i want to be sexy to someone
is it too much to ask?
sexy to somebody, it would help me out
– sexy to someone, Clairo
summary: you finally put yourself back out there and set up a date for your night off. to your utter humiliation, you get stood up. the night takes a turn when you see your attending, Jack Abbot, who suggests you have dinner together since you're already all dressed up.
tags/warnings: age gap (reader is a resident), oral (f + m receiving), dacryphilia, protected piv sex, dry humping, crybaby!reader, idiots in love, ER references because I can't help myself :), the tiniest hint of puppy play, discussions of jack's amputation,
wc: 10k
a/n: I'm realizing that I have a tendency to write about jack abbot saving reader from mediocre and shitty men... and you know what he would!!!! genuinely thought this would be a cute lil 5k fic and then... oh well!! being short-winded is not my thing lol
credits: gif credits to @wesandresons
8:21.
You checked your phone for the millionth time.
You were supposed to meet him at the restaurant at 7pm, and he was almost an hour and a half late.
Well, you hoped he was late. You hadn’t yet accepted the probable fact that you’d been stood up. I mean, you were no stranger to chaotic schedules, unplanned overtime, and last minute catastrophes that had to be dealt with. Residency often rendered your social life moot; you could barely keep up with your commitments at the hospital, let alone a vibrant dating life. Maybe he had an equally demanding job; maybe there was a plausible excuse for why he left you stranded in this Italian restaurant without the decency of a “sorry, not interested anymore” text.
You looked at your phone again–8:26. Okay, you’d give him 4 more minutes before you decide to pack it up. You try to subtly survey the restaurant for any sign of him, but are met only with the pitying looks of the waitstaff, who would, in all likelihood, be the only ones benefitting from this humiliation ritual. The hostess checked in with you at the bar regularly, the bartender had given you a glass of merlot on the house, and a very kind server brought you a charcuterie board to nibble on–had even brought you extra olives when you commented on how they were your favorite. They were all getting fat tips–or at least as fat as you could afford.
8:31. Despite your best efforts you felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and your throat got that tight, achy feeling that precedes a sob. You felt so foolish.
You looked up at the ceiling, blinking the tears away and tried to even out your breathing.
You didn’t even want to go on this date. You’d all but sworn off of dating, the ROI not worth the emotional whiplash you were subjected to more often than not. It was becoming harder and harder as you got older to open up to people, expose your vulnerabilities and greatest fears, only to have them spit back in your face when things didn’t go their way.
So you stopped with the apps, stopped the meaningless dates that were nothing more than a hookup vehicle for most. But your friends had convinced you that you needed to get back out there, that things would be better in Pittsburgh–the proverbial ocean filled with different, better fish than your hometown. And perhaps they were tired of hearing you wax poetic about the hazel-eyed night shift attending that you had no chance with.
But you did want to find that person. As much as you were an independent, capable woman–doctor, even–the truth was you were lonely. Your days consisted of going to work, where you spent 12+ hours caring for Pittsburgh’s sickest, and coming home to microwave whatever sad frozen meal you had in your freezer. Sometimes you had the energy to join some of the night shift for post-shift breakfast, but that was about it.
You wanted someone to share your life with, to ask about your day or if you’ve eaten. Someone who knew that your favorite flower was lily of the valley, but since they were too expensive you would settle for a bouquet of peonies; that you loved horror movies even though they scared the daylights out of you; that knew you loved olives but hated pickles. Someone who knew you, inside and out.
There was a chasm in your chest that ached, that yearned for someone to take care of you–not financially, though you wouldn’t be opposed to that–but emotionally. To tell you that you were good, worthy, that you weren’t too much or too clingy. That wanted you as much as you wanted them. That felt the tension leave their shoulders when they looked at you, because you just being there made things better.
Was that too much to ask for?
It’d been so long since someone had even flirted with you, and even longer since you’d hooked up with anybody. Your dry spell was bordering on sahara levels of arid. Hell, at this point, you think you’d cum for the next guy who called you pretty.
You shake yourself out of your pity party, dabbing your eyes with a napkin and gathering up the courage to ask for the bill, when you hear someone calling your name. Great. You’re halfway to a breakdown over some stupid guy who stood you up, and now you would have to sit through pleasantries with someone when you desperately wanted to go home and cry into a bottle of wine.
You turned, fake smile plastered on your face.
The person you least expect to see is the aforementioned hazel-eyed attending. He’s standing by the hostess stand, off to the side, dressed in dark blue jeans and a tight black shirt. It was unfair, really, how good the man could look in the most basic outfit. His shirt was pulled taut across his chest, muscles straining against the fabric and outlining the planes of his pecs. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his strong, freckled arms on display, and sinful thoughts ran through your head at how those arms would feel around you.
You smiled and waved at him, reluctantly making your way over. It’s not like you can avoid him at this point, though these are less than ideal circumstances to meet him outside of work.
“Small world,” he joked as you approached, a soft smile gracing his features.
“I guess so,” you said sullenly, not up to your usual banter.
“Big plans for the night?” he asked, eyes skating over your form, taking in the pretty red dress you’d donned for the evening, the light coat of makeup you applied, the hairstyle you wrangled your locks into. In any other scenario, you’d be preening under his watchful eye, giddy that he was eyeing you up and down.
Now, though, you wilted under the attention. The humiliation from the night and the tingly feeling pooling in your gut at his gaze swirled together in some rancid amalgamation of emotions. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or cry or both, but ideally not in front of him.
Your silence, apparently, concerned him. He looked at you seriously now, his eyes getting that clinical, assessing look in them as he took you in, “You okay?” he asked, genuine concern lacing his features.
It was the one question you did not want to be asked. Because, for some reason, you could keep it all inside, bury the feelings as deep as they’d go, as long as someone didn’t ask if you were okay. The barest expression of concern had your lip trembling, throat tight as you managed to squeak out a meek, “I’m fine!”
You could feel a tear tracing down your cheek, and you wiped it away furiously. Your eyes focused on a spot over his shoulder, unable to bear the pitying look that was undoubtedly on his face.
“You don’t look fine,” he said softly, hand coming up to rest lightly on your upper arm.
You shook your head, powerless to staunch the flow of tears now running down your face. “Sorry, I just, uh, I had a date tonight and he didn’t show, so,” you made a helpless gesture, your shoulders shrugging in feigned nonchalance. You felt ridiculous, crying over being stood up in front of your attending who was just trying to make small talk with you.
You let out a garbled laugh, “Shit, sorry,” you hiccup, “this isn’t your problem, I don’t wanna interrupt your night any more than I already have. Have a good night,” you said, moving to push past him and scurry out the door.
He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but gentle, his body blocking your exit.
“You’re not interrupting. I was just about to place a to-go order,” he said, a hesitant look crossing his face before he continued, “But, uh… would you like to have dinner with me instead?”
You're taken aback. It’s the last thing you expected him to ask you. I mean, it’s not like you haven’t thought about him in this context. On the contrary, Jack Abbot had been the subject of many a ‘boyfriend’ dream over the past year you’d worked with him. He was kind and generous and funny, his humor as dark as yours. He was steady in the face of chaos, a lighthouse in the foggiest of days–a man you could depend on when shit hit the fan. It’s part of the reason you switched to nights. You always felt calmer in his presence, more assured of your capabilities because he believed in you.
And he was undeniably gorgeous–his fine wrinkles and graying curls set your body ablaze each time you looked at him, your panties soaking through in record time. You loved especially when he went a day or two longer without shaving, his scruffy cheeks looking like a delectable place to sit.
Your mind was plagued by obscene fantasies of him, the sinful images assaulting you at the most inopportune times. You knew he’d treat you right, wouldn’t prioritize his pleasure over yours. He was older, experienced, not a kid fumbling around in the dark, searching for your most sensitive spots and coming up empty. You imagined the way his stubble would feel on your skin, his jaw scraping down your neck as he pressed kisses there, moving lower and lower until he was nestled between your thighs, mouth hot against your aching pussy. The way he would stretch you out and fill you up, have you desperate and begging for more.
You’re snapped out of your lustful daydream when he says your name, an inquiring tone meant to prompt a response. Oh right, he asked you a question.
You shook your head, not because you didn’t want to have dinner with him, but because you didn’t want to do so under these conditions; you didn’t want to be a charity case.
“That’s very kind, but you don’t have to have a pity dinner with me. I’m a big girl, I can handle a little rejection.”
“It wouldn’t be a pity dinner,” he shook his head immediately, “come on, you got all dressed up, let me at least buy you dinner for your trouble.”
He cleared his throat, “Unless you really don’t want to, obviously, and I’ll let it go,” he said, “but I’d hate to see you go home cryin’.” And he looked so sincere, his pretty eyes so soft and squishy, all but pleading for you to accept his offer.
You chewed on your lip, considering it. It wouldn’t be the worst way to spend your night. As of now your plans for the rest of the night were getting sadder by the moment. Things could only go up from here, you supposed. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure,” you nodded.
“I’m positive,” he said, hand coming up to rest on the small of your back, guiding you back up to the hostess stand. “Table for two, please.”
The two of you were sat at a corner booth near the back of the restaurant, the section secluded and not too loud. It was a classic Italian restaurant–warm, dim lighting illuminated the space from antique sconces on the wall, the walls were a beautiful exposed red brick, and the tables were candlelit and laid with red and white checkered cloths. The leather of the booth was soft but worn, the cracks spidering out and indenting into the back of your thighs a sign of how well loved this place was.
The booth forced you close together, your thighs not quite touching each other, but close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. His scent is intoxicating, all warm amber and oud, mixed with a hint of citrus and his natural musk. It took all your power not to burrow your nose into his neck and inhale deeply.
You were lucky to have the same waitress that checked on you at the bar, though you did have to assure her that this was not the man who stood you up. You were honestly a little concerned at the death glare she gave him at first–a true girls girl.
“So, Dr. Abbot, how was your day off?” you asked, fiddling nervously with the hem of your dress. Despite your easy rapport at work, it felt awkward to be sitting here with your attending, especially when you were desperately trying to keep your feelings for him at bay.
“Oh it was fine, picked up a shift with the SWAT unit and didn’t get shot at, so, you know, all things considered,” he said, then waved his hand dismissively, “and please, call me Jack. We're not at work,” a slight blush spreading across his cheeks.
“Okay, Jack,” you laughed, the tension easing a bit as you threw formalities out the window.
“I would ask you how your day off was, but I think I have a pretty good idea,” he said with a teasing lilt.
“Yeah, not my best moment. This is partially why I stopped dating, I hate getting my hopes up,” you said, a little more vulnerable than you intended but you supposed you were past that now.
“If it makes you feel any better, I think whatever man decided to let you slip through their fingers is a fuckin’ idiot.”
You sputtered a bit at that, your cheeks heating up. It was a kind platitude, and you wished that it made you feel better, but it did little to alleviate the pit in your stomach that made you feel small; that screamed that you weren’t good enough.
“But enough about that asshole. Do you want to order an appetizer?” he asked, scanning the menu.
“Oh no, I’m okay, thank you.”
“You sure? My treat, remember, don’t worry about prices.” he looked up, concerned.
“I’m fine, really,” you bit your cheek, reluctant to spit it out, “our waitress may or may not have given me a pity charcuterie board at the bar.”
His face was still for a moment before you saw the edge of his mouth betray him, quirking up in a suppressed smile.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” you warned, your own resolve already breaking as you took in how pathetic the situation actually was. “It’s not funny!” you laughed, smacking him lightly on the shoulder with the menu.
“No, no, definitely not,” he intoned, a look of mock-seriousness on his face before he broke out into a laugh, “I’m sorry! But it is objectively a little funny,” he hedged, hands held out defensively to block another menu attack.
“It is not! It means that the poor waitress had to go talk to her boss and ask if they could comp an appetizer for the miserable sad sack at the bar!”
“She probably didn’t call you a miserable sad sack. Maybe sad puppy dog girl, but not miserable sad sack,” he teased.
You gasped exaggeratedly, “I am not a sad puppy dog girl!”
“Oh yes you are. It’s the eyes. And the general obedient demeanor," he smirked.
Oh. Your tummy twisted at that, but you quickly filed it under things that I simply do not have enough time to unpack right now.
“You’re mean,” you pouted, lip jutting out and arms crossed. You weren’t really upset, but it felt fun to play it up a little bit.
“Aww,” he pouted back at you, his tone just a tad condescending, “let me make it up to you. What do you say to some good wine and garlic knots?”
You gnawed on your lip, considering his offer, “what the hell, let's do it. It’s not like I’m going to be kissing anybody tonight anyway,” you said, a little bitter, before realizing that was probably not an appropriate joke to make in front of your boss.
“You never know, we could always pull a Lady and the Tramp,” he joked, not looking up from the wine menu.
You were a little stunned at that. Was he… flirting? No. Definitely not. This was a strictly platonic date. Right? I mean, the puppy comment you could explain away, but this… this was different, wasn’t it? Who just jokes like that about the most romantic canine kiss in history? A joke, you settled on. Because you’d already gotten your hopes up enough for one night.
Dinner was nice. Really nice.
Conversation flowed freely, starting out in neutral territory with updates about patients, work gossip, whatever the fuck was going on with Robby. But you soon moved out of the work realm and into personal matters. You told him about your childhood–where you grew up, your favorite childhood pets, how much trouble you got into as a teen.
And you learned a lot about Jack. That he came from a military family that moved around a lot, but spent a large chunk of time in North Carolina. He had two sisters, both older than him. One stayed in North Carolina and the other lived in West Virginia. Both married to military men, and both notorious for giving Jack shit about everything. But they were his rocks when he lost his leg, and then again when he lost his wife, and he was endlessly grateful for them.
You both loved 90s alternative rock, which surprised you because you took Jack to be more of a classic rock fan, to which he merely glared at you and said that he wasn’t that old. You both had childhood crushes on Winona Ryder; his borne from her role in Heathers, and yours from Girl, Interrupted. He surprised you with the fact that he was a good cook, a fact that seemed unfathomable to you based on his general vibe.
Now, though, you’d moved to med school stories, and Jack was regaling you with stories about him and Robby back in the day.
“We must have been… god, I must have been a third year med student, and Robby was… an R2? and he had really pissed me off that night. I don’t even remember what he did, I just remember being so annoyed at him,” he laughed, shaking his head at the memory, “It was a quiet night, so he snuck off to the on-call room to catch a few hours of sleep, leaving me to do all the scut. So, I recruited the help of the charge nurse, Carol, and our attending, Mark, and we applied a cast to his right leg while he was knocked out.”
He’s cackling now, almost unable to finish his story between wheezing gasps of air, “we paged him, like, 10 times until he answered, and next thing we know he’s bursting out of the on-call room and onto his ass before he even realized what happened!”
You’re laughing hard now, too, trying to picture a younger version of Robby gracelessly tripping over an unnecessary leg cast in his hurry to answer his page. It sounded so unlike the self-assured, stoic version you knew him to be.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed, “how mad was he?”
“Oh he was pissed. Not because of the cast, but because 5 minutes after we paged him, a 15-car pile up came in and he got benched until he could get the cast off. He had to wait for it to dry before he could saw it off, and the whole time he just sat there glaring at me.”
“Did he get you back?” you asked, hungry for more crumbs of their life before you, before the Pitt as it was now.
“Yeah,” he rolled his eyes, “the fucker taped nails to his shirt, took an x-ray, and switched out the real film for the fake before I noticed. I was freaking out to Mark, yelling about how this patient needed surgery before they perfed. Meanwhile Mark was in on it, and made me feel crazy when he pulled out the perfectly normal x-ray for my patient. He said, ‘I don’t know what they’re teaching you in school these days, but this looks like a perfectly normal x-ray,’” he said, in an impersonation you could only assume was Mark.
“That’s fucking crazy,” you giggled, “can you imagine someone doing something like that in the Pitt? I think Robby’d actually have an aneurysm.”
“Yeah, the old man’s lost a bit of his whimsy over the years,” he shook his head.
“Old man, huh? Those are fighting words from a man merely 3 years younger than him,” you teased, “and much grayer,” you added with a wink.
“Watch it, missy,” he warned, then, quieter, “not too old to teach you some manners.”
Feeling emboldened by the wine, you leaned a little closer, “don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Tracing the rim of your wine glass, you looked up at him. You swear his eyes drifted to your lips, but before you could do anything about it, he cleared his throat, steering the conversation back into safer waters.
“So, why did you get into emergency medicine?”
You thought about it for a moment, considering how honest you wanted to be. “I wanted to meet people where they were at, help them in a real, immediate way. The traumas are great and exciting, and there’s nothing like making a pickup that saves someone’s life. But I like the less exciting stuff, too. The mundane care that doesn’t save a life, but makes someone feel better. Helps them get over a cold, or helps soothe a burn; suturing up a lac, or removing foreign objects from patients and not making them feel worse about their predicament. That stuff is just as important as the traumas.
Especially with how fucked healthcare is in this country, people come to us when they’re at their most vulnerable, and usually don’t want to be there. I just hope that I can make things less scary for patients when they come in, make sure they feel like they’re cared about and not being judged for coming to us.”
It’d been a long time since you’d answered that question honestly. Usually, you had your stock answer that you pulled out, which was a more eloquent version of “I want to save lives!” And that was still true, but there was so much more to working in the emergency department than just saving lives. It was paperwork and insurance and bed shortages and nursing shortages and all the other fucked up shit in the world that inevitably contributed to the cases you saw come through the doors at the Pitt.
“What about you? Was emergency medicine always it for you, or did you ever consider going into something else?” you asked.
He shook his head, “Not seriously, no. Considered switching to critical care after my leg. I wasn’t sure if I was cut out for the hustle and bustle of the emergency room after that. But it was the only place I wanted to be, so I figured it out, did what I needed to do to get back to where I was before the accident.”
“Well, for what it's worth, I’m glad you stuck with EM. I couldn’t imagine working at the Pitt without you. I don’t think I’d be half the doctor I am without you,” you said, looking up at him.
You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten, his arm slung over the back of the booth and your thighs pressed against each other.
“Don’t sell yourself short, you’d be amazing with or without me,” he said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “You know, I’ve taught a lot of residents in my years, and you… you’re really cut out for this. Not everyone is.”
The praise made you preen, the proximity of his hand to your face doing nothing to calm your rapidly beating heart. For a brief moment, you think he might lean in, might press those pillowy pink lips to yours, kiss you until you can’t think stra–
“Hi, sorry to interrupt but we’ll be closing in 15 minutes. Here’s your check when you’re ready,” the waitress said, setting the check down and scurrying away.
You checked the time on your phone: 11:15. Did you really spend almost 3 hours talking to Jack? It certainly didn’t feel like it.
“I guess we should get out of here before they kick us out,” Jack said, sliding out of the booth and offering you his hand.
You’re giggling at another one of Jack’s jokes as you leave the restaurant, the bill graciously paid by him despite your best efforts to split it. Your limbs were loose from the wine, goosebumps springing up on your arms from the early summer air turned chilly.
“Thank you for dinner. You salvaged an otherwise shitty night,” you laughed.
“It was no problem, really. I had a nice time,” he said, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed.
You mirrored him, shoulder scraping against the gritty brick, and looked up at him.
“Hold on, I think you have a little sauce on your face,” he said, and before you could grab a tissue from your purse, he reached out. His thumb gathered the sauce at the corner of your lips, going further to brush the pad of it across your bottom lip. The movement dragged your lower lip down slightly, your mouth parting involuntarily with it. You’re not sure why, but your tongue darted out, licked the pad of his thumb and the residual sauce.
Jack’s breath hitched, the sharp intake of air the only thing you could hear despite the sounds of car alarms and drunk party girls on a Friday night in downtown Pittsburgh.
