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jack abbot, who practices getting down on one knee as smoothly as possible the day he buys your ring.
jack abbot, who is so scared that you’ll say no that he stumbles over his words when he asks you the question.
jack abbot, who begs you to repeat your answer three times, smiling from ear to ear when the ‘yes’ finally sinks in.
jack abbot, who puts the biggest goddamn rock on your finger, trying to be all smug about it, but he just stares at you with puppy eyes and hopes that you like the ring he picked out.
jack abbot, who looks at you like you’re insane when you ask about the budget while wedding planning.
“princess, just pick whatever you want. i’ll pay for it.”
jack abbot, who cries when you walk down the aisle. robby is next to him, smiling like an idiot when he sees his best friend finally get what he wants, what he deserves—the love of a woman who absolutely adores him.
jack abbot, who thinks about his first wife for a second, and while he misses her, he just knows that she sent you his way on purpose.
jack abbot, who has practiced dancing with his prosthetic for weeks now. he is desperate to get everything right, all for you.
jack abbot, who refuses to take a break from twirling you across the dance floor. who grinds his teeth when his leg starts hurting. who tries to push through it until you force him to sit down with you.
jack abbot, who is so scared that he won’t be enough for you.
jack abbot, who melts into your arms when you reassure him that he is.
between blood and daylight (jack abbot x resident!reader)
author's note: hey hey! hope everyone has had a nice weekend. this one I am so so excited about, and really enjoyed writing. written for the lovely @lanalastname based on this request:
"heyyy can i request a jack abbot x reader! reader is his wife of a few years who works as a surgeon resident upstairs in PTMC (think of the residents of greys anatomy lol). when the mass casualty happens with pitt fest, the reader is inundated with surgery’s. later when things have calmed down, jack wants to check on her and finds her slumped against a wall and taking a breather. jack comforting and protective jack!!! thank u queen"
as always all support is appreciated so so much, i love you all. kiss me thru the phone.
word count: 4.6k ish works
warnings: some canon the pitt inaccuracies, like timings and stuff around season one, medical inaccuracies, pittfest fic so mass casualty situation and descriptions reflective of that, hurt/comfort, slightly angsty, female reader (described as she/her, descriptions of hair tied back)
songs i listened to while reading: free now by gracie abrams, strawbery wine by noah kahan, you're gonna go far by noah kahan, favourite by fontaines DC
description: you and jack built a life in the spaces between shifts, but when pittfest turns into a mass casualty, you're forced to find each other again in the aftermath
You and Jack got married on a Wednesday morning in a registry office in downtown PA. It was around 11am when you signed your marriage license with a BIC four colour pen, clad in a white, vintage slip dress you found at a Goodwill for $24. Robby and your best friend, Sarah, stood beside you as witnesses, and your husband (who was out of work maybe 4 and a bit hours) joined your pinkies together under the table as you signed your name in block capitals and then in a looped cursive. Sarah cried into the small bouquet of sunflowers she had brought you, and Robby squeezed Jack's shoulder as you laughed over how long this had been coming and how obvious it was that this was exactly how things were going to go - you, and your favourite people in the middle of the week, marrying your best friend in a room that smelled like gym socks.
You shared pancakes and bacon right after, a tangled mess of ankles and prosthetic leg under the table of a random diner a 5-minute walk away from the PTMC. You had joked about the inevitability of pancakes being your wedding main course, and Robby told you he was happy for you both, like, really, genuinely happy. And although you thought Sarah had cried enough for the four of you, you had to join in on the tear fest because you couldn't quite believe your luck.
Not in the fairytale sense, although you loved a good Barbie movie.
More like, you had spent so long building a life that fit around chaos that finding someone who didn't just understand it, but moved with it alongside you, felt like you cheated somehow. Especially when you used to spend weekends crying over Gracie Abrams songs and thinking being a doctor meant that you'd have to just put that part of your life in a filing cabinet in your brain labeled 'for much much much later'.
It took a really long time before anything had changed between the two of you. There were months of shared shifts, months of you running after your mentor, Garcia, on surgical consults down in the emergency room. You just kept ending up in the same spaces. Trauma cases and overnight shifts. The strange overlap where sugery and emergency blurred into something messy and necessary.
When Garcia started telling you to call her Yolanda, she also started ferociously teasing you about your more than obvious weak spot for Dr Abbot.
When he asked you over for the first time, he had done it with the adrenaline of a man who received a pep talk from John Shen, hyper on caffeine in the break room. That night, you made him start watching The Office and popped butter popcorn in his microwave.
The first time he kissed you, it wasn't after a near-death save or a shift that broke you both open. It was in his kitchen, at two in the morning, while you were both standing in fluffy socks from your sock drawer, eating leftover Chinese food out of cartons. There was no big speech or declaration of unspoken love, just like something finally clicked into place. He just looked at you, whispering a soft, "come here," and that had been it.
You had laughed against his mouth the first time, at the complete Jack Abbot of it all. You paid for it with strong, calloused fingers reaching under your tee to tickle across your sides.
Marriage, for the two of you, had been kind of, well, simple. It wasn't easy, or light, but it was a certainty. A quiet, mutual understanding that this wa not something either of you were ever going to risk losing. So you signed the papers and you went back to work at 7pm that night.
The day that the PittFest shooting happened, you were three years into being married. You were also on your second cup of coffee that had gone cold somewhere in the operating lounge.
It had been one of those shifts from the start, one of those exhausting, debilitating ones that settled into the marrow of your bones. The kind of day where surgery felt less like a speciality and more like controlled drowning. Upstairs at PTMC, the OR floor had it's own rhythm, one that ususally felt seperate from the craziness of the emergency department below. The craziness here was more contained. Everything narrowed in surgery, became a line, an incision. A set of glovef hands trying to keep a body from slipping somewhere irreversible.
It was just after six when the tone changed. You noticed it in the same way everyone else did, the slight shift in the air before there was any official announcement. A circulating nurse, Ricky, had paused mid-step after checking his pager, and how Yoyo had said ,"what was that?", stepping out of the scrub room. The answer hadn't even landed yet. Then the call had come over the system, and you tightened the strings on the pants of your scrubs.
Every elective case was halted. Every available surgeon, resident, scrub nurse, anaesthesiologist, and OR tech was redirected. The neat order that you loved dissolved into blood availability and damage control planning. Dana had called from downstairs before the line was even fully staffed, her voice clipped and too calm in that way she got when things were seconds from going bad.
"Multiple GSWs incoming. We're sending them up as fast as we can clear them."
You were pulling your hair back tighter, pulling on a fresh gown and scanning the room for what you'd need. You were far enough into your residency to not have to be asked if you were ready. You had to be ready.
You were a fourth-year surgery resident. Not in charge, but you were senior enough to be expected to move like you were. One of the interns looked green around the mouth as she struggled into sterile gloves.
"Breathe," you told her, firmly. " You were chosen for this program for a reason. Time to prove it, okay?"
She nodded too fast.
The first patient hit your OR three minutes later. Teenage male, gunshot to the abdomen, pressure crashing despite multiple tranfusions, abdomen rigid, skin waxy in that sick, terrifying way.
You took one look at your attending and said, "We're opening."
The rest of the night ceased to exist in any normal way after that.
Time lost its shape. It became measured in clamps and suction and blood units hung and discarded. In room turnovers were too fast and yet not fast enough. Your fingers and palms burned from the scrubbing of antiseptic and they were gone an uncomfortable pink colour. You were fairly certain you'd hit the dermis.
You tuned your thoughts out as you treated a woman in her twenties with a chest wound and a liver injury. You performed a solo surgery on a boy barely old enough to shave with a shattered femur and an arterial bleed.
At some point, Emery shoved a sandwich into your hand, and you realised only after your second bite that you were still wearing bloody gloves. You dropped the sandwich and a poor environmental tech sweeped it up instantly with the biggest sweeping brush you'd ever seen.
