.
You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.
“I can call someone,” you said.
“Who?”
The question was simple. Too simple.
That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.
You looked away first.
Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.
Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”
“I don’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t want you fixing everything.”
“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”
You didn’t move.
Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.
“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”
That was how he won.
Not with softness. Not with a speech.
Heat.
You grabbed your bag and got out.
Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.
He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.
You noticed.
You hated that you noticed.
Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.
“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”
“Your leg?”
“I said yeah.”
“Right. Sorry.”
His jaw worked.
Then, quieter, “Long day.”
That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.
At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”
You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”
“I’ll call someone.”
“No.”
“You don’t know who yet.”
“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”
The light turned green.
Jack drove.
You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”
“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”
“Jack.”
“I know a guy.”
“Of course you know a guy.”
“I’m old.”
“You’re not that old.”
That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.
“No?”
“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.
“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.
Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.
The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.
Not brave.
Not independent.
Just exhausting.
He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.
You didn’t reach for the door handle.
“Thank you,” you said.
Jack nodded once.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”
“No.”
You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”
“I noticed.”
“Stop noticing.”
“No.”
Your eyes opened.
Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.
Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”
He didn’t pretend not to understand.
“I don’t know,” he said.
It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.
That made it worse.
You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”
The joke landed differently in the dark.
You felt it. So did he.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.
“You should go inside,” he said.
You nodded.
Neither of you moved.
Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.
You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.
“Night, Jack.”
His hand tightened once around the phone.
“Lock your door.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”
His eyes lifted.
There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.
“Don’t start,” he said.
You got out before your face could betray you.
The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.
Jack didn't tell you this.
The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.
Handled.
Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.
You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.
Squared it away.
You were going to kill him.
Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.
You had to wait.
That made you angrier.
By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.
Jack stopped.
Robby, behind him, stopped too.
Dana looked up from the desk.
Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.
Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”
“Oh, no, definitely here.”
Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.
“Coward,” Dana muttered.
“Experienced,” Robby corrected.
Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”
“You paid the mechanic.”
“Yeah.”
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”
“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”
You stared at him. “That is not the point.”
“That is exactly the point.”
“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”
“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.
“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”
Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”
Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”
Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”
You barely heard them.
Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.
“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it done.”
You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”
“Usually.”
“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”
Jack’s gaze held yours.
“Doing what?”
The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.
“You know what,” you said.
For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.
Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.
“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”
Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.
Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.
He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.
“Friday,” he said under his breath.
You turned your head. “What?”
“Pick up your car Friday.”
Then he was gone.
Santos waited exactly three seconds.
“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”
Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”
Santos deflated. “Damn it.”
You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.
By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.
Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.
Your old ones were unsafe.
That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.
You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.
The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.
At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.
PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.
You hadn’t planned to go.
Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”
You’d said yes before checking your closet.
That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.
Your phone buzzed.
Jack:
Car still running?
You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.
You:
yes, dad
Jack:
Don’t.
You smiled despite yourself.
You:
thank you, by the way
for the shoes too
even though you’re insane
Jack:
You going tomorrow?
You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.
You:
maybe
Jack:
That means yes.
You should’ve stopped there.
Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:
You:
it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident
The reply took longer than usual.
Jack:
Show me.
You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.
You:
the dress?
Jack:
What else would I mean?
Your face went hot.
You:
don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Jack:
You have tomorrow off?
You stared.
Then stared harder.
You:
why
Jack:
Answer the question.
There were several smart things you could’ve said.
You said none of them.
You:
yes
Jack:
I’ll pick you up at 10.
Your stomach flipped.
You:
jack
Jack:
10:30 if you’re going to argue.
You:
you don’t even know what i was going to say
Jack:
I’m learning patterns.
You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.
The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.
Of course he did.
He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.
“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.
“You haven’t gone in yet.”
“That’s why I still have hope.”
He gave you a look.
You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”
“Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That was too easy.”
“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”
You stared at him.
He headed for the shop.
“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.
“It’s exactly a loophole.”
Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.
You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.
Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.
He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.
That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.
The saleswoman brought options.
You rejected the first three.
Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.
“No,” he said through the door.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”
“I saw the sleeve.”
“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”
“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”
You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.
Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.
His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.
“No,” he repeated.
The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”
You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”
The fifth dress was the problem.
You knew it before you opened the curtain.
The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.
Confidence, maybe.
Or danger.
“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes.”
“You admit that way too easily.”
“I’m old.”
You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.
This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.
That was the bad idea.
You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.
For a moment, he said nothing.
The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.
His jaw shifted.
Your fingers tightened around the curtain.
“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.
Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.
“No,” he said.
Your face fell before you could stop it.
Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”
The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.
“It fits.”
It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.
You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.
“It’s probably expensive.”
“Probably.”
“Jack.”
“You like it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s my point.”
You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”
He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.
“I can do what I want.”
“You sound like a nightmare.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.
The thought went through you too sharply.
You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”
Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”
You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”
There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.
Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”
Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.
So you made it worse on purpose.
“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.
“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”
You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.
Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.
The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.
Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.
Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.
“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”
“That’s never a good opener.”
“You look hot.”
“Santos.”
“What? I said don’t make it weird.”
Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”
Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”
You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”
“Because I’m invested.”
“You need a hobby.”
“I have one. It’s being right.”
You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”
“You too?”
“Me too what?”
“Nothing.”
Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”
“There’s not a thing.”
“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”
You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.
Dana smirked and walked away.
Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.
It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.
Robby said something to him at the entrance.
Jack answered without smiling.
Then his eyes found you.
Everything else blurred.
Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.
He walked over slowly.
“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.
“Hi.”
You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”
“I was going to say that.”
“You can still say it.”
“No.”
“Too generous?”
“Too easy.”
His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
You stared. “What is that?”
“Receipt.”
“For the dress?”
“For the car.”
Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”
“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”
You looked down.
Paid.
Your throat tightened.
“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.
“I still owe you.”
“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”
You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.
Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.
“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”
“That makes it worse.”
“I agree.”
Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.
“You look nice,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”
Jack gave him a look.
Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”
Jack didn’t move immediately.
His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.
“Don’t disappear,” he said.
Your pulse kicked.
“I’m working.”
“After.”
Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.
You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.
For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.
Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.
You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.
And Jack kept finding you.
Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.
At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”
He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”
“I was.”
“Bad idea.”
“Because violence is wrong?”
“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”
You laughed into your glass.
Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.
You saw him catch it.
That was the dangerous part.
Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.
You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.
“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”
Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”
The man’s eyes shifted to you.
You felt it like cold water.
“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”
Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.
“This is—” Jack began.
The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”
His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.
Your fingers tightened around the place cards.
Jack went still.
The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”
“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”
The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.
Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.
“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.
Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”
The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.
The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”
“I’m not interested in what you meant.”
Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.
“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”
The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.
“No offense intended.”
Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Your breath caught.
People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.
You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.
You set the place cards down.
“I need some air,” you said.
Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”
But you were already moving.
You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.
You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.
You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.
Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”
You turned on him. “Made it worse.”
“They made it worse.”
“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”
His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.
“They don’t know what you are.”
Your chest pulled tight.
“And what am I?”
The question came out too vulnerable to take back.
Jack didn’t answer right away.
Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.
He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.
You hated that you wanted him to say it.
You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.
Instead, he said, “Not that.”
A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I’ve got.”
“Great.”
Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.
You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
“You bought the dress,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You fixed my car.”
“Yes.”
“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”
Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.
“What do you think people are going to call that?”
“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me what you call it.”
The words took the air out of the terrace.
You looked at him.
Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.
Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.
All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.
Now Jack was standing there asking.
Tell me what you call it.
Your mouth felt dry.
“I call it confusing,” you said.
His expression shifted.
You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”
Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.
You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”
His voice dropped. “Like what?”
You shook your head. “Don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”
The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.
Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”
The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.
His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.
“But I’ve thought about it.”
The terrace went silent.
Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.
You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.
“Jack,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.
“What was I going to say?”
His eyes lifted.
“That we shouldn’t.”
The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.
You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.
“You’re right,” you said.
Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.
Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”
His eyes sharpened.
You took one more step.
“But it’s not what I want.”
For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.
Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.
“Say that again,” he said.
The words nearly undid you.
You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.
You didn’t.
His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.
“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.
Your chest tightened. “No?”
“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”
The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.
Then he kissed you.
It wasn’t frantic at first.
That would’ve been easier.
It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.
You made a small sound against his mouth.
That was what broke it.
Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.
You grabbed his jacket.
He made a low sound, almost a warning.
You pulled him closer anyway.
The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.
His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.
“This is a bad idea,” he said.
You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”
“I know.”
“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.
“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”
Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.
You didn’t.
His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
His eyes held yours.
“My car.”
The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.
Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.
Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.
Jack ignored all of them.
You loved and hated him for it.
The elevator ride down was worse.
Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.
In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.
Jack unlocked the car.
You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.
He saw the hesitation immediately.
Of course he did.
“You can change your mind,” he said.
The words loosened something in you.
Not because you wanted to.
Because he meant it.
You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”
Jack’s eyes searched yours.
“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He nodded once.
Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”
His face shifted.
“Do I what?”
“Know what I want.”
The garage seemed to hold its breath.
Jack opened the back door.
“Get in,” he said.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Just low enough to go through you like a match.
You got in.
The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.
Then the opposite door opened.
He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.
“You still think this is about money?” he asked.
Your breath caught.
You shook your head.
“Words.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“What’s it about?”
You could’ve said care.
You could’ve said want.
You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.
Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”
Jack’s eyes flashed.
Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.
"Jack—"
"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"
His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"
You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."
He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.
"Look at me."
You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.
“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”
Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.
"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."
You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.
"Jack—I need—"
"I know what you need."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.
"Get on top of me."
It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.
He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"
He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.
"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."
You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."
He didn't.
His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"
He pushed inside you.
The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"
He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.
Then you moved.
Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.
"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."
You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.
"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"
"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.
"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."
You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."
He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."
You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.
"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."
"Jack—I'm close—"
"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"
His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.
"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"
"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."
He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.
Then he laughed.
A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.
"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"
"Stupid," you supplied.
"Reckless."
"A really bad idea."
His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."
You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.
"We should probably—" you started.
"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.
"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.
"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."
He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.
You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.
He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”
That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”
“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”
“He sounds unbearable.”
“He is.”
The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”
Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”
Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.
“Jack,” you said softly.
He waited.
You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”
For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.
“You get breakfast.”
“That’s it?”
“And your car.”
“Already got that.”
“And the shoes.”
“Also already got those.”
“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”
Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”
The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.
But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.
He was looking at you like something worth keeping.
And for what it was worth, you finally believed you were.
summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”
Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”
“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”
Your frown deepens at his joke.
“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”
“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
“I just gotta go now. Okay?”
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”
Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.
You don’t move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.
“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”
“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.
“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”
“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”
Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.
“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”
“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.
“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”
“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”
“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”
“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.
You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”
“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”
“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”
“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”
“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”
You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.
“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”
“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.
You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”
You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”
You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”
“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”
“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.
“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”
“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”
“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.
“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”
“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”
“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”
“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.
“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.
You nod once.
“What about a headache?”
“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”
“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.
“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.
“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”
“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Can I ask you a stupid question?”
“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”
“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”
You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”
“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.
“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”
“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”
“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”
“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”
“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”
“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”
“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.
“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
“I’m sorry about, Louie—”
“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
“Do what?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”
Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.
“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”
“I didn’t bail on you—”
“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”
“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”
“It wasn’t.”
“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.
“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”
“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.
“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”
“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”
“Because you aren’t acting like it—”
“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”
“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”
“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.
“What?”
“Honey.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”
“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
“Ow,” you whimper.
“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”
“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”
“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Two: It's All Fun & Games
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: While your friends meddle and your nesting urges start, Park keeps finding himself drawn to you as you start to smell better and better.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, flirting, sexual tension, silly goofy times, is it even an rrad fic if langdon doesnt catch strays??
Content: canon-typical medical content, medical inaccuracies to an offensive degree i assume
A/N: im actually too lazy to make smau pics for the texts bc these convos are too long uwu
Word Count: 7.3k
santos: Cherry and P*rk are fated mates. Not joking. So we want to find out if he’s actually human or not so they can fuck nasty during her next heat in a month. Bug him for me? Pretty please?
When that text lights up Yolanda Garcia’s phone, a smile that can only be described as Grinch-esque parted her gleeful lips. To speak frankly, she’s beyond delighted to have something to annoy Park about. Ever since she finished her fellowship, annoying Park is an absolute favorite way for her to pass the time between surgeries. Developing new ways to strengthen that hobby is as good a drug as any.
See, Garcia is observant. It’s what drew her to surgery in the first place: She can notice the slightest twitch in a patient and know it’s actually nerve compression that needs surgical treatment. She catches things that other people miss.
So when Dr. Park starts bulking like a middle school wrestler trying to add weight right after she witnesses a suspiciously long hug between him and a certain feisty little omega who is supposedly his fated mate, she clocks it for what it is right away: An alpha preparing to mate while his omega prepares for their heat. It’s cute, honestly. Even when Park’s doing it. Garcia’s never experienced it herself, but the idea of alphas needing to get all big and strong to protect their new mates is downright charming to her.
Especially since Park has told her – and everyone else in surgery – that there’s no chance he’s the kind of guy who’d have a fated mate because that’s only for bleeding hearts who don’t focus on themselves and their careers. There’s a reason it’s significantly less common in high-level professionals, he’d go on and on, ignoring decades of literature showing that those professionals are less likely to find their mates due to denial and self-neglect.
So it’s particularly delightful to be in on the secret of him being not only wrong but wrong in a way that’s going to be deliciously embarrassing when he realizes. After two days of laying in wait, she pounces on the first opportunity to bother him properly.
In the surgeons’ lounge during a rare shared break, Yolanda suspiciously eyes Park as she heats up her early-morning breakfast, asking as if she isn’t freakishly curious and nosy, “Brendon, you hitting the gym more than usual lately?”
Powering through a bowl of pasta the size of Jupiter’s larger moons – for breakfast – Brendon shakes his head and shrugs. “Not really, no. Haven’t had a ton of time lately with all the surgeries I’ve been picking up from the damn Pitt.”
Already plotting how she’s gonna gossip about this downstairs, she presses, “Why have you been going down for so many consults? Dr. Atterman on vacation or something?”
He doesn’t even take a second to think about the answer before saying obliviously, “Guess they’ve had more sports accidents than usual coming in lately.”
“Hm. Weird, I could’ve sworn you picked up a hip dislocation on an elderly woman yesterday. Moved your afternoon surgery back a few hours to do it, I heard.”
Narrowing his eyes, Park asks, “Why do you care, anyway?”
“Just thought you hated going to the Pitt is all,” she lilts, taking her leftovers and plopping down across from him. “Someone down there taking your attention? They’ve got some cute omegas.”
He glares daggers. “Are you getting at something, Garcia?”
“Not at all, Shark,” she replies with a shit-eating grin. “By the way, totally unrelated, that R4 who brought you the teen with the broken knee asked for a consult. From you specifically.”
His head snaps up. With a single spaghetti noodle still falling from the corner of his mouth, he asks with wide eyes, “She did?”
Garcia almost dies laughing then and there. She works hard to memorize the beautifully oblivious look on her meanest coworker’s face before replying with the words Trinity forwarded, “Yeah, she wants you there this afternoon at four while Frankie meets the physio team so you can give them a more in-depth overview on the new structure of his knee.”
“At four?” He takes out his phone and furrows his brow and he flips through pages. “Yeah, I can push my 4:30 surgery to five no problem. Thanks, Garcia.”
She smirks around the lip of her mug. “No problem at all, Shark.”
Park doesn’t wait for the afternoon appointment to see you, though. He can’t. It’s not quite in his consciousness, but there’s a certain edge rolling around just below his skin. A spike in his blood pressure. A goosebump prickle that insists he move and move fast toward the Pitt. As soon as he sees an ortho page from the ED, he snatches it up before Torres or Atterman can get to it, riding down the elevator with restless hands as he secretly hopes it’s from you.
Sure enough, when he pushes into the Pitt, he sees you over an obvious ortho case; Park can see the exposed tibia from across the room. The Pitt is overcrowded from a series of car accidents, so you’re handling major patient care out in the open. That alone has Brendon on edge while he closes the long distance between the elevator and you. There are too many people too close to you, too many smells swirling around that muddy the trail to your side.
As he gets closer, he spots a large alpha by your side. Frank Langdon, who just so happens to be Brendon Park’s absolute least favorite doctor in the entire hospital. Admittedly, until just now his opinion was much more neutral, but Langdon is shouting at you and that has Park’s blood boiling through his skin.
“-and that’s the whole reason we have chain of command in the first place. I’m your superior and you’re expected to defer to me here!”
“You’re only one year ahead of me, Frank, and, much more importantly, I’m right about this one! If we don’t prep for a fasciotomy now, he’s going to lose the leg.”
“And if he doesn’t need it, we risk all kinds of permanent damage that could be avoided by taking a measured approach.”
You stomp your foot and cross your arms. It would be adorable if Park weren’t seeing red at Langdon’s tone. His heart pounds in his ears, which are ringing loud, and all his hairs stand on end like he’s been struck by lightning. He hangs back for a second to see if you can handle it yourself, not wanting to truly lose it on someone right in front of you. He’d hate himself if he scared you. As he tries to calm down his rage, you square up against an alpha like you’re one yourself and insist, loud and clear, “I’m the one who heard his firsthand story when he came in before he lost consciousness, so I actually know much better than you that he-”
Then Lagndon’s scent flares.
Intentionally.
Thick and dark, it pools around the both of you, even perking up the noses of a few nearby nurses and patients. It’s a dirty move to put you in your place – he as an alpha and you an omega, no longer equals with the same training– and it works scarily well. Especially off your suppressants, you’re incredibly vulnerable to his dominance.
You shrink away from Langdon as the burning, acrid smell tightens your throat and makes tears sting at your eyes. You’re dizzy and disoriented and only vaguely register what he’s doing. You take a few steps back until you accidentally stumble into a nearby unoccupied gurney. Trying hard not to cry, you blink fast and stammer, “S-sorry, Dr. Langdon, I’ll- Um. I’ll go and- I can-”
Park surges forward, his hand coming down hard on Langdon’s shoulder. His voice is the polar opposite of Frank’s lazy attempt at dominance; he’s lethal, quiet, intense. “Are you fucking scenting on an omega colleague, Dr. Langdon?”
Frank’s eyes go wide as he realizes he’s been caught red-handed. “I was just trying to-”
“What? Force her into submission?” Park’s chest nearly touches Frank and it honestly looks like he might bite him. The confrontation catches the eyes of a handful of nearby alphas, recognizing the possibility of having to break something up. Park spits, “You’re vile. You’re sexist and you’re useless. How fucking dare you-”
“Dr. Park?” Your timid voice from behind him shakes him from his focus on Langdon. When he turns your way, Park realizes that you’re staring up at him with the softest, brightest adoration he’s ever felt and all the anger simmers out of his body. “I didn’t think you’d come down for a basic fracture and fasciotomy.”
“We’re not doing a fasciotomy,” Langdon groans. “Shark, can you please explain to-”
Park whips around and shoves him in the chest. “Shut up, Frank, seriously, because the only reason I’m not already dragging you to HR by the scruff right now is because I can see an open tibial fracture that needs my attention. I’ll deal with you later.” Then he turns back to you, expression soft and attentive, and says, “Why don’t you walk me through it, cherry? Let’s get this figured out together.”
You swipe the tears from your cheeks, annoyed that they’ve fallen at all, and swallow hard. Voice wobbly, you tell him, “Mr. Perkins was brought in by ambulance after he attempted to fell a tree in his backyard on his own. The tree landed on his leg, leading to an open crush fracture. Bleeding is controlled, vitals are stable, we just have to decide on the right course of treatment.” Your eyes search his face for any signs of judgment, but there aren’t any. So fast that anyone else might miss it, he brushes another tear from your cheek with his thumb, withdrawing it quickly and without drawing attention to it. But it imprints itself on your skin. You go on more confidently, “I think there’s compartment syndrome in the calf, which means that wasting time with any non-surgical treatment is only going to increase the likelihood that he loses the leg altogether.”
Frank cuts in with a real ‘alpha’s club’ vibe, “And I explained to her that this is an open fracture.”
“That doesn’t rule out compartment syndrome, genius,” Park scoffs, flicking him on the forehead. Like Langdon is a kindergartener, Park slowly explains, “It’s more than twice as likely with closed traumas, but this opening isn’t placed correctly to relieve pressure from swelling on the opposite side. The tibia breaks through the shin, so the calf is still under pressure. Did you actually make it through basic anatomy or did you knot your way to a passing grade?”
You glance down at your sneakers and smile to yourself as Langdon awkwardly stumbles through trying to explain himself.
Park cuts him off halfway through and returns his attention to you. “What makes you think compartment syndrome?”
“I triaged Mr. Perkins when he came in. He reported pins and needles as well as difficulty moving the-”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Both of which can be explained by the huge bone sticking out of him.”
“Interrupt her one more time and see how I treat you,” Park growls back without even sparing him a look. He urges you, “Keep going. Paresthesia and partial paralysis are strong indicators for compartment syndrome. What else?”
Feeling much more sure of yourself under his sturdy gaze, you inform him, “The fractured leg appears paler than the other on visual inspection and the pulse is thready at its best, even before we stemmed the bleeding. And, to be totally honest with you, just palpating the limb made me suspicious. I worked on a lot of crush injuries at the VA and I just…I don’t know. I think I have a feel for it.”
Park nods and takes the examination into his own hands, snapping on his gloves and carefully checking over the entire leg from above the open fracture to the ankle below the suspected compartment issues. After a second of thinking, he nods his confirmation. “We need to do an open reduction and internal fixation with fasciotomy to give him the best chance at recovery. Scrub in with me, sweetheart, you need some OR hours before you make a choice about your elective.”
Neither of you notices the nickname as anything out of the ordinary; it just passes between you as naturally as the medicine. You do this tiny little bunny hop as excitement replaces all your negative feelings and Park can’t help smiling. “That would be amazing! Thank you so much for all your help, Dr. Park.”
Langdon mutters something harsh under his breath and Park turns to him. Whips to him, more like. He leans in close so you can’t hear and says, “You’re not off the hook for scenting her, by the way. This time, I’m just gonna report you to HR. Do that shit again?” He taps Langdon on the neck, right on his sensitive mating bite, and says, “I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth. And I’ll enjoy every second.”
After scrubbing out of the surgery, Park lingers with you in the hall, exchanging small talk, long enough that the assisting surgical residents exchange suspicious glances. Park looks at the nearby wall clock and says, “Feels kind of stupid to go back up to my office and do paperwork for ten minutes before I take my lunch.”
To you, that’s an invitation. You squeal, “Come sit in the Pitt lounge with me and my friends! I brought in a bunch of homemade snacks I made last night for everyone to share. You should have some. Pregame for your real lunch?”
Park can’t stop himself from grinning. “You homemade a bunch of snacks? After you worked late last night?”
Immediately leading him on the trek down to the doctors’ lounge, you tell him with a lot of pep in your step, “Nothing too crazy, just some Pinterest recipes I’ve been wanting to follow – candied pecans and these yummy gouda cheese crisps and kettle corn and some whipped ricotta dip with cinnamon pita chips and then, y’know, I brought these dark chocolate truffles to the Pitt’s holiday party last year and Abbot asked me if I’d make them again sometime, so I did that, too. I add a little chili to bring out the richness and they always go over super well.”
Once you stop rambling with an embarrassed laugh, he confirms with a laugh, “But nothing too crazy, right?”
Heat crawls into your cheeks and you bite your lower lip, giving a bashful smile. “Well, I’m kind of, ah, nesting right now, a bit.”
Park swallows thickly. It’s not inappropriate or anything to talk about nesting and even heats with other adults, just a bit more friendly than he would’ve expected you to be with him. It settles way too warmly on his shoulders – especially the knowledge that you’re going to be in heat in a matter of weeks. No wonder he could smell you from across the ED this morning. God, you can smell even more intense than this? He’s going to have to invest in some nose patches.
Breaking the silence before it gets uncomfortably charged with the new knowledge of your upcoming heat, Park bumps you with his elbow – teasing, adorable, heart-stopping – and lilts, “So you’re one of those cooking and baking omegas, huh? Nesting time comes and you hole up in the kitchen?”
“Yeah, I am.” You giggle back, all fluttery because you’re getting his undivided attention without any doctoring involved, “It’s kind of a stereotype, I know, but it’s my favorite. I have a million recipes pinned for when I’m nesting because I become kind of a crazy person. Need to have an alpha around to eat everything in the fridge.”
“And you don’t have one of those.” His eyes cut to yours and your step falters for a second. “An alpha, I mean.”
You shrug and try not to let it affect you too much that he’s essentially asking if you’re available. “Not my own, but Trinity and Garcia are always swinging by to raid my fridge. And, when it’s really bad, sometimes I’ll invite Abbot, too.”
Park rolls his shoulders and tries not to let that bother him too much. He’s always been a firm believer that there’s nothing wrong with alphas and omegas being friends. Definitely not. But he can’t let himself imagine them in your apartment without also imagining himself to soothe the sting. So he not-quite-jokingly asks, “Is that a standing offer for alpha coworkers?”
“Invite only,” you correct with a cheeky smile. “Behave yourself in front of my Pitt friends and maybe you can swing one.”
“Lot of pressure there; Santos hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you! She…” You gesture to stall while you try to think of a nicer word before conceding, “Yeah, she kind of hates you. But you could win her over. Just show her the real you – beyond all that ‘Park the Shark’ lore.”
As you reach the door of the lounge, Park gives you a tender, soft gaze. “You don’t think ‘Park the Shark’ is the real me?”
“No, I don’t.” You poke him in the bicep and tease, “I think you’re secretly a big softie. Plus, I already know you’re a great hugger, Sharkie.”
You push through the door before he can respond. Last time a resident called him that, he buried them in scut work for two weeks. But when you do it, it’s too damn sweet for him to be annoyed by. His eyes float briefly – okay, not that briefly – down to your ass as you flit over to the table where Santos, Whitaker, and Garcia are clearly waiting for you, that delectable spread of snacks laid out on the round table between them.
Trinity stands, pulls you into a hug, and groans, “Thank god, there you are! I’ve been literally dying to eat these all day.”
Park pretends not to notice the way that his gut clenches up watching Santos, then Garcia, then Whitaker hug you right in a row. He doesn’t like smelling their scents mingling with yours. Still, he puts on an awkward smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying hard to act normal.
Garcia notices his presence first and opens her mouth wide in feigned shock. “Cherry, you managed to get Shark to join us for a social gathering? You know he only eats meals with perfectly balanced macros, right?”
Your face falls a bit and you turn to Park. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you into eating if you don’t want-”
“I want,” he says quickly. Then he tells Garcia, “I’m not that worried about macros.”
Yolanda eyes him suspiciously. “What was up with all that pasta this morning, then? Weird choice of breakfast. Seemed a lot like carbo-loading to me. Marathon coming up?”
He shrugs innocently. “I had leftovers.”
She gives a knowing look to Trinity. “Uh-huh.”
Trinity gestures to the two open chairs next to her and insists, “Well, c’mon then, let’s get this party started.”
You plop down next to her, leaving poor Whitaker next to Park, and tell them all, “Park only has a few minutes to snack with us, guys, go easy on him.”
“No, no, I can stay as long as you want me,” he says, shaking his head quickly. “I mean, as long as, ah, y’know whatever.”
Trinity just about chokes trying to contain her laughter, immediately opening her phone to text Yolanda under the table. To have something to do with his hands, Park grabs a plate for himself and makes himself a charcuterie of the snacks, his appetite spiking for reasons definitely unrelated to your rising hormones invading his senses, your bare arm rubbing against his because you had to sit close to cram the chairs around the table.
Whitaker saves the awkwardness of Santos and Park being forced to share space by making a show of eating something and praising you, “This is amazing, by the way. You’ve really got a knack for this stuff.”
“Thank you, Denny,” you beam as you curate your own selection of snacks, maybe a little heavy on the sweets because you’re got a mean craving for something that’ll give you energy with Park so close to you. “Lots of practice over the years.”
But the alphas have no mercy. While nibbling on cheese crisps and texting Trinity, Garcia muses to Park absently, “It’s good that you’re here, actually, because you can settle a debate for us.” Already knowing what she’s getting at, your eyes widen and flick between her and Trinity, who keep sharing conspiratorial glances. “Little argument we’ve all been going back and forth on this past week. There’s this new study about EMPR.”
“What’s that?” Park’s brows knit together and you get lost looking at his baby blues for a second or two. “I only really read about ortho cases.”
“Of course, makes sense,” Garcia replies, suppressing her building smirk. “Well, it’s short for Endocrine-Mediated Pairing Response. The neurochemical syndrome that the whole ‘fated mates’ myth is based on.”
“Not exactly a myth, though, is it?” Glancing at you almost expectantly, he says, “People have been experiencing it forever.”
“Sure, but that’s part of the debate,” Trinity jumps in. “What do you think: Should we be treating it like a disease? Me and Yo think it’s a hormonal abnormality, but the bleeding hearts club thinks it’s just the cutest wittle thing that’s ever happened.”
“Hey!” Whitaker reaches across the table to smack her. “Cherry isn’t a bleeding heart; she’s very practical.”
As your ears burn, Park smiles. Cherry. Your sweetness washes through him. So he says honestly, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Actually, I think it’s kind of beautiful.”
Garcia scoffs, “Beautiful? You think that? What happened to all your ‘I’d never have a fated mate; I’m way too busy and big and butch’ spiels?”
“I never said ‘butch,’ first of all,” he laughs (the first time Whitaker and Santos have ever heard him laugh. “Whether you believe in the whole ‘fate’ aspect or not-” big finger quotes on ‘fate’ “-you can’t deny the reality of the biological phenomenon.” Then, looking directly at you, he explains, “I like the idea that two people, strangers, even, can share a connection so strong that it transcends abstract concepts like feelings and instead exists in their DNA, in the cells that make up their entire body. Of all the billions and billions of people, there are pairs who compliment each other to the point where their biologies call out to one another. Drawing them together without anything ever being spoken.” He drops his eyes and shrugs like your heart is pounding out of your chest next to him. His watch beeps with an urgent page, so he sighs and finishes simply, “Who wouldn’t find that beautiful?”
Breathless and soft, you reply, “That was awfully romantic, Dr. Park.”
“I’m full of surprises.” You swear there’s pink at the apples of his cheeks as Park takes one last bite of food and slides his hand along your upper back, from shoulder to shoulder, grazing your scruff, as he walks away from the table. Giving you a quick wink, he adds, “And you should start calling me Brendon. I’ll see you in a few hours with the Murrays.”
You’re slack-jawed as Trinity rams a happy, celebratory fist into your bicep.
Park breezes down the hall to physio a few hours later, happily following the trail of your scent without realizing he’s doing it. The Murrays haven’t arrived yet, so it’s just you updating notes on your iPad with your expression pinched up in focus. Since that moment a few days ago, whatever it was, he keeps catching himself staring at you for a little too long.
You’re so locked in that he doesn’t want to scare you, so he makes sure to step in loud enough for you to notice his presence before he speaks in a voice that always comes out too harsh, no matter how much he tries to change it. He strides over to you and touches the center of your back. “Hey there, Dr. Cherry, how’s the shift treating you since lunch?”
Your heart stammers when you feel his hand and hear his voice, the tempo picking up even further when it actually settles in your fluttery stomach that he’s called you by your scent. It’s definitely not half as intimate as ‘pup,’ but it’s sweet and kind and not like the Dr. Park you’ve always seen. It’s Brendon. You give him a tentative smile. “Um, it’s been good. Set of twins came up with matching broken arms that I patched up all by myself; you’d be proud.”
“I’m sure I would,” he says urgently. Very urgently. His eyes are locked on the planes of your face as you go between looking at him and getting your work done. Trying to sound casual, he leans against the nearest wall and says, “Almost the time of year where you can try out your twelve-week clinical elective. Robby’s got his substance use outreach elective and Abbot’s got that palliative care thing.” As you hum an absent reply, he clears his throat just so you’ll look at him and adds, “Y’know, I oversee a critical care surgical lab. You’d be a good fit for that. I think Abbot mentioned that you’re interested in surgery, right?”
When you turn to him this time, you’re glowing. He notices the slightest change in your scent, the tang of cherry and apples mellowing into something sweeter. Lickable. He wants to attach his mouth to your neck and never let go. You bounce a little bit and tell him, “Actually, when I came to PTMC, my whole goal was to find a surgical fellowship. They don’t offer any at the VA, obviously. I’m always so jealous when you come in and get to plan out procedures.”
Park steps closer, breathing in the extra sweetness of your scent until it starts to calm him down. He’d been a little edgy all day and your presence is like a weighted blanket. His voice is airy and warm down your neck as he replies, “I’d love to show you the ropes, help you figure out if you want a surgical fellowship. Stop by my office sometime and we can talk about the details.”
Nibbling your lower lip a second, you meet his eyes and suggest just to see how he’ll respond, “Shouldn’t I be talking to Garcia about emergency surgery?”
“Definitely not,” he says right away. Straightening up his posture, he puffs up his chest and explains, “I know I’m ortho on paper, but I’m also co-chair of the surgical board. Kind of next-in-line for Chief of Surgery, really. So I’m the right person to see about the next steps in your education for sure.”
Your lips part open a bit as you try to come up with a response and he works very, very hard not to stare at your mouth. Is he…preening? That’s new. And it’s adorable. It makes you want to squeal, all the extra hormones bubbling up inside you definitely not helping, but you manage to contain yourself by curling your toes in your sneakers. “I’ll schedule something with your secretary.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do all that,” he says like his heart isn’t racing and his palms aren’t sweating. He reaches into his back pocket for his prescription pad, grabs a pen from your breast pocket (which almost makes you scream), and scribbles his phone number down. Then he tucks it in the front pocket of your scrub and gives your thigh a gentle pat. You’re completely frozen from the series of easy, casual touches that feel more like claims than anything when he tells you, “Text me whenever you want. I’ll carve out the time for you.”
There’s that phrase again. For you. So you reach across the suddenly-too-large space between your bodies and give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Okay, I will.”
Before Park has the time to come up with a response, the physical therapist, Dr. Embry, joins you in the suite, wheeling in Frankie Murray with his parents behind. Park shakes each of their hands and says to Frankie, “It’s good to see you again, kid.”
Mrs. Murray chuckles, “You’re in a much better mood today, Dr. Park.”
He stage-whispers, “Your son’s doctor over there may have given me a very deserved attitude check.” He kneels down and pats Frankie’s shoulder, making serious eye contact. “I’m sorry again for how rude I was before your surgery; I guess I was having a bad day. I promise I’m gonna be right here consulting with Dr. Embry during your whole recovery process. And I’ll be in the stands when you’re back on the track in the fall.”
Frankie grins and checks, “Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
You almost black out. As Park goes through the details of Frankie’s knee reconstruction with Dr. Embry, you quickly take out your phone and text the group chat with Trinity, Dennis, and Garcia. He’s being really sweet??? To me and my patient and his family.
You know Garcia’s in surgery, but Trinity’s response pings back right away: one whiff of you and the beast transforms into a prince :))
While Park helps Dr. Embry get equipment set up for the appointment, he tells the family, “Y’know, I went through your doctor’s notes a little more closely. Turns out I went to the same high school as you. Captain of the football team ‘08 and ‘09.”
“Shit, seriously?”
Mrs. Murray swats his head playfully with a pamphlet from downstairs. “Language, Frankie.”
“I did a little track, too, but I sucked,” Park tells him, tone all light and friendly. “More of a linebacker type. All bulk, no speed.”
Listening to the courteous, personal small talk, the physical therapist gives you the most incredulous look you’ve ever seen on a medical professional. You return it.
“And a surgeon’s hands; you’re really the whole package,” Mrs. Murray praises in that saccharine omega tone that turns alphas to butter, her eyes raking over him in a way that makes you want to turn into a linebacker all of a sudden. “Do you have a mate, Dr. Park?”
Park’s eyes flick to you as Frankie groans.
Your heart climbs into your throat.
Park offers a polite, professional smile. “No, I don’t, I’m waiting patiently for the one.”
You bite your lip and stare down at your shoes, heat climbing into your cheeks.
“‘The one,’” Mrs. Murray tuts in return. “That’s such a dated idea, doctor. Let me set you up with my sister and-”
Mr. Murray hisses, “Nancy, we’ve talked about this.”
“Sorry, sorry, I love to meddle,” she laughs, waving it off as you plaster a placid smile on your face to avoid glaring at her. “Let’s focus on Frankie’s appointment, hm? Dr. Embry?”
“I think that’s a good idea,” you interrupt, surprised to hear your voice coming out sharp. You’re never like that with patients’ families. But you can’t help yourself as you turn to Brendon and say, “Dr. Park, I had some questions about your approach on Frankie’s meniscus; would it be alright if we let Dr. Embry take over from here?”
Park tilts his head but nods. He turns to the rest of the room and says, “I’ll see all of you next week, okay? Give my office a call if you have any questions or concerns.”
After they thank him, Park nods toward the wing of offices and you follow him out with your cheeks absolutely on fire. He stops short of his office, though, cornering you in the hall with a teasing smile.
“So…” He crosses his arms over his chest and examines you carefully, trying to understand “...my approach to Frankie’s meniscus?”
“Um, yeah, right.” After thirty solid seconds trying to come up with a way to purposefully misunderstand a basic tendon repair, you admit quietly, unable to even meet his eyes, “Fine, I just didn’t like the way Mrs. Murray was looking at you like a piece of meat.”
Park scoffs. “So you were trying to rescue me from her?”
You cross your arms, too, and tell him with a bratty edge to your voice, “Maybe I was.”
He barks out a laugh and touches your arm sweetly. “I can handle myself, cherry, I promise.”
“Just looking out for my coworker,” you huff, stamping one foot in a way that makes Park’s heart flutter warmly. Your faux-anger is too cute for him to handle. When he starts to break out another teasing smile, you shove his chest and groan, “Drop it. I was just…being a silly omega. Or something. Leave me alone.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” he goes on, taking a step closer to you. Your back hits the wall and he places one giant hand next to your head. His sent flares, warm and spiced, and you’re honestly glad for the wall holding you up. When you look at the muscles straining beneath his tan skin, your knees weaken. You’re already over-producing slick with your body coming off the suppressants and Park’s domineering stance definitely isn’t helping the situation. Voice 100% teasing and unserious, he asks you all low and gravelly, “Do you have a crush on me, doctor?”
You stand on your toes and refuse to shrink, matching his cocky tone to disguise the desire reaching through all your organs. “No, I have a crush on Mr. Murray. I wanted to hide my raging boner for him by coming up with an excuse to get out of there.”
Park raises an eyebrow in amusement. “He your type?”
“Yeah, I like ‘em bald and mated,” you reply seriously.
He leans down, close enough to kiss you, and keeps pushing with that gorgeously teasing tone, “I’ll have to see a hairdresser, then, since I was cursed with a thick head of hair.”
“I’d agree with a thick skull,” you cut back, standing up straighter and breathing in the cinnamon pouring from his neck. “And the mate part? Any cute omegas catch your eye lately?”
He thinks for a second and then offers, “Well, clearly Mrs. Murray is about to be on the market.”
You cheekily reply, “But by the time Mrs. Murray’s single, I’ll already be carrying three little half-sibling pups for Frankie, dummy.”
Then Brendon growls. The sound is low and possessive. It’s the kind of sound an alpha would only make if his mate were in danger or threatened. It rumbles up from his chest, totally subconscious. His eyes darken. His hand goes to your waist. Grabs, really. Not hard, not cruel, just…owning. Desperate, almost. He needs to feel the way your soft flesh yields to his touch. His breaths get heavy and intense. Your body reacts. Undeniably. He feels the temperature of your skin increase beneath his hand in response to him. Then he orders, quiet and stern but still perfectly tender, “Don’t joke about that. Please.”
“Why not?”
“You shouldn’t- You aren’t-” He steps back and tries to get out of the heady cloud of you even though you’re invading his every synapse. With a slow, deliberate swallow, Park says, “We’re joking about a patient’s family. Very unprofessional.”
“Right,” you reply, eyes glassy and voice breathy, “of course.” Then, not quite ready to end the conversation when you have a few minutes before you should be back downstairs, you tell him, “That thing you said to Mrs. Murray? About waiting for the one? She said it was dated, but, um, I wanted to tell you that I liked it. You sounded sweet. And I’m waiting, too.”
His lip twitches up into a smirk. “You are? I figured there was no way a girl like you was single, even if you don’t have a mate yet.”
“A girl like me?” He doesn’t elaborate, just nods like your rarity is so obvious it doesn’t need stating, so you tell him, “I don’t want to waste my time dating around when I know that a time’ll come when an alpha’s going to be certain I belong to them.”
With his heart climbing into his throat, Park asks, “And what’ll they do then? When they’re certain?”
“He’ll just,” you sigh wistfully and shrug, imagining every detail, “pick me up and take me home. He’s gonna fold into my nest with me and keep me safe. Protect me every day. Build me a big house to fill with pups with a yard for them to play in and a kitchen where I can bake everyone their favorite things and-” You stop yourself, give a bashful smile, and quickly add, “I know that’s kind of a lame 1950s idea coming from a modern doctor omega, but-”
“No, not at all,” he assures, taking your hand quickly so you don’t dash out of the conversation like you often do when you get embarrassed. “It’s not lame. It’s nice.”
He can’t bear to say anything else, his throat feeling tight all of a sudden, so he just squeezes your hand and then lets go of it. Then he runs his hand through his hair and says, “I’ve got to go get prepped for surgery. Spine deformity correction. But text me, okay? I want to hear from you about the surgical elective. Or anything else you want. Any time. Text me.”
You try to add confidence to your shaky, adoring smile. “I will. Promise.”
That night, you agonize over what to text Park. Yes, you could absolutely just send him a simple, professional ‘Can I come to your office to talk about the surgical elective Thursday between nine and noon?’ and call it a day. But you want more. You want him. At the very least, you don’t want a text that could end the conversation with a response of ‘Yes.’ Which sends you straight to the group chat.
you: okay how’s this? ‘thanks so much for helping the murrays! when can we meet and talk about my elective?’
denny: i think that’s good!!
yoyo: oh my god that’s terrible
trin: omegas are fucking useless
trin: you should send something slutty
you: no i definitely shouldnt
you: what should i say instead??
trin: SEND SOMETHING SLUTTY
trin: SEND A SLICK PIC
you: shut up and let the grownups talk trinity
trin: HES YOUR MATE YOU SHOULD WANT HIM TO WANT TO FUCK YOU
you: not like literally right now!!!
trin: WHY NOT
you: BECAUSE
yoyo: time’s ticking if you want that sharcock babe
you: not you too
denny: yeah you guys don’t get it
denny: this is about forever not just sex
you: that’s what im saying
trin: you want to have sex forever tho so whats not clicking
yoyo: exactly
trin: exactly
denny: its always 2 dumb bitches telling each other “exactlyyy”
you: okay im done with you guys now byeee goodnight
trin: nonono come on cherry
trin: just send him anything. he’s your mate
trin: the conversation will happen naturally bc hes YOURS thats the whole point
you: you really think so?
trin: yeah i do
yoyo: agreed
yoyo: don’t put too much pressure on it
denny: just be your nice pretty self :))
you: you’re so cute den ily
denny: ໒(＾ᴥ＾)७
you: ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ
denny: ૮₍´｡ᵔ ꈊ ᵔ｡`₎ა
you: ₍ᐢ ̥ ̞ ̥ᐢ₎ ♥₍ᐢ ̥ ̞ ̥ᐢ₎
trin: stop ill literally pop a cuteness boner
trin: lmo (love my omegas)
you: im taken
yoyo: not if you don’t send something slutty asap
you: GOODNIGHT
You toss your phone across your bedroom and pad around your apartment for a while, frustrated and on edge. The first symptom of your placebo pills: Your nesting urge itches underneath your skin, so you can’t quite get comfortable, no matter which part of the apartment you curl up in. As stereotypical as it may be, one of the only things that lessens the urge (when you can’t hoard soft things or get snuggled so hard you’re basically being squished to death) is baking and cooking.
So, just like the night before, you pour yourself a nice heavy glass of wine, change into some slinky pajamas, and head to the kitchen. And you shoot off the first thing you think of to Park, ignoring the advice of your stupid friends in favor of your gut.
you: hi dr. park! i just wanted to say thank you for being so nice today and see when we can get together to talk about the elective
you: ps do you like brownies or cookies better
you: pps if it’s cookies then what kind is your favorite
dr. park: Hi, cherry. It’s easy to be nice to you. I’ll text you my Google calendar and you can pick a time that works for you.
dr. park: P.S. I love all baked goods, but I prefer brownies.
dr. park: P.P.S. If I were to choose a cookie, it would be classic chocolate chip. Soft, not crispy.
you: regarding brownies, fudgy or cakey?
dr. park: Fudgy. Middle piece.
you: me too!!
dr. park: Shit. Who’s going to eat our edge pieces?
you: ill bring them to pitt vultures
Nursing a soft smile alongside the wine, you take out the perfect recipe and get to work, turning up some saucy music loud enough to annoy the neighbors you can’t stand. Swaying around and letting yourself feel all the fluttery things you usually can’t on your suppressants, you beat together the eggs and sugar and flour and cocoa, chop up chunks from real gourmet chocolate bars, and butter your favorite pans to accommodate the ridiculous triple batch. You need to drown in sugar and fat to feel normal again.
With the alcohol loosening up your limbs and your hormones loosening up everything else, you snap a quick selfie and send it to Park before you can overthink it alongside ‘nesting like crazy right now and ended up making triple what i thought. ill make sure to save some for you, okay?’ And then you text it to your group chat to satisfy them.
denny: you sent that to park???????
you: do you think it’s too much?
trin: OH MY GOD
trin: YOU FUCKING WHORE
trin: YES!!! YES!!!!! I LOOOOVE THISSSS!!!!!
denny: not too much! im just surprised <33
denny: you look super cute
yoyo: i’d knot on the spot if an omega sent me that
yoyo: licking batter off your fingers?? tiny little silk pjs?? jesus fucking christ cherry youre gonna kill the poor man
trin: careful garcia ill get jealous
trin: im so proud of you slut
denny: are you gonna bring some to work??
trin: NOT THE POINT HUCKLEBERRY
trin: but yeah actually
you: of course i will <3 love you guys!!
While the brownies are baking, you watch your phone like it’s a nail-biter sport, anxiously checking it every couple of seconds while you half-assedly clean up the kitchen. Brendon’s three dots appear and reappear again and again, making your nudge up and down the screen. You’re stuck staring at your picture, judging your own flirtatious expression and skimpy outfit. It’s the equivalent of him sending you a sweaty gym pic, you figure, not anything particularly scandalous or outright sexy. Although your nipples are definitely perkily poking against the thin slinky fabric of your camisole. As well as some sideboob. And your shorts are pretty damn short, to be fair, and the camisole rises a bit at the bottom to expose an inch of the swell of your belly. Which you think is cute, sure, but it’s certainly not professional.
Your phone vibrates just when you’re about to spiral.
summary: jack comes home to an unexpected guest—and finds them rather reminiscent of himself
cw: nothing but fluff and a little bit of excitement in the beginning
wc: 1.5k
a/n: ah, so this is not the first jack fic i’ve started, but the first one i’ve finished. hope you enjoy it. lowkey only read it over once, so ignore any mistakes, I promise they’re, um, stylistic choices.
some abbot smut is def incoming, especially after i heard shawn's second episode this morning while getting ready and almost missed my bus because of how distracted I was.
Jack prides himself on having a pretty good gut feeling about your well-being. It’s almost like a sixth sense that lets him know that you’re fine. And that sense hasn’t sounded the alarm yet, but something feels amiss.
He doesn’t get to check his phone for longer than a few seconds every time during his entire shift—only ever allowing him a glance long enough to see that you haven’t texted him.
He tells himself you’re fine. You’re most likely tucked away in bed, sound asleep and deeply unaware of all the terrible things that happen to people late at night—a privilege he’ll never get back.
But the pit in his stomach doesn’t ease up.
By the time 7 am rolls around, he’s more eager than ever to get out of the PTMC, get into his car, and drive home to check on you. He considers calling you from the car, but he doesn’t want to wake you in case everything’s fine and you’re asleep. Part of him thinks it might be some sort of PTSD kicking in, a desperate need to protect everyone around him, you at the very top of that list. He promises himself to bring this up in his next therapy session, but before that, he needs to see your face.
The quiet that greets him when he gets home is not the kind he’s used to after years of working the night shift. It’s different, thicker, more loaded.
And then it’s interrupted.
A sound he can’t quite place echoes down from upstairs. It’s like a soft pitter-patter, fast and a little uncoordinated.
Jack’s eyebrows furrow together. The noise is much too soft to be originating from your movements, but he struggles to come up with any other explanation.
He takes two steps at a time, his leg stinging quite a bit after his long work day/night, as he walks up the stairs.
The door to your shared bedroom is closed all the way—it rarely ever is.
As suspicion makes space for fear, Jack’s fingers wrap around the lamp on the side table in the landing area. He can’t imagine that a burglar would try his luck in the early morning hours, and he pays more than enough for the security system of the house, but his concern for your safety outweighs logic.
With his makeshift weapon in one hand, he takes a step forward and inhales deeply before he makes contact with the door handle.
But just as his fingers touch the cold brass, he hears something. Your voice. And you don’t sound scared at all.
“Shh, sweetie, you gotta be quiet.”
At first, he only feels relief. Then your words process. And Jack realizes you aren’t alone in there. His mouth falls open.
It’s not jealousy he feels in response to what you said—it’s immediate heartache.
It can’t be, he thinks. You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t bring some stranger into the house and—he can’t even bring himself to finish the thought. But then he hears your voice again, so soft and tender as you whisper words he can’t quite make out.
You wouldn’t talk like this to a man—or woman, for that matter. Jack’s confusion grows into utter perplexity.
There’s only one thing he can do.
He pushes the door open and stares.
The scene he’s met with barely makes sense in the beginning. You’re crouched on the floor, a fluffy wand with a feather attached at its end in your hand.
The room smells a little bit like fish, and there is all this white and grey hair sticking to your black sweatshirt—no, not hair. Fur.
“Sweetheart? What’s going on here?”
Jack is frozen between rooms, the divot between his brows growing deeper. You smile sheepishly, and he instantly knows you’ve done something you weren’t supposed to.
“Hi, honey,” you mumble, your voice lowered. “I, um… I have a surprise for you?”
Jack figures this was supposed to come out like a statement, but it sounds more like a question.
“What are you doing on the floor?” he asks, extending a hand to help you up from the floor. You take it, but instead of letting him pull you to your feet, you tug on his hand (the one that’s not holding the lamp) and guide him to sit down.
“Don’t be mad, please,” you request.
He furrows his brows as if you’ve just said something utterly ridiculous.
“I won’t be mad, princess, but… what… what is going on?”
You take a deep breath, then mutter, “I found a—”
Before you can finish speaking, a fuzzy little ball of grey and white shoots out from under the bed. With its considerable speed, the furry thing knocks into the dresser, then disappears under it.
“What was that?” Jack gasps, crouching down ungracefully to peer under the furniture. “Was that a rat?”
You tut instantly and shake your head.
“That was not a rat, Jack.”
Your soft laughter fills the room, but he is still trying to get a glance at whatever was currently trying to make its home underneath his socks and underwear.
Just as you open your mouth to keep explaining, a pink nose peeks out. White whiskers are attached to said nose, and Jack has to admit that it’s much too big to be a rat.
When the rest of its furry face becomes visible, Jack’s goes a little pale.
“Baby,” he begins. “Is there a cat hiding under the dresser?”
You smile awkwardly, then nod.
“A kitten,” you reply.
He leans down even further to get a better look at the animal, then gives you a look full of disbelief.
“That’s not a kitten. That… that is a cat, in every sense of the word.”
You frown softly, and all he wants to do is kiss your face, even though you brought some possibly flea-ridden stray into his house without asking first.
“She’s a baby.”
“She? She? She is a cat—wet nose, whiskers, and four paws.”
“Three.”
Jack blinks at you, then mutters, “Excuse me?”
“She has three paws,” you explain, then whistle softly. The kitten—cat—whatever she is, peers out of her hiding place and glances between you and Jack. He receives a rather critical look, prompting him to scoff. Then she stalks out of the tight space right into your lap.