You looked up at him, tongue still pressed flat against his thumb, and searched his eyes for a sign that the heat building between you is mutual.
Fuck it, you decided.
Without thinking about it too much, you leaned up and pressed your lips against his. And god, did they feel nice. They were soft, but firm, and he tasted faintly of the wine you’d shared earlier mixed with the slight acidity of the tomato sauce from his dinner. Your hand tangled in the curls at the base of his neck, and they’re so soft, but also a little stiff. You wondered, briefly, if he uses mousse, or hairspray, or if he’s got a whole curly girl routine down before realizing that oh my god he wasn’t kissing you back. Oh no, oh fuck.
How did you misread this situation so horrifically? You thought you were getting all the right signals, thought that he liked being with you, that he was flirting with you. But maybe it really was just a courtesy, a pity dinner.
Your cheeks are hot when you pull away from him, shame sitting thick and heavy in your stomach, numbness prickling up your arms in staticky goosebumps. And Jack is just standing there, the dumbfounded look on his face doing nothing to assuage your embarrassment.
You backed up, trying to create some distance, to lower the temperature between you that apparently only you felt.
Looking down at your shoes, unable to make eye contact, you babbled out, “I-I’m so sorry, that was completely inappropriate and I don’t know why I-” your voice cracked and it felt like your lungs weren’t properly inflating with oxygen, “I don’t know how I misread things, but I guess I did so again, I’m so sorry. I’m gonna go home and pretend this never happened,” you said, turning around and starting down the street, despite the fact that you most certainly needed to Uber home, not walk.
You’re trying not to cry for the umpteenth time that night when you hear him calling your name, “Wait!”
He caught up with you, only a few strides away from where you were standing, and grasped your arm gently. “Wait, I’m sorry,” he said, a little breathless, “I just… you surprised me.”
“Surprised you?” you laughed, “I damn near sucked your thumb, Jack,” you said, genuinely confused how a man like Jack Abbot could be surprised that a woman would try to kiss him; that the next logical step from erotic thumbsucking would be a kiss. “And you flirted with me all night! You made a Lady and the Tramp joke! How else am I supposed to take that?”
He rubbed at his jaw anxiously, a slight blush coating his cheeks, “I mean, yeah, I was surprised. I’ve liked you for a while now but then I heard you talking to Santos about how you didn’t want to go out with that cardiology attending and just assumed I didn’t have a shot,” he admitted sheepishly. “And maybe I got a little brazen with my flirting because I thought you didn’t see me like that anyway, figured it couldn’t hurt.”
It’s your turn to be surprised now. You hadn’t realized he heard that conversation, or that he’d taken the wrong idea from it; the opposite idea, actually.
You took a step closer to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers finding his curls again, “Well, if you recall, snoopy, I said that part of the problem was that I just didn’t want to fuck that cardiology attending,” you said, looking up at him and batting your eyelashes, “that isn’t the case with you.”
He looked shocked, but recovered quickly, his confident air returning to him. “Oh, is that so?” he asked, lips quirking up into a smile as he backed you up against the rough brick wall. His hand rested on the wall next to your head, the other on your hip, stroking you through your dress.
“In that case, please allow me to make up for my rude behavior,” he said, dipping down to kiss you properly this time.
You’d pictured this moment countless times before, but nothing compared to the real thing. Jack Abbot is a no nonsense man–a wartorn vet who understands more than most the importance of not wasting time. You expected your first kiss with him to be hungry, maybe a little sloppy, but when his lips meet yours, he’s achingly tender. It wasn’t uncertain–there was no question underlying his kiss–it was deep and languorous, like he was content to take his time up against this brick wall and savor the slide of your lips against his because he knew he had you right where he wanted you, finally.
He commanded you, his hand cupping your jaw to angle your head back, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you instinctively opened up for him. The slide of his tongue against yours was delicious, the slick muscle curling around yours before moving back to your lips, sucking at your bottom lip and biting down gently. Your mind felt fuzzy at the way he handled you, guiding and taking you how he saw fit.
Some of his restraint dissipated, your mouths moving feverishly against each other. You couldn’t get enough of him; you pulled him into you and hooked your leg around his waist to draw him as close to you as possible. Pathetic, embarrassing whines and whimpers escaped you involuntarily, your body unable to mask how this man was making a mess of you.
His hand fell to the thigh wrapped around him, calloused fingers sliding up under your dress and gripping the bare flesh. He pulled you close, his pelvis rolling against yours sinfully. You could feel the hard outline of his cock against your cunt, your hips thrusting forward to meet the friction. A frustrated moan fell from your lips at the clothes separating you, at the inability to feel his skin against yours.
You pulled away only when air was necessary–and because you were very close to being cited for public indecency if things went any further.
“Sorry, I probably taste like garlic,” you said dumbly, fingers tracing over your spit slick lips, numb and swollen from Jack’s attention.
He laughed, forehead resting against yours, “you taste incredible,” he said, pressing a kiss to your nose, then your cheek, and then under your ear. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but my place is a couple blocks from here, if you’d like to come home with me.”
You nodded, a giddy smile breaking out across your face, “I would very much like to go home with you,” you said, already grabbing his hand and dragging him down the street.
The entryway is dark as you stumbled into Jack’s townhouse, the walk talking longer than it should have due to your need to drag him into searing kiss after searing kiss every dozen or so steps.
Jack navigated the two of you through the dark, your bodies unceremoniously plopping down on his couch. You fell onto his lap, knees sinking into the leather cushions and thighs stretching over the wide berth of his hips. Your kisses had devolved from slow and deep to fast and hungry, teeth nipping and clashing against one another, your breathing ragged from the exertion.
He was rock-hard and throbbing under you, the outline of his cock pressing deliciously against your pussy. The only articles of clothing separating you were the thin, lacy excuse for panties you were wearing and his jeans. Your eyes fluttered closed as you ground your hips down on him, the combination of rough denim and the drag of his cock on your aching cunt forcing loud moans and whimpers from your lips.
Jack was just as loud, his hips canting up to meet your rolling hips. His hand travelled to the back of your dress, fingers playing with the zipper, “this okay, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. You nodded, too caught up in his lips to give a verbal answer.
He chuckled as he pulled the zipper down, easing the sleeves down next and pulling away to get a look at you. He let out a sharp breath, the air stolen from his lungs as he took you in, hands gripping your waist tight and rolling his hips hard against you.
Your pretty tits were held up in an unlined white bra, your hardened nipples peaking through the barely there lace. He threw his head back against the couch, pupils blown wide as they fixated on your chest. ““My pretty, pretty girl. Was this all for him?” he asked, thumbs running in circles around your areolas. You nodded shyly, a bit embarrassed that you’d put on your good lingerie for some random guy. But it wasn’t all for nought, if Jack’s reaction was any indication.
“What a fuckin’ idiot,” he mumbled before enveloping your nipple between his lips, sucking the bud through the lace. He captured the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging and pinching it, then soothing it over in soft circles. The sensation was dizzying. His mouth was hot and wet against your skin, and he knew exactly the right pressure to ride the line between pleasure and pain.
But the lace was getting in the way; you couldn’t feel the scratch of his stubble like you’d dreamed of for so long. You unclasped your bra, tugging on his curls and pulling his face back just enough to let the garment fall down between you.
A guttural sound left him as he dove back in, lips suctioning onto your nipple and sucking hard, cheeks hollowed out and tongue swirling around the bud. Your hand tightened in his curls, arching your back and pushing your chest against his mouth. He alternated between the two, sucking, licking, and biting at one and kneading, flicking, and pinching the other. You could finally feel the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin, your eyes rolling back in your head as your hips doubled their effort, grinding hard against his cock.
He released your nipple with a wet pop, “you know how hard it’s been keepin’ my hands to myself, pretty girl? and all this time you’ve been hidin’ this pretty set of tits under your scrubs,” he shook his head in disbelief, “don’t think I’ll be able to think about anything other than stuffin’ my face between these tits when I see you at work.”
His lips returned to your chest while his unoccupied hand moved under your dress, his rough palm gripping the fat of your ass and guiding you over his length faster. Every grind of your hips had your clit bumping up against the head of his cock, the pressure exquisite. Your slick was dripping down your thighs and seeping into his jeans, the schlick schlick schlick steady background noise among your moans and groans.
You didn’t realize how fast your orgasm was building until you were nearly on the precipice of it, letting out a strangled moan and, “I’m gonna–” before the wave crested. Your thighs trembled, a dull ache forming from keeping them stretched around Jack’s bulk, but it only added to the pleasure that zipped through you. That staticky feeling radiated through you, your pussy contracting and fluttering around nothing.
You’re panting into the crook of his neck as you ride out the aftershocks, your hips still grinding against his clothed cock, your lips letting out tiny gasps and whines.
“Did you… did you just cum, sweetheart?” Jack asked, a stunned look on his face.
You could feel how hot your cheeks were, shame curling through you because yes, you did cum from a little nipple play and grinding on his cock.
“I-i’m sorry, it’s just been a long time and no one’s touched me in so long and you feel so good, I didn’t think that would happen so quickly,” you said, panicked, “I’m sorry if I ruined things.”
“Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he said, thumbs brushing away the embarrassed tears you weren’t even aware had fallen, “you didn’t ruin anything, okay? I was just surprised, is all. I’m sorry if anyone’s made you feel that way, but you don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me. Never,” The sincerity of his words triggered a new bout of tears. You buried your head in the crook of his neck again, his scent a calming balm to your nerves.
“Plus, do you know how much of an ego boost it is to know I had such a pretty girl cummin’ on lap in under five minutes? That’s the stuff of dreams, baby,” he teased, pulling you out from your hiding spot and pressing kisses to your cheeks.
You laughed, still sniffling a bit, “gosh, I’m sorry I’ve been such a crybaby tonight.”
“It’s okay, honey,” he said, then, teasing, “but I can think of much better reasons for you to be cryin’, and none of them have anything to do with you being sad or embarrassed,” he said, kissing you properly now, tongue licking deep into your mouth.
You moaned into his mouth, then squealed as he hoisted you up, carrying you to his bedroom. He set you down at the edge of the bed, then properly removed your dress from where it was awkwardly gathered at your waist.
He didn’t waste any time, dropping to his knees and parting your legs, pushing them up toward your chest. “Hold 'em there for me, baby, wanna take a good look at you,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the damp fabric between your legs. You did as he told you, hooking your hands under your knees and spreading yourself open for him. You felt exposed, but the awestruck look in his eye as he examined your pussy sent shockwaves through your body.
“This all because of me?” he asked, thumbing at your center over the fabric, pressing lightly against your clit with each stroke. Your panties were soaked through, the tiny scrap of fabric doing nothing to obscure your puffy folds that were sticky with a mix of your slick and cum. “What a mess you made, honey. Guess I’m gonna have to clean you up,” he said, pulling your panties to the side and licking a broad stripe from your hole to your clit.
You moaned, hips lifting off the bed and chasing his mouth. The contrast of his hot tongue on your cool flesh was blistering. His hands grabbed the back of your thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin there and stopping any movement of your hips. You whined at the restriction, your hands fisting in the soft sheets instead.
“Waited so long for this honey, shit, fuckin’ dreamed about how you’d taste,” he moaned into your pussy, mouth lapping and sucking at your folds, gathering all the spend and slick and swallowing it down like nectar. His face was nestled deep into your cunt, tongue exploring every crease and crevice your cunt had to offer, licking, sucking, biting–and taking note of what made you scream.
And once he discovered it, he didn’t just eat you, he devoured you. He was a man possessed, with no regard for his own need for air. His tongue assaulted your clit, alternating between rubbing tight circles around it, short kitten licks, and long, languorous licks that had him shaking his head between your thighs. Every now and again he wrapped his lips around your clit and suckled it, the light leaving your body every time. Your hips rocked against his mouth despite his hold on you, wrecked moans falling from your lips.
“Fuck, jack, please–r-right there!”
“That’s it, baby, let me hear you, tell me how good I’m makin’ you feel,” he said, pulling back just far enough to spit onto your cunt before running two fingers up your slit, pushing them in without preamble. The stretch was delicious, his thick fingers curling deep into your wet heat and finding that sweet spot in no time. He exploited it mercilessly, massaging it with the pads of his fingers. His lips returned to your clit, sucking harshly now, giving you no reprieve from his ministrations.
“Feels so good Jack! Never felt this good before!” you cried.
The slurping and squelching was lewd, your moans and breathless cries of his name intermingled to create an obscene symphony that you’re sure the entire population of Pittsburgh could hear.
“You gonna cum on my face, honey? Gonna give me another one?” he asked, fingers massaging your g-spot. “Wanna–fuck–wanna feel this tight cunt squeeze my fingers when she cums.”
“Y-yes, please Jack, ‘m gonna cum, feels sosososo good” you cried out, your second orgasm crashing over you. Stars burst behind your eyes, back arching uncomfortably off the bed and walls clenching so hard around his fingers you’re not sure how he hasn’t lost circulation. Your legs clamped around his head, trapping him there as you rode out your orgasm, hips rutting against his mouth and fingers. He didn’t mind, licking and sucking you through it, his fingers keeping pressure on your g-spot until you were pushing him away.
He peppered your body with kisses as you came down, starting at your thighs and making his way up over your tummy, ribs, and breasts. He came to rest above you, a dopey smile on your face as you pulled him in for a lazy kiss. His face was soaked with your spend and you could taste the tang on his tongue when he kissed you.
“You’re stupidly good at that,” you whispered, body still boneless and floaty.
“Yeah? Want me to show you want else I’m stupidly good at?” he asked while finally shucking his shirt off.
“Yeah?” you said absentmindedly, eyes glazed over at the majesty that was Jack Abbot’s chest. You immediately began pressing kisses across the newly exposed skin–to his neck, collarbone, pecs, and tummy. You’re even able to scrape your teeth across a nipple before he holds you back at arms length, laughing.
“Yeah, honey,” he laughed between your frantic kisses, “but you gotta let me breathe for a sec, gotta take care of my leg.”
“Let me,” you said, slipping down to the floor and sitting back on your heels. You ran your palms up his thighs, hands coming to rest on his belt before going any further.
“You don’t have to do that, honey.”
“I know,” you said softly, “but I want to. If you’re okay with that.”
He cradled your face in his hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You turned into it, kissing the palm of his hand to assure him that you wanted to do this.
“I care about you Jack, and this is part of you. I just wanna help you, wanna make you feel good,” you said earnestly, giving him your puppy dog eyes.
“Yeah. Okay, honey, go ahead,” he nodded, sitting back on his elbows to watch you. You grasped his belt again, unfastening the buckle and pulling the belt through the loops, discarding it somewhere behind you. You moved to the button of his jeans, deftly popping it open and hooking your fingers into the waistband, tugging them down with Jack’s help.
Your breath hitched at the sight of his dark gray boxers, a wet spot front and center that made your mouth water. You learned forward and kissed the damp fabric, moaning at the slight taste of precum that danced across your lips.
“Careful, sweetheart…” he warned, but there wasn’t much heat behind his words.
You just grinned up at him before getting back to the task at hand. Your fingers travelled down to the sleek metal attached to him, getting a feel for the mechanism before unlocking and twisting it off. The liner came next, tossed to the side before you pressed your fingertips into his skin, massaging the skin to get some blood flow back into the residual limb. You pressed sweet kisses to his flesh, from the front of his knee to the scarred flesh of his leg, tongue dipping out to trace the prominent scar just above his amputation site.
Jack breathed heavily above you, tiny groans escaping him unbidden. A look flickered across his face, and you think, briefly, that this may be the first time you’ve seen him truly vulnerable. It wasn’t a secret that he’d lost the lower portion of his leg in the war, but he didn’t flaunt it either. You wondered if there was an insecurity that lay deep within him, despite his overt confidence; if other women had reacted differently, cruelly even to the sight of his prosthesis. It made your heart ache to think about it, to think of someone doing anything but worshipping his beautiful body the way he deserved.
“So pretty, Jack,” you whispered, kisses inching higher up his thigh now, “wanna taste you now.”
When you’re met with the sight of Jack’s cock, you’re well and truly speechless. You knew he was big from your time on the couch, but seeing it was different. He was thick and veiny, the tip flushed a deep red and leaking precum furiously. It rested against his belly, curving slightly to the left. And did you mention that he was thick? Mouth agape, you wondered how you were going to fit him in your mouth. Or pussy.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there, hands perched against his thighs, just staring at his cock, until Jack tilts your head back, fingers tightening in the strands of hair at the nape of your neck.
“Thought you wanted a taste, honey. You just gonna sit there and stare at it all night?” he asked, a smug smile on his lips.
“Maybe,” you mumbled, tongue darting out to wet your lips.
Before you can do anything of your own accord, his hand is guiding your head forward, the head of his cock pushing gently against the seam of your lips. You take over from there, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his tip, the precum gathered there salty and sticky against your lips. Your tongue dipped out to caress the spot just below his head, running the flat of your tongue along it before moving back to his head, spitting a glob of spit onto him and wrapping a hand around his base. You started with long, slow strokes, squeezing and twisting on the upstroke, your hand meeting your lips where they suckled at his tip.
You moaned at the steady stream of precum invading your mouth, “taste so good Jack,” you said before taking more of him into your mouth. You're only about halfway down and your lips are already stretched tight around him, spit leaking from the corners of your mouth in filthy waterfalls. You hollowed your cheeks out, bobbing your head up and down his shaft, your tongue massaging the underside of his cock.
“Fuck, baby, who knew you had such a filthy fuckin’ mouth on you,” he groaned, hips rutting up slightly.
His tip occasionally hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag and tears to prick behind your eyes, but you don’t care; the feeling of him weighing heavy on your tongue is reward enough.
You feel a light pressure applied to the back of your head, “deeper, baby, know you can take it,” he groaned. You obliged, breathing deep through your nose and sinking down further onto his cock until you felt him hit the back of your throat and your nose was nestled in the trimmed grey curls at his base. Your hand grappled for his where it was perched on your head, using it to push harder against your head, trying to convey to him that you wanted him to take over; to fuck your face.
He groaned, hips jerking involuntarily as he realized what you wanted. He gathered your hair in his hands, hips shallowly trusting into the wet heat of your mouth. His mouth was slack, grunts and groans loud as he fucked your face. His pace builds, his cock roughly pistoning in and out of your mouth. Tears are falling freely now, your mouth stretched to capacity and throat being used and abused by his fat cock.
“See? These tears are much prettier, baby,” he huffed out, thumbs brushing the trails where they fell. “So fuckin’ pretty, crying with my cock in your mouth.”
You moaned around him at that, the praise and shame swirling in your tummy. Your hand came up to cup his balls, massaging and squeezing them gently between your fingers.
You’re suddenly pulled up off his cock and into his lap, spit stringing from your shiny, swollen lips. You whined at the loss of him, your mouth feeling uncomfortably empty now.
“Fuck–you feel too good, honey,” he grunted, setting you back against his pillows, “can’t cum in that pretty little mouth tonight, need to be inside you.”
He grabbed a condom out of his drawer before moving back to you, sitting back on his knees and rolling the condom on. You let out an annoyed whine. You’ve never hated the more rational side of your brain more than you do right now. You craved to feel him bare inside you–to feel him cum deep inside you, the hot white ropes painting your walls. And while you trusted him implicitly, you knew safety was of the utmost importance, so condom it was.
“Don’t worry, baby, soon as we get tested, you won’t be able to stop me from fuckin’ this pussy raw,” he groaned, settling between your spread thighs. His body was a soothing weight above you, the warmth he emanated relieving any anxiety you had.