You couldn't let yourself think of Jack downstairs; there was nowhere in your body left to put want.
You knew he'd be there. Even before you'd married him, before you knew the shape of his silences and which shirts he slept best in and how his hands always found your waist in the kitchen like they belonged there, you'd known this about him: if disaster showed up, Jack Abbot moved towards it.
And inevitably, so did you.
That was the problem, some people might've said. Two people married to medicine before they'd ever signed the paperwork to marry each other. But it worked because you understood the call of it. The terrible, relentless insistence of being needed somewhere all at once. It worked because neither of you ever asked the other to choose.
The first time you looked up and really registered how tired you were, it was nearly eleven, and you were standing at the sink outside OR three scrubbing blood out from under your nails that wasn't yours. Your shoulders ached, and your lower back felt like somebody had driven a spike through it.
Dr Shamsi came through the corridor and paused when she saw you.
"You done?"
You looked at her blankly for a moment, and then suddenly remembered what the English language was.
"For now," you replied, smiling weakly at your superior.
She nodded toward the board. "Trauma load's easing. ER's still got a few minor cases downstairs, but we're catching up. Everyone's heading home, you should too."
You nodded and headed towards the lounge for water, or coffee, or maybe just a wall to lean against without being spoken to for thirty seconds. The hall outside of surgery felt eerie in comparison to the hours before. It was still busy, still bright, but with the edge dulled. The worst had happeed, and now everyone was in the long, ugly work of stitching the world back together badly enough that it might just hold.
You made it halfway down the back corridor before your body made the decision for you.
There was an alcove near the service elevators where extra linen carts sometimes sat. It was empty now, quiet. Out of line of sight of anyone moving with purpose. You stepped into it with the full intention of staying there for maybe ten seconds.
Instead, your shoulder hit the wall, and something in you gave way all at once. You had the sudden, humiliating awareness of how hard you'd been holding yourself upright. Your legs bent. You slid down the wall until you were half-sitting, half-folded against cold tile, one knee up, one arm thrown over it. You scrubbed a hand across your face and came away with the sting of dried sweat and the faint smell of chlorhexidine still clinging to your skin.
You weren’t crying.
You weren’t even close, you told yourself.
You were just breathing.
In.
Out.
Trying to coax your body into remembering that standing still no longer meant someone would die.
The hallway beyond the alcove hummed faintly with distant motion. A phone rang somewhere. Wheels rattled over linoleum. Overhead lights buzzed with the same sterile indifference they always had.
For one selfish, exhausted minute, you let yourself feel it.
The weight of all those open bodies.
The hot, metallic smell of trauma blood.
The way a teenager’s hand had twitched once against the drape just before anesthesia deepened.
The mother in OR Two whose wedding ring had left a pale circle on the prep tray after someone removed it and set it aside.
The intern whose gloves you’d had to retie because her fingers were shaking too badly to manage it herself.
You leaned your head back against the wall and closed your eyes.
And somewhere downstairs, because your mind was apparently cruel enough to supply it now that there was room, you thought of Jack.
Of his face under trauma bay lights. His voice when he was one step from snapping and therefore at his calmest. The fact that he would have gone all evening without eating if someone hadn’t forced something into his hand. The little line that appeared between his brows when he was worried and pretending not to be.
You wondered if he was still in the ER. Wondered if he’d seen things as bad as the things you’d seen. Wondered if he’d asked after you and been told, vaguely, that surgery had her and surgery still has her and surgery isn’t letting go yet.
You wondered if he was standing somewhere under fluorescent lights, tired to the bone, thinking of you too.
The sound of footsteps reached the alcove before the person did.
Your eyes opened slowly.
Jack appeared at the mouth of the corridor with all the quiet force he seemed to carry naturally, even exhausted. He was still in dark scrub pants and his black undershirt, trauma vest gone, sleeves pushed up, his face lined with the kind of fatigue that made him look older and sharper all at once. There was dried blood on one shoulder that might have been his but probably wasn’t. His hair was flattened in strange places from too many hands run through it over too many hours.
He stopped the second he saw you and something in his face changed.
He took you in all at once: your scrubs wrinkled and stained, your hair half-falling from its tie, the way your hands were hanging loose between your knees because apparently you’d forgotten what to do with them.
He came closer, slow enough not to startle you, and crouched in front of where you sat against the wall.
For a second neither of you said anything.
Then Jack asked, his voice low and rough around the edges, “You hurt?”
That was so Jack that you almost laughed.
Not hello. Not are you okay. Not Jesus Christ, there you are.
You shook your head.
“No.”
He searched your face like he didn’t believe you.
Maybe he shouldn’t have. There were things that counted as hurt that weren’t visible.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause. Then, quieter, “You faint?”
The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. “No.”
“You look like you did.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I mean.”
He stayed crouched in front of you, one forearm resting loosely on his knee, his eyes on your face in that uncomfortably direct way of his. Jack had never been the sort of man who filled silence because he was afraid of it. He let it sit. Let it ask its own questions.
You looked at him properly then. Really looked.
There was blood at the cuff of his shirt. A shallow scrape across one knuckle. A shadow of stubble that said the shift had outrun normal time.
“You check on everyone like this?” you asked.
His gaze didn’t move. “No.”
The answer landed somewhere deep.
You swallowed.
“You done down there?”
“For now.” He tilted his head slightly. “You?”
You laughed once, but it came out thin. “Apparently.”
Jack glanced down the hall, then back at you. “How many?”
The question didn’t need clarifying.
You rubbed your hand over your jaw and stared at the floor between his shoes. “Five. Maybe six, depending on what counts.”
He absorbed that without a flicker.
“How bad?”
You let out a breath and looked away toward the far wall.
Jack waited.
Eventually you said, “Bad enough.”
His jaw worked once.
There were versions of this conversation you could have with almost anyone else in the hospital. Surgical shorthand. Clinical phrasing. Detached language. Through-and-through. Ex lap. Massive transfusion. Non-survivable. Saveable. Lost on the table.
With Jack, the words always felt different. Because he knew exactly what was under them.
“I feel like - like they were all were so young,” you heard yourself say.
Jack’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened by a fraction.
You looked down at your hands. “One of them had a festival wristband still on. Bright green. I kept looking at it while I was retracting and thinking she probably picked out an outfit for tonight. She probably fought with her friend over eyeliner. She probably thought the worst thing that was going to happen was a bad hangover tomorrow.”
Your voice had gotten quieter without your permission.
Jack didn’t interrupt.
“There was this kid,” you went on, words coming a little uneven now that they’d started. “Not a kid, really. Seventeen maybe. We had him open for nearly two hours and every time his pressure came up I thought, okay, good, there you are, stay with me, stay—”
You stopped.
The rest of the sentence stayed lodged behind your teeth.
Jack reached out then, slowly enough that you could’ve moved away if you wanted, and put his hand over yours where it rested against your knee.
You looked at it first, then at him.
His face had gone very still in the way it did when he was feeling too much and letting almost none of it reach the surface.
“You did your job,” he said.
The words should have felt too easy.
They didn’t. Not from him.
You laughed softly, once. “You sound like a motivational poster.”
“Yeah, well.” The corner of his mouth twitched without quite becoming a smile. “Long night. Lowered standards.”
That got a real breath of laughter out of you, thin but genuine.
Jack squeezed your hand once before letting go. Then, after a pause, he shifted from his crouch to sit beside you against the wall like it was the most natural thing in the world for an attending to end up on a hospital floor in a half-hidden hallway.
His shoulder bumped yours lightly.
The contact nearly undid you more than anything else had.
For a minute the two of you just sat there.
The city beyond the walls kept moving. The hospital kept humming. Somewhere downstairs the Pitt still carried on, because it always did.
Jack tipped his head back against the wall and shut his eyes briefly.
“You eat?”
You turned to look at him. “Did you?”
“That’s not an answer.”
You smiled tiredly. “I had two bites of a turkey sandwich in between ORs.”