The little feline truly has only three legs and a little stump where the fourth was supposed to be.
“What happened to her?” he asks quietly, reaching out to let the cat sniff his fingers. She does that, rather disinterested though.
“I don’t know,” you mumble.
“And how old is she?” he continues.
“I don’t know. Baby age,” you repeat.
He gives you a sour glance, but if he’s honest, he is fighting a smile.
“And what is she doing here?” he questions.
You look down at the little fur ball and smile.
“I found her.”
“And decided to keep her?”
“Yep.”
Jack sighs deeply and scratches behind her ears. When she starts purring, he’s no longer able to suppress a grin.
“She’s a little sweetheart,” he mutters.
As if to contradict him, the cat swats at his fingers—at least without claws—and then turns in your lap to look away from him.
“I stand corrected,” he says. “She’s feisty. You found a little diva.”
You keep petting the cat, who has taken a much bigger liking to you than to him, and look up at him. He knows the dreaded question is coming before you even open your mouth.
“Can we keep her?”
Jack exhales audibly, then takes another look at her.
“We don’t know where she came from,” he reminds you. “She might have a family, sweetheart, people who are looking for her.”
“But she’s so thin and her- her fur’s all matted. There was no collar, and I even checked to see if there’s a tattoo in her ear, and there isn’t. We could take her to the vet and have her checked for a chip. And if—” you argue, but he stops you before you get your hopes up too high.
“Baby, wait, wait,” he says. “Alright. We’ll take her to the vet, but I… please don’t think about names and cat trees and all that just yet, okay? Let us see what we can find out about her first.”
He can’t believe he’s agreeing to this, but then adds, “And if there’s no chip and nothing else to indicate she might belong to someone else, we… we can keep her.”
The cat jumps from your lap as you fall into Jack’s arms, the biggest smile he’s ever seen on your face.
“Oh, thank you, honey,” you answer, the words a little muffled as you speak them against the side of his neck.
He gently rubs your back and shakes his head.
“I can’t believe half the things you get up to while I’m away at work.”
The cat stares at him, her yellow eyes following the movement of his hand on your back rather critically. Jack sighs again, realizing he might have just lost the number one spot in your heart to a three-legged ball of fur. But then again, you’ve always had a thing for strays with missing limbs.
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.
Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.
Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
Word Count: 9k
note: And the story comes to an end, at least for now. Thank you so much for walking with me through this journey🧡
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She heard him dust his boots heavily on the porch, then the door opened, and he stepped inside, bringing the cold air and the smell of pine and sweat with him. His eyes found her immediately, still standing by the stove where she'd been keeping the stew warm.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
She felt her face heat under his gaze, and her hands tightened on the wooden spoon she was holding.
"You're home," she managed, and immediately felt foolish. Of course he was home. She could see him standing right there.
But his expression softened slightly, and he set down his lunch pail by the door.
"I am," The words came out rough. Like he'd been working hard. Or thinking hard. Or both.
He shrugged out of his coat, hung it on the peg, and crossed the small space between them in a few strides.
She tensed with anticipation, expecting him to reach for her, to pull her close the way he had last night. But he stopped just in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him, and his hand came up to cup her face instead.
Gentle. Almost careful.
"Feelin’ alright?" he asked quietly.
The question caught her off guard. She'd expected... well, she wasn't sure what she'd expected. But not that.
"I'm fine," she said honestly.
His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, and something flickered in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or concern.
"Any discomfort?"
She shook her head.
He studied her face for another moment, like he was checking for signs she might be lying to spare his feelings. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead -brief, almost chaste- before stepping back.
"Smells good," he said, nodding toward the stove. "What is it?"
"Stew," she answered still processing the gentleness of that kiss. "It's been ready for a while. I was just keeping it warm."
"Sounds good." He moved past her toward the washbasin, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm starvin’."
She turned back to the stove, ladling stew into bowls, and tried to ignore the way her heart was still racing.
It was so stupid that the fact that he was careful and gentle with her still affected her, but she was still getting used to it. To matter. To have a voice. To like and dislike things and be checked on. To be cherished.
“Do you want to wash after you are done?” she heard herself ask without thinking.
He paused, his hands stilling in the basin where he'd been splashing water on his face. Then he straightened, reaching for the towel she kept hanging nearby, and turned to look at her.
"After dinner?" he repeated, like he was making sure he'd heard her right.
She nodded, focusing very hard on ladling the stew into the second bowl. "I could heat water for the tub. If you'd like."
There was a pause, just long enough that she glanced up to see if something was wrong.
He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something between surprised and... pleased, maybe.
"Yeah," he said finally, his voice a little rougher. "That'd be good."
She nodded and carried the bowls to the table, setting them down with hands that were steadier than she felt.
Offering to heat his bathwater wasn't scandalous. It was a perfectly normal thing for a wife to do for her husband after a long day of work.
Except they both knew what had happened the last time she'd helped him bathe.
When she'd washed his back with careful hands. When he'd been sitting in the tub and she'd been close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. When the air between them had been charged with something unspoken and inevitable.
And now -after last night- there was nothing unspoken left.
She sat down across from him at the table, smoothing her skirt unnecessarily, and picked up her spoon.
He did the same, taking a bite of the stew and making a low sound of approval.
"This is good," he said. "Real good."
"Thank you."
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted with awareness. Of each other. Of what had happened. Of what would happen again.
Eventually, he cleared his throat.
"Had a hell of a time concentratin' today," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.
She looked up. "Oh?"
"Yeah." He took another bite, chewed, swallowed. "Miller nearly had to pull me out of the way of a fallin' log. And Davidson caught me splittin' the same piece of wood three times without realizin' it."
Her eyebrows rose. "That doesn't sound like you."
"It ain't." He finally looked at her then, and there was something in his gaze that made her stomach flip. "Kept thinkin' about last night."
Heat flooded her face instantly.
"About you," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "About comin' home to you."
She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if she was supposed to say anything.
But he didn't seem to expect a response. Just went back to his stew, though she could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw worked as he chewed.
Like he was holding himself back from saying -or doing- something more.
They finished the meal in that same charged silence, and when he pushed his bowl away, she stood to clear the table.
His hand slowly caught her wrist as she reached for his bowl.
She looked at him, her pulse jumping.
"I meant what I said," he said quietly. "About givin' you time. Few days, at least."
She swallowed. "I know."
"But… that ain't mean I don't wanna touch you." His thumb brushed across the inside of her wrist, a slow movement that made her skin tingle. "If that's alright."
She thought about the way he'd looked at her when he came home. The careful way he'd touched her face. The kiss to her forehead that had been almost reverent.
She thought about the fact that she'd spent the entire day thinking about him too. About last night. About the future.
"It's alright," she said quietly.
His expression changed -something dark and satisfied crossing his face- and he released her wrist.
"Go on then," he said. "Heat the water. I'll clear the table."
"You just got home," she said, already moving toward the stove to check the water she'd kept simmering. " I'll handle it."
"If I help, you can get started sooner," he countered, already standing and reaching for his bowl. "And honestly, the idea of a bath sounds real good right now."
She couldn't argue with that logic.
They worked in tandem, her hauling the tub from its spot in the corner while he carried the first pot of hot water, both of them moving anticipating each other's movements.
By the time the tub was half-full, she'd settled onto the chair nearby the fire, waiting as he added the last pot of cold water to temper the heat.
He straightened, testing the temperature with his hand, then started unbuttoning his shirt.
She didn't look away.
There'd been a time when they'd given each other privacy for this. When she would've turned the chair to face the wall, or busied herself with some task on the other side of the room.
But that time had passed.
Now she watched as he shrugged out of his shirt, the firelight playing across his shoulders, highlighting the old scars she'd traced with her fingers more times than she could count. And the new ones, faint red lines down his back where her nails had raked him last night.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, catching her staring, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.
"Ain't fair, you know," he said, reaching for his belt. "You gettin' to look while I can't."
"I'm not the one getting in the bath," she deadpaned.
"True." He unfastened his belt, pushed his trousers down, and stepped out of them. Then his drawers followed, and he was bare, crossing the short distance to the tub without a hint of self-consciousness.
She'd seen him naked before. Many times, especially over the past two months. But there was something different about watching him now, in the firelight, knowing what it felt like to have that body covering hers. Inside hers.
He stepped into the tub with a low groan of relief, sinking down into the water until it lapped at his chest.
"Christ, that's good," he muttered, his head falling back against the rim.
She stood, collecting his discarded clothes and adding them to the basket near the door, very aware of his eyes tracking her movements.
When she turned back, he was watching her with an expression that made her stomach flip.
"You gonna help me?" he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. "Help you?"
"Yeah." He shifted in the tub, settling deeper. "I'm real tired. And last time you helped -when I had that cut on my hand- it was..." He paused, and she could see he was fighting a smile. "Real helpful."
She crossed her arms, trying to hide a smile. "You seem perfectly capable of washing yourself."
"Do I?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher. "Because I'm rememberin' how good it felt when you did it. Your hands in my hair. On my back."
Heat crept up her neck at the memory. At the intimacy of it, of touching him like that, tending to him.
"That was different," she said. "You were actually injured."
"I'm injured now," he said, deadpan. "Emotionally. From workin' all day thinkin' about my wife and not bein' able to do anythin' about it."
Despite herself, she felt her lips twitch.
"That's not a real injury."
"Feels real to me." He held her gaze, and the playfulness faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. More intent. "Come here."
It wasn't quite a command. More like an invitation. A request.
She crossed to the tub without hesitation and knelt beside it. His eyes tracked her movements, and when she reached for the soap, his hand caught her wrist.
Gently. Like he'd done at the dinner table.
"I promised I'd give you time," he said quietly. "And I meant it. But I want to touch you. Want you to touch me. That alright?"
She looked at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the tension in his jaw, at the way he was holding himself still despite clearly wanting more.
He was asking. Checking. Making sure she was comfortable.
Just like he had last night.
"It's alright," she said quietly.
His grip on her wrist loosened, and he released her with what looked like effort.
"Good." he said, his voice rough.
----
She worked the soap between her hands until it lathered, then pressed her palms to his back. He made a low sound -half groan, half sigh- and let his head fall forward, giving her access.
She started at his shoulders, working the soap across the muscles, feeling the tension there start to ease under her touch. Then down his spine, she let her thumbs press on either side, the way she'd discovered he liked weeks ago and felt him exhale slowly, deeply.
Her hands knew this body now. Knew the old scars, the puckered one on his left shoulder blade, the long raised line that ran from shoulder to spine. Knew the new marks too, the faint red scratches she'd left last night, already fading but still visible in the firelight.
Evidence of what they'd done. What they'd become to each other.
"Lean forward," she said quietly.
He did, bracing his forearms on his knees, and she reached for the cup sitting beside the tub.
She poured water over his head slowly, watching it darken his hair from brown to almost black, watching it run in rivulets down his neck and shoulders. Then she set the cup aside and worked the soap through the wet strands.
Her fingers found his scalp, and she began to massage in slow, deliberate circles.
The sound he made was involuntary. Deep and rough and so unguarded that it sent a flutter through her stomach.
"That's..." He trailed off, seeming to lose the words.
"Good?" she offered, her fingers still working, applying gentle pressure as she moved across his scalp.
"Yeah." His voice had gone thick. "Real good."
She took her time with it. Working the soap through every strand, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made his breathing deepen. She'd done this once before when he'd injured his hand, but that had been different. An assistance.
This was something else.
When she was satisfied, she rinsed his hair carefully, filling the cup again and again, pouring the water slowly so the soap wouldn't run into his eyes. Making sure to get every bit of lather out, combing through the strands with her fingers.
She set the cup aside and sat back slightly, her hands stilling.
He started to reach for the soap, but she picked it up first.
His hand stilled in mid-air, suspended between them.
"I can-" he started, his voice careful.
"I know you can," she said simply.
She dampened and worked more soap in her hands until they had a lot of lather, and waited.
For a moment, he just looked at her. She could see him processing what she was offering. What she was saying without words.
That she wasn't finished. That she wanted to keep touching him.
Then, slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement might break whatever spell this was, he settled back against the tub. His arms came to rest along the rim, palms up, open.
Giving her access.
She brought the cloth to his chest, and his breathing changed immediately, deeper, more controlled, as she began to work the soap across his skin.
She started at his collarbone, tracing the hard line of it from shoulder to shoulder. Then down, over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. She could feel his heartbeat under her hand, strong and steady but faster than normal.
He was affected by this. By her touch.
She moved her hand in slow, careful circles. Across to his left side, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each breath. Then back to center and across to the right. Thorough. Methodical.
But not impersonal.
She was hyperaware of every point of contact. Of the way his skin felt warm and slick from the water. The way his muscles tensed slightly when she touched certain spots. Of the way he was watching her through half-lidded eyes, his jaw tight.
His eyes had closed at some point, but she could see his hands gripping the edge of the tub, knuckles pale. He was holding himself very still. Letting her work. Not reaching for her even though she could see he wanted to.
She moved lower.
Over his stomach, feeling the muscle shift under her touch. Her hand traced the line where his torso met his hips, where the hair grew thicker, and she felt him tense.
His eyes opened.
She met his gaze -steady, deliberate- and brought her hand beneath the water.
Down, over his hip. Along his thigh.
And then, because there was no reason not to, because this was part of washing him, just like everything else, she brought it between his legs.
His breath caught audibly when her fingers made contact.
She worked carefully, the same way she'd washed the rest of him. Trying to be practical about it, though there was nothing clinical about the way her own heart was racing now. About the way her face felt warm despite the cool air in the cabin.
She felt him harden under her touch, the change immediate and undeniable, but kept her movements steady. Thorough. Washing him the way he'd need to be washed, trying not to think about the fact that she was touching him there.
When she shifted slightly to reach more thoroughly, his hips shifted forward involuntarily, a sharp, sudden movement that made the water slosh slightly in the tub.
Chasing the contact.
He caught himself immediately, forced his hips back down, and she heard him exhale through clenched teeth.
"Can't help it, sweetheart," he said, his voice wrecked. Strained. "You touch me like that, I-"
He cut himself off, gripping the tub harder, his whole body gone rigid with the effort of not moving. Of not reaching for her. Of not asking for more than she was offering.
"I know," she said quietly, and meant it.
She could see what this was doing to him. Could see it written in every line of his body, the tension, the restraint, the way he was barely holding himself together.
But he wasn't asking her to stop, or to do more. He was just letting her touch him, letting her explore. Letting her learn him at her own pace.
She finished washing him, moving the cloth down his thighs, along his calves, even taking each foot in turn and working the soap carefully between his toes.
When she was done, she rinsed her hands and rested it in her thighs, very aware that her sleeves were damp from the water. That her face was heated. That her breathing wasn't entirely steady.
And he was sitting there in the cooling water, his eyes on her, his chest rising and falling with breaths that were deeper than they should be.
Then he exhaled slowly and opened his eyes fully.
"Thank you," he said.
She nodded, not trusting her own voice, and stood.
"I'll get you a towel," she managed.
She crossed to the chest where they kept the linens, taking perhaps a moment longer than necessary to find one. Using the time to steady herself. To slow her breathing.
Behind her, she heard him shift in the water. Heard the quiet splash and the sound of water streaming off his body as he stood.
When she turned back, towel in hand, he was standing in the tub, water sluicing off his skin in rivulets that caught the firelight.
She could see all of him.
His broad shoulders. His chest. His stomach. The dark hair that trailed down from his navel. His thighs, thick with muscle.
And between them, the evidence of exactly how much her touch had affected him.
Still hard. Still wanting.
She felt her face heat again, felt that now-familiar flutter low in her belly, but she didn't look away, didn't drop her gaze or pretend she hadn't seen.
Just held out the towel.
He stepped out of the tub carefully, water dripping onto the floor, and reached for it.
But instead of taking the towel immediately, his hand caught hers.
Gently. The way he'd done at the dinner table earlier.
He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Slowly. His lips were warm and soft against her skin.
His eyes held hers the entire time.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he said quietly, his voice still rough with want. With restraint. "You know that?"
She didn't know what to say to that.
Didn't know if there was anything she could say that would adequately express what she was feeling, the strange mix of power and vulnerability, of curiosity and nervousness, of wanting to touch him more and being afraid of what might happen if she did.
So she just stood there, her hand still caught in his, her heart pounding.
Then he released her and took the towel, wrapping it around his waist with movements that were just slightly less controlled than usual and walked to the bed.
"Come here," he said quietly.
She complied, and he reached for her hand, pulling her down to sit beside him. For a moment, they just sat there. Close but not touching beyond where his hand still held hers.
Then he brought their joined hands to his lap and traced his thumb across her knuckles.
"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly. "Wash me like that."
"I know."
"But you did anyway."
She nodded.
"Why?"
The question was gentle, curious. Not demanding. She considered it for a moment, then chose to be honest.
"Because I wanted to," she said finally. Simply. “Wanted to help you, and… wanted to touch you.”
His thumb stilled on her hand.
"You wanted to," he repeated, like he was testing the words.
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You tell me, sweetheart. Am I pushin' too hard? Askin' for too much?"
She looked at him, at the genuine concern in his eyes, the way he was watching her like her answer actually mattered, and felt something warm settle in her chest.
"No," she said firmly. "You're not."
"You'd tell me if I was?"
"I would."
He studied her face for another moment, then nodded, seeming satisfied.
"Good," he said. "Because the last thing I want is for you to feel like you have to... like any of this is somethin' you're doin' out of duty."
"It's not," she said quietly. "I promise."
He swallowed, and she watched his throat work with the motion. Then he shifted slightly on the bed, his thighs separating just enough that the towel around his waist loosened, falling open slightly.
The evidence of his arousal was impossible to miss.
His hand tightened on hers for a moment, then released.
"Then," he said, his voice rough. "Would you be willin' to... help me with my situation?"
Her eyes flicked down, then back to his face.
She'd done this before. Multiple times, actually, in the weeks leading up to last night. He'd touched her, and both had discovered what she liked, what made her gasp and arch into his hand. And she'd explored him in return, learned the weight of him in her palm, the rhythm he preferred, the signs that told her he was close.
It had been part of learning each other. Part of him making sure she was comfortable with intimacy before they took that final step.
But somehow this time felt different. Maybe because now she knew what it felt like to have him inside her. Knew what he sounded like when he lost control completely.
"Alright," she said quietly.
His eyes darkened, and she saw relief and want on them.
She moved to stand between his knees, and he reached for the towel, pulling it away completely and tossing it aside. Then his hands came to rest lightly on her hips.
"You don't have to," he said, even though she'd already agreed. "If you're too tired, or if-"
"Bucky," she interrupted gently. "I said alright."
He exhaled slowly, and his grip on her hips tightened slightly.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay."
She started to reach for him, but the angle was awkward; she'd have to bend forward, lean down, and her back would start protesting within minutes.
He seemed to realize it at the same time she did.
"Here," he said, releasing her hips. "Get the stool. You'll be more comfortable."
She retrieved the small wooden stool they kept by a corner and positioned it between his knees. When she sat, his hands settled on her thighs this time, palms warm even through her skirts.
She wrapped her hand around him, and he made a sound -low and rough- that sent heat pooling down her belly.
"Christ," he muttered, his head falling back slightly. "Your hand’s so warm..."
She knew what he liked. Had learned it over the course of multiple evenings spent exploring each other, his patient instructions guiding her until she understood the pressure he needed, the rhythm that worked.
So she started the way she always did, slow and firm, her hand moving from base to tip and back again in long, steady strokes.
His hips shifted forward slightly, following the movement, and his hands tightened on her thighs.
"That's good," he said, his voice strained. "That's real good, sweetheart."
She kept the rhythm steady, watching his face. Watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his breathing went ragged, the way his eyes drifted closed.
His hands slid higher on her thighs, gripping through her skirts like he needed something to hold onto.
"Tighter," he said after a moment. "Can you- yeah, like that."
She adjusted her grip, and he groaned.
"Faster?"
"Not yet," he said, his voice tight. "Want it to last."
So she kept the pace slow. Deliberate. Let him feel every stroke.
One of his hands left her thigh and came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone in a gesture that was tender despite the explicit nature of what she was doing to him.
"You're so good to me," he said quietly, his eyes opening to meet hers. "So damn good."
She felt her face heat at the words, at the sincerity in them.
His hand slid from her face down to her neck, then lower, curving around her waist. His other hand stayed on her thigh, grounding, possessive in a way that made her stomach flutter.
"Okay," he said after another minute, his breathing harsher now. "Okay, faster now."
She increased the pace, her wrist working in the rhythm she knew he needed, and felt him tense beneath her touch.
"God, yes," he muttered. "Just like that, sweet girl. Don't stop."
His hips started moving in small thrusts, matching her rhythm, and she could feel him getting closer. Could see it in the way his whole body tensed, in the way his fingers dug into her waist, in the way his breathing had turned ragged and uneven.
"Darlin’," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I'm gonna-”
He was trying to warn her. Trying to give her time to move her hand and let him take over, grab the towel, to do whatever she needed to do.
But she didn't pull away.
Just kept moving her hand, moving, steady and sure, the way he needed.
"It's alright," she said quietly.
His eyes locked on hers, and something in his expression shifted. Went dark, intense and full of want.
"Fuck," he breathed, and then his whole body went rigid.
She felt him pulse in her hand, felt the warmth spill over her fingers as he spent, his hips jerking forward with each wave. He made a sound -low and broken- and his hand came up to cover hers, holding her in place while he rode it out.
When it was over, he slumped forward slightly, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, his breathing ragged against her neck.
They stayed like that for a moment, her hand still wrapped around him, his face buried in the curve of her neck, both of them catching their breath.
Then he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes still dark but softer now.
"Sorry," he said, his voice rough. "Should've grabbed the towel, I just-"
"It's fine," she said.
He reached for the towel anyway, gently taking her hand and cleaning it carefully. When he was done, he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. Slow and deep and grateful.
When he pulled back, he was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"You should get into your nightgown," he said finally. "Get comfortable."
She nodded and stood, retrieving her nightgown from beneath her pillow where she'd tucked it that morning. She crossed to the corner near the dresser where a small peg rack hung on the wall, beginning to unbutton her dress.
----
Behind her, she heard him move, the creak of the bed as he stood, his footsteps crossing to the water bucket. The sound of him drinking deeply, then setting the dipper back with a soft clatter.
Then she heard him chewing biscuits.
She rolled her eyes. They'd just eaten. The man had put away two full bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread less than an hour ago.
More drinking. Another swallow. Then silence.
She'd worked her dress off and draped it over the peg, then the petticoat, the corset. Her fingers moved to the ties of her drawers when she heard his footsteps again.
But they weren't heading back to the bed.
They were coming toward her.
She stilled, her hands on the waistband of her drawers, and then she felt him behind her. Close. Not touching yet, but close enough that she could feel his body heat.
His hands settled on her bare skin, one at the small of her back, the other at her shoulder blade, and began to stroke her naked skin in slow strokes. She shivered despite the warmth of the cabin.
"Wanna touch you now," he said quietly, his voice rough and low near her ear. "Is that alright?"
She almost chuckled. So that's why he'd told her to change.
She finished pushing her drawers down her hips and stepped out of them, straightening fully. His hands were still on her back, waiting for her answer.
"More than alright," she said.
She heard the shift in his breathing. Felt one hand slide around to her hip, holding her in place.
"Yeah?" His other hand moved up to her shoulder, his thumb stroking along her collarbone. "You sure?"
She hesitated, feeling heat creep up her neck. Then, because he'd been honest with her earlier about being distracted at work, she made herself say it.
"You're not the only one who spent today thinking about last night, Bucky," she admitted quietly. "I was... distracted too."
His hand on her hip tightened, and she felt him step closer. Close enough that his chest was nearly pressed against her back.
"That right?" he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice.
She nodded.
His hand slid from her hip upward, gliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. His palm was warm and calloused against her soft skin, and when his thumb found her nipple and began circling the areola in slow, deliberate strokes, she couldn't quite suppress the small sound that escaped her lips.
"What were you thinkin' about?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear now. "Specifically."
His thumb continued its maddening circles, not quite touching where she was starting to want him to touch, just tracing around and around until she felt her nipple tighten in response.
She swallowed, trying to find words while his hands were on her like this.
"About..." She paused, her breath catching when his thumb finally brushed directly over the peaked bud. "About how it felt. What you did."
"What I did," he repeated, his voice a low rumble against her back. His thumb rolled over her nipple again, more deliberately this time, and his other hand slid from her shoulder down to join the first, cupping her other breast. "Gonna need you to be more specific than that, sweetheart."
Both hands now, both thumbs working in tandem, and she had to brace one hand against the wall to steady herself.
"When you..." She took a shaky breath. "When you touched me. Before. And during."
"Durin’," he said, and there was something almost predatory in his tone now. Pleased. "You mean when I was inside you?"
"Yes," she managed.
His hands stilled for a moment, and then he turned her around to face him.
She found herself looking up at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the focus written across every line of his face.
"And what exactly were you thinkin' about that?" he asked, one hand coming up to cup her face while the other settled at her waist. "That… you wanted me to do it again?"
The directness of the question should have embarrassed her. Would have embarrassed her, even just yesterday.
But there was something about the way he was looking at her. The way his thumb was stroking along her cheekbone. The way he was asking instead of assuming.
"Eventually," she said honestly. "When... when it doesn't hurt anymore."
Something flickered in his expression, that guilt again, brief but unmistakable.
"It's gonna be a lot better next time," he said quietly.
"I know."
"When we do it again," he continued, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer, "it's gonna feel good. Real good. I'm gonna make sure of it."
She believed him. Because he'd already shown her what good felt like, with his hands, with his mouth, with the patient way he'd learned what made her gasp and arch into his touch.
"But right now," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I just wanna make you feel good. Can I do that?"
"Yes," she said.
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Good," he said. "Now come here."
He guided her backward toward the bed, and she went willingly, her heart already racing in anticipation of what came next.
He stood in front of her for a moment, just looking. His eyes traced over her, bare and exposed in the firelight, and she fought the urge to cover herself.
She'd been naked in front of him many times before. But it still made her feel vulnerable in a way she couldn't quite explain.
"Lie back," he said quietly.
She did, scooting further onto the bed and settling against the pillows. He followed, moving onto the bed with her, bracing himself on one arm beside her while his other hand came to rest on her stomach.
"You're tense," he observed, his palm warm against her skin.
"I'm not-"
"You are." His hand moved in a slow circle, soothing. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm just gonna make you feel good. That's all."
She took a breath and tried to let the tension ease out of her shoulders.
His hand moved from her stomach upward, sliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. The touch was gentle at first, exploratory, almost.
"I didn't pay enough attention to these last night," he said, almost to himself. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she felt it tighten in response. "Was too focused on gettin' inside you."
His hand shifted, and he cupped her other breast, giving it the same careful attention, testing its weight.
"But I got time now," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "And I'm gonna take it."
He lowered his head, and she felt his breath ghost across her skin a moment before his mouth closed over her nipple. The sensation made her gasp, wet heat and gentle suction that sent a jolt of feeling straight between her thighs.
His tongue slowly circled the peaked bud, and then he sucked again, harder this time, and her hands flew to his shoulders without conscious thought.
"Bucky-"
He hummed against her skin, and his hand came up to tend to her other breast while his mouth stayed busy.
His fingers found her nipple and pressed firmly under it, making her arch slightly into the touch. Then he pulled gently, tugging just enough that the sensation rode the line between pleasure and something more intense.
She whined -helpless and uncontrolled- and felt him smile against her breast. He switched sides then, his mouth moving to the breast his hand had been tending while his fingers took over where his mouth had been.
The pattern repeated, his tongue circling and flicking, his lips suckling, his teeth grazing so lightly she barely felt it. And his hand, always his hand, pressing and tugging and coaxing her body to respond.
She could feel herself getting restless beneath him. Could feel heat building low in her belly, her thighs shifting against each other, seeking friction that wasn't there.
"Easy," he murmured against her skin. "Not rushin' this."
His mouth stayed on her breast, working her nipple with single-minded focus until it was hard and sensitive and slick from his attention. Then he moved to the other side again, giving it the same thorough treatment until both peaks were tight and aching and she was breathing harder than she meant to.
When he finally pulled back, she looked down to find him watching her with dark, intent eyes. Her breasts felt hot from his attention, her nipples darker and visibly wet, and she felt heat flood her face at the sight.
"Look at you," he said quietly, his hand coming up to cup one breast again, his thumb brushing over the sensitized peak and making her shiver. "So responsive. My wife."
He leaned down and pressed one more kiss to each nipple -soft, almost reverent- and then his hand began to move lower.
Down her stomach. Over her hip. Along her inner thigh.
"Now," he said, his voice rough with want, "let me take care of the rest of you."
His hand moved higher on her thigh, and she felt her legs part without him having to ask.
"That's it," he murmured, his palm warm against her inner thigh. "Just like that, sweetheart."
But then his other hand joined the first, and he pressed gently, urging her to open wider, spread more. She expected him to lower his head. To put his mouth on her the way he'd done before, the way that had made her forget her own name.
But he didn't.
Instead, he just... looked.
His thumbs traced along her soft curls, and then he gently parted her. Spreading her open. Exposing her completely to his gaze.
She felt her whole body tense with something that went beyond nervousness into outright mortification. It was one thing to let him touch her. To let him use his mouth on her. She'd gotten used to that over the past weeks, had learned to relax into the pleasure of it.
But this was different.
This was him looking at the most intimate part of her body with the focus he usually reserved for checking a piece of wood for flaws.
"Bucky," she managed, her voice thin. "What are you-"
She tried to close her legs, instinct taking over, but his hands stayed firm on her thighs.
"Wanna look at my wife proper," he said quietly, his eyes still fixed between her legs. "Wanna see if… if you're hurt. From last night."
The admission made her relax a little. He was just checking on her, making sure he hadn't done more damage than he'd realized.
"What's bothering me is inside," she said quietly. "I don't think you can see it."
He looked up at her then, and she saw something flicker across his face. Maybe the realization that he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for.
"Right," he said after a moment. "Yeah, that makes sense."
He seemed almost sheepish about it, and despite her discomfort, she felt a small flicker of affection.
Then his thumbs moved again, stroking gently along either side of her entrance.
"I'm not gonna use my fingers today," he said, lowering his head. "Just want to make you feel good. That alright?"
"Yes," she managed.
And then his mouth was on her.
The first touch of his tongue made her gasp, a broad, flat stroke that started low and dragged upward with deliberate slowness.
He did it again. And again. Long, slow licks that covered every inch of her, and made her remember with what made her twitch, what made her breathing hitch, what made her hands fly to his hair without meaning to.
His tongue circled her entrance gently, and she tensed slightly at the sensation.
He must have felt it, because he moved away immediately. Shifted his focus higher, to the small bundle of nerves that made her fall apart when he paid it the right kind of attention.
He settled there now, his tongue working in slow, deliberate circles while his hands held her thighs open. Keeping her spread for him. Keeping her exactly where he wanted her.
"Bucky," she breathed, and she felt him hum against her in response.
His hands moved from her thighs to her hips, holding her down. Not rough, but firm, keeping her still while he worked.
His tongue flicked faster now, more focused, and she felt that familiar tension start to build low in her belly. The sensation coiled tighter and tighter with each pass of his tongue.
She was dimly aware that her fingers had tightened in his hair. That she was making sounds she couldn't quite control. And he just kept going. Patiently. Thoroughly.
Like he had all the time in the world and was determined to use every second of it, making her feel good.
She gasped hard when he started to suck gently, his lips closing around that sensitive spot and creating pressure that made her vision blur, her hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth.
"Let go, sweetheart. I got you." He murmured against her skin.
His tongue returned to its work -circling, flicking, pressing- and she felt the tension reach a breaking point.
And then it snapped.
The pleasure hit her in waves, rolling through her body in pulses that made her arch off the bed despite his hands holding her hips. Made her cry out -his name, maybe, or just an incoherent sound- while he kept his mouth on her, working her through it with gentle, steady strokes.
When the waves finally subsided, she collapsed back against the pillows, boneless and breathing hard. He pressed one last soft kiss to her entrance, then another to her inner thigh, before pulling back.
She looked down to find him watching her with an expression of deep satisfaction.
"Good?" he asked, his voice rough.
She could only nod, still trying to catch her breath.
He moved up the bed, settling beside her and pulling her against his chest. His hand stroked lazily up and down her back while her breathing slowly returned to normal.
"You did good," he murmured into her hair. "Real good for me."
She made a sound that might have been agreement or just exhaustion, and felt him chuckle quietly. They lay like that for a while, the cabin quiet except for the crackling fire and their breathing.
Eventually, he stirred.
"Should get you into that nightgown," he said. "Before you fall asleep like this and wake up freezing."
She made a noise of protest, but he was already moving, retrieving the nightgown from where it had fallen to the floor and helping her sit up enough to pull it over her head.
Once she was covered, he settled back down beside her, pulling the blankets up over both of them and tucking her against his side. She felt his fingers trace idle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing deep and even. The warmth of his body, the weight of the quilts, the dying fire, it all started to pull her toward sleep.
She was just beginning to drift when his voice rumbled quietly through his chest.
.
"Been thinkin'," he murmured against her hair. "Tomorrow's Sunday. We could head into town if you want."
She stirred slightly, her hand settling on his chest. "Oh. Is the reverend coming?"
He let out a quiet laugh.
"He ain’t. That's exactly why we're goin'."
She lifted her head enough to swat his arm lightly. He didn't even flinch, just kept that amused expression on his face.
"The boys at camp were sayin' that with winter comin' on, a lot of the commercial traffic's gonna die off," he explained. "So the shopkeepers and folks in town decided to open on Sundays for the next few weeks. Give the logging crews and the miners from up the mountain a chance to stock up on what they need before things get real bad."
"That's very convenient," she said.
"It is," he agreed. "They're clearly doin' it to make money, not charity, but it works out for us."
She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Is there something you need?"
"Few things," he said. "Root cellar could be fuller."
She tensed slightly against him, and he felt it immediately.
"Ain’t your fault," he said before she could apologize. "You came from the city. You got no idea what winter's like out here. How much we need to have stored up."
His hand stroked along her back, soothing.
"Plus," he added, "I've been eatin' more since you got here. Means we're goin' through supplies faster."
She relaxed slightly at that, settling back against him.
"So, provisions," he continued. "Anything that'll keep. And..." He paused. "You're gonna need warmer clothes."
"I have-"
"Not warm enough," he interrupted gently. "What you brought from back East ain't gonna cut it when it really starts snowin'. We're gonna be inside most of the time, sure, but there'll be moments we need to go out. Tendin' to the horse, clearin' snow, fetchin' firewood. And even inside..." He pulled her a little closer. "There's gonna be times when the fire alone ain't enough. You're gonna need layers. Real warm ones."
She was quiet for a moment, processing that.
"I feel silly. Didn't realize it would be that cold," she said finally.
"It gets real cold," he confirmed. "We'll keep the fire goin' day and night, but the cabin’s living space ain’t precisely small. Heat doesn't reach everywhere equally."
He felt her shiver slightly at the thought, and he tightened his arm around her.
"We'll manage," he said. "Just need to be prepared. That's all."
"Alright," she said quietly. "Then we'll go to town tomorrow."
"Also," he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice, "wanna show you off a little before we get snowed in."
She snorted against his chest. "Show me off?"
"It's true," he said, unrepentant. His hand slid from her back down to her hip, then lower, giving her rear a gentle squeeze through the nightgown. "We haven't been able to go into town together much. Just that first time, and Thanksgiving. Want folks to see us together proper."
"Oh, Bucky…"
"Want 'em to see you on my arm," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "Want 'em to see that you're mine and I'm yours."
She felt giddy at the quiet possessiveness in his voice. The pride.
"And," he added, "thought I might take you for a drink at the saloon. If you're amenable."
She lifted her head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Are you planning to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?"
His eyes gleamed in the low firelight, and his mouth curved into something wicked.
"Hm, are you concerned?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Or are you askin' me to?"
She felt heat flood through her body, -embarrassment and something else entirely- and she buried her face back in his chest.
"That's not- I didn't mean-"
She could feel him laughing, the vibrations rumbling through his chest beneath her cheek.
"If that's what you want," he said, clearly enjoying himself, "I'll let you drink all you want. That way you can tell me again how handsome I am and how you can't stop lookin' at me."
She made a strangled sound and covered her face with her hands, even though he couldn't see her anyway with her face pressed against his chest.
"Oh my god," she mumbled into her palms.
His laughter softened, and she felt his hand come up to gently pull her hands away from her face.
"Hey," he said, his voice losing that teasing edge. "Look at me."
She lifted her head reluctantly, expecting to see him still grinning at her expense.
But his expression had changed. Still warm, but serious now.
"I was glad to hear that, darling," he said quietly. "Real glad. It’s nice to know it ain’t only me who's smitten with you. That you feel somethin' for me too."
"You made it easy," she maintained his gaze. "To care about you. You are patient with me. Kind. You never made me feel like I was a burden or an obligation, even though that's exactly what I was at first."
His hand cupped her face more fully. "You were never a burden."
"I was," she insisted. "I showed up unannounced, caused a scandal, forced you into a marriage you didn't want-"
He huffed.
“I put a sign, woman. I was pretty much interested in gettin’ married”
“But we didn’t get to court properly, you didn’t know where you were getting into-”
“I think things turned out pretty well.” he interrupted gently, his thumb stroking along her jaw.
She huffed. "You can't possibly have known that when you agreed to marry me. I could have been awful. Lazy, or mean, or-"
"You ain't."
"But you didn't know that."
“No," he said finally. "I didn't know. But I had a feelin'."
She waited, feeling the warmth of his palm on her skin, grounding her.
"When you were standin' there in that room," he continued, his voice low and thoughtful, "lookin' terrified and tryin' so hard not to show it... and then you looked at me with those eyes of yours and said yes anyway." He paused, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek. "I thought, this woman's got courage and sense. And I liked that."
She felt something flutter in her chest, but forced herself to speak.
"That's not much to base a marriage on," she mumbled.
"Maybe not," he agreed. "But then you didn't flinch when I was sick. Didn't complain when you had to live in a place that ain't nowhere near what you deserved.” His hand pressed against her heart. "And every day, you gave me more reasons. The way you hum when you're concentratin'. Mendin' my shirts even though you hate sewin'. How you look at me like..." He trailed off, and she saw something flicker in his expression, raw and unguarded.
"Like what?" she whispered.
His jaw worked for a moment, and she could see him gathering courage for whatever he was about to say.
"Like I'm worth somethin'," he said finally, his voice rough. "Like I'm more than just a logger with a cabin and a horse. Like you see me.”
She pushed herself up slightly, needing him to see her face, to understand that she meant every word.
"You are worth something," she said firmly, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. "You're worth everything, Bucky. You're the most attentive, kindest man I've ever known. You're honest, and hardworking, and you-" Her voice caught slightly. "You made me feel safe when I had nowhere to go. You made me feel wanted when my whole life I'd been treated like a burden."
His expression had gone very still, his eyes locked on hers.
"You took care of me when you were sick yourself," she continued, her thumb stroking over his heart. "You taught me things without making me feel stupid for not knowing them. You listen to me. You make me laugh. You-"
"And good lookin'?" he interjected, and she could see the corner of his mouth twitching even as his eyes remained suspiciously bright.
She huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, and swatted his chest lightly.
"Yes, damn you," she said, "And ridiculously handsome. Unfairly so. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
His grin was crooked and devastating. "Just checkin’."
But then his hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb catching the tear that had slipped down her cheek, and his expression turned serious again.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For seein' all that. For sayin' it."
She leaned into his touch. "It's the truth."
"I gambled followin' my gut," he said quietly, his eyes holding her gaze. "And every single day since, you've proven me right. You're everythin' I didn't know I needed, darlin’. And-" He paused, and she saw his throat work. "And I'm in love with you."
She couldn't speak for a moment, couldn't do anything but stare at him as the words hugged her, warm and solid and real.
And then it hit her, not like something new, but like something she'd known all along and only now had a name for. The way her heart lifted when she heard his footsteps on the porch. The way she'd started thinking of this cabin as home not because of the place, but because he was in it. The way even now, with her body still tender and her heart wide open and vulnerable, she felt safe.
"I love you too," she replied, and her voice came out steadier than she expected, considering her emotion. "I think- I think I have for a while now.”
His eyes searched hers for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face, the kind that made her stomach flip.
"Do you, now?" he murmured, his voice dropping lower.
She nodded, unable to look away from him.
He kissed her then, slow and deep and thorough, his hand still pressed over her heart like he could feel it beating just for him. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing a little harder.
He shifted slightly, just enough to tilt his head, and she felt him smile against her temple before he pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering. Then another at her cheekbone. Her jaw. Like he was mapping her with his mouth, taking his time, savoring.
She closed her eyes and just felt it -felt him- until her breathing evened out and matched his.
"So," he said after a moment, his voice warm with contentment. "Tomorrow. Town, supplies, that drink at the saloon, and whatever else you want."
"Just… being together sounds perfect," she said softly.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his arms coming around her securely.
The fire had burned down to embers, and outside, she could hear the wind moving through the pines and the distant call of an owl. But inside, wrapped in Bucky's warmth with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, everything felt exactly as it should be.
She let her eyes drift closed, a smile on her lips, and let herself fall into sleep knowing that tomorrow -and every day after- she'd wake up exactly where she belonged.
Werewolf!Michael Robinavitch who accidentally goes into rut (and maybe gets his partner pregnant). (afab!reader)
In his defense, Michael thought he was too old for ruts. They tapered off somewhere around his late forties, and haven't shown up in the years since.
When at the very start of the lunar cycle Michael began to feel the ache in his bones that only comes right before a full moon, he was concerned to say the least. After a quick checkup on himself in an empty room at work, he simple decides it's aches and pains of his age. It definitely has nothing to do with the dawning breeding season.
You of course notice something is wrong. Your concern would be sweet if he wasn't already battling his own body. By the time he came home from work, Michael was breathing through his teeth as he tried to will his muscles into a state that wasn’t simply tense. When he finally yells at you for offering a glass of water, Michael knows he can’t keep ignoring this.
Off-cycle transformations are not unheard of, but Robby just wasn't expecting this one. He has half a mind to tell you to shackle him up out of an abundance of caution for your safety, something he hasn’t asked since early in your relationship.
You've been together long enough that when he's transformed, Michael recognizes you as a mate. Most transformations these days see him driving up to his cabin for the weekend and either cuddling you or hunting through the woods while you enjoy a quiet night in. Today, Michael doesn't know what's going to happen.
On the drive upstate, with your eyes on the road and definitely not on your husband as he writhes and sweats in the passenger seat, you manage to convince Michael not to have you tie him up. Reluctantly, he agrees.
Now, in hindsight, that may not have been the best plan.
It happens in the middle of the night. It's a new moon, leaving the brilliance of unpolluted stars as the only source of light into the cabin. It’s from the starlight that you notice you’re alone in bed. Michael’s side is not only empty, but a wreck, with pillows thrown on the floor and the sheets nearly tattered.
A semi-distant commotion draws you from the room. The sound leads you to the drawing room, where you find your husband.
He seems to be in a state between, not entirely man, not entirely wolf. A beast. You’ve caught glimpses of him like this before, but only in the midst of transformation. Tonight though, he seems stable in it. Volatile in nature, yes, but stable in regard to the state of nature.
“Rut,” He barely manages to say, his voice barely more articulate than a growl. His claws dig into the couch, slicing through the fabric like butter.
You gasp, “W-What do you mean?”
“Rut!” He (almost literally) barks.
You blink.
Michael always said he doesn’t get ruts anymore, that he’s too old of a wolf for that. It was one of the first things he told you about his condition.
“I thought—“
“Me too,” Michael’s arms, bulkier than normal and covered in thick sheets of hair, shake as he tries to hold himself up. “Shit, baby, I—“ He shakes his head, features contorted into something almost unrecognizable. “You need to- to go!”
His hand (claw? Paw?) slides down his body, rubbing at the length poking through the shredded remains of his sweats. His cock is larger like this, unfamiliar too. It looks as though there’s a bulge at the base of it. You shiver at this new anatomy.
You’ve never fucked Michael like this before. You and he have spoken about it, but decided it would just be too risky. Michael is always afraid of hurting you, but it looks now that he’s the one in pain.
You can’t help but think it may not be bad to indulge his mating cycle in some— well, mating.
Your husband fucks you unrestrained. It may not be the best idea to let your already well-endowed husband fuck you when both his sensibilities are gone and, oh, his cock has temporarily grown. After the initial struggle to stretch yourself open (a process during which you did in fact tie your husband up), you let him take over.
Michael fucks you for three and a half day straight. You lose yourself just as easily as he does. In between fucking, when that bulge (you think Michael called it a knot) swells and traps him inside you, Michael carries you to the kitchen to fill you with water and food. You’re not sure how he has the mental coherence to take care of you, but you’re glad that at least he’s making it a priority.
At the end of day six at the cabin, including mandatory days of post-sex marathon rest and rehabilitation, Michael drives you both home. He doesn’t stop apologizing, even when you say he doesn’t need to.
At home, things return to normal. Michael starts work the next day, though you take another two to get back. His cycle returns to normal two weeks later when the full moon arrived. Everything is well.
Then, a few weeks later, your morning routine starts to include a morning prayer or two to the porcelain gods.
Michael is who makes the appointment. He pulls some strings and gets you in for an ultrasound the morning after you two realize that your stomach bug is starting to look more like morning sickness.
Neither of you are surprised when your doctor confirms your pregnancy, but you are thrilled when she wheels in the ultrasound machine. Or, at least you are, because when the image of your future child becomes a reality on that grainy screen, you cry, but your husband is silent.
When you look at him, sniffling softly, Michael just stares at the screen.
"Only one?" He asks, his lip curled in poorly veiled disappointment.
"Yes," the doctor confirms, "One beautiful, healthy baby."
You elbow your husband playfully, "Don't sound too disappointed."
"I'm not, baby!" Michael quickly assures you, kissing you on the cheek as his eyes say transfixed on the machine. His eyebrows furrow slightly, and he adds, "I was hoping for a litter, though."
"A- A litter?" You scan your husband's face for any indication that he may be joking.
"Don't worry." Michael simply shrugs, "We'll get one next time."
“ *Insert blank* is the villain of The Pitt ” my brother in christ, idk what show you are watching, but the only villain I see is the american health care system
other than the men he brings home on occasion, you’re the only person who knows that deran cody is gay. when your best friend becomes anxious that people are growing suspicious of his sexuality, you suggest telling people that the two of you are dating. everything is going perfectly…until his brother is released from prison and you start feeling things that you haven’t felt in years.
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, smut, oral (f receiving), reader is afab, no use of y/n, cheating but not really bc it’s a fake relationship, male masturbation, mentions of an abusive ex, mentions of alcohol, deran struggling with his sexuality, description of canon level injuries, fluff, baz and smurf erasure, hurt/comfort, pov switches but mostly reader’s pov, happily ever afters for everyone!
memories are in italics!!
{ 3 months before Pope’s release from prison }
“I think Craig is onto me.”
Blue eyes meet yours in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Deran stands in the doorway behind you, leaning against the frame with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Onto you?” You repeat, voice garbled around the head of your toothbrush.
“Yeah,” he huffs, looking down at the floor. “You know…onto me.”
You freeze for a moment before you resume brushing, your eyes still glued to him. He doesn’t need to elaborate. There’s only one thing he could be talking about - only one thing that Deran doesn’t want his brother to know. Something that only you know about him.
Well, you and the men he brings home on occasion.
You spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What makes you think that?”
Deran shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was just talking to Adrian on the beach this afternoon and I noticed Craig looking at us like…I don’t even know. Just feel like he suspects something.”
You sigh, turning around to lean against the bathroom counter and crossing your arms over your chest. “Were you giving Adrian a handjob on the beach?”
“What the fuck?” He exclaims, face distorting in indignant horror. “No. Of course not. We were just talking.”
“Then Craig doesn’t know shit.” You shrug, bumping him with your shoulder as you move past him out of the small bathroom. “You’re being paranoid. Again.”
This is the third time he’s claimed that Craig is growing suspicious of his sexuality in the last month. Normally, you would have realized what he meant by Craig is onto me right away, but you’re practically brain dead after working back to back double shifts at the bar.
That’s the only logical explanation for why the following words leave your mouth.
“You should just tell Craig that we’re dating.”
You hear footsteps and laughter follow you down the hallway. “Us? Dating?” Deran snorts. “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”
“Why not?” You shrug, plopping down on the couch in the living room of your shared house to turn on the television. “We live together. Spend the vast majority of our free time together. We even work together, since you bought the bar. You’re single. I’m single. A lot of people already assume we’re together. It makes sense.”
“Well, yeah, but—” He comes to an abrupt pause, like he’s racking his brain for a reason why your idea might not work. He sits down on the ottoman in front of you, forearms braced on his thighs. “Huh,” he hums, clarity blooming across his face. “Maybe it isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“Thanks.”
You definitely had not given it any real thought before making the suggestion, but he’s right - maybe it isn’t the worst idea. At least now you’ll have a somewhat kinda true excuse when rejecting the advances of all of your bar regulars that just can’t get the hint that you aren’t interested in them.
Deran clasps his hands together in front of him. “Okay, but seriously. How would this even work? What are the rules or whatever?”
You stare at him and try not to laugh. “You’re overthinking it. There doesn’t need to be rules. We just keep doing what we’re already doing. We go out to eat sometimes, yeah? Go to the beach and the movies? Run errands together? Friends do those things, but so do couples.” You shrug. “So we just keep doing those things, and when anyone asks, we call it dating.”
“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” he clarifies.
You nod. “Boyfriend and girlfriend.”
He squints, shaking his head. “We don’t really act like boyfriend and girlfriend, though. We would need to make it believable. At least around Craig and our other friends. You know, hold hands, cuddle, maybe kiss—”
You cut him off with an exaggerated gagging nose.
“That’s a little harsh.”
You toss a throw pillow at his head that he catches just in time. “I’m fucking with you,” you laugh. “You’re right. There does need to be a little physical affection to make it believable. There’s no reason to stick our tongues down each other’s throats in front of your brothers and our friends, though.” It’s his turn to grimace dramatically at the mental image of that. “Just keep it casual. Holding hands is good, an arm around my shoulder every now and then won’t hurt, and the occasional kiss on the cheek should suffice.”
He tilts his head in consideration. Your words seem to appease some of his uncertainty, though you still get the feeling that he isn’t completely sold on the idea.
“Look, if you aren’t on board, just say so. It was just a suggestion. You won’t hurt my feelings at all if—”
“No, no,” he interjects. “It isn’t that. It’s just…” He trails off, pursing his lips in contemplation. You wait for him to continue with raised brows. “What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”
You don’t have a quick-witted response for that.
That hasn’t crossed your mind in ages. You’ve been single for so long that you don’t even remember how it feels to truly want to date someone. Your last boyfriend left you with quite the sour taste in your mouth for relationships that still lingers more than two years later.
You’ve gone on the occasional first date here and there, and had a few mostly unsatisfactory hook-ups over the last couple of years, but nothing has ever come from any of them. The thought of a real relationship is at the very bottom of your list of priorities, and you can’t see that changing anytime soon.
“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”
Deran considers that for a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. If you’re good with it, I’m good with it.” His words try to play off how much it means that you’d be willing to do something like this, but you know him. His smile and his eyes say what his mouth won’t.
You nudge his thigh with your foot. “Then congratulations, dude. You officially have a girlfriend.”
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Pope doesn’t know all that much about romantic relationships.
Not healthy ones, anyway.
He can’t say that he’s ever even been in one. At least not anything serious - nothing that didn’t fizzle out after a couple months or end in some argument that he can’t remember now.
Everything he really knows about romantic relationships comes from movies and books and the toxicity that he’s witnessed in his personal life. His mother and her goddamn three baby daddies. Baz and Cath. Craig and his ever changing girls of the month.
He can admit that these aren’t the best examples of romantic love, and maybe that’s why he’s having a hard time understanding the dynamic between Deran and his girlfriend.
There’s no screaming. No cursing each other out on a regular basis. As far as Pope can tell, the two of you never even get into minor disagreements.
And there’s no cheating.
One morning, just a few days after Pope gets out of prison, he’s making himself breakfast when he overhears Craig trying to convince Deran to go with him to a party later that night.