He gripped the base of his cock and ran it through your sopping folds a few times, the tip catching slightly on your entrance on each pass. “Please, Jack, need to feel you,” you moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him close.
He cursed before giving in, notching the head of his cock against your entrance and entering you slowly, letting you feel and adjust to every inch on its own. Your head fell back into his plush pillows as he sank fully into you, your mouth open in a silent scream. Your walls were tight around him, clenching viciously at the intrusion–you’d never been stretched so wide, or filled so thoroughly. It felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs and replaced by his cock. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your short nails biting at his skin.
You were still for a moment, both your chests heaving as you adjusted to the feeling of one another. Then, once Jack composed himself, he started to move–slow, shallow thrusts at first, your pussy still clenching tight around him, sucking him in greedily with each thrust.
“Relax for me, honey, that’s it, doin’ so good for me,” he grunted, eyes closed, “pussy feels so good.”
You willed your body to relax, for your muscles to go lax around him. You shifted your legs up higher, the heels of your feet digging into the soft flesh of his ass.
“There you go, so good for me,” he moaned, “knew you’d be so good for me.”
He pulled out again, easier this time, until only the tip remained inside you, then snapped his hips forward. His thrusts were slow but hard, his hips slamming against you each time he bottomed out. The drag of his cock against your walls felt so good, his thick, throbbing length rubbing up against every sensitive spot. You felt every thick vein and ridge, as if they were imprinting into your walls, making a home there. You moaned at the thought of eternity, of Jack making your pussy his again and again and again.
He was watching you with a wondrous look on his face, his eyes flitting between your blissed out face and bouncing tits. “So fuckin’ sexy, baby, you don’t even understand how fuckin’ gorgeous you are,” he groaned, hips picking up speed, fucking you faster and harder.
The adrenaline and emotions from the night came crashing down around you. The feeling of his cock dragging through your walls mixed with the sweet words he was whispering into your ear had you feeling exposed and vulnerable, made you feel seen. Your hands were frantic, running over every bit of skin you could get your hands on, needing to feel his skin against yours. You pulled him impossibly closer, his chest now flush against yours, the friction it provided to your nipples dizzying.
You didn’t notice the tears until Jack was kissing away the salty tracks, his tongue sneaking out to lick up the length of your cheek. “You’re my little crybaby, aren’t you?” he asked, a sweet hint of condescension in his tone, “just can’t help babbling over my cock, huh, baby?”
You could only whimper at that. The words should feel shameful, degrading, even, but the fondness on his face, the constant reassurance he’d been giving you all night only made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Because you weren’t a crybaby, you were his crybaby.
The coil in your stomach tightened, your orgasm fast approaching. He was fucking you hard and fast now, his balls slapping against your ass with a wet smack. “Jaack, I’m gonna–fffuck–I need–” you gasped at a particularly hard thrust, your eyes rolling into the back of your head.
But Jack knew what you needed before you did, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles against it, and you were done for. Your toes curled, heels pressing harder into his ass as you came, white-hot sparks shooting through your body. Your walls spasmed wildly, your orgasm crashing through you in waves. You were absolutely drenched, your pussy gushing around his cock, leaking down your ass and onto the bed.
Jack wasn’t far behind, his hips stuttering as your walls seized his cock in a vise grip. “F-fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, so fuckin’ good,” he grunted, his hips going into overdrive now, chasing his climax and fucking you hard and deep.
"Cum for me, Jack, wanna make you feel good," you cried.
He ground his hips into one last time, cumming with a loud moan, cock buried deep inside you and hips pressed flush against yours.
He collapsed on top of you, head resting on your chest. He pressed lazy kisses to your sternum, collarbone, the soft flesh of your breasts–whatever he could get his lips on from this angle. Your fingers carded through his curls, the motion soothing as you tried to catch your breath.
Eventually, though, you had to part.
You whined as he pulled out, your cunt empty and cold now that he’d taken his warmth away. He grabbed his arm crutches, disposing of the condom and retreating to the bathroom. He returned with a warm washcloth and began cleaning you up, gently wiping at your swollen pussy and sticky thighs, making sure you were comfortable before tossing the rag in the hamper.
He slid back into bed when he was finished, laying on his side and pulling you close against his chest. Your head was cushioned by this arm as you curled into him, your sweat slick bodies cool to the touch now that the heat had dissipated.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he said, fingers brushing up and down your ribs, the touch featherlight.
“Mmm probably as long as I have,” you said, snuggling closer to him.
“Really? When did you realize you wanted to kiss me?”
You didn’t have to think about it at all. “My birthday, on the roof. I gave you a cupcake and you got frosting all over you,” you giggled at the memory, “and all I could think about was how bad I wanted to kiss it all off of your stupidly handsome face.”
He laughed with you, the creases around his eyes deepening as he did. He was so pretty, you thought for the thousandth time that night.
“I remember that,” he smiled, “I remember being so proud that I made you laugh that night.”
“What about you?” you asked.
He thought about it for a minute. “I think the need to kiss you has been simmering in me since I met you, but the first time I had the conscious thought was when you patched me up after that patient clocked me in the head,” he said, his hand now on your cheek, stroking the bone there, “you were standin’ between my legs, stitchin’ up my forehead, and all I could think about was pulling you close and kissing you until I couldn’t breathe.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He sighed, “I’m your superior and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable if you didn't feel the same way.” You knew he didn’t want to delve into the ‘superior’ thing right now, didn’t want to have the long, complicated conversation that was sure to come in the following days.
“And I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself once I started,” he said, lightening the mood a bit.
You giggled at that, rolling your eyes affectionately. But something nagged in your head about what he said.
“Wait…” you said, piecing together a timeline, “that was nearly a year ago! You’re telling me we could have been doing this for a year!?” you exclaimed, slapping him on the chest lightly.
He shook his head at you, a sheepish look on his face. You were both idiots.
“Well, I guess we have a lot of lost time to make up for, then, don’t we?” he said cheekily, capturing your lips again and pushing you onto your back, determined to make you a very happy woman.
a/n: thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it <33
Synopsis: It’s your first birthday since you started dating Jack, and he pulls out all the stops.
Warnings: a lil suggestive, lots of references to drinking
A/n: came to me in a vision (aka when I was hungover and disassociating watching love island after my own birthday this weekend)
—
You wake to your head pounding, your brain throbbing angrily against your skull, which feels like it might crack with one wrong move.
What’s more, light seeps into the room from curtains you must have drawn haphazardly the night before. You can’t even begin to attempt opening your eyes, but the mid-morning sun still stubbornly makes its way through, so you screw them closed tighter in defiance.
Your limbs feel full of sand as you sluggishly attempt to readjust yourself, digging your head into your mattress beneath you to block out as much light as you can as you prepare to literally die.
Except it’s not your mattress that your cheek is smushed into, it’s your boyfriend’s perfectly firm and endearingly freckled chest, rising and falling in a steady and soothing pattern that you might miscalculate the fact that he’s sleeping, if you didn’t spend as many nights as his schedule would allow memorizing everything you can about Jack Abbot’s sleeping habits.
His hand rests on the back of your neck, a steadying weight. “Mornin’, birthday girl.”
The raspy, whispered words bring the previous night — until then a giant, devious question mark — back in screaming color, the reason for your current miserableness explained by glasses poured for you and cups refilled without your asking and shots pressed into your hands re-registers itself in your memory bank suddenly.
“Ugh,” is your only answer, still face down in Jack’s torso.
A laugh rumbles through it, which you should find upsetting given your current aversion to sound and movement and everything else, but combined with the hand stroking the back of your head, warmth blooms in your own chest.
“I knew the ibuprofen I shoved down your throat last night would be useless.”
You finally dare to crack an eye open, tilting your head up just enough to see his face, before you have to shut it again. “Y’what?”
“Almost had to hold your mouth closed. Like when we sedate Jasper,” he says, still speaking softly.
“Mm,” you say, feeling the aforementioned pitbull mix groan from the foot of the bed as he readjusts, evidently just as exhausted from the night before as you are currently.
Jack’s thumb strokes your cheek and you open your eyes again, both of them this time.
You’re rewarded for your bravery by his ruffled hair, the smudges of your rougey-pink lipstick on his jaw and down his neck and the lines under his eyes, which are devastatingly, achingly soft.
“Happy birthday, baby,” he murmurs, and you hide a smile and a pair of warm cheeks in your hand as the arm that had been clutching at his waist folds itself under your head, your body turning over into him slightly.
“Thank you,” you say.
Jack’s eyes flicker down your visage slowly, and you can’t imagine the absolute mess you must look right now, but you’d never be able to tell that from the honey in his eyes and the fond, upward curve of his lips as he gazes upon you.
He shakes his head, lifting it off his pillow, eyes flicking to your lips. “C’mere.”
“Mm,” you sigh as your lips meet his, and you’re suddenly cognizant of a blurry scene in his en-suite bathroom last night after everyone had gone, parked on the counter as Jack put your pre-pasted toothbrush in your mouth for you before reaching around to unzip your top, guiding the fabric down your arms gently and then popping the button on your jeans.
You remember looking at him, attempting to convey suggestion in your eyes, but he’d only smiled with his own tooth brush in his mouth and shook his head, squeezing a promise of “tomorrow” into your waist, then left and reemerged with a matching pajama set that he’d patiently helped you into after you’d rinsed your mouth with water, his hand holding your hair back as you spit into the sink.
Tomorrow was now, though, and Jack’s tongue slowly drags along yours in a way that makes your thighs press together before you’re pulling away, pecking his lips once, twice, before settling back down.
“I love you.”
“I love you,” he answers, hand brushing your hair back. “You had fun last night?”
You smile, thinking back to how utterly content you’d felt in the passenger seat of Jack’s truck, pleasantly tipsy off of an expensive bottle of champagne and an extra dirty martini during dinner at your favorite restaurant.
It was the perfect ending to a perfectly perfect birthday eve, your first with Jack at your side. He didn’t let the shift he’d been stuck with on your actual birthday stop him from showering you with flowers and gifts and affection the day before.
He’d even made you wait to blow out the candle in the scoop of ice cream you’d shared as dessert at the restaurant as he hastily tried to open the camera on his phone, meeting your eye over the lens as the flash went off, skin crinkling at the corners.
You had made him show you the photo, and you’d never seen yourself look so lovesick.
Except for, you’re sure, the plethora of photos that were no doubt coming in text messages from the invited guests of your surprise birthday party.
Not a jumpy knee, shaky hand or awkwardly rushed timeline to give him away, Jack had kept up the rouse of a quiet end to the night at his place with a nice bottle of wine he’d been saving for it, his hand a steady weight at the small of your back as he reached around you to unlock his front door, promptly nudging you in before him as you prepared yourself to greet Jasper at his door.
But instead you found Jack’s home positively teeming with your best friends, siblings, coworkers, Jack’s coworkers, your college friends who lived over an hour away, neighbors — anyone and everyone in your life that you loved.
And the top of that list stood behind you with a toothy grin practically splitting his face in two when you turned back to him, ready to catch you when you threw yourself into his arms, cheers and camera flashes suddenly in the background of your mind, Jasper jumping on the back of your legs.
“You did this for me?” you’d asked, your voice shaking, already feeling tears clog your throat and push at your waterline.
“I’d do anything for you,” he’d whispered in your ear, before placing a kiss on your cheek. “Now go say ‘hi’ to everyone before you cry. I’m gonna make you a drink. Any requests?”
You’d shaken your head, pulling away from him, in awe of this wonderful man in your life as you blink back those shocked tears, this man who’d appeared one day at your brother’s bedside and in your life in black scrubs, introducing himself as Dr. Abbot, and had never left since.
You’d given him a kiss so tender you almost felt vulnerable doing it with an audience before sending him on his way with a shake of your head in answer to his question. “You know what I like.”
He’d watched for a few moments as your brother and sister folded you into a group hug before he disappeared into the kitchen, accepting pats to the back from everyone he passed by.
“Best birthday ever,” you tell him now. “I still can’t believe you did all of that.”
“Your sister helped. A lot,” he emphasizes. “And so did Robby. Santos told me he and Dana ran setup like triage yesterday.”
You can’t help but giggle into his chest, even if your head pounds as you do so. You groan, shutting your eyes again.
“God, your coworkers almost killed me. I can’t believe they have to work today,” you say, a vivid memory of Trinity, Parker, Crus and John conspiring over a punch bowl — that had definitely been a key contribution to your demise — appearing in your currently scattered brain.
“Record number of callouts is my guess,” he says, eyes dancing when you can open yours again. “And what about yours, huh? I haven’t done a Jell-O shot since college.”
You groan again, and Jack laughs, kissing your forehead. “M’sorry, baby. Too soon.”
Your own coworkers, pausing from their steady routine of passing you cups and screaming at you to do a speech, had at one point pulled you aside under the string lights in the backyard to repeat the same story you’d heard over and over that night.
Group chats set up six weeks ago, swearings to secrecy, a collaborative playlist, every last person assigned a task and given a blank check to complete it.
Your sister and your best friend and even Jack’s best friend emphasizing to you that pulling this off was all he could talk about.
Robby’d given you a bear hug before telling you he hadn’t seen Jack this worked up over something in a long, long time, pouring directly into your empty cup of champagne something dark and bitter, toasting to you both.
Your boyfriend’s praises sung to you over and over and being preached to the choir, because it was all you could do to not rudely leave the conversation, kick everyone out and push Jack back onto his couch to show him how thankful you really were every time you’d lock eyes across his kitchen or his backyard.
You’d just settled for mouthed “I love you”s and subtle, disbelieving shakes of your head, which he’d return with a winks and sheepish shrugs, the sentiment echoed.
“I love you,” you say again, out loud now, as close to him as you can possibly be, in the way you’d wanted to be all night.
You’d done a poor job resisting him, finding his lap anytime he took a seat anywhere, until you were inevitably summoned for photos or more drinks or departing guests. He’d just tap your thigh, ordering you to go because he’d be here and ready to receive your affections long, long after your last guest left.
You worry you’ve worn the phrase out, wondering when it will start to get old.
“I love you,” Jack says, reminding you it hasn’t gotten old. You don’t think it ever will.
Your heart happy, your head in shambles, and your stomach suddenly glaringly empty, you sigh, thinking about the treacherous drive to the bagel shop you’ll ask Jack to take you to once you can stand, the thought of being left alone in his bed too much to bear in your current state and your only mission for your actual birthday being to get your favorite bagels.
“No one’s ever done anything like that for me before,” you admit, laying your head back on his chest, your eyes fluttering shut. Jack traces the shell of your ear slowly, carefully, almost willing you back to sleep before he speaks.
“You deserve it. You deserve everything,” he says. “And I’m gonna give it to you for as long as you’ll tolerate me.”
Ever willingly parting with Jack a scenario so preposterous that you almost laugh again, but you settle for a kiss to his sternum, pressing your forehead into his neck like his body heat might help speed up your recovery.
“Please tell me we just get to rot today,” you say.
“For a little,” he laughs. “After breakfast and coffee, I was thinking we could walk Jasp to the store. I’ve gotta pick up some groceries, but then I’m gonna cook you dinner and actually open that bottle of wine if you can handle it.”
“What’re you gonna make?” you ask.
“For breakfast? Breakfast just got dropped off at the door,” he says.
“What?”
“Bagels and coffee,” he says, checking his smart watch. “Or did you mean dinner? Then your favorite, obviously.”
Your eyes are open now, and Jack can see the way they widen when he suddenly moves out from under you, suddenly caging you in with his arms, his body nudging your legs apart to make room for his frame.
“And then, if you can handle it,” he says, just a breath above your lips. “There are a few promises I intend to make good on.”
You let out a susprised moan when he presses his hips into your own, just a firm, steadying presence sending a thrill down your spine all the same, promises for what’s to come later whispered into your ear, then pressed down the column of your throat, one of his hands reaching down to stroke at your hip, alternating between slipping beneath your waist band and nudging up under your shirt.
“S’that sound good to you, baby?” he asks into your neck.
All you can do is shake your head, his face gripped between your palms, your stare locked to his in confusion once he pulls off of you, his lips shiny.
“How did I even find you?”
Jack shakes his head, too, leaning back down, a trio of pecks on your lips before he rolls off, Jasper’s head picking up in interest as his owner sits up on the side of the bed.
Jack’s quiet as he works his prosthetic on, turning back to find you dazed, in awe, and in so much love you feel like you could choke on it, his reply simple.
Series Summary: over a series of night shifts you become acquainted with your coworker Jack Abbot. He's a stranger to you more than a coworker, but as work pushes you closer together, tensions rise and what is supposed to be a friendly relationship becomes something more. Slow burn Jack Abbot x sunshine!reader (all images from pinterest)
Chapter summary: the date commences, as does the start of your relationship with Jack.
Chapter warnings: a little suggestive but no smut :)
Jack steps back and lets you into the house after a second of awkward silence. You take some cautious steps inside, noting your surroundings. Trying to memorize everything as best you can, just in case you are never invited back. The place smells like him. Like warmth and wood and fire.
"How'd you sleep?" you ask, filling the quiet. Jack grunts somewhere behind you, and you have no doubt a shrug probably accompanies the words.
"Fine, all things considered. You?"
You turn back to face him, tucking your hands into the back pockets of your jeans. "Pretty much the same."
"So," Jack seems more on edge than usual, though not by much. He's good at masking whatever goes on beneath his tough exterior. "You ready for pancakes?"
"Definitely." You're more than ready. You're starving, in fact. Nodding your head you move with him toward the kitchen, again taking note of every appliance in sight. The color of the backsplash and the hardwood floor. Everything is just so...Jack.
This is awkward. Of course it is, what did you expect? He's your coworker, your attending and you are lurking around his house before a shift. You watch as he moves to the fridge, removes the eggs and butter, and a carton of milk. When he turns back to face you he pauses, as if regretting inviting you over. You're about to open your mouth to excuse yourself. To fake an emergency call and leave before this can get any more crippling for your pride, but Jack speaks first.
"You look nice today."
You look down at yourself. At the long sleeved shirt and jeans. Your scrubs are in your bag in the backseat of your car, and you realize that Jack has never seen you without them. And you have never seen him in anything other than scrubs either.
You look back up at him and in his white t-shirt he looks like an entirely different man. He looks somehow, even better than he does in scrubs. Instead of doing something you'll regret, you smile.
"Thanks, so do you." you hope your newfound thirst doesn't read through the words.
If it does, Jack doesn't say anything about it.
“Did you wanna get started?” You ask, moving toward the kitchen counter and pulling a glass mixing bowl toward you.
“Woah, woah. What are you doing?” Jack comes up behind you, a hand on your lower back that sparks something deep within you.
“I’m gonna make pancakes…?” You there’s a level of confusion in your words. It was what you came here for after all, what did he expect?
“No, I am making you pancakes. You just have to sit and look pretty.” He moves you with ease, both hands on your waist gently pushing you to the side and away from the bowl.
“I want to help.” You mutter, eyes scanning the kitchen for something you can do. Jack scoffs affectionately, as if he was expecting this from you before you even stepped foot in the house.
“You're always doing things for other people. Can't you just let someone return the favor?”
"We are doctors Jack, it's our job to do things for other people." You reach for the bowl again, but Jack steps in front of you, blocking you from touching any kitchen appliances. Your hand, instead of meeting the glass bowl, has been caught in Jack's grasp. He has a light grip on your wrist, looking down at you with a lopsided smile. "Just let me make the pancakes." he gives your wrist a gentle squeeze, then lets go as if nothing happened at all. "You gonna make me beg?"
The way he says that has heat growing in your stomach, but you force yourself to act unbothered, taking a step back from him and moving your gaze toward the stove. "Fine, you can cook."