“Two bites.”
“It was a very stressful two bites.”
He made a low sound of disapproval. “I had crackers.”
“That’s worse.”
“I’m not the one slumped on the floor.”
You looked at him sidelong. “You found me in under ten minutes.”
"I know, we're chemically bonded or whatever the hell that instagram video told you”
“That is absolutely not what that-.”
“Shush. I think my brain turned off around hour three.”
You glanced at his hands. There was dried blood in the cuticles. “How bad downstairs?”
Jack was quiet for a second.
Then he said, “Bad enough.”
You huffed a soft laugh through your nose. “Wow. You really did steal my line.”
“It was a super good line.”
“It was lazy.”
He looked at you then, actually looked, and there was something in his face you only ever saw when the shift had carved him hollow enough to let tenderness show through.
“I was looking for you,” he said.
Your breath caught on that, stupidly.
“I figured.”
“No,” he said, and the roughness in his voice had nothing to do with exhaustion now. “I was looking for you.”
The distinction settled between you.
Not a head count. Not a casual check. Not a vague, eventual thought that he should probably find his wife before the night ended.
He had been looking. Your eyes burned unexpectedly and you immediately hated that.
Jack noticed, of course he did, but he didn’t call attention to it. He just reached up and pushed a loose strand of hair back behind your ear, fingers brushing your temple in a gesture so gentle it made your throat ache.
“You don’t have to stay up here by yourself,” he said.
You swallowed. “I know.”
His hand lingered for a second before dropping. “You want to talk about it?”
You considered the honest answer.
Not really. Not in details. Not all of it. Not the way it would sit inside you later anyway, no matter how many words you gave it now.
So you shook your head.
Jack nodded like that was an answer worth respecting.
“Okay.”
You rested your head back against the wall and looked at the ceiling. “I think I just needed one minute where nobody asked me for anything.”
He was silent for a beat.
Then, with faint dry humor: “You picked the wrong building.”
You laughed again, softer this time, and leaned your shoulder against his fully.
The roof door wasn’t far from where you were sitting. A strange impulse came over you then, sudden and simple.
“Come on,” you said quietly.
Jack frowned. “Where.”
“The roof.”
He looked toward the stairwell door. “Now?”
“Yes.”
“You can barely stand.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
You pushed yourself up anyway, using the wall for leverage. Your knees protested immediately. Jack rose in the same motion, one hand already at your elbow before you could pretend you didn’t need it.
“I’m fine,” you murmured.
“Sure.”
But he kept his hand there until you were steady.
The two of you took the stairs slowly, not because either of you said to, but because there was no rush left in either body. The hospital stairwell smelled faintly of concrete and bleach and old air conditioning. Somewhere on the third landing, you realized your hand had drifted to the railing while his was still lightly braced at the small of your back.
He only took it away when you reached the roof access door.
The night air hit cool and damp after the climate-controlled dryness inside. Pittsburgh spread below you in scattered gold and white, the city lights trembling faintly against low clouds. Somewhere far off, you saw fireworks flaring out, a small victory of celebration, muted by distance into soft blooms of red and silver over dark buildings.
The roof was mostly empty.
It always felt different up here. Like the hospital stopped being a machine for a second and became just a place, perched over a sleeping city full of people who had no idea how many lives were hanging in balance below them at any given moment.
You moved to the low wall and braced your hands against it, breathing the air in like it could scour the smell of the OR out of you. Jack came to stand beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours when the wind shifted.
After a while you said, “When I was retracting on that liver case, I kept thinking about how weird it is that people can be having the best night of their lives one second and then…” You lifted one shoulder. “Everything changes because somebody decides to turn the world ugly.”
Jack’s gaze stayed forward. “Yeah.”
“I hate that they came to us like that.”
He didn’t say anything for a minute.
“I know.”
You turned your head and looked at him. The wind pushed a strand of his hair across his forehead. He looked older in rooftop light. Softer too.
“I was thinking about you,” you admitted quietly.
That got his attention. His eyes came to yours.
You shrugged, a little embarrassed now that the words were out. “Every time someone came up from the ER, I thought, okay, he probably saw them first. He probably touched the gurney. He probably heard whatever they said before they came under. I kept wondering if you were alright.”
Jack held your gaze for a long second.
Then he looked back out over the city and said, very softly, “I was thinking about you too.”
It should not have mattered. You had been married for years. You shared a home and a bed and bills and Sunday groceries and all the unglamorous little domestic rituals that make up an actual life. You already knew he loved you. Knew it in all the ordinary ways.
But there was something about hearing that in the aftermath of a night like this, here, with blood dried into both your sleeves and the city moving below you unaware, that made it feel newly precious.
You looked down at your hands and smiled a little helplessly. “This is stupid.”
“What is?”
“That we have to nearly work ourselves into the ground to remember to say obvious things to each other.”
Jack huffed a sound that might have been a laugh. “You know I’m not good at obvious.”
“You really aren’t.”
“Didn’t stop you marrying me.”
You glanced at him. “One of my more questionable decisions.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Then, because the night was already cracked open enough for honesty and you were too tired to guard yourself from it, you said, “When it gets bad like this… I’m always glad it’s you.”
He went still beside you.
You pushed on before you could lose the nerve. “Not because I want you hurt, or dragged into every awful thing that happens in the city, but because if I have to do nights like this, if we both do, then…” You swallowed. “I’m glad it’s with someone who understands what it costs.”
The wind moved between you.
Jack turned toward you fully.
There were a lot of expressions he wore well, dry amusement, clinical focus, irritation, exhaustion.
This one undid you most. The rare, unguarded tenderness that made him look almost startled by his own softness.
He reached up and cupped the side of your face with a blood-roughened hand, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.
“You found me,” he said quietly.
It took you a second to understand. Then your throat tightened.
He was not a man for speeches. He was a man for distillation. For taking all the impossible, sprawling mess of feeling and reducing it to the one sentence that mattered.
Not I love you, though it contained that. Not thank you, though it contained that too.
Something steadier. Older. The sort of truth people carried in their bones long before they knew how to say it.
You leaned into his hand without thinking.
“And you found me,” you whispered back.
A real smile touched his mouth then, tired and small and completely for you.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
He bent and kissed your forehead first.
It was such a Jack thing to do that your eyes stung all over again.
Then his hand slid to the back of your neck and he kissed you properly, slow, tired, and so careful it made your chest ache. There was no urgency in it, none of the rough edge you’d gotten from him on better nights and easier days. This was something else. A quiet claiming. A pause pressed into skin. A reminder.
You kissed him back with your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, the hospital far below and all around, the city still lit and moving, the worst of the night finally beginning to loosen its grip.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead briefly against yours.
“You should go home,” he murmured.
You laughed softly. “With what energy?”
“I’ll drive.”
“You drove here?”
“I usually do.”
“No, I mean, you knew I drove here and that we'd probably be going at the same time?”
He looked at you with mild impatience. “I’m not asking you to parallel park under emotional distress.”
You smiled. “Such a romantic.”
“Don’t start.”
You rested your cheek briefly against his shoulder, letting yourself have the weight of him, the realness, the fact of being known this well and still chosen.
After a minute he said, “Come on.”
Reluctantly, you stepped back from the wall.
The city stayed where it was. The hospital kept humming below. Somewhere a siren moved through the streets. Somewhere someone was still dancing off the remnants of a night that had become a nightmare for too many others.
But your body felt steadier now. Not whole. Not rested. Just steadier.
Jack put a hand at the small of your back as you headed for the door.
Not because you needed steering.
Just because he could.
And when you looked back once before stepping inside, at the city, at the roof, at the strange thin line between grief and survival that hospitals lived on, you felt it all over again, that impossible, terrible gratitude for the person walking beside you.
Not because the world was kind.