“Come on, man,” Craig whines. “Just swing by for a couple hours. Renn’s cousin is going to be there. You know she has a thing for you.”
Pope looks up in time to catch the disgusted grimace on Deran’s face.
“I have a fucking girlfriend, dude. You know that.”
“I keep forgetting you two are serious now,” Craig sighs. “Bring her too, then.”
When Pope meets you the very next day, he understands why Deran had seemed so repulsed at the mere suggestion of going to a party to hang out with some girl who isn’t you.
He stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the backyard and finds you laying by the pool. Strappy bikini a size too small, perfectly polished toenails, and skin glistening in the sun - he can’t help but stare at you until you realize he is standing still as a statue just feet away, watching wordlessly. You didn’t even hear him come out, your eyes closed and music pouring softly from a Bluetooth speaker.
“Shit,” you hiss as soon as you notice his presence, taken off guard. “Uhm - hey,” you laugh awkwardly, sitting up from your position on the foldable lounge chair and pausing whatever upbeat song you’re listening to. “I take it that you’re Pope? Deran told me you might be around today.”
Pope is silent for a moment as he pieces together who you are. His gaze trails over your bare shoulders and down to your thighs before looking you in the eye again.
“You’re Deran’s girlfriend?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but he can’t hide the incredulity that slips through.
“That’s me.” Another awkward laugh, though you don’t seem offended by the question. You offer a soft smile, but he thinks something about it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Deran should be here pretty soon, but I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you…want a sandwich or something?”
He isn’t hungry. He already ate. But for some reason, he says yes anyway.
You yank on a pair of blue jean shorts over your bikini bottoms and he follows you into the house where you insist on making him a sandwich while he tries not to ogle you too hard.
(At the time, he told himself that he would have taken the opportunity to hang around any pretty girl because he had just spent three fucking years in prison. But that wasn’t it. It was you. He wanted to be around you, even after just meeting you).
“So,” you start, spreading mustard across a piece of bread with a butter knife, “Would you prefer if I called you Andrew or Pope? Deran always calls you Pope, but I guess that’s kind of a family nickname, right?”
The question takes him by surprise. He hasn’t heard anyone call him Pope much in years. It still sounds weird to hear the nickname again. It feels like it’s been forever since anyone has even called him Andrew, too - it’s mostly been “Cody” or “Inmate 87286-923” for the last three years.
He’d forgotten how his name - government name or otherwise - sounds when it isn’t being barked at him. Coming from you, both names sound like music.
You glance up when he doesn’t answer right away, your expression hesitant as if worried you said something wrong.
“Either is fine,” he answers when he remembers how to string two words together. “Call me whatever you want.”
And he meant that. He doesn’t really have a preference. He would be fine with you calling him anything, as long as you call him something - but he got the best of both worlds when you decided that you would call him Pope in the presence of his family but Andrew anytime the two of you find yourselves alone.
It isn’t the lack of fighting or infidelity that perplexes him the most, though. It’s the fact that in the now six months since he’s been back home, he’s never once seen Deran kiss you.
Only ever a peck on the cheek here and there. He’s seen his arm slung around your shoulder, and your feet propped up in his lap when the two of you lounge on the couch at Smurf’s. He’s seen you rub sunscreen on Deran’s shoulders and watched him swim around the pool with you on his back plenty of times.
But in the last half year, he’s never seen either of you kiss the other on the lips.
Not that Pope is complaining. The last thing he wants is to watch you kiss his brother. He experiences more than enough unwelcome thoughts anytime he sees the two of you so much as hold hands.
He just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how Deran doesn’t kiss you every chance he gets. You’re over at Smurf’s often enough that he should have witnessed it at least once by now.
He hates that he even pays attention to such a thing. It’s really not any of his business how you two choose to show your affection, but he can’t help the way he feels the slightest jolt of jealousy when you kiss Deran on the forehead anytime you’re leaving Smurf’s - and then relief that’s all it is. A kiss on the forehead and nothing more.
Because if you were his - and he’s painfully aware of the fact that you’re very much not - he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you as easily as Deran does.
It takes everything in him to stop himself as is.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
“You look like you’re having a blast.”
The familiar voice pulls you out of your trance over the roar of rap music. You glance up from where you sit on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling over and into the lukewarm water. Pope stares down at you, his expression as neutral as ever and beer bottle in hand.
“And you look like you’re going to church instead of a pool party,” you snort. You aren’t surprised in the slightest that he’s wearing one of his typical short sleeve button-ups instead of swim trunks, but you are a little surprised that he’s here right now. Parties with dozens of half-naked shit-faced drunks aren’t really Pope’s thing.
Then again, they aren’t really your thing either, yet here you are - nursing the same piss flavored beer Deran had handed you over an hour ago as you watch him and Craig shotgun beers across the yard.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, patting the concrete beside you in invitation for him to sit down. “Where’s Lena? I thought she was with you tonight.”
“She’s at home. With the sitter.” He crouches down, albeit a little awkwardly due to the fact he’s wearing pants and shoes and can’t dip his feet into the pool like you. Even with his legs bent at the knees and his arms resting across them, he seems stiff. Uncomfortable. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. “I had a few things I needed to take care of before the job tomorrow.”
Ah, yes. The job. The job that you definitely don’t know anything about - as far as Smurf and the others are concerned, anyway.
You may not get involved, but you aren’t oblivious to what Pope and his family do to make money. Piecing it together hadn’t exactly been rocket science. Every time a major robbery, heist, or hit-and-run occurs within a fifty mile radius of Oceanside, Deran suddenly seems to have an abundance of cash.
What really made the pieces click into place was the time he asked you to cover his half of the rent and then mysteriously had the funds to completely pay your car off for you less than forty-eight hours later.
“Do I even wanna know where you got this money?” You ask when he hands you a thick envelope with over six thousand dollars in it. The exact amount you need to pay your car loan off.
Deran sighs. “No. You really don’t.”
The following morning, you turned on the news at work and watched coverage of a casino that got hit for over a half million just two towns over.
You aren’t a fucking idiot. His flesh and blood brother was in prison for a bank robbery at the time. Two plus two is four.
Pope’s not an idiot, either. He knows that you know. But you don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, and he doesn’t volunteer any information that could potentially put you in danger.
“And?” You ask, leaning back on the palms of your hands. You turn your head to look at him and find that he seems particularly interested in the beer bottle in his hand. “Did you get everything taken care of?”
A curt nod. “Everything should be good to go.”
And that’s that. You don’t pry any further.
“I would’ve watched Lena tonight if I had known,” you say lightly.
That gets him to look at you. “It’s your first night off in five days,” he says lowly, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips. “Didn’t wanna ask that of you.”
“I wouldn't mind,” you murmur, looking away to play off the heat rising on the back of your neck at the realization that he knew it was your first night off this week. “I like spending time with Lena.”
Pope hums, the corners of his lips quirking. “Yeah. She likes spending time with you, too.”
“And I’d much rather be hanging out with her than be…here right now,” you grumble as Deran and Craig emerge from the house with another keg.
“What?” Pope chirps. “You don’t think holding your boyfriend’s hair back as he pukes into Smurf’s three hundred dollar orchid is fun?”
You snort a laugh, but you can’t help the way your fingers clench around the neck of your beer bottle at the word boyfriend. “You saw that, huh?”
“At least a dozen people saw that.”
“Good,” you huff. “That’s what he gets for thinking he can drink all of that on an empty stomach.”
At that exact moment, one of Deran and Craig’s surfer buddies yells “CANNONBALL!” from the roof of the house a second before you and Pope both get drenched in pool water. You’re in a bathing suit, so no big deal - annoying, but not a big deal. Pope, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds away from jumping in the pool and drowning the guy for soaking his jeans and button-up.
“Jesus,” you grunt. “I’m over this. Wanna get out of here?”
Pope’s expression morphs from annoyance to surprise. He glances around like he isn’t one hundred percent sure you’re talking to him. Then, you stand and offer him a hand up. He hesitates a second longer, staring in Deran’s direction before accepting your hand and getting up.
“Where’re we going?” He asks, a step behind you.
“It’s a surprise.”
It’s not a surprise. You just didn’t think that far ahead before making the proposition - you just know that you want to be somewhere else. Somewhere that you aren’t surrounded by drunk, obnoxious assholes. Somewhere that you don’t look up and see a girl practically humping some douchebag’s leg. Somewhere that you can actually relax on your first Friday off in two months.
And, for reasons that you won’t let yourself dwell on right now, somewhere that you and Pope can be alone.
Somewhere you don’t have to worry that people are looking at you and wondering why is she spending so much time with her boyfriend’s brother while her boyfriend gets plastered twenty feet away?
The answer to that is quite simple, actually. Deran isn’t really your boyfriend. But no one knows that except for you and him. Not even Pope.
As far as he and everyone else knows, you and Deran have been in a committed relationship for well over half a year now.
“Don’t you want to let Deran know that you’re leaving?” He murmurs low enough that only you hear as the two of you make your way through a throng of people near the back door to the house. Deran stands several yards away with his back to you, talking animatedly with Craig and a few of their friends. “I’m sure he’ll worry if you dip without saying anything.”
You have to refrain from laughing at that. You stop to grab your tank top and shorts off the table by the back entrance, quickly cramming your feet into your sandals. “He looks a little occupied at the moment. I’ll send him a text and let him know I decided to head out early.”
You have no real intention of doing so, but Pope doesn’t need to worry about that.
He follows you to your car, gets in the passenger seat, and doesn’t question you any further until you park your car at the first somewhat calm, quiet place that comes to mind.
A quaint cliffside pull-off overlooking the ocean on the outskirts of town. It’s no more than a ten minute drive from the Cody house, but it’s so serene that it feels hundreds of miles away. You roll down both the driver and passenger side windows before turning your car off, and for a moment the only thing you can hear is the crashing of waves against the rocks below.
“Do you come up here often?” Pope murmurs, voice filling the silence.
You shake your head, not taking your eyes off of the moonlight that dances across the water. “I used to. A long time ago. Before Deran.”
From your peripheral vision, you can tell that he’s turned his head to look at you. “How did you two meet, anyway?” He asks after an extended silence.
You huff a humorless laugh. “It’s not exactly a cute story.”
He unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face you more fully. “Well, now I’m really curious.”
You finally look at him. He’s staring at you with that same look that you’ve been trying and failing to get a read on since the first time you met him six months ago. He looks at you now exactly how he looked at you then, that day by Smurf’s pool.
You exhale, looking back to the black horizon so you might stand a chance of regaining the ability to think clearly. “We met about three years ago. I was still dating my ex boyfriend at the time. I was working the bar one evening when my ex stumbled in drunk and decided to pick a fight with some poor guy he thought was hitting on me. I tried to intervene, and my ex shoved me so hard I fell backwards and hit my head on the counter…” You trail off, shaking your head at the memory. Pope waits silently for you to continue.
“And Deran,” you continue with a soft laugh, “was sitting just two stools down. He didn’t even hesitate. Just grabbed my ex and started beating the ever-loving fuck out of him right in the middle of the bar until he was unconscious. That wasn’t the first time my ex put hands on me but it was the last.”
You look back to Pope to find he’s still staring at you, his jaw clenched and hazel eyes sharp even in the dimly lit car. For once, you’re able to tell exactly what he’s thinking and it sends a shiver up your spine. Without even saying a word, you know that if Deran hadn’t already pulverized your ex, you’d have to stop Pope from going and doing the same.
“Anyway,” you shrug, trying to break the tension brewing in your passenger seat. “That’s how we met. Deran stayed even after the cops showed up to make sure I was okay, walked me to my car when I was leaving…and just kinda stuck around after that, I guess. Been best friends ever since.”
The last words slip out before you can stop them. Best friends. It isn’t a lie. You are best friends - have been ever since that night. But sitting here now, alone with his brother, it’s too easy for you to forget that you’re supposed to be more than just best friends.
If Pope thinks anything of your choice of words, he doesn’t point it out. “Sounds like it was a good thing he was there that night,” he says lowly, his voice clipped. “I’m glad you got away from that.”
You give a small nod. “Yeah. Me too.”
“And Deran…” He starts, trailing off until you glance at him. “He’s good to you?”
You blink, taken off guard by the question. “Deran?” You snort. “Yeah, he’s…I mean, he’s Deran.” You shrug. “He doesn’t show up shit-faced at my job and pick fights with random men, if that’s what you’re asking.”
You laugh, but Pope doesn’t. “No,” he says slowly. “I’m asking if he makes you happy.”
You swallow. The space inside your car suddenly seems infinitely smaller. Even with the windows rolled down, it feels suffocating.
It’s a simple question. It should have a simple answer.
“Yeah,” you breathe. You force a tightlipped smile that feels completely unnatural. “Of course. Like I said, he’s my best friend.”
Those fucking words again. It’s as if you physically can’t stop yourself from saying them. Best friend, best friend, best friend. Not partner, not boyfriend, not lover. Just best friend.
The most fucked up part is that if it were anyone else sitting here beside you, you know you could force yourself to spew some fabricated bullshit about how in love you are. About how Deran makes you the happiest girl in the world and you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together.
But not Pope. Pope, who you most wish you could blurt out the truth to. Pope, who looks at you so intensely that you have to wonder if he can read your mind and already knows.
“Best friend,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound like a question. “That’s sweet.”
The silence that follows is brief but heavy. Then, your phone chimes with a text message, and you’ve never felt more grateful for an interruption in your life.
“It’s Deran,” you mumble, typing back a quick reply. “Just making sure I’m alright.” You press send, then place your phone back in an empty cup holder. “I should probably get home,” you sigh before Pope has the chance to press the subject of you and Deran any further. “I’ve gotta open the bar in the morning.”
He nods, but there’s something about the look on his face that makes you hesitate. You squint at him. “What?”
Pope shakes his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nothing.”
It doesn’t hit you until later - when you’re lying in bed and failing miserably to keep your thoughts from wandering to Pope Cody - that Deran wouldn’t have texted to ask if you were alright if you had messaged him to let him know that you were leaving the party like you had told Pope you were going to.
That peculiar look on Pope’s face that you hadn’t understood at the time suddenly makes sense to you. He had realized, in that moment, that you never bothered to text Deran and tell him you were leaving.
And what kind of girlfriend doesn’t even take two seconds to let her boyfriend know she’s leaving a party they’re both at?
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Pope barely slept a wink last night.
He spent half the night going over the details for today’s heist, and the other half replaying and overanalyzing everything you had said during the short time spent together in your car.
One question. Pope had asked you one fucking question. How did you two meet, anyway?
And you had answered him - somehow leaving him with even more questions than before you whisked him away from the party and took him to some remote cliffside pull-off on the outskirts of town.
Questions he can’t ask quite so casually.
Why didn’t you say goodbye to Deran when we were leaving the party? Why do you seem so reluctant to call him your boyfriend? Why didn’t you text him like you said you were going to?
Add those to the list of questions he already had - the biggest of which being why doesn’t he ever kiss you like I fucking want to kiss you?
He may not have the answers to those questions, but he knows one thing: he’s not crazy.
Well, he supposes that’s debatable. A lot of people would argue otherwise. But he’s not imagining things. Not this time. It’s not just wishful thinking on his part. There’s more than meets the eye to your and Deran’s relationship.
Maybe you don’t feel for Pope what he feels for you. But he doesn’t think you feel it for Deran, either.
But he can’t dwell on that anymore right now. Not when Lena’s babysitter is texting him one hour before he’s supposed to leave for a huge job to tell him that she had something unexpected come up and can’t watch Lena tonight.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s got less than an hour to figure out somewhere safe for Lena to stay tonight.
The last thing he wants is to leave her with Smurf and give her the satisfaction of being needed for anything, and he wouldn’t trust Nicky or Renn either one to watch a fucking dog - so he packs Lena an overnight bag and heads to find one of the only people on the planet that he truly trusts with her.
He breathes a small sigh of relief when he pulls into the parking lot of the bar and sees your car.
“What are we doing here?” Lena asks from the backseat.
“I have to go to work,” he explains gently. “Allison is busy tonight so we’re here to see if you can hang out with uncle Deran’s girlfriend for a while.” He turns around to look at Lena - she’s staring at him with those wide doe eyes that Pope has gotten used to seeing filled with disappointment. “Is that okay with you?”
Lena nods, her face perking up a bit.
Pope had figured she wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t been lying when he told you that Lena enjoys spending time with you. Really, he’d far rather Lena spend time with you than her regular babysitter, but he knows that for whatever reason, you enjoy your job.
(He would be more than willing to pay you significantly more than what you make as a bartender, but that’s besides the point).
Lena practically runs towards you the second that she sees you wiping down a corner booth in the nearly empty bar. Pope trails a few feet behind, carrying her overnight bag on his shoulder. He watches as you glance up when Lena calls your name. You instantly open your arms to her, letting her jump into your embrace. The smile on your face when you realize it’s her lights up the whole damn dingy room, Pope thinks.
You and Pope lock eyes with Lena still in your arms. Your gaze lands on the bright pink bag hanging off of his shoulder, and he looks at you apologetically. Without him even saying a word, he can tell that you already know exactly why he and Lena are here.
“Hey, are you hungry?” You ask Lena, placing her back down on the floor. “You want some cheesy fries?” She nods, a somewhat shy but excited smile growing on her face. “I’ll get you cheesy fries and a lemonade. Just go sit in that little booth while I talk to your uncle Pope for a minute, okay?”
Pope waits until Lena is out of earshot before speaking lowly. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but you’re already shaking your head. “Her sitter canceled at the very last second. I’ve gotta meet Deran and Craig in less than an hour. I just don’t wanna leave her with Smurf—”
“Andrew,” you interrupt him, effectively ending his rambling by simply saying his first name. “It’s okay. Really. I’m only working opening shift today, so I get off soon. It isn’t a big deal.”
Pope glances to where Lena sits in the corner booth, watching something on her iPad, and then back to you. “You’re sure?”
“Of course,” you say, soft but sure. You hold out a hand to take Lena’s bag. “Do what you need to do. Me and Lena will find something fun to do this evening.”
He hesitates a second longer, then hands you the bag. “There’s some money in the side pocket for you two to get dinner.” Then, lowly so the few people sitting at the bar can’t hear, “I should be back no later than eleven o’clock, max. Her bedtime is usually eight but it’s Saturday, so she can stay up a little bit later, if she wants. It’s up to you.”
You smirk. “I’ll try not to keep her up too late.”
He can’t help but think that you look so fucking pretty right now. Even in a simple black t-shirt with the bar’s logo and a server’s apron on. He wonders if Deran has told you how pretty you look today.
Or if Deran has even seen you today. Knowing him, he likely crashed at Smurf’s after the party or stayed out until the sun came up and was too hungover to wake up when you left for work.
“She’ll be fine,” you assure him delicately, seemingly taking his silence for hesitation. “Take your time and just…be safe, okay?” You look like you want to say more, but you bite your bottom lip, crossing your arms over your chest.
Pope gives a brief nod. “I will.”
He starts to walk past you to say goodbye to Lena when you grab him by the forearm. His gaze drops to where your hand grips him and then back up to your worried eyes.
“Promise me,” you whisper. “You won’t take any unnecessary risks. You won’t do anything to get yourself locked back up. Or worse.”
There’s a small, petty part of him that wants to ask if you made Deran make you a similar promise. But he knows how mean that would sound, and he knows he would regret it as soon as the words left his lips.
He settles for a simple I promise instead.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Spending time with Lena doesn’t feel like spending time with a child. It’s more like spending time with an adult trapped in a child’s body.
She’s more reserved and guarded than any seven year old should ever have to be. Hesitant to get close to anyone for fear that they’ll be the next person that she loses.
It never takes you too long to bring her out of her shell, though. All you had to do was ask if she wanted to go get her nails done, and glimpses of the bright little girl beneath the trauma began to peek through.
Any color she wants, you had told her. Multiple colors. A different color for each finger and toenail. She had said that would look silly - ultimately choosing a bright yellow for her toes and a baby pink for her fingernails.
When you asked if she wanted to come back for another manicure in a few weeks, she looked like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be excited. She hesitated, asking “really?” in a tiny voice that broke your heart.
You had assured her you were confident that her uncle Pope wouldn’t mind.
Afterwards, it started to rain, so your original plan to take her to the beach got scrapped. You had been driving down the road, trying to brainstorm something else to do to pass the time for a couple hours, when you drove past an arcade that you hadn’t been to in years.
Lena hadn’t, either.
Air hockey, skee ball, Whac-A-Mole, pinball, and every claw machine in the building. With all of her tickets (and yours), she picked out a small stuffed bunny that she is now cuddling in your bed - fast asleep, with a belly full of the pizza that you picked up on your way home.
You tucked her into your bed hours ago and she fell asleep within minutes. You wish you could say the same for yourself.
Right now, it’s a quarter til midnight and you’re trying your hardest not to spiral - and the fact that Pope had said he would be back no later than eleven o'clock and you’ve yet to hear a word from him, Deran, or anyone else is only the second half of the reason why.
The first half is an innocent observation made by a seven year old.
“Why are you uncle Deran’s girlfriend and not uncle Pope’s girlfriend?”
You nearly spit out your drink at the question. It’s so random that at first, you think you must have heard her wrong. The two of you are sitting on your living room couch, eating dinner and watching some cute animated movie on Netflix that Lena chose.
“What - why do you ask that?” You laugh.
She isn’t even looking at you, her attention on the screen in front of her. She gives a small shrug and glances at you. “I don’t know,” she says in a small voice. “Sometimes I just wish you were uncle Pope’s girlfriend instead. Is that bad?”
What the hell are you supposed to say to that? Yeah kid, I wish that, too. All the time, actually. But your uncle Deran is actually gay and if I break up with him to get with his fucking brother then people are going to assume that Pope stole his girl and that I cheated on him. But I can’t say that I didn’t actually cheat on him, because then we’d have to admit to the fact that our relationship has been fake this entire time, and Deran would have to come out before he’s ready, and and and—-
Lena is staring at you.
“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think that’s bad. Sometimes we can’t help what we want. But…you don’t have to wish for your uncle Pope and I to be boyfriend and girlfriend. If you want the three of us to spend more time together, or if you want you and I to spend more time together, we can try to make that happen.”
“It’s not that,” she says meekly, looking down at her hands in her lap.
You tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Then what is it, kiddo?”
She hesitates for a moment. You’re going to drop the subject, because ultimately, it doesn’t really matter - what she wants or what you want - but then she opens her mouth.
“Uncle Deran doesn’t look at you the way uncle Pope does.” She looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes. It’s at this moment that you have to remind yourself that she has no true blood relation to Pope - because just like him, you think she can see right through you. “And you don’t look at uncle Deran the way you look at uncle Pope.”
“Wow,” you laugh, a little too quickly. “Remind me to never play poker with you.” She scrunches her brows together in confusion. Then, you scoot a bit closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Grown-ups are complicated sometimes. But I promise you don’t need to worry about me, or Uncle Pope, or uncle Deran. That’s between us. All that matters is that we all love you. Okay?”
She nods, accepting that answer far more easily than you expect. She doesn’t press, doesn’t question, just leans into your embrace and goes back to watching her movie.
But her words continue to echo in your mind hours after she has fallen asleep and the small house has gone quiet.
Are you really so transparent that a fucking seven year old can read you like that? And if she’s right about the way you look at Pope…could she be right about the way he looks at you, too?
You’ve never let yourself think about it long enough for it to matter. Pope has never been a possibility.
Even if you wish he was.
And then there’s the more obvious and pressing matter at hand - it’s nearly midnight and you have no idea if the boys are okay.
None of them are answering their phones. After Pope and Deran, you even try to call Craig. All go straight to voicemail. You even send Nicky a short, inconspicuous text - simply asking if she’s heard from J. She has not.
You force yourself to put your phone down after that. If their phones are turned off, there’s nothing else you can do for the time being except wait.
You don’t even realize you’ve dozed off until the sound of a car door slamming shut jolts you awake.
You practically sprint to the door, unlocking and opening it before they have a chance to wake Lena up. Your knees almost give out in relief when you see both Deran and Pope standing upright, walking up the front porch steps.
Then you see a cut across Deran’s cheekbone.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping outside. You reach out on instinct, your fingers hovering over the dried blood smeared across his skin. It’s not deep, but it’s ugly. “Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, brushing it off but letting you inspect the wound. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”
You can’t help but glance past him to where Pope still stands at the top of the porch steps a few feet away. Your eyes are instantly drawn to a large stain on the side of his shirt, just under his ribcage. Dark red and wet looking. Undeniably blood.
“Holy shit,” you whisper, already stepping past Deran without thinking. “Jesus, what happened to you?”
Before you can think twice, your hands are on him, tugging his shirt up. Your stomach drops when you see the bloody gash across his ribs.
“You got shot,” you hiss.
“I got grazed,” he corrects gently, watching you with an unreadable expression. “I promised you I wouldn’t do anything to get locked up or worse, right? I didn’t break that promise. This is just a flesh wound.”
Behind you, Deran clears his throat. “Don’t worry about me, babe. I’m totally fine. In case you were concerned.”
“I know you’re fine, Deran. You’re not the one bleeding onto our porch.”
Deran is silent for a moment as you crouch down to get a better look at the still-oozing wound on Pope’s side. Then, he sighs, muttering something about going to take a shower.
“Don’t wake Lena up,” you call over your shoulder in a whisper-shout as he disappears into the house without another word.
And then it’s just you and Pope. Pope, with his abdomen still halfway exposed and blood dripping down his side.
“Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s get you patched up.”
He follows you into the house without any protest.
“Shirt off,” you command without looking at him as you gather whatever you can find from around the kitchen and small hallway bathroom.
You’re a bartender - not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not even a CNA. But you have been best friends with Deran Cody for a couple years now, so this isn’t your first time having to patch up a gaping, bloody wound.
It is, however, your first time patching up Pope.
Urgent care or the ER is out of the question, so you have to make do with what you have. A clean washcloth, hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, gauze pads and tape.
Pope takes a silent seat on the couch and lets you examine the wound up close when you sit down beside him. You hear Deran turn on the shower from the master bathroom down the hallway as you begin wiping the mostly dried blood off of his skin with a damp washcloth.
“So,” you start, your face warming under his stare, “other than the obvious, did everything go okay? Are Craig and J alright?”
“Yeah,” Pope grunts. “They’re fine. Me and Deran got the worst of it.”
“Clearly,” you grumble. “Should’ve made you promise specifically to not get shot.” You glance up at him. “I’ll remember that next time.”
He looks down to where you carefully clean the skin of his abdomen. “How was Lena?” He murmurs. “Did she behave for you?”
“Of course,” you snort. “She always does. We had fun. Got our nails done, went to the arcade, got pizza for dinner, watched a movie about a fox and a bunny who are cops…”
“Wow. Sounds like your evening was far more relaxing than mine.” He pauses. “Did you use the money I put in Lena’s bag?”
You roll your eyes but don’t look away from the task at hand. “Yeah. Five hundred dollars was more than enough for dinner, you know.”
He lets out a low, rough laugh at that. You feel it more than you hear it. It rumbles through his chest beneath your hands, the muscles there jumping with the motion of it. Your eyes drift without meaning to, suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting to him and the steady rise and fall of his bare, bulky chest only inches away. You force your attention away from the thick muscles, grabbing the hydrogen peroxide.
“This will probably sting,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods, just visible enough to confirm he heard you before you carefully squirt the clear liquid over the gash.
“So, where’s she sleeping?” He asks, barely even wincing.
Your brows scrunch together. “In my bedroom?”
A pause. “And where were you sleeping?” You’re too distracted, and too tired, to pick up on the subtle, curious shift in his tone. With one hand, he pats one of your pillows that you had brought from your room along with a large throw blanket to assemble a makeshift bed on the couch. “Here?”
“Yeah?” You snort. “I let Lena sleep in my bedroom and I took the couch…”
“I thought this place had two bedrooms.”
You shake your head, still not entirely sure what he’s getting at. “It does. My room and Der…”
The words die in your throat. You completely freeze as you blot the clean wound dry with a paper towel.
Shit.
Your room…and Deran’s room.
“I mean—” You clear your throat, tossing the paper towel aside and grabbing the tube of Neosporin and a gauze pad to avoid looking him in the eye while your brain is scrambling to think of some excuse as to why a happy couple would be sleeping in separate bedrooms. You say the very first thing that comes to mind. “Deran snores. Like, really loud. And I’m a light sleeper, so…sometimes I crash in the guest room. It was my bedroom before we started dating.”
It’s a shit excuse. It doesn’t at all address why you didn’t just sleep in your and Deran’s shared bedroom tonight, but it’s the best you can come up with on the spot - with him staring at you like he can read your mind.
Pope doesn’t respond right away. You can practically feel his eyes on you, daring you to look up.
“I didn’t know that Deran snores,” he muses lowly.
Does Deran actually snore? Maybe? Sometimes?
You tear off a piece of cheap medical tape you found in the first aid kit. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one who shares a bed with him.”
The room feels impossibly small and suffocating. You hold the gauze pad up to the wound, your hands trembling more than you’d like as you try to make quick work of securing the bandage to his side.
You start to pull away, to tell him that should be good enough for now, to leave the room and attempt to regain your composure after all but blatantly admitting that your relationship is a sham, when Pope grabs your wrist.
At first, he says nothing. Just stares at you, as intense and unyielding as ever. His hand dwarfs your own, his skin like wildfire against yours.
You know you should pull away - should try your hardest to convince him that yes, of course your brother and I sleep in the same bed. Why wouldn’t we? We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. That’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do when they live together—
But all the words catch and pile up in your throat, making you feel like you’re going into anaphylactic shock.
“No, I don’t share a bed with him,” Pope drawls. “But you don’t share a bed with him, either. Do you?”
Your mouth goes dry. There’s no point in even trying to deny it. The truth may as well be written across your forehead.
Pope releases your wrist. You almost think he’s going to let it go - that he isn’t going to press this subject right here, right now, where Deran could so easily overhear. Instead, his hand settles on the exposed skin of your thigh, just above your knee. His calloused thumb applies just enough pressure to the flesh of your inner thigh to make your stomach knot.
“Not only do I think you don’t share a bed,” he murmurs, voice rough, “but I also think you don’t like calling him your boyfriend very much either, for some reason.”
Your heart is beating so hard you’re sure he can feel it through your skin. His hand slides the slightest bit higher.
“And I don’t think he kisses you,” he continues, leaning closer. “At least not the way I think about kissing you.”
Air leaves your lungs in a shaky breath. Your eyes drop to his lips before you can stop yourself.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.
Your hand moves before your brain can catch up, coming up to cup his jaw. The rough scrape of stubble against your palm sends a shiver down your spine as your lips hover no more than an inch away from his.
He’s shirtless and wounded. Lena’s sleeping in the next room and Deran is showering just down the hall. You’re supposed to be in a relationship with his brother, but right now you can’t remember why you ever thought that was a good idea.
Right now, you don’t really give a shit about any of that because Pope is right. He’s right about it all. You and Deran don’t share a bed. You do struggle calling him your boyfriend. He doesn’t kiss you, and you don’t kiss him.
Never have. Not in the way that every fiber of your being screams to kiss Pope right now.
“No.”
You aren’t quite sure whether he kisses you or you kiss him. You just know within seconds of your lips touching his, the restraint that you’ve been fighting to maintain for months crumbles. His mouth moves against yours with the kind of urgency that both shows and tells just how much he’s been holding himself back all this time, too.
He exhales against your lips, one hand coming up instinctively to grip your waist while the other tightens on your thigh. The pull of it drags you closer to him on the couch and before you know it, you’re straddling his lap, your hands braced on his broad, freckled shoulders for balance. He fists the hem of your t-shirt, bunching the fabric at your waist just enough for his knuckles to graze the exposed skin of your sides.
The unmistakable flavor of menthol on his tongue from a cigarette he undoubtedly smoked on the drive home with Deran tells you that he couldn’t have predicted this happening right now anymore than you could have.
Your fingers glide over the planes of his shoulders and up the sides of his neck until they weave through his short brunet curls that you’ve longed to run your hands through for longer than you care to admit. You give a gentle tug to the hair at the base of his skull and the sound that vibrates from deep within his chest shoots straight to your core.
It’s nothing short of a miracle that your brain is somehow able to register that Deran has turned the shower off.
As much as it equally physically and emotionally pains you to do so, you scramble off of Pope’s lap, adjusting your t-shirt back into a proper position and wiping any evidence of his kiss from your mouth with the back of your hand. As you scoot to the opposite end of the couch from him, you can’t help but take in the current state of him - lips kiss swollen, chest and neck flushed pink, and clad only in the pair of jeans that he attempts to adjust to conceal the bulge you were able to feel through your sleep pants.
If it weren’t for the fact that you can hear Deran exiting the bathroom at this precise moment, you don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from taking him right here on this couch.
And that’s a very dangerous thought.
Deran enters the living room wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, sandy blond hair still dripping and his own skin flushed pink for reasons entirely different from Pope. Luckily, he barely spares a glance in your direction, walking past you and Pope to get to the kitchen.
“Bleed out on my couch yet? Or are you gonna make it?” Deran calls from where he rummages through an open fridge. You look to Pope, mentally urging him to play off what had just transpired not even ten seconds before Deran walked in the room.
He doesn’t. He stares at the back of Deran’s head, his jaw clenched so tight that you’re surprised he doesn’t break a tooth.
You answer before the silence can turn (more) weird.
“He’s patched up well enough for now,” you say, voice unnaturally high. Then, as casually as you can manage, “there’s leftover pizza from dinner in there, if you’re hungry.”
“Sick,” Deran grunts. “What about you, man? You hungry?”
You raise your brows at him, shooting him a look that clearly says fucking answer him, act normal, I swear to God if you don’t eat that leftover pizza—
He doesn’t take his eyes off of you when he answers with a singular, emotionless word. “Starving.”
Deran has no reaction, but something about the way he says it while looking at you makes it feel like the back of your neck is on fire.
You clear your throat. “Well, I have to open in the morning, so I should probably get some sleep…” You turn to Pope, trying not to completely melt under his stare. “Um - Lena can just sleep here tonight, if you don’t wanna wake her up this late. You can come back and get her in the morning, or you sleep here on the couch if you want—”
It won’t kill you to actually share a bed with Deran for one night. He is your best friend, after all.
“No, that’s okay.” He shakes his head and reaches for the blood soaked shirt on the coffee table. “It’s probably best if I come back in the morning.” He doesn’t elaborate as he starts to put the stained button-up back on.
“At least let me give you one of Deran’s t-shirts to wear for the time being. That thing is covered in blood.” You don’t wait for a response before you’re rising from the couch and walking down the hallway to Deran’s bedroom.
The second the door shuts behind you, you lean against it - fingertips touching your bottom lip that still tingles from where his mouth had moved so desperately with yours. You take a few deep, steadying breaths before you’re able to force yourself to look for a clean t-shirt in the absolute shit show that is Deran’s bedroom.
Part of you feels relieved that Pope is insisting on coming back to get Lena in the morning so that you won’t have to actually sleep in this mess. As much as you love Deran, you can’t say with confidence that he’s changed his bedsheets anytime in the last six months.
Another part of you is glad that Pope won’t be occupying your couch tonight because you know you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting a decent night’s sleep if he were a mere short walk down the hallway.
At least when Pope leaves you can take the couch and try to process the fact that you straddled his lap, stuck your tongue in his mouth and felt the very obvious evidence of his arousal with only walls separating the two of you from Deran and Lena.
You rummage through Deran’s closet until you find the first t-shirt that passes a sniff test while trying not to spiral until you’re fully alone.
“Here’s a t-shirt. If you want to leave your shirt I can try to get the blood out of it—”
You look around the small living room and kitchen to find that Pope is nowhere to be found. Deran leans against the counter, taking a bite of a slice of leftover pizza.
“Where’s Pope?”
Deran shrugs. “I heated a piece of pizza up for him but he muttered something about going home and dipped.”
“He’s the one wearing a bloody shirt, not me,” you sigh, tossing the t-shirt onto the couch and trying to play off the disappointment you feel at his sudden departure.
“Do you think he was acting kinda strange?”
Your stomach flip flops at the question. You can’t bring yourself to look Deran in the eye, so you take your place on the couch once more, your back turned to him. “I mean, he did technically get shot. I guess anyone would be a little on edge after that.”
The excuse feels sour on your tongue, but it’s all you’ve got.
“I guess,” he agrees with a mouthful of pizza. An awkward pause. “Seemed fine enough on the drive here, though.”
You shrug, grateful that Deran can’t see your face at the moment. “Probably just a combination of blood loss and an adrenaline crash after the job. How did that go, by the way?”
Much to your relief, Deran doesn’t press the subject of Pope any further before telling you he’s going to bed after he’s finished eating.
Unfortunately, that does very little to quiet the chaos in your mind.
When you finally turn off the lights and curl up under your blanket on the couch, you know that sleep won’t come easily. Not with the ghost of Pope’s hands still burning against the skin of your waist, not with the taste of a menthol cigarette still lingering on your tongue, and definitely not with the impossible to ignore realization that you have no earthly idea what the fuck you’re supposed to do now.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Pope has no issue being celibate. He got used to it during his three years in prison.
Then, almost immediately upon being released, his brothers all but forced him to go to a strip club for his birthday, where he ended up having the most unsatisfactory hook-up of his life. He’s sure the woman - whose name he doesn’t even remember - would say the same of the experience.
All it took was that one brief and underwhelming sexual encounter for him to decide that he would rather remain celibate than have sex that feels so…meaningless and unfulfilling.
Coincidentally or not, he had just met you when he came to that decision.
You, his baby brother’s girlfriend, who patched up his wound as if he’s made of glass one moment and then climbed onto his lap and kissed him breathless the next. You, whose lips taste so honey sweet that you got him hard with just one kiss. You, who whimpered as you broke away from him just seconds before Deran entered the room, leaving him desperate to do whatever necessary to keep drawing sounds like that from you.
It all replayed on a loop the entire drive back to his place.
The way you tasted, the feeling of your skin, and how it took every bit of his self restraint to resist laying you down just so he could feel you squirm beneath him.
He wishes he could say this is the first time that he’s thought of you as he gets himself off in the shower, but that would be a lie. It’s far from it, but it is the first time doing so knowing how it feels to have your hands in his hair and the weight of you grinding down right where he most wants you.
Tonight, it takes him no time at all - all he has to do is think of the sweet smell of your perfume and how good it felt to have your fingers in his hair while your lips moved in synchronicity with his own, and he’s finishing with a groan of your name as warm, white liquid follows the water down the drain.
When he lays down in his bed, he finds it difficult to feel guilty about any of it.
He knows that he should. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother. But he felt every ounce of how you had kissed him. There’s no doubt in his mind that you want him as bad as he wants you. That’s not something a person can fake.
Not you, anyway. Pope knows you. You aren’t a good liar.
If he believed that he was intruding on a happy, healthy relationship, he may feel a shred of remorse. But there’s no part of him that believes that to be the case.
You may care about Deran, but no part of Pope believes that you’ve ever kissed Deran the way you kissed him. You may spend most of your time with him, but Pope knows who’s really on your mind the whole time. And you may have love for his brother, but Pope is more sure than ever you aren’t in love with him.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
That morning, you wake far earlier than you need to.
Lena likes to sleep in on days she doesn’t have school, and you don’t have to be at the bar until eleven, but you still find yourself awake at the crack of dawn.
Busying yourself does little to keep your brain from wandering to Pope. You bake blueberry muffins for when Lena wakes up, start a load of laundry, and clean the kitchen and living room all while thinking about what the hell you’re going to say and do whenever he comes to get Lena.
Should you tell him that last night was a mistake and that it can’t happen again? Probably. That would make everything a lot fucking simpler. Nip it in the bud, before either of you get too invested, someone finds out, and people get hurt.
But you’re already invested. Your heart has been invested in Pope Cody since the day you met him by Smurf’s pool. Kissing him last night was just the dam finally breaking.
So what do you tell him, then? The truth? And completely betray Deran’s trust?
Other than Adrian, and a couple nameless men before him, you’re the only person he’s ever told the truth to. You are the only person he’s ever told who he hasn’t also slept with.
You’re the only person he’s ever told simply out of trust, and you won’t blatantly betray that.
You’re drinking coffee on the front porch when Pope parks in front of your house. Equal parts excitement and anticipation bloom in your gut the second that he gets out of his truck and begins walking in your direction.
He pauses when he reaches the top step. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to do anything other than look at you.
“Good morning,” you hum, coffee mug pressed against your lips. “How’s your side?”
“Sore. Fine,” he murmurs, hesitantly taking the seat on the opposite side of the small patio table. “I changed the bandage this morning. Lena sleep okay?”
“She’s still snoring,” you say fondly.
“She does that,” he sighs, looking around like he’s expecting to see someone else. “Where’s your boyfriend at?”
You roll your eyes. “Your brother,” you correct, placing your mug on the table but not taking your hands off the sides just so you have something to occupy them, “is out surfing. About that, though…” You trail off, going silent. Pope waits, patient but as expressionless as ever.
Not even ten minutes ago, you swore to yourself that you’d only kiss him again if you also give him some kind of explanation that assures him you’re not actually committing infidelity by doing so.
And fuck, you really want to kiss him again, so it’s now or never.
You nod your head in the direction of the front door. “Let’s go inside.”
He quirks a brow, but doesn’t question or object as he stands to follow you into the house. When he enters, you close the door quietly so as to not wake Lena - she’s a deep sleeper, but you really need her to stay asleep for a little bit longer. Just long enough for you to get this off your chest before you chicken out.
You hesitate in the kitchen. You consider sitting down on the couch, but one vivid flashback of what happened last time the two of you sat on that couch together makes you think twice about that, and you settle for leaning against the counter with your arms crossed over your chest instead.
You’re both silent for a moment, but Pope is the first to break.
“Look, I don’t regret last night,” he says, low. He takes a tentative step towards you. “Not at all. But if you do, it’s okay. We can pretend it never happened, if that’s what you—”
“You were right.”
He freezes. Then, takes another small step, leaving only a few inches of space between you. “About which part?”
You lift your shoulders in a half shrug. “All of it. Me and Deran. We don’t share a bed. We don’t kiss. Never have. Not like you and I did. Not even close.”
He doesn’t look surprised. You didn’t expect him to. He had already said it all himself. You’re only confirming what he already believes to be true.
“I’m not in love with Dean. And he isn’t in love with me, either.”
No, he doesn’t look surprised, but you can’t help but think he does look a little bit relieved - even just to hear you say it out loud. But that tiny smidge of relief written in his features is quickly replaced with confusion.
“Then why the hell are you guys together? What am I missing?”
You look down at the floor, your stare locking onto a blueberry you had dropped while making muffins. This is the part that you know you can’t answer honestly. At least not in a way that will make sense to him. He’s going to have questions…ones that you can’t answer in complete honesty without outing Deran.
“Hey,” Pope says, voice uncharacteristically soft. He closes the remaining bit of distance between you and places a tentative hand on your waist, causing you to look up at him. He braces his other hand against the ledge of the counter that you lean against, caging you between it and his body. His hazel eyes bore into yours, searching for whatever it is that you aren’t saying. “You can talk to me. I’m just…trying to understand.”
“I know,” you whisper. You uncross your arms, placing your palms against his chest. Your gaze drops to the chipped polish on one of your fingernails.
“I do love Deran. A lot. And he loves me, too. But we aren’t in love.” You take a breath. “Our relationship is fake.”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Fake.” He repeats the word, his voice unreadable.
“Mm-hm.” You nod, even though you can tell it wasn’t really a question. “Fake.”
“Why?”
You can’t help but snort a laugh at the bewilderment in his tone. You sigh, rubbing your thumb absentmindedly against the front of his shirt where your hand rests on his chest.
“I know it sounds crazy,” you admit. “But it made sense at the time.” Pope waits, silently giving you the opportunity to keep going. “It was my idea. As you know, I work at a busy bar. Men hit on me…pretty much constantly. Some don’t take no for an answer the first time. Or the second time.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“So being able to say that I have a boyfriend helps,” you continue with a shrug. “Most guys back off quicker if they believe there’s another man involved. And at the time…I wasn’t interested in being with anyone for real anyway. A lot of people already assumed me and Deran were together. I mean, we hang out all the time, we live together…it didn’t really come as a shock to most people.”
You pause, then add more firmly, “As for Deran…he has his own reasons for agreeing to the arrangement. But that’s for him to share, when and if he ever feels ready.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and then a slow look of realization settles over his face. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Oh.”
He doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t push the boundary. But Pope’s smarter than most people give him credit for. You can see the gears turning behind those hazel eyes and you have no doubt he can read between the lines of what you are saying, and what you aren’t.
His grip on your waist tightens and his gaze intensifies. The air in the kitchen seems to grow heavier. “And what about now?”
Your words come out as a breathy whisper. “What do you mean?”
“You said you weren’t interested in being with anyone. What about now?”
You swallow. “Now…”
Now, you see the pretty hazel eyes that are staring at you in your dreams every night. Now, when the boys go out on jobs, you’re a mess until you know that not only Deran is okay, but Pope, too. Now, you struggle to call Deran your boyfriend when people ask, because you’re secretly wishing it was Pope you were calling your boyfriend instead. Now, you know how Pope tastes and you aren’t really sure how you managed to go so long not knowing how he tastes. Now, you’re staring at his lips and can’t remember how to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence.
So instead of answering him with words, you grab his face in your hands and pull his face to yours.
For a fraction of a second, he freezes. Then, when your tongue sweeps his bottom lip, a sound releases from deep in his chest and he’s kissing you back. He’s kissing you back like Deran won’t be home any given moment and Lena won’t be waking up any minute now.
His hands rub up and down your sides and yours go to his hair, subconsciously remembering how much he seemed to like your fingers tugging on his curls last night. His lips part for you, his tongue quick to dance with yours. He brings one hand to cup your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
Everything that follows happens fast. One second, you’re leaning against the counter kissing, and the next, he’s easing your sleep shorts and panties down your thighs and lifting you onto the edge of the counter before kneeling in front of you.
“Andrew,” you breathe. He takes a calf in each calloused hand, parting your legs just far enough to plant kisses on your inner thighs, the light stubble on his jaw tickling the sensitive skin. “We can’t—Lena’s right down the hallway—”
“It’s gonna be fine,” He murmurs the words against your skin in between trailing kisses up your thighs. He stops when his face is only a few inches from your exposed cunt, looking up at you in a way that makes you fight against the urge to clench your thighs around his head.
“Just stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”
You nod. You nod because you know if you speak, you’ll sound every bit as eager and desperate as you are. Three damn years that you’ve been single, and the last time you even had so much as a disappointing one night stand was months before you and Deran began your fake relationship, so it goes without saying that…touch-starved is a bit of an understatement.
You could have fucked someone at any point if you had wanted to. God knows Deran has. But the truth is, you haven’t wanted to. The last few hook-ups you had prior to you and Deran getting “together” had been so underwhelming that you’ve been repulsed at the thought of sex for the longest time.
Then you met Pope. And now here you are, with his head between your legs in the middle of your kitchen.
He all but moans into you when his lips settle over the bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. You fight the urge to surge forward, bracing yourself on the countertop with one hand as the other shoots to his hair. You have to purse your lips tightly to keep from releasing the noises that threaten to pour from your throat as he tentatively explores you with his mouth.
Strong arms wrap around your thighs, supporting you from below. His fingers dig into the flesh with just enough pressure that you know you’ll later be able to feel tiny, tender bruises in the exact spots where his fingertips press into your skin.
You glance down at him. It’s the kind of sight that would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already perched on the edge of the countertop - the kind of sight that makes you grateful that he’s helping support your weight right now because it turns your legs to jelly.
His eyes are closed and he’s lost in you - alternating between soft strokes of his tongue up your center and sucking your clit between his pretty lips that are wet with you.
Heat rapidly pools low in your belly and your thighs flex around the sides of his head as you inch closer and closer to release. You croon his name, instantly slapping your own hand over your mouth as soon as the word slips out. He chuckles low against you, the vibration of it shooting through you.
The familiar feeling of a hot coil dangerously close to snapping begins to overtake your senses. Your eyes snap shut and your head rolls back, bracing for the climax that is seconds away from washing over you—
Deran’s voice. Craig’s obnoxious fucking laugh. Both coming from directly outside the house.
“Fuck,” you hiss, ignoring the screaming ache between your legs and practically pushing Pope off you. “Fuck, where’s my—”
Pope reacts even quicker than you. He’s grabbing your sleep shorts and panties from where they lay on the floor, shoving your feet into the holes of both at the same time. He stands, face flushed pink and glistening with your slick, and then darts down the hallway without a word, leaving you to pull your clothing into place just moments before Deran and Craig enter the house in their wetsuits.
You turn in the opposite direction of them, unable to look either one in the eye. You grab the hand towel in front of you and pretend to busy yourself with an imaginary spill on the counter.
“Morning,” Deran calls as he makes a beeline for the fridge. “Smells good in here.”
You clear your throat. “Oh, yeah. I made blueberry muffins. They’re on the dining table. Help yourselves.” Your voice comes out too high-pitched and you mentally recoil.
“Where’s Pope?” Craig asks. “I saw his truck out front.”
“Yeah, he’s here,” you say, forcefully casual. You turn to face them, leaning against the counter and hoping your face looks neutral. “He’s in the bathroom. Or…waking Lena up, maybe. Not sure.”
Really smooth, idiot.
Craig nods in response, seemingly oblivious as he grabs a muffin from the tin on the dining room table.
“What are you guys doing back so early?” Then, fearing the questions sounds more accusatory than curious, you add, “I figured you’d be in the water until lunch time.”
A…curious? Suspicious? Look comes over Deran’s face as he takes a step toward you, leaning in to place a hand on your waist and a kiss on your cheek. “We’re gonna go back out. Just wanted to grab a quick bite to eat.” He retreats, joining Craig at the table. “That okay with you?”
Your cheeks warm and you force a laugh. “Yeah, of course.”
For the next few minutes, you attempt to keep yourself busy by unloading clean dishes from the dishwasher. And by attempt to keep yourself busy, you actually mean try to ignore how uncomfortably sticky wet your underwear are.
After what feels like forever but in actuality was likely no more than ten minutes, Pope and Lena appear from the hallway.
“Hey Lena,” Craig greets her with a smile. Then, eyes trailing over Pope he adds, “How you feeling, man? Heard that bullet grazed you pretty damn good last night.”
Pope shrugs, face giving nothing away. “Never been better.”
The three of them converse while eating, but you can’t help but notice the way that Pope barely says a word to Deran. Hardly even looks at him, really. You try to tell yourself that he’s just being…well, Pope, but deep down you know it’s the fact that he had his fucking tongue buried inside you seconds before Deran got home.
And even though Pope knows that Deran isn’t actually your boyfriend, they’re still brothers. He’s still lying to his brother, and that can’t come easily.
It doesn’t come easily to you, either. Even just being here in this room with all of them right now, you feel like if you open your mouth, you’re surely going to blurt out the truth.
“Everything okay with you?” Deran asks, pulling you out of a trancelike state.
You had been staring at Pope’s side profile.
“Me? I’m fine,” you answer a bit too quickly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Not looking forward to this shift today.”
There’s a beat of awkward silence, which Pope is the first to break. “Lena? Isn’t there something you wanted to ask?”
You glance from Pope to Lena. She’s staring at Pope with a shy smile on her face, like she isn’t totally sure if she wants to speak or not.
“Go on,” Pope encourages. “You can ask her.”
She looks at you…and then briefly at Deran before back to you once more. “Do you and uncle Deran want to come to my house for dinner tonight?”
You can’t stop your eyes from going wide at the question. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, but Pope encouraging Lena to ask you and Deran over for dinner wasn’t anywhere on the list of possibilities.
Your foot twitches with the urge to kick Pope from beneath the table.
“Oh—”
“Ah, I’m sorry, Lena,” Deran interrupts you. “I’d love to come over but I have to cover a shift at the bar tonight because we’re short staffed.” Deran looks at you, brows slightly raised. “But you’re more than welcome to go, if you want.”
Lena’s looking at you hopefully. “Uncle Pope’s going to make spaghetti.”
“Oh, is he?” You quip, glancing at Pope, who has been staring at you the whole time with an impassive expression. “Well, I do love spaghetti. Of course I’ll come.”
That earns a toothy grin from Lena, and something like a smirk from Pope.