Jack tilts his head to the side, forcing you to look at him. He's got a smug look on his face, one you've seen a few times before when he wins arguments at work. "Thank you, sweetheart."
-
Jack is losing his goddamned mind. You are in his house, looking beautiful as ever, and straddling a chair you've dragged into the kitchen. You've got your forearms rested on the back of it, watching him as he works. And he just can't focus. He can feel your eyes sinking into him as he tries to make small talk, and he can't stop flirting no matter how hard he tries to stop himself. He's been over thinking that "don't make me beg" comment all morning, hoping he didn't cross a line that made you uncomfortable. Though you seemed to like it, at least by the way you looked at him. And what's worse is that you've sort of been flirting back. Here and there you will make a comment on how he looks, or the sound of his voice. Comments that border the line between innocent and not so.
He still hasn't confirmed or not whether you see this as a date. He's trying to tamp his hopes down, keep himself tame and steady. Because fuck, he can't be catching feelings if you aren't on the same page.
"Please let me help with something." You plead from your side of the kitchen. Jack looks over his shoulder, breath catching at the sight of you so comfortable in his place. He could get used to this, but he won't let himself sink into that habit.
Still, Jack finds himself itching to have you fill the space. The house has been so empty for so long. Surely it can't be so bad for some light to come in. Maybe that's why he changes his mind about the cooking. "Okay, fine. Get over here." he nods his head toward the bench where he stands and he hears the chair creak before you're at his side. "Jesus you're fast." he mumbles, suppressing a surprised laugh.
"I've been waiting for this all morning." You respond, and before Jack can compose himself after getting a whiff of your perfume, you duck underneath his arm. Your back grazes his chest as you try and take charge of the pan, not waiting for him to step aside.
"You've been doing it wrong." you say, trying to take the spatula from his hand. He doesn't think the close proximity has registered to you yet, your sole focus on apparently saving the pancake batter from his misdemeanor.
"Woah, when I said you could help I meant there's strawberries in the fridge that need chopping. Get the hell off my expo." Jack places a hand on your head, pushes you down and back under his arm the way you came. "You're controlling you know that?"
"I am not." you scoff, moving toward the fridge with newfound purpose. "And says the guy that manhandled me out of way just now."
It's Jack's turn to defend himself. "I did not manhandle you." he flips a pancake, the underside slightly burned thanks to your distraction. "You're the one that used me like a jungle gym to get to the pan."
You've retrieved the strawberries, making your way back over to him. He loves the way your hair moves when you walk, the way your eyes sparkle in the morning light that's just now starting to creep through his open curtains.
"Oh please, I'm sure many women have climbed their way over you more aggressively than I have."
Jack tries to ignore the thoughts that threaten to push at the edges of his mind. How he would love it if you climbed over him some more.
"Oh, you're sure?" he's heading into teasing territory. "So you've given it some thought?"
You turn away for a second, looking toward the floor, pretending you've dropped something just so you have time to work out a response. Jack can tell. He likes you flustered.
"Nope. Haven't thought about it." you mumble, placing the punnet of strawberries on the bench. You find his chopping board easily, propped up against the containers of spices he has. "Where do you keep your knives Doc? Or should I have brought a scalpel from work?"
He allows the subject change and pulls open the drawer by his hip. He lets you to pick your knife of choice before pushing it closed. It probably dulls them to keep them stored like this, but it doesn't bother him much at all.
-
You're organizing the strawberries in a neat row on the chopping board, contemplating whether or not to try and shape them into something. You don't know how you would do that, but you want to impress Jack somehow. Make him like you, despite the fact it seems he does already. You pick up the knife, deciding to forego the shapes and just be normal for once.
"Watch your fingers, alright? I don't want to take us to work early." Jack moves away, toward the fridge and you look over your shoulder at him, just long enough to stop paying attention to your task. Your attention is snapped back instantly though when you feel a sharp sting on your finger. You hiss in pain, focus drawn by the red on the your skin, sliding down toward the food. You move quickly, hand over the sink before you can bleed onto the fruit.
"Shit."
"You okay?" Jack speaks from somewhere behind you, and you can hear his footsteps pad closer.
"Yeah, just cut myself." you run your finger under the tap, watching the blood wash away and rise again on your skin. Jack's hands press down on your shoulders, a comforting weight.
"What did I just say, huh?" he turns you gently, "Let me see." It's not serious enough to warrant an inspection, but you indulge him anyway, holding out your finger for him to see.
"Be honest with me Doc, am I gonna lose the hand?" you look up at Jack with batting lashes, catching the way his mouth twitches, wanting to smile.
"Not today sweetheart." he wraps a paper towel around your cut finger, pressing gently. "Hold that."
You do as you’re told, eyes turning back to the strawberries half chopped on the board behind you. When Jack returns, he's got a band aid in hand, unwrapping it with with fumbling fingers. You want to laugh at the small struggle, the way his second attempt isn't any better than the first.
"You need help with that or..?"
Jack scoffs at you, ignoring the teasing as he attempts to open the band aid again, this time successful. "I got it," he moves closer, peeling back the packaging. You remove the paper towel on your finger and hold the cleaned wound out to him, allowing his now steady hands to wrap the band aid around your small cut.
"What would I do without you?" you joke as he smooths the band aid tight over your skin. "My white knight."
He shrugs, taking no time to consider. "Probably die...Princess."
He's still holding your hand gently, thumb stroking smooth circles over your palm. Instantly, your thoughts blur. You want to ask him questions, about what this is, what you are, if it's anything at all. You want to ask if you can kiss him, and damn him, you want to ask if he'll take you to bed. And not so you can rest.
As if he can read your mind, Jack's voice comes out low, rough and quiet, as if he doesn't want the walls to hear. "I think we should clarify a few things."
You swallow, just now noticing the buildup of saliva in your mouth. "Okay, I love clarification." What a dumb fucking thing to say.
"Yeah?" Jack clearly finds you humorous, a small chuckle hidden in the word, still quiet as if this is all a secret. You nod, gathering yourself as his thumb stills its movements on your hand.
"Clarify away." again, another stupid thing to say.
"I want to clarify," Jack starts, the emphasis on the word supposed to be funny, but you're so nervous that you don't even smile. "that I am romantically interested in you."
Your mouth falls open slightly, and you try your best to breathe.
"And before this progresses any further I want to know if you feel the same. If not, I will never bring this up again. I'm not gonna be a fucking asshole about it if you're not interested but, I'm viewing this as a date and I don't know if we're on the same page." Jack drops your hand, and the formalities all of a sudden. "If you're not interested we can still have pancakes, no hard feelings."
Your heart is pounding so hard in your chest that you think you might explode. Is this what you wanted to hear or is this your biggest fear? Yes, you have feelings for him, but he's also your attending and there's a fine line for misconduct there that could get you in a lot of trouble.
He's looking at you so intensely, and every thought that reaches its way to your throat gets stuck and won't come out.
-
Jack has fucked this up immensely. You are staring at him, mouth agape like a fish out of water. He's just ruined everything with this approach, all flirtatious chemistry gone in a second for the sake of a mature conversation.
"I guess that's a no." Jack says, trying to fill the silence that now suffocates the both of you. He can see the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe a little harder than before.
"It's okay," he says, a little concerned now with the way you stare at him. He takes a step back, giving you space. Space is good, space might help him feel less sick than he does right now. "If you want to go, I understand."
Time seems to slow as you reach out and grab him by the fabric of his shirt, pulling him back a little closer. "please stop talking."
And he does. He shuts the hell up, and lets you pull him into a kiss so tender he can feel himself melting. His hands find your biceps first, before trailing up your arms to your shoulders, and then the sides of your neck. His touch causes you to shiver, which he feels as his hands move. When he finally cups your face you pull back to look at him.
You're smiling. That beautiful, warm, sunshine smile. He moves forward for another kiss, one that's a little rougher than the last. He can feel the escalation in what you're doing, your hands gripping his shirt tighter, pulling him closer than what seems physically possible.
This kiss is messy, with a few breaks for heavy breaths, and as your hands begin to travel, moving up his chest and over his shoulders, Jack's do too. He dares to trail downward, hands on your waist as he lifts you with ease onto the kitchen counter.
You gasp into his mouth, a sound he devours. He moves away from your mouth, trailing his lips over your cheek and jaw, until he reaches your neck. You tilt your head back, allowing him access without so much as a second thought.
"I take it you are romantically interested in me as well?" he mumbles into your skin. As if it isn't obvious. As if he hasn't spent the last five minutes drinking you down like wine.
Your hand grips onto the back of his neck, "What do you think?"
Jack hums, kissing his way back up to your face. He pulls back, examining your expression. "I'm just trying to clarify some things." he teases. "If that's okay with you?" his hands daringly rest on your thighs as he stands between them.
You shuffle back on the counter, getting more comfortable as the wall presses into your back. He likes the way you tilt your head to the side, smile growing, like he's a new toy you're ready to play with. It sends heat coursing through his veins.
"Is this clarification enough for you?" You reach out nonchalantly, and hook your fingers through his belt loops, pulling him closer between your legs. Jack wants to fall to his knees.
You kiss him softly, just like the first time, but better. Because there's so much more want in it now. When you break away from the kiss, slowly opening your eyes, you make sure he's looking right at you. "I am very romantically interested in you Jack."
Jack brings a hand up to your hair, tucking a strand behind you ear. "Are you sure?" He leans forward, "because if you need to do some research, you know, just to make sure, that's okay with me."
He waits as you process the words, your hands escaping the belt loops as you lift one leg up into the counter. He tries not to analyze the position too much. Tries not to think about all the ways it could benefit the both of you.
"I do have one question," you say, the words enticing. "Something I would like cleared up."
Jack nods, "Shoot."
Your lips upturn some more, and a laugh so quiet he can barely hear it leaves your lips. "How fast can you take off your clothes?"
-
You watch as a blush rises up over Jack's neck, that mischievous smile growing. You can't quite believe this is happening, that you're doing this with him right now. "As fast as you want me to." Jack replies, and warmth spreads to the place between your legs.
You reach out for him, not realizing he'd taken a few steps away and he comes right back to you without a fight.
You can't stop smiling, and your cheeks hurt from it as you lace your arms around his neck, ready for more.
Unfortunately you don't get it. Jack's phone begins to ring. It's an agonizing sound for someone on the edge of a sexual breakthrough.
Jack is clearly as frustrated as you and as he picks it up off the kitchen counter you can tell he's thinking about pressing the decline button. But he catches sight of the name, as do you. Robby. Fuck.
He picks up, "Hey brother, I'm kind of in the middle of something, can I talk to you at changeover?"
Whatever Robby says on the other end of the line clearly isn't "sure, bye!" because Jack rolls his eyes, reaching out his free hand to you. You lace your fingers through his, as he continues to listen to Robby on the other end of the line.
"No, man I'm busy. Can't you find someone else?" He squeezes your hand, glancing over to you in a way that says, i'm sorry about this.
"What do you mean what am i doing? Enjoying my morning, that's what." You wonder if Jack will mention that's he's with you. You haven't discussed the work implications of this. In favour of kissing and touching of course. "And I'm not going to ruin that by coming in to cover your ass."
You flex your hand against Jack's to get his attention. When he looks over you mouth 'it's okay, go.'
"Can you give me a sec?" Jack says into the phone, before pulling it away from his ear and pressing the mute button so your conversation can't be heard by Robby's prying ears.
"It's not okay, I want to be here with you." He says as soon as he puts the phone down.
That makes your stomach flutter but you ignore it in favour of practicality. You let go of his hand, "I love that, but we have to be there in..." You check your watch, "twenty eight minutes anyway."
Jack's gaze flicks over to the half cooked batch of pancakes, and your never to be cut strawberries. Then he looks back to you, hopeful and a little horny. "A lot can happen in twenty eight minutes."
"Oh don't I know it." you say, "Now pick up the phone, and tell Robby you'll cover him."
Jack frowns, head tilting as you hop off the counter. You hate being responsible, but you'll do it. If only Robby knew how much you were sacrificing for him. You open a few cupboards below the counter until you find one with sealable containers inside.
You throw a few uncut strawberries in and haphazardly pile the few pancakes that were cooked on top. "Pick up the phone, Jack." you say when he doesn't move.
Despite the fact he's clearly against the idea, he does as he's told. He unmutes his side of the call. "I'm back, do you still need me?"
You can tell by the sound of Jack's voice that he's hoping the answer is no. You seal the container, and turn back to face him just as Jack says. "I'll be there in five."
a little bit of sunshine taglist /the pitt taglist
Summary: Doctor Abbot calls a consult, trying to ignore a bubbling crush on the young resident. Later, after an incident, he realizes he can't deny the crush.
Warnings: mentions of a knife (this is fully self-indulgent to get over a similar incident, minus a sexy doctor Jack Abbot coming to the rescue), fluff
Word count: around 3k
Y/N arrives at the nurses’ station with her white coat still buttoned wrong from the elevator ride down she notices only when she reaches for her badge.
Perfect.
Her fingers fumble over the fabric, trying to fix the crooked line of buttons without looking like she is fixing the crooked line of buttons.
Around her, the ER moves completely different from radiation oncology. It’s far louder, quick paced and less controlled. The phones ring, monitors beep, wheels squeak over polished floors, someone curses behind a curtain while someone else laughs at the desk like none of it is strange.
Y/N clears her throat. “Hey. You called for a consult?”
Lena, the charge nurse, looks up from the computer with the expression of a woman who has been interrupted by five separate disasters in the last three minutes.
“Which one?”
Y/N smiles nervously. “Radiation oncology. I’m Doctor Y/N Y/L/N. Sorry, I don’t get called into the ER often.”
Lena’s face softens by half a degree, which Y/N decides to count as warmth. “Right. Rathbone.” Her eyes lift past Y/N’s shoulder. “Doctor Abbot will fill you in.”
Before Y/N can ask anything else, Lena is already moving, a chart tucked beneath her arm, her attention claimed by a paramedic waving from the ambulance bay.
Y/N lifts one finger into empty air, her mouth stays open for a moment, then she lets her hand drop.
“Great,” she mutters under her breath. “Good job on your first ER consult, genius. Now you have to find a doctor you don’t even know in a department designed by a sleep deprived raccoon with frickin’ rabies.”
“Hello, there.”
The voice comes from behind her, low and rough around the edges, and Y/N startles hard enough to feel ridiculous. She turns and forgets, for one horrifying second, how words work.
The man standing in front of her is older than she expected. Broader, too. He has his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders relaxed, black scrubs fitting across his chest and arms in a way that feels frankly unfair at this time of night. Or ever.
His hair is curly, sandy silver, pushed back carelessly, as if he has run his hand through it too many times. His face is filled with sharp lines softened by exhaustion, laugh creases, and warmth tucked behind his eyes, the kind that lights up the room when the light hits them just right.
His smile tilts crookedly, studying her.
Y/N inhales and catches his cologne under the hospital antiseptic, making her suspect this is a prank, because none of her colleagues have ever looked like this, or smelled this good.
“Hi,” she breathes.
His smile deepens, just slightly.
“I’m, uh, looking for Doctor Abbot.” She blinks too fast, frustratingly aware of each blink. “Mind pointing me in the right direction, please?”
His eyebrows rise. For one second, Y/N thinks maybe she has asked something strange, or gotten the doctor’s name wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time to mess up on a name.
Then he says, “You’re looking at him.”
Of course. Of course this is how the universe chooses to mess with her as if she doesn’t get in her own way enough.
Y/N lets out a nervous little laugh, feeling heat climb up her neck. “Oh. Hi!”
He tips his head, amused. “You said that already.”
The heat reaches her cheeks.
“I’m Y/N,” she says quickly. “The radiation oncologist. A resident", she corrects herself, "I was called for a consult.”
Abbot’s gaze drops to her badge and dosimeter for half a second, then returns to her face. “Of course.”
He says it like he is not in any rush to rescue her from embarrassment. He wets his lower lip, then gestures down the hall with a slight nod.
“Follow me and I’ll fill you in.”
Y/N falls into step beside him, aware at once of how tall he is, how easily he moves through the ER, how people shift for him without being asked. He does not bark orders and it seems he doesn’t need to. There is a quiet authority to him, the kind that has people falling in line naturally.
She notices his hands when he reaches for a chart, the long fingers, strong knuckles and a dark watch at his wrist.
Stop looking at his hands.
“So,” he says, scanning the page, “patient is Carson Rathbone, sixty-two. He’s been undergoing treatment in your department. Came in with severe diarrhea, poor oral intake, facial burns, mouth pain. He says he can’t swallow much. We were hoping you could take a look.”
“Sure.” She glances through the glass toward the room. “He’s actually one of mine.”
Jack looks back at her.
“He had a nasal cavity carcinoma removed,” she explains. “He’s getting concomitant chemoradiotherapy. The burn-like markings are radiation dermatitis, and the inside of his mouth is probably mucositis. The diarrhea is more likely chemo-related, he’s not tolerating it well. Head and neck treatments can get brutal. We use high doses, and the setup is very precise. CT simulation alone is kind of fascinating because the immobilization mask has to keep the patient perfectly still while we plan the treatment around critical structures, so when you’re treating near the eyes, optic nerves, brainstem you have to…”
She trails off because Jack has stopped smiling. His mouth twitches. “I’m sorry,” he licks his lips. “You’re speaking hieroglyphics at this point.”
The words are light, but Y/N feels herself fold in anyway. It is stupid. She knows it is stupid. She has spent years being teased for loving things other people consider morbid or incomprehensible, like dose constraints, beam angles, gross tumor volumes, fractionation schedules, the strange, intricate art of trying to burn out the disease without burning the person attached to it.
But she still feels the sting of his disinterest. Her smile stays, turning a little too careful.
“No worries,” she shrugs. “Most physicians aren’t familiar with radiotherapy. And just because I find it interesting doesn’t mean anyone else does.”
Jack’s expression changes subtly as the amusement fades from his eyes first. “I didn’t mean to sound dismissive.”
She shakes her head quickly. Too quickly. “You didn’t. It’s fine.”
“Y/N.”
The sound of her name in his voice makes her heart trip over itself.
“Seriously,” she steps back, already reaching for the door. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go talk to Mr. Rathbone.”
She slips into the patient room before he can answer. It is easier to breathe inside once she has a job. That is always true. Patients make sense in a way people do not. Symptoms have pathways, pain has language and fear has patterns if she pays enough attention.
Mr. Rathbone sits propped against the pillows, pale and irritated, his lower face flushed raw from treatment. His lips are cracked, his voice is rough when he greets her, but his eyes brighten with recognition.
“Doctor Y/L/N.”
“Mr. Rathbone.” Her smile becomes real this time. “I see you decided to take a field trip.”
He grunts. “Didn’t feel like dying at home.”
“Good choice. Dying at home would really mess with my schedule.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
Y/N pulls a chair closer and sits, knees angled toward him, notebook already in hand. She does not hover or rush. She lets him talk. She asks about the diarrhea, the timing, the number of episodes, whether there is blood, whether he has been able to drink, whether the mouth pain is worse with swallowing or constant. She checks the skin along his cheeks and neck with careful fingers, narrating every touch before it happens.
From outside the room, Jack watches her. He does not mean to, or at least, that is the lie he gives himself for the first thirty seconds. Then he simply lets himself watch.
She is different in there. The nervous energy turns into focus; her shoulders settle, her voice lowers, she laughs with the patient, but never at him. She keeps her pen poised above the notebook without letting the act of writing become more important than the man in the bed.
When Mr. Rathbone’s voice cracks with pain, her brows draw together. Her thumb presses once against the edge of the notebook, her body leans forward before she seems to notice she has moved at all.