But because somehow, inside all that unkindness, the two of you had still found each other.
jack abbott x reader who adopted her nieces (toddler and older maybe six or eight?) after their parents died (sister and brother in law) and none of her coworkers knew until the older got injured and had to go to the ER w/ babysitter and little sister . everyone thinking she has a secret family and her having to clarify those are her nieces - jacks heart just getting all fuzzy seeing her being all soft with her nieces ?!
𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 ♡
This is such a cute (and kinda sad🥺) idea!!
Jack Abbot x resident!reader || Masterlist || Spotify
summary: The night takes a turn when Jack finds you in the ER hallway with two little girls who look unmistakably like you. He realizes there’s a whole part of your life he never knew about. But maybe, if you let him, he’d really like to understand it.
word count: 8.0k
warnings/tags: No use of y/n. Hurt/comfort. Angst and fluff. Canon typical medical traumas. May contain medical inaccuracies. I usually prefer not naming kid characters in my stories, but reader's nieces are named in this (I found it too difficult writing two unnamed child characters in the same scene, hehe)
Jack is looking at the board with a slight crease between his brows, eyes scanning the patient list like he’s expecting something to suddenly appear. It’s an unusually quiet night, which, in Jack’s experience, usually means something is about to go down.
He shifts his weight slightly, arms folded over his chest as he studies the list like it might suddenly rearrange itself if he watches long enough.
A couple of minor injuries. One patient waiting on labs. Someone in observation who probably should’ve been discharged an hour ago. He can’t remember the last time the board looked this manageable.
“Don’t stare at it too hard,” a well-known voice says from behind him. “You might scare the calm away.”
Jack glances over his shoulder.
You’re leaning against the counter. You look tired, yet you still have that small, sweet smile on your face, the one he’s noticed shows up most when the shift is at its worst, like you’re stubbornly refusing to let the place grind you down.
It’s a smile he has begun to rely more on than he probably should. It’s subtle. Easy to miss if someone isn’t paying attention. But Jack always notices.
It’s steady, reassuring. And somewhere along the line, Jack realized he looks for it now. Which is a bit of a problem. You’re his resident, which means he probably shouldn’t be noticing things like that, but he just can’t help it.
He shouldn’t be cataloguing the way your smile softens the hard edges of a shift, or how the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction when you walk into a room. He shouldn’t be aware of the way your voice sounds when you’re explaining something gently to a patient versus when you’re arguing with an elderly patient about why they really do need to stay for observation.
But he does. He notices all of it.
“Calm’s a myth,” he says after a moment. “Just means the ambulance bay’s about to light up.”
You hum softly behind him. “Optimistic as always, Abbot.”
“Just speaking from experience.”
“Sure.” Your tone is light, teasing, but there’s something softer under it that Jack can’t quite place.
You have been a little different lately. Jack noticed it before he meant to. It’s just in glimpses, short moments where you linger a little longer than usual after a hard case. Your usual optimism is by no means gone, but it seems like you’re fighting a little more for it. The smile is still there. Still warm, still steady. But sometimes it takes a second longer to show up.
Sometimes he catches the moment just before it does. The quiet breath you take before turning back to a patient. The way your shoulders drop when you think no one’s looking. The way you stare at a chart a little too long after delivering bad news. Most people probably wouldn’t notice, but he does.
You push yourself off the counter and walk up beside him, leaning slightly so you can see the board better. Your shoulder brushes his arm for half a second before you settle next to him. Neither of you mention it.
“Got anything good for me?” you ask, leaning a little closer, eyes bright even though your body is clearly tired.
“I got a dislocated collarbone in room twelve,” he offers.
You’re studying the list, brow slightly furrowed now, that little smile still sitting at the corner of your mouth like it belongs there. It’s ridiculous, honestly, how much it steadies him.
“Yeah, we better get that fixed,” you murmur, voice low, almost to yourself, but loud enough that Jack hears.
He glances at you, smiling despite himself. “You know cherrypicking is against hospital policy, right?”
“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, eyes glinting.
Jack snorts softly, shaking his head. “That’s called careful evaluation. Strategic thinking.”
“Strategic, huh?” you tease, leaning just a little closer, it makes you brush your shoulder against his side again. It’s just the slightest touch, but it’s still enough for him to notice. “If you say so,” you murmur, voice low and teasing, “but I think we both know you just like standing here watching me pick the fun cases.”
Jack shakes his head, though a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You finish your notes on the chest pain in four?”
“Yep,” you say. “Negative trops, normal EKG, probably reflux. I set up discharge and told him to follow up with his PCP.”
Jack nods once, approving.
You glance sideways at him. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Just checking.”
“You’re so reassuring,” you deadpan.
Jack’s mouth twitches faintly, like he’s trying not to smile and mostly failing. “Part of my job description.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t move away. If anything, you settle a little more comfortably beside him, shoulder still brushing his arm every now and then when one of you shifts. It’s easy like this, too easy.
“Yeah,” you murmur after a beat, voice softer now, “it’s… nice to have a good attending.”
Jack glances at you, caught slightly off guard by the softness in your voice. He opens his mouth to respond, he doesn’t even know what to say, but he is cut off when your phone suddenly rings. The sound slices clean through the quiet moment.
You blink, startled, and pull it from your pocket, glancing at the screen. Your expression changes immediately. The teasing ease disappears. Your shoulders stiffen just slightly. You frown, glancing at the screen. “Sorry, I really need to take this.”
You turn and begin walking away with quick steps, your thumb swiping over the answer button almost instinctively. “Hello?” Your voice is calm, but there’s an undertone of alertness now, of attention fully focused.
Jack watches you as you disappear down the hall. He gives a soft shake of his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off the sudden shift from warm ease to professional focus. Then he turns back to the board, pushing his thoughts aside.
But he barely has time to refocus before Lena appears at the board, her expression tense but professional. She doesn’t waste words. “We’ve got a trauma coming in. Motorcycle accident, one patient, multiple injuries. Five minutes away.”
That’s all it takes for him to snap fully back. “Do we have vitals?”
“No.”
“Okay, room prep. Get trauma two cleared, full protocol, you know the drill,” he says, already moving. “Vitals on arrival,” he calls out as he reaches the bay.
The patient is in rough shape upon arrival, but he pulls through and after working on him for half an hour he’s finally stable and on his way up to surgery.
Jack peels off his gloves, the latex snapping softly as he drops them into the bin, and as he washes his hands the adrenaline finally begins to ebb. Warm water runs over his fingers as he scrubs methodically, gaze fixed somewhere on the tiled wall in front of him
The patient had made it. Stable enough for surgery, that counts as a win in the ER. He steps out of the trauma bay and stops short.
You’re in the hallway near triage. On your hip is a toddler, she can’t be more than two years old, sleepy, fighting a great fight to keep her eyes open, clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest. In front of you, perched on a gurney with an ice pack pressed to her head, is a little girl who looks suspiciously like you. Same eyes, same shape to the mouth. Even the tilt of her head when she looks up at you feels familiar. She looks to be about five or six years old.
For a second his brain just stalls, and then it does something unhelpful. Oh… she has kids. It’s absurd how hard that thought lands. Around him, whispers start immediately.
“Did you know she had kids?”
“Since when?”
“Wait, is she married?”
Jack hates how tight his chest feels. You never mentioned a partner. Never mentioned children. He’s spent so long memorizing all the little things about you, the way you take your coffee, the way you sigh after long shifts, the way you rub your temples when you’re overwhelmed, and somehow missed an entire family?
He watches you press your forehead to the little girls on the gurney’s, murmuring reassurances. The toddler tiredly pats your cheek like she’s comforting you too. Jack feels something in his chest rearrange.
Ellis raises a brow at him. “Did you know?”
“No,” he mutters, unable to look away.
Jack watches the scene like he’s accidentally stepped into someone else’s life.
You’re standing there in the harsh fluorescent light of the ER hallway, still in your scrubs, just like he has seen you hundreds of times before, now you’re just holding a toddler like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your hand is rubbing slow circles on her back while you lean down toward the older girl on the gurney.