Dinner. It’s just dinner. Lena will be there. And Deran knows about it, too. Even gave you his blessing to go, so it’s not like you’re being secretive.
Dinner is good. Dinner is fine. So why is your heart racing at the thought of it?
When Pope and Lena say their goodbyes and head out to his truck, you spot the small purple bunny that Lena had won at the arcade last night on the kitchen counter. You could just bring it with you to dinner tonight and give it back to her then, but you’re going to take this as an opportunity to interrogate Pope.
By the time you slip on your flip flops and run outside, Lena is already buckled into the backseat and Pope is opening the driver’s door.
“Wait a sec!” You call. He freezes, looking back over his shoulder. “She forgot this.” You toss him the bunny and he catches it. You wait for him to shut the door before you speak again. “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?” He starts to take a step closer to you, but stops himself after a quick glance in the direction of the house.
“That,” you whisper-hiss. “Inviting me and Deran to dinner after eating me ou—” Now it’s your turn to stop yourself. You shake your head. “You’re lucky he’s busy at the bar tonight.”
Pope smirks, the apples of his cheeks turning pink as he appears to be fighting off laughter. “I already knew that Deran is busy tonight. He was complaining last night about being understaffed and having to work tonight.”
“Oh. That’s…oh. That makes sense.”
He shrugs. “Just figured it would be less weird if Lena invited both of you.”
You cock a brow. “So you put her up to that, then?”
“I needed an excuse to see you tonight,” he says simply, opening the door to his truck again. “Do you…actually like spaghetti?”
You laugh, your face warming at the hopefulness in his voice. “Yeah. Spaghetti’s good.”
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
“What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”
The question Deran asked in response to you proposing a fake relationship nine months ago has echoed in your mind all day long. From the moment that Pope and Lena pulled out of your driveway this morning, throughout your shift at the bar, the entire time you’re getting ready to go over to their place for dinner, and with every bite of spaghetti, the question rings louder and louder.
“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”
At the time, it did sound good. It sounded so simple. But you never could have predicted that the person you would meet, the person you would want to be with for real, would be his damn brother.
What kind of luck is that? To genuinely fall for someone for the first time in years and it happens to be your best friend’s brother?
No harm done. You can only fucking hope - hope that Deran doesn’t feel betrayed, hope that he still wants to be your friend, and hope that he isn’t angry with Pope whenever you tell him.
Because you are going to tell him. Soon. You’re just still trying to figure out exactly what it is you’re going to tell him.
Pope’s mouth is on your throat.
Dinner was over a while ago, followed by several games of Connect 4 at Lena’s request. Then, you insisted on cleaning the kitchen while Pope helped her get ready for bed. Now, the house is quiet. The curtains are drawn, the doors are locked, the lights are low, and his mouth is on your throat.
An Animal Planet documentary playing on the TV illuminates the otherwise dark living room. You’re flat on your back on the couch with Pope above you, one arm braced next to your head and his other hand resting just under the hem of your shirt, fingers splayed across the skin of your stomach. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, keeping him pressed as closed as possible while still wearing clothes.
He alternates between peppering wet kisses and sucking tiny love bites along the column of your throat. You feel the hard press of him between your legs, unable to resist arching upwards in an attempt to relieve the rapidly growing ache in your core. He lets out a low, throaty groan at the movement, grinding down with enough pressure to make you gasp out in longing.
“Andrew,” you whisper, voice strained with arousal. Your hands shoot to the sides of his head, delicately urging him back. He pulls away instantly, just enough for his face to hover inches above yours.
“What is it?” He murmurs, worry on his face. He removes his hand from beneath your shirt, smoothing the fabric back into place. The simple gesture makes your stomach flutter. “What’s wrong?”
You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, really. I love this. Being here with you. Spending time with you and Lena. This…” You trail off, breathless, glancing down at the very limited amount of space between his chest and yours. “I just can’t help but feel bad about keeping it from Deran. I know I’m not actually cheating on him…but he’s still my best friend. And your brother. I want to be honest with him before this…goes any further.”
His expression is soft as he nods. He maneuvers off of you, sitting up and helping you into a sitting position beside him, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as he pulls you into his side. “What are you gonna tell him, exactly?” He places a tentative hand on your thigh. “What is…this?”
A shaky laugh slips out. “I was hoping we could figure that out together,” you say, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your leg. “All I know is I don’t want it to end. I just want to tell him first.”
“There’s nothing for me to figure out. You’re it for me.”
Your eyes shoot back up to his. His thumb brushes over your skin in slow circles. He tilts his head, a faint smirk appearing on his lips. “But I’m not going anywhere. So you do whatever you need to do.”
You start to lean in, to kiss him once more, when the front door rattles sharply from a few feet away. The handle twists back and forth, like whoever is on the other side is fully expecting it to open. Pope goes rigid beside you. There’s a brief pause, then the handle jiggles again, followed by a light knock.
“Hey, it’s just me,” Deran’s voice calls from beyond the door. “You guys in there?”
You’re pulling out of Pope’s embrace in an instant, standing to open the door. “Just act casual,” you murmur low, too quiet for Deran to hear.
You unlock the knob and deadbolt with shaky hands, trying your hardest to erase any signs of unease from your face. You’re going to talk to Deran about all of this, and soon - but not in front of Pope.
Tonight. Once the two of you are back at your place, alone.
“Hey,” you greet him cheerfully when you open the door. “How’d you get off work so early? Thought we were short staffed tonight.” It’s only 8:30 - the bar doesn’t normally close until ten o’clock on Sunday nights.
“We were,” Deran huffs, walking past you to enter the house as you hold the door open for him. “But we were also dead tonight, so I decided to close. Let everyone go home a little early. I was driving home and saw that your car’s still here so I thought I’d stop by.”
Deran pauses next to the recliner, hesitating before sitting down - he glances around the room, seemingly noticing how it’s dark except for the muted under the cabinet lights in the kitchen and the TV playing in the small living room. His gaze lingers on the two half empty beer bottles on the coffee table, one directly in front of Pope and the other in front of where you had been sitting moments prior.
Deran gives an awkward clear of his throat when Pope only stares at him wordlessly. “So, where’s Lena?” He asks, looking around for any sign of the girl.
“Asleep,” Pope answers shortly. “She has school in the morning.”
“Right,” Deran says with a click of his tongue, though there’s something in his voice that makes your stomach twist.
You hover awkwardly by the recliner, not eager to reclaim your original seat next to Pope. “She just laid down a few minutes ago,” you add. “We had been playing Connect 4 and watching a show on Animal Planet.” You gesture vaguely to the television and the red and yellow checkers scattered across the coffee table, evidence of your post-dinner activities. “I was uh - I was just getting ready to leave, actually.”
Deran’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Pope before he responds. “Ah. I see.” He pushes himself off the arms of the recliner with his palms, standing back up. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at home then.”
And whether due it’s the look on his face or the tone of his voice, you have no doubt that he knows something is off.
You nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Deran mumbles an emotionless see ya later to Pope, not waiting for a response before he’s opening the front door and stepping back outside. When the door closes behind him, it echoes in the otherwise quiet room.
“Shit,” you grumble under your breath, looking around for where you had put your shoes. “Well, if he wasn’t already suspicious, he definitely fucking is now. I’ve gotta get home and try to explain—”
You don’t even notice that Pope stands up and walks over to you until he’s taking your face in his hands, tilting your head to look at him.
“He may be upset at first,” he says with a half-shrug and sympathetic look. “Probably will be. I know I don’t know all of the details, but I know you love him. He loves you, too. Everything will be okay.”
You nod meekly, trying to believe his words, but your brain is spiraling with worst-case scenarios. You won’t actually believe that things will be okay until they are okay.
And you know there’s only one way to make that happen.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Deran’s not an idiot, and he sure as hell isn’t blind.
Pope may be a near decade older than him, and he may have spent a good portion of Deran’s twenties in prison, but Deran still knows his brother well.
And he knows you very well.
Well enough to know that in the three years that the two of you have been friends, he’s never seen you look at someone the way that you do Pope.
He doesn’t really understand why you look at Pope the way that you do, but then again, he doesn’t really understand why you’re best friends with him, either. He supposes you see the best in people, even if you could do better.
Whatever the hell is going on between you and his older brother, isn’t a new and shocking revelation to him. He’s noticed Pope staring at you on too many different occasions to count at this point, and he knows you’ve always had a soft spot for Pope.
But he’s noticed a shift over the last few days. Normally, he can ignore Pope’s staring, but it’s more than that now. It’s more than just stolen, longing looks when he thinks you aren’t watching.
Because now, you’re staring back. Maybe not in the exact same creepy, intense way that Pope does, but that’s besides the point.
He accepted that he can no longer play it off as a soft spot when he and Pope got home from their most recent job and you looked like you had seen a ghost when you realized that Pope was bleeding. The second that you noticed the red stain on Pope’s shirt, Deran was suddenly chopped liver.
Maybe he should feel relieved. If you’re going to fall for one of his brothers, at least it isn’t Craig. He loves the guy to death, but he doesn’t exactly have the best track record with women. He’d just cheat on you, or give you some unheard of and incurable STD, or pull a move like he did with Renn and leave you for dead the first chance he gets.
Still. He never expected it to be Pope.
But Deran knows better than most that the heart wants it wants. He can’t fault you for that. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.
He’s told you everything. Everything. Things he’s never told anyone else. You know about the family business - well, more or less. He doesn’t exactly try to hide it. You know the truth of what a monster Smurf is. You were the first person he told about his plans to buy the bar you’d been working at for years - the exact place the two of you met. You know he’s gay. He trusts you implicitly, but you’ve kept the fact that you’re seeing his brother from him?
He isn’t angry (he’s trying not to be, anyway) but more than anything else, he’s hurt.
His best friend. His brother. And neither told him.
When you get home less than five minutes after him, he’s nursing a beer on the couch, waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything at first. You enter the house, slowly, leaning against the door and not meeting his eye for a long moment before taking a deep breath in.
“There’s something we need to talk about.”
“Yeah,” Deran snorts a sarcastic laugh. “I’d say so.”
You look up. If you’re surprised by his response, you don’t let it show. You purse your lips, making your way to the living room the two of you have shared for the last few years now, taking a seat on the loveseat directly across from him.
“Listen,” you start, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I should’ve told you. I know that. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I had some perfect reason, because I didn’t. I was just scared. I didn’t know what this was, or where it was going, and I didn’t want you caught in the middle if it didn’t work out.” You pause, your voice softening. “But still. I’m sorry for not telling you from the start.”
Deran’s silent for a moment, letting your words sink in. The tension in his shoulders eases the slightest bit at the sincerity in your voice.
The two of you never fight. Bicker like children sometimes, sure. Like when he doesn’t rinse his dishes off before putting them in the sink or waits too long to switch the laundry over so it starts to smell musty and you have to restart the load, or when you eat his last protein bar or forget to put the trash on the curb on garbage day.
But you never fight. You’re the one person he never has to fight with. Even now, he doesn’t want to fight with you.
He nods, staring down at the amber colored glass in his hands instead of you. “How long has this been going on?”
You let out a quiet snort of a laugh. “Depends. If you’re asking when the first time we kissed was…not even twenty-four hours ago. If you’re asking how long I’ve had feelings for him, then…I don’t know, really. A while.”
“Not even twenty-four — last night? As in after we got back from the job last night? You mean you guys were sucking face while I was in the shower?”
“Yes,” you moan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my god, don’t call it that—”
“I knew it.” Deran shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “I fucking knew he was acting even more off putting than usual last night.”
You spread your fingers apart, peeking out from the cracks. “He is not off putting—”
“Holy shit. You are in love with him.”
You groan dramatically, throwing your head back and staring up at the ceiling. Deran tries not to laugh, but he can’t help it.
You sit up a little, expression completely serious now. “Just so you know, I didn’t…tell Pope. About you. He knows that our relationship is fake, but I only told him my reasons for agreeing to it. Not yours.”
He should feel relieved to hear that, but he doesn’t. He just feels guilt - guilt that you felt you couldn’t confide in him. Guilt that you’ve been in this fake relationship for him all this time while harboring feelings for his brother for “a while.” Guilt that you were willing to prioritize him over your own happiness. Guilt that you and Pope wouldn’t have had to sneak around at all if it weren’t for him.
“Well.” He lifts the beer bottle to his lips, taking one last sip before setting it down. “Guess there’s only one thing left to do.”
Your brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”
“I’m breaking up with you.”
You blink, and then your eyes go wide in surprise. “What? You’re…breaking up with me?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. Consider yourself dumped.”
Your jaw drops. “You can’t dump me. We weren’t really even together.”
He waves a hand at you in dismissal. “I think what you’re actually trying to say is thank you, Deran.”
“But—”
“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Will you just let me give you my blessing? You’re off the hook. We’re good. Go suck face with Pope or whatever nasty shit you two were probably doing before I showed up.”
You roll your eyes, but your expression softens. Then, you stand, walking over to where Deran sits on the couch to take the empty space beside him.
“You’re really not mad?” You ask in a small voice.
He exhales through his nose, grabbing your hand in his and giving it a firm squeeze. “No,” he says simply. “How could I be? I mean, I’m not thrilled that it’s Pope, but…” He shrugs. “You committed to a fake relationship for nearly a fucking year for me. You deserve to be happy. Even if it is with my brother,” he adds, a tad more dryly.
You nod slowly, your gaze locked on where his hand still holds yours. “People are gonna talk, you know.” You turn your head slightly to look at him. “About why we broke up. About how I’m with Pope now. They’ll think that I left you for him, or that he stole your girl, or that—”
“So?” He cuts you off. “If I hear anyone say anything about you, I’ll knock their teeth out. Pope would do worse than that.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you say gently. “I don’t care what people say about me. I know the truth. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to…explain. You know, admit that it was a fake relationship or come out before you’re ready to…”
He shakes his head, shushing you. He wraps his free arm around your shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m a big boy. You don’t need to worry about protecting me from rumors anymore. Let people think and say whatever they want. I’ll come out when I’m ready. Not because people are being nosey assholes.”
You seem to relax a bit at his reassurance. You lean into his embrace, resting your head against his shoulder.
“And not because you’re doing my brother, either.”
That gets a laugh from you. The kind of laugh that lets him know that nothing has really changed between the two of you.
Deran gives your hand another squeeze before letting go. “Go on,” he mutters, nodding towards the front door. “He’s probably pacing holes in the floor right now.”
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Pope has typed and erased an embarrassing number of text messages in your chat thread since the moment that you pulled out of his driveway.
Let me know how it goes.
You can come back here for the night, if you need to. You can sleep in the bedroom and I’ll take the couch.
How pissed is he?
He doesn’t send any of them. Instead, he sits on the couch, stares at his phone, and hopes that you’ll text or call or magically reappear beside him.
It’s a good thing that he’s accustomed to running off of very little sleep, because he doubts he’ll be getting much at all tonight. He already knows that his mind will race with thoughts of you until he eventually collapses from exhaustion, and that it’ll probably finally happen just hours before he has to take Lena to school.
Pope tries to pay attention to the documentary about killer whales playing on the screen in front of him, but he can’t control how his thoughts keep drifting to you. He thinks of how badly he wishes to sleep with you curled into his chest.
Sleep. That’s all. You said you wanted to talk to Deran before things went any further between the two of you, and Pope doesn’t mind. He’d be content to hold you all night and nothing more. To be close to you, in any capacity, puts him at ease like nothing else. That’s been true since he first met you by Smurf’s pool the day after he got out of prison.
When you pull back into the driveway no more than an hour after leaving, he’s so zoned out that he doesn’t even hear you until you’re knocking softly on the door.
“Hey,” he greets you lowly, instantly relieved and a little taken aback by the cheeky smile on your face when he opens the door. “Is everything oh—”
But you’re stepping across the threshold and cutting him off by pressing your lips to his before he can get the question out.
He freezes for a split-second and then he’s kissing you back.
It feels familiar and new all at once. Familiar because Pope has already committed the taste and feel of you to memory in less than a full day’s time, and new because the way you’re moving your lips with his is unrestrained in a way that all of the previous kisses have not been. The truth of you and him is out there, now. There’s no second-guessing, no weight on your shoulders, no reason to hesitate, and he can feel the difference.
You urge him backwards with your hands planted on his waist. Without ever breaking the kiss, he pushes the door closed behind you and takes your face in his hands. You guide him backwards until his legs make contact with the couch and gently push him down. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands ghosting down your back as you settle over his thighs.
“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips, breathless as you caress his face in your hands. “Everything’s more than okay.”
“You sure?” He murmurs, looking up at you in the dim blue light of the television. You nod, your nose brushing against his and corners of your lips perking into a soft smile. “What did Deran say?”
“He’s thoroughly repulsed by the thought of us kissing,” you snort. A laugh rumbles deep in Pope’s chest. Your hands drop to his chest, where you smooth the fabric of his button-up before your fingers find the top button. “So we should probably do a lot of that in front of him. Just maybe not right away,” you hum, smirking.
You pop the button, and then move onto the next, and then the next, until each one is undone and you’re pushing the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms.
“He didn’t love the way that he found out,” you answer, more serious now. “But he understands. Just wants me to be happy. And you make me happy.”
His entire body goes warm at the sentiment. He pulls you flush against his chest, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to tease the skin of your back. He holds you, gazes up at you, like you’re worth more than gold to him.
And you are. You, and the little girl asleep in the other room, who will be tickled to wake up and learn that you’re still here. That you aren’t going anywhere, if Pope has any say in it.
He smiles at the thought before capturing your lips in his once more.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
{ Epilogue ~ 2 years later }
“This tie is too tight. It’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain.”
“Oh, come here,” you groan playfully. Pope leans in, letting you adjust the green tie that matches your dress (and complements his eyes) perfectly.
“You didn’t have to wear this, you know.” You give the length of the tie a gentle tug after loosening it. “The dress code is semi-formal. You could have gotten away with just a button-up.”
“I know,” he grumbles. “But I wanted to match you and Lena at least a little bit. And I figured I should probably get used to wearing one before our wedding.”
The response warms you as much as the Southern California summer sun.
A beachfront wedding. Small and intimate, with a total guest count of less than thirty people…you can’t think of anything more perfectly Deran and Adrian.
“You don’t have to wear one at our wedding either,” you snort, raising an arm to play with the curls at the base of his skull in the way that he likes. “If you don’t want to.”
He grabs your other hand in his, glancing down at the ring that glimmers in the midday sun. He’d put it on your finger only a few months ago, and in the general chaos of life - Lena’s spring soccer season and ballet recital, helping Deran plan his wedding, you and Pope closing on your new house and getting settled in - the two of you haven’t had much time to begin planning your own special day yet.
“Thought you said it looks good on me,” he hums low, unserious.
“Oh, it does,” you laugh. “Very much so. But I care that you’re comfortable at our wedding. You’d look good in anything.”
Soft instrumental music begins to pour from speakers at the edges of the makeshift ceremony setup and everyone goes quiet, turning to look down the aisle. Lena appears moments later, wearing a frilly flower girl dress that matches yours in color. She smiles nervously the entire time she walks down the aisle, small wicker basket in hand. Every few steps, she grabs a handful of pink and white petals, scattering them across the sandy path. As soon as she reaches the end of the aisle, she runs to where you and Pope sit in the front row and climbs onto his lap.
And then Deran and Adrian appear. Hand in hand, they walk down the aisle together until they come to where Craig - who became legally ordained in the state of California solely for this occasion - stands beneath the driftwood arch you helped decorate with flowers earlier.
They take turns exchanging handwritten vows. They cry, you cry, even Craig gets misty-eyed. And then they’re pronounced husbands in what you can only think to describe as the most endearingly Craig way possible, and everyone on the beach cheers.
Afterwards, everyone helps themselves to unlimited beer and the taco bar set up back at the bar, which Deran has closed to the public for the day. You’d done what you could to spruce the place up - miniature floral arrangements and tea lights candles on the tables - but it’s still a bar. Deran’s bar, broken surfboards and all.
Low music fills the room as guests mingle and drink into the evening. Pope surprises you when he offers you his hand and guides you to the very small, cramped space carved out in the middle of the room for a makeshift dance floor.
It’s more swaying than slow dancing, but you enjoy it all the same.
“I know you said that I don’t have to wear a tie to our wedding,” Pope murmurs low, “but what about dancing? Do we have to dance in front of everyone at our wedding?”
“We’re dancing in front of everyone right now,” you snort. “What’s the difference?”
He glances around the room. “Yeah, but no one is paying any attention to us right now. Everyone is too drunk and paying attention to Deran and Adrian. At our wedding, all eyes will be on us.”
“As they should be,” you hum. You bring a hand to the side of his face, steering his gaze back to you. “Yes, we’re going to dance at our wedding. But I’ll let you pick the song.”
He smirks, his grip on your waist tightening. “I guess I should take some lessons, then.”
The clinking of silverware against glass draws everyone’s attention to where Deran and Adrian stand side by side. You and Pope pause your swaying as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side.
“Alright,” Deran says, clearing his throat. “I’m supposed to say some heartfelt shit now, so bear with me.” Adrian laughs beside him, bumping their shoulders together.
“Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them. I probably would have tried to fight them.” That earns a few laughs, but you know better than anyone that he isn’t joking.
“I’m sure most of you know that I haven’t always been the easiest person to deal with,” he continues. “But Adrian—” Deran glances at his now husband with a kind of softness that he reserves only for him, “—Adrian never gave up on me. He stuck around when a lot of people would’ve dipped. And I can’t tell you all how glad I am for that.”
Then, his eyes find you. “And speaking of people who stick around…this one right here.” He points to you with his beer bottle. You suddenly feel every eye in the building on you. Pope gives your arm a comforting squeeze. “Best girlfriend I ever had.”
The small crowd laughs, and you cover your face with your hands, but he presses on. “I’m serious. She was the first person to ever tell me that it’s okay to be who I am. That there’s nothing wrong with me. And there’s no way that I would have gotten to this point without her. And now…I get a front row seat to watch her marry my brother.”
By the time he finishes, you’ve dropped your hands from your face. Now, you’re actively blinking back happy tears. You can’t find the words, so you hold up your hands to form a small heart and hope the simple gesture is worth a thousand words.
Later, after the crowd has thinned and the sun is setting, you and Pope head back down to the beach with a handful of others to gather the remaining chairs and decorations. Lena is supposed to be helping, but she has wandered to the shoreline, happily dipping her toes in the water.
You both pause at the same moment to watch her - her feet bare, her hair and flower girl dress both blowing in the slight breeze. You can only hope that feels as at peace as she looks right now.
“Seeing Deran and Adrian today…” Pope starts, then trails off like he’s searching for the right words.
You turn towards him. “What about it?” You ask gently.
He’s still staring out towards Lena. “Makes me excited for ours.”
“Yeah?” You hum. “Even if I make you slow dance in front of everyone?”
“Yeah.” He meets your eye, his normal intensity fully present. “Whenever you’re ready. Doesn’t matter when or where. I just want that with you.”
Deran’s toast echoes in your mind. Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them.
The words could have been taken from your own mouth. After everything the two of you have been through as individuals, and everything you’ve been through together, you’re marrying the love of your life and raising a beautiful little girl together. You’ve made the most of a tragic situation; turned it into something safe and secure for her - a forever home for the three of you. Maybe more, someday. You can’t help but picture Pope with a tiny baby all his own, soft curls and hazel eyes.
Only time will tell. And you have all the time in the world, now.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
and that’s how the show ended….right?? RIGHT???
thank you so much if you read all 18.7k+ words of this. this fic is my baby. i worked on it for well over a month, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.
Pairing: Titus Danforth x f!reader (and some Ursula x reader)
Words: 10.6k
CW: explicit sexual content, nsfw, 18+, mdni
Tags/warnings: the Danforth's being weird af, lowkey faux step siblings, ownership, dark power dynamics, abuse of power, inappropriate thoughts, physical and mental abuse (not by Titus), past romance, lots of angst, lots of anger and rage, yearning, murder, psychopathic tendencies, control, blood play, unprotected piv sex, breeding kink, being turned on by murder, these two are fucked up freaks, marking, biting, rawr
Summary: Defying the will of Mr. Danforth senior has you thrust into a dangerous game, one that Titus is more than happy to intervene in.
a/n: I'm not sorry
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.
Titus
They had gathered for his father’s 90th birthday. The old sack was close to dying, finally, so he had been adamant to cash in on just as many promises, I-owe-yous and revenge plots that seemingly fell through the cracks over the years.
Luckily for him, his tenacious sister Ursula had taken care of all the planning, making sure that the weeklong celebration would be the goriest, gnarliest, most satisfactory of his life. Even Titus had promised to be on his best behavior, and even though that meant little, it would help them get through it gracefully at the least.
Their estate had started buzzing with people as early as nine in the morning. It somehow felt inhuman, ungodly, for so many people to be parading themselves up the driveway in their summer best, fake laughter and polite conversation filling up the breathable air with tension and distrust.
It was no secret the other families didn’t respect them. They didn’t have to, it had always been enough for them to be feared. That’s how they maintained their power. How they kept everyone pliable and loyal. But it was at these gatherings that it became unbearable for Titus to deal with the phoniness.
He could smell the discomfort on them. Would catch the slightest flinch, the tension in their bodies, the disdain hidden behind turbulent eyes. They though they were so clever, locked like vaults, but the truth was that Titus always knew.
It took everything in him to remain stoic. This was a celebration for fuck’s sake, why was no one acting like it? Why were they all cowardly and—
“Oh ma petit fille!” His father’s voice broke through Titus’s daydream. He’d gotten as far as ripping Mr. Kipling’s throat out with his pick axe, the mere thought of his warm blood bathing him the first comfort he’d felt all day.
That was until his gaze focused on the person who had elated his father with her presence this much.
His heart nearly stopped on its own, his brain desperately urging it to keep pumping, to not let him show even an ounce of distress, but it was near impossible. His sister caught onto him almost instantly and smirked lightly under her breath, stepping back so that her father could push himself forward to meet you.
“C’est moi, papa,” you replied in your perfect French as you crouched down to plant two kisses on either cheek, causing the old man to blush lightly.
Disgusting. Titus had his gripes with his father, that much was obvious, but this, this display of affection towards you always made him remember just why he wanted the old man dead and buried.
He wasn’t your biological father, Titus had made sure of it. For a long time neither him or Ursula were fully convinced. The way the old man had doted on you was…concerning to say the least. Ursula loved you, but the mere possibility of having to fight with you for their inheritance made her spiral to the point that he had ordered a DNA test.
He would be lying if he didn’t have ulterior motives at play. You simply could not be his sister too. You were already half his age, the kid he saw grow up, cared for, nurtured and — maybe it would’ve been easier if you were related. At least all those urges would finally have to be put down to rest and he would be able to move on with his fucking life.
But an even more fucked up part of him couldn’t help but celebrate when the test came back negative. No relation whatsoever. Fair game for him to do whatever he wanted. That was if his father didn’t have anything to do with it, and unfortunately for Titus, the old man did.
“Ça va?” His father held your hands in his tightly as you answered. Last Titus knew you were in…Florence? God knows, his father was cryptically vague every time Ursula brought you up. Oh she’s in France, she’s in Tokyo, she’s…anywhere but here.
For the first few years it felt like punishment, as though the old man was doing everything in his power to keep you as far away from Titus as humanly possible. He’d even been foolish enough to try to find you one summer, had flown himself halfway across the world but by the time he’d made it to the small chalet in Switzerland, his father had informed them that you had decided to surprise him for the holidays instead.
He’d almost laid waste to the entire village that night, the bloodshed something that he’d been slightly ashamed to admit to as his family’s attorneys worked overtime to make sure no one ever knew what had truly gone down. A “freak accident” was all that got reported, not that Titus concerned himself with things like that.
“Ursula, my darling, I will take her inside to get settled, please tell our guests that I will be with them after for lunch.”
He didn’t even get to say hello to you, only managed to catch your eye and soft smile as you walked past him. You still smelled the same. Like pears and soft linens and summer. He caught himself closing his eyes, inhaling your scent before he could stop himself and it took him a long second to regain his composure.
Ursula cleared her throat. Behave.
But whatever promises he had made to his sister were no longer valid. Not when you were now involved.
He was practically buzzing with excitement. So much so that he could not be bothered engaging in meaningless conversation with the remaining families, almost brazenly rejecting every single advance from their daughters and some of their sons. He didn’t realize that he too was playing a role this weekend, one that he’d been able to dodge thus far.
But not again.
By the time lunch was served in the outdoor courtyard, you were nowhere to be found.
Titus lingered in wings, always away from the group as he nursed his first glass of scotch. He waited, impatiently, until Ursula brought their father out onto the patio. The second he saw the old man, without you finally, he slyly stepped back into the house to go find you.
Their family estate was enormous. So much so that they had to move around in golf carts if they wanted to get anywhere at a decent enough time. The main house was no different. It was regal in a way that would easily spook anyone who didn’t have intimate knowledge of the family and their ways of life.
Titus never remembered you being intimidated by it. If anything, you had always felt like you belonged. You’d moved in after his mother passed away, the daughter of their newest housekeeper. He’d met you only once as a child, a simple introduction that he didn’t care about as he was much more interested in getting his dick wet and terrorizing every single girl that looked his way.
No, it was only after you’d graduated from the posh boarding school his father had shipped you off to and had been allowed to come back to the estate for the summer that he really paid attention.
He had been an asshole then. You were freshly eighteen, had your entire life ahead of you, and if it hadn’t been for Ursula’s warnings and his own father’s protection, he would’ve used his power over you to claim you as his own.
Now he was thankful that had never happened.
Instead the two of you had become friends. Well, as friendly as Titus let anyone get.
You’d gotten comfortable as part of their lives. Riding with Ursula, learning how to fence with her private instructor, and even helping out with the chores of the house when their father wasn’t looking. He would not have you lift a finger, not after…well, not after their proclivities had cost your mother her life.
They’d given you everything. And in return — Titus didn’t even want to let the thoughts he was having get confirmed into reality. He knew his family, knew what they were capable of, and he simply could not allow himself to even think what disgusting and depraved things his father could possibly be asking from you.
He practically skipped up the stairs towards your room, two at a time, as he ventured into the sealed off wing of the house, one that he had frequented enough over the past few years.
Everyone on staff knew about it, they’d caught him in your room plenty of times not to know. But they were all loyal, all rooting for him to finally get the girl, get you, so they had never told his father about what they had found him doing.
Their staff were not paid to have opinions, but they certainly had eyes. To say that he’d had to replace your entire underwear drawer countless times would be a understatement. They had no idea how Titus did it, but the mess, the stickiness would get so severe at times that the only thing he could do to fix it was to simply buy everything brand new and pretend like it had always been that pristine.
The door was closed, like it usually was. His heart hammered against his chest, causing his ears to clog up. He shifted his weight from the balls of his feet to the front, desperate to not make a single noise as he pressed his ear to your door, eager for even a morsel of sound to indicate you were in your room.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Could barely contain himself. He knew this would most likely be his one chance to strike. If his father would not let him fight for you, he would take you by force, not that you would object anyway, he knew the second his hands grabbed a hold of you, any reservation left behind by the poisonous words of his father would disappear and you would be his.
His to claim, finally.
The door swung open then and he practically jumped out of his skin.
It wasn’t you. It was Alina, one of the cleaning staff.
She tried her best to maintain a plain expression but he could tell she wanted to smirk brightly at his childish display of emotions.
Fuck.
Titus stepped away to let her through, cleared his throat and straightened himself back up, smoothing down his jacket and pocketing his sunglasses before he…he should’ve turned to leave, should’ve known where you’d be hiding if it wasn’t your room. But curiosity would always win over with him.
Your suitcase was wide open on the bed, as if you’d started unpacking and something pulled you away to a much more interesting task.
It had always been like this for you. You drifted from one thing to the next without a care in the world, always following curiosity like an itch you needed to scratch instantly and would leave behind the second it no longer satisfied you.
How you’d managed to get through undergrad and a masters program had been beyond him. But there they were, your two degrees hanging on the wall beside countless pictures and tokens of your years living in the estate.
He loved the polaroid pictures you had taken of him and Ursula the summer before you left. His sister had been dating some venture capitalist from Italy and you had spent the majority of your time practicing your Italian with him while they lounged by the pool.
He’d almost killed him right then and there for taking up so much of your time. He wanted your attention on him instead, craved it desperately, but he didn’t speak any other languages, didn’t have a way with words like you both seemed to, didn’t know how he could communicate so much longing in a way that would not scare you away from him.
So he stayed quiet, like he usually did, and instead tried to show you through his actions.
He’d been unbelievably gentle, fleeting touches to the back of your neck to guide you in and out of rooms, a subtle hand under your knee to help you on and off the saddle, a gentle graze of your cheek with his thumb as you cried when the house erupted in violent screams and bloodthirstiness.
The Italian had been unfortunate in his wedding night game choice. It was sad, Titus had actually grown to tolerate him. But the second he understood what was really happening and the type of family he had married into, the idiot had ran straight to you, to “save you”.
Titus had disregarded the head start the second he heard you scream. He would pay the price later, rules be damned. He bolted up the stairs to this very room and found you on the floor, the man practically berating you as he called you every name in the book. He tried to explain that he was just trying to help you escape his fate, but Titus didn’t even register his words as he only saw your nightgown torn, your cheeks stained with tears and scratches tainting your soft skin.
He didn’t even think about it, only registering what he’d done when your sobs filled the room for a different reason this time.
The sad sack of an excuse was lying on you, lifeless, blood gushing from the impaled pick axe on his cranium, covering you completely in crimson.
If it had been any other circumstance, Titus would not have hesitated in devouring you whole, his tongue masterfully licking up any and every drop off your skin in penance for getting you dirty.
But his eyes finally found your own and he saw the worst sight he’d ever been privy to.
Fear.
He inched forward, hands out in surrender but you flinched back.
His heart broke.
He stood there for a long second, unsure on what to do, on how to fix this.
It wasn’t until Ursula rushed into the room and yelled at him to leave that he finally allowed himself to move.
Had his father not told you? Was this how you were finding out what kind of family they truly were? What kind of man he was?
He didn’t even have the time to explain himself as, by the following morning, you were gone.
God, you looked exactly the same. You’d obviously grown up significantly since the last time he truly saw you. Your hair was longer, wild and free, a stark contrast to the pristine Danforth image his father had tried to keep. He’d finally allowed you to stop lightening it too as it was now back to its natural dark brown. And your body? It finally made him understand why men would go off and fight in war — all so they could come back home to see how much the women they loved had changed in their time away.
Your body was curvy and plump in all the right places. No longer shy about the weight of your breasts or the way your waist accentuated your ass. You carried yourself with confidence and divinity. You were a vision, would’ve been written about by the ancient Greeks, would’ve easily had wars started for your honor if given the chance.
He glanced down at your suitcase, eager for something to steal to let you know he’d been there. But mostly in search for something he could use to deal with the tightness in his pants.
“There you are—”
He almost celebrated, almost thanked the universe for all its divine intervention until his lustful brain finally took a back seat and his faculties processed that the voice wasn’t yours.
He swallowed an annoyed groan as he turned to face the fresh, pink clad woman. He didn’t recognize her, didn’t care to honestly. She was just one of many, all equally as uninteresting, all desperate for his attention. All destined to never get it.
She took a step forward, into your room, into your private space. Titus’s jaw clenched instantly and she could tell something had shifted in the air. Her once glossy stare turned sharp, fight or flight causing her stomach to drop. She didn’t know why but she was suddenly feeling overwhelmingly exposed.
She swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Danforth, I—”
He didn’t let her finish, didn’t have the patience for it. It wasn’t the release he was searching for, but it would have to do, for now.
His hand wrapped itself around her neck and he squeezed, tightly. She struggled against him but he was stronger. Would always be stronger than these weak, whiny, desperate women that deemed themselves so worthy of breathing the same air as him — as you — that they would dare disrespect him, his family, his home, his future w—
Crack.
He barely got the chance to enjoy the way her body went limp, the familiar and comforting weight of lifelessness nothing more than an annoyance as he let his grip falter. Not even the thud of the body slamming against the carpeted floor brought him any satisfaction.
“Jesus fuck, Titus,” his sister’s shrill blended in with his boredom. “You promised—”
“I rescind my promise.”
And with that he finally allowed himself to leave your room, practically running away from his sister and what would most definitely be a chide later when everyone else had gone to sleep.
By the time he returned downstairs, the meal was over. He glanced over to the table, your seat still empty and his father not in the slightest bit concerned. He must’ve known where you were to be this calm. Who wasn’t calm at all were the Kiplings, both husband and wife whispering harshly as Titus noticed the empty seat that most likely belonged to their darling daughter beside them.
That almost made him content. He couldn’t help but smirk, putting his sunglasses back on and exiting onto the patio to pretend at the very least that he was his father’s prized son.
He’d tried to get information from his father all afternoon, but the old man was tight lipped and almost annoyingly cryptic about everything that left his mouth. It wasn’t until staff began ushering wives and children towards their respective lodgings for the week like prized cattle, and all the heads of the families retreated to the study that he caught a glimpse of you.
You’d changed out of your pale yellow dress, the one he was certain his father had made you wear as it resembled an eggshell white, a not subtle nod to your status within the family, and now wore a silky maroon gown, his favorite color on you.
His gaze followed your movements as you snuck into the kitchen, expertly avoiding every single person left in the house. But not him. You would never be able to dodge him.
He waited a second before he stood up from the leather loveseat he’d practically been bullied into by one of the heads. The man had been talking about his business, how well it had been doing the past two quarters and how his daughter was the sole heir to it all. A well endowed fortune for the Danforth’s to acquire.
He almost rolled his eyes as he stood up, making up some whatever excuse so he could leave this conversation. And he did, without so much as a care in the world. He didn’t need some dumb girl as his consolation prize, didn’t need a new “successful business” to add to his portfolio. He already had the world in the palm of his hand.
The only thing missing was you.
He didn’t enter the kitchen right away. No, he lingered again.
“¿Con qué te ayudo?”
“Mi amor, no te preocupes. Déjate consentir, es lo mínimo que podemos hacer por ti, por favor.”
“Marta—”
“Te vas a tener que acostumbrar, cariño,” he heard their head of staff chuckle lovingly yet, there was an air of sadness. “¿Ya se comenzaron a pelear?”
Titus’s Spanish was…good. Enough. But even that had him reeling.
Have they started fighting yet?
Oh his father was definitely a horrible man.
You were here for exactly the reason he suspected and his father hadn’t even given him the chance to fight him on it, to fight for it.
“¿Lo has visto?”
That’s what did him in. He couldn’t hold back any longer.
He pushed the door open, stoic. “¿Visto a quién?”
Both your gazes snapped to him. Marta’s cheeks blushed crimson as she excused herself from the kitchen and escaped as quickly as she possibly could while you offered him a smile, unrestrained yet tired and heavy.
“Your Spanish got better.”
“You’ve been away a long time.” He shrugged, hands clasped behind his back as if to physically restrain himself as he paced forward, closer and closer to you.
He caught your breathing picking up, how you instinctively began to play with your fingers, how you practically heaved with expectation and desire. It was subtle, but to him even the slightest twitch registered in his mind, filled his lungs with pride.
He almost smirked, almost, but then—
“Sir, not another step forward.”
He turned to the other side of the kitchen. A man, dressed in a polished suit, earpiece and most definitely a high caliber handgun strapped to the back of his pants, stood in the shadows.
“Oh yeah, did I forget to mention Duke? A gift from your father for the week.”
Titus fully chuckled then. He had been foolish to think the old man had no idea how he would react the second he realized you were their prized possession for his birthday.
He also knew right then and there that you could not speak freely, could not breathe without this neanderthal running to tell his father. This would definitely be reported the second you went to sleep and he tried to sneak through the secret passages into your room.
He finally accepted what the secret meeting being conducted upstairs had been about and his stomach burned.
“How many?” How many do I have to kill?
“God knows, well, no, your father’s handling it. They’ll ‘get a good look at me’ tomorrow for brunch and then they’ll decide. But they’ve begun conversations already.”
You were too calm. It honestly made his blood boil even more. Part of him couldn’t help but think that you wanted him to do something about it. He knew you couldn’t outwardly say it, couldn’t defy his father’s word in any way other than what you had already done a couple of summers ago, but the person that you had been beaten into was definitely not the person he remembered from back then.
You were like this now because of him and it broke his heart all over again.
“Do you want anything?” You asked him as you moved around the kitchen like you owned the place, because you did, you always had.
“What are you offering?”
“Sandwich?”
“Fine.”
He watched you, still like a statue, hands still locked behind his back. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare test his luck, his status, his power. Not in front of you, not now when you were so broken he wanted nothing more than to take the last few years back and having had the balls to run away with you.
Duke almost leapt across the room as you stepped up to Titus, plate in each hand. He was so close he couldn’t help but lean in, slightly. You ushered him back to the kitchen island with nothing more than a twitch of your brow and he obeyed, walking in tandem with you until you were caged in by the ivory marble.
The ceramic plates echoed in the quiet kitchen but neither of you cared. It was a silent taunt, a test of boundaries and orders, and when Duke didn’t pounce, you sneakily handed Titus a note.
The man before you practically beamed, pocketing the piece of paper instantly as if nothing had really happened. The two of you ate in silence, uncomfortable and charged, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered because his mind was made up. And he would be damned if he didn’t start a war in your honor.
Titus didn’t want to leave you, but when his sister walked into the kitchen and told you that their father was expecting you, he had no choice but to let you go.
Unfortunately for him, it meant his sister was finally alone in a room with him. All anger and unbridled rage.
“Leave her alone while you still can,” she commanded but he knew she didn’t mean it.
“You knew.”
“Of course I knew, don’t be so naive little brother. What did you expect would happen?”
Titus didn’t answer.
“I was able to keep her away long enough but we both know she’s his final chance at an heir, at the continuation of our line.”
“She’s not his to sell—”
“She is! She’s not yours, not mine. She belongs to him and he will do with her whatever he pleases.” She took a step forward, pleading. “You had your chance and you blew it. Now you know how much it cost her.”
His entire body itched with distress. He needed to kill something. Needed to scratch until all he saw was red and all he could feel was your soft skin under his fingers again. He knew, fuck he knew how much he had cost you, but he hadn’t seen it until today.
“So get your shit together and snap out of it.”
Two years ago…two years ago he could’ve had it all. But he had been foolish, had gotten comfortable and believed that he had time.
Alone in the kitchen, he finally allowed himself to look at the note you left him.
Your father’s study, twenty-three.
He didn’t have time to process the words as he glanced down at his watch. That was five minutes ago. He rushed to the pantry, expertly pulling the hidden door open and running in the literal dark up the stairs.
You’d spent enough time hiding in the walls of the house to know them inside and out. You wanted him to bare witness to something, so much so that you had stated it as your first and only real communication with him in over two years.
He made sure to skillfully sprint up the stairs, sucking in his stomach to slide in between the panels and finally squeeze himself behind his father’s bookshelf. He slid the piece of cardboard you had left behind to eavesdrop to the side and pressed his eye through the hole.
You sat across from him, his father’s back to him as you both sat in your respective armchairs.
“I don’t know why you’re shocked, you knew how he’d react,” you spoke, composed and calm.
His father coughed in response. “I had hoped he’d be less foolish.”
“Hmmm.” You took a sip of your drink. “This is good.”
“Glad you like it,” the older man leaned forward. “I’ve chosen already.”
You nodded, so out of it you could barely contain your disdain.
His father slapped you then, too hard for a dying man to be able to do. You barely flinched, only tightened your grip on the glass, not daring to spill a single drop.
“Need I remind you of your place?”
You shook your head, pliable and submissive. Oh what Titus would give to have you in that state only comfortable and taken care of, loved.
“No sir.”
“Good,” he coughed again. “I don’t have time for your disobedience, not right now.”
“It’s not disobedience, sir,” you whispered. “I just thought they would…” you lost your courage for a second but then your gaze lifted and met Titus’s. You took a deep breath, tears falling from your eyes finally. “I thought they’d honor tradition and fight for it.”
Titus only grew angrier as he heard you call your hand in marriage nothing more than a thing, an object, something that could be bought and sold with no greater weight to it.
The old man laughed, cruelly. “Oh sweetheart, we both know why that’s never going to happen.”
“You should at least let them try—”
“He won’t try, he’ll win, and I can’t have that.”
“I’ll give you grandchildren,” you blurted out and it was as though all the air was sucked out of the room, Titus’s front tightening against his pants. “You’ll have your heir before you die.”
“I could have my heir whenever I wanted, with or without your consent,” the old man struggled to stand up but he still made the effort, towering over you with an infernal passion that even made Titus shiver. “I could have you carrying my offspring tonight if I really wanted to—”
“You couldn’t,” you replied, defiant, finally. Titus couldn’t help but feel his heart swell. “My mother was many things but she wasn’t stupid. The deal she made is still in effect. I would truly hate to see you explode before you have the chance to die a slow and painful death.”
That seemed to shut the old man up.
He sat back down, coughing more than normal. The door swung open and Duke rushed inside, his father’s nurse right behind him. They placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth which he removed for a second to tell you—
“Fine, my daughter, you’ll have your hunt.”
And with that you left the room.
Titus let you disappear back into your room to calm down. He needed to prepare, had to get ready for what would be the most important hunt of his entire life.
He practically salivated at the thought of what was to come, of the carnage and bloodshed he was about to be allowed to enact. All in the name of love, in the name of you.
“Sir,” his thoughts were cut short as the head of his security stepped into his room. “We’ve got a situation developing up in the northern boundary that needs your attention.”
He should’ve thought about it for two more seconds. Should’ve been more distrusting of anything and everything that was being said to him. But instead, he simply grunted in annoyance and followed the man onto their truck, setting off into the night.
Unbeknownst to him, dinner had been served back in the main house, all the families had been gathered as his father finally paraded you around for the other families to see.
From what Ursula told him later, every eligible male (and the old sad sacks that accompanied them) were practically drooling at you as you took your seat at the head of the table with them.
“My friends,” his father started. “It has been such a delight to have you all here with us this evening. I am thankful for your continued support and loyalty, it is only together that we can truly maintain our grip on this industry, on the world,” he tipped his glass towards you. “On our legacy.”
You finally smiled, a true smile, eyes searching for Titus around the table. But as you found nothing, your stomach dropped. Ursula noticed, concern laced on her features uncharacteristically.
The old man chuckled as your eyes met, only then did he continue his macabre speech.
“My beautiful daughter,” he pointed towards you. “Was supposed to be wed this year, but I believe I have an even better prize for you all tonight— whoever can bring me her head by dawn will get to choose one of my blood children to wed.”
Murmurs of excitement brought the night are ablaze, further feeding into the spectacle, into the grandioseness of the event. If the Danforth patriarch could give up the child he’d raised to be a part of his family, part of his blood and sacrifice her to their demonic leader all for a show of good grace and betterment of their clan, they too could let themselves be seduced by the call to make you bleed.
“We begin…” the clock struck midnight. “Now.”
You
You should’ve fucking known. Should’ve anticipated it. Should’ve at least considered it as a possibility.
You knew the old man wasn’t stupid. You knew he knew you weren’t stupid. This submissive act had fooled no one, if anything it had only made him angrier and he’d kept you alive out of spite, to play with his meal before he brutally murdered you and broke his son’s heart forever.
He could’ve let you wed three years ago. Should’ve allowed you to by honor and law. But he refused. He’d been so adamant in his punishment, so infuriated when he’d found out that he’d confined you to a prison of his own making. Isolated and alone. Destined to go through all the pain and sorrow alone. Forgotten.
Titus didn’t know. There was no way he did or else his father would not be alive still.
You wanted to tell him, were going to tell him so many times but each one got you a week in solitary confinement and after a year of living like that, you decided to stop trying.
By the second year, the trauma and pain had subsided. You had become soft and pliable, exactly what Mr. Danforth wanted. You were close to giving in, close to accepting the terms of your contract and agreeing to marry whatever dumb finance bro the old man had his sights set on for the good of the business, but then the letter arrived.
You had been holed up in their Spain estate, close to the factory and closer to where the old man kept his doctors. You didn’t know how or who slipped the first one through the crack in your door, but suddenly there it was.
You tried to rip the envelope with poise, not daring to cause a sound that wasn’t within your normal ones. You still didn’t know who you could trust, who was guarding your door, who could hear you through the microphones and cameras that they had certainly hidden throughout the room.
You waddled over to the balcony, where you knew you had a blind spot and pretended to look through the mail that had been delivered. This was normal for you, the smallest of privacies that Mr. Danforth allowed you to have since he knew everything that was being delivered to you.
Almost everything.
It was his handwriting, messy and imperfect, but his nonetheless.
He’s getting ready to move to back stateside. Things have gone down that he’s not happy with. His health is deteriorating. Play the part. Convince him to bring you home after you graduate. Have him marry you off here. Don’t forget.
Don’t forget. How could you? How could you ever forget the promises that were made? The confessions spilled through ragged breaths, tangled sheets and petit morts?
It was two summers ago.
You had somehow found yourself back at the estate after a private plane malfunction. You were stuck for 48 hours with nothing but your carryon luggage. No security, no fuss, no nothing. Just you, the eighteen people on staff and the entire grounds.
You’d spent the first day lounging, walking through the entirety of the grounds on foot and remembering just where everything was. You’d helped clean stables, feed the chickens, work on the laundry and even cooked up a feast with Marta for lunch.
You’d opened a few bottles of wine, who cared really, you would buy new ones. Could still use credit cards at that point, a simple joy.
You were hiding away in the staff’s quarters, still drinking with the younger maids as they recounted the last few years of drama that had gone down at the estate. Oh you had missed so much.
It was bittersweet. On one hand you were glad they could still find pockets of joy and lightness while working for the Danforth’s, but on the other, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the atrocities they had to witness, a personal failing on your part to them.
But the even darker truth — you were all prisoners here. You were closer to them than you were to the Danforth’s, no matter how much they considered you family. You would never be family.
“Marta!”
The yelling brought you back to reality. Was that…?
With a scrunched brow you got up, body wobbly as you managed to make your way to the window.
It was indeed.
“I’ve never seen Titus Danforth yelling before.”
He seemed to become frozen as he looked up to see you, blinking a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.
For a second he didn’t know how to act, causing you to giggle.
“Marta’s busy right now, can I help you?”
He gulped. “Yes.”
With rosy cheeks and the confidence from good quality wine, you left the group behind and made your way down to meet him.
You had changed into comfortable jeans and a long sleeve to help with the sun. You were a mess, sweaty and dirty, not the vision that Titus claimed to have seen.
“Hi,” you greeted, suddenly very shy. He simply nodded his response, fighting every single urge he had to reach out and grab you. “Ugh this is ridiculous, Titus.”
And then you hugged him.
You were so warm, the smell of grapes a comfort that drew him in instantly, his arms wrapping themselves around you tightly as he practically squished you against his body. You hummed contently, head buried in the crook of his neck, soaking him all in. Meanwhile, his hands kneaded at your skin, unafraid and unashamed of just how much he was pushing that invisible boundary he’d set up five years prior.
“I missed you.” You murmured against his chest.
His grip tightened in response. He was never letting you go again that was certain.
After much convincing, he allowed you to detach yourself from him enough to open the main house back up. None of you had any idea he’d be in town but apparently Mr. Danforth had grounded everyone for some unknown reason and he was close enough to the estate that he decided to sleep in his own bed for a night.
You sat on his bed while he unpacked. You managed to pull a few anecdotes from his travels but he mostly let you talk. And that you did.
You filled his cold room with so much warmth, stories from your studies, your friends, the life you had built for yourself in Europe melting the ice that had began to build around his heart.
You were older now, had lived enough that it had changed you. You didn’t resent him for what had happened five years ago, didn’t blame him for any of it, weren’t scared of him. You held his gaze, made him smile and laugh, did your best to show him that whatever your feelings had been then, they were not the same now.
“I thought…” he started, losing momentum quickly.
You shifted on the bed, coming up to your knees as you shuffled to the edge, towards him. Your hands landed on his, encouraging, and he finally allowed himself to look into your eyes.
He was met with the most beautiful sight. Pupils blown, brows scrunched, pleading.
He couldn’t remember what he thought. It didn’t matter. None of it did.
He succumbed. He failed. He finally put down his weapon and accepted defeat.