She still cares, Jack thinks. The thought comes with an old, familiar ache.
Medicine eats that kind of softness first. Takes little bites until people learn to armor up, detach, survive by measuring the person in front of them in lab values and discharge plans to free up more beds. Jack has seen it happen a hundred times…he has felt it happen inside himself and pretended not to notice.
But Y/N takes Mr. Rathbone’s hand gently when he admits he has not slept properly in four nights.
Jack looks away for a second, not because it is uncomfortable, but because it is almost too easy to keep looking.
Beside him, Ellis pauses with a tablet tucked against her hip. Her eyes follow his line of sight through the glass.
“She seems bubbly,” she notes.
Jack folds his arms. “She seems competent.”
Ellis hums. “That wasn’t my question.”
“There was no question.”
“There was absolutely a question.”
Jack gives her a flat look.
Ellis smiles without shame. “You like her.”
“I met her twelve minutes ago.”
“And yet you know exactly how many minutes.”
He looks back through the glass despite himself. Y/N is pressing her phone to her ear now, turned partly away from the patient. One hand rests on her hip. Her expression is polite, focused, a little tense around the lips while she waits for someone upstairs to answer.
“I’m old enough to be her father,” Jack says.
Ellis snorts. “She’s a grown woman who looked at you like a piece of candy.”
Jack’s jaw tightens. “I’m not talking to you about this.”
“That means you do like her.”
“It means go do literally anything else.”
Ellis walks away with a grin, as he leans on the nurses’ station, shifting weight off his right leg.
Inside the room, Y/N ends the call and turns back to Mr. Rathbone.
“Good news,” she says. “I’ll have a bed for you tomorrow morning. We can treat the symptoms overnight down here, then I’ll get you transferred upstairs first thing.”
“Upstairs,” he mutters. “Great.”
“I know. Very glamorous. Try not to brag.” She slips her pen in her pocket, along with her notebook. “Before that, I need your meds. I want to send the list to my charge nurse so we can reconcile everything properly.”
Mr. Rathbone gestures toward the bag on the chair.
Y/N reaches for it, still talking, still calm. “Any supplements? Herbal stuff? Over-the-counter meds? Anything you only take sometimes but swear doesn’t count?”
“Just what’s in there.”
She unzips the bag and freezes. On top of the pill bottles and folded discharge papers sits a hunting knife; a large one with a dark handle, no sheath. It’s not decorative or small enough to explain away.
Her fingers go cold. For a moment, the ER noise outside the room seems to fall underwater.
Mr. Rathbone shifts on the bed. “What?”
Y/N looks at him, then back at the knife. Her mouth goes dry.
“Why did you pack this?”
He frowns like she has asked something unreasonable. “I always keep it with me.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“For fruit.”
Y/N stares at him.
Her carotid kicks hard against her throat. She reaches for the handle with two fingers, thumb and index only, as if distance can make this better. She knows, intellectually, that she should call security. She knows weapons policies exist for exactly this reason. She knows touching it is a terrible idea.
But she also knows it is in a patient’s bag, within his reach, and her body has already moved before her brain finishes arguing.
She lifts it carefully. It is heavier than she expects. Her stomach turns.
Swallowing thickly, her eyes flicker to the glass, hoping to get someone’s attention only to realize Jack is already looking at her.
His face changes instantly, without any delay or confusion.
Help, she thinks. She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to.
Jack moves quickly. The door opens hard enough to bump the wall.
“Why the fuck is there a knife in your hand?”
His voice is not loud, exactly, but it cuts through the room with enough force to make Mr. Rathbone straighten.
Y/N lets out a breathless, panicked little laugh. “Funny story.”
Jack does not laugh. His eyes move over her first, lingering on her face, her hands, the knife, the distance between her and the patient. Then he steps in front of her, placing his body between Y/N and the bed so naturally that her chest tightens. He’s made himself a shield created out of muscle, black scrubs, and controlled anger to keep her safe.
“Sir,” Jack says, leaning slightly toward Mr. Rathbone, “why would you bring a knife to my ER?”
Mr. Rathbone scowls. “I told her. To cut fruit.”
“You have diarrhea, Mr. Rathbone,” Y/N says, edging toward the door with the knife held away from her body. Her voice comes out too bright, too thin. “You cannot have fruit right now. I’m going to take this somewhere safe and call your daughter to pick it up.”
Jack glances over his shoulder. His eyes soften for half a second when they meet hers.
Go, they say.
So she goes. She does not run technically, she just walks very fast, with the knife held like it might explode, until she reaches the nurses’ station.
Lena looks up. Very carefully, Y/N places the knife on the counter, then shakes both hands at her sides, like she can get rid of the feeling of the handle off her skin.
“A knife,” she says, voice pitched too high. “In Rathbone’s bag.”
Lena’s eyes widen. “Jesus.”
“Fruit knife, apparently.”
“That is not a fruit knife.”
“No, Lena, it is not.”
The adrenaline hits all at once. Y/N takes one step back from the counter, then another. Her hands tremble, small and fast. She tries to close them into fists, but that only makes the shaking more obvious, so she presses them flat against her thighs instead.
She does not hear Jack come up behind her. His hand lands gently on her shoulder.
Y/N gasps and whips around, one hand flying to her chest.
Jack pulls back immediately. “Sorry. Sorry.”
Her heart hammers under her palm. “No, I’m fine. Yes. Peachy!”
Jack looks at her. Slowly, his brows lift. “You don’t seem peachy.”
He says it in her tone, almost exactly, and despite everything, she lets out a shaky laugh. It breaks apart so quickly, he wonders if it was even real as her lips press together.
“Okay,” she admits. “I got freaked out.”
“Good.”
She blinks. “Good?”
“Yes. Good. A patient had a weapon within reach. Freaked out is the correct setting.”
“I’m sorry I dragged you in.”
His hands come to her shoulders, careful this time, giving her plenty of time to pull away.
She doesn’t.
His palms are warm through her coat, steady. His thumbs rest near the seams of her sleeves, not moving, not taking more than she gives him.
“Don’t apologize,” he says firmly. “You did exactly what you were supposed to do.”
“I picked it up.”
“You got it away from him.”
“I probably should’ve called security.”
“And next time, you will.” He glances toward the knife, now being handled by security, then returns to her. “But whatever his intent was, that is a weapon. It shouldn’t have made it this far.”
She swallows thickly from the unbearable relief of not being made to feel foolish.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “I didn’t know if you’d take the hint.”
Jack’s mouth curves. “I took the hint.”
Her hands finally stop shaking. Mostly.
He looks down at them anyway, trying to find a way to take her mind off it all.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says.
Y/N’s brows pull together. “Earlier?”
“The hieroglyphics comment.” He exhales through his nose, and for the first time since she met him, he looks slightly unsure of himself. “I wasn’t bored. I was out of my depth and trying to be funny.”
She studies him. The ER moves around them, but for a second, the space between them feels oddly still.
“You liked hearing about radiation planning?” she asks, skeptical.
“I liked hearing you talk about it.”
Y/N’s eyes widen before she can stop them.
Jack seems to realize what he has said a second too late. Color creeps up beneath his stubble, subtle but visible. He drops his hands from her shoulders and takes half a step back.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says. “I just thought there was a…”
He stops.
Her heart skips a beat, hating the distance he has created between them.
“A what?”
His mouth opens…then closes. He runs a hand over his chin, glancing away with a self conscious huff that almost makes him look younger. “Never mind.”
He turns to go. Y/N reaches out before she thinks better of it, fingers curling around his bicep.
Bad idea. Excellent bicep.
He stops instantly, not because she has any real strength over him, but because she touched him. Y/N feels the muscle tense beneath her palm and forgets the words she meant to say.
Jack looks down at her hand, then at her. His expression shifts slowly, amusement returning in a warmer, quieter form.
Y/N lets go as if his scrub sleeve has burned her. “What’s your go-to breakfast after a night shift?” she blurts.
His eyebrows lift. She can see him trying to follow the turn.
“Breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“After a weapon incident?”
“I’m choosing not to let the knife have the final word.”
That earns her a big smile, a little crooked, definitely tired, but incredibly bright at the edges.
“If it’s a good shift,” he says, “pancakes. If it’s a shit shift, hamburger and fries.”
Y/N tilts her head, considering his answer. “That is a fascinating scale.”
“It’s clinically validated.”
“Peer reviewed?”
“By me.”
“Strong sample size.”
“I have to admit it consists of extremely biased data.”
Her smile builds before she can contain it. “Well, how about I buy you the breakfast of your choice once you’re out of here? I’m off tomorrow morning too.”
For one second, Jack does not answer. He only looks at her in surprise, like he had already talked himself out of wanting something and she has unexpectedly placed it back within reach.
Then his smile gives him away before his voice does.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”
Y/N’s heart flutters.
“Great.” She steps back, finding her footing again now that she has successfully jumped off a cliff and discovered flirting is, apparently, not fatal. “I’ll write my report and send it down in a few. You can send Mr. Rathbone up at seven, and I’ll be here at seven thirty.”
Jack’s eyes narrow slightly, playful. “That a warning?”
She glances over her shoulder as she starts to walk away. “Be ready, Doctor Abbot.”
His smile follows her down the hall.
At the nurses’ station, Ellis leans against the counter smugly. “Breakfast, huh?”
Jack does not look at her. He watches Y/N disappear around the corner, white coat swaying behind her.
“Not another word.”
Ellis grins. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said enough with that smile.”
Ellis laughs and pushes off the counter, leaving him there with the chart in his hand and a smile he cannot quite kill. Jack looks back toward the hallway, disappointed she’s already out of sight.
For a man who has spent years living on black coffee, adrenaline, and the grim satisfaction of surviving another shift, he suddenly finds himself hoping it is a good one.
Pancakes sound better than they have in a long time.
This fic exists because Robby said "kids these days" in S1 E6, and my brain immediately went, "What if someone at The Pitt spoke exclusively in Gen Z slang?" The answer, apparently, is absolute workplace chaos.
warnings: crack treated seriously, canon-typical medical emergencies, mass casualty event, hospital setting, emergency medicine procedures and injuries, lots of Gen Z slang and internet brainrot, Abbot just wants to be cool, workplace chaos, everyone gets bullied equally, reader is an absolute menace (affectionate), accidental emotional support through comedy, established cast dynamics, no use of reader pronouns, not beta read, I know nothing medical related, I might be wrong with everything medical related
This is a work of fanfiction based on The Pitt. I do not own The Pitt or any related characters or settings; all original material belongs to their respective creators.
The first thing anyone learned about you was that you were brilliant.
Annoyingly brilliant, depending on who was asked.
At twenty years old, you were the kind of medical student who made attendings pause mid-sentence because you had already reached the conclusion they were trying to guide you toward. You remembered obscure presentations, drug interactions, abnormal lab patterns, and the exact difference between “unlikely but possible” and “statistically improbable but still worth ruling out.” You could walk into a room, listen to a patient describe their symptoms for thirty seconds, and somehow ask the one question that made everyone else go still because, irritatingly, impossibly, it was the right one.
The second thing everyone learned about you was that you were a menace.
Not in a dangerous or in an incompetent way. Robby would have kicked you out of his emergency department within the hour if you were either of those things. No, your particular brand of menace came wrapped in big eyes, an innocent expression, and the kind of unhinged Gen Z vocabulary that made half the staff feel like they were being actively aged by exposure.
You had been at the Pitt for less than two months before Santos started calling you “the prodigy gremlin,” which was unfair only because she said it like you weren’t proud of it.
You were very proud of it.
Especially today.
Today, the emergency department was already groaning under the weight of a bad morning when the call came in. A bus had clipped the median on an icy stretch near an overpass and caused a multi-vehicle collision that sprawled across three lanes of traffic. Initial reports were messy, the way they always were in the first few minutes of a disaster. Multiple injuries. Entrapments. Possible ejections. At least one paediatric patient. EMS was still triaging on scene, but they were already warning hospitals in the area to prepare for overflow.
Robby stood at the center of the department as the air changed around him.
It happened quickly, that shift from ordinary chaos into organized crisis. Dana’s voice cut through the noise at the nurses’ station, assigning beds, clearing rooms, moving patients who could be moved and snapping at anyone who looked like they were waiting for permission to be useful. Robby started calling out roles before the first ambulance even arrived, eyes sharp, posture squared, his entire body seeming to settle into the shape of command. Collins moved with grim efficiency. Langdon grabbed a tablet. Mohan started checking available trauma bays. Mel’s expression closed into focus, all soft edges vanishing as she turned toward the work that needed doing. McKay was already tying her hair back, irritation and readiness blending into one sharp line across her face.
Then someone announced that night shift was being held over.
A collective groan rose from somewhere near the nurse station.
Jack appeared with a coffee in hand and the expression of a man who had spiritually clocked out six hours ago and was now being dragged back into the narrative against his will. Ellis followed him, already annoyed, jaw tight, eyes scanning the board like it had personally insulted her. Shen came in a moment later with his usual calm, looking like he had accepted the cruelty of the universe and planned to chart it appropriately.
Brendan, who everyone still called Park the Shark when he was out of earshot and sometimes when he wasn’t, appeared from ortho with a surgical cap still shoved half into his pocket.
“Tell me this isn’t as bad as it sounds,” he said.
Dana looked up from the board. “It’s worse.”
Brendan shut his mouth.
You, standing beside Whitaker with a fresh pair of gloves tucked into your pocket, watched all of them arrive like reinforcements in a war movie and felt something bright and terrible spark in your chest.
A captive audience. A stressed captive audience. A stressed captive audience containing several people over the age of forty.
Perfect.
Whitaker noticed your expression and immediately narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you just had an idea.”
“I have many ideas.”
“That’s what scares me.”
You gave him your sweetest smile, the one that made Santos once say you looked like a raccoon about to commit tax fraud. “Relax, Dennis.”
“No.”
“Lowkey, you worry too much.”
Whitaker’s face tightened. “See, that. That’s what I mean. I don’t know what percentage of your sentences are threats.”
“Skill issue.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, defeated before the day had even properly begun.
The first ambulance arrived three minutes later, and whatever mischief had been gathering behind your eyes vanished so cleanly that anyone who hadn’t known you would never have believed it had been there at all. The bay doors opened, cold air rushed in, and EMS rolled in a teenage girl strapped to a backboard, blood matting the hair near her temple, one leg splinted, oxygen mask fogging with shallow breaths. Robby stepped in at once, voice steady, asking for vitals, mechanism, interventions done en route. You moved when Dana pointed you toward Trauma Two, falling into place beside Mel and Collins as EMS rattled off the report.
“Seventeen-year-old female, restrained passenger, significant intrusion on passenger side, brief loss of consciousness on scene, GCS thirteen, BP ninety-two over sixty, heart rate one-thirty, obvious deformity to right femur, abdominal tenderness, FAST not done, two large-bore IVs established.”
“On my count,” Collins said, and everyone moved together.
One, two, three.
The patient shifted from stretcher to bed, monitors connected, clothes cut away, warm blankets pulled up as much as possible while still allowing access. You stood near the foot of the bed, hands moving before your brain had to command them, helping expose the injured leg, checking pulses, noting the rotation, the shortening, the swelling that already made the skin look too tight. Mel called out vitals. Collins ordered blood. Dana pushed someone toward the warmer. Robby stepped in briefly, eyes sweeping the room.
“What do you have?” he asked.
You answered before anyone else could. “Likely femur fracture with hypotension concerning for haemorrhage, plus abdominal tenderness after high-speed impact. Distal pulse present but weak. We need pelvic binder considered if instability worsens, type and cross, trauma labs, FAST, pain control, ortho consult, and imaging once stable.”
For half a second, Robby’s gaze landed on you.
Then he nodded. “Good. Keep going.”
You did not say anything.
You did not say anything because there was a bleeding teenage girl on the bed and you were, contrary to popular belief, capable of behaving like a normal human being when it mattered.
But when the FAST came back negative, when the blood pressure responded to fluids and the first unit of blood, when Brendan arrived and took one look at the leg before muttering that, yes, obviously ortho was involved now, and when the room settled into the controlled rhythm of a patient who was not okay but was no longer actively trying to die in front of you, you finally let yourself breathe.
Brendan finished assessing the leg, his hands careful despite the irritation permanently stamped onto his face. “We’ll need traction films and then she’s going upstairs. This isn’t staying down here.”
You nodded solemnly. “You ate that.”
The room went quiet in a way that no medical emergency had managed to achieve.
Brendan slowly looked up. “I what?”
“You ate.”
His eyes shifted to Collins, then to Mel, then back to you. “Is that…medical?”
“No.”
“Is it bad?”
“No.”
“Then why did you say it like that?”
“Because you did.”
Mel’s mouth twitched.
Collins turned away with a cough that was very obviously not a cough.
Brendan stared at you for another beat, decided he did not have the time, energy, or spiritual resilience to investigate further, and looked back at the patient’s leg. “I hate this place.”
You leaned slightly toward Mel and whispered, “Park the Shark is giving confused.”
Mel did not look at you. “Please don’t make me laugh in front of the femur fracture.”
“Valid.”
Across the room, Dana saw the entire exchange and made the mistake of smiling.
That made her next.
You waited until the patient was transported to imaging, until the bed was stripped and reset, until Dana swept through the bay with clean efficiency, barking at Whitaker to stop standing in the doorway like a decorative plant and actually restock gloves if he wanted to be helpful. She moved with the kind of terrifying competence that made the entire department bend around her. A family member appeared at the desk demanding information, a monitor started shrieking in Trauma Three, and someone dropped a tray of instruments with a crash that made three people flinch. Dana handled all of it without so much as blinking.
You watched her redirect two nurses, answer a question from Robby, locate a missing portable ultrasound, and scare an intern into moving faster using only one eyebrow.
When she passed you, you pressed a hand to your chest. “Queen behaviour.”
Dana stopped.
Very slowly, she turned her head.
“What?”
“Queen behaviour,” you repeated, reverent.
Dana looked at Robby. “Am I being insulted?”
Robby, who was signing something on a clipboard, did not look up. “Probably.”
“I’m complimenting you,” you said.
Dana’s eyes narrowed. “That makes me trust it less.”
“You slayed the house down.”
Whitaker, who had been restocking gloves exactly as ordered, made a strangled noise.
Dana’s stare sharpened. “I’m sorry, I what?”
You smiled. “Nothing.”
“No, say it again.”
“I value my life.”
“Smart kid.”
“Thank you, queen.”
Dana pointed at you as she backed out of the trauma bay. “Thin ice.”
The second she was gone, Whitaker collapsed against the cabinet, one hand over his mouth. “You’re going to get us killed.”
“Us?”
“I’m associated with you against my will.”
“Bestie, that’s so sad.”
“I am begging you to stop calling me things.”
You patted his arm.
He stared at the ceiling. “I’m not built for this.”
By the time the third and fourth ambulances arrived, the department had tipped fully into disaster mode. The noise became a living thing, pressing against the walls, filling every corner with alarms, voices, wheels, footsteps, orders, pain. Patients came in waves: a middle-aged man with chest trauma from the steering wheel; an older woman with a scalp laceration that bled dramatically but blessedly less dangerously than it looked; a child with a fractured wrist and eyes too wide for his face; a driver with glass embedded along one cheek and a blood pressure that made everyone in the room stand straighter.
You were assigned where you were needed, which meant everywhere.
One minute you were helping Santos keep pressure on a wound while Robby placed a chest tube, the next you were pulling up medication dosing for Javadi, then running labs, then helping Mateo move a patient, then answering a question from McKay before she had finished asking it.
You were good.
Infuriatingly good.