Jack stands there longer than he should. Long enough to feel vaguely like he’s intruding on something private. Because the version of you he knows exists in trauma bays and chart rooms and late-night coffee runs. The version of you who stubbornly smiles through brutal shifts and argues politely with patients who want to leave against medical advice
This version of you is… different. Soft in a way that makes something in his chest pull tight. But then he pulls himself together. Because standing there staring isn’t helping anyone. And the whispers behind him are getting louder.
“Did she ever mention kids to you?” someone murmurs.
“Nope.”
“Do we know who the dad is?”
Jack’s jaw tightens. He steps forward before he can think too hard about it. You turn your head in his direction as he approaches. For a moment your expression freezes, but you recover quickly, shifting the toddler a little higher on your hip as her little head droops against your shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and even. “What have we got her?”
You glance down at the little girl on the gurney before answering, your voice automatically shifting into the calm, clinical tone Jack is used to hearing during rounds.
“She fell out of bed and hit the corner of the nightstand,” you finish gently, brushing a stray piece of hair away from the little girl’s forehead. “She cried right away. No loss of consciousness, no vomiting. Babysitter said she seemed a little dizzy after, but she’s been alert the whole time.”
“I just had to pee,” the little girl insists, her lower lip wobbles a little.
You give her a soft smile immediately. “I know you did,” you murmur gently, brushing your thumb across her cheek where a tear had started to slip down.
The toddler on your hip lifts her head a little at the sound of your voice, blinking slowly like she’s trying very hard to stay awake. Her tiny hand pats your shoulder once before she tucks her face back into your neck, rabbit still clutched tight.
Jack feels something strange twist in his chest.
“Let’s get her to peds and have a look,” Jack says gently.
You nod immediately.
The next five minutes pass in a blur, the kind of blur that only comes from moving quickly but carefully, every motion practiced and precise. You walk beside the gurney, still cradling the toddler, while Jack guides the gurney towards the pediatric room.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” Jack begins, his voice calm but firm, as he closes the door behind them, shutting out the harsh fluorescent buzz of the main ER. He glances at you, taking in how naturally you balance the toddler on your hip while keeping an eye on the older girl. “Is it okay if I take a look at your head and ask a few questions?” he says gently as he pulls, first a chair for you to sit beside the gurney, before rolling a stool for himself to sit on the other side.
You whisper a small thank you as you settle, carefully shifting the toddler from your hip to your lap, letting her slump a little as her eyelids droop.
“Okay,” the little girl on the gurney whispers.
You give her a soft nod, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Dr. Abbot is just going to check your head and make sure everything’s okay, alright? He will be super gentle, I promise. He’s really, really good at this.”
Jack feels a strange mixture of awe and something heavier, something private, almost fragile, coil in his chest. He swallows hard, keeping his voice low and steady, though his chest feels just a little too tight. “Yeah, I’m gonna be super gentle, promise.”
Jack wheels his stool a little closer to the gurney, keeping his movements slow and unthreatening the way you would with any nervous pediatric patient. The little girl watches him carefully, her small fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.
“Alright,” he says softly, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “First things first, what’s your name?”
“Sophia,” she says in a small voice.
Jack nods gently, keeping his tone soft and warm. “Hi, Sophia,” he says, like they’re just meeting under normal circumstances and not in the middle of a late-night ER visit. “That’s a really good name. Means wisdom, right?”
“Mhm,” she nods seriously, like this is very important information.
Jack smiles faintly. Your thumb brushes gently over her ankle through the blanket. “Alright,” Jack continues gently, shifting a little closer on the stool. “I have this flashlight,” Jack says, pulling the small penlight from the pocket of his scrub top. He clicks it on, letting the beam shine briefly against the wall first so Sophia can see it. “I’m just going to use it to look at your eyes, okay?”
Sophia watches the light with cautious curiosity. “Okay…” she murmurs.
“Perfect,” he says, offering her a small, reassuring smile. Jack keeps his movements slow and predictable, the way he would with any nervous kid. “Can you look right at my nose for me?” he asks gently.
She is very cooperative, squinting a little as she focuses hard on the middle of his face.
“Perfect,” Jack murmurs. He lifts the penlight and shines it briefly into one eye, then the other, watching the pupils carefully as they react to the light. “Great job,” he murmurs. “You’re really good at this.”
That seems to make her proud. Her shoulders lift just a little, like she’s sitting a bit taller on the gurney. Jack notices and lets the moment sit for a second before continuing.
“Alright,” he says gently, clicking the penlight off and slipping it back into his pocket. “Now can you follow my finger with your eyes, not your head.”
Sophia nods solemnly, clearly taking the task very seriously. Jack lifts a finger in front of her face and begins to move it slowly from side to side. Sophia’s eyes track it carefully, her brow furrowing in concentration.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Now up here.” He moves his finger upward, then down, watching closely as her gaze follows smoothly. “Great job.”
Sophia’s shoulders relax a little at the praise.
“I heard you felt a bit dizzy after you fell,” Jack continues gently. “Does your head feel spinny right now? Or do you feel nauseous at all?”
Sophia thinks about it very seriously, her brow scrunching as she considers the question.
“A little before,” she admits quietly. “But not now.”
Jack nods once, calm and reassuring. “Okay, that’s good.”
But the little girl shuffles slightly on the gurney. “But I still have to pee…” she says quietly.
You sigh, closing your eyes a brief second, the sound carrying a mixture of exhaustion and guilt. “You never got to go to the bathroom, did you, sweetheart.”
“No,” she says, her voice small.
The sound of your voice wakes the toddler on your lap, her eyelids fluttering as she takes in her surroundings. Her eyes land on Jack wide and curious, a tiny frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. You shift slightly, holding her securely against your chest while keeping one hand free to guide Sophia.
The little girl in your lap lifts the stuffed rabbit in her hand and points it vaguely in Jack’s direction.
“Bun,” she informs him.
Jack nods very seriously. “That’s a great bunny.”
She seems satisfied with that. Her little frown turns into the sweetest, little tentative smile, and she wiggles slightly against your chest, the rabbit still clutched tight.
“Let’s go find a toilet,” you murmur softly, shifting the toddler gently so she’s more comfortable against your hip, but her little feet kick lightly, a little whiny sound of disapproval leaving her mouth, like she isn’t willing to move so shortly after being woken up. “Sweetie, Sophia has to go to the bathroom,” you murmur gently, tilting your head so the toddler can see your face. Her little frown deepens, and she lets out another small whiny sound, hugging her bunny a little tighter.
“Here,” Jack says, reacting on instinct more than thought, holding his arms out gently toward the toddler. “Want to come to me for a sec?”
Your eyes finds his, a tired, thankful look in your eyes as hand the little girl over her tiny body shifting hesitantly into Jack’s arms. He catches her with ease, one hand under her bottom, the other supporting her back, letting her hug her rabbit close against his chest. The toddler relaxes slightly, leaning into him as if she’s known him far longer than a few minutes.
Jack gives a soft, reassuring hum, careful not to startle her. “There we go,” he murmurs gently, adjusting her so she’s comfortable.
“Okay, let’s find you a toilet,” you murmur to Sophia, gently squeezing her hand. “Are you okay to walk?”
She nods and you help her down fram the gurney, your hands steadying her as she plants her small feet on the floor. “We will be back in a minute,” you say, looking at Jack.
Jack gives a small nod, his arms still steady around the toddler. “I’ve got her,” he says softly, his voice low and calm, like he’s afraid any sudden sound might startle her.
You glance at him, the weight of the night and the exhaustion in both of you hanging between you for a moment. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly, the tired gratitude threading through the simple phrase.
Jack meets your eyes for just a second, his expression softening in a way that makes your chest tighten slightly. “Of course,” he murmurs, his tone steady and gentle, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “Anytime,” he says gently, shifting the toddler slightly so she’s snug against his chest.