He leaned in, his lips brushing yours too softly.
You wouldn’t have it.
You practically threw yourself on him, lips opening, hands landing on his shoulders to give you better leverage.
He groaned, possessive hands flying out to grab at you. The second he made contact, every reservation left behind disappeared.
Eager fingers dug into your plushness, grabbing handfuls of your ass and thigh as he pulled you into him. You moaned into the kiss and he somehow deepened it, his tongue devouring you, showing you just who you belonged to.
“Ti—”
A gasp flew out of your lips as he picked you up and slammed you down on the bed in one swift movement.
No talking, there would be plenty of time for that later. Now he needed to act.
He wasted no more time getting you naked, a flurry of pants and shorts being discarded until you were left in only the lacy pair of underwear you had picked out.
They weren’t…he’d never seen these before. He studied them for a second too long, the wear around the cups, the discoloration from years of use. You smirked, bringing his gaze right back up to your face. You looked…devious, in a way he’d never seen you before. Like you knew.
“Got them five years ago in Prague the second we landed,” you blushed, shame beautifully coming into the mix of your arousal. “To remember…”
His eyes sparkled at the realization. To remember how he’d killed—
Titus groaned, loudly, pressing his clothed chest back against your scantily clad one. The friction of his coat against your skin was divine, causing you to moan louder as his lips met yours once again.
He liked you before, his vision clouded by the desire to corrupt you, to take the good, gentle, angelic kid that he knew so well and transform her into a deranged psychopath like he was. But this version of you? Oh he loved it.
You were just as sick and twisted. He didn’t even have to try to persuade you into his darkness, it was as though you had been there all along, just waiting for him to realize it.
His teeth nipped at your lips, tugging enough to draw blood, to give him something to consume, something he could use to prove that you were alive, that he was alive. You returned the sentiment, biting down on his bottom lip and bringing him back down on you to mix in the iron flavor of the two of you.
His hips began to rut into you, deep and determined, his bulge already a tent against his thick pants.
“Ti please.”
He did not need to be told twice.
His hand snaked down between your bodies to hastily set his erection free from the confines of something as stupid and trivial as clothing, something he would never let you wear again.
You felt him smack against your clothed mound, thick and warm, and couldn’t help the ungodly moan that escaped your lips. He chuckled over you, one hand pulling your thong to the side, his fingers barely grazing your slick folds but enough to have him shivering.
You beamed at the reactions you could pull from him, how quickly and easily he came undone because of you.
His tip was inside of you in an instant, not gentle, not kind, nothing more than demanding and claiming. You’d been with other people before, that was no secret, at least you hoped it wasn’t because now, now you needed him to go rough.
Luckily for you, he felt the same way as his hips thrust into you instantly.
He was so hot. You were scalding. You could feel everything, ever vein, every ridge, every breath he took to steady himself so he didn’t blow his load immediately.
Oh this motherfucker was going to knock you up.
You clenched around him without meaning to.
“Oh?” He chuckled, his eyes searching for something within your own. You covered your face with your hands instinctively, the blush that had creeped up your cheeks telling. “Oh.”
With that he sheathed himself inside of you to the hilt, his hips digging into your own painfully so, determined to flush you out of your shame. After a second too long you yelped loudly, hands coming off your face to push against his chest.
He relented, pulling back enough to where it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. He took your hands off his chest and up towards his mouth, softly kissing each one before he pulled out of you and slammed back in.
“Yes, I am, I will,” he murmured into your ear. “And you’re going to love it. So full of me, of us, you’ll beg me to keep you like that forever.”
You whined as he lifted your legs towards your chest, knees practically touching your shoulders. His thrusts were unhinged, the lewdness from wet, slapping sounds filled the room as the chorus of your moans urged him forward.
You were so close, so overwhelmed by him everywhere, his pinewood and leather scent, his silky sheets against your back. This felt right, finally, as though the entire puzzle had been unlocked with just one piece.
“Let go, angel,” he commanded. “Cum with me.”
And so you did. My god you did.
Heat erupted from your core like an avalanche, the pleasure having never felt this perfect before. What made it even better was feeling him, hips pressed against your entrance as he locked himself deep inside of you and came, hot and long, filling you up like his life depended on it. Because it did. This was everything that mattered now.
Your entire body jerked occasionally as you came down from your high. After what felt like too long, Titus finally let himself fall down on your chest and you ran your fingers through his scalp, nails gently scratching and he hummed in satisfaction.
You stayed like that for a long time. Nothing outside of this room mattered. There was nothing that could make you give a fuck about anything that wasn’t him.
“Marry me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.
“Titus—”
“No,” he raised himself back up to tower over you, causing you to shiver slightly. The toothy grin on the motherfucker was ridiculous and you loved it. “You will marry me and we will have a big, obnoxious family, and we’ll be happy, together, finally.”
You wanted to say yes. You should’ve said yes. But you didn’t. You hesitated.
“Why?” He sighed. “I can give you everything, anything, angel.”
“I already have everything.”
He shook his head. “You don’t. You could be free.”
“Free? With you?”
The way his face contorted into confusion and pain physically hurt you. But you knew, and he knew, that you were right.
You didn't have time to think about the past, not right now.
The second the old man began his countdown, you got up, poised and delicate, unafraid and calm. You smiled at Ursula, a silent plea she knew exactly what to do with, and excused yourself from the table.
One hundred seconds.
You walked into the house, aware of just how many eyes were on you.
Ten families had come to the celebration. Each one being around three people. There was no clarity on who could participate, only that they had to deliver you, preferably dead by dawn. Thirty people, well, twenty-nine after the early departure of Miss Kipling earlier in the day.
Watching Titus kill her had been a thrill then, a comfort now. If he had been at that dinner table too he would’ve wasted no time starting the clock early. He would not have held back, would’ve covered the entire lawn in crimson and you most certainly would be dead already.
The second you were out of view you ran.
That stupid silk dress had been a mistake. A mistake to think that you were safe. A mistake to think that you were home, especially when you knew what home meant for this family.
You kicked off your heels and practically rushed through your routine. You were supposed to go pheasant hunting with the other ladies in the morning so your outfit was thankfully already laid out for you.
You had to be quick, had to make it into the passages before you heard the gun go off, before you—
“They took him north,” Ursula’s voice cut through your panic, instantly putting you at ease. “You remember where he's stashed guns?”
You nodded, lacing up your boots at last. She stepped forward, looking down at you with an expression you could only describe as worry. It wasn’t just for you but for herself as well. You knew she’d tried desperately to find a match that would work but after three failed hunts, her resolve had been getting thin.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let them win.”
She nodded, her thumb ghosting over your lips for a second too long. “I know.”
And with that she was gone and you were alone again.
With one last breath, you opened the false wall behind your dresser and stepped into the house’s secret passageways.
The gun had gone off a second after, causing your heart to practically implode against your chest.
God, you hated hunting.
Every time Ursula invited you to her home you refused to play. It’s not that it appalled you, in all honesty it filled your body with a burning desire that made no logical sense. Instead, the pleasure you derived from them was found afterwards, when adrenaline was high and everyone seemed to be desperate for another form of release.
You would forever be thankful to Ursula for her guardianship, for the safe space to explore yourself, your sexuality, your desires. And since your father trusted her more than Titus to be the voice of reason, the “lead by example” child, he would let you free whenever she called on you. He didn’t need to know about the lewd nights of debauchery and how you always seemed to find yourself in her bed with whatever human toy she was messing around with at the time (if they survived the day that was).
Ursula empowered you where Titus tended to mold you, and that was the only reason why you managed to keep on a clear head as you slid into his room in search for his many weapons.
The light turned on suddenly.
“You’re exhaustingly predictable, you know that?”
Fucking Duke.
You turn to face him, leaning against Titus’s armoire, fingers softly searching for the gun you knew was taped to the side.
“And you’re pathetic if you think he’s gonna let you stake your claim on Ursula.”
“So you do remember me!” He chuckled darkly, slowly stalking his way across the room towards you. “I wasn’t sure since you seemed to be so out of it last time I saw you.”
You smirked, hand finally reaching the cold handle. “What can I say? I always remember someone who can’t make a lady cum.”
You definitely should not have said that, poking the tiger as it were, but you couldn’t help it. When he didn’t immediately pounce, you just kept going.
“Had to eat her out after you came too quickly,” a flash of shame in his eyes, emasculated. “So pathetic, actually.”
He pounced. You pulled out the gun, took off the safety and shot.
The bullet pierced his shoulder, but he did not stop.
Fuck.
His large hands wrapped around your own, pushing the gun into the air as you fired again. You were drawing too much attention, they were going to be on you soon enough. So you played dirty.
Your foot smacked him right between his legs, merciless. He instantly contracted in pain, hands letting go of yours and it took no time for you to aim the barrel between his eyes, pulling the trigger as if it were just another Friday night.
His body fell to the floor as the door burst open.
Back to running it was.
Before whoever had entered could see where you had gone, you were already on your way back downstairs. Maybe it was enough time to stall, to get down to the kitchen and slip out through the server’s entrance. You knew they always had a golf cart waiting, maybe you could figure it out.
You open the kitchen hatch slowly, peeking inside before actually rushing into the room because unlike everyone in this fucking family, you actually learned from your mistakes. With the coast clear, you slid into the eerily quiet room.
“Marta?” You whispered into the air.
Nothing.
Oh if something had happened to her—
“Mija—”
You still instantly, hiding behind the kitchen island. Your heart was racing already, adrenaline making you jumpy and jittery, and not in a good way. How Titus and Ursula got off on this feeling you’d never understand.
A set of keys slid across the marble floors towards you and you understood. You grabbed them, slowly rising to your feet as you started down the hall down to the cellar. While the property was connected through the gigantic gold course that ran between the resort and the lodge, underneath there was a collection of tunnels that did the same thing, a detail you had hoped no one knew about since most high ranking members did not concern themselves with the comings and goings of staff.
Unfortunately for you, that did not seem to be the case tonight as you felt a body slam into yours from behind before you even made it down the stairs.
You groaned in pain, gun falling from your grip towards a dark corner in the room.
You couldn’t tell who it was, who kept holding you down against the scratchy stone floor, who pressed their knee into your sternum, who cradled your head in their hands and squeezed.
All you knew was that you were not going to go down without a fight.
You scratched, you squirmed, you thrashed — your body wasn’t yours, it was wild and unrestrained. Your nail managed to stab right into their neck, right next to their carotid, enough for them to stumble backwards but not enough to incapacitate. But it didn’t matter. You just kept going.
It was only when you felt a gush of warmth dripping on your skin from above that you stopped, swiftly standing up and making a run for the cart. You got on and sped off into the night, not caring to stick around to see if they would make it or not.
You wiped as much blood off you as you could, following the directions you knew in your bones to the north side of the compound. You needed to let him know, needed to get in touch with him.
Desperate hands searched the glove compartment. There had to be something you could use. And luckily, there was, a fucking walkie.
You hastily turned it on, not caring if the sound might attract unwanted attention.
Channel 7 was alive as the guards kept each other appraised of what was happening throughout. Most families were still at the lodge, good. They had locked down every exit, also good. And then—
“Anyone got eyes on Mr. Danforth?”
“Still negative, sir. He heard the gunshots and bolted. My two guys are still crit.”
A broad smile adorned your lips. Good, he was definitely not going to stop now, especially if Ursula got to tell him what was happening.
“Be glad they’re still alive, Parker,” it was him. “Your men get in my way again and they won’t be so lucky.”
Fuck you almost cried tears of joy.
So you changed course.
You pressed the talk button twice then waited for nine seconds before you pressed it again, quickly switching to channel two.
Your heartbeat was all you could hear for what felt like a small eternity before the decide on your lap came alive.
“Angel?”
You let out a disheveled sob at the sound of his voice and you could hear him inhale sharply on the other end.
“Ti—”
“Are you safe?”
“Almost.”
“Good,” he cooed. “You know where to go?”
“I do now.”
“Good girl,” he sighed in relief. “I’ll come find you once it’s done.”
“Leave it on,” the words slipped past your lips before you can stop them. “I wanna listen.”
The groan that erupted from his chest was feral.
“Anything for my bride.”
For the next hour, the only comfort was hearing the strained groans and screams from every single person Titus came across.
He unfortunately couldn’t kill them given the stupid rules, but he could make them hurt.
His father had been vague with his own rules for this challenge, and with that came a lot of room to get creative. No one would miss a few fingers, no one would question a few broken bones or ripped out hair. The human body would heal. But his pride, his rightful status as the head of this family required bloodshed, penance from his flock.
You were uncomfortably wet, your underwear soaked through as you made it into the little chapel on the property. In no normal world should Titus’s actions turned you on so much, but in the one you’d been groomed to take part of, every plea for mercy, every grunt, every scream, every breath that came out of him only aided in getting you ready for him.
You wasted no time slipping out of your pants, of your shirt, of every ounce of clothes that made you feel like you were being held prisoner. They had all been chosen by his father, by the system that he had wanted to keep you under. But what laid underneath, that worn lace that hugged your curves — that was all yours, all his.
You laid down on the table behind the altar, your fingers quickly found your soaked folds, eagerly smearing your wetness all over your slit as you began touching yourself. You pressed down on the call button and let out a strangled moan at the contact and Titus instantly stilled on the other side of the call.
“Are you touching yourself, angel?”
You held the button pressed again, moaned louder, encouraging, demanding.
“You’re playing with fire, little girl.”
“I’m just playing with you, over.”
The walkie came to life.
“If you don’t stop touching what’s mine there will be consequences.”
“I still belong to me, Ti,” you teased. “At least until sunrise.”
The door slammed open and you didn’t even flinch, only tossing the walkie to the side as he stalked forward.
You sat up from your hiding place, darkened eyes devouring him whole.
He was dripping, entire body covered in blood. The thick wool of his coat was soaked through, the substance seeping through and onto his button down as he made swift work of the buttons holding him captive.
“Well, good for you, I don’t give a fuck what you think.”
You smiled up at him, opening your legs as he wasted no time squishing your body under his. His mouth found yours instantly, one hand holding your jaw hostage as his tongue rammed inside of yours.
You were all his, finally, completely at his mercy, perfect, angelic, faintly smelling of iron and dirt and—
His eyes gave you a quick once over, noticing the bruising on your neck, the scratches on your cheek, the dirt in your hair.
“Angel—”
His voice was too soft and you hated it.
“Shut up and make me yours,” you demanded. “Again.”
That was all he needed to let himself go.
Possessive hands dug into your hips, his own pressing forward, his crotch rutting against your own. The stiffness of his clothes against the lace over your mound made you moan loudly. He rolled his hips again and again and again until your clit was swollen and raw. Your own hands tried to get his zipper undone but he was having none of it.
He bit down on your chest, right above your heart, and you stilled your movements instantly, body spasming as your orgasm took you by surprise. He chuckled darkly, the vibrations only prolonging the sensations.
When you were finally able to see straight again, he removed himself from your chest, his teeth perfectly imprinted on your skin, now purpling and bleeding slightly. Only then did he undo his pants, letting them pool at his feet as he set his erection free.
Satan, you’d missed him.
He swiftly flipped you on your stomach, pulling your ass up to where he needed you before he buried himself inside to the hilt.
You screamed, already so full of him that you didn’t know what to do with yourself
And then he started moving and you lost all sense of self.
There was no you anymore. It was only him and the two of you, your role as his bride, his wife, the mother of his children, his.
He was ruthless and insatiable, didn’t care about your discomfort as he pistoned in and out of you in a feverish haze of desire and the need to claim. Titus had always been entitled to everything he had in his life, but you were not just something that he was owed, that he owned, no, you were everything to him.
He slowed down when he felt you getting close, his hand snaking in between your legs to rub your clit slowly, coaxing another orgasm from you. Only this time it wasn’t rough, it wasn’t demanding, it was loving and kind and soft.
You let yourself go, walls tightening around his impressively stiff length as he continued his slow movements all the way through. The tears started spilling after that, hot and unstoppable.
It was only when a sob erupted from your throat that he slipped out of you, flipping you on your back once again so he could bury himself inside of you, holding you tightly against him, his lips quickly meeting yours once more.
He knew you were a very sentimental person. You’d always cried on your birthday, always felt the need to pick up every stray you encountered, made sure that everyone in your life knew how loved and cherished they were.
His tongue licked up your face, cleaning up the wetness that had gathered. They tasted salty, like victory and success, like sticking it to his father and finally feeling like he was wanted by someone who didn’t have to accept him just because they were tied by an invisible blood bond.
It was only when your grip on his arms tightened that he started moving again. Slow, steady, knowing fully well that you were ovulating, because he knew, he always knew.
“You told him you’d give him grandchildren before he died,” he groaned in your ear, causing a shiver to run through your body. He chuckled, satisfied with your response. “Which means you better pray I get you pregnant tonight or else he will definitely not live long enough to satisfy your promise.”
You moaned as you felt his tip reach your cervix.
“Guess you’ll have to fill me up until it takes—”
His hips snap, painfully so, and you can only chuckle in response.
“Oh I intend to,” his lips ghost over yours. “My wife.”
The coil snaps then and you’re both coming undone.
You can’t help but wrap your legs around him tightly, hands scratching across his clothed back as his own leave bruises on your hips, pulling you so tight against him the pain snaps up again, mixing so beautifully with the pleasure you’re certain he’d be successful.
By the time he’s done you’re leaking but he doesn’t move, doesn’t dare detach himself from you. He’s gonna keep you there, stuck beneath him until the night is through, until he can put a giant rock on your finger and show you off to all the pathetic people who dared to think they could harm you.
He leaned down again, soft lips meeting yours in a silent promise, a possessive remark.
“My husband.”
He hummed, then, finally at peace. “My wife.”
a/n: I've been writing this since January and I have finally been able to finish it. God I love Titus so much, send me requests for him please!!
Summary : You keep your personal life private at your new job. Until one day, your son’s innocent answers spark wild office gossip about your “mysterious” husband. Everyone thinks they’ve figured him out.
They’re wrong. Because the night they finally meet Dr. Jack Abbott, everything they assumed falls apart.
Words Count: 3,661
Part 2 : The Neighborhood Doctor
Another Dr. Jack Abbot story : No Excuse
If you enjoyed this, please leave a like, comment, or reblog. It really means a lot. Thank you for reading.❤️
Main Masterlist || 2nd Masterlist
Getting a job is hard. Settling into one is harder.
Adjusting to a new place takes time. New colleagues, new routines, new expectations. You had only been at the game studio for four months, but it already felt like a strange mix of comfort and chaos. On paper, it was perfect. Better pay, a solid position as an executive art director, and the location was close enough to both your home and your husband’s hospital.
In reality, it had its… quirks.
The workload wasn’t overwhelming, which was a blessing, and the environment was surprisingly flexible. People brought their pets, sometimes even their kids. On days when the nanny wasn’t available, you could bring Kyle along without anyone making a fuss.
Today was one of those days.
Jack had just come back from one of his SWAT assignments, and you could see the exhaustion in his eyes the moment he stepped through the door. You didn’t ask much. You just told him to sleep. He didn’t argue.
So here you were, with Kyle in tow.
Your twelve-year-old son loved coming to the studio. To him, it wasn’t work, it was paradise. Games everywhere, concept art pinned across walls, developers arguing over character designs like it was life or death. Sometimes, the team even asked for his opinion, especially when they needed feedback from “the target audience.” Kyle took that role very seriously.
“Go to the arcade room,” you told him, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “If you get bored, come to my office.”
“Yes, Mom,” he said instantly, already grinning like he had just won something. Free games, no limits. What more could a twelve-year-old want?
You watched him disappear down the hall before turning back to your desk.
Unfortunately, that meant turning back to Jade.
Jade, who somehow always appeared the moment there was something to ask. Or dig into. Or gossip about.
The downside is that this place can get pretty noisy, and one person is the main source of it—Jade. Gossip can be fun to listen to, but it’s a different story when you’re the topic.
You’re not the type to talk about your personal life, especially in a new workplace.
But Jade keeps pushing. She wants to know where you live, your past job, even details about your husband. She’s the kind of person who likes to compare her life to others, always checking if she’s doing better. And to make things worse, she’s the CEO’s niece.
So yeah… going to HR isn’t really an option
She leaned against your desk, arms crossed, eyes already scanning for information. “So… why is Kyle here today? Shouldn’t he be at home?”
You kept your tone casual. “His dad’s busy.”
“Oh,” she said, but the way her eyes lit up told you that answer wasn’t going to satisfy her for long.
It didn’t.
A few minutes later, she wandered off. Not far. Just enough to circle toward the arcade room where Kyle was already deep into a game of Tekken, completely focused.
Jade crouched slightly beside him, smiling in that overly friendly way. “Hey, Kyle. Where’s your dad today?”
Kyle didn’t even look away from the screen. “He just got home.”
“From work?” she pressed.
“Yeah. From the police. He got hurt,” Kyle added, still mashing buttons like his life depended on it.
Jade blinked.
From the police?
Got hurt?
“Oh…?” she said slowly, her brain already sprinting ahead. Is that why she never talks about him?
“Why did he get hurt?” she asked, lowering her voice like she was stepping into something serious.
In his mind, that was cool. His dad was a badass doctor who also worked with a SWAT team. Getting hurt was basically a badge of honor.
In Jade’s mind?
This was escalating quickly.
“Does your dad… work?” she asked carefully.
Kyle nodded. “Yeah. But he works graveyard shift.”
He didn’t bother explaining further. He didn’t see the need.
Jade’s eyes widened just a little.
Police. Injured. Night shifts. Never around.
Oh, this was good.
This was fresh, premium gossip.
She straightened up slowly, already reaching for her phone. It only took one message to her group chat.
And just like that, the story started spreading.
“Hey.”
You looked up from your screen and found Cole standing by your desk. You had seen him around before, of course. Hard not to. He was known for being a little too friendly with everyone.
You just never thought he’d come up to you.
“Didn’t know you bring your kid here,” he said, leaning casually against your desk like he had all the time in the world.
“Sometimes,” you replied, keeping your tone polite as you glanced back at your screen.
He nodded, but didn’t leave. “Must be a lot to handle on your own.”
You paused for a second, then looked at him. “I manage.”
He smiled like that answer wasn’t enough. “Still, if you ever need help—”
You pushed your chair back and stood, already reaching for your tablet. “I’ve got a meeting.”
It wasn’t true, but it didn’t need to be.
Cole stepped aside with a small chuckle. “Right. I’ll catch you later.”
You didn’t respond. You were already walking away.
Today felt different.
You stayed until the end of the workday for once, no rushing out in between tasks, no distractions. By the time you and Kyle left, the sky had already started to dim. You picked up dinner on the way home, both of you a little too hungry and a little too tired to think about cooking.
When you stepped inside, you found Jack already getting ready to leave.
Dr. Jack Abbott stood near the counter in his black scrubs, sleeves slightly rolled, watch already on. He looked like he always did before a shift. Calm. Focused. Halfway out the door, even when he was still standing in the house.
He glanced up when he heard you, and that was all it took.
He walked over without saying anything, closing the distance like it was routine. His hand settled briefly at your waist as he leaned in and kissed you, quick but familiar, like he’d done it a thousand times and still meant it.
Then he took the takeaway bags from your hands, as if that had been the goal all along.
Kyle got a fist bump on the way past.
“How’s your shoulder?” you asked, slipping off your shoes.
“Doesn’t hurt,” he said. “Just a bruise.”
You gave him a look, unconvinced. “If you need help putting on the cream, tell me.”
You even added a small wink, just to push it.
Jack paused for half a second, then a smirk tugged at his mouth. He leaned back in, kissing you again, this time just a little longer, like he was answering your offer without actually saying it.
“Huek.”
Kyle made a dramatic gagging noise from the dining area.
Jack didn’t even look at him. “You should be proud,” he said dryly. “Your parents act lovey dovey.”
Kyle rolled his eyes and grabbed the food from Jack’s hands. “Yeah, yeah. Save it for later.”
Dinner didn’t take long to settle into.
The three of you sat at the table, the usual rhythm slipping back into place. Kyle was already halfway through his meal, while Jack ate a little faster, clearly aware of the time.
“Mom,” Kyle said suddenly, mouth still half full, “your friend is kinda noisy.”
You frowned slightly. “Huh? Which one?”
“The one we met before I went to the arcade room.”
“Oh.” You exhaled, already knowing. “Her.”
Jack glanced up from his food, catching the shift in your tone. “What is this?” he asked. “Did I miss something?”
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Just office stuff.”
“That one,” you added.
“What did she ask?”
“Mostly about you.”
He paused, brow lifting slightly. “Me?”
“She’s the type who likes to compare her life to everyone else’s,” you said, as if that explained everything.
It did, more or less.
Kyle suddenly looked up again, remembering something important. “Oh, there was also a guy talking to Mom.”
Jack’s attention shifted immediately, subtle but sharp.
“I saw Mom keep walking away,” Kyle continued, completely unaware of the effect he was having, “but he kept following her.”
The mood changed, just slightly.
Jack set his fork down, not hard, not loud. Just enough.
“Should I say something to him?” he asked, tone calm, but a little too controlled now.
You shook your head. “If he tries again, I’ll go to HR.”
He held your gaze for a moment, then nodded once.
“Alright.”
Simple. He trusted you to handle it.
But as he reached for his drink, there was something quieter sitting behind his expression now. Not anger. Not yet.
Just the kind of focus that didn’t go away easily.
Because if it happened again—
He wouldn’t need to ask.
*****
A few days later, the studio finally wrapped the project.
Which meant one thing.
Celebration.
By the time you arrived at the bar, the place was already loud, packed with your coworkers, music thumping just enough to make conversations feel like effort. Drinks were flowing like no one had work the next day, and for once, no one was staring at their screens.
Tonight, you were the center of it.
Finishing a project ahead of deadline was rare. Finishing it well was even rarer. The client was happy, your team was relieved, and somehow your name kept coming up in every conversation.
You didn’t try to own the attention, but it followed you anyway.
“Hey, star of the night,” someone called out, raising a glass.
You smiled, a little embarrassed, a little amused.
Across the room, Jade wasn’t smiling.
You didn’t even need to look directly at her to feel it. The way conversations shifted around her, the way her laughter sounded just a bit too sharp. If looks could burn, you’d probably have a hole in your back by now.
And then there was Cole.
Of course.
He slid into the seat beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Didn’t think you’d actually stay this late,” he said, leaning a little too close.
“I won’t,” you replied calmly. “I’m not drinking.”
He glanced at your untouched glass. “Driving?”
You nodded.
“Shame,” he said with a grin. “You’re missing the fun.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
Because the “fun” was already escalating without you.
Across the room, a group of the younger artists had cleared a bit of space, hyping each other up. Someone shouted, someone cheered, and before you knew it, one of them attempted a backflip.
Surprisingly, he landed it.
The room erupted.
Cole sat up straighter beside you. “Okay, that’s easy.”
You turned your head, eyeing him. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m fine,” he said immediately, already standing.
“You’re not,” you added, a little more firmly now.
He waved you off like it was nothing. “Relax.”
You exhaled, watching him join the group, your instincts already telling you this wasn’t going to end well.
Someone clapped him on the back. Someone else cleared more space.
Cole bent his knees slightly, trying to steady himself. That alone should’ve been enough of a warning.
It wasn’t.
He jumped.
For a split second, it looked like he might actually pull it off.
Then everything went wrong.
His landing was off. His balance shifted mid-air, and instead of coming down clean, he twisted awkwardly. His leg hit the floor at the wrong angle, and the momentum carried him straight into Jade.
She didn’t even have time to react before she went down with him.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it was enough.
A sharp thud. A collective gasp.
Then—
“Ah—!”
Cole’s face twisted immediately, his body going rigid as he grabbed at his shoulder, then his leg.
Jade, on the other hand, let out a full scream.
“My leg! Oh my God, my leg!”
Everyone started talking at once.
“What happened…?”
“Is he okay?”
“Don’t move him!”
“Oh my God,” you muttered, pushing your way through the crowd, your mind switching gears instantly as the chaos unfolded in front of you.
**********
By the time you reached the ER, the noise had already swallowed you whole.
Voices overlapped, monitors beeped in uneven rhythm, and stretchers moved past like a constant current. You stayed close as Cole and Jade were wheeled in, one groaning, the other still loudly complaining as if volume could somehow reduce pain.
“Hey, kiddo.”
You turned and saw Dana walking toward you, already halfway into work mode, eyes scanning the situation before you even spoke.
“What brings you here? Nothing's wrong with you right?”
You exhaled lightly, nodding toward the two of them. “Delivering two packages.”
Dana followed your gaze, taking in the scene in one sweep. “Alright,” she said, already moving, voice shifting as she signaled to the staff. “Trauma two. Let’s go.”
As they wheeled your coworkers away, you stepped closer, lowering your voice just a little. “Where’s Jack?”
A small smile tugged at her lips, like she already knew more than she was saying. “I’ll call him. Go on, stay with them.”
You hesitated for a second, glancing toward the hallway before following anyway. “I wish I was here for something else,” you murmured under your breath.
Inside the room, the tension hadn’t settled. It had multiplied.
Cole was pale now, his breathing uneven, every small movement pulling a strained sound out of him. Jade, somehow, had found enough strength to be furious.
“I’m going to sue you, Cole,” she snapped, clutching her side. “I told you not to do that—”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
The door swung open, and Dr. Shen stepped in, already pulling on gloves, his gaze sharp and efficient as it moved from one patient to the other.
“Alright, what do we have here?”
His eyes landed on you, and something in his expression softened, just slightly. “Well. Fancy seeing you here.”
You let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. “Yeah. Not exactly planned.”
“He’ll be here in a second,” he said, like it was already decided.
Jade frowned, her attention snapping between the two of you. “Why does it sound like you know everyone here?”
Shen glanced at you, then back at her, one brow lifting as if he was about to say something—
The door opened again.
And this time, the room didn’t just react.
It adjusted.
Dr. Jack Abbott stepped in without urgency, without raising his voice, but somehow everything aligned the moment he did. The scattered movement tightened, the noise dipped just enough, and even the tension seemed to shift around him like it recognized something steady.
His gaze moved once across the room, taking everything in with quiet precision, before settling.
On you.
You didn’t think. Your body moved before your mind caught up, closing the distance between you in two quick steps as your hands found him, grounding yourself for just a second. His hand came up to your back automatically, firm and familiar, steadying you before he pulled away again, already halfway into his role.
Work first.
Always.
He reached for the chart, scanning it in silence, his expression unreadable until something in the name made him pause. It wasn’t long. Just enough.
Then his eyes lifted to yours.
A look.
That was all it took.
Understanding passed between you without a word, something quiet and sharp settling behind his gaze before the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
“Well,” he said, voice calm, almost thoughtful, “that explains it.”
His attention shifted back to Cole, gaze steady as he assessed the angle of the shoulder, fingers pressing just enough to confirm what he already knew.
“Dislocated,” he murmured, almost to himself.
A strained groan slipped out as Cole tightened his grip on the edge of the bed. “Yeah… no kidding…”
There was no reaction to that. Just a slight adjustment in stance, one hand firm around Cole’s arm, the other bracing at the shoulder. The movements were precise, practiced.
Unhurried.
“Try to relax,” he said, the dryness in his tone making it clear he didn’t expect that to actually happen.
“I am relaxed—”
He moved.
Quick. Clean.
And just a fraction sharper than it needed to be.
The joint slipped back into place with a dull, sickening shift.
Cole’s body jolted, a sharp cry tearing out of him before he could stop it, his head falling back as he struggled to catch his breath.
The hand stayed there a second longer, steady, making sure everything was aligned before finally letting go.
“Better.”
Simple. Like it was nothing.
Cole was still breathing hard, eyes unfocused, whatever confidence he had earlier completely gone now.
A small adjustment of the gloves followed, as if that had taken no effort at all.
Then, almost casually—
“Next time, maybe skip the gymnastics after a few drinks.”
Jack’s attention shifted to Jade, and the difference was immediate.
Where Cole got efficiency, Jade got silence.
He didn’t rush her. Didn’t fill the space. He just looked—really looked—taking in the bruise forming along her cheekbone, the small cut across the bridge of her nose, the way she held herself like the injury was worse than it actually was.
She straightened under that gaze without realizing it.
“It’s not broken,” Jack said at last, his tone calm, almost indifferent.
Jade blinked. “Are you sure? Because it really hurts—”
“It will,” he cut in, not harsh, just factual.
He stepped back slightly, already pulling off one glove as he turned his head just enough toward Shen.
“Clean it and apply the topical,” he said. “The stronger one.”
Shen’s lips twitched, like he understood something Jade didn’t.
“Got it.”
Jade frowned. “Stronger one?”
Jack glanced at her again, expression unreadable. “You’ll be fine.”
Which, somehow, wasn’t reassuring.
Shen stepped forward, gently but firmly tilting Jade’s chin. “This might sting a little.”
“A little?” Jade repeated, already tense.
The moment the cream touched the cut, Jade flinched hard.
“—Ow! Oh my God—why does it burn like that?!”
Shen didn’t pause, continuing his work with practiced ease. “It’s doing its job.”
Jack watched for exactly one second. Just long enough. Then he spoke, tone even, almost absent-minded. “It’s supposed to sting. Means it’s working.”
Jade’s mouth snapped shut.
Completely.
By the time Shen finished, Jade had gone quiet in a way she hadn’t been since arriving.
Then, as if the entire situation had only just become relevant to him, his gaze moved between them, calm and unreadable.
“It’s nice to finally meet my wife’s colleagues,” he said evenly. “Jack Abbott.”
The shift was immediate.
Jade’s expression faltered first, confusion flickering before it snapped into realization. Her posture straightened without her noticing, the earlier sharpness in her voice gone just as quickly as it had come.
Cole didn’t even try to hide it. The embarrassment hit harder than the pain, sitting heavy on his face as he looked at him, then at you, then back again, like he was trying to rewrite the last few days in his head and failing.
There was no reaction to any of it.
No pause. No satisfaction.
Just a slight turn of the body toward Shen. “Finish up here.”
Shen nodded, a hint of amusement slipping through as he stepped in.
The gloves came off in one smooth motion, discarded without a second thought. A pump of sanitizer followed, fingers rubbing together briefly, methodical, clean. By the time his hands dropped again, his attention had already shifted.
To you.
The gesture was simple. A hand offered, like it had always been there waiting.
You took it without hesitation.
He didn’t look back as the two of you stepped out of the trauma room together, leaving the noise, the complaints, and the consequences behind.
Out in the hallway, the air felt different. Quieter. The tension you hadn’t realized you were holding finally eased, your shoulders relaxing as you let out a small breath.
You glanced at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “You didn’t have to use that much strength on Cole,” you said lightly. “Or the stronger cream for her.”
He gave a quiet hum, not even bothering to deny it, his eyes flicking toward you for a second before looking ahead again.
“Seemed appropriate.”
That was it. No explanation, no apology.
You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head as you kept walking beside him. Of course it did. With him, it always was. Never obvious, never loud, but just enough to make a point.
You nudged his arm lightly.“You enjoyed that a little too much.”
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Maybe. After this, I don’t think they’ll bother you anymore.”
The way he said it wasn’t boastful or dramatic. Just calm. Certain. Like he had already seen the outcome and moved on from it.
****
A few days later, he was proven right.
Jade barely spoke when you were around. The sharp tone, the constant questions, the subtle comparisons—gone. Now she kept her distance, her eyes slipping away the moment they accidentally met yours, like holding your gaze for too long might remind her of that night.
Cole wasn’t any better.
The confidence he used to carry around you had completely disappeared. No more leaning too close, no more unnecessary conversations. If anything, he looked almost… careful now, keeping a noticeable distance, like he had finally learned where the line was.
You didn’t say anything about it.
You just noticed.
And maybe, just a little, you enjoyed it.
Because every time you caught a glimpse of that shift, your mind went back to the ER—to the way Jack had walked in, taken control of the room without raising his voice, and left just as easily.
Calm. Precise. Unbothered.
A small smile pulled at your lips as you focused back on your work.
pairing: ex-outlaw!michael robinavitch x f!reader x ex-outlaw!jack abbot
summary: leaving doc adamson's gang, jack abbot and michael robinavitch thought they were out of trouble. then, a young woman walks into their saloon dressed up like a man and demanding a turn on their piano.
wc: 23.4k
warnings: click this link to find them as well as a personal note!
a/n: i bet you all didnt expect for me to actually write it (jk jk jk). thank you from the bottom of my heart for 3k! (let's pretend like i hit it today and not a while ago...) please please please take this fic as my gift to you for the occasion! i hope you enjoy because i've been noodling on this since november, and writing it since january lol! <3 <3 <3 thank you again :)
*****
"We have an issue."
"Wonderful," Robby groans. He stretches his neck. He had hoped for a quiet night, one where he wouldn't have to throw his back out kicking out a drunk fella or breaking up a fight. "Where?"
Jack jerks his head down the bar, and that's where Robby sees it.
A woman. Dressed like a man. It's almost comical how much you stick out among the working men in the saloon. If they weren't all so drunk already, they'd be on you like a pack of wolves.
The Foothill Saloon is no place for a thing like you.
Robby sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "The lost little birdie?"
Jack smirks, "Yup."
It's not the first time a woman has come into the saloon. In the year and a half since they opened the joint, Robby and Jack have seen their fair share of women. Some have been scared, lost or beaten women looking for help, and they've been more than happy to offer a bed and a warm meal. When they're just looking for just a drink or some downright trouble, Robby and Jack offer nothing but directions to the door. That is, of course, not including the handful of women working the floor, their low cut blouses drawing even the owners' eyes from time to time.
"Am I handling this or you?" Robby asks.
"Oh, you can handle it," Jack says like he's doing him a favor. "But I'll watch."
You smile when you spot the pair heading down the bar your way. Jack is behind it, but Robby's in front. It's how they operate, always have. Robby has an easier time maneuvering the floor. Plus, where Jack has always had better luck talking up women, men tend to listen to Robby a bit better thanks to his height.
"Evenin', fellas." God, you don't even try to sound like a man. Your voice is like a song, light and sweet over the cacophony of voices in the hall. "Busy night, huh?"
"Go home," Robby says. "We don't serve women here."
To your credit, you don't do anything ridiculous like ask how he knows you're a woman. Though, you do square your shoulders and keep your head held high as you retort, "There's plenty of women here."
Jack scoffs behind the bar. The rag in his hand glides along the edge of a glass in a practiced motion. "They're sporting women."
You shift, and Robby can't help but notice the way you carry yourself. Your posture is impeccable, better than every single woman they have working the floor. You're certainly not a working woman, nor are you a prostitute. You're too naive for that, eyes bright and hopeful as they look out into the crowd.
"I'm not here for trouble, sir," your voice, sweet and out of place, brings Robby back to you. "Just lookin' for a drink."
"Well, that's too bad," Robby cracks his neck. He's already tired of this conversation. "Because we ain't takin' your money."
You smirk, and Robby is struck by how pretty you are. Even in the men's clothes, your hair mussed and pinned in a more masculine fashion, you're undeniably beautiful. Robby has seen plenty of fine women in his day, but there's an unspoken grace to you that piques his curiosity.
"That's alright." Your eyes slide across the saloon. Robby follows your gaze to the piano sat on the raised platform in the corner. There aren't any musicians in this town, beyond the occasional traveling band. It's been many weeks since its ivories have been tickled. "I'll play for it."
Jack snorts behind the bar. You don't pay him any mind.
"I can play the pianoforte mighty well." Your voice oozes confidence. Robby has no doubt that you play well, even if you squirm under his scrutinizing gaze. "You've got nobody on that piano there, and I know all the dance hall songs. I'll play for free if you let me drink—"
A glass slams onto the bar top beside you. It's so loud, even Robby jumps. You both come to stare at Jack, sporting a mean scowl.
"How many times do we have to tell you to get lost," Jack grunts, eyes raking your trembling form. "Now it'd be best if you listened. We don't take no solicitors, 'specially not little girls like you."
"I ain't a solicitor, sir." You clear your throat, straightening. Robby wants to laugh at the show of bravado. You've got gall. Even Jack would give you that. "I'll play for free. I don't need your money."
Jack opens his mouth to speak, but for your sake, Robby steps in, "Why don't you and I continue this conversation outside?"
A few patrons are beginning to notice that something is awry. While they're too drunk to piece it together just yet, a few regulars down at the other end of the bar (probably waiting for Jack to finally serve them) are eyeing the three of you with curiosity.
You don't notice the growing danger you're in, because you say, "I don't feel safe goin' outside with you, sir."
Jack barks out a laugh. It's loud and mean. You look at him with wide eyes. For a moment, Robby thinks to himself, maybe you aren't a birdie, maybe you're a doe, a scared little doe. He cuts a look at Jack, who is already making his way to the other end of the bar. Robby shakes his head, without looking at you, he says, "You'll be safer out there than you are in here, birdie."
His words give you pause. For the first time since you walked in, it seems that you're recognizing the eminent danger that your presence in this saloon puts you in. To add fuel to the fire, the rest of the patrons are finally taking notice. Even the working girls in the corner are whispering to themselves as they gawk.
"Alright," you nod, looking a little green around the gills. "Fine."
He ushers you ahead of him. While your head hangs low, Robby makes sure to keep his chin up. With each leering patron you pass, Robby makes sure to give them his meanest look. The message is clear: messing with you means messing with him.
Robby takes you out back to the small stable. It's only big enough for one horse, which is fine because they only have one horse. It was all the gang could spare when they left, already in shambles from Doc Adamson's death.
Robby grabs his cattleman hat from a hook on the wall. It's dark enough that nobody should give him trouble, but Robby would like to play tonight safe. The last thing he wants is for someone to recognizing him riding at night with a strange woman. After that, he grabs the saddle and starts fixing Orleans up for the ride.
Orleans has been Jack's horse for fifteen years now, stolen one night after his old horse had passed. He was piss drunk when he found him, but managed to make his way back to the camp. It was Robby who found him, and when he asked Jack where the hell he found the steed, Jack slurred something about New Orleans. The only problem is that at the time they were in Kansas.
Robby found the whole thing so funny that he told everyone about it the next morning. The whole time, Jack's face was as red as his hair was at the time. It was Heather, barely twenty at the time, who first called the horse Orleans. Jack grumbled about it, but didn't have the creativity to come up with a better name, so it stuck.
Orleans is a well-tempered horse, though a little skittish with Robby, despite the three years of practice he has riding him. Jack can't ride him anymore, so Robby has picked up on taking care of him. He takes the responsibility very seriously. In a way, Orleans is all they have from their old life. When they left the crew, Jack still recovering from the loss of his leg, Orleans was all they had. Well, they had Dana, but it isn't like she stuck around too long.
You whistle lowly as Robby saddles Orleans up, "That's a beautiful horse, sir."
"Yes, he is." Robby hoists himself up on the horse with a grunt. It's getting harder and harder these days now that he doesn't ride as much. That and the fact that Robby's getting old. Fifty-five is around the corner. His pa didn't make it to this age, and while Robby's grateful for his longevity, he can't help but curse the limits of his aging body.
He envies you, a young, naive thing. You can't be much older than your early twenties, your face soft with youth.
Robby offers his hand, scarred and calloused, to you. You hesitate, your delicate hand hanging just above his, but you don't take it.
"I can walk."
"Come on," Robby says, "Orleans here is an old boy, but he can take two." What Robby doesn't say is that Orleans always hauls two. While him and Jack have taken to riding double on her, Orleans is a trusty boy and never once even whinnied at the inconvenience.
Reluctantly, you place your hand is his. Before he can think too much about how soft your hand is, Robby yanks you up. You yelp, and in a series of what are likely mini-miracles, you don't end up on your ass. Though, you are sitting aside, arms wrapped tight around Robby's waist like you're afraid of getting bucked off.
"What are you doin'?" Robby asks.
"Sitting."
He sighs, "If you dress like a man, you gotta ride like one."
"Like a man?"
"Leg over, sweetheart."
You gulp audibly. Robby would laugh if he weren't so fed up with this entire situation. He should be working the floor tonight, not playing chauffer for some lost little thing. At least you're pretty. That offers at least some consolation.
When you awkwardly lift your leg over to the other side of Orleans, Robby asks, "Now, where do you live?"
"I'll point the way," you mumble, shyly. Robby almost misses the brazen woman you were inside. "Just start riding."
Robby chuckles but starts moving, "Yes, ma'am."
The ride is longer than he anticipated. Not long, but just lengthier than he thought. You've led Robby outside of town, and he's starting to think you're leading him to a whole lot of nowhere. Just when he's about to question your directional skills, Robby spots what looks like fencing.
"We're nearly there," you say.
Finally, the road gives way to a broad clearing. Robby whistles at the sight.
"The saloon ain't no place for a lady." He warns, "Now I better not see you around there ever again, okay?"
"You really must stop calling me a lady," you say.
"That's what you are, ain't you?" The house and estate before him are grand. It's not just a house, but a manor. It would take a five minute ride from the gate to the front door alone. "I've got eyes, girl. This is a lady's home."
You gulp audibly. Robby would be laughing at it if maybe he was still in the saloon, pouring drinks with Jack. But no. He's stuck here way past town with some girl who's too curious for her own good.
Robby observes the sprawling estate before him. The moonlight is dim, but he can make out the basic features of the estate. There's fields of beautiful foliage, the main home and several smaller quarters, a stable, and what looks like a sprawling garden behind the home. It's all along the river. Dully, Robby thinks he recognizes the place.
"Ain't this where that one family lives?"
Your face pinches. You almost look offended as you ask, "Do you mean the Eastons?"
"Yeah, them."
"Yes."
Robby blinks, "Are you an Easton?"
You blink, "No." You shift, "I work for them."
He doesn't buy it. You come into the saloon, offer to pay for drinks and play the piano for free, and then you try to ride aside. Try to tell him you're a servant all you want, but Robby isn't stupid.
Still, he humors you. "Alright," he concedes, slowing Orleans to a stop. "Well, then I suppose this is good night."
"Ah… you're not dropping me off closer to the house?"
Robby turns to look at you. By the look on your face, eyes wide and pleading, you're completely serious. He decides not to yell at you, the poor pampered girl on the back of his horse, and adopts an only slightly sarcastic tone to say, "Well I would, but I don't wanna risk gettin' you in trouble with your steward."
You frown, "My steward?"
"I need a drink," Robby grumbles to himself.
"What was that?"
Ignoring you, he explains, "Your steward? Your boss?"
"Oh. Oh!" You force a laugh, "Yes… yes… my steward. Heh. Thought you said somethin' else."
Silence.
"Are you gonna get off?"
"Oh," you slowly, carefully lower yourself to the ground. It's an unpracticed movement. It looks to Robby like you're used to doing this with one person holding your hand and another stabilizing you at the waist. Hell, maybe there's a third person there just in case.
On the ground, you cross your arms, staring up at Robby with an indignant expression. The corner of his lips quirk upward.
"Well," you shift, tugging at the pants that cling to your curves. "Good night, Mr…"
"Just Robby, is fine."
You nod curtly, "Good night, Mr. Robby."
He opens his mouth to correct you, but all that comes out is a soft laugh. He merely turns Orleans away. When you're out of earshot, he utters, "And good night to you too, little birdie."
*****
Robby tends to be an early riser. Always up before sunrise to feed Orleans, he does make a habit of returning to bed for a few more minutes of peace before his lover wakes.
Jack has always been a night owl. It's a habit from when they spent their time holding up wagons for cash and goods or robbing rich folk blind, but now that they spend their time pouring drinks and serving up grub, Jack's eyes refuse to close for a long while, even when Robby's snoring in his arms. As a result, Jack also sleeps in long past Robby. Often times, Robby will have to rouse him sometime around ten to help prep for lunch service.
This morning, however, Robby wakes face down in a pillow instead of Jack's chest as the mattress shifts beneath him. By the time he manages to peel his eyes open, Jack's already sitting up, shirt already on and buttoned.
"Where are you goin'?" Robby croaks.
"The store," Jack grumbles. "I'm outta cigarettes."
That's enough to wake him up. Robby sits up, blinking languidly in an attempt to wake up. He asks, "Want me to come? We can take Orleans."
Jack shakes his head. He grabs the artificial leg next to the bed and begins to fasten it. "No need," he says. "I'm grown. Don't need help."
"It's muddy out. It'll be better for your leg if—"
"It's always muddy out," Jack stands. He shifts his weight from side to side, when he seems happy with the feel, Jack collects his trousers from the floor. "Sometimes you just have to walk through it."
Jack's sensitive about his leg, has been since he lost it. It was during their last job with the gang, the same one that took Doc Adamson's life. Jack got shot in the middle of his calf. Within hours it was showing sign of infection. They tried to save his leg, but there was no outrunning the infection with the little medical supplies they had left. Plus, Adamson was the only real doctor in the gang. Without him there, nobody really knew what to do other than cut it off.
Jack and Robby only stayed long enough for his leg to heal. Once three months hit, Robby went out to find Jack means of walking that wasn't just the old crutches laying around camp. Robby stole the artificial leg from a man who fought in the Great Rebellion. Though, he fought for the traitors, so Robby didn't feel any guilt when he stuck his gun in his face and demanded that the man hand over his leg.
Despite the artificial limb helping him regain some dignity, the leg is a sore spot. Everything changed that night for him, when he ceased being an outlaw and became simply Jack.
It changed Robby too, having to saw through Jack's flesh and bone, praying that the tourniquet would do its job. Dana shoved a belt in Jack's mouth to stop him from breaking his teeth. Even after loading him up with morphine and whiskey, the pain was just too much. Jack doesn't remember much of the amputation, only the pain. He didn't see the way Robby cried, how he prayed that night, so afraid that Jack would be taken from him before he and Robby could find a better life together.
As he recovered, Robby kept waiting for shit to hit the fan, Jack did, too. Except, it never did. Jack's recovery went well, physically, at least. Mentally, Jack didn't know what was left anymore. Robby was there the entire time, Dana too, but things were different. Things were always going to be different after that.
It's why Jack stays behind the bar most nights. People in town are nice to him, don't make a fuss or stare when he limps down the street, but that isn't to say he's immune to the odd drunken patron of the saloon. When they were still getting the place on its own two feet, it took only two men hassling Jack about his limp for him to resign himself to forever hiding behind the bar.
Robby sighs, "How about I meet you there."
Jack doesn't bother hiding his disdain for Robby's words, pulling a face. He always does this, tries to make Robby back down like he doesn't know the man well enough to know Robby won't. "Fine," he grumbles, pulling his trouser on. "Not like you'd listen to me if I said otherwise…"
Jack's out of the door before Robby is able to rouse himself out of bed. Rubbing his eyes, Robby trudges up the stairs to get dressed. They live in a sizeable quarters attached to the saloon. While they sleep in one, it's got two bedrooms for appearances if a drunkard were to ever go snooping where they shouldn't. Robby keeps all his clothing and personal affects in the one on the second floor.
In the bedroom, Robby takes a glance through the window. It was pouring rain last night, and from the looks of it, it's nowhere near dry out. He sighs, rubbing his face. Jack's leg is going to be screaming mad at him. It's tough with the artificial limb. It doesn't move like it ought to, rubs against Jack's residual limb, and makes the man mighty grumpy (grumpier than he was before he lost his leg, if that's even possible).
Robby quickly heads down and out to the stables. He was already out here before the sun came up to feed Orleans before heading back to bed. The horse chuffs when Robby saddles him up.
"Oh, don't be like that," Robby tuts. "You should be happy to go out."
Robby worries for the old horse. Orleans used to be so active back in the day, before he and Jack settled down. They lived a far more active lifestyle, long stakeouts, running on a job. It was a freer life. For them and Orleans.
Now Robby isn't a horse, but if he was, he'd want that life, not being stuck in a stable with only a small pasture to walk around in. Most of the time Orleans is out, he's dragging along a small wagon with supplies for the saloon.
Come to think of it, the longest walk Orleans has been on this last month without having to lug all that weight was when Robby went to the Easton estate to drop you off. Orleans was thrilled once Robby dropped you off, practically galloping all the way home. Robby had to take the reins to slow him down a few times, lest he fell off of the stallion.
As he fastens the saddle, Robby decides he'll take Orleans for a long ride today during the break between the saloon's lunch and evening hours. Jack would complain, but he's competent enough to handle the cleanup and prep.
"Come on, boy," Robby says as he hoists himself up onto Orleans. As his body yells at him for it, Robby wonders what will happen first, Orleans' death, or Robby's bad back finally catching up to him. "Let's head out."