Even Parker Ellis, who looked as though compliments physically pained her, seemed forced to acknowledge it when you correctly flagged a possible compartment syndrome developing in a patient whose forearm had been crushed between two vehicles.
Parker swept in with Brendan, irritation sharpening into focus as she assessed the limb. The patient was pale, sweating, trying not to cry as his arm swelled against the splint. You gave the history cleanly, noting pain out of proportion, increasing paraesthesia, tense compartments, and preserved but concerning pulses. Brendan’s face changed immediately. Parker’s did too.
“Good catch,” Parker said, briskly, already reaching for the next step.
You blinked at her.
Parker made the mistake of noticing. “What?”
“I’m processing.”
“Process faster.”
“You complimented me.”
“I acknowledged a clinical observation.”
“Mother is mothering.”
Parker froze.
Brendan, beside her, closed his eyes like he had just developed a migraine behind both temples.
Parker turned to you, slowly. “Do not call me that.”
“Understood.”
“Do not explain it either.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
“You lowkey ate, though.”
Parker inhaled through her nose.
Brendan muttered, “I don’t know what that means, but I feel attacked on your behalf.”
“You should,” Parker said.
You grinned.
Parker pointed a gloved finger at you. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“I don’t need proof. I have instincts.”
“Your instincts are giving paranoia.”
Parker stared at you for one long, dangerous second before turning back to the patient. “I want them off my service.”
“I’m not on your service.”
“Then I want them farther away from me spiritually.”
From the doorway, Ahmed the security guard leaned in just enough to observe the aftermath. He had been posted near the ambulance entrance since the first combative patient of the morning tried to swing at Mateo, but he had somehow managed to appear wherever the funniest thing was happening, which told you that security work had given him either incredible situational awareness or a deep appreciation for workplace chaos.
Possibly both.
He looked at Parker’s expression, then at your delighted one, then at Whitaker absolutely failing to pretend he had not been listening from the hall.
Ahmed’s eyes narrowed with interest.
Fifteen minutes later, during the first true lull anyone had seen since the mass casualty began, you found him near the security desk with a folded piece of paper and a pen.
Ahmed looked up at you calmly. “Morale initiative.”
Your eyes dropped to the paper.
There were names.
Robby. Dana. Ellis. Brendan. Jack. Shen. McKay.
Beside each name were dollar amounts.
You gasped.
“Is this a betting pool?”
“No,” Whitaker said.
“Yes,” Ahmed said at the same time.
Whitaker turned to him. “Dude.”
Ahmed shrugged. “She was going to find out.”
You stepped closer, delighted beyond measure. “A betting pool for what?”
Ahmed clicked his pen. “Who breaks first.”
You pressed both hands to your chest. “Because of me?”
“Mostly.”
“I’ve never been so honored.”
Whitaker looked deeply regretful. “This is going to make you worse.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Ahmed studied you for a moment, then added something to the paper.
You tried to look. “What did you write?”
“Side bet.”
“On?”
“Whether you get all of them before end of shift.”
Your grin spread slowly.
Whitaker groaned. “Ahmed, why would you give them a goal?”
Ahmed capped his pen. “Because I believe in excellence.”
“You believe in chaos.”
“That too.”
Before you could respond, Dana’s voice cracked across the department with terrifying precision. “Y/N! Trauma Two!”
You spun on your heel. “Coming, queen!”
“Thin ice!”
“Love you too!”
Whitaker looked at Ahmed. “We’re doomed.”
Ahmed looked down at his paper. “No. We’re invested.”
By early afternoon, the hospital had settled into the long, gruelling rhythm that followed the first violent impact of disaster. The initial wave was over, but consequences kept arriving. Patients who had seemed stable on scene started to decline. Imaging revealed worse injuries than expected. Families arrived panicked and demanding answers no one fully had yet. The operating rooms filled. Ortho kept getting called. Surgery moved in and out of the department like storm clouds. Everyone looked a little more tired, a little sharper around the edges.
Abbot appeared beside you at the nurse station while you were charting, his coffee replaced by another coffee, because apparently his bloodstream had given up and simply become caffeine.
“You’re causing trouble,” he said.
You kept typing. “Allegedly.”
“I respect it.”
That made you pause. You looked up slowly. “You do?”
Abbot leaned against the counter with the casual confidence of a man who had decided, very incorrectly, that he understood the assignment. “I’m not like Robby. I know things.”
You stared at him. He nodded once, as if confirming this to himself. “I’m cool with the kids.”
From the other side of the station, McKay looked up from her charting with immediate interest.
“Oh?” you said.
Abbot smiled. “Yes.”
“Define ‘rizz.’”
His smile faltered for half a second before recovering. “Charisma.”
You blinked. Unfortunately, he was correct.
McKay’s eyebrows lifted.
Abbot looked smug. “See?”
“Okay,” you said slowly. “Define ‘ate.’”
“Performed well.”
Your mouth dropped open.
Abbot pointed at you. “I told you.”
McKay leaned back in her chair. “I don’t like this. He’s adapting.”
Abbot took a sip of coffee, visibly pleased with himself. “I contain multitudes.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Define ‘Ohio.’”
Abbot stopped. The silence stretched. McKay’s grin grew. Abbot set his coffee down with great care. “That’s a state.”
“Yes.”
“But not in this context.”
“Correct.”
His eyes narrowed. “Bad?”
“Sometimes.”
“Embarrassing?”
“Sometimes.”
“Cursed?”
“Getting warmer.”
He looked genuinely invested now, the mass casualty temporarily forgotten in the face of a linguistic puzzle he had absolutely no business trying to solve. “So if I said Robby was being Ohio—”
From behind you, Robby’s voice cut in. “Don’t.”
All three of you turned. Robby stood there with a chart in hand, exhaustion settling into the lines of his face, his glasses slightly crooked, his expression caught somewhere between suspicion and resignation.
Abbot straightened. “We’re discussing language.”
“You’re discussing nonsense.”
“It’s actually quite nuanced.”
You nodded solemnly. “Dr. Abbot is lowkey cooking.”
Abbot pointed at you. “That’s good.”
You beamed. “That is good.”
“I knew that.”
Robby looked between the two of you. “Why are you encouraging him?”
“Because he’s cool with the kids.”
Abbot looked deeply satisfied.
McKay muttered, “God help us.”
Robby stared at Abbot for a long moment, then at you. “Both of you back to work.”
“Yes, king,” you said automatically.
Robby closed his eyes. Abbot’s shoulders started shaking. McKay turned fully away from her computer, delighted.
Robby opened his eyes again. “Do not call me that.”
“Understood.”
“Do you understand?”
“Highkey.”
He stared at you.
You stared back, angelic.
Robby looked at Abbot. “Translate.”
Abbot, glowing with the confidence of two correct definitions and one catastrophic failure, said, “It means very.” Robby looked betrayed that this was a real answer.
You clapped once. “He ate!”
Abbot lifted both hands. “I’m telling you, I know things.”
Robby rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I have patients actively trying to die, and somehow this is still the thing giving me a headache.”
“Skill issue,” McKay said under her breath.
The three of you went silent. You turned to her slowly. McKay’s face changed as she realized what had just left her mouth.
“Oh no,” she said.
You pointed at her. “YOU’VE BEEN INFECTED.”
“I have not.”
“You said skill issue.”
“I said it medically.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Abbot looked thrilled. “Welcome.”
McKay glared at you. “I hate all of you.”
Before anyone could respond, another overhead page called Robby back toward Trauma One, and the moment snapped back into motion. The department swallowed everyone again: Robby to a decompensating patient, McKay to a shoulder reduction, Abbot to a confused older man with chest pain, and you to wherever Dana pointed next.
But the damage had been done. The language had spread. And you had witnesses.
Ahmed caught your eye from across the department and silently lifted his betting sheet. You gave him a thumbs-up. He shook his head, but he was smiling.
By the time you reached Trauma One, Robby was already elbow-deep in the kind of controlled chaos that made everyone around him move faster. The patient was a man in his forties who had initially seemed stable after the crash and then suddenly wasn’t. His pressure was dropping. Breath sounds were diminished on one side. The room smelled like antiseptic, blood, sweat, and the metallic bite of adrenaline. Robby called for a chest tube with that rough, steady authority that made even panic organize itself around him.
You stood ready when Dana shoved supplies into your hands. Santos watched from the far side of the bed, eyes wide but focused. Mateo assisted with positioning. Robby worked quickly, cleaning the site, draping, anesthetizing, cutting through skin and tissue with practiced precision. He moved like someone who had done this too many times to be impressed by it, fingers sure as he dissected down and pushed through the pleura. Air rushed. Blood followed. The tube slid in, connected, secured. The patient’s oxygen saturation began to climb.
For a moment, the room exhaled.
Robby pulled off his bloody gloves and looked at the monitor. “That bought us time. Get surgery down here now.”
Dana was already moving. “On it.”
You watched the numbers stabilize, watched the team reset around the patient, watched Robby’s shoulders lower by a fraction.
And because you had been very good for almost twenty whole minutes, you smiled.
“Respectfully,” you said, “you devoured that chest tube, king.”
The silence was immediate.
Robby turned his head very slowly.
Santos looked at the floor. Mateo looked at the ceiling. Dana, halfway to the door, stopped dead.
Robby stared at you with the expression of a man who had just been forced to process a second emergency against his will. “I did what.”
“You devoured.”
His eyes narrowed. “The chest tube?”
“Metaphorically.”
Dana made a sound that might have been a cough if she had ever been less committed to lying.
Robby looked at her. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I think a lot of things.”
He looked back at you. “Is that supposed to be good?”
“So good.”
“No cap,” Mateo added, and immediately looked like he regretted every choice that had led him to this moment.
You whipped around. “MATEO.”
He pointed at you. “No. Don’t make it weird.”
“You’re learning.”
“I’m surviving.”
Dana finally lost the battle and laughed, one sharp burst before she walked out of the room shaking her head.
Robby stared at the doorway she had escaped through, then at Mateo, then at you. His face shifted through exhaustion, confusion, irritation, and something dangerously close to amusement before settling back into command by sheer force of will.
He shook his head once.
Quietly, almost to himself, he muttered, “Kids these days.”
Your entire body went still.
Santos’s eyes widened.
Mateo whispered, “Oh no.”
You pointed at Robby with both hands, triumphant. “HE SAID THE THING.”
Robby looked immediately regretful. “What thing?”
“THE THING.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“YOU SAID THE LINE.”
“I say a lot of lines.”
“Iconic behaviour.”
“Stop.”
“Never.”
From the hallway, Whitaker appeared at the doorway like he had sensed comedy through the walls. “Did he say it?”
You spun toward him. “HE SAID IT.”
Whitaker doubled over.
Robby’s eyes closed.
Somewhere behind you, Ahmed’s pen clicked.
And even though there were still patients waiting, charts unfinished, families crying, surgeons being paged, and half the hospital running on fumes, laughter rippled briefly through the trauma bay like a pressure valve releasing steam.
Robby opened his eyes, looked at the ridiculous collection of people around him, and sighed with the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who knew he had lost control of something far less medically significant and far more spiritually damaging than a mass casualty event.
“Back to work,” he said.
“Yes, king,” you replied.
Dana’s laughter echoed from the hall.
Robby pointed at you without turning around. “Thin ice.”
You smiled sweetly.
Behind the security desk, Ahmed added another mark to his betting sheet.
synopsis: Jack knows what love feels like, knows he could never feel it again. His lungs beg to differ.
warnings/notes: Hanahaki AU and everything that entails. mentions of Jack's late wife. I'm kind of in love with this. Flangst, my beloved.
wc: 5.9k
Jack Abbot knew a great many things.
He knew how to trach in the field under active fire. He knew how to run an emergency department efficiently and effectively. He knew how to make an omelet and fix a sink and change the oil in his car. He knew what it felt like to lose the greatest thing he’d ever held and he knew what it felt like to love. Or so he believed until a random Tuesday in June.
It was nearing the end of his shift when Jack felt it again. That hitch in his breathing that signaled the arrival of a deep, rattling cough that he’d been dealing with for weeks now. He pressed his fist to his mouth, trying to muffle the sound. Just a lingering cold, he told himself. Or allergies maybe. Nothing some water and cough drops wouldn’t fix.
Except the tightness in his chest had gotten worse. And the cough drops weren’t doing a damn thing. Every time he tried to take a deep breath, it felt like an invisible band was squeezing his lungs. His voice had taken on a rougher edge and he’d start wheezing if he tried to say more than few words at a time.
“You look like shit,” said a familiar voice behind him.
Jack turned to find Robby standing there, coffee in hand, ready to start his shift. “Good morning to you, too. Some of us have been up all night.”
Robby hummed. “And some of us are clearly coming down with something. Seriously, Jack, you don’t look good. Are you okay?”
Jack waved a hand through the air in dismissal. “Fine. Just a little under the weather.”
“Is that why you’re breathing like you just ran a marathon?” Robby took a step closer. “You’re wheezing and I’m not the only one that noticed. I got three texts from night shift.”
“It’s just a cold.” Jack tried to take a deep breath to prove his point but it caught in his throat, triggering another coughing fit. This one was worse than the others and had him gripping the edge of the counter for support.
When the coughing subsided, Robby’s gaze was stern. “That doesn’t sound like a cold to me.”
“It’s nothing,” Jack insisted, though the pain in his chest suggested otherwise. “Probably just moved to my chest is all.”
Robby sat his coffee down and crossed his arms. “That is not nothing. I want labs and a chest x-ray.”
“Christ, Mike. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“I’m not asking, Jack. You’re a doctor. You know better than to ignore stuff like this.” His tone left no room for argument.
Jack recognized the look his friend was giving him. He wasn’t getting out of this. He sighed. “Fine. One x-ray. Then I’m going home to sleep.”
“Deal,” Robby said, already putting in the order for the portable chest x-ray into the system. He glanced at Dana who hadn’t even pretended she wasn’t listening.
“Eight’s open.”
“A room, man? Come on,” Jack complained but headed in that direction.
“Quit complaining,” Robby said as he trailed behind him, signaling the radiology tech with the machine to follow him. “Shirt off, Abbot.”
“Buy me dinner first,” Jack snarked even as he did as told. He laid down and the machine was positioned over the top of him.
“Take a deep breath and hold it,” Marcia the tech instructed.
The first time he attempted to follow instructions, he devolved into a coughing fit. “Sorry,” he apologized once he caught his breath.
“It’s fine. Just do the best you can.” The tech took three shots from different angles.
Robby slid on his glasses and stepped up to the machine while Jack put his t-shirt back on, forgoing the scrub top since his shift was over anyway.
“Let me guess. Nothing but a little inflammation. Can I go home now?”
“Leave us for a minute,” Robby said to Marcia, voice low.
Jack’s head snapped up, his gaze darting from his friend to the screen he was looking at and back again. “What is it?”
Robby turned the screen toward Jack so he could see for himself. Even from across the room, he could see the large white mass shadowing his right lung.
He swallowed hard. “That could be pneumonia. Or an abscess or something.”
“It could be,” Robby agreed but his tone suggested he didn’t believe it. “I’ve sent it up to pulmonary.” His phone rang before he could say anything else. He glanced at the screen. “That was fast.”
Jack shifted his weight as he listened to Robby’s one-sided conversation with pulmonary. When he hung up, he turned to look at Jack.
“Dr. Tanaka wants to see you immediately.” He paused and looked at Jack as if the name should mean something to him. It didn’t. After a moment, Robby took a breath. “He’s sent an order to CT. You’re to report there and then head to his office.”
“Right now?” Jack’s voice was little more than a whisper. The words having to be forced past the lump in his throat. This was all happening too fast. One moment he’d been dismissing his persistent cough and the next he was being scheduled for immediate appointments with pulmonary. “It’s probably nothing. Just a weird artefact in the imaging or something,” he said more to himself than Robby.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Robby agreed, but the worry in his eyes said something else entirely. “But you’re going to get checked out thoroughly just to be sure.”
Within half an hour, Jack was laying on the table in a gown as the CT hummed around him. The contrast dye made him feel warm and vaguely nauseous, but it was nothing compared to the cold fear settling in his stomach.
The tech entered the room. “All finished. By the time you get changed and to his office, Dr. Tanaka should have the images.”
Jack cleared his throat. “That’s fast.”
“You’re a VIP patient today, Dr. Abbot.”
There was nothing Jack wanted to be less. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be doing this. He wanted to go home, go to bed and pretend none of this ever happened.
He made his way to the pulmonary floor trying to prepare himself for whatever Dr. Tanaka might say. He’d delivered bad news to patients and their families plenty of times, but he hadn’t been on the receiving end since Mari died.
The waiting room was empty when he arrived, the early hour meaning most patients hadn’t arrived for the appointments yet. The receptionist smiled as he approached. “Dr. Abbot? Dr. Tanaka is ready for you. Third door on the right.”
Jack took a deep breath, or tried to, and headed down the hall. Whatever was waiting for him, he would face it like he did everything else. Head on. Even if, for the first time in years, he was truly afraid.
When he entered the room, Jack was surprised to find himself in an office instead of an exam room. Tanaka rose to greet him. “Dr. Abbot,” he held out a hand to shake Jack’s.
“Just Jack,” he said with a nod before taking one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“Very well. Jack, then.” Tanaka stayed standing and pressed a couple of buttons on his computer and the large screen behind him lit up with an image of what Jack assumed were his lungs. He pointed at the mass that seemed to branch out from the right lung. “Do you know what you’re looking at here?”
Jack studied the image noting the abnormal density, the way it seemed to branch through his lung tissue like the roots of a plant. The mass was larger than it had appeared in the x-ray, more defined.
Jack swallowed. “A tumor. Probably malignant given the irregularities and the rapid growth.” He’d seen the symptoms enough in his patients to recognize the pattern. The cough, the tight chest, the fatigue. Classic presentation for lung cancer.
Tanaka shook his head. “I had my suspicions from your x-ray but the CT confirms.” He used a finger to indicate several areas on the scan. “Do you see these fine lines extending from the main mass?”
Jack leaned forward. Now that the doctor pointed it out, he could see delicate lines spreading through his lung tissue. “Vascularization?” he guessed.
“Not exactly.” Tanaka took a seat at his desk. “What you’re seeing is consistent with the presentation of Hanahaki disease.”
Jack physically jerked back in his seat. That wasn’t… “That’s impossible. I want a second opinion.”
“You are certainly entitled to one, but I am the leading expert in Hanahaki in the state.” He wasn’t bragging, just stating a fact.
The look Robby had given him when he’d said the name suddenly made so much sense. “I’ve only ever loved my wife, and she’s dead. Has been for years.”
Jack had seen Hanahaki before, of course he had. The condition was rare and still not well understood. Unrequited love manifesting physically with the growth of flowers in the lungs. But it was something that happened to young romantics or the occasional middle-age yearner, not to someone like him. Not to an old, broken ER attending who’d buried his heart with his wife six years ago.
“I’m sorry, but the blood tests confirm.” He clicked on his screen and Jack’s results populated the screen.
Jack shook his head, unable to process what he was hearing. “Run more tests. There has to be a mistake.”
“Dr. Abbot, Jack, we can run additional tests, but given your symptoms and the findings, Hanahaki is our working diagnosis.” He paused, studying Jack’s face. “I suggest you do some soul searching. You’re in love whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.”
Jack opened his mouth to argue but another coughing fit seized him, doubling him over. His lungs burned as he struggled to draw breath. When it finally subsided, he was surprised to find Tanaka standing in front of him holding a tissue. Only when he took it did he understand why. Delicate pink petals filled his palm.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, staring at the evidence in his hand.