You make it to the door, Sophia’s hand in yours, your gaze lingers for a moment, grateful and weary, before you turn your attention back to Sophia and leave the room. The toddler shifts a little in his arms, pressing her cheek more firmly against his chest, and Jack instinctively rocks her just a fraction, careful and deliberate.
Jack adjusts her tiny weight slightly, settling her more comfortably against him. Her small sigh of contentment is almost inaudible, but it’s enough to draw a faint, careful smile across his face. He rocks her gently, slow and steady, as if the motion itself could smooth out the rough edges of the night.
He glances down at her little hand clutching the stuffed bunny, the way she presses it to her chest like it’s a lifeline. Even in the chaos of the ER, this small, quiet connection feels grounding. His eyes flick up briefly toward where you’ve just disappeared with Sophia, and there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his chest, acknowledgment, relief, admiration.
For a few seconds, it’s just him and the toddler, the world outside the room fading to the soft rhythm of her breathing and the faint hum of hospital life beyond the walls. Jack rocks her just a little more, careful not to disturb the fragile bubble of calm, letting himself breathe into it, too.
He had no idea that you had children, but seeing you now, so effortlessly caring, so present even under the harsh glare of the ER lights, shifts something in him.
The image of you juggling a little tired toddler on your hip while gently guiding Sophia, your voice soft and steady, imprints itself firmly in his mind. It’s not just admiration or curiosity, it’s a quiet, sinking awe that someone so capable, so brilliant, also carries this other life, these tiny, fragile humans who rely on you so completely.
“I never got your name,” he murmurs, careful, low, his voice soft as if saying it too loud might shatter the fragile calm between him and the toddler. The little girl in his arms shifts slightly, nuzzling her cheek against his chest, and he instinctively rocks her just a fraction more. She is clearly too tired to answer, but he wasn’t expecting her to do so anyway.
Her small hand twitches, brushing against the edge of the stuffed rabbit, and he tightens his hold just a little, letting her feel secure. The simplicity of it, her trust, her quiet presence, anchors him more than any adrenaline rush or successful trauma ever could.
For a few minutes it’s just him and her, the faint hum of the hospital, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the gentle sway of his arms. Jack exhales slowly, letting himself sink into the strange, grounding calm.
When you come back the world shifts again, snapping into motion with the same gentle urgency that fills every corner of the ER. Sophia’s hand still clasped in yours, her steps small but determined. The little girl in Jack’s arms stirs slightly at the sound of your voice, lifting her head and blinking up at you with sleepy, trusting eyes.
Jack straightens just a fraction, still careful, still protective, as if even a slight motion might break the fragile bubble of calm. “We’re back,” you murmur, voice soft but steady, like a bridge between the chaos outside and the tiny universe he’s holding. “Did you fall asleep again, honey?” you murmur gently, tilting your head slightly so the toddler can see your face.
The little girl in Jack’s arms lets out a tiny, sleepy yawn and snuggles closer, her grip on the rabbit tightening just a fraction. Jack shifts her slightly as he stands up, easing her into the curve of your shoulder as you step closer. “She’s been a really good girl,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady, careful not to startle her. “Just got herself a little nap.”
You smile softly down at the toddler, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I see that,” you murmur, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head before looking at him again. You smile softly, warmth threading through your tired eyes. “Thank you,” you murmur, voice gentle but carrying that quiet, exhausted gratitude that Jack can feel in his chest more than he can hear.
He meets your gaze, just for a moment, his expression softening in response, the small crease between his brows easing. “Anytime,” he murmurs, voice low and calm, a faint, careful smile tugging at his lips as he adjusts the toddler slightly so she’s snug against your shoulder again.
The little girl presses her face into your chest, and you can’t help but hum softly in response, rocking her gently.
Jack feels that quiet, twisting mix of awe and something warmer, something protective, settle deeper in his chest. He has to look away as if to reset himself, to stop his thoughts from spiraling too far. The sight of you, so effortlessly present with the toddler and Sophia, so gentle and patient, so human, feels like it’s pulling at something inside him he wasn’t sure he still had room for.
He turns his attention back to Sophia. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft and steady, “let’s see how your head’s feeling now.”
Sophia nods, her weary seemingly fully gone, her weariness seemingly fully gone now, replaced with that careful, attentive focus that comes from trying to do exactly what she’s asked. Jack helps her up onto the gurney just enough so she’s sitting comfortably, his hands steadying her small frame. “Good job,” he murmurs, his voice calm, low, gentle. “Did you hit anything besides your head when you fell? Anywhere else it hurts?”
Sophia thinks seriously for a moment, brow furrowed. “No… just my head.”
Jack nods slowly, his voice still calm and gentle. “Okay, that’s good to know.”
Jack’s eyes soften as he examines the small gash on Sophia’s forehead. It’s shallow, just enough to bleed a little, but nothing alarming. He keeps his tone calm, gentle, and steady, aware of how closely you’re watching.
“I’m gonna clean this up, okay?” Jack murmurs softly, leaning slightly closer so Sophia can see exactly what he’s doing.
“Okay,”she whispers, her small voice tentative but trusting.
“And then I’m gonna close the wound with a little bit of medical super glue,” Jack continues gently. Keeping his voice is calm, low and steady, the kind that makes scary things seem small.
Sophia’s eyes widen just slightly at the mention of glue, and she leans back a fraction. Jack notices immediately and gives a reassuring smile. “Super glue?” she whispers, her voice tiny and uncertain, brows furrowing.
Jack nods gently, keeping his tone soft and steady. “Yeah, but it’s not the kind you use at home. This is special hospital glue. It helps the skin stick together so it heals really fast. You won’t even feel it much, I promise.”
“It’s true,” you murmur softly, brushing a stray curl from Sophia’s forehead, your voice gentle and reassuring. “And Jack is really good at this, and the glue helps your wound heal so it doesn’t leave so bad of a scar.”
Sophia blinks up at you, confusion knitting her small brows together. “Who is Jack?” she asks, her voice small but genuinely curious.
“I mean Dr. Abbot,” you correct yourself, looking a little sheepish as you glance back at him.
For a moment Jack pauses, he can’t help but like the way his name sounded when you said it. It sounds easy coming from you, natural in a way that settles somewhere warm in his chest before he has time to think about it. The corner of his mouth lifting in quiet amusement.
“Jack is fine,” he says gently, his voice warm as he crouches slightly so he’s more at Sophia’s eye level.
Sophia studies him very seriously, her small face thoughtful, for just about half a second before she then gives a small, decisive nod. “Okay.”
Jack’s smile softens at her approval. “Okay,” he echoes lightly. “Now let’s get that wound cleaned.”
Sophia nods again, a little braver now that she knows what’s going to happen. It’s a quick, careful process. Jack works with practiced ease, dabbing gently at the small cut while keeping his movements slow enough that nothing startles her.
“There we go,” he murmurs softly. “This might sting a little.”
Sophia scrunches her nose a little at the cool antiseptic wipe but holds perfectly still, her small hands gripping the edge of the gurney.
“You’re doing amazing,” Jack adds quietly, genuine approval in his voice.
Beside the gurney, you shift the toddler slightly against your shoulder as she stirs, humming softly until she settles again, her cheek pressed into your chest and the stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. The quiet rhythm of it fills the small space between the four of you.
Jack finishes cleaning the wound and straightens just a little, reaching for the small applicator of medical glue. “Alright,” he says gently. “Now for the tiny bit of glue we talked about. This part is really quick.”
Sophia nods solemnly, eyes fixed on him, trusting. It’s a quick fix, and he’s sure the scarring will be minimal. “And… done,” he says softly after a second, leaning back.
Sophia’s shoulders drop in visible relief. “All finished?” she asks hopefully.
Jack smiles. “All finished.”
A small proud smile spreads across her face, and she happily accepts his offer of a high five when he lifts his palm. Sophia beams, as her small hand connects with his in a perfect, confident high five. The sound echoes softly in the room, and Jack can’t help but mirror her grin, warmth threading through the exhaustion of the night, and when Jack glances at you, there’s that same quiet warmth in your eyes that makes his chest tighten in a way it probably shouldn’t, but he just can’t help it.