It's pleasantly cool this morning, the kind that tickles the nose and calms any nerves. Robby takes his time on the short ride to the general store. It seems most folks are taking their time this morning. There's very few people on the street, and most people that are wandering are still rubbing the sleep from their eyes.
Most.
As Robby hops off of Orleans in front of the general store, across the way, a young man in an old leather pinch front stares at him. He looks to be in his early twenties. His build is deceiving, a light frame, but Robby can spot the corded muscles of his arms from yards away. He's handsome in a soft way, the kind of face that girls would sketch in their journals.
The man waves at Robby and begins to cross the street. Robby rolls his eyes as he tethers Orleans to the hitching post.
"Howdy, there!" The man greets. He leans against the porch in front of the general store, a genial smile on his face. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"
"That it is," Robby says, making no effort to sound interested in the conversation.
"Dennis Whitaker, sir," the young man removes his hat, holding it over his chest as he sticks his hand out. When Robby shakes it, Dennis continues, "Mighty fine horse you have here."
"Thank you," Robby says, "Michael Robinavitch. Call me Robby."
"Good to meet you, Robby," Dennis says, finally dropping his hand from the firm handshake. He steps back, whistling lowly as he takes in the full sight of Orleans. "I must ask, are you interested in studding him? We'd pay you plenty for it."
Pay? Well, shit, if Robby knew all he had to do to get cash was let his horse get frisky, he would have saved himself a lot of trouble. It's a good deal. Too good, maybe.
"'We'?"
"Do you happen to know the Easton family? The ones livin' down by the lake?"
Of course Robby knows the Easton family. Well, knows of the Easton family. A small family— husband, wife, and kid. The wife died at some point after the baby was born. While the Eastons pay just about everyone's bills in town thanks to their mining enterprise, they tend to keep to themselves. But word of mouth travels fast, and Jack and Robby have come to learn plenty about these mysterious folks.
They're not from here— here being America. Easton, at least according to the drunks that frequent the Foothill Saloon, is a fake name, adopted by the husband and wife upon landing on American soil. American or not, doesn't really matter all that much to anybody, especially when the Easton's are the folks who've got the money around here.
Robby and Jack couldn't care less about them. The Eastons don't come into the saloon, but they pay the folks that do. Don't matter if times are tough, so long as people still want to whet their whistle. In fact, the first time Robby saw the family's estate was when he went to drop you off a few weeks ago.
"Yeah," Robby scratches his beard, "I know 'em."
Dennis smiles, "I work their stables, sir, and I think your horse here would make a great stud for one of their mares."
"A stud?"
Dennis chuckles nervously, "A horse that—"
"I know what a stud is," Robby scoffs. "I mean, you want Orleans here to… be a stud?"
"Well, that's for Mr. Easton to decide, but I think he'd be a great fit." Robby nods, and Dennis continues, "Like I said, he'd pay."
"For his come?"
Dennis blushes. He clears his throat, "Yes sir. You should drop by with the stallion if you're interested. Mr. Easton is taking callers all day. Just come on down, I'll tell him to expect you."
Dennis puts the hat back on. Up close, it looks comically large on the man, almost like he needs to grow into it.
"Well then, have a good day, sir." With that, Dennis turns on his heels and leaves.
At the same moment, a door opens behind Robby. He turns to see Jack stepping out of the general store carrying a pack of cigarettes. His gait is uneven, more than usual, and Robby shakes his head. He should have ridden with Robby and Orleans. Jack lights up a smoke before he can even step off of the porch.
"Who's that?" Jack asks. He tucks the rest of the cigarettes in Orleans' saddle bag, eyes following Dennis's retreat.
Robby shrugs, "Some kid who works for the Eastons."
"What'd he want?"
"Wants old Orleans here to stud one of their mares."
Jack's face lights up, he pats Orleans's rear and says, "Hear that, boy? You want a filly to fool around with?" To Robby, he adds, "How much they payin'?"
"If the Eastons," Robby shrugs, "We're probably looking at two, maybe three hundred."
Jack whistles, "Shit, wish someone would pay that much for my spend."
Robby chuckles. He takes a quick look around. There's nobody within earshot, nor is anybody looking their way. Robby leans close to Jack and utters, "You want me to start?"
Jack licks his lips, "Careful."
Robby steps closer, caging Jack between himself and the porch. He leaves a respectable amount of distance, enough that any wandering eyes might just think Robby's trying to intimidate him. Maybe he is.
"I say we have time before we open up shop." Robby jerks his head back in the direction of the saloon, "How'd you like to make a few bucks?"
*****
"Remember the girl a few weeks ago?"
Jack snorts. Of course he remembers you– the naive thing that came stumbling in looking like a fool in slacks and suspenders. He was spitting mad at the sight of you, trying to be confident as you looked him in the eyes. It's a good thing he caught you first. You were a pretty thing, even the men's clothes couldn't hide that. If the wrong drunk found you…
Jack doesn't want to think about that.
"I remember her plenty good," he says.
The Easton estate is even more beautiful and even more sprawling in the daytime. At least, that's what Robby says. To Jack, it looks like any other rich folk's home.
"She works here," Robby says as they ride down the sprawling path to the manor.
"No shit," Jack says.
His hands twitch from their spot on Orleans' rear. Jack tries not to wrap his arms around Robby's waist when they're riding, as much as he wants to. If Robby's riding slow enough, he merely steadies himself either like that or with his legs around Orleans.
God, speaking of his leg, it's aching something fearsome today. Not what's left, but what was there. He feels it most days, tries to scratch his artificial foot or curl his long-gone toes. Some days, it's pain. That's what he woke up to today, before the sun even rose, pain where there ought to be nothing. It drives him mad. Maybe he is mad, trying to move a foot that just isn't there anymore.
"Is everything alright?" Robby asks like reading Jack's mind like one of those traveling psychics.
"Yeah," Jack lies. His gone-limb is burning. "Why?"
"You seem angry at me."
"I'm not angry at you, Michael."
"You sure?"
"You'd know."
That's the end of that. They're too close to the house now to be talking about to be having a lover's squabble.
As they approach the stairs to the porch, a man's voice calls, "Over here, Mr. Robinavitch!"
A young man rounds the corner. It's the same one from the general store. He jogs over, waving enthusiastically at Robby. At the side of the horse, he tips his hat at Jack, "Hello there, sir. I don't believe we've met."
"No we haven't," Jack says. "Jack Abbot."
"Dennis Whitaker. I work the stables here for the Eastons."
"Good work."
"You bet," Dennis agrees.
Robby hops off Orleans. He hovers less than a foot away as Jack begins his descent. It's slow going, always is now. Jack's movements are deliberate, lest he lose his balance. At home, in the privacy of their own small stable, Robby usually helps him down, grabs his hand and holds his waist. Not here, though.
Finally on the ground, Jack shakes Dennis's hand. He's surprised by the strength of the boy's grip.
"I'll take him to the stables. You two can head on inside," Dennis jerks his head towards the house as he grabs a hold of Orleans's reigns. "Emery should let you in."
A pale woman meets them at the front door. Robby gives their names, and she shows them inside. The home is sprawling, but once again, nothing that Jack hasn't seen before. He does, however, make a show of being impressed. Robby does too. The Eastons don't need to know how many mansions they've been in during their lives. Not if they want to stay out of trouble.
The parlor isn't anything fancy. A nice room with some seats. A bookshelf on the far wall. Most of the space is taken up by a grand piano. It seems as though the entire space is angled for listening. They can't be sitting in there for more than twenty seconds before the woman returns with a man in tow. The man dismisses the woman and announces himself as Everett Easton.
"Good evening, gentleman," Everett greets. His voice is accented and smooth.
Everett Easton is not what Jack was expecting. He's a man of average build and height, perhaps even slightly lean, and while his face isn't necessarily kind, his expression isn't cold. Maybe Jack has seen too many of those cartoons in the papers, where the rich man is always a fat bastard with a mean scowl, because he finds himself enjoying this version of Mr. Easton.
Robby offers his hand first for Everett to shake, "Michael Robinavitch, but you can just call me Robby."
Jack steps forward then. It feels as though he barely sticks his hand out before Everett's hand wraps around his. Jack is surprised at the laxity of his grasp.
"Jack Abbot, sir," he greets.
Everett ushers them back into their seats. He takes the sole armchair near the two-seater Jack and Robby have crammed themselves on. While the armchair is perhaps only three feet away, it feels so much further with the piano in the middle sucking the air out of the space.
Everett speaks first, "I cannot say I was expecting two guests."
"Orleans ain't my horse. I just ride 'im," Robby jerks his head at Jack. "If you want to talk studding, Jack's the man to do it."
"And you two are…?" Everett looks between the two of them.
"Business partners," Robby answers coolly. "His sister was my brother's wife."
"God rest his soul," Jack says with the conviction of a man who believes it. "Lucky for me, nobody balances a book like Robby here."
That's the story they spun when they first came to town. A widow and her chaperones. Dana donned the demeanor of a grieving woman, while Jack claimed to be her brother and Robby the brother of her late husband. It wasn't their best cover, but it worked well enough. It's better than them knowing the truth. Three ex outlaws— a woman and two men who are having sex with each other.
"Yes, I believe I recognize you," Everett smiles. It's not exactly warm. "You gentlemen own the tavern, no?"
"Yes sir," Robby says. "Foothill Saloon. Been running it for three years now."
Everett stares at Robby. Jack wants to snap in his face, get the man to look at Jack, too. He usually lets Robby take the lead when it comes to talking the folks on account of his lack of conversational skills, but he can never shake the desire to protect Robby. A conversation is no gunfight, but his nerves don't always seem to agree.
Everett nods, though it doesn't seem like he's listening. "Your name," he says, ignoring Jack as he looks at Robby, "You say your name is Robinavitch."
Jack can feel Robby tense next to him.
Robinavitch, what's that mean?
Son of the rabbi.
Robby told Jack about his name many years ago. It's caused a lot of trouble, especially in the south. After one particular close call, where the wrong men caught word of a Jewish man in town and started circling threats to the point where the gang had to up and leave, Jack asked Robby why he never hides his name. Robby just shrugged.
He kept his name after the incident, but he stopped wearing his Magen David. When Jack asked about it, all he said was he didn't want to risk it. Heather later told Jack that Robby was afraid. He'd been called many things before, been scowled and cursed at, but this was different. It shook him.
Robby wears the Magen David now. It's almost like the old time, where Robby would let it peek through the collar of his shirt, shining right on the swell of his chest. It's the one piece of gold Robby owns that wasn't stolen.
So when Everett's eyes roam Robby's face, then dip to his chest, Jack has to resist the urge to grab Robby's hand. And when Everett asks, "You are a Polack?", Jack has to stop himself from slapping Everett across the face.
He knows what Everett's really asking. He can read between the lines.
Before Jack can divert, Robby opens his mouth, "My daddy was."
"Your mother?"
Robby's mother was a prostitute. She was from the old country, too. But she never made it overseas. Robby was born on the boat over, his mother dying in the process. One night, his father told Robby that he threw her body overboard when the stink got too strong to hide her death.
"My mama was an American, sir," he lies.
"Was?"
"She's dead now. Just like my daddy."
Everett nods, "Unfortunate."
Robby's lips twitch downwards. It's hidden by his beard, subtle enough that only Jack catches it. Jack prays Everett drops it, prays that they won't find trouble in this town just when they're finally getting settled.
First they ask about his family, his heritage. Then it's religion. Robby always says he's a Christian, but the next thing you know, people talk about how they never see Robby at church, not even on Easter or Christmas, and eye him sideways while they do. It may not be the south, but that doesn't mean folks here in Colorado are welcoming Jewish men and women with open arms.
But maybe Everett isn't a Christian himself. Maybe Jack is doing him a great disservice. Everett has already hidden his origins quite well. If it weren't for his accent, Jack wouldn't have guessed that he's an immigrant.
He hopes that's the case.
Jack butts in, finally unable to sit by, "Why don't we talk about the horse, hm?"
Everett raises his eyebrow. For the first time in what feels like hours, he looks at Jack, "Why don't we?"
"Your boy took him to the stables. We could head over and take a look at him if you want."
Everett shakes his head, "No, no. I saw the horse from the window. He'll do just fine."
Robby chuckles, "That's it?"
"That's it," Everett says. "I say five hundred is fair compensation?"
Five hundred dollars? Just to let his horse have a fuck?
"Sir," Jack nearly laughs, "That sounds more than fair."
Everett smiles. For the first time, it feels genuine. "Wonderful. Shall we discuss the logistics? I assume you gentlemen have only the one horse?"
"Yeah," Robby scratches the back of his neck. "I was gonna ask about that—"
Outside of the parlor comes a hushed, though clearly agitated voice. Jack recognizes it as the pale woman from earlier, but there's another voice, another woman. For some reason, this second voice has Jack sitting up.
"Daddy," the second voice calls, "Why is Dennis saying he's gonna stud my— Oh."
It's you. The little birdie from the bar, frozen in fear as you stare at the men occupying the settee. Jack has to stop himself from standing straight up. If the clench of Robby's jaw is any indication, he's suppressing a similar urge.
You're not dressed like a man anymore, far from it. Where slacks once covered your curves now flows a soft, patterned skirt. From where he's sitting, Jack can even see the swell of your breast, how your cleavage spills over the neckline of a dress that looks closer to a morning gown than something a woman should be wearing in polite company.
Jesus. He can hardly believe you were hiding all that in men's clothes.
Robby's the first to speak, and thank goodness he does. Jack's lost recollection of just about every word he's ever known, and by the mortified, terrified look on your face, you're not ready to speak either.
"Howdy," Robby greets. He stands, bowing his head. "I'm Michael, but you can call me Robby. This here's Jack."
"Uh," you look at Everett whose face remains impassive at your intrusion. You clear your throat, turning to Jack and Robby. As you curtsy, you give your name, "It's a pleasure to meet you. Robby. Jack."
"The pleasure's ours," Robby says.
Jack must have waited too long to respond, because his good leg is being kicked before he knows it. Jack stands, but unlike Robby, he approaches you. Before you can step away, Jack has your hand in his, bringing it to his lips as he bows. Your skin is soft against his lips, and Jack can't help but notice the floral scent of your perfume as it tickles his nose.
When Jack straightens, it looks like you're ready to pass out. He tries not to smirk as he says, "It's an honor to finally meet you, Miss Easton."
Everett must not have liked the show before him, because he stands abruptly. Everett grabs you by the shoulders. Robby and Jack pretend not to notice you flinch, nor how your expression seems to grow faraway as your father boasts, "My little girl is most skilled at the pianoforte, aren't you, dear?"
You don't speak, don't move. Your father squeezes your shoulder, hard, and you return to the present. "Yes," you say, "I've been playing since I was a babe." Your father nudges you. Tightly, you offer, "I could play for you, if you'd like."
"Oh," Robby starts. Jack is already shaking his head. "You don't need—"
"She insists."
She most definitely does not insist, because you look ready to blow a gasket as Everett guides you to the grand piano, whose presence is beginning to make far more sense to Jack. A grand piano a the center of the room for the only family of a man who seems to have far too much wealth than he knows what to do with.
You lower yourself slowly. By the look on your face alone, Jack would guess you were being led to the gallows. You clear your throat as your hands hover above the ivory keys. Then, after a deep breath, you play.
The sound is beautiful despite the obvious stiffness in your posture. Jack wonders if this is the very piano you practiced all the dance hall songs on, if you were telling the truth about knowing them. It's quite difficult to imagine you, in your pressed dress and perfectly styled hair with your buttoned-up father, teaching yourself anything that couldn't be played in a concert hall.
At the end of the song, you fold your hands neatly in your lap, eyes averted as Everett leads the men in a measly applause.
"You make a fine pianist, Miss Easton," Robby says. If Everett picks up on the teasing lilt of his voice, he doesn't comment on it.
"Very fine," Jack tacks on. "We ought to have you play in the saloon."
You don't dignify Jack's comment with a response. However, he does feel Robby kick his leg.
"Careful now." Everett's tone is light, but his eyes are nothing but danger, "I'm sure that saloon is no place for a lady."
Jack fights the urge to look at you as he agrees, "No, sir. It is certainly not."
Abruptly, you stand. Your knees knock against the piano, clacking roughly against the wood. "Daddy, may I be excused?"
"Of course."
You scurry to your father's side to give him a kiss on the cheek. Jack stares, frowning at the way you pointedly avoid looking at him and Robby. You don't even bother saying goodbye to them. No, instead you step out of the parlor. Somewhere across the house, a door slams.
"Please excuse her," Everett explains, "She's been agitated as of late."
"Kids," Robby laments like he understands even part of whatever the hell Everett's talking about. It's good enough, because Everett laughs. It sounds at least somewhat genuine.
"Exactly, Mr. Robinavitch. Hopefully her future husband will give her some grace."
"You marrying her off?" Robby asks, frowning.
"Every young woman must be married sooner or later, no?"
From the corner of his eye, Jack spots a figure moving across the window outside. He glances at it, and even in the short moment that he can spot the person moving, he knows it's you.
"If you'll excuse me, my leg's acting up." It's only half a lie. Jack asks, "Mind if I take a walk around the property? Maybe go look at some of your horses?"
"Your leg?" Everett's gaze wanders down Jack's body. He openly scowls as he appraises him.
"My leg," Jack repeats. When Everett raises his eyebrows, Jack chuckles. Most folks in town knows Jack as the man with no leg, but he supposes Everett isn't like most folks. So, Jack pulls up the cuff of his pant leg. "As you can see…"
Everett's eyes grow wide at the sight of Jack's artificial limb, "Ah, I see. May I ask how this came about?"
"The war," Jack says. It's his usual method, just say the war and let everyone fill in the rest.
"Good man," Everett muses. "Please, the stables are past the gardens. Dennis— I believe you met him earlier —should be working. He can show you our little herd."
Jack shows himself out. Stepping onto the porch, Jack takes a deep breath. The fresh air is a blessing on his skin, soft and warm from the turning of summer. Though, he only allows himself to bask in it for a moment before heading in your direction.
It's in the gardens, filled with blooming flowers that tickle his nose, that Jack finds you again. More aptly, he hears you. He leans against an old tree, whose trunk is thick enough to hide him, and waits.
"Dennis, you didn't tell me it was the saloon owners!" Your voice is far more forceful speaking with the stable boy than you were either with your father or Jack and Robby at the saloon. It sounds more familiar, more petulant even.
Jack wonders if you're sweet on the stable boy.
"They are?"
"Yes, Dennis!" Jack hears you scoff. "Why didn't you say so?"
"Well how was I supposed to—" Dennis sighs. Softly, he continues, "I'm sorry. I should'a asked around more."
Jack hums softly. Even if you're not sweet on Dennis, he sure is sweet on you. Deciding he should make himself known before Dennis tries necking with you, Jack steps out from behind the tree. He lets his footsteps grow heavy in his approach.
Before he rounds the corner of the stables, you curse, "Oh damn."
It's not an incriminating scene before Jack, Dennis leaning against the stable wall and you standing out in the sun, yet, Dennis looks ready to hurl at the sight of him.
"Howdy," Jack greets, showing all his teeth.
"Uh, howdy." Dennis stammers, "D-Did you need somethin'?"
You roll your eyes, "Dennis, you can go."
The stable boy frowns, staring at you like you've grown a second head. He opens his mouth to protest, but at the singular raised eyebrow you direct his way, Dennis nods. He smiles tightly, and with one last glace your way, departs.
Just the two of you left, you avoid looking at Jack, grabbing a brush hanging off the wall. There's a handful of horses in the stable, all looking to be of fine breeding. You approach a mare with a striking black coat, the only mare in the stable if Jack's cursory glance is correct. She doesn't react much to your approach, not even when you begin to brush her.
Jack steps closer under the guise of running a hand along the mare's coat. You scowl at him over her back, but Jack can see how worried you are, the way your eyebrows haven't unknit since you spotted him. Jack decides to spare you.
"We won't tell your daddy, if that's what you're worried about," Jack says. "Not worth all the trouble, anyways."
"Sure it ain't."
"I mean it."
You huff, but don't argue. "What are you doing here then?"
"The horses," Jack pats the back of the mare. "Were asked if we could breed them."
Your chin dips, pulling your gaze from Jack. "You make it sound awfully dirty, sir."
He's met lots of girls in his day, women too shy for their own good. It's always been something that bothered him, finding himself put off by their lack of conviction. Somehow, Jack finds your bashfulness fresh, endearing. It's a vulnerability you didn't allow yourself to show in the saloon, but far more intriguing than the fear your father inflicted.
It makes Jack smile. "Isn't it?"
You kick at a rock. It flies a few feet away, shooting up a plume of dust as it leaves the ground and then lands back down. "I suppose."
"You know," Jack leans against the wall of the barn. He tilts his head, trying to get a better look at your face, "You can look at me, girl. I don't bite."
"I know." You still don't lift your eyes.
Maybe he and Robby got it all wrong. Maybe you're not a birdie. You're more a bunny, skittish like one and ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Now, Jack doesn't consider himself mighty dangerous anymore, but maybe to a sweet thing like you, it's easy to look like the big bad wolf.
"We ain't here to tell your daddy."
"I know. You said that."
"We didn't know he's your daddy."
"I know."
"Then why are you so afraid, girl."
"I don't know."
Jack rounds the front of the mare, grabbing the brush out of your hands. It's not like you were using it anyway. Still, you have the gall to look outraged by the action, snatching the brush back and stepping back. "If you're not here to tell on me," you bite, "Then why don't you just show yourself out."
"I don't want to."
Your jaw drops.
Jack gets the impression that you're not often told no. And now, it seems as though you've been told no the two separate times you've seen Jack. This second rejection has you floundering, mouth opening and closing as your face twists from irritation to utter confusion. Instead of arguing more, you start brushing the mare again, this time with a newfound fervor.
Jack dips his head into your line of sight. You scowl, but meet his gaze. His lips twitch, ready to say something else to ruffle your feathers, but the sound of approaching voices stops him. You both turn to
"How long until we get Orleans back?" Robby.
"Shouldn't be long. Juniper— that's Miss Easton's horse —she's almost ready for heat. I'll bring Orleans back after that." Dennis.
Jack licks his lips, "It's your mare?"
You huff, giving up on your mission of grooming the mare— Juniper —entirely. Glaring at Jack, you turn on your heels and leave, brush still firmly clasped in your hand.
"Hello there Miss—"
You cut Robby off with a harsh, "Good day, Mr. Robby."
Dennis is staring at your retreating form with wide eyes. Robby on the other hand, stares at Jack with reproach. "There you are," Robby says flatly.
Dennis quickly saddles their temporary horse up, pointedly avoiding looking at them. Robby tries conversing with him to little avail. Eventually, Dennis bids them adieu.
"So," Robby says as he hoists himself onto the stallion. "Do I want to know why I passed Easton's daughter left lookin' like she saw a ghost?" He offers his hand to Jack, helping him up with practiced ease.
Jack pats Robby's thigh. "No, you do not."
That's enough answer for Robby, who grabs the reigns and sets off towards home.
*****
Jack's wiping down a glass when he sees it, right in the corner of his eyes, sitting pretty and proud with your chin up in the air. He wants to laugh, truly. Had his and Robby's appearance at your home earlier today not scared you off? What gall you had, showing up again in their saloon not only after they kicked you out the first time, but knowing that they could easily snitch on you to your daddy.
Jack grits his teeth and stalks over, "What the hell are you—?"
"Ah, ah!" You smirk at him, "You want to hear what I have to say."
"No I—"
"I know what you are. You and your friend."
Jack flashes his teeth as he growls, "What the hell are you talking about?"
Truthfully, he's not very worried. If you really knew something troublesome about them, say their homosexuality or Robby's religion, you wouldn't be coming down to flaunt it because it would be your daddy who had the information. And if Everett Easton knew their secrets, if he wanted to destroy them with it, they'd already be in deep shit.
"Do you happen to know a man by the name of George Lambson."
George Lambson. Jack turns the name over in his head. He might have heard it before, at some point serving drinks and listening to patrons talk. Hell, he might even be a patron himself.
"Can't say I do," Jack rolls his eyes. He doesn't have time to deal with this. The dirty glasses are starting to pile up, and he only has so much downtime to clean them.
"Hm, interesting," you muse. "He and my daddy are good friends, and, you see, a few years back Mr. Lambson came to visit us and talked about some folks who stole a large, large sum of money from him."
Jack tilts his head, leaning in. He doesn't like the sound of your tone, even, confident, like you already know what's about to happen here. He also doesn’t exactly love the fact that you’re talking about a robbing.
"That's a shame," he says, suppressing a scowl.
"Isn't it. Well, it just so happens that he brought us a copy of some wanted posters, tellin' us to look out if we ever saw the men and women who did it."
Jack's lip twitches. He grits his teeth as you fish papers from the back pocket of your trousers. He grabs the papers before you can set them down on the bar, staring at you for a long moment before allowing himself to look down at the posters. It's striking how much the sketches look like them. With just a little more detail, they could be mistaken for a photograph.
"Don't worry, you can keep those. I've got another set at home."
Jack crumples the papers in his hand, "What do you want?"
You shrug, "I think you know what I want." Then, you turn your head away from the bar. He doesn't have to follow your gaze to know you're looking at the piano.
Jack can't tell if the smirk on his face makes him want to shake you straight or makes him proud. He doesn't know what exactly he expected from you, but it certainly wasn't blackmail.
Jack finds himself laughing. That's what finally wavers your confidence. The self-assured smirk slips, and you gulp loudly. Your voice wavers as you say, "I thought you may be interested."
"You know," Jack licks his lips, eyeing you up and down. He can't help but picture your figure, the one you're hiding with all those clothes. "You're a clever little birdie."
You smile, hopeful in a way that makes Jack's stomach flip, "Is that good?"
"No," he bites. "But it ain't what I expected."
The smile stays on your face as Jack fishes a bottle of whiskey from underneath the bar. The pour he gives you is heavy, but he reasons you've about earned it.
Sliding the glass your way, Jack says, "Go on." He jerks his head to the vacant piano. "Play us a tune."
*****
"What do you reckon she's doing?" Jack asks, slowing his pace as he walks Orleans down the street. They took the horse, to the general store, but Jack decided he'd rather walk back.
Robby shrugs, "No idea."
Your pale dress, tied with a ribbon around the waist, blows pleasantly in the wind as you speak animatedly with the sheriff. Sheriff Franklin is a tall, handsome man. He has a strong jaw and a shock of dark hair that pairs well with his pale skin and blue eyes. He'd be a fine man to marry if were wealthy like you. Then again, maybe not. Jack and Robby haven't associated with him much, too afraid that he'd see through them, ask too many questions that they don't have the right answers for.
Their little songbird, however, seems to be the apple of his eye, completely unafraid to make his acquaintance. You likely have nothing to hide, nothing other than your recent association with two formerly-wanted men.
Despite their best efforts, you've continued to show up at the saloon. Night after night, you grab a drink at the bar from a begrudging Jack and take your spot at the piano. They'd try to find some way to turn you away, scare you off, but the fact of the matter is your music is good for business. It gets more people through the door, and those people tend to stay longer, and when people stay longer they spend more money.
As much as they hate to admit it, they're stuck with you.
"Not about us," Robby decides.
"You sure?"
Robby nods. You wouldn't snitch. Despite the show you put up with Jack a few weeks back with those posters, Robby's gotten the sense that you're fond of the two men. Maybe even in the same way that the stable boy is fond of you. Jack thinks not, but Robby's seen the way you stare at them in the middle of playing, how you dip your head to thank Robby when he drops off another drink and wink at Jack all the way across the establishment, and he's felt the way you press your body against him on all those rides back to the estate.
That's not to say you're not fond of the stable boy still. You talk of Dennis often. Apparently, you two are close, having practically grown together at the estate. Dennis was employed young, as most stable boys are, but when it was time to replace him, you fought your father tooth and nail to keep him around.
"I'm sure." Robby nods, "If they were…" Robby slows to a stop, realizing Jack and Orleans are no longer walking at his side.
Orleans is pulling at the reins in Jack's hands. His head is tilted to the side, pointed towards where you and the sheriff are talking.
"Come on, Orleans," Jack urges. He tugs lightly, trying to redirect the stallion. "Let's go."
"No," Robby nods in your direction. "Let's say hello."
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You sure?"
"It can't hurt."
"But it can kill," Jack mutters as they walk over.
Your eyes widen as you spot them. "Oh," you clear your throat, but you run a hand along Orleans' coat without hesitation. "Hello there. Mr. Robby, Mr. Abbot."
Robby tips his hat, from the corner of his eye he sees Jack nod. "Hello, Miss Easton."
Sheriff Franklin looks somewhat amused at the exchange. "You gentlemen know Miss Easton?"
You answer before Jack or Robby can, "Yes, sir. Their horse bred my Juniper last month. Orleans here took a liking to me." You chuckle nervously, "It seems like he wanted to say hello again."
What you don't mention is that when you ride home every night with Robby, you sneak him sugar cubes that you stuff your pockets with. He yells at you for it, but never stops you when you sneak it to Orleans when you think Robby's not looking. It's worth it so long as it makes you happy.
Except, you're not smiling now. There's a thin sheen of sweat on your brow, and Robby would bet it's not just from the heat. It looks like their birdie is nervous on their behalf. He has to bite back a smile at the thought.
"It's been a while since I've seen him," you lie. "He must miss me."
"Speakin' of," Franklin strikes a match off of his boot, it reflects brilliantly off of the badge on his chest. Up close, Robby would bet that badge is made of real gold, straight from the Easton mines, he reckons. He lights the cigarette between his lips and throws the match to the ground to stomp on, "You best go find Miss Walsh. I bet she's looking for you about now."
"Oh," you blink, looking at Jack and Robby like they would give you permission. You flounder so long that Robby takes pity, smiling tightly at you. "Alright then. Good day Frank, Mr. Robby, Mr. Abbot."
The men each tip their head, and you stumble off. When Franklin isn't looking, Robby steals himself a glance at you. The very streets seem to part when you walk by. The sight makes him chuckle. One night, on the ride home you indulged that you don't make it to town very often, that you don't know many folks. It seems though that even if people around here don't know you, they can sense that your very presence is one of importance as they make room.
Franklin's voice draws him back to the present. "How's that saloon of yours doing?"
It's Jack who answers, spitting his chewing tobacco out onto the dirt street, "Good. You should come by one of these nights."
Sheriff Franklin has never come to the saloon in all the time that they've been operating it. About a year without him ever showing his face, Robby began to ask patrons about it, too drunk to remember his questioning but sober enough to give a good enough answer. As it turns out, the sheriff doesn't drink. Ever. Apparently it landed him in a lot of trouble in his youth.
As expected, Franklin shakes his head, "I'm not much of a drinking man. Plus, someone has to stay with their wits to keep your drunkards out of trouble."
"That so?" Jack asks, though it sounds more like a challenge.
"It keeps me in business."
They all force a laugh at that, like they're all friends. Robby isn't sure whether Franklin actually enjoys their company, or if he just acts friendly on account of his position in town. Robby guesses the latter. When the laughter dies down, a gaping silence sits heavy in the air.
It's Franklin who caves first, "Well, I gotta make my rounds. You gents have a good day."
Jack and Robby bid him adieu before Franklin can change his mind. They make it halfway back to the saloon before either of them speak.
"Frank," Robby scoffs. "Why the hell is she callin' Sheriff Franklin Frank?"
Jack tilts his head, squinting at Robby underneath the brim of his hat.
"What're you lookin' at me for?" Robby bites.
"You sound like you're jealous, Michael."
Robby scowls. "Trust me, I ain't."
Jack makes a face. It looks a lot like the one he pulls when he knows Robby's telling a lie. But he isn't.
"Alright," Jack grabs the reigns, stalking off towards the saloon. "Sure, Michael."
*****
Jack may have over served you tonight. He's surprised it hasn't happened before. It's not like he's ever really kept track. He always figured Robby would be doing it since he was the one always actually talking to you throughout the night, chatting you up whenever he drops off your drinks.
You're leaning against the bar, shirt unbuttoned and giving Jack a glimpse of your decolletage. He tries not to drink up too much of the view, not like this. It's not like he hasn't stolen a glance before. Jack may be old, but he's not blind and he's certainly still a red-blooded man.
He should feel guilty staring at your figure, hidden in men's clothes or on display in your normal wardrobe during the rare occasions that he spots you in town. Jack is in a relationship, after all. Though, it's hard to feel guilty when he sees Robby staring at you too. Even harder when they've been taking their frustrations out on each other.
They haven't fucked like this since the gang. Now, every morning, Jack wakes up with Robby's mouth on his cock, his fingers in his hole, slicking it with the oil they keep in a jar beside the bed. Between lunch and evening service, they stow away in the quarters for another quick fuck. But they don't talk about it, like an unspoken agreement not to discuss the woman who has Robby limping more than Jack these days.
The woman who is currently hanging off of Jack's arm and looking at him with heart-eyes.
Jack just hopes Robby's ready for a second kind of ride tonight.
"Y're so nice, Jack," you coo. Up close, he can smell your perfume, warm and floral. He doesn't allow himself to dwell on why exactly you put on perfume when you're disguising yourself as a man. "Lettin' me play the piano, givin' me drinks, lettin' me relax…"
He wrangles you onto a stool. A mistake, because you nearly fall backwards off of it. Jack has to stand behind you, his front pressed against your back, just to keep you upright. How the hell were you playing the piano like this? He grumbles, "You sure are relaxed…"
Robby's outside, getting Orleans ready for the ride to the estate. How you're going to get from the road to your home, unseen at that, is beyond Jack. All he cares about is how fast Robby can get back here and take you off of Jack's hands.
"I like you an' Robby," your words are over-annunciated as you fight your drunkenness to get them out. "You're nice."
Jack chuckles as you twirl a strand of hair, "You said that."
"Did I?" You bite your lip, leaning your head back to look at him.
"Yeah, birdie, you did."
"Birdie… I like it when you call me that," your tone alone has Jack's head spinning. Robby needs to hurry up before his trousers begin to tent, too. Drunk as you may be, it won't be easy to hide his hard cock, not when you're already pressed against him.
"You do?"
"Mhm," you sigh, blinking up at him. Then, you say, "You're handsome, Jack. Do you know that? Robby, too, but don't tell him I said that."
Fuck. Jack suppresses a groan. It's been a long time since he was with a woman, his late wife, in fact. He's forgotten how enjoyable the feeling of a woman pressing against him feels. As much as he loves Robby, there's something almost irresistible about the soft swell of your ass against him. It takes a great deal of willpower not to let his hands fall to your hips.
"I'm handsome?"
"Mhm. I'd marry you if I could. Him too. Except…" You trail off, pouting, "Oh, never mind."
Jack's never been the best decision maker, so he asks, "Except what?"
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it certainly isn't, "Well, you and him are homosexuals, ain't you?"
Jack steps away almost as if he was burned. You tumble backwards, but he lets you. Landing on your back with a grunt, you stare at Jack with wide eyes.
"Now what'd you do that for?" You pout at him. Any other time he'd swoon for it.
"What did you say?" Jack asks, voice low and dangerous. His hands are shaking at his side, and it takes a great deal of effort not to drag you out right now.
"I didn't mean nothin' by–"
"No!" Jack barks, "What did you say?"
"I…" You take a shuddering breath. There are tears welling in your eyes. "I asked if you two were… homosexuals."
Jack sees red. He doesn't hesitate to drag you up from the ground, paying little mind to your uneven footing. He drags you around the bar to the back door.
"I better not hear you say nothin' about that, you hear?" Jack's screaming in your face, spit flying and blood raging. It doesn't matter to him that you're beginning to cry, shaking your head and murmuring drunkenly. "Or I swear to God I'll show you exactly why we got those bounty posters."
Jack shoves you outside, and you stumble to the ground. You scramble backwards as best you can with the liquor coursing through your veins. He wants to feel sorry for you, wants to apologize for being so rough with you, but he's being guided by every single fear that he's kept hidden since he first allowed himself to act on his affections for Robby.
At the noise, Robby peeks his head out of the stable, brows furrowed at the sight of you scrambling. Jack grabs you by the collar of your shirt, hoisting you up just so he can push you towards the stables. He probably looks like a mad man, though it's not like he cares much right now.
"What on earth is going on here?" Robby yells. He runs up to Jack, trying to push him off you. As he attempts to pry his hands from you, Jack has to suppress his dormant instincts to sock him in the face. "Jack, stop!"
Robby just manages to strong arm him. If Jack still had his leg, it wouldn't slide, but Robby puts all his weight against Jack, and he's forced to relent unless he wants to fall on his ass. Robby collects you in his arms, cradling the back of your head as you sob into his neck.
You're babbling drunken apologies, explanations that Jack doesn't care enough to listen to. This is more than an argument, more than a drunken question. This is their life. If you were to say a word to the wrong person, people who are already a few questions away from discovering their lifestyle, there's no saying what would happen to them.
"The little birdie," he spits the pet name with venom. "Just asked if we were queer."
Robby tenses. A shadow crosses his face as his gaze slides to you, still clutching him like a lifeline. Unlike Jack, his fear doesn't drive him to violence. Robby lets you cling to him, even as every muscle in his body tenses, eager to push you away.
"Miss Easton," Robby says. His voice is cold, detached. Jack can see you freeze, see the way you hesitantly pull away to look up at Robby. "I don't see how that's any of your business."
"What?"
"I said, I don't see how that's any of your business."
Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out beyond a stuttered breath. Your tears have grown silent, flowing freely down your face. Jack turns his head, can't bring himself to look at you and let the ache in his chest grow. Sympathy for you right now would get him nowhere he wants to be.
"Come now, Miss Easton," he hears Robby say. "Let get you home."
As you stumble away with Robby, crying and begging him to forgive you, Jack steps inside to pour himself a drink.
*****
"She get home alright?"
Jack is drunk now, that much is clear just from the way he sways on the stool and the drained bottle of whiskey sitting in front of the man. His artificial limb lays sideways on the ground. Robby wants to pour himself a drink, too, but he knows he'll need to carry Jack to bed. In this state, he'd be lucky to even pick the limb off the ground without falling flat on his face.
"More or less," Robby shrugs, sliding on the stool nearest to Jack. "Said she was sorry."
The ride back was pitiful. You cried the whole way from the saloon, begging Robby to forgive you, saying that you didn't mean anything by your question. You vowed over and over to not tell anybody. Robby believes you, but that doesn't make the knowledge any less dangerous. You could slip up, drunk or otherwise disposed, and Jack and Robby would be in trouble.
Jack snorts, head dropping, "I'm sure she did."
Robby throws an arm over Jack's shoulders. He stands, saying, "Come on, let's get you to bed."
Jack shoves his arm off, grumbling, "Don't wanna…"
"Don't give me that right now," Robby scolds. "You're drunk. You need to sleep it off."
Jack scoffs, waving his hand around, "Just go to your bed."
Your bed. The words shock Robby to his core. They haven't referred to that cold, empty room in the upstairs quarters as Robby's room since they first bought the place. Back then, they were overly cautious, not even allowing themselves to sleep in one bed as though doing it but once would tell the whole town what they were to each other. Though, he isn't surprised that's coming up now.
Jack had spent so long hiding his desires. He was stuck in grief from losing Marisol, his wife, and fear of what it meant– means –to be a homosexual. They were in the gang then, where people were more willing to turn an eye. Parker Ellis, for instance, would often sneak off with women at the saloons, and Jack would swear that he saw her sharing a bedroll with Samira once or twice, but that didn't mean it was welcomed. It was tolerated, especially since the women were cornerstones of the gang, especially after Doc Adamson's passing.
Robby just hopes this doesn't set them back.
"Leave me be," Jack slurs. "I'll get m'self to bed."
Robby scoffs, "Yeah? You and what leg?"
Jack's face twists in anger. If he had his leg on, Robby's sure Jack would throttle him. Though, before he can curse Robby out, he sighs, shoulders slumping as he lets his head fall to the bar. It thunks against the wood, but Jack doesn't acknowledge it. Maybe if he was sober he'd care.
"I hate you."
Robby rolls his eyes, "I know." He gets up off of the stool and sticks his arm under Jack's knees. Luckily, Jack has the mental capacity to sit up, making it easier for Robby to hoist him up and into his hold.
Jack doesn't meet his eyes, instead shoving his face into Robby's chest to avoid his hard stare. Robby sighs, shaking his head as he carries his lover out of the main hall and into the private quarters.
"'M sorry, Michael," Jack's voice is muffled. "I don't hate you."
"I know, darlin'," Robby says softly, setting Jack down over the covers. "Go to bed now."
Jack's eyes are quick to close, lids heavy already with booze and fatigue. Still, Jack manages one last confession, "I don't wanna lose you."
The words make his eyes sting, but Robby refuses to let himself cry. It would only give truth to their fears.
"Don't worry, darlin'. You won't."
*****
People like to complain about lots of things. Jack and Robby have known this since they opened the saloon. Their first customer complained that his beer was too cold, whatever the hell that means. Since then, they've been at the receiving end of countless complaints, all from people who don't have the slightest clue what it takes to run the joint. Not once have they ever thought the complaints were warranted.
Until tonight.
If they got a nickle for every time someone commented about the lack of music this evening, Jack and Robby would be richer than Everett Easton himself. Unlike the usual complaints, Jack and Robby can't even make sly comments to each other behind the customers' backs, talking about how ridiculous their complaints are. They're right. Every single one of them.
There's a you-sized hole in the joint. They trudge through the shift, plastering on friendly faces as Robby clears tables and Jack pours drinks. Every mention of the pianist sends a pang of regret through them. They expected not to see you tonight, or ever again for that matter, but they didn't expect it to sting so much.
Even cleaning up the hall is a miserable chore. Usually, they have you sitting on the bar and swinging your feet like you don't have a care in the world. You always chat their ears off, talking all about what gossip you overheard throughout the evening. Now, Jack and Robby only have each other for company. Miserable company.
Speaking of miserable, Jack's huffing and puffing as he limps around. Robby usually sends Jack to bed when his leg is acting like this, but Jack's been deliberately useless all night. Robby's had to do most of the cleanup work while Jack's been working slowly, pouting the whole time as if it isn't his fault for the silence in the place.
Now, though, it seems Jack's fed up with his duties. As he attempts to clean a spilled beer by the door, Robby spots Jack attempting to make an exit.
"Where the hell are you going?" Robby asks.
"Takin' a piss."
"Well you better come back," Robby calls as Jack steps out of the hall. He raises his voice, "These cups ain't gonna clean themselves!"
Robby sighs. Jack's been like this all day, grumpy as hell and just as avoidant. He won't admit it, but he's missing you, maybe even regretting his choice of words last night.
Robby knows how dangerous it is for someone to know about their sexuality, but even he has to admit that there was no reason for Jack's aggression. It isn't like you haven't trusted them to keep one of your secrets before. Hell, your entire relationship with them, coming into their saloon every night, was a great secret. You've spoken to them before about your fears, that if your father were to ever find out about the arrangement, you would surely be put under lock and key for a long, long time.
There's a mutual trust between you three. At least, there was. Who knows what's left now.
Robby shakes his head. As he's sopping up beer with a rag, he hears the familiar creak of the door shifting on its hinges. Then, footsteps.
"We're closed," he sighs.
No response.
Robby tosses the rag on the table. Unfortunately, it lands on a beer-less spot, soaking the unmarred wood.
"I said, we're–" Robby's voice dies out as he turns around.
It's you.
You're wearing a dress, a very fine one. Likely from one of the big cities, New York or Paris. It's darker in color than the dresses you've worn before, and the neckline is far lower than they're used to seeing on you. It accentuates your figure, drawn tight at the waist. You look far more grown than you do when dressing normally.
When Robby is finally tears his eyes from your figure, he finds your eyes puffy and red, like you've been crying.
"You're here," he says softly, almost convincing himself of it.
"Where's Jack?" You ask.
"I don't think he wants to see you."
"I want to apologize," you sniffle. "And talk."
Robby sighs, slipping behind the bar. Wordlessly, he pours you a drink, sliding it down to the stool you've found a home on. You down it, and he pours another. "He'll be back soon," Robby says. "There's still time to leave."
"You think I don't know that?" You sigh, then add, "Nobody knows. I would never tell anybody your… secret."
"I know," Robby says. Last night, however, he didn't know. He stayed up until sunrise, worried. Even half the day he spent stressed, jumping at shadows and avoiding eye contact with almost everyone in fear that they'd be able to tell his secret. By the time sunset rolled around, and nobody came knocking down their door accusing him and Jack of being homosexuals, Robby figured you had kept your lips sealed. A grace, though it hasn't done much to fix Jack's sour mood.
"He's angry."
You snort, "You think I don't know that?"
No. Robby knows you're smart enough to tell when you're in some trouble. "You don't know how he is when he's angry."
Your gaze hardens, "I think we both know that's a lie, Mr. Robby."
He opens his mouth to speak, to tell you that you're wrong, but all Robby sees is you being dragged by the collar of your shirt, sobbing and babbling for forgiveness. You may not know the depths of Jack's anger, how he shuts down and pushes people away, digs a hole so deep that few are able to drag him out, but you do know the immediate dangers of his temper.
"Right you are," he concedes.
"Where is he?"
"Pissin'."
You hum. "When's he gonna be back?"
Robby shrugs, "Not too long now."
No more words are exchanged. You trace the rim of your glass absentmindedly, looking anywhere but at Robby. It isn't until the rhythmic sound of boots on wood reaches the parlor that you straighten.
Jack stiffens when he sees you, his lip twitching in a way Robby can't read. Robby's afraid Jack's going to yell at you again, drive you out just as he did the night before. Even if it's the smarter thing to do, Robby doesn't know if he can let that happen again, doesn't know if he can sit by and watch Jack break you down like that again.
"Hi, Jack," you say, eyes on your glass.
"Howdy," he says slowly, like he's feeling the word out in his mouth. "You here to talk?"
"Yes, sir."
Jack sucks his teeth. He glances Robby's way, and Robby nods. Jack cocks his head, "Alright then. Talk."
Robby steps back, leaning against the liquor shelves. He's already forgiven you, never really was mad enough to need to find forgiveness. Now's the time for you to talk to Jack. The only reason Robby's staying is really to mediate.
You start simply, "I didn't tell."
"I know," Jack huffs.
"I won't tell." When Jack hesitates to respond, you continue, "I assure you, I will not tell a soul. You're very– very kind, and–" You clear your throat, but when you speak, your voice is shaky and thick with emotions, "You've given me something wonderful, and I'll miss it very much."
"You can keep playing," Jack says exacerbated.
"I can't."
Jack sighs. He rubs a hand down his face, "Yes, you can. I overreacted, and–"
"I'm getting married."
Robby is probably supposed to congratulate you, wish you luck in the marriage, but all he can muster is: "To who?"
Robby wants to ask more. This feels so sudden. Even though Everett spoke of a marriage in your future, you never did. He wonders if you were even a part of this decision. While it's still ultimately up to your father, the thought of you lacking any say in your husband– hell, your future –makes his blood boil.
He can't imagine that Jack's thinking clearly about this news either. Luckily for you and Robby, Jack keeps his mouth shut. The last thing anybody needs is for Jack and that mouth of his to upset you even more.
"Edward Lambson." You sniffle, staring at the glass of amber liquid in your hand. You down the whiskey and continue, "He and his daddy came for dinner. I didn't talk at all, but when Emery served dessert, Edward… he proposed."
"Jesus," Jack hisses.
"I didn't even say yes. Daddy did. Apparently he and George have been talking about this for a while. Edward's gonna marry me, take over the estate when daddy dies."
You were Everett's only child. It was only natural to expect Everett to marry you off. You were the sole heir to the estate. With Edward in the picture, he could guarantee the continuation of the business as well as growth with the inclusion of the Lambson's connections. It's protect the wealth and grow the legacy.
To Robby's surprise, Jack grabs your hand on the bar. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, "I'm sorry."
You let out a shaky breath. Hastily, you wipe away your tears with the back of your hand. "Yeah, me too."
Your face twists. This time, though, it doesn't seem as though you're going to cry. Your eyes find Robby, then Jack. Licking your lips, you ask, "You don't like women none?"
Jack chuckles. Robby eyes him carefully as he leans forward, grabbing your chin. Jealousy churns in his gut, though he finds it's directed towards the both of you. "No, peach," Jack soothes, "We like women just fine."
"Oh," you bite your lip. "You've… you've been with women?"
It's Robby's turn to answer. He leans on the bar, catching your eye. "Plenty," he jerks his head at Jack. "Mr. Abbot here was even married. His wife passed a few years before we got together."
Your brows furrow, "And you've been with plenty of men?"
They look at each other, amused. Robby shakes his head, laughing softly, "Some."
"Each other," you state, confirming what you already know.
"You're a curious little thing, ain't you?" Jack says. His tone is light, but Robby doesn't miss the way your face falls at the comment.
"Just want to know," you grumble.
"Seems like you already know plenty." Jack rounds the bar, he leans against it in front of you. He cuts an imposing figure, and while your body shrinks ever so slightly, you keep your gaze strong. "That we rob and steal, that we're fucking each other—"
"Jack!" Robby scolds.
"What?" Jack smirks, "All I'm sayin' is you're a lot of trouble for one little girl."
"I thought all was forgiven," Robby say through gritted teeth. Jack's anger is greatly misplaced right now. You've barely stopped crying for your marriage confession. Robby would like to continue the night with less tears.
"It is. I’m just teasin'."
"Well then why–?"
You cut Robby off, "Can I get to the point?" The question is sharp, irritated. Jack and Robby still, their attention now focused on you. You sigh, "Can you tell when a woman isn't a virgin?"
For the second time since you walked in, you've stunned Jack and Robby into silence. Maybe it's the admission that you, the mostly buttoned-up Miss Easton, aren't a virgin. Or maybe it's the fact that you're divulging this fact with them.
Jack's the first to speak, "You ain't a virgin?"
It's a reasonable followup to your question. Still, it isn't exactly appropriate. Robby clears his throat, "You don't need to answer that, birdie."
You ignore Robby, "No. I'm not."
"Who fucked you?"
"Jack–"
"Dennis," you state. "I asked him to. It was his first… congress as well."
Despite the situation, Robby feels a sort of vindication. He knows Jack does, too. They've spoken one or twice about Dennis, how they believe there to be something more between you and him. Maybe there's not now, but at a time there certainly was.
"Why?" Jack asks rougly.
"I was scared," you confess. "I didn't know what to expect, if it'd hurt—"
"It shouldn't hurt," Robby blurts. Your head jerks to face him. You stare at Robby, eyes wide in something that resembles fear. "Not if he ain't an idiot. Did it hurt with Dennis?"
"No," you answer quickly, shaking your head. "Goodness no."
Good boy, Robby thinks. Frankly, he didn't expect Dennis to have it in him. Robby's first time had been a mess. It was with a prostitute, and he was too young to know what he was doing. Robby was rough, bucking his hips into her like an idiot, too caught up in pleasure to even try to be gentle. If she had less experience, been a virgin like you– like you were when Dennis had you –he would have hurt the poor woman.
Robby learned since then. It took him an embarrassingly long time, but thanks to partners who weren't afraid to be vocal (and some advice from Jack once he became a married man), pleasing a woman became second nature. By the time he and Heather were together, Robby was far gone from his days of fumbling around.
"I thought you didn't want to get married," Jack says. "Now you're worried about how your husband'll like your pussy?"
"My daddy'll kill Dennis if he knew," you say sternly. "So will Edward."
Right. The entire reason why this whole virginity-talk started.
It's sweet how worried you seem to be for Dennis. Robby would remind you that your husband and father are just as likely to retaliate against you as they are Dennis, but then you add, softer, "They'll kill me, too.”
Robby himself has never had a virgin, but Jack sure has. Marisol hadn't been bedded when she married Jack. Once when he was drunk, Jack told Robby all about their marriage night, how Jack treated her with his mouth for a long while before he even sunk his cock in her. Robby yelled at him, told him how it wasn't polite to talk about his wife like that. Though, Robby's anger was likely more rooted in jealousy than desire to protect Marisol's honor.
Jack sighs, "Pussy is pussy."
Robby kicks his good leg. Jack stumbles forward, catching himself on the bar. He shoots a look at Robby, "What?"
"Be polite," Robby scolds. "She's a lady."