“That’s confirmation enough for me,” Dr. Tanaka said quietly. “The small petals are consistent with early stage Hanahaki. They’ll become larger and more numerous as the disease progresses, until you are expelling full blooms.”
Jack couldn’t tear his gaze away from the petals. Each one was perfect, like they’d been plucked from some unseen garden growing inside him. And he supposed in a way they had. “How long?” he managed to ask.
“Hard to say without knowing how fast it’s progressing. We’ll do another scan in a week and go from there.” Tanaka paused then added, “I assume you are aware of your options.”
Jack nodded once. “Surgery or…death.” He had to force the last word past his lips. He’d engaged in reckless behavior, volunteering for SWAT, standing on the edge of the roof while he thought about how easy it would be to just not have to deal with it all anymore. To not be alone every fucking day of his life. But now that the very real possibility of his death was looming in the shadows he suddenly found he didn’t want it.
“As you are aware, the surgery would remove any feelings for the person in question. You may forget them entirely though that is very rare. There is also always the possibility that the person you love will return your affections. Then no intervention would be needed,” Tanaka said, voice soft. “The matter would resolve on its own. It’s quite remarkable really.”
Jack looked down at the petals again. The idea that his body had somehow conjured flowers from a love he wasn’t even aware of seemed impossible. Yet the evidence was literally in his hand.
“You have a lot to think about,” Tanaka said, standing. “I’ll schedule another scan for next week and we can talk about options.”
“Thank you,” Jack said as he stood as well.
“You should take it easy until then. The coughing may worsen, particularly if you’re stressed or physically exerted. I’d recommend time off work.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jack said, but the thought of sitting alone at home with his thoughts was not one he wanted to contemplate at the moment.
Dr. Tanaka seemed to sense his turmoil. “This is a lot to process. Many patients find it helpful to talk to someone. A therapist or a family member. And I suggest a discussion with the person—”
“There is no person,” Jack cut him off sharply. “My wife has been dead for six years. There’s been no one since.”
The other man didn’t argue, but his expression made it clear he wasn’t convinced. “I’ll see you next week. Call if you have any questions or concerns before then.”
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” Jack turned and hurried from the room, closing the door behind him. In the hall, he pressed his back against the wall. He took the deepest breath he had since entering the office. The tightness in his chest reminded him of the flowers blooming where they had no right to be.
Love.
The word echoed in his head. He’d buried that part of himself when Mari died. The idea that his body had somehow betrayed him, had grown flowers for someone else…It was too much. He couldn’t accept it. Wouldn’t.
He pushed off the wall and headed for the elevator. One foot in front of the other. That’s how he’d gotten through the worst days after Mari’s death and that’s how he would get through this.
Jack made it back to the ER on autopilot, his mind still reeling. Day shift was in full swing. Jack just stood for a minute, trying to orientate himself, feeling oddly disconnected from the familiar chaos.
“Jack!”
He turned to find Robby hurrying toward him. His face was creased with worry, eyes scanning Jack’s features as if searching for visible changes.
“Well? What did he say?”
Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again. How did he possibly explain he was coughing up petals for someone he was supposedly in love with? It was stupid. Ridiculous. And just the sort of thing that would happen to him. Of course it was.
“It’s not possible,” he finally forced out. “It’s not…Mike, I…” His voice cracked, another cough building in his chest.
“Okay, okay,” Robby said, his tone shifting from urgent to soothing. “Let’s sit down, huh? You look like you’re about ready to fall over.”
Before Jack could protest, Robby led him through the department toward the breakroom. He deposited him in a chair at one of the tables, then turned to fill a cup with water. “Here, drink,” he instructed as he sat it in front of Jack.
Jack obeyed mechanically, the cool liquid soothing his raw throat. The simple act centered him somewhat, anchoring him to the present moment.
Robby pulled out a chair and sat down. “Now, what did Tanaka say?”
Jack stared at the cup in his hands. “Hanahaki,” he said finally.
“Shit. I thought it might be when they said Tanaka wanted to see you.” Robby sighed and ran a hand over his mouth. “He’s the best, so there’s that at least.”
Jack shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense, man. I haven’t been in love with anyone since Mari died.”
An expression he couldn’t place flicked across Robby’s face before shifting to disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”
Jack frowned. “What’s with the tone? Why are you making it sound like I’m stupid?”
“Because you are,” Robby said without hesitation. When Jack just stared at him, Robby pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, then crossed his arms over his chest. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?” Jack demanded, irritation briefly overriding his confusion.
Your name was the only thing that left Robby’s lips.
Jack blinked and repeated it like a question. Like your face hadn’t just appeared in his brain. Like he didn’t instantly think about your smile, hear your laugh.
“Yes!” Robby threw his hands up in exasperation. “The woman you’ve been staring at with a besotted expression for the past eight months? The one you look for anytime you enter the department? The one whose coffee order you have memorized?”
No, no. That couldn’t be right. “But she’s—”
“Brilliant,” Robby stated. “Funny. Kind. Beautiful. Should I continue to list off everything you said to me the last time we went out? You talked about her all night, man.”
“I mean…I respect her.” The words felt inadequate even as he said them. Images of you flashed through his mind. The way you laughed at your own jokes even if no one else did, how you always remembered small details about people, that furrow that appeared between your brows when you were concentrating.
“She’s dedicated,” he continued. “Compassionate. She doesn’t take shit from anyone, but she’s never mean about it. And she’s…” He trailed off, suddenly realizing he could continue talking about you for the rest of the day.
“She’s what?” Robby prompted, a knowing look on his face.
Jack shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t love her. I can’t.”
“Why not? Because you loved Mari? Loving someone else doesn’t erase what you had with her.”
“It’s not that simple,” Jack argued, though he couldn’t have explained why if someone pressed.
“It actually is,” Robby replied, not unkindly. “You loved your wife. She died and it broke you. For a long time, I wasn’t certain you’d ever put yourself back together. But you have. And against all odds you found someone who makes you feel something again. Instead of being grateful, instead of grasping it with both hands, you’re literally making yourself sick denying it.”
“It’s not…I haven’t—”
“You have,” Robby interrupted. “Everyone knows you’re in love with her except you and her, apparently.” He sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Just think about it, okay? Really think about it.”
As if on cue, another coughing fit seized Jack, this one stronger than the last. He doubled over, hand braced against the table as his chest contracted painfully. When it finally subsided, he found his palm filled with more petals, the edges tinged with blood.
“Holy shit.” Robby stared at the evidence in front of him.
Jack closed his hand around the petals, as if hiding them from view would make them cease to exist. “I need to get out of here. I need to go home.” He pushed himself to his feet. The room titled slightly, his vision blurring at the edges.
“You’re in no condition to drive,” Robby said standing as well, typing on his phone. “Let me have someone run you home.”
“I’m fine,” Jack insisted though the wheeze in his voice undermined his claim. “I just need some sleep. I need to rest.” He needed to get you out of his brain.
“You need to figure this out, Jack. Finding out you have Hanahaki would throw anyone for a loop, especially when you didn’t even realize you were in love. But this isn’t something you can ignore. It won’t just go away, it will only get worse.
Robby was right, Jack knew he was. He’d been ignoring what was happening for weeks, dismissing symptoms, making excuses. And now he was paying the price.
“I know. I’ll think about what you said. I promise.”
“Good. That’s a start. Now get your things together. Your ride should be here in a minute.”
Now, when Robby said ride, Jack assumed he meant an intern. An uber perhaps. What he did not expect to see when he stepped through the doors was you. You’d pulled your car to the side where it wouldn’t impede any ambulances and you leaned against it. It took him longer than he’d admit to realize you were waiting for him.
Jack spun on his heel to glare at his former best friend. “What the fuck did you do?” he hissed.
Robby gave him a look of feigned innocence. “Got you a ride.”
“You asked her?”
At that he grinned. “Actually, I sent a message to the group chat. She volunteered.”
“Oh.” He looked over to find you in the same position, your gaze moving between the two attendings. He lifted a hand in greeting and to let you know he’d be right there.
You nodded, waved at Robby and got behind the wheel.
“What do I do?” Jack asked, suddenly at a loss.
Robby rested a heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything, brother. Just let her take you home. Think about how you really feel about her. That’s all.”
“Yeah, yeah, I can do that,” Jack agreed with a nod of his head. “I’ll see you later.”
“Not tonight you won’t,” Robby corrected. “You’re off until Friday at the earliest. Doctor’s orders.”
Jack didn’t bother to argue. Knew there would be no point. And honestly, he could use a few days to get his head straight. He held up a hand in goodbye as he made his way to your car, his mind churning. What if Robby was right? What if he’d fallen in love without realizing it, what then? You had never given any indication you felt the same. The idea of confessing feelings that might not be returned…
Another cough built in his chest as if his body was responding to the thought. He swallowed hard, forcing it down. One problem at a time. First, he needed to get home. Then he needed to figure out if Robby was right.
As if sensing Jack was lost his head, you didn’t attempt to make conversation after your initial greeting once he got in the car. When you arrived at his house, he finally turned to look at you. “Thanks for the ride. I would have been fine driving but Robby insisted.”
“I didn’t mind, Jack. However, I’m afraid you can’t be rid of me just yet.”
His brows shot up into his hairline. “Excuse me?”
“Bossman said, and I quote, ‘get his ass inside and into bed with a glass of water and trashcan nearby.’ So that’s what I’m going to do. Let’s go.” You climbed out of the car and waited for him to exit before locking the doors.
“I assure you that his is not necessary,” Jack argued. More than that, it could be catastrophic. Having you in his house, where he’d now be able to picture you clearly instead of relying solely on his imagination? That sounded like a horrible idea. Not that he’d ever pictured you in his house. Sitting across from him at the table, nestled into his side as you watched TV. That would be absurd.
You took his bag from his loose hold and ignored his protests as you carried it up to the door. Jack stared at you hopeless for another moment before sighing and following after you. “Keys are in the front pocket.”
You pulled them out and handed them over. He unlocked the door, leaving it open for you to follow after. He gestured at the hooks just inside the door. “You can hang the bag there.”
You did and kicked off your shoes, nudging them to line up against the wall. “Robby didn’t exactly say what was wrong with you.” You paused, but Jack didn’t offer any clarification. No, that would be a monumentally stupid thing to do. You cleared your throat. “Are you hungry? I could make you something.”
“No, sweetheart, I’m fine.” The endearment slipped out without thought. He suddenly wondered when the first time was he had called you that. And when had that become the norm instead of your name? Christ. He wiped a hand down his face. “I’m fucking exhausted. I just want to go to bed.”
You nodded. “Sure. Let me get you that water at least.”
Jack just nodded and headed down the hall toward his bedroom to fish out something to change into after his shower. You stepped into the doorway just as he finished taking off his leg. He froze and swallowed. “Sorry. Forgot you’d be coming back here.”
You smiled and Jack had to glance away. “It’s your home, Jack, and I’ve seen you without the leg before. It’s not like you were nude. Here.” You sat the glass on the nightstand. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. I’ve got it. Thank you.” You had seen him without the leg precisely once when it started rubbing wrong on a shift and you’d made him sit down and get an exam. You’d also bullied him into supervising from a wheelchair for the rest of the night when you saw his red, raw flesh by threatening to call Robby and tattle on him.
Your gaze ran over him, assessing. He could feel it. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
His eyes found yours again but he said nothing.
“You just seem off.” Worry shone in your eyes and he forced himself to look away once more.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
After a moment, you stepped toward the door. “Call me if you need anything, okay? Anything at all.” When he only nodded, you added, “Promise?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat when he heard the gravel in his voice. “Promise.”
“Okay. Bye, Jack.” And with that, you left without waiting for a response.
Tension immediately flowed from Jack’s entire body. Jesus, Robby couldn’t have found literally anyone else to bring him home? He pushed thoughts of you from his head as he finished stripping. Using his crutches, he moved into the shower, ready to rinse the night off so he could get some sleep.
Not thinking of you lasted approximately two and a half minutes after he turned the water on. He’d turned the temp up on the water hoping it would help clear his lungs. His chest ached with each breath, a constant reminder of the flowers blooming in his lungs.
Flowers.
For you.
It was ridiculous. Yes, he enjoyed working with you. You were competent, smart, quick to smile and to make others laugh. You had a way with patients that made even the most difficult cases manageable. And so what if he’d noticed the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, or that you tapped your fingers when you were thinking?
But that didn’t mean he was in love with you. Love was what he’d had with Mari. All consuming, life-altering, the kind that left you devastated and broken when it was no longer yours. What he felt for you was…appreciation. Admiration, perhaps. Friendship. That was it. He loved you like a very dear friend.
Except friends didn’t keep mental lists of your favorite foods, or notice when you changed your shampoo, or come in on their nights off because you were working. Friends didn’t feel their mood lift the moment you walked into a room or find themselves replaying conversations long after they’d ended.
Jack groaned, rinsing the last of the shampoo out of his hair. This was insane. He was a grown man, not some teenager with a crush. He’d been married, for fuck’s sake. He knew what love felt like.
Or he had once. Before Mari died, leaving him hollowed out and certain he would never feel that way again. He’d adjusted to his solitude. To the bed being too big and the house too quiet.
But lately…
He sucked in a shaky breath as he finally admitted to himself that he’d been pursuing you without even realizing it. No wonder Robby had looked at him like he was an idiot. He was.
“I’m fond of her,” he said aloud, testing the words. “That’s all it is. A fondness.” It couldn’t be love, because if it was that meant—
His chest contracted sharply, another cough building. This one came on faster than the others, stealing his breath before he could prepare. He curled forward, one hand pressed to his sternum as his lungs spasmed. The coughing fit seemed to last forever, each breath harder than the last, until finally, blessedly, it subsided.
When he could breathe again, he opened his eyes to see dozens of petals swirling toward the drain. Proof, if he’d needed it that Tanaka was right. That Robby was right.
He was in love with you. For far longer than he cared to admit.
Tears mixed with the water running down his cheeks as his shoulders shook in a silent sob. He’d fallen in love with you and hadn’t even realized because it was so subtle, so quiet, compared to what he’d had with his wife. He’d lost out on so much time with you because he was too afraid to examine his feelings. To admit to himself what everyone else had known all along.
But what difference did it make really? Because even if he loved you, what then? You’d never given any indication you felt the same. No lingering looks or soft touches. Nothing to suggest you saw him as anything more than a colleague.
And why would you? He was damaged goods. A widower with a missing leg and more baggage than most people would want to deal with. You were vibrant, fully engaged with life in a way he had long forgotten. You deserved someone whole, someone who could love you without reservation or complication. Someone who didn’t still wake reaching for a wife that would never be there again.
Jack closed his eyes and took another shaky breath as he turned off the water. As he dried off and headed for bed, he considered his options. He’d meet with Tanaka and schedule the surgery. But he should talk to you first. He knew he should. But he was so fucking scared.
He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts. You’d told him to call if he needed anything, but what if he only needed you? He could hear your voice, ask you to come back. He could tell you everything and hope maybe you felt the same.
He moved to the call button, then stopped. He needed to sleep first. Needed to be fully about himself before he decided how to approach this. It took hours of tossing and turning before he finally found rest, but even that was fitful.
He glanced at the clock when he woke to find it nearing seven. At least he’d managed a few hours. You were working, so his grand confession would have to wait. Maybe he could meet you after shift and take you to breakfast.
He was so lost in his head when he opened the bedroom door that he almost disregarded the rich aroma filling the air and the soft sounds from his kitchen. He frowned and moved into the other room, calling a soft “Hello?” as he went.
As he stepped into the doorway, you glanced at him over your shoulder and he sucked in a breath. You were here. In his home. Making dinner.
“You stayed?” he asked, voice rougher than intended.
You shrugged and turned back to the stove. “You didn’t look okay. I wanted to be close, crashed on the couch. I hope I didn’t overstep.”
He swallowed down the words that rose in his throat. No. Never. Stay the night. Stay forever. “Don’t you have to work?”
“Bossman gave me the night off. Told me to take care of you if I was that worried. I wasn’t going to argue with him. Thought I’d make you some soup.” You didn’t look at him, but he could hear the concern in your tone, the worry that he would be upset with you for taking care of him.
He just watched you move in his space like you belonged there.
Finally, you glanced at him again and gave him a small smile when you found him watching. “Where’s your bowls?”
“I’ll get them,” he said, suddenly desperate to do something.
It was a simple task but before he could even open the cabinet, he was seized by another violent coughing fit. He bent over the sink, bracing against the edge for support. His chest burned and his vision blurred at the edge. He vaguely registered you saying his name and a hand landing on his back, warm even through the fabric of his shirt.
When the fit finally subsided, he was horrified to see the petals that littered the sink.
You went completely still beside him. “Jack, are those…”
“It’s not…” he started then trailed off. There was no explanation he could give you beside the truth.
“Oh,” you said softly, your fingers curling in as you removed your touch from his back. You took a step away. “Who is it?” You sounded resigned, maybe even a little hurt.
The question hung between you. Jack remained braced against the sink, unable to look at you. “When my wife died, I thought I would never love anyone again. That it would be impossible. So, when it happened, I didn’t even realize it. Or I suppose it’s more like I ignored it.” He risked a glance at your reflection in the window above the sink. “I guess my body didn’t like that. It’s making me face it.”
“That wasn’t my question, Jack.” Your voice was smaller than he’d ever heard it.
He turned to face you then, his hip leaning against the counter to take his weight. “Don’t you know, sweetheart? According to Robby, it’s obvious to everyone in the department that I’m crazy about you.”
Jack watched your face for your reaction. Anything. But your expression remained carefully blank aside from a slight widening of your eyes.
“Me?” you finally said, the word barely audible.
“Yeah.” Jack pushed off from the counter, using his crutches to move over to one of the chairs and dropping into it. He kept his gaze on anything but you. “But I don’t expect anything. You don’t owe me anything. I have options. I’ll be fine. I see the doctor again next week and I can get the surgery scheduled.”
“Jack Abbot, if you have that surgery, I will never forgive you.” Your sharp tone had his head immediately snapping over to follow you as you stepped toward him.
“What? Why?”
“Because it is completely unnecessary, you idiot. I have been in love with you for ages.”
Time seemed to stop. Jack stared at you, certain he’d misheard. “What?”
You came to a stop in front of him. “I’ve loved you for months, probably longer. I just didn’t think that you would ever…that you could ever…”
The rest of your sentence was lost as Jack pulled you forward into his arms, one hand coming up to cradle your face. His thumb traced your lips as your eyes searched his. He leaned in, giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
His lips found yours hesitantly at first, then with growing certainty as you responded. He laughed against your mouth as you turned and sat sideways in his lap. When he finally pulled back completely, the first thing he noticed was your wide smile and the joy in your eyes.
The second was, that for the first time in weeks—in six years, really—he could finally, simply, breathe.
pairing: jack abbot x neighbor!reader
synopsis: after a one night stand goes less than expected, abbot patches up his neighbor physically and emotionally.
warnings: references to a sexual encounter that had lasting physical/emotional effects (not with abbot). it is written as consensual, but became rough/unpleasant. nothing is explicitly written, but reader has marks on her knees and bumps, which leads to her going to abbot. if you have any similar sensitivities, probably best to avoid this writing. please please prioritize your comfort. other than that, references to medical care. language. mentions of sex. not proofread, normal grammar issues probably in there. reader insert but no 'you' or 'y/n' (she/her used). hurt/comfort. angst and fluffy angst. cheesy dialogue and bad jokes. some of this might possibly come off as kink-shaming. it's not. i want all freak flags to fly, they're just, like, not really flying so much in this instance.
notes: i'm trying something kind of sort of new here, so i hope you guys like. i didn't specify an age gap, though i suppose a small one is implied given some of the emotional tendencies (?). really read it however you'd like. this is part one of two. ok byeee
word count: 5.3k
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Jack rolls into his apartment some time closer to eight than seven, as usual. Always lingering after handoff, giving too much information on basic cases, charting just to enjoy those fluorescents a little longer.