That warmth in your eyes lingers for just a moment too long. Jack notices it immediately. He notices everything about you lately, which is exactly the problem.
Sophia is still smiling proudly, clearly thrilled that the entire ordeal ended with a high five instead of something scarier. The toddler in your arms has sunk back into that half-asleep state, her cheek pressed against your shoulder, rabbit tucked beneath her chin.
And it hits Jack all over again how strange it feels to see you like this. That he hasn’t known this part of you. Not in passing conversation between patients. Not in the quiet moments over stale coffee at two in the morning. Not in the long shifts where people start sharing pieces of their lives just to stay awake.
And yet here you are, like this has always existed just outside the edges of the world he knows. Sophia swings her legs a little where she sits on the gurney, clearly pleased with both the praise and the attention.
“See?” you murmur softly to her, brushing a curl back from her forehead. “Told you he was good.”
Jack pretends not to notice the way you said that, like it’s something you’ve known for a long time.
Sophia nods seriously. “Mhm.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. “Well,” he says lightly, pushing himself up from the stool, “I had a very good patient.”
Sophia sits a little taller at that, visibly proud of herself. The little girl stirs faintly against your shoulder, her small fingers tightening in your scrubs as she shifts. You instinctively rock her a little, one hand coming up to steady the back of her head while the other rests against her back.
The movement is automatic, practiced. Jack notices that too, of course he does.
You shift slightly, adjusting the toddler so she’s more comfortable against your hip, and murmur softly. “We should probably go find Lauren,” you say with a small smile to Sophia before you look at Jack to explain. “She’s their babysitter, she was panicking when they came in, so I told her to take a snack in the cafeteria.”
Jack nods. “It’s never fun being the babysitter when accidents happen.”
“Yeah, it feels like a big responsibility to take care of other’s kids…” you mumble, your gaze turning briefly to the toddler in your arms. Jack follows your glance down at the little girl in your arms, who’s nuzzled comfortably against you, and his chest tightens just a fraction.
Your gaze turns to Sophia. “Are you okay going home with Lauren now? I will be back for breakfast.”
“You don’t have to stay,” Jack interrupts softly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the toddler in your arms.
“I would really like to follow up on my asthma patient,” you murmur quietly, voice low but firm, glancing at Jack. “Is that okay?” you ask, now turned to the girl on the gurney.
Sophia nods solemnly. “Mhm,” she says, trusting, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
He holds the door open for you as you leave the pediatrics room. You shift slightly, adjusting the toddler so she’s more comfortable against your hip, and pause just outside the door.
“Can you say goodbye to Dr. Abbot,” you murmur softly to Sophia, brushing a curl from her forehead.
Sophia looks up at him and lifts her hand in a tiny wave. “Bye, Dr. Jack,” she says clearly, her voice proud and earnest.
Jack crouches slightly, meeting her gaze with a soft, warm smile. “Bye, Sophia. You were so brave tonight.”
Sophia beams at the praise, then lifts her hand for a high five. Jack feels a warm molten feeling rise in his chest as he raises his own hand to meet hers, holding it steady at her height. Her small palm smacks against his with a crisp confidence, and she grins like she’s just won something important.
“Alright,” he murmurs with a soft chuckle, lowering his hand again. “Perfect high five.”
The little girl’s grin only widens at that, clearly thrilled with herself. She rocks a little on her heels, still glowing with pride.
Jack’s eyes meet yours as he straightens again, and for a moment the hallway feels quieter than it should, the distant noise of the ER fading into the background. There’s a softness in his expression he doesn’t quite try to hide.
You give him a small, tired smile in return, shifting the toddler slightly, the movement, and the chance from the quiet room to the hallway waking her. She blinks sleepily, brow knitting for a moment as she lifts her head, still clutching the stuffed rabbit beneath her chin. Her eyes drift around the hallway before settling on him.
For a second she just stares at him, heavy-lidded and quiet, trying to place where she is. Her fingers tighten a little in the fabric of your scrubs, rabbit still tucked under her chin.
Jack’s expression softens even more at the sleepy focus of her gaze. “Hey there,” he murmurs gently, careful to keep his voice low.
A small, sleepy smile tugs at the toddler’s lips at the sound of his voice, slow and uncertain but unmistakably there. She blinks at him once more and her smile widens, the kind that belongs entirely to half-awake toddlers who haven’t quite decided if they’re still dreaming.
She lets out a sleepy giggle, soft and warm, the kind that seems to fill the small space between you all. The soft giggle seems to catch him completely off guard, and his smile widens despite himself.
“Oh, you are a real charmer, aren’t you,” Jack murmurs quietly, voice warm as he watches her fight sleep. Jack tilts his head slightly, studying her for a second before glancing up at you.
“What’s her name?” he asks softly.
“Her name is Rosa, but we call her Rosie the most,” Sophia says quickly, clearly pleased to be the one answering. A small smile touching your lips as you glance down at the toddler. Sophia rocks a little beside you, clearly proud of the introduction she just delivered.
“Yeah, you’re our little flower, right?” you murmur softly, brushing your fingers lightly over Rosie’s cheek.
Jack’s gaze lingers on the two of you, something warm and thoughtful settling in his expression.
Rosie lets out one more tiny, breathy giggle before she suddenly leans toward him, her tiny hand reaching out curiously. Without thinking, Jack steps closer and lets her grab one of his fingers.
Jack stills for a second when her tiny hand closes around his finger. Her grip is warm and unexpectedly strong for someone so small and half-asleep. Rosie peers at their joined hands with slow, fascinated focus, like she’s just discovered something very important.
Jack watches her for a moment, careful not to move too quickly. “Well,” he murmurs softly, glancing up at you with a quiet, amused smile, “that’s… a pretty firm handshake.”
“Yeah, she’s tougher than she looks,” you say softly, a quiet hint of amusement in your voice, though there’s something else there too, something more subdued, almost melancholic. Jack notices it. “And so are you Phia,” you murmur quietly, shifting your gaze down to the older girl, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
It’s as he stands there, watching the three of you, with Rosie’s tiny fingers still curling lightly around his, that Lena comes walking down the hallway. Her steps are light but purposeful, an ipad tucked under one arm.
“Dr. Abbot we need you in room four,” Lena calls softly as she approaches, her voice gentle but carrying that unmistakable urgency. She glances at the scene before her, Rosie still holding Jack’s finger, Sophia’s small hand in yours, and the quiet warmth between you all, and offers a small, understanding smile.
Jack gives Rosie one last, careful squeeze of her tiny hand before letting go, to let her curl her fingers back around your scrubs. “Duty calls,” he murmurs softly, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he straightens.
Rosie blinks slowly when his finger slips from her grasp, her tiny hand hovering in the air for a moment as if she’s trying to understand where it went. Then her fingers curl again, to bunch into the fabric of your scrubs instead. She lets out a small, sleepy hum and presses her cheek back against your shoulder, rabbit still tucked beneath her chin.
Sophia watches the exchange with great seriousness before giving Jack another small wave. “Goodbye,” she says earnestly.
Jack’s smile softens. “Bye, Sophia,” he replies gently. “Take care of your sister, okay?”
Sophia nods like she’s just been entrusted with something very important. Jack’s gaze flicks back to you then, lingering for a quiet second.
“I’ll be back on duty in sec,” you say quietly, almost apologetically, shifting Rosie a little higher on your hip so her head rests more comfortably against your shoulder. The words half directed to Lena, who pauses a step behind Jack, her expression softening with understanding.
She gives a small nod. “Take your time,” she says gently.
Jack’s eyes linger on you for another moment, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly as he watches you adjust Rosie against your shoulder, the toddler already drifting fully back into sleep.