Jack scoffs. He grumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like you're a lady. Louder, he concedes, "No, Miss Easton, a man can't tell when a woman is a virgin. Just act all nervous when you're in bed with him. Act like you ain't done it before."
"Are you sure?" You ask, blinking at Jack with bleary eyes. "That's all?"
"That's all, birdie."
You let out a breath, shoulders sinking in relief. "Thank goodness."
You pick at your nail beds. Robby can see small amounts of blood around the delicate nail. You were likely doing it the entire walk over. It's not a long walk, maybe thirty or so minutes, but it must have been a long time to spend with your thoughts.
Marriage is a big change. You must have known it was coming soon, maybe that's why you ever decided to come into the saloon. Though, Robby has to imagine that having your freedom taken so suddenly from you is greatly disorienting.
"So," Robby clears his throat. "Are we gonna see you around anymore?"
You laugh dryly. Your face melts into something sour as you shrug, "Maybe. Not here, but… I'll see you in town I think."
Your tone betrays you. Neither Jack or Robby need to push to know that you don't even believe that. You'll be in town just as much as any wealthy woman, but there's no world in which you could be seen speaking to Jack or Robby. As it is, they'll have to keep their distance from your future husband, who likely has their faces memorized from those wanted posted made after they robbed his father blind.
"You will," Jack says. "You will, birdie."
You lift your empty glass, wet eyes avoiding them as you hum, "Here's hoping."
*****
Riding you back is almost never quiet. You like to talk or hear Robby tell stories about the gang. He keeps it clean, steering away from the killing and sticking more to the robbing and embarrassing tidbits (usually about Jack). Tonight, though, little is said. Robby tried striking up conversation earlier, telling you about the time he and Doc Adamson had to bail Jack out of jail, but you don't bite. The only thing filling the air is the rhythmic beating of Orleans' hooves on the ground.
The Everett estate comes into view. Robby guides Orleans off the road and to the fence, the spot where he always drops you off. It's a long walk to the house. Robby always wants to stay and make sure you get back in safely, but the risk of someone coming by and noticing him is just too high.
Wordlessly, you lower yourself off of the horse. Like always, Robby tips his hat and turns Orleans around.
After a few paces, he hears your soft call, "Robby?"
He slows Orleans, looking over his shoulder. You're still on the road-side of the fence, and when Orleans stops moving, you step closer, placing your hands on Robby's thigh. His muscles tense under your touch, and Robby has to bite the inside of his cheek not to let the small proximity between your hand and his cock cause trouble.
"What's wrong, birdie?"
"Could I ask you something?"
Robby chuckles, "You and your questions. When are you gonna learn those are bringin' you nothin' but trouble?"
You laugh too, but it's short lived. "Well, can I?"
"Shoot."
"Could you kiss me?"
The question nearly knocks him to the ground.
"I thought you did that with Dennis?"
"His mama always said lips were for prayin', not kissin'," you chuckle. "Plus, I told him I wanted my first kiss to be with my husband."
"Well, birdie, I don't know if you know this, but I ain't your husband."
You sigh. Your eyes are wet, moonlight catching beautifully in the evidence of your grief, "I also wanted a husband I loved, but… I suppose I won't get that either."
Jack and Robby often call you girl. The truth is, you're a woman, more than two decades in age and with a mind to match. Yet, as he looks at you now, Robby is reminded of a girl, timid and melancholic as you stare at him. There are literal stars in your eyes as they reflect the night sky.
Maybe it's the youthful vulnerability or maybe it's the desire he's been hiding for so long that makes him say, "I'll kiss you."
Your lips curl upwards as Robby bends down. His face is level to yours, and his back screams at him for it. Robby doesn't care though. Especially not when your lips part, eyes flickering between his own and his mouth.
"Um," you clear your throat. His lips are right above yours. "I don't know how to–"
Robby takes the lead, pressing his mouth to yours. It's sweet how nervous you are, the little whine that leaves your throat when you finally realize what's happening. Robby keeps it chaste. He figures it'd be best not to scare you with tongue on your first go around.
He can't imagine what you're feeling right now, kissing for the first time. It certainly isn't Robby's first go around, yet he finds his own heart stuttering.
All too quickly, you pull away, not far though. Your forehead rests against his as your chest rises and falls.
"I don't want to marry him," you whisper, only a hair away from his lips. "Please, don't let me marry him."
Robby wonders if this is what he looked like to Heather all those years ago, when she told him that their relationship had to end. She was right, of course. Robby wasn't any good for her. She was a lady, much like you were, and getting caught up with an outlaw would be no good for her. He begged her to come with him, stay with the gang. It was a foolish request, one that surely would have gotten her killed. If not killed, then stuck in a life she wasn't meant for. Heather made her choice, now it was time for Robby to make his.
Against his better judgment, Robby kisses you again. You melt into it, moaning softly. This time, it's Robby who pulls away from it, only to promise you one thing.
"Oh, darlin', don't you worry one bit."
*****
"I kissed her."
Jack jolts upright in bed. "You what?"
Jack would chuck his crutch at Robby's head if it weren't for the fact that he would also kiss you if given the opportunity.
Robby explains, "She asked me to, said she didn't want her first kiss to be with her husband."
"Didn't she—"
"They didn't kiss."
"Well, shit." Fucking without kissing feels a bit… pointless.
Robby starts stripping, unbuttoning his shirt then trousers before sitting on the bed. He slides under the covers and finds Jack's hand in the darkness. Squeezing it, Robby asks, "Are you mad at me?"
Jack should be mad. He knows this. For Christ's sake, Robby practically snuck off to neck with you behind his back. Yet, it somehow feels like the natural progression of what's been building between you three.
"No," he says, and it's the truth. "I'm not, sweetheart."
Robby nods, "I'm sorry. Even if you ain't mad." Robby brings Jack's hand to his lip and kisses it. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now let's sleep. I'm tired as hell."
Jack lays down, but Robby stays in place. Hesitantly, Jack brings himself upright, "What?"
"There's another thing I wanted to talk to you about."
"I don't like your tone."
"Well, I don't think you're gonna like what I have to say."
Jack takes his hand back, swiping it down his face. He's too tired for this.
Robby takes a deep breath, and calmly says, "I promised I'd take care of the husband."
Jack scoffs. "'Take care'?"
"Yes, Jack."
"And how are we supposed to do that? Kill him?"
Robby goes quiet. Jack sighs, "You're ridiculous. Killin' a man when we're supposed to be gone straight…"
"Don't act like you wouldn't do it either."
"'F course I'd do it," he grumbles. "But I ain't got the legs to do it with, and I don't want you goin' out alone and gettin' yourself killed."
Robby goes quiet, but Jack knows better than to think he's won. If there's one thing he knows about Robby, it's that he's stubborn as a mule. So even in his silence, Jack's muscles are tense, waiting for the inevitable.
When it comes, it's spoken softly, like Robby knows the volatility that his words will bring, "Maybe I don't need to do it alone."
*****
The door swings open before Robby can knock.
"Dana," he breathes.
She flexes her jaw back and forth. "Robinavitch," Dana spits. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but…" She sighs, "Come on in."
Robby's been in Dana's home before. He helped her move in. Though, that was the last time he stepped foot in here, a whole three years ago. It hasn't changed much since then. All the furniture is in the same place, though it looks like Dana has done some decorating. If the doilies all over the place are to be believed, Dana's taken up crochet as a hobby.
Better than robbing and killing, he supposes.
"Sit down." Dana grabs two glasses a bottle of whiskey from the cabinets. She pops the bottle open and pours two healthy glasses.
Robby lowers himself down on the couch. "You sound like you don't want me here," he teases.
Dana huffs, "If i didn't want you here, you'd be dead by now."
From the looks of the gun leaning against the wall by her door, Dana isn't joking. It's not like she doesn't know how to use it. Dana was one of the deadliest shots in the gang. Maybe only Cassie had a better eye, but it was Dana who was quickest to a draw. She could down a man before he'd even know he was in trouble. It was her who taught everyone to shoot, even sweet Samira, who shook whenever a gun was in her hand, could hit a can on a log under Dana's guidance.
Dana hands Robby a glass and leans against the far wall of the space. "What do you want, Robby?"
"What, you're not gonna ask how I am? How Jack is?" He swirls the drink, studying the amber liquid just to give him something to do other than look at Dana, who is no doubt glaring daggers at him.
"How are you? How is Jack?"
"Good."
"Good. Now why are you here?"
Robby finally sips the whiskey. It's fine, familiar, the same stuff they stock at the bar. When they get a shipment, Jack always meets with her in town to drop off a bottle. He's always been better dealing with Dana's temperament. Or maybe he was simply less bothered by her quick tongue, less sensitive to the way she spoke her feelings without censor.
"I need your help."
She huffs, "I could'a told you that."
"I'm serious."
"Oh, I know," she downs her whiskey in a single gulp. "How much does it pay?"
"Nothing."
"You're crazy." Dana laughs, harsh and loud. She shakes her head and walks back to the table to refill her glass. "I assume we're stealin' something? Or killin' someone?"
"Killin'." Robby nods, "It'll be quick. Nothing we haven't done before. I just need you to watch while I go in."
Dana makes a face, "You insult me."
"Dana, please?"
"What's with the begging? Has civilization really softened you up?" Dana teases. "I'll do it."
"Good. We'll—"
"As long as you tell me why." Dana's always been as nosy as she is deadly.
"He's betrothed to a woman in town. She ain't happy. She's…" Robby's mind is filled with your face when you told them, filled with tears and terror. It isn't a matter of marriage to you. "Scared."
Dana nods, her gaze growing distant. Robby knows what she's thinking about– the time where she was no different from you. Scared. Alone. But unlike you, Dana didn't have help. Her only option was to run away. It was three years on her own before Dana found Adamson, who took her under his kind wing, taught her not how to be a woman, but an outlaw.
"Well then, count me in," Dana's voice shakes.
"Thank you," Robby says.
Clearing her throat, Dana teases, "Maybe you'll get a nice woman to marry out of this." All semblance of vulnerability is gone. It never stays long with her.
Robby controls his face, tries not to show Dana just how much he likes the sound of that. If he were a wealthy man, if he hadn't devoted his entire heart to Jack, he would make an honest woman of you. Wouldn't hesitate to do it.
Instead of falling down that spiral, Robby raises his glass in the air, "And may you find a nice man to marry just as soon."
Dana smiles. It looks the happiest she's been since Robby walked in. "Oh, I swore off men. They were never good to me."
"Wish I could say the same." Robby sips the drink.
"How is Jack?" Dana asks. This time, she really means the question. "Does he know about your girl?"
"She's our girl," Robby says as though it's the truth. He has to, maybe after so many times he'll believe that he could have you for real. That he could have Jack, too. "He would come if it weren't for the leg."
If that surprises her, Dana doesn't show it. "I see," she sets her glass down on a side table, right on a particularly intricate doily. "Well, why don't you tell me what the plan is?"
Her words send a jolt of excitement down his spine. It's been a long time since Robby has done something like this, Dana too. They're old. They're out of practice. Yet, there's an excitement that comes from a run that can't be found from caffeine or cocaine.
Robby leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "It'd be my pleasure."
*****
News of Edward Lambson's death spreads like fire.
Murder, they say, shot in his own bed.
Nobody would care had it not been for you, the betrothed of the young Lambson. People worry that you're next. After all, the murder of young Edward had been so unusual. Nothing was stolen. Nobody else was hurt. It seems as though the only crime that was intended to occur was the man's death.
Since news of the murder reached town, you've been scarce. Nobody has seen you on the street, and you haven't dropped by the saloon a single night. They figured this would happen, talked it over before Robby and Dana went off. Now it's two weeks since news hit, and they're beginning to worry.
"I heard she's been cryin' for ten days straight," says a man deep in the stew that the Foothill Saloon is serving for lunch today.
His buddy, also indulging in a bowl of stew, harrumphs, "Everett should send her my way. I'll show the girl some comfort."
The men laugh, oblivious to the way Jack scowls at them. Another time, years ago, if Jack had heard them talking about you like that, he'd break their noses. Even if he was free to do so, Jack can't strong-arm like he used to, too out of practice and too unstable on his feet. It's hard not to feel like half the man he used to be, when he can't perform half the acts that made up his livelihood.
Jack can practically hear Robby's voice in his head, scolding him for thinking like that. Plus, he'd also scold him for driving away two of the few customers they've had lately.
Business is slow, has been since the murder. People are scared, staying home more often than not. If a big shot can get murdered like that, than what's to say the normal folks are safe? Plus, without your music drawing folks in and keeping them in, even evening crowds have thinned. It seems the only foot traffic they're getting during lunches are Myrna and the occasional working men.
So when the door to the saloon slams open, every head in the joint turns. That'd make the fifth customer of the day, compared to their usual twenty by now.
Or, maybe it's not a customer, but Sheriff Franklin. As he hangs his hat, Jack tries not to think too much about why the sheriff has finally decided to visit their establishment today of all days. He's just glad Robby's in the back, watching the stew and not present to be under the sheriff's scrutiny.
Myrna, sitting in a corner, lifts her head and cheers, "Mr. Langdon!"
Jack knows Myrna has seen the inside of a cell more times to count. Though, by the friendly wave Franklin gives her, it seems like there isn't bad blood.
Jack hums. Curious.
Franklin makes his way to the bar, sitting at the far end, away from the chattering gentlemen and their soup. He nods at Jack, and the barkeep makes his way down.
"Franklin," Jack leans on the bar in front of him, "What can I do for you? Hungry? Thirsty?"
Franklin shakes his head, "Nah, not today, Jack."
Jack straightens. Trying not to let his nerves show, he asks, "Then how can I help?"
"I got some questions for you," Franklin knocks twice against the counter. "Wanted to know if you could help me."
"'F course." Jack keeps his breathing level if not for nothing but to calm his pounding heart. "Let's hear 'em."
Franklin sucks a breath through his teeth."Well, I was just wondering if you heard any folks talking about the Easton girl— or the Lambson boy for that matter."
"Everyone's talking about them," Jack says. "You'll have to be more specific than that."
"Anything unsavory? Threats or whatnot?"
Jack wants to laugh, though he figures laughing in the face of a very concerned sheriff wouldn't be the smartest move. Instead, he takes the opportunity for what it is. Jack's eyes slide slowly over to the men on the other end of the bar, and for dramatic effect, he furrows his brows, hoping it look something like concern.
Franklin takes the bait, following Jack's gaze. As he spots the men, growing rowdier as they finish their drinks and stew, he nods. "What's with them?"
Jack shakes his head, clicking his tongue in faux-disappointment, "Oh, nothing much. I did hear them talking about Miss Easton though."
"How so?"
"They were saying how they wanted to–" Jack cuts himself off, pressing his lips together. "Well, let's just say it wouldn't be proper to voice it in polite company."
Franklin licks his lips, nodding. He doesn't look at Jack as he gets up from the stool, "Thank you, Mr. Abbot. You let me know now if you hear anything else."
"Will do."
Franklin has always been a kind face in town. People trust him. But when he thinks you to be a threat, Franklin is anything but friendly. As his hands land on the shoulders of the two surly men, they tense. Jack just chuckles, averting his gaze as the sheriff begins asking questions.
Not long after Franklin asks about the men's whereabouts on the average evening, boots clink behind him. Jack doesn't need to turn around to know what looms behind him.
"What's that about?" Robby asks, concerned.
"Wanted to know about the Lambson boy, says he's worried about Miss Easton being targeted," Jack explains. "And these men here were just saying the most unsavory things about the young lady."
"Ah," Robby nods. When Jack turns to look at him, his shoulders drop and a light smirk makes itself known on his lips. "I see. So no trouble?"
"No trouble," Jack confirms.
*****
It's hot as hell.
Summer has moved beyond its peak. Now, nights are far more tolerable. Jack is less likely to push Robby away in the night, complaining about him being too warm and sweaty. Somehow, though, today sees to be the hottest day of the year. It's taken everyone by surprise.
Despite the heat, it seems that everyone else is in better spirits, too. Business is finally starting to pick up. At night, it's almost impossible to navigate from one end of the saloon to the other without bumping shoulders with one person or another. It's just like it was before the young Lambson's death.
Almost.
You still haven't shown your face in town, nor at the saloon. Where their nights used to be filled with the sound of cheerful music, now Jack and Robby are only met with chattering. The only comfort he has is knowing that you're free from that awful marriage. It won't last forever, but for now Dana and Robby may have bought you some freedom.
The door opens with a rush of hot air. Jack's lips curl at the thought of the place getting any more crowded than it is, of any more bodies sitting around to just generate heat. Except, when he looks at who walks through the door, he frowns.
It's Dennis Whitaker. He scurries up to Jack with a pleasant smile. "Howdy, sir," Dennis greets.
"Howdy."
Jack can see why you chose to fuck him. Even if it was truly platonic like you claimed it to be, Dennis is a fine young man. He's handsome in the face, and broad in a way that only comes from hard labor. Jack would go for the man himself if he was younger.
"How's Orleans?" Dennis says. He's fidgeting, hand twitching over the satchel at his side. "He doin' alright?"
"Orleans is fine," Jack says. "How's Juniper?"
Dennis lights up. In the blink of an eye, the satchel bag is open, and Dennis pulls a neatly-folded paper out of it. The paper has a wax seal holding it shut, and Jack recognizes the Easton crest pressed into the wax.
Dennis speaks quickly, "That's why I'm here, sir! Miss Easton gave me this letter to hand you. I believe it's a thank you for… uh… the breeding." Dennis hands the letter to Jack, "I believe it's for Mr. Robby– Mr. Robinavitch as well."
Before Jack can say another word, Dennis turns on his heels and leaves. The clacking of his boots on the floor is hurried, and as he retreats, Dennis looks an awful lot like one of those wind-up toys that an overeager kid twisted too much.
With the slamming of the door (and a new rush of hot air in) Robby peeks his head out from the back. "What was that?" He asks.
"Dennis," Jack says, turning over the paper in his hand. "With a letter from our little birdie."
Robby grabs Jack by the collar. Customers-be-damned, he pulls Jack to the back, away from prying eyes. It's so fast, Jack almost stumbles and falls on his ass.
"Well, go on, read it," Robby waves his hand at the letter.
Jack's always been a better reader than Robby. Robby was taught to read and can do it if he needs to, but he joined the gang young, and never got a formal education. Doc Adamson made sure that Robby had the necessary skills, but even he thought that there were more practical skills for a young outlaw. To him, it was more important for Robby to know how to clean and stitch a wound than to recite Shakespeare.
Maybe Adamson was right. It was Robby's skill that kept Jack alive when he needed to lose his leg.
"Alright, alright." Jack peels the wax off of the letter, unfolding it carefully. Immediately, he's struck by the scent of your floral perfume. You must have sprayed it on the letter before folding it up. Your penmanship is impeccable. Jack reckons you've had plenty of lessons since your youth. He skips over the date and salutation, going straight to the meat of it. "Alright, you ready?"
"Just read the fuckin' letter, Jack."
Jack whistles, but obliges, "I would like to thank you both for your generosity in allowing Orleans to stud Juniper. As you are aware, she is in foal. I hope you would be glad to know that I am keeping Juniper healthy during her gestation. I take her for rides every day around noon, down the river near the estate. Though, in her state Juniper often grows tired, and we must rest near the old willows."
"She isn't subtle, is she?" Robby chuckles. He grabs the letter, squinting at the slanted words, before handing it back to Jack, "Oh, never mind."
Jack keeps reading, "I hope to see you in town one day. I have enjoyed our brief encounters. Until then, I wish you both well." Jack crumples up the paper, shoving it in his trouser pocket.
"That's it?" Robby says, a smile slowly growing on his lips.
"That's it."
"Well then," Robby claps a hand on Jack's shoulder, "You itchin' for a ride tomorrow?"
Jack smirks, "I think I can find the time."
*****
This isn't what you meant to happen.
Juniper is a good horse, always has been. She's a tough one too, hard to spook. It's why your father gifted her to you for your sixteenth birthday. He knew Juniper would protect you, wouldn't buck you off or bolt at the sight of a snake.
Apparently, though, a low flying bird near the old willows was enough to send her rearing.
You didn't expect it, weren't exactly paying attention either. You've found riding her pleasant after meeting Jack and Robby, after Robby kicked you of the habit of only riding aside. Astride is easier, freer. You can ride better, further, faster. And apparently you can get thrown to the ground pretty easily.
Luckily, you don't bump your head. Somehow you went sliding off the back of the mare, with your left ankle catching the brunt of the fall.
That was ten minutes ago, and you haven't been able to weight-bear since. Thankfully, Juniper only reared. The ever-loyal steed stands only a few feet from you, chewing on some overgrown grass near the river bank. If it weren't for the fact that you took the tumble where you're meant to be meeting Jack and Robby, you would be mighty mad at Juniper.
Better being humiliated by the injury than standing the men up, you suppose.
Jack and Robby have already done so much for you. It was a gamble to walk into their saloon, demanding to play their piano, and it was an even greater gamble to walk right back in and tell them you knew of their criminal past. They didn't have to let you stay. They very well could have taken you right back to your father and told him what you were trying to do. Goodness knows you wouldn't have had the courage to tell your father the truth of who they were, what they did.
You wonder if they knew that. If Jack and Robby knew you were nothing more than a coward. At least, at the time you felt you were. Maybe not now. Disagreement comes to you clearer these days.
Acting for yourself has always made you feel a little queasy. The night you kissed Robby, you threw up once he rode away, right in the wild rose bushes along the edge of the estate. Whether it was from you asking him to kiss you or not to let you marry Edward, you don't know.
You knew exactly what you were asking of Robby then. Everybody's heard of Doc Adamson and his gang, the thievery and murders that have followed in their wake. Jack and Robby may not be running with the crew anymore, but you've seen their leftover instincts firsthand. They're dangerous men, not like they ever pretended to be otherwise.
And now, they're going to come upon you with a broken ankle like a fool. That is if they even show up. The letter is a long shot. They may read between the lines and decide to finally hang you up.
You kissed Robby, twice in fact, but it was only an act of kindness. You were scared, lonely, and about to marry a man you've never met. It was only the polite thing to do for him to indulge your wishes. You wonder if he told Jack or kept it a secret. Part of you hopes he told Jack, that it felt real enough to Robby for him to confess to his lover.
If Jack was there, you would have asked the same of him. They know you're sweet on them. Though it's unlikely they see it as anything more than a silly girl's infatuation. You've felt for them since your eyes were first blessed by them. For the sake of protecting your position on the piano bench, you've hidden those feelings. The kiss was a lapse. You were worried and thinking you wouldn't see either of them ever again.
Any dignity you retained from that incident may very well disappear when they spot you here.
They can't see you like this. Not if you ever want a chance of protecting your pride. Hiking your skirt up, you push yourself to your feet. You make it all of three steps before the pain becomes too much and you stumble to the ground. As you wallow in your shame, the familiar sound of a horse's hooves meets your ear. You bite your lip, pulling your skirt to try to cover your hurt ankle. It isn't very effective, nor does it do anything to hide the dirt all over the fine fabric.
You only have time for a few calming breaths before a familiar horse is poking his head into the clearing, bearing two worried riders.
"What the hell happened?" Robby hops off of Orleans, running over to you. He hovers, hands outstretched as he scans your dirtied body for injury. Behind him, you spot Jack slowly lowering himself off of the horse. He looks just as concerned, but less so when you send him a soft smile.
"Juniper got spooked. I fell off, hurt my ankle."
"Which one?" Robby asks, kneeling.
"Left."
Robby doesn't hesitate to grab the offending foot. You whine, and he frowns. Inspecting the swollen flesh, he murmurs, "I'm going to take a look. Move it around. It may hurt, but if it gets too much you let me know."
"You're acting like you're a doctor," you giggle, then hiss as Robby rotates your ankle.
"We are," Jack muses.
"What?"
"Well, Doc Adamson was," Jack says. "Before the gang. He taught us everything he knew."
"Why'd he stop?" Being a doctor feels like a much wiser career choice than running from the law.
"Got caught up with the Irish mob," Robby mutters. You're surprised he's even paying attention enough to answer. He's been focused on your ankle ever since you voiced your discomfort. "Couldn't save the boss's kid. They got pissed, so Doc closed his practice and ran off."
"Shit."
Robby nods, "That's right." He sighs, setting your ankle on the ground. He grabs the hem of your skirt. Before you can ask what he's doing, a loud rip echoes through the clearing. In Robby's hand is a large strip of what used to be your dress.
"Hey!" You yell, "What the hell are you doing?"
Robby starts wrapping the fabric around your ankle, "What does it look like birdie? You went and sprained the damn thing. I'm stabilizing it."
"With my dress," you pout.
"What else was I supposed to use?"
You look at Jack for support, but quickly give up, seeing as he's laughing at the whole ordeal. You roll your eyes, "How about your shirt? Like a gentleman would."
"So your daddy can know you were out galvanizing with a gentleman?" Robby tucks the end of the fabric into one of the several wrapped layers. "So he can know how you invited them to see you unchaperoned?"
"It isn't like that."
"No?" Jack muses. He lowers himself to the ground behind you, tugging you so your back is flush against his firm chest. "That's not what you sent that letter for? Covered in your perfume and telling us exactly where to find you all alone?"
You gape. It's not that they're wrong about your intent, but you never expected them to be so bold as to comment on your implications.
Robby sets your ankle down, but lets his hand linger on it, thumb rubbing the skin of your calf.
"You shouldn't touch me like that," you squeak.
Robby smirks, "Why's that?"
Why? Because it makes you feel like your bones are about to melt out of your skin, like you need to pounce on him and beg him to kiss you again like he did that night, beg him to take you, let you kiss him as he does unlike Dennis did. It makes you feel special. Like he may actually feel for you in the same way you feel for him and Jack.
Jack. Robby's lover.
"Because you're together," you whisper.
Jack chuckles, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. "Now come on, Miss Easton, were you thinking about that when you asked Robby to kiss you?"
"I–"
"I don't think so," Jack says. "And I think it just wouldn't be fair for you to kiss Robby and not me." You try looking at Robby, but Jack clicks his tongue. "Me, sweetheart, not him. He had his turn."
"But–"
"But nothing. Do you want this, birdie?"
Your jaw hangs open. You do. You want this more than anything. Against all logic, against the voice in your head screaming at you about how wrong this all is, you nod.
Jack is a rougher kisser than Robby. Where Robby was cautious, almost to the point of frustration, Jack has no hesitation consuming you. His mouth glides against yours, tongue pushing past your lips before you even know what's happening. It's only when his mouth has been on yours for much too long, when you're certain you're never going to take a breath again, does he pull away.
You pout, "Why'd you stop?"
"Because you look like you're going to pass out, Miss Easton."
You smile, lightheaded, "It'd be worth it."
"And here I was thinking you didn't want to do this."
"Never, Jack."
Robby's hand slides from your ankle up your leg. Your skirt slides up at the motion until it's fully rucked up at your waist and Robby's hand is on your thigh, nudging it apart from the other. The touch makes you tense, a heat growing between your legs where Dennis once entered you years ago.
Robby pulls your drawers down your legs and tosses them aside. He then settles himself between your legs, lowering his face so his mouth is level with your bare pussy.
"What are you doing?" You ask, concerned.
"Dennis didn't do that, hm?" Jack's breath is hot on your neck, "Didn't taste you?"
"N-No," you stutter. "I don't know if this is a good idea."
Robby pauses, mouth hovering inches above your pussy. His breath is hot, more so than the summer air. You resist the urge to clamp your legs shut at the way it tickles your sensitive flesh.
"No, I," you bite your lip, "I just haven't washed in some time…"
The men laugh, you find your face heating even more than before, if that's somehow possible.
"Don't worry about that," Jack teases. He kisses your cheek softly, "Robby much prefers a little sweat."
You blink, "What does that–?" You cut yourself off with a moan as Robby's mouth touches you. His lips wrap around the most sensitive spot between your legs– the button your friend Trinity once referred to it as –and sucks softly.
"Robby!" You gasp, "Oh, Robby! That's– That's– oh." You moan, eyes fluttering shut as you lean back against Jack.
Pleasure shoots through your body, all coming from the sweet lips between your leg. His beard tickles the flesh of your thighs, rubbing harshly against it in a way that is surprisingly not unpleasant.
Just when you think that his mouth on you is the greatest you could ever feel, a finger, thick and calloused, makes itself known at your entrance. You jerk, gasping as it presses inside. There's little resistance, less than there was when Dennis took you. The finger curls gently in the midst of your wetness, and you cry out.
"You like that, sweetheart?" Jack asks. His hand is on your breast, fondling it with a surprising tenderness. "Want more?"
"M-More?" You don't know how there could be more than this. "There's more?"
Jack chuckles, pinching your hard nipple through the thin fabrics covering your chest, "Robby, I think our girl wants another finger."
Robby laughs, and the vibrations wash through you.
You gasp. "I think…"
"Think what? Think it feels good?" Jack whispers.
All you can do is whimper at his words, combined with the building pressure in your gut. You've heard of it before, from the girls at finishing school. They always spoke of a mysterious peak, one that could only be given to a woman by her husband. But Robby isn't your husband, and neither is Jack.
Husband or not, you want to chase the feeling.
"Yeah, yeah, I can," you nod frantically.
"Good girl," Jack soothes. He adds, louder, "Robby, give Miss Easton another finger. I think she just about deserves it."
A second finger presses against your entrance, stretching the flesh there to what feels like an impossible degree. Robby hums again, and you're suddenly overwhelmed by pleasure.
You lose yourself as you moan, hips bucking and grinding as best they can against Robby's face. You babble frantically, asking for more but also to slow down. Thankfully, Robby doesn't listen to you, keeping on exactly how he was before, with the gentle sucking on your nub and the rhythmic curling of his fingers inside of you.
Eventually, the pleasure subsides. Your eyes flutter shut as you slump back against Jack. Robby thankfully senses that you're done, taking his mouth off of your and gently removing his fingers. As they leave your hole, you whimper.
"You okay?" Robby asks.
You groan, peeling your eyes open.
"You alive?" Jack adds on.
Then, you laugh. "That was incredible."
Behind you, Jack lets out a sigh of relief, "You scared us there, sweetheart. Can't get quiet on us like that."
"I didn't mean to," you turn your head to smile at him. "That was just…"
"A lot?" Robby finishes your thought, sitting up from his spot between your legs. He leaves your skirt rucked up, revealing your twitching pussy to the soft summer air.
“You alright there, Michael?” Jack teases.
“Shut up,” Robby says, hands brushing the front of his trousers where a large dark stain is evident.
“Is that…?” You trail off. You know perfectly well that the dark stain is nothing other than Robby’s spend. Even more heat pools in your gut at the sight. It feels impossibly dirtier than the act Robby just performed, than his face between your legs and licking at you.
Jack whispers, “Yeah, birdie, that’s his spend. Robby let go with his trousers just from how sweet you taste.”
Despite the redness that creeps up his neck, Robby winks at you. He holds your gaze in a heavy stare. On account of the way you’re feeling dizzy, you turn to Jack, “Did… did you?”
Jack chuckles lowly behind you. He pulls you back against him and you feel the hard length of his cock.“No, birdie,” he teases. “I’ve got self-control unlike someone.”
Robby snorts, “Try gettin’ between her legs. See how long you last.”
Jack laughs harder as you bury your face in your hands. You feel his hands on your wrists, tugging them away, but you shake your head. “Your mouth,” you whine, “So dirty.”
Jack kisses your neck, just below your ear. “Trust me, sweetheart, it gets a lot dirtier than that.”
Before you know it, Jack is sliding out from under you, sitting you up and putting you into Robby’s hold. Robby wastes no time in sliding his hand under your skirt, teasing your sensitive nub with delicate caresses. The touch almost distracts you from Jack, who is unfastening his belt and laying down on the ground.
Flat on his back, Jack fishes his hard length out. You gape at the sight. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen a cock, and even then, you’ve only seen Dennis’s. Jack is just as long as Dennis, but thicker.
Jack sees your staring and smirks. He pats his lap, “Come on up.”
“What… what are you doing?” You ask. The words come out light, airy as you struggle to voice them with the fingers still circling your button.
“I can’t do the work birdie, not with this leg of mine.”
Your face heats. That's not how you and Dennis did it. He was on top of you, thrusting into you on the ground of the gardens with a hand clamped against his mouth. You had one clamped over yours as well, trying to keep as quiet as possible lest you wake anybody up.
"I don't…" You gulp, "I don't know what to do."
Robby's hand leaves your pussy. As he moves up your body, he murmurs softly, "That's okay, birdie. I'll help you." Robby jerks his head towards Jack. "Just get on top and I'll show you just what you need."
You chuckle nervously, "You sound like you two have done this before."
"Never," Robby whispers. He kisses you softly. "You're the first woman we've shared."
Robby helps you settle on top of Jack. He's erect, length standing proudly, almost inviting you to slide it into your pussy. You hover over him, thighs shaking from the effort despite the support of Robby's hands on your hips.
"You ready?" Robby asks.
"Yes," you whisper, looking at him, "I think so."
"Good," Robby says. He captures your lips in a gentle kiss. When Robby pulls away, you capture his lip with your teeth. "Jack, you ready?"
Jack pumps his length with his hand, "I've been ready, partner."
With his approval, Robby lowers you on Jack's cock. The stretch is more than you anticipated, but nowhere near unpleasant. When you finally seat yourself, hips meeting Jack's, you have to stabilize yourself on his chest as tight moans slip from your tongue.
They talk you through it. Robby tells you how good you're being for them. Jack praises how your pussy clenches around him. It's not long before you're able to pull yourself together, begging Robby to help you.
Robby guides you the whole way, showing you how to properly move yourself on Jack. You're lost in the feeling of riding him, his thick length sliding in and out of your already sensitive pussy. You're unable to stop your moans, not when Jack is grunting sinfully underneath you, too.
Eventually, you feel Robby's grip on your hips loosen. “You got it now, birdie,” Robby says, sliding his hands, one up to your breast and the other between your legs. “Just keep goin’ like that, make yourself feel good.”
“What about Jack?” You pant.
They laugh.
“Don’t you worry about me,” Jack coos. He bends his good leg, planting his foot in the ground to thrust up into you.
Everything’s so sensitive, from your throbbing button being massaged by Robby to the way Jack’s length reaches impossible depths. This is nothing like it was with Dennis. That was tentative, mere fumbling in the dark. Any uncertainty you had that night is gone. With Jack and Robby with you, whispering their gentle encouragements and praises, it's everything you could have ever wanted.
Before you know it, the pressure is back. This time, it's growing much faster than before as you ride Jack's length, Robby's rough finger rubbing against your sensitive nub.
“I think,” you gasp. “I think…” You trail off, moaning softly as Robby kisses you again.
"Good, baby," Robby soothes. He pinches your nipple, tugging it softly ever so often. The hand between your legs picks up in its assault. "Let it come."
It takes only a few more thrusts from Jack, thrusts you barely meet, for pleasure to overtake you again. You can't hold yourself up, and if it wasn't for Robby behind you, you would collapse onto Jack's chest. Instead, he holds you against him, lets you bounce on Jack's length as you moan and writhe in pleasure.
As you come down from the high, you feel Robby's hands on your hips again. He helps you lift yourself off of Jack. Jack grabs his cock quickly, pumping it a few times before spilling over himself. Blearily, you watch his spend ooze out of his tip, painting his hand and length a pearly white.
Robby kisses your cheek, "Just rest now, birdie." He lowers you against Jack's chest, before laying himself down next to the two of you, his head resting on Jack's outstretched arm. "You did so well for us."
"So well," Jack echoes, breathless.
"I–" The word gets caught in your throat, tears stinging your eyes. You let out a shuddering breath. In the silence Jack and Robby grant you, you let your breath catch up to you, following the rise and fall of Jack's chest underneath you. Robby's hand rubs your back the entire time.
Eventually, you manage to say, "Thank you. For everything."
"Oh, birdie," one of them says. You're too tired, too faraway to realize who it is that's speaking, "Thank you."
*****
"Oh, Victoria is smitten by Mateo."
You gasp quietly, slapping a hand on Trinity's leg, "Diaz?"
Trinity bits back her smirk, "Apparently he outgrew that overbite."
You howl in laughter. Trinity is no longer able to hide her amusement either. The sounds of your shared joy receive a few sharp looks from the parents in the room (and even a few of Trinity's siblings), but you pay them no mind.
With her father being one of your owns longest friends in this country, you've known Trinity since you were girls. You practically grew up together and later attended the same finishing school, a fact that your father said is the nail in the coffin of his peace. As much as you and she overwhelm him and her parents for that matter, he's never tried separating you.
"How long do you think until he courts her?" Trinity says.
You snort, "He could propose to her today and that girl would say yes."
"Right you are."
A familiar pale-face makes itself known in the front parlor. Immediately, you and Trinity cry, "Emery!"
Emery has to bite back a smile to retain her professionalism. If your father is displeased, he doesn't voice it. As much as he dislikes your friendships with Emery and Dennis, he's never stepped in or outright denied you the companionship. Little wins, you suppose.
"Mr. Easton," Emery says, amusement evident in her voice. "The final guests have arrived."
You frown, "More guests?" You were only told that the Santos family would be joining you for dinner.
"Yes, yes," your father says as he stands. "Come with me, dear." Then, to the guests, "If you'll excuse us."
"Wonderful," you whisper to Trinity. "Now we can finally eat."
Trinity snorts, elbowing you in the rib as you stand. You follow your father out of the front parlor into the entryway. There you find Emery with two familiar– very familiar –men. Heat floods your face as your knees buckle. For a moment, you think you may faint.
"Mr. Robinavitch. Mr. Abbot," you say, stunned.
There they are, in all their glory. You've never seen them in formal wear, and you're surprised to see how well-tailored their suits are.
Though, perhaps not as surprised as you are by their mere presence.
"Miss Easton," Robby nods at you. He has your hand in his grasp before you can understand what's happening, bringing it up to his lips for a soft kiss. The way he bends at the waist, looking up at you through his lashes, it's too familiar. Suddenly, he's not looking at you from a bent posture, but from between your legs, and his lips are not on your gloved hand, but sucking your sensitive nub.
You feel heat again, this time it pools low in your gut, between your legs.
"Thank you for welcoming us into your home, Mr. Easton," Jack says coolly. Then, Robby drops your hand. Before it can hang too long at your side, like lead almost, Jack picks it up. He kisses it just as Robby did, but doesn't bother to hide the smirk on his lips. "Miss Easton."
Goodness, you hope your father can't see the heat in their gazes. Or yours, for that matter.
"Of course," you say, as though you were the host of the evening.
Your father pauses, but doesn't seem bothered enough by your words to question you. Instead, he says, "You're always welcome. It is but my thanks for the favor of lending us your dear Oklahoma."
"Orleans," Jack corrects.
"Yes, what a wonderful city!" Ignoring the twisted faces of Jack and Robby, your father calls loud enough so the guests in the front parlor can hear, "Shall we dine?"
The procession to the dining room feels a lot more like a funeral march. You're not unhappy, goodness no. You merely feel like your bones are going to jump out of your very skin. Jack and Robby walk behind you the whole way, and you swear you can feel their hands brushing your gloved ones several times along the way.
In the dining room, everyone quickly finds their seat. You stand at the door, watching everyone flit around, calling you're sitting here to another. It's a pleasant chaos. You've always enjoyed your father's dinner parties over that of other families, whose wealth and presence in this country date much further back than yours. Those dinner parties have always felt stuffy, and you've always felt like you were doing something wrong despite your extensive education telling you that you know exactly what you were doing.
Eventually, everyone is sat except for you.
"Dear," your father says softly. It's his voice that makes you realize that every pair of eyes in the room is on you. You pointedly avoid making contact with two of them. "Is everything alright?"
You blink. You avoid looking at the men sitting in the corner, because goodness knows you've looked at them plenty recently. Frustratingly, though, you can't find a single chair at the table for you. A tightness grows in your chest as the heat between your legs makes itself known once more.
It's Jack's voice that cuts the silence. Cool and smug, he voices the last thing you want to hear at this moment, "Miss Easton, I believe this is your seat over here."
Just as Jack said, between him and Robby is an empty seat. The only empty seat at the table. If they're trying not to look too pleased about the seating arrangement, then Jack and Robby are greatly failing.
"Oh," you muster up your best impression of a smile. "Isn't that wonderful?"
The only sound in the room is the clacking of your heels on wood. Before you reach the chair, Robby pushes himself up, making a grand show of pulling your chair out for you. You should say thank you, but all you can muster is a pathetic hum. It goes largely unnoticed in the room, but not entirely.
As he helps you push your chair in, you hear the softest utterance from Robby, his breath cresting the sensitive skin of your neck, "I thought ladies were supposed to say thank you."
Chatter starts up again. Everyone is talking to their seat neighbors, telling stories and exchanging pleasantries. Not you, though. You sit, gripping the arms of your chair. Sweat beads along your forehead. You practice the words it's just the heat in your head in case anybody asks you why you're sweating like a pig.
Then, the men on either side of you shift. You frown, lifting your head to look at Jack, who merely shrugs, then Robby, who smiles. You're opening your mouth to finally speak to them when you feel it– a hand on each of your thighs.
All of a sudden this dining room is looking a lot like a meadow, with the river flowing nearby. Your ankle hurts, a slight throb that should go away with sleep. Most of all, there's a man beneath you fucking up into you– your lover too, you suppose –holds you together.
Someone comes up behind you. As if you're underwater, you hear them ask if you want wine. You're barely able to utter a quiet yes, not when the hands on your thighs begin to stroke softly.
What you do manage to do however, is catch the eyes of Jack, then Robby, and say, "Thank you."
You'll be damned if it isn't just a long night for you.
hold my hand when i say chubby alpha!robby (f!reader)
For alphas, size is a big part of identity. It's a leftover biological urge to be large, be able to protect an omega from possible threats, specifically other alphas. It's their biological imperative to put on as much muscle mass as they can.
Omegas also tend to have an underlying bias towards larger, muscular alphas.
Enter Robby, an alpha who was never very good at putting on muscle in his younger days, which lands him here: a middle aged, chubby man. Sure, he's tall and has a decent amount of muscle, but most of it is buried under fat. When people look at him, they don't think he's buff, they think he's chunky.
As if that's not bad enough, Robby has his sights set on an omega. The same omega that Jack is pining after.
Day after day, Robby has to watch as Jack hits on you, pulls out all the stops. Robby doesn't stand a chance. He doesn't even try because, the thing is, you seem to like Jack. You laugh at his jokes, accept the coffee and pastries he brings you every morning before he goes home. If there was any alpha in this department that you'd go after, it's Jack.
Or so Robby thought.
His shift has barely started when Robby finds Jack shuffling awkwardly away from you with his proverbial tail tucked between his legs. Robby doesn't even need to ask what happened before Jack spills.
"I asked her out," Jack says like it's the only explanation needed.
Robby blinks. If Jack asked you out, then why does he look so upset?
Unless...
"She said no?"
Jack nods, "Didn't even think about it."
Apparently, Robby is a glutton for punishment, because he pats Jack on the shoulder and says, "Don't worry, brother. I'll go talk to her."
"Good luck," Jack grumbles, already retreating to the lockers.
Robby doesn't need to do much looking. Your scent alone, strong even despite the scent patches you wear, is easy enough to follow. Robby finds you charting, typing away and looking too nonchalant for someone who just turned down a perfectly fine alpha.
"Hey there," Robby says, pretending to read over your chart. "How's it going?"
"If he sent you here to change my mind, it won't work."
Robby bites back a smile. You're a strong-headed omega, always have been. "I offered to."
"What a mensch."
He chuckles, “Dr. Abbot’s a good guy. You should give him a chance."
"I know." You shrug, not even pausing as you type up the chart, "But I'm not interested."
“Really?”
“Yeah. He’s too… uh,” you clear your throat, shaking your head. “Not my type.”
Robby snorts, “What, too muscular for you?” His words are sharp and mean, an unfair projection of his insecurities onto you.
“Actually,” you chuckle nervously. “Yeah.”
Robby doesn't remember much of the rest of the day, his mind is too busy turning your conversation over in his head.
What omega doesn't like a muscular alpha? Maybe you prefer someone skinnier, someone like Mohan. Or maybe Garcia, still muscular, but much leaner than Jack. That must be it, Robby decides. Surely you just prefer a leaner alpha.
Robby accepts that as the truth. Just like before, he resigns himself to keeping his distance, telling himself there's no world in which you'd go for him.
How wrong he is.
You're frustrated, to say the least. You've been working at PTMC for the last three years, and each and every day you've been here, it's been a struggle not to throw yourself at your attending and beg him to claim you.
You drop every hint. You push your scent when you see him outside of work. You always pour him a coffee when you're in the staff lounge (with two cubes of sugar, even though he's a stubborn alpha who lies to everyone and says he prefers it black). Hell, you told him that you don't prefer musclar, cut alphas and still this man doesn't understand that you want him.
For fuck's sake, you've stolen a sweatshirt from him for your nest. That was last fall, and while the scent faded quickly (thanks to the fact that you spend every single heat with your face buried in it, imagining that it's him), the idea of returning it has on multiple occasions made you cry.
Finally, you decide to confront him. It's two days before your heat and you're sick and tired of dropping every goddamn hint that Robby is your walking wet dream. If he's not going to court you, then you just have to take matters into your own hands.
You corner him by the lockers. You've already taken your scent patches off for the day. Typically, you wait to do it until you're finally home, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
"Robinavitch," you bite. You're caging him against the lockers, "Put in for PTO starting Tuesday."
Robby gulps. His pupils are blown, the brown of his eyes almost entirely disappeared thanks to the scent of pre-heat flooding his senses. He stutters, "W-Why?"
"My heat."
"I don't see why I need to–"
"You're spending it with me," you say like it's law. Frankly, it might as well be. You know that with this option on the table, Robby would be remiss to pass it up. "Unless you have a problem with that," you add, just to see him panic.
"No! No! I–" Robby blinks. What'd you give to know what he's thinking right now... "I haven't courted you."
You scoff, "Yeah, believe me, I know. This is your chance to make it up."
"Are you sure?"
"One hundred percent. I'm sick and fucking tired of waiting for you to wake up and make a move."
"But I'm..." Robby clears his throat. Quietly, he finishes his thought, "I'm fat."
"Good," you say quickly, because the thought of making him feel bad for his body makes you ill. In no word will you allow him to be insecure about one of the hottest parts of him. "I look forward to seeing your fat self in my nest."
Robby's jaw drops. You smile.
"I'll text you my address." Ignoring the obvious tent in his pants, you wink, "See you soon."
content warnings: 18+!!!! Gets quite smutty, fluffy, jack abbot invented YEARNING, age gap!!!, no use of Y/N
notes: i know this one sounds kinda depressing but i promise its fun and funny and flirty and it’s my favorite one ive ever written!! also debating on making an ao3 account - should i?
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack Abbot was unfortunately intimately familiar with the 5 Stages of Grief. Depression, Bargaining, Anger, Denial, Acceptance.
He grieved his leg at the ripe age of 31 - courtesy of an IED in the desert of Afghanistan.
He began grieving his late wife the following year at 32 - courtesy of an arrogant, misogynistic emergency medicine resident.
At 33, he grieved the life he thought he was going to have while he started a new one. No longer a husband, but a widow. No longer an army medic, but an Emergency Room attending at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Sometimes when he would come back to the empty home he bought at 34, the ghosts of that life were louder than any silence he thought he could drown out with the police scanner.
Jack Abbot knew the 5 Stages of Grief like the back of his hand.
In hindsight, he didn’t know how he didn't realize the 5 stages in which he fell in love with her were quite similar. A mirror of his grief refracted through a lens of unconditional love.
depression
If someone would have asked Jack at the time, he wouldn't have admitted he was depressed. He truly didn't think he was.
He didn't need therapy to deal with his trauma. His wife passed away a decade ago. His leg, or lack thereof, the constant reminder of the time he gave up while he had her on this earth - was physically healed. As much as it was going to be anyways. So therefore he was mentally healed. As much as he thought he was going to ever be anyways.
He'd been running on autopilot. It carried him from but mostly to the emergency room at PTMC. It's what made him stop at the unfamiliar sight of Gloria in his ED. This is why he didn't work the day shift. He never wanted to deal with all of the bureaucratic administrative bullshit. The only business Jack Abbot was ever interested in was the one of saving lives. Gloria hadn't even opened her mouth and Jack already knew that Robby was going to owe him one.
"Dr Abbot! Wonderful timing. I have a residency interview waiting in Robby's office for you."
Now Robby really owed him one. "Doesn't Robby usually..." Jack scratched at the back of his neck, still confused as to why Gloria had involved herself, and now him, in a residency interview, "...facilitate those?"
Gloria gave a curt nod before glancing around them, as if checking to make sure they would not be overheard. She lowered her voice as she spoke, "Yes but I specifically scheduled this one when I knew you were covering. She is the best candidate we have ever had and probably ever will. I cannot risk Robby running her off."
Right. The Adamson of it all. There was a joke in there somewhere about Jack being considered the stable one in the ED. He guessed he must be. He had become fairly good at presenting an even keeled, calm front. He still had kind of felt like a mess in every other area of his life but the ED was the one place he was the furthest from one. It's where he solved the mess instead of becoming it.
She shoved a printed resume into Jack's hands before she was off. Back up to her ivory tower. He took a look as he strode over to Robby's office. Full ride to Stanford for both her undergraduate and medical degree.
For once, he agreed with Gloria. What the hell did this candidate want to do with PTMC?
He asked her as much as he sat across the desk from her, brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. Residency interviews usually went one of two ways. The candidate was either far too cocky or so nervous they barely got a complete sentence out.
She struck the balance. She was confident. More so than some of his residents who had been out on the floor. She wore a dark gray wool sweater and maxi skirt set. The monochrome was only cut by the deep maroon of her belt, tights, heels, and purse. Her long hair was slicked back into a simple pony tail and her makeup was minimal, if any.
It wasn't the typical look of a medical student on a residency interview. Still completely appropriate, but far less stuffy and much more self assured.
Jack wouldn't know good style if it had slapped him in the face but he did know what hers revealed to him about herself. It was the kind of style that someone who knew who they were had. Who had spent time getting to know what they liked. Whether it was what they were reading, listening to, watching, or doing. Her style wasn’t an afterthought but she carried it with a quiet confidence that let everyone know she was not overcompensating for anything either.
It was a demeanor and style that was derivative of having a life outside of medicine - which was quite uncommon for medical students and residents alike. It was completely foreign to Jack. It intrigued him. She intrigued him.
Her body language was relaxed but respectful. One leg crossed over the other as she leaned back into the wooden chair that was probably older than she was, hands clasped in her lap. Jack doubted her heart rate had reached over 65 the whole time she had been in there.
She took a beat to answer his question which also intrigued Jack. She was not rushing to answer just to fill space. She seemed to be comfortable with the time silence gave her to craft intentional responses. Why PTMC?
A ghost of a smile that looked like it might be haunted by one appeared on her face, "My family is here."
"That's it?"
"Do you want the practiced professional answer that every other interviewer has gotten or do you want the real one?"
Jack bit back a grin at her bluntness. Ignored the stirring in his stomach that made him feel special that she may share something about herself with him that she hadn't with anyone else. He tells himself to Get. A. Grip.
"I am sure the absolute best residencies in the country are foaming at the mouth to land you and you want to come here because of your family? Give me the real reason." He let his smirk slip through as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, "I'm a captive audience after all."
The airy laugh that he got out of her almost knocked him out of his seat. What was wrong with him? He had a feeling she didn't just hand out a laugh as ethereal as that one. That she was not the kind of woman who just giggled because it was the part of the conversation where she'd been socialized to appease the man speaking that he was funny. She seemed far too smart for that. For probably everyone in the building. For him, especially.
"I have already been away in California for eight years. I could have fifty years left with my dad and my brothers and my sister in laws and my nieces and nephews or they could be gone next week," she uncrossed and recrossed her legs before continuing. Didn't rush before speaking again, "I don't want to build an unguaranteed future alone and then have no one to share it with when I get there. I wanna spend time with them now."
Jack's adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His eyes burned as he fought to hold back tears. It must be some kind of cruel joke that right then his phantom limb pain wanted to shoot up through his thigh. Like a reminder of the time he spent wasting while he had his wife alive.