For half a second he doesn’t moment, he doesn’t move. “See you back on the floor,” he says finally, his voice low but warm, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He gives the girls a last wave then he turns with Lena, the two of them heading down the hallway toward the ER rooms, already slipping back into the rhythm of the shift.
The shift hums around him again, he checks his watch briefly before slipping back into the flow of patients and charting.
It’s not until the end of the shift that he gets a chance to speak with you again. It’s quiet now, the ER settling into the slower rhythm that comes in the early morning. You’re at the nurses station, finishing up the last of your charting while chewing lightly on your lower lip. He walks up to the station, settling his forearms on the counter, learning slightly toward you as he watches you work.
He watches you for a quiet moment, the hum of the ER soft around the two of you. “You know lip chewing can lead to inflammation,” he says quietly, the teasing edge in his voice soft but present as his gaze lingers on you.
You glance up quickly. “Of course, I’m a doctor,” you say with a small, mock-offended smile, tilting your head slightly. “And I’m not chewing my lip,” you mumble, though the small twitch betrays you. “But I am finishing my charting,” you say, pushing the last key with a satisfying click. You push back slightly from the keyboard, letting your shoulders relax, and finally look up at him fully.
He offers you a small, amused smile, the kind that lingers more in his eyes than on his lips. For a moment neither of you says anything. The quiet of the early morning hums around you, monitors beeping softly somewhere down the hall.
The events of the night seem to hang quietly between you for a moment. Rosie’s sleepy giggle and Sophia’s bright smile, seems to linger in the air, like soft echoes. But that underlying melancholy he has noticed earlier still lingers faintly beneath it all.
His expression softens a little as he watches you, though the hint of amusement never fully leaves his eyes. “Been a long night,” he says quietly.
You nod once, letting out a small breath. “Yeah.”
For a second the two of you just stay there in the quiet hum of the ER. Then you glance toward the clock, push your chair back, and stand.
“Walk with me?” you ask casually, nodding toward the hallway that leads to the staff lockers.
“Sure,” Jack replies easily, pushing himself away from the counter.
He falls into step beside you as you head down the quieter hallway toward the lockers. For a moment neither of you says anything. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward, just tired after a long shift.
“Thank you for being so gentle with them earlier,” you say after a few steps, your voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.
Jack glances over at you, a little surprised by the sudden sincerity in your tone. “Of course,” he says softly, his voice low but steady. “And it wasn’t hard, they’re great kids.”
You glance at him briefly, catching the subtle warmth in his expression, and then look away, letting a small smile tug at your lips. “I just… appreciate it. They have had a hard time, and they don’t usually warm up so quickly to new people.”
Jack gives a small, easy shrug. “Guess I got lucky.”
You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, lucky for them… and for me.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you like a soft blanket after the chaos of the shift. Then you reach the lockers the two of you stop, letting the quiet stretch for a beat longer.
“You never told us you have kids.” It comes out rougher than he means it to.
You blink up at him, your tired eyes catching his, those pretty, pretty eyes of yours. “It’s also relatively new… they’re my nieces,” you say quietly. “My sister and her husband...” Your throat tightens, and you swallow hard before continuing. “They were in a car accident five months ago.” The words settle heavy. “I adopted them.”
Jack swears the air gets knocked out of him. The resemblance clicks into place in a different way now,
“I didn’t know.”
You shrug, offering him a sad smile.“I haven’t told anyone here.”
Jack blinks, his expression softening as he processes your words.
“I guess, I needed to have a place, where things just were ,as they used to,” you continue quietly. “I didn’t know how to tell you guys without breaking down, and I can’t do that, I have to be there for the girls.”
Jack’s eyes soften even more, the air of playful teasing that often hangs between the too of you is gone completely now, replaced with steady, quiet understanding. He shifts slightly closer, careful not to crowd you, letting his presence speak more than words.
“You’re doing amazing,” he says softly. “I don’t think most people could handle what you’ve taken on… but you-you’re doing it. And you’re doing it so well.”
You let out a small, shaky breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “I try,” you mumble, your voice barely above the quiet hum of the hallway. “But some days… it feels like I’m just holding everything together by a thread.”
Jack doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He simply shifts a little closer, his presence steady and grounding, the kind of calm that doesn’t demand anything from you. “I get that,” he says softly. “It’s a lot to carry, but you’re carrying it with so much care. And if you need anything,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “you can always ask. No judgments, no questions.”
You blink up at him, the words settling around you like a warm, quiet reassurance. “I… thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries the weight of genuine relief. “It means a lot… just knowing that.”
Jack gives a small, steady nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re never alone,” he says softly. “Even when it feels like it, you’ve got people who care. And I’ll always be one of them.”
For a moment, the hallway feels almost suspended in time, the soft hum of the ER fading into the background as the two of you simply stand there. You let out a small, shaky laugh, the kind that carries both exhaustion and a touch of gratitude. “I guess I’m pretty lucky then,” you say quietly.
“Maybe,” Jack replies, a hint of warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But mostly… you’ve earned it.”
You glance at him, meeting that steady, unspoken understanding in his eyes, and for the first time in hours, it feels like you can finally exhale.
“I would ask you if you wanted to grab a quick coffee before heading out, but I promised someone I would be home for breakfast,” you trail off, a small, wry smile tugging at your lips. “But some other time, maybe?” you add softly, tilting your head toward him, voice casual but carrying a quiet hope and just a hint of your usual teasing edge.
Jack lets out a quiet, warm laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Yeah, I would never say no to that,” he says, his voice low and easy, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Great,” you murmur, a small, relieved smile tugging at your lips. You finally unlock your locker, grabbing your bag and jacket.
“Get home safe, okay?” Jack says softly, his tone gentle but carrying that quiet weight of care.
You give a small nod, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I will.”
“Good. And I’ll look forward to that coffee,” he says, the faint teasing edge returning to his tone.
You glance at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Me too.”
For a second neither of you moves, but the quiet between you isn’t awkward, it’s warm, steady, like something gently settling into place.
Jack nods once, that small smile still resting at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he says softly.
You pull your jacket on and adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. The exhaustion of the shift is still there, the tired gaze still lingering in your eyes, but it doesn’t seem quite as suffocating as it did earlier.
As you step past him, he shifts slightly to give you space, but his hand briefly brushes your arm, light, almost absent-minded, the kind of touch that lingers for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You glance back at him.
“Seriously… you’re doing a great thing,” he adds, voice low but certain.
You give him a smile, the kind that’s tired but genuine, your eyes softening just a little. “I hope so,” you say quietly. “And thank you, Jack.”
“Of course,” he replies softly. For a moment he just looks at you, debating with himself if he should say something else but decides against it. Instead he gives you a small nod, the kind that carries quiet certainty. “And you’ve got this,” he adds simply.
You hold his gaze for a second longer, something warm and steady passing between you. Then you shift your bag a little higher on your shoulder.
“I’ll see you around,” you say, a faint smile touching your lips.
“Yeah.”
He leans back lightly against the lockers, watching as you start down the hallway toward the exit, the soft morning light already creeping in from the far glass doors.
“Get some sleep,” he calls after you gently.
You glance back over your shoulder with a tired smile. “I will, after breakfast duty.”
That earns a quiet laugh from him.
And as you disappear out the doors, Jack stays there a moment longer than necessary, hands in his pockets, the faintest smile still on his face, already looking forward to that coffee.
a good ship is always improved by having at least one other random character who is so so fucking mad that the ship is happening and is either seething about it or actively trying to break them up. i see the appeal of "everyone else played matchmaker and they're all cheering to see the ship holding hands!!" but i need at least one character, with any motivation, to be the world's pettiest hater about it come hell or high water. bonus points if the beef is completely onesided and they still get warmly invited to the wedding anyway
but what if i read one of your fanfics and then went to your ao3 accounts and read all of your fanfics and left a comment on every single chapter of every single one and you got spam emails from all of my kudos and comments and it made you smile, what then? what if i brighten your day with my words like you did mine, what then???