He had joined the army to become a doctor debt free. Then he had spent all of their marriage overseas, saving money for a life they never even got to spend together. He had borrowed time from the future that didn't even exist. And all he had to show for it was ironically - more money - monthly life insurance, disability, and veteran affairs checks. Oh and one and a half legs.
He blinked rapidly. He was not about to cry at work. Nevertheless while he was conducting a residency interview. He diverted the conversation away from himself, "You didn't mention your mom."
"She died. When I was a teenager, about ten years ago. After coming here actually," She coughed out a dry laugh that sounded like she dragged it up through her throat, kicking and screaming. Awfully different to the one Jack had floated out of her moments prior, "She was pregnant and they sent her away without so much as a full consultation. Just chalked her symptoms up to pregnancy and she died from an aortic dissection later that night."
Jack wanted to vomit at the almost exact recountance of how his wife had died. He was so focused on not emptying his breakfast onto Robby's desk that a tear slipped - the first in probably years.
"Oh, Dr Abbot. I didn't mean to make you emotional. I can go back to the professional answer any time you want." Another scoffed laugh, her eyes full of compassion but no tears, "Trust me - it's probably easier for both of us."
Jack really never talked about his late wife anymore. He liked to tell himself he was healed. He most definitely didn't talk about it at work. But he found himself wanting to then - with her, "No it's just - my late wife - she died the same way, about a decade ago. I was away on a stupid bachelor party trip and she didn't want to worry me so she didn't call me about it and then she, uh, never called again."
"Jesus - I am so sorry, Dr Abbot."
He noticed, appreciated, the way her head didn't tip and her eye contact didn't waver. She was not expressing her condolences out of pity or not understanding but of exactly the opposite. She knew exactly how he felt. He ignored the way his heart jumped out of his chest at the thought.
God, Robby really owed him one.
"Thank you - I am sorry about your mom. I am just impressed you still wanna work here. I could never work in the hospital that did that to my wife. The couple years after she passed - I could barely work here."
"Well, the other option was becoming one of those weirdos who swears off doctors and hospitals and science."
Jack tilted his chin at her in consideration, rubbed at the scruff there, and let out a sputtering laugh, "Are you sure that is the only other option?"
He pulled another light chuckle from her and he exhaled. Truly exhaled. For the first time in maybe ten years - like he had been underwater for so long he had forgotten what fresh air felt like.
"This is my way of letting her live on through me. To do something about what happened to her rather than using it as an excuse to sulk through life. I wanna see life as something that comes from me and not at me."
She picked at the lining of her purse that was perched in her lap. The first sign of potentially any nerves. The first time he realized that he was getting the true her. Not the front she must put up for interviews. It didn't seem much different - just a little more vulnerable.
Jack could talk. So much so he had a reputation for it in the ED. He was no stranger to being on the receiving end of a 'God do you ever shutup?' so he was a bit stunned that she had managed to shock him into silence.
He hugged his crossed arms closer to his chest as if that was even possible and just stared.
She cracked a smile, back to what was seemingly her calm and confident self, "Too esoteric for a residency interview?"
"Oh no. Not at all. I just..." Jack couldn't seem to find the right words to tell her that she had just reframed his entire outlook on his life and his grief in one sentence so he settled on, "...I uh never really thought of it that way."
"Me neither. But I have an excellent therapist."
"I will have you know, if you choose to do your residency here, I do not make it a habit of trauma dumping on my residents like I did on you today."
"I think I started that, Dr Abbot. But since I made you cry - does that mean I am in?"
That earned a genuine cackle out of Jack. A cackle. A kind of sound he wasn't even sure he was capable of making anymore but the bright, beaming smile she reciprocated made him want to do it for the rest of his life.
Maybe he owed Robby one.
Jack tried not to think about her as he got the old laptop down from his hallway closet later that night. He may never even see her again. He ignored the fact that that thought made him sick to his stomach.
Tried not to think about how Gloria had never ever personally been the residency candidate welcome committee until today while he googled 'Veteran, disabled, widower therapists near me'.
He tried not to think about how she looked the best anyone has ever looked in that emergency department as he murmured to himself, "God, that's a depressing search."
He tried not to think about how she had the most beautifully intriguing brain of anyone who had ever stepped foot into that hospital, potentially his entire life, as he booked his very first therapy appointment.
bargaining
"Remember when you told me you didn't make it a habit of trauma dumping on your residents?"
Jack didn't even have to look at her to know there was a huge smirk plastered on her face. She had been his resident for a little over a year. Although, it had taken much less time for the ribbing to start.
"Telling you about how Shen won't stop calling me 'Unc'," Jack had put air quotes around the Gen Z slang term as he continued, "is not trauma dumping."
"You seem pretty traumatized by it. You've only brought it up 85 times this shift."
"And to think - I was gonna ask you to a research breakfast after this." Jack nudged his shoulder gently with hers, tried his best to stave off the grin that played on his lips.
"And to think! You're going to anyway, old man." She nudged him right back, a little less gentle causing him to turn his shoulders and gaze towards her, feigning shock and offense.
That got the exact reaction he was fishing for - a big bright smile, loud laugh, and a second or so more of eye contact that he wouldn't have had a reason to justify otherwise.
What can he say? When it came to her - he was greedy.
"You two! I would prefer to get the hand off completed before you're both back on shift tonight. I swear you're like young and dumb medical students after shift sometimes." Dana chastised them but not without a hint of a smile.
Dana had known Jack for over ten years at this point. Seen him in a lot of different moods; but never as happy as this.
"Well, I'm young." She emphasized the 'I' with a smirk and pointed the finger that she had aimed at herself over at Jack, "He is just being dumb."
Jack barked a laugh. A sound that was no longer so foreign to him. No longer so foreign to everyone else in the ED.
He didn't miss the knowing glance Dana shot his way, a grin fighting to appear on both of their faces. He did his best to give Dana a look that said that he wasn't hopelessly infatuated with his resident. That he enjoyed spending time with each of his residents equally. He was not entirely sure he convinced Dana. He wasn't even good at convincing himself.
He could take her to breakfast if it was to help her with her research. It was most definitely not to see how many times he could pull a laugh from her. Bonus points if he got a nose scrunch or an accidental spit take of the orange juice that was already half way down her throat.
He could bring her a coffee every shift if it was to ensure his best resident was energized for her shift. It was not because of the way she looked up at him with her bright, big eyes through her lashes and said "Thank you, Dr Abbot!" like it was some sort of melody. If he started buying coffee for Dr Ellis and Dr Shen as well to make his affection less obvious - what was the difference?
He could let her do a pericardiocentesis way before anyone else her year probably should have if it was to improve her education. And because she truly was ready. He'd have bet his entire career that she was better at it than all of the surgical residents upstairs. Which meant it wasn't so totally obvious that he was staring at her in awe all of the time. Because when she was doing shit like that - everyone was. Being able to guide her hands through a procedure was just a bonus. Even if there were latex gloves between them.
He could bring extra food to shift, knowing she was going to eat half of it, if it was because he wanted to ensure his best resident was properly fueled and empowered to do her job to the best of her ability. He kept it to himself that he drove to a grocery store thirty minutes out of his way to get the specific kind of candy he knew she liked.
He could drive her home if it was to ensure his smartest resident got home safe. It was totally not because he got to spend more time with her. He definitely didn't take the long way to her apartment and he went exactly the speed limit because that was what was safe. Not because it meant extra time with her. No one else needed to know that he went at least fifteen over when she wasn't in his passenger seat.
No one also needed to know that he bought an aux cord just for her because he loved to hear what kinds of songs she liked. He definitely didn't have a playlist compiled of them all that he listened to at home now instead of his police scanner.
denial
She had been his resident for a bit over two years now and the ED was Q word tonight. No one had said it but the combined time they had all spent fucking around at the Hub proved it.
Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night. He thought he was being inconspicuous in the amount of time he had been spending with Javadi but his new found interest in the social media app gave him away. Jack couldn't really say anything to his new junior attending about the dangers of falling for someone that you were the superior to without blowing up his own soft spot for a certain resident.
So Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night and he had roped her in.
Jack thought he knew all of her secret talents by now but he watched from behind her, amused and hands tugging at his stethoscope looped behind his neck, as Shen played various Britney Spears songs to see how quickly she could guess them.
She hadn't needed more than 3 seconds for any of them.
Then they were busy for an hour or so. A couple drunk twenty somethings with some concussions and laceration repairs - nothing too crazy. And then they were back at central. The quiet was interrupted by a gasp from Dr Shen. Which was quickly followed by Dr Ellis looking over his shoulder at his phone and then both of them dying laughing.
"I don't even want to know." Jack threw his hands up in surrender.
"Oh, yes you do! You're going viral for being hot!" Shen exclaimed.
"I don't know what viral means if it’s not to do with an infection and I already know that I’m hot thank you very much." Jack didn't even glance up from his charting as he spoke.
“For being hot and being hopelessly in love.” Ellis clarified.
That got Jack's attention. He got up, snatched Shen's phone out of his hand as he muttered, “I am not hopelessly -" he didn't even want to give the accusation a real denial to validate it, "-let me see that.” He pressed play.
It was ironic that he had been telling himself he needed to start schooling his expressions when it came to her when the same dopey smile and enamored eyes he had going in the video were on his face as he watched the video.
He knew Shen and Ellis were monitoring his reaction closely but he couldn't help but let out a laugh at the part of the video where he had guessed the song 'Lucky' before she had.
She had whipped around in the spinning chair so fast - her hair had stuck to her glossed lips, "How the hell do you know that?!" she asked surprised, a wide smile taking over her face.
Jack shuffled around in his wide stance, large hands going from the ends of his stethoscope to clasped behind his back, his chin tilted up at her as he spoke with a drawl, "I let you play your music when I drive you home, don’t I?”
In the moment, Jack had missed what was caught on camera - the knowing smirk Dr Ellis had leveled at Dr Shen off camera as she said, “Oh, I’m sure you do.”
Jack's rebuttal hadn't even had a chance to leave his mouth before Shen and Ellis were reading the comments aloud, taking turns as they went.
"WHOOOO DAT IN THE BACK!?"
"Paging Doctor biceps in the back"
"Close enough. Welcome back Lexie grey and mark sloan"
"What in the greys anatomy"
"Do the two doctor sexys know that age gap august is upon us"
"If she doesn’t wanna bite on his biceps I will"
"Does that girl know she has 45mins to claim that man before I do"
"He does not play about her!"
"A man who YEARNS is a man who EARNS"
"Dr sexy is down bad for the other doctor sexy"
"Where is this emergency room at … for research purposes"
"I want Doctor sexy to look at me like that"
"Okay, I don’t look at her like anything!" Jack hissed low in a whisper, hoping to a god he did not believe in that she was still busy with the drunk college kids and was not hearing any of this.
"Well, you definitely don’t look at me like that." Shen laughed, sucking on his Dunkin straw even though nothing had been left in his cup for hours.
"I look at you all the same." Jack deadpanned. He sat back down at his computer. An attempt to get back to charting. But not before taking a sweep of the ED and making sure she was nowhere within earshot. Not that Shen and Ellis were making it easy with their hysterics.
"Bro - if you looked at me like that I would call HR. She's just into it."
“Into what?" She asked monotonically, not even looking up from her iPad as she approached the rest of the night shift crew at the hub.
“Nothing!” Jack barely got out, grumbling and exasperatedly running a hand through his silver curls as he got up from his computer and went to chairs.
He didn't miss the raise in her brows as she looked at Shen and Ellis, silently asking 'What the hell is up with him?'.
He couldn't tell you the last time he voluntarily went out to chairs but he was hoping his fair Irish skin would be finished betraying him with the pinkness in his cheeks, ears, and neck by the time he made his way back to central.
He knew it was only a matter of time before Shen and Ellis showed her the video and he did not want to be there when they did.
So he missed the flush in her cheeks, ears, and neck that had been identical to his.
And her slightly embarrassed, definitely exaggerated, "You guys stop - he is literally our boss."
"But you're not not into it?" Ellis had pushed. If anyone was getting it out of her, it was Ellis. They had been attached at the hip since their residency began.
"It doesn't matter if I'm into it. He is our boss! He is not into it."
"God, for someone so smart you are so stupid sometimes."
Jack had waved Shen off when Shen had come out to chairs to tell him about that interaction, practically vibrating with excitement. Or maybe that was the caffeine. Jack had parroted her, tried to make a joke of it all. Said something along the lines of, "I know you guys like to pretend otherwise but I am your boss."
But once Jack was home, black out shades drawn and snug in his bed, he couldn't wipe the huge, stupid grin off of his face.
anger
Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. Very few things on this earth made him genuinely angry - one of them being the annual hospital gala. Every year they were trotted out as show ponies to raise money that the ED would never even see. You can't save patients with empty compliments and an open bar.
He had managed to avoid it the past couple years - always worked instead. So when he saw he wasn't scheduled to work the night of this year's gala, he printed out the schedule and marched right over to Robby's workstation to rectify what was surely a mistake.
"Why am I not scheduled to work tomorrow? I didn't even check the schedule until now because I just assumed that my friend would do me a solid because he owes me one-"
"-Because you have to go to the gala, man." Robby interrupted Jack's rambling.
"What part of 'you owe me one' did you not understand?"
"Did you happen to see who else is not scheduled?"
Neither of them had to say anything for them both to know who's name Jack was scanning that piece of paper for.
Robby clapped him on the back, satisfied with a smile on his face as he walked away, "Go home and rest, Romeo. You got a big date tomorrow night - you’re welcome!"
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
So again, Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. But he had decided to add a new line item to the short list of things that made his blood absolutely boil. The thing being every single young, conventionally attractive, rich, tall surgeon working in his hospital hitting on his resident at this stupid fucking gala.
They hadn't even made it to dinner yet and he was sure she'd been approached over ten times. Jack had to step away after the most recent one - under the guise of getting a drink.
Jack unfortunately was very familiar with this particular suitor of hers. She was well into her last year of her residency and it had not been an uncommon occurrence for Dr Harvard from cardio thoracic surgery to make any and every excuse to come down and consult when she was on shift.
Jack made a conscious effort to forget his name. Shen and Ellis loved to remind him of it.
They'd tease him about it. They'd say that there was a plus side to it all. They never had to wait long on a cardiac surgery consultation anymore. But selfishly, Jack would wait fucking years if it meant he was chatting her ear off instead of Mr Harvard.
Jack wasn't naive. She was practically glowing. She always was. She always looked beautiful. Before tonight, he basically only ever saw her with no makeup on, hair a mess, wearing hospital issued scrubs and he still thought she was the most gorgeous person alive.
But tonight. Tonight, Jack was surprised he did not end up as a patient in his ED the first moment he had laid eyes on her. Her hair was carefully curled, framing her perfect face that was painted with just the right amount of makeup. Her lashes were more prominent than usual, her cheeks more flushed and her lips a bit more pink and a lot more glossy.
And then her dress. That damn dress. It was vintage because of course it was. Of course, she found time to vintage shop on top of the grueling hours she put in at the ED. Even in her last year of residency, she had never lost sight of being her own person both in and outside of work.
The dress reminded Jack of something from the prohibition era - celebratory. He was trying not to be so obvious in his celebration of how the structured seams of the powder blue silk created a corset shape that wasn't too tight for a work function but definitely was tight enough to have his imagination wandering.
With delicate lace panels towards the bottom of her dress and the swooping off the shoulder neckline with draped cap sleeves - Jack was being a sap but she looked like she had stepped out of a romance movie. Or off of a runway.
It was the kind of dress that reminded him of when they first met. He loved getting glimpses of her like this. Of who she was outside of the ED.
She had said she found the dress at a second hand shop on consignment. After that he had spent most of their evening dreaming about what it would be like to hold her hand and watch her shop.
Get to see the process of how she selected what she liked. Get to bring her hand up to his lips and kiss it - knowing that he was one of those things that she liked. Maybe even loved. And of course, buy everything her gaze lingered on even when she insisted not to. Especially then.
So Jack was not naive. He knew she was absolutely, positively stunning. He knew even beyond that - she was kind and funny and fucking whip smart. Smarter than anyone he had ever met and in so many different ways. If he could move into her brain - he would. So he was not naive enough to think other men wouldn't flirt with her. They would be fools not to. He just wished he could be the reason they wouldn't.
He sipped his old fashioned and did his best to pretend like he was looking anywhere but at her and Mr Harvard. He can't imagine that he was very successful. A ding from his phone took him out of his misery.
From Shen: Yo - i know you hate that gala shit. Kinda bogus robby made you go. Thought you guys were friends. Anyway, can you come help? Ellis has got a hot date. Or so she says
Jack had never been more thankful to receive a weird text from Shen in his life. He replied with a quick 'On my way' before taking one last glance over at her.
He sighed at the sight of her digging through her purse for something. He couldn’t see her expression but he sure could see Mr Harvard's. Dude couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. Jack wished he could do it for him.
Okay chill, he reminded himself. As much as he wanted to, he figured it would be rude to interrupt her to say goodbye. She probably didn’t want her old attending cock blocking her anyways.
Jack set his half finished drink on the bar counter along with a $20 tip and turned on his good heel. He had his hands on the cold metal of the event venue's door when he heard his favorite voice behind him.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Jack turned to see her and the sight made him melt. Arms crossed over her chest, brow furrowed, and lips in a stern line that was slowly slipping into a pout.
"Shen and Ellis need a cover."
"And when were you planning on telling me?" Her hands moved to her hips. Jack's hands flexed at his sides. All he wanted to do was kiss the sass out of her. But he couldn't. She was still his resident. And probably not even interested in him.
"You seemed busy. We haven’t even eaten dinner yet." Jack's response earned an eye roll out of her.
Before he could even blink, her arm threaded under his own - grabbing his bicep, "I'm coming with you."
Who was Jack to argue with that?
"How'd you get out of your conversation with Mr Harvard?"
Another dramatic eye roll. He loved it. Then the prettiest little smile he had ever seen.
"Told him my mean, scary boss said we had to leave."
He couldn't decide his opinion regarding the short walk to his SUV in handicapped parking. One part of him was thankful. He wouldn't be shocked if he had burnt holes in his suit jacket from the way his skin had heated up under her feather light touch. The blush was sure to creep up into his cheeks any moment now.
On the other hand, he could walk for miles if it meant she was touching him the whole way. She stopped at his passenger car door and turned to look at him.
"Mean, scary boss huh?" was all Jack could get out while he was under her gaze. It sounded like he had dragged his words through gravel on their way out. But with the way her eyes still shone in the moonlight and the fact that they were solely trained on his own - he was lucky he managed to get any words out at all.
"The scariest." she winked. She fucking winked. Jack had never been more thankful that he had metal for a leg because if he didn't - his legs were sure to have wobbled out from beneath him right then.
His hands were stuffed into his slack pockets. He didn't trust himself for them to be anywhere else. Her hands had given him a moment of reprieve. No longer lightly squeezing his bicep. But now they trailed up his chest, stopping to pretend to fix his tie even though Jack knew it was perfect. Military habit. Didn't matter - she could do whatever the hell she wanted if it involved touching him.
His breath hitched at her touch. He hoped she didn't notice.
"He cleans up nice though - makes up for all the mean and scary."
"Did your mean, scary boss mention you look beautiful tonight." Jack kept his hands in his pockets but took an experimental step forward. Was this really happening? Was she really hitting on him?
It was almost as if she had heard his inner monologue. Wanted to make her intentions clear as she looped her arms around Jack's neck and absentmindedly threaded her fingers through the curls at the nape there.
Ever since she had started fiddling with his suit, her eyes had dropped to anywhere but his face. Typical Jack would have dipped his head, forced eye contact but Jack right now was just trying to stand up right.
Her gaze snapped to him and this time he hadn't even tried to hide the palpitation in his heart or his breathing, "No." was all she said. Barely a whisper but Jack heard her loud and clear.
His hands immediately fell to her hips. He filed away the way she seemed to sink into his grip. Exhaled a little. Like it was muscle memory from a past life.
Her fingers circled their way higher up onto his head, fully tugging on his curls and lightly scratching at his scalp. Jack had to bite back a groan as he squeezed at her hips and pressed her fully back onto his unopened car door.
"Jack." She murmured out low somewhere between a moan and an airy breath, head tilted back in pleasure at the pressure of his fingers on her hips. Jack was fucked now that he knew what his name sounded like falling off her lips without inhibition.
The expanse of her neck now available to him was like a siren song. The past four years had felt like a siren song and he couldn't help himself any longer. One of his hands found the back of her head, gently cradling it back up for her to look at him. His other hand rubbed at her jaw in sweeping strokes of his thumb.
Neither of them could rip their gaze from the others' lips - their panting chests just a mere centimeter apart. He was finally going to do it. He was finally going to kiss her.
Until he wasn't.
Until a loud bang of the door opening broke them apart. A slew of hospital administrators spilled out behind it looking for their next smoke break. Had Jack mentioned that he fucking hated the annual hospital gala?
They flew off each other at what would have been a rather impressive speed if it hadn't felt so agonizing. What was Jack thinking? That he could make out with his resident against his car like they were a horny teenage couple while all of the people in the building a few feet away from them could have her fired for it in a heartbeat? He had to be better. At least until her residency was over with.
He had to get it together - for the both of them it seemed like. Jack cleared his throat and ran a hand over his stubble to hide the smile threatening to take over his face at the realization that she had wanted to kiss him. The way she had said his name with so much...want. Need, even. Maybe this thing wasn't so one sided after all.
He got out of his own head just in time to stop her closing of the passenger door. He wrapped his hand around the top of the door, held it open and waited for her to look up at him after she had buckled up. But the buckle clicked and her gaze stayed trained on her lap.
"Hey." He whispered softly. They both knew the eye contact he was seeking. She slowly turned her head in his direction, gazing up at where he was standing in front of her.
"You look absolutely breathtaking. You always do."
She sucked in a breath and then there she was - big bright smile, shoulders no longer slumped, no more fiddling with her purse strings just to avoid the space between them. She was back to herself.
"Just for that I'll order pizza to the hospital." His favorite.
"Thank you." He probably should have shut the door by now. Should have probably already been on their way to the hospital. But he couldn't stop fucking staring at her. What's new?
"Don't thank me. I still have your card in my DoorDash account." She giggled and all Jack could get out was good before he shut her door.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
They ate their pizza in their gown and tux at the hub with Ellis and Shen.
Ellis raised the polaroid camera that Dana kept at the hub desk and signaled for them to get together for a photo. Jack hooked two fingers under her rolling stool and tugged her over into his side.
"Woah! Old man still has moves!"
Jack ignored Shen as he wrapped his arm over her collarbone from behind her, pulling her closer. Her head instinctively leaned toward his and her fingers delicately held his wrist as they smiled for Ellis's camera.
Jack didn't miss the look Ellis had given her. Maybe he was delusional or maybe she had gotten her best friend Ellis's advice on making a move on her attending at the gala and now Ellis was checking in on the results.
Jack also didn't miss the way her cheeks heated up and the subtle shake of her head at Ellis. As if to signal that they would talk about it later. Probably, when Jack was out of earshot.
Shen tried to get them to pose like they were going to prom. When they both refused citing unprofessionalism, Shen threw a bit of a hissy fit. Mumbling something along the lines of "Oh, now we are being professional!"
Ellis settled on writing ‘Gala Girlies' as the caption for their polaroid before taping it onto the hub counter with the rest of the pictures that had accumulated over the years. This one was definitely Jack's new favorite.
He knew exactly what Robby was going to say when he saw it tomorrow morning, “You owe me one, brother."
He was so fucked.
acceptance
Jack was bored. He never thought he'd say that but this hospital without her was straight up boring with a capital B. He worked here without her for ten years and now - the ten days of PTO she had taken before her first day as a junior attending - felt like the longest of his life. And he was only on day 6.
He wasn't even supposed to be there right now. He had come in after a Tactical EMS job gone bad. His buddy had already gone up to surgery. Before Jack could leave, Robby had roped Jack into joining him on the new day shift attending, Dr Al-Hashimi's, welcome tour.
He was waiting on a text from her. She was spending the day with her family and then she and Jack were supposed to go watch the fireworks together - alone. It was the Fourth of July after all. He had it all planned. He had practiced how he was going to profess his feelings to her in the mirror like a dork more times than he cared to admit. He had long accepted that he was in love with his resident. Now his colleague. He could work with that.
He checked his phone again. No luck. He ignored Robby's inquisitive glance. Jack had never been so interested in his phone like he had been today.
They stood at the hub as Robby droned on and on about day shift procedures that Jack was so thankful not to have to know too much about. Jack just admired the polaroids on the desk in front of them. He was still plotting a way to inconspicuously steal the one of him and her from the gala for his wallet but it had become a fan favorite in the past few months.
Dr Al-Hashimi directed her next question to Jack, pulling him out of his thoughts. She held up his second favorite polaroid with a raised brow, "Am I going to have the pleasure of meeting..." Dr Al-Hashimi squinted to read the writing below the picture, "...Abbot's Angels?"
Jack couldn't help but laugh. The photo had been taken over a year ago. Shen had begged him to take it. Handed the camera over to Jack as he maneuvered himself between the two girls. Both her and Ellis's backs to Shen. All three of them holding up finger guns to their lips with faux serious expressions.
As if her ears were ringing, Dr Ellis appeared behind Jack at the hub. Clapping him on the shoulder and extending a hand out to greet Dr Al-Hashimi, "Don't bring it up to him. He is going through withdrawals because his favorite is still out on PTO."
"Parker - I do not have favorites. You guys aren't even my residents anymore." Jack muttered in defense as he checked his phone again.
Dr Al-Hashimi clocked him, "Dr Abbot - I am good to go here and I am sure I will be seeing you. You should go. It's your day off and a holiday. I am sure you have plans."
"Yeah, what are your plans, Dr Abbot?" Ellis teased. She must have known her best friend's plans were with him for the night. Ellis was enjoying herself. Jack shot her a glare.
"I think his plans just showed up!" Robby clapped his hands together, sputtered out a laugh at the coincidence.
"Brother - I am not taking another case! I am leav-" Jack looked up from unscrewing his water bottle to follow Robby's gaze.
He spotted her mid sip and he genuinely choked on his water in a way he thought only happened in cartoons. He was ready to send Ellis out to chairs when she patted his back like she was burping a baby and suggested that there was a cooling room in North 5 if he needed it.
She was simply glowing. Wavy hair, bright eyes, sun kissed skin donning a short jean skirt and a white halter tank top that accentuated the tan lines over her collarbones left by her bikini.
"Well if it isn’t the prodigal princess of the pitt herself!" Robby goaded, grabbing a clip board and rounding the hub.
The man she was pushing in the wheelchair piped up at that, "You guys actually call her that? Seriously? I thought she was making that up. Please stop - her ego is big enough as it is."
"What do you got?" Robby asked. Jack was still staring. Who the fuck was this guy?
"Idiot male. 37 years old. Broke his ankle trying to relive his glory days coaching youth soccer practice," She was leaned over, pushing the wheelchair with all her might, "and could stand to lose a few pounds."
That pulls an almost relieved huff from Jack. Whoever this guy was - she must've not been that fond of him.
"Hey -" the man reached behind him and tugged on her hair "-my arms still work!"
Oh hell no, Jack thought. Ellis must have noticed he was about to step in and she stopped him before he could, "At ease, soldier. That is her brother."
"Well your brain clearly doesn't" she whacked him right upside the head.
Her brother imitated her, high pitched while she made a show of dramatically handing over his wheelchair to Robby so he could take him away for X-rays.
She thanked Robby as she made her way over to the hub, introducing herself to Dr Al-Hashimi and grabbing the bag of candy that Jack was offering out to her.
She looked him up and down and nodded her head at his camouflage pants, "Really? What is with the GI Jack get up? I thought you were gonna get a hobby.”
"And I thought you said you were gonna stop stealing my food."
"And I thought you said you were gonna stop buying t-shirts one size too small."
"From Walmart." Dr Ellis added.
"You guys, I told you - I do not shop at Walmart."
She giggled and gently nudged her shoulder into Ellis's, "Oh yeah Parker, how could we forget? He shops at Costco!"
"They send good coupons in the mail!" Jack defended himself
"Bro - you're a disabled, widowed veteran who makes more than half a million dollars a year. I think you can afford real clothes." Ellis deadpanned.
“Any other comments from the fashion police about my outfit?”
“Don’t threaten us with a good time.”
Jack cocked his head towards her, smirk widening. He couldn't hide how happy he was to see her. It had been a long couple of days, "And to think I was just starting to miss you."
"Just starting to!?" She raised her eyebrows in challenge, feigning offense while her eyes practically sparkled up at him. He could feel the weight of Ellis's knowing smile on them. He didn't care.
He was debating how obvious it would be for him to pull her into a hug until Dana beat him to it.
"Dr Al, you have just met one of our finest," Dana squeezed her harder, "Except you probably won't see her much because Abbot is always hogging her on nights."
She was released from Dana's grip just enough to clap a light hand on Jack's shoulder, giving him a squeeze, "He needs someone to keep him sharp in his old age."
Jack grimaced the second her hand had made contact with his shoulder and dread washed over her face. Dana fully released her now. Letting her turn all of her attention onto Jack.
“Jack…”
“I’m fine.” He avoided her probing stare and that was exactly how she knew he was not fine.
“Really?” She asked - not buying what he was selling.
“Yes!" She applied light pressure on his shoulder again and he wriggled out of her grasp with a sharp and hissed, "- ah!”
“The room right there is open. Go patch him up.” Dana pointed to the room across the hall. Shooing them in there before Jack had a chance to protest.
Jack sat on the bed as she shut the door and pulled the curtain. Her back was still turned to him as she said, "Take off your shirt."
"At least let me take you to dinner first." Jack tried to pull a laugh from her. It didn't go over well.
"Jack." She warned. Now turned toward him with her arms crossed, “What happened?”
“I was intubating in open fire and a bullet grazed my vest. I’m fine.” He shrugged as he pulled off his shirt. As if what he just said was a completely normal and frequent occurrence.
“You were shot!?” She hurried over to him, standing in between his legs as he sat on the bed.
“Shot…at."
She tilted her head at him in annoyance. Pausing her opening of the various utensils she was preparing to clean his wound.
“What?” He asked.
“Can’t you just take up tennis or golf or literally anything else? Like a normal person?”
“What fun would that be?” Jack insisted upon keeping it light. She shouldn't ever have to worry about him. That was his job.
She lathered some kind of ointment onto his open wound that was on the front of his chest, right above his collar bone. Jack was too distracted by how close they were to care and see what kind.
“There is nothing fun about me coming to work one day and finding out you’re dead because you wanted an adrenaline rush.”
“That isn’t gonna happen.”
“You don’t know that. You think you’re invincible and you’re not.”
“Is that an old joke?”
“Jack-“ her voice cracked and Jack was immediately on his feet, cupping her face in his hands.
“Woah, woah honey okay - I thought we were kidding. I’m fine.” He cooed, one hand stroked her cheek bone making sure not one tear fell while the other steadied her at her hip as she stood between his legs.
“Look at me." He tilted his chin down while he tilted hers up, holding her gaze with his own, "I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere."
“I won’t survive you dying, Jack. I can't.” Her voice sounded wrecked as her chin wobbled. Jack felt horribly responsible. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Naturally, like they had been in this position a million times before. He murmured into the side of her hair, “Okay forget the SWAT thing. Although, you should’ve seen me earlier in my full uniform I looked pretty sick”
Jack huffed a sigh of relief as he felt her laugh vibrate through him. He pulled her back with his hands on her shoulders to get another good look at her, "There's my girl."
She wiped a sniffle with the back of her hand and lightly pushed him back down to a seat. His hands never left her. Just slid down her body until he rested them on the outsides of her upper thighs - a safe distance away from the hem of her jean skirt.
She worked in silence for a moment until Jack piped back up, “I’ll pick up tennis or golf like a normal person. I promise.”
“You don’t have to do that, Jack. I just want you to have a little more regard for your life okay? Can you please just do that for me?”
“I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for you.” Jack didn't even think that was an exaggeration.
“Except for wearing the correct size shirt.”
He teasingly pinched her leg and she swatted at his good shoulder, laughing. She was done helping him but they hadn't moved. Neither of them really wanted to.
“That’s for you too. Don’t think I don’t see you staring at my biceps.”
Her eyebrows rose in faux surprise as she dragged a hand down his freckled arm.
“Oh you wanna talk about staring? I must have picked that up from someone.”
“This is a teaching hospital.”
“Could’ve mistaken it for a staring one.”
“Come on - you’re always performing medical miracles while looking like that. I can’t help it. Cut a guy some slack.” Jack's hands felt like they were on fire, practically kneading her thighs. God, she really had to wear this skirt today of all days.
“You’re a flirt, you know that?”
“Only with you.”
They had about a second to jump apart at the sound of a knock on the door before the curtain was pulled back to reveal Dr Al-Hashimi.
Jack rubbed at the back of his neck. Both him and her were looking anywhere but each other. Jack wasn't planning on getting excited but he was thankful he had placed his shirt over his lap to cover himself now that they were no longer alone.
Dr Al-Hashimi cleared her throat, obviously picking up on the fact that she had interrupted something, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.”
Dr Al-Hashimi handed Jack a piece of paper and then turned to her, "You have a visitor from cardio thoracic surgery outside."
Jack groaned. Could Mr Harvard have any worse timing? She shot Jack a glare and stepped outside. Jack could see the shadow of Mr Harvard who he knew was down here pretending he'd have something to do with her brother's ankle surgery just to flirt.
He caught the end of her dismissing Mr Harvard's valiant attempt at being her knight in shining armor. Jack smiled to himself as he made his way back to the hub to catch up with her. He was explaining a procedure to Whitaker as he walked, "You're gonna have to start with your finger. And then slowly over a few minutes as the wetness gathers, go deeper. All the way to the back of the knuckle."
Whitaker nodded in understanding and was on his merry way. She turned right on Jack the second he was in her vicinity.
"What the hell is your problem?!"
"Problem?" Jack asked, genuinely perplexed.
Her voice pitched down, she whispered, "Why do you have to say everything so unnecessarily slutty? You wanna ask Whitaker out too!?"
Now that - Jack was not expecting. He quirked his eyebrow up in surprise. Also in confusion.
"Ask Whitaker out? What are you-"
He was cut off by a little girl screaming her name and running right into her arms, "Look! Look! Your work is on my new soccer jersey!"
The girl couldn't be older than five. Jack recognized the little girl as her niece from photos she had shown him. He noticed who must have been her sister in law a few feet away, talking to Robby presumably about discharge instructions for her brother as he awaited surgery that he would probably have next week once the swelling went down.
"What are you talking about? Lemme see that." She plucked the jersey from her niece and examined the PTMC logo on it.
Jack knew his cheeks were ruby red. He could see the gears in her head putting it all together as she stared at the small jersey with the ironed on PTMC ED patch. A couple weeks ago, she had told him offhandedly that her niece's soccer league was going to get cancelled since they had no sponsor. So Jack called up the park district and paid for it himself. Under the guise it was the PTMC ED. It was no big deal. If her niece was happy, she was happy.
She put her niece down next to her on the ground as her eyes looked up to Jack, softening, "We don't have the budget for this."
"I know. But I do."
She opened her mouth to say something but her niece cut her off, climbing into her dad's lap on his wheelchair as he, her sister in law, and Robby joined them at the hub, "Auntie, is this Dr Sexy?"
Jack's lips immediatley preened, quirking up into an amused smirk, Dr Ellis and Robby doubled over in laughter.
"No baby - this is Dr Abbot." She tried to recover, her eyes blown wide, mouth agape and her cheeks beet red. She couldn't even look at Jack.
"But you always call him Dr Sexy when you are talking to mommy. What does sexy mean?"
"OKAY-" she said loudly, still looking anywhere but at Jack. She turned her gaze on her brother as she clapped her hands together, "-it is time for you all to leave."
"Only if Dr Sexy walks us out." Her brother teased.
She groaned, putting her head in her hands as Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She hid in the crook of his neck, "I am getting a new job."
"Oh no you're not."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack met her at her car after he helped her family to theirs. “Dr Sexy, huh?”
“Shut up. I'm trying to be annoyed with you and you’re making it damn hard”
“Why are you annoyed with me?” Jack steadied himself with a wide stance, crossed his arms over his chest as she turned to look at him, leaning against her car door.
“Seriously?"
Jack just raised his eyebrows back at her in question.
She mirrored his stance, crossed arms over chest, "So you go on dates now?”
“What are you talking about? Is this about tonight? If you don't want to go anymore we don't have to-”
She imitated him and Dr Al-Hashimi from earlier, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.” She emphasized the word.
Jack rubbed his hand over his face, stopping at his scruff and trying to mask the smirk that was threatening to take over his face, “Are you…jealous?”
She scoffed, trying to sound nonchalant but Jack knew her too well for that, “Me? Jealous? No, Jack I just think it’s wildly inappropriate. This is our workplace.”
“Well that’s a damn shame because I didn’t ask Dr Al on a date. I’m setting her up on one. With my army buddy actually."
Her lips formed a barely there oh, "Well…now I just feel like a bitch."
Jack laughed and stepped closer, shaking his head in refute to her statement. He let his hands find purchase on her car, caging her in.
His voice came out far more groveled than expected, "But I’ve been wanting to ask you on a date for going on, oh I don’t know almost five years now, but if you thinks it’s so wildly inappropri-"
“I don’t!”
“You dont? But I thought-“
He earned himself an eyeroll and a stern, “Jack.”
“You just said-" He couldn't help the huge grin spreading across his face.
“I know what I said.”
“So - let me get this straight - it’s only wildly inappropriate if it’s a date with anyone but you? Is that stated somewhere in the HR handbook or-”
"God, do you ever shutup?" And then her lips were on his.
His whole body felt like it was on fire. Her hands on each side of his face, his squeezing at her hips and pressing her up against the car. Just like that night at the gala. Except this time he actually got to kiss her. He was kissing her.
His head spun at the way her fingers circled around to the nape of his neck, tugging at his curls. He cradled her jaw in one strong hand and grabbed her waist with the other, hand pushing up the white tank she had on to make contact with her bare skin. They couldn't possible get any closer but it still didn't feel close enough.
Jack didn't want to ever stop the exploration of his hands along her body. He grabbed at the flesh on the outside of her upper thigh, hiking it up slightly around his hips. She ground herself down onto his bulge and the gasp she let out was heavenly. Jack took the chance to swipe his tongue into her mouth, as she ground down again, slower this time. Jack couldn't keep his moan from tumbling out.
He pulled back ever so slightly, their lips still practically touching as their chests heaved, "Baby, where are your keys?"
"My keys? That is what you care about right now?" She went to grind on him again but Jack's hands grabbed her hips, halting her.
"If you keep doing that I am going to come in my pants in the hospital parking garage and I would much rather come somewhere else in the comfort of my own home. I've been thinking about this for a long time. I want to take my time with you."
"How long?" She asked as she slipped her keys into Jack's front pocket.
"Inappropriatley long. Now get in the car so Dr Sexy can drive us home."
"I am never gonna live that down, am I?"
"Absolutely not."
"I hate you."
Jack grabbed her chin and peppered her face with kisses, ending with one on her lips as she giggled. Kissing her hard because he could do that now, "Somehow, I am not convinced."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack's left hand flexed hard on her steering wheel. His right hand preoccupied with a steady grip on her upper thigh. Her left hand played with his curls as he drove.
"What are you thinking about?"
"How after the gala last year I went home and touched myself. Imagined my fingers were yours." Jack choked on nothing at her words.
"Jesus Christ - I am trying not to cause a mass casualty event, honey. Can you please just wait till we get home."
She groaned his name in frustration and squeezed his fingers between her thighs, trying to find friction anyway she could.
"You're that needy?"
"Yes, Jack."
"Show me then." His voice was gritty and low as he knocked her knees apart. He batted down the sun visor on her side, sliding the mirror cover up and aiming it perfectly to reflect her lap.
She whined at the loss of contact as both of his hands now gripped the steering wheel. Her eyes screwed shut and her chest lifted, breathing heavy. The way her hard nipples were peaking through her tank top was enough to make Jack scared he was going to crash the car.
"Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me. You think you can handle that for me, baby?"
His words seemed to hit her all at once. Demanding in the way it was when he was ordering people around the ED. The tone went straight to her core as she hiked her jean skirt up over her hips and slid her small lacy black thong down her legs. She stuffed it in one of the pockets of Jack's camo pants, lightly squeezing his bulge as she did. All Jack could murmur out was a hissed fuck as she angled her center to the mirror above her, giving him a perfect view of her absolutely soaked core.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes, yes I can handle it. I promise." She rushed her words out in one run on sentence, out of breath as her chest heaved.
"Good girl, baby. Show me how you touch yourself."
She nodded as she began to rub her clit, her voice shakey as she spoke, "I start like this and I think about everything you said to me that day. When you tell me good job after a prodecure or how you order everyone around or how-"
A tumbled moan falls from her lips, cutting herself off.
"Do you play with these pretty tits?" Jack reached over and gripped the nape of her neck, tugging at the string of her halter top and letting it fall. He pulled it down, her tits spilling out as he tweaked a nipple, kneading it after with his palm.
He thought she squeaked out a soft uh huh with a nod that trailed into a moan as her right hand slipped two fingers into her center. The sound was obscene as she pushed in and out, her head falling back and her chest pushing forward into Jack's hand.
"Jack!" She was getting louder now, the pace of her fingers moving quicker. The tone of her voice filled with unabashed need.
"What else, baby?"
All she could do was babble in response. Jack's hand fell from her nipples to her pussy, giving it a slap before grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at herself in the mirror, "Do you see how pretty your pussy is? What was that you said earlier? That I say everything so slutty? Look who's the slut now."
They both saw the way her pussy contracted around her two fingers at his words. The way her already dripping core somehow managed to get even more wet at the filth he was spilling.
"Oh you like when I am a little mean, don't you?"
She could barely nod, her chest hitting her chin as her breathing became more rapid the closer she inched towards her finish line.
"You wanna come for me?"
"Please." She panted. Jack smirked to himself as he grabbed her wrist, pulled her hand from her center before she could even think about finishing, and pressed her fingers into his mouth - licking them clean.
Her head lolled against the seat, she groaned his name. A mix of frustration and want as she dazedly stared at him.
"I've waited almost five years to taste you, honey. You can wait five more minutes till we are home, yeah?"
She huffed out an, "I hate you."
"Somehow, I am not convinced." He chuckled as he placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Jack held her hand gently as he tugged her into his house. She was practically bouncing on her heels behind him. "I'm gonna shower first and then-"
"Like hell you are." She snipped. Now she was pulling him. Through his foyer and straight to his couch where she perched herself on his lap, bracketing his hips with her thighs and grinding down on his bulge that was dying to spring out of his pants.
He pushed her skirt back up her hips and rubbed her upper thighs as she rocked her bare pussy down on him, her hands steadying herself on his neck as she leaned into press her mouth to his.
Jack's chest was heaving, "Baby, I'm all sweaty and gross from TEMS."
"I couldn't care less, Jack. You might be patient enough to wait five years but I sure as hell am not. Please touch me."
"Like this?" His fingers rubbed her clit, her head falling back in relief at him finally touching her where she needed him most.
"God, you were dripping all over your car and now you're soaking my couch? Who's got you so worked up?" She gasped as Jack entered two thick fingers in her, kissing up her neck as he did. Nipping at her jaw line as he pulled her tank top down so he could swirl his mouth around one of her sensitive nipples.
She pulled his shirt off over his head, flashing him a mischevious smirk before, "Dr Harvard from cardiac surgery."
Jack's fingers stopped immediatley. She whined and writhed in his lap at the loss of contact. Jack wrapped his other hand around her neck, squeezing slightly, "I thought you were gonna be good for me?"
"I will, I will. I am." She begged. Jack didn't know what he did in a past life to get her begging like this in his lap but he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Atta girl." He cooed, adding a third finger and plunging back into her tight core, "I am gonna ask you again - what's got you so worked up?"
"You, Jack! Your voice and your arms and your curls and these stupid fucking pants."
"Oh my girl likes my uniform, yeah? Is that what had you so bratty today? Want me to fuck you in it?"
"Please." she huffed. Sweat beading at the top of her forehead as she began to rock her hips, riding his fingers.
"Come for me first."
"Yeah, thats it." Jack hissed, trying hard not to imagine what it would feel like to have his cock where his fingers were. That would surely lead to an early curtain call, "That's it. My good girl."
"Fuck, Jack" She let out a shakey laugh as she came down from her orgasm, riding it out on Jack's fingers as she threaded her fingers in his hair.
"The uniform really does it for you, huh?"
She kissed him hard, "You do it for me. The uniform is just a bonus."
Jack readjusted her in his lap, pushing her legs open further over the expanse of his thick thighs. She whined at the stretch, "Come here, baby. you're doing so good for me. Wanna take my time with you."
"You can take your time with me later. I need you to fuck me now."
"Yeah? That needy, huh?"
"Yes, Jack please." She murmured as she undid the belt on his camo pants.
"You're the boss." Jack winked. He may have been her boss at work. She may have liked him bossing her around in bed. But she was the boss in every other sense of the word.
"Funny."
"Glad you think so." Jack hissed as she wrapped her hand around his hard length, preening with pre cum at the tip. She pushed his pants and his boxers down in one go, his erection immediatley slapping up against his stomach.
Jack's head fell back onto the couch as he let out a moan, her fingers rubbing the precum from his tip down his shaft and back up again. She spit into her hand and repeated the same movement. Jack thought he might come right then and there.
"Wanna ride you, please. I'm clean and on birth control. Need to feel you."
Jack couldn’t even get words out. He was too busy trying not to come from a handjob like a horned up teenager, "Same. Mm clean, too" He managed to get out, eyes fluttering shut as another wave of pleasure wracked his body, "Fuck, baby."
She sunk down on him in an instant, relishing the stretch and sending them both into a fit of whimpered moans. Jack used one hand on her hip to guide her motions, the other rubbing up and down her back, eventually landing in her hair as he tugged her forward into a blistering kiss. Now that he knew what her lips felt like he was never gonna go long without kissing them.
"Fuck!" She rocked down hard on him again, "You feel fucking phenomenal. So tight, So. Perfect." He emphasized his praise with kisses, "Taking me so well. Like you were fucking made for me."
He took the hand from her hair and placed it on her clit, rubbing it as she started to rock quicker. He could tell she was close again. He was in danger of spilling over at any second, "You have no business being so good at this. Fuck, I'm not gonna last long baby. Fuck, look at you." Jack brought the hand from her hip up to her mouth, pushing his thumb into her mouth, moaning as she immediatley began to suck on it.
"All these years. Had a feeling you'd get off on praise. Knew you'd wanna be so good for me. Knew you'd be such a good slut just for me, yeah?"
"Yeah, please. Just for you, I promise." Jack didn't know how he had managed to keep himself from finishing with the way she was riding him. She steadied herself on his shoulders, brought herself all the way up and then slowly rocked herself back down, taking all of him and making sure he felt every fucking inch of her velvety walls.
"If you keep doing that I am not gonna last long." He managed to grunt out.
"Then don't. Come in me, please. Want you to fill me up."
Those words alone did it for Jack as he spilled his warm release into her, continuing to rub her clit. "Give me another one baby. I know you can do it. You can do anything. You're fucking brilliant. Your brilliant fucking brain. C'mon, I feel you clenching. Let go. Come on my cock, please."
She tugged hard on his hair, mixing her own release with his as she came. Panting into Jack's mouth as he whispered, "Good girl."
Jack cradled her cheek as she rode out her orgasm on his cock, whispering praise as she did. He swiped two fingers through the mix of their arousals and brought them to her mouth.
Jacks eyes watched, mesmerized, blown out with arousal as she sucked on his fingers, released them with a pop and then, "The second I saw you in that uniform I wanted to drop to my knees in the middle of the hub and suck the soul out of you."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, laying her bare chest over his and nuzzling into his neck, peppering kisses there as he scratched her back. His laugh vibrated through her, "Jesus Christ - you can't say shit like that when I'm still inside of you."
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
He eventually gently cleaned her up. Once she agreed to finally get off of him. He had to bribe her with kisses. He didn't mind one bit. He dragged her to the shower which lead to him having to clean her up again. Again, he didn't mind one bit.
He was at the stove now. Donning only a pair of gray sweatpants as he cooked dinner and watched her pad around his kitchen in only his tshirt and some basketball shorts with probably the dopiest smile of all time on his face.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking herself into his side. He used his free hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer, pressing kisses into her hair. She behaved for a moment until he felt a pair of soft lips pressing kisses across the side of his chest that was accessible to her.
He turned the burner down, dropped the spoon he had been using to stir the pasta on the counter and then grabbed her hips, trapping her against his kitchen island, "You're going to make me burn dinner."
She put her finger to her lips, pretended to think about what he had to say and then with a quick kiss to his lips she muttered against them, "Mmmm, don't care!"
He dug into his pocket, unlocked his phone and put it in her hands, "Put on music. It is already hooked up to the speaker system,"
He picked her up by her hips, causing the cutest squeal he had ever heard, and plopped her down onto his counter. He rubbed a gentle thumb against her cheek, the other against her hip as he stood between her legs, "You need to eat, baby."
She grumbled a fine. She knew when it came to taking care of her - Jack would not budge. She scrolled through his Spotify - she wanted to find something both of them would like but first she was gonna stalk what he already listened to. Of course her curiosity was gonna get the better of her.
A quiet gasp fell from her lips - causing Jack to look over from his spot in front of the stove, "What?"
She turned his phone screen to him, already spotting the flush creeping up on his chest. He recognized the playlist almost immediatley. Made up of all the songs she had played while he drove her home these past couple years - simply titled with her name. There was hundreds of songs on there.
"Did you make this? Do you listen to it?"
Jack figured now was as good a time as ever to lay out all his cards onto the table. Even if he was so embarrassed he couldn't even look up from the dinner he was cooking. He spoke fast, "Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I replaced the police scanner with it?"
"Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I am so beyond in love with you?"
Jack's head snapped up from the dinner. He'd never moved so quickly in his life. He was back to standing in between her legs, holding her face - just staring at her with a huge smile. The same expression was being mirrored back to him. It made his heart soar.
"You do? I mean, you are?"
She laughed, "Where have you been the past couple years?”
"Waiting for you to realize that I've been hopelessly in love with you."
"Are we the dumbest smart people alive?"
"Potentially. But doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Only you. Only us." He kissed her now. Slotted his lips over hers like the perfect final piece of a puzzle. His stomach fluttered at the sensation of her fingers finding their home in his curls. He couldn't believe that this was real. That she loved him. He already knew that the astronomical amount he loved her was very, very real.
"God, I love you." Kiss, "So much." Another kiss.
"Say it again." Jack whispered against her lips, smiling like a little kid.
"I love you, Jack."
He pulled back just a bit. Just enough to murmur how much he loved her and get a good look at her face, "Remember when you were so jealous earlier?" He teased.
"I was not-" She began to deny it but Jack leveled a look at her, "I hate you!" she giggled, swatting at his shoulder that was not bandaged up.
"Somehow, I am not convinced." He preened.
"Mmmm, good." She was kissing him again. He could do this forever. He will do this forever - if he has anything to say about it.
The ding of her phone was what made him pull away. But not by much. They both looked at the cause of the disruption, Jack planting kisses up and down her neck, jaw, and chest as she unlocked her phone.
From Robby: Doing scheduling. Can you pick up a shift next Tuesday night please? Shen needs off. You'll get to see your doctor sexy🤪
They both let out a cackle. Jack took her phone and took a selfie with his middle finger up. He sent it to Robby along with a message that read, 'Stop texting my girlfriend.'
"Girlfriend, huh?"
Jack rubbed up and down her thighs as he spoke, "Figured you might think I was insane if I said wife after just one day but trust me that is part of the plan."
"What else is in the plan?”
“Maybe a kid or two? Or four? Or zero. Really as many or as little as you’ll give me. I’m just happy to be here.”
She chuckled, kissed him while lovingly stroking his face, “I like that plan.”
“Yeah?” He asked, brimming with hope.
She nodded as her phone went off again, a message from Robby flashing across the screen. Jack kissed each of her cheeks, her forehead, and then her lips before reading it out loud - sending them both into a fit of giggles.
You and your picky four-year-old daughter, June, become frequent faces in the ER, where the devoted Dr. “Rabbit” works. TW mentions of eating disorders/vomit