And be alone a little less.
Sometimes he'll grab a coffee or stop at a diner a couple blocks from home. Then he'll trudge through the hall, flipping his keys. Maybe he'll catch her on the way to work, stumbling out half-late and still pulling clothes from haphazard to fitting.
But not today. There's no chaos on the other side of the door or flying out of it. He imagines her asleep on her side of the wall, probably cramped on the couch if she's at all honest about her sleeping habits.
Oh, well. If he times his mail run right, he'll probably see her there.
But then he's about five minutes into dropping bags and shrugging off clothes and something's different. He pushes the water off at the bathroom vanity, letting his toothbrush hang limply as he focuses. The TV in his bedroom is buzzing lowly, but that's not what piqued his interest.
He's about to return to scrubbing when he finally hears it clearly; three raps at the front door. He hasn't ordered food yet, and doesn't really expect anyone for that matter. But then three more come to interrupt his contemplation and he's back in motion.
He flicks off the toothbrush, covers and shelves it, and picks his t-shirt back up on the way to the door. His leg pinches, a reminder of a to-do he hadn't managed to check off yet.
There's something about the situation that has his heart beating a little faster, this unknown thing beckoning him. But then he feels ridiculous for surviving the shift he did and being nervous about answering the door, so he pulls it open.
But it's just her on the other side, looking tired and wearing flannel pajama pants; standing there like an exhale he needed. His surprise robs him of words immediately, but she's polite enough to pick up where he doesn't even start.
"Morning, Doc." It's her usual sarcasm, but it's heavier thing now, squeezed out, measured.
And he sees it then, her eyes red-rimmed, her arms crossed, her lips bitten.
The relief in his chest calcifies.
"What's wrong?"
She scoffs, laughing like it's for his comfort alone, "That's not a very neighborly greeting."
But his brows have already drawn together and his eyes are set in that way that makes a case study of you. He opens the door, stepping aside.
She hesitates, trying to hold that farce of a smirk, but he grunts, calling her in with a tilt of his head. Her resolve falters, the non-smile goes with it, and she's turned back around repenting before the latch even clicks.
"I'm sorry, I know you just got home. I waited for the sound of the door, I can't even pretend I didn't know—"
"Hey," he interjects, holding up hands that would look like a surrender if they weren't reaching too far in her direction. "It's alright. You caught me mid-toothbrush. No harm no foul."
She nods, looking guilty. It's an obvious effort when she meets his eyes again, hers glassy and betraying a fair amount of embarrassment.
"Gotta get those lateral incisors." The pathetic attempt at a joke would be funny in its own failure if it wasn't hammered flat by her hoarse voice.
"Gotta," he agrees, lulling a beat. Then he cautions another question, "You ok?"
She nods again, too quick.
"Yeah. Yes."
His head tilts, eyes narrow.
She sucks her teeth, the popping of it admission enough that he called her bluff correctly.
"This is rude of me, so feel free to tell me to fuck off," she prefaces.
"I'm not gonna tell you to fuck off. Probably."
He's coaxing words out of her now.
Her lips pull tight, close to a smile but not quite. She sighs, focusing on the air in front of her gesticulating hands so she doesn't have to look at him.
"I took kind of a spill last night; thought it was fine but then I got a little woozy and it didn't go away by the time I woke up. Probably nothing, but I only slept for, like, two hours thinking I was gonna trigger an aneurysm or something."
The sound that punctuates it is probably supposed to be a laugh, but she swallows hard enough to choke it out when she finds his usually vaguely amused expression veering a little too close to concern.
"God," she backtracks, "this is embarrassing. I'm sorry, I should've just gone to urgent care or something. I don't know why I thought bothering you right off your shift was a good idea."
"You're not bothering me." He manages to fit his words in before she can finish spilling hers, "And I'd be offended if you went to urgent care. Let me take a look."
The breath she expels is audible, her chest loosening with it.
Thank you. For not making me ask. For not asking anything else.
She knows he probably notices her relief, hawk-eyed and standing three feet away as he is, but he's too polite to linger on it.
He juts his head to the right, thumbing toward the bathroom. "Got the best light in there."
She nods, following his lead.
He pushes a couple odd products out of the way, clearing a space for her to settle on the counter. She looks to it, wondering if it's meant for her.
"Do you mind?" He catches her confusion, nodding to the free space and maybe absentmindedly his leg as an explanation; earning the convenience.
She gets it; they've shared enough morning trade offs to catch each other at the peaks of stumbling morning routines. All panicked blouse-tucking and glimpses of scrub pant legs hiked too far.
"No problem."
His brow briefly softens into its own form of appreciation.
"Alright, sit tight for a second, I'll be right back."
She hops up, grunting when the impact sends soreness reverberating through her. He dips out to find his discarded bag, fishing out a pen light, then he's back in front of her.
"So it's your head?"
She nods, following his finger gliding through the air in front of her face then the light he brings in from either side of it.
"Yeah, the side." She lifts a hand, pointing slightly behind her temple.
"Ok," his head bobs along, tracking even though his focus is elsewhere. "I'm gonna feel around a bit for any bumps, tell me when it's tender."
His fingers step along her hairline, pushing into a knot where she indicated.
"There," she hisses, the eye closest screwing shut as he prods.
He releases pressure immediately, finding it again with a gentler touch.
"Pretty good goose egg here." He pushes her hair out of the way, looking for contusions, "Not seeing significant bruising, though."
"Yeah, that was there last night. I put some ice on it. Was kinda hoping that would take care of it."
"That's good, you probably cut the swelling."
She hums.
"Dizziness? Nausea?"
"Dizzy a little bit after, the first time I tried to get up after it happened. Just felt like there was some pressure there."
He steps back enough to get a good look at her, his hands falling away. She doesn't meet him there, her eyes retreated, cast slightly off him.
"Any other complaints? Anything else hurt?"
He tries to paint a picture of her 'spill' without asking too much.
"Just a little sore. But I slept like shit," she huffs out, hoping jest disguises the fact that the ache in her extends far beyond her head.
But he's unrelenting, panning over her, waiting for her to look up.
She doesn't.
"Would you mind describing the impact? Just so I can get a better idea about what else could be involved. Neck, spine," he lists.
She swallows, thick, but her eyes finally flicker back to his. His skin crawls with the something he can't quite grasp yet.
"Um, yeah. Yeah, it was kind of a knocking motion," the hand opposite her injured side comes up, pushing the air in imitation. "Two times. The first was harder."
His face folds, confused, "Twice?"
Her nod is curt.
"A fall? Two surfaces?"
He watches carefully as deeper unease twists her features. Then it's gone, replaced by her mouth pulled suddenly into a bashful line.
"And here I was thinking we could avoid the really embarrassing part."
He's lost count of how many jokes she's pitched just a note or two off key. Still, he tries to return it.
"Would you feel better if I told you HIPAA still applies in the confines of a builder grade bathroom?"
She laughs a little more honestly. Then she pulls a deep breath, looking at him because he won't let her do anything but.
"You see your fair share of bedroom-related injuries in the ED, right?"
It's his turn at a deep breath, unwittingly relieved as the pieces click into place, her reservations made clear. He turns away, huffing out a laugh, all the thoughts of dark alleys and cracking skulls—and whatever else his overtired mind was conjuring—slipping away with it.
"Yeah. Yeah, I've seen a good amount of clipped nightstands. Headboard-related splinters. You name it."
Her head bobs, more resigned than comfortable just yet.
"Well, thank god," she laughs with an effort to catch up to his.
"So, something like that?"
"Something like that."
Her following expression is a bookend, not inviting or giving anything else away. It stirs his stomach, sends static up his spine. She looks toward her lap and he resumes his exam.
First, he palpates her neck. Noting subtle winces. Then her legs, thumbing the flats of her shins over the plaid covering the. One pressure points cuts her breath and stills his movements. He bends slightly, asking if he can push the fabric up. She nods, as if verbalizing anything betray what she knows he'll find.
The marks are the darkest over the peaks of her bones, broken stretches of morphing purple, blurring under her kneecaps. He looks up, his stomach cinching a bit at how suddenly guilty she looks.
He swallows, trying to find a casual tone he isn't even close to feeling. "So what was it?"
"Hm?"
"Nightstand, headboard. What was it?"
Her head tilts.
We can leave it where it is. You don't have to ask.
But he's expectant despite her pleading eyes.
"I guess I get a little experimental when the wine comes out." Another attempted joke that clatters between them.
He doesn't offer any padding this time.
Her tone lowers, her features flattening, serious now, "There was a lot of stumbling. Walls. The floor. Y'know."
The floor.
He pictures the hardwood of his living room, the way it switches patterns, slatted perpendicularly over the threshold between there and the bedroom; some contractor's slip of mind.
He pictures her apartment, and every other exact copy behind adjoining walls on every floor of this building. The same thing just a couple inches of insulation away.
He pictures stumbling and walls and pressure enough to raise the skin on her head and discolor her knees and wine and—
The floor.
"Is he still over there?" He asks before he can think better of it.
She shakes her head, rolling into damage control, "I can see your gears turning. Don't turn this into something it's not. It's really, really not."
"Is he still over there?"
She tries to move on, "So what's the prognosis? Think you can get me a week off work?"
"Is he still over there?" His voice remains steady, firm but level; not threatening anything, but wanting—needing—to know.
"Jesus Christ, Jack. No. I'm pretty sure he was zipping his fly before my back even hit the mattress." Then, realizing perhaps she overshot the reassuring jest thing, she assures, "It's ok, I'm good. I wasn't exactly expecting Prince Charming from Wednesday night drinks."
His head drops, shaking at the image that paints.
He's never dismissed the sound of her laugh until now, untrue and tainted by her usually bright eyes tinged pink, begging him to meet her where she's at. But he can see it on her, the skin under her eyes blurring purple with sleep she didn't get. Her bottom lip swollen in a way that brings up images of someone else's gnawing teeth. He can practically see fingers tangled in her hair, pushing and pulling without any regard for her.
"Do you want to talk to someone about this?"
"It's not like that. I don't want spin this out of proportion. Can we drop it?" Even as she says things that should be drenched in some amount of desperation, her voice is deadened, drained.
But he's still raking over her, combing for details he hasn't noticed yet.
She continues, "Stop, please. We were just...trying something out. It was a little less Hollywood than I would've hoped, but we talked; nothing I didn't agree to."
His back teeth grind, the energy he wants to channel into fervent pacing directed there instead.
That's reassuring.
He takes a breath, staring back iat her, trying to find the understanding she's begging him to.
"So you discussed it?"
Her head basically jerks in agreement. "Yes. Yes."
He's unconvinced.
But it's true.
Somewhere between the elevator and pushing up against her front door, notes on preference were exchanged through slotted lips.
"Just got a little carried away."
God, any other time she'd be embarrassed beyond comprehension, her cheeks mimicking her pulse. But now she just really, really wants him to think of her in any other way than the pathetic, wounded thing his eyes are betraying.
"Come on, haven't we all had a couple unsatisfying sexual encounters?"
"Unsatisfying?" It's the closest thing to a scoff she's heard from him; the closest he's come to actually calling her on her bullshit.
It punches at her sternum, crinkles her already tired eyes, and he sees it immediately. He has to force his eyes away, pulling a breath as he levels his face.
"Sorry, I just—"
"Look, I'm sorry for making this your problem. I just freaked myself out a little. Does everything look fine?"
He gets the distinct feeling he said a succession of wrong things.
Her name apologetic from his mouth only spurs her on as she dislodges herself from his vanity. He steps back to let her. His attention flicks to the mirror, watching her from there instead of prying for the eye contact she's suddenly intent on denying him.
She rolls her neck as she pushes off the countertop, letting her head loll where it's tense, drawn tight to her shoulders. It's a flicker, a barely-there glimpse when he glances in the glass at just the right time. But he catches it, how her sweater slouches down when she winds her neck, how the fabric dips low enough to hint at angry skin and slotted punctures over the peak of her flexing shoulder blade.
When she relaxes again, the shirt pulls back over it—but he knows.
"Hey," he reaches for her, pointing back toward the injury, "I missed something."
Her face drops, almost comically if he were in any joking mood.
"Noth—nothing," she coughs, stumbling over it.
His brows raise.
You're caught. Give it up.
But she's averting her eyes, sliding off the counter, just about done with this examination she regrets asking for.
"I should let you get some sleep."
He sidesteps, blocking the door.
"Just let me finish up here." His head dips, chasing eyes she won't give him, "Yeah?"
She's still, staring at his shoulder so she doesn't have to see his face. Clearing her throat, her eyes flicker up to him briefly, shinier, more dejected by the second.
She looks back down, nodding. "Yeah."
He returns it and gestures back to the counter. She sidles up to it, back to him now. He gives her a moment, watches her shoulders rise and fall three times before stepping closer.
"I'm just going to move this so I can get a better look," he says as he reaches for the slouching fabric of her shirt.
Ok?
She hums permissively.
What he finds isn't surprising, but it sends his jaw ticking anyway. His lips twitch with the words he knows she doesn't want to hear. Only one or two of the marks indicate an actual puncture, show the teeth that punched through her skin. The rest of the outline is marked by inflammation, broken blood vessels in the shape of a mouth he pictures cracking.
He hates the images that flash through his mind; the way he can paint her so vividly, indecently, with every new piece of evidence. His stomach lurches as the focus goes from coarse to fine in his head.
He breathes suddenly like the image will disappear with the exhale. His air seems to fill the room in place of hers turned to stone, biting down until this whole thing can be done with.
He's softer when he speaks up. "I have supplies here to clean this, but antibiotics are still your best bet. I can call—"
She shakes her head, "No prescriptions. Let's just do what we can here."
He stares at her in the mirror, her head still fixed down.
"The human mouth has more germs than Disneyland, It would be best if—"
"I showered right after. And I trust you. So let's just take care of it here." She says it with a finality that seems rude to challenge.
He wants to tell her that she should trust him. And, if she does, the best option is to go with the antibiotics, have it properly taken care of; to let him go the distance on this one thing if laying out some asshole from her office building isn't an option.
But he's already well past his third strike.
So he says, "Ok."
She doesn't talk. Not when he sifts through the cabinet next to her legs to grab the first aid kit. Not when he swabs the bite as clean as he can, cursing under his breath that he doesn't have saline or gloves that haven't been stuffed inside a plastic box for god knows how long or an at all medically appropriate environment. Her face screws up when he finally presses a bandage over it and pulls her shirt right again.
"All set."
She hums an acknowledgement but he watches her jaw clench.
He can't help himself. "Do you see this guy often?"
Are you going to see him again?
She sighs in lieu of an answer, losing patience he's surprised she's managed this long.
"I just mean—" he doesn't know what he means, "Just—it's not a normal thing, is it?"
"I've told you it's not."
"And it's not something you have to tolerate."
"Jack," she warns.
"If you're into that sort of thing, that's one thing," he's grasping for purchase now, trying to be understanding and manage his anger and tamp down his worry all at once, "but to hurt you—"
She bites. "I don't need my neighbor to lecture me on my sex life."
His stomach lurches. Despite it's truth, the statement feels like a gross diminishment of whatever it is between them.
"I'm not trying to lecture you."
She shakes her head, exasperated.
What is it that you're trying to do then?
"I'm just trying to tell you that you're not the one that should feel bad about this situation."
He can tell by her rising tone that he's just added another tick to the list piling against him.
"You're seriously gonna sit here and act like you've never gotten carried away? Like things have never gotten a little rough when you've been with a woman?"
He stutters, trying to not to lend much validity to her obvious brush off.
"I—That's—Yes. Yes, but that's not the point."
"That's exactly the point."
He sighs like he's too polite to voice how insincere she's being and how aware they both are of it.
"Yes, sure, sometimes you get carried away, or one thing leads to another. Shit, sometimes, you want to throw each other against the wall—I'm not denying any of that. But, no, I've never thought the point of being..." he trails off, looking for the most decent descriptor he can, "vulnerable with a woman was to hurt her. Or that the intention is just to get rough with her."
She wonders if he can actually see her cower, recoiling at her own words quoted back and suddenly sounding so disgusting.
When she doesn't respond, just stares back at him through the mirror, stern and glassy all at once, his pulse quickens. There's something like a whimper, a small pathetic sound, that escapes her rather than a rebuttal. And it's like watching a building collapse, the way her features buckle suddenly, her brows pinching and lips trembling.
She can't look at him. Not through the mirror, not on her way out of the room. She backs up, turning to go without ever facing him. He's on it immediately, after her into the living room as she tries to make an obvious break for it.
No amount of heys, waits, or calling after her stops her, and their shuffle is dangerously close to the door, so he goes against his better judgement and reaches out. His hand around her forearm, gentle but with pressure enough to halt her, does the trick. His stare burns into the side of her face when she doesn't immediately turn to him.
He knows she must be seething, pissed that he kept pushing when she repeatedly asked him not to. He knows that putting his hands on her is probably punching a couple of his arguments flat—but he doesn't let go.
The silence settles over them as they still, and he sees the quake of her shoulders, hears the unevenness in her breathing. Realization prompts his hand up, looser around her elbow, thumb sweeping against her arm like he can't help but soothe her. Movement seems precarious, but he takes the risk, rounding her front. Her free hand covers her face before he can assess it fully.
"Hey," his voice is gruff despite his attempt at softness.
She sniffs.
He pulls at her wrist, rocking the pads of his fingers to pry the cover off her face.
"Hey," he tries again, landing closer to his aim this time.
Her eyes brim, pink gone red and outlined by clumped eyelashes. If any part of him betrays panic, it's his eyes flitting between hers. It eases him slightly that hers follow, looking equally as stirred by the gentleness she sees in him this close up.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel bad." His voice pitches higher when he speaks this softly.
She shakes her head, wishing she could wipe the evidence of being affected off her face but not really wanting to pull out of his grip.
She frees the inner part of her lip from between her teeth. "That's not it." Her voice is suddenly ragged.
He tilts his head as if to let her know she doesn't have to deny it.
"Really," she continues, glancing away briefly then back, "you're just so...nice." Her chest juts again, emotion getting the better of her.
He can feel the tremor of his expression morphing and he quickly tries to bite it back, sure that befuddled isn't the thing to be right now.
If he's her idea of 'nice', there's a lot more foundation to his worry than he initially thought.
But he doesn't say that—he'd never say that. During this particular conversation.
She pipes up again before he can think of a response. "Jesus, this is humiliating."
That creases his brow.
"What?"
"We don’t really know each other that well. This isn't exactly something I wanted to add to the very short list of impressions you have of me."
He should deconstruct that assumption, reassure her that his impression of her is anything but meager, that this situation most definitely doesn't reflect negatively on her from his perspective.
“We know each other well enough,” he manages.
“Flirting with you by the mailboxes and unloading my personal problems are slightly different things.”
His lip quirks at that, his pulse picks up a beat or two in spite of his commitment to a sullen, understanding demeanor. But he can see the glistening of her waterline and her jaw still wound tight through the joke, so he shoves it aside.
She won’t meet his eyeline regardless of how deliberate his asking for it is and the elbow still cradled in his palm seems to be the only thing keeping her from walking out, so he ditches the usual reassurances.
“Remember running into me on the roof?”
She glances up, attention caught.
Running into was a kind way of putting her stumbling upon him stoically perched at the edge. Especially as she clattered over the warning chain with a feather-light folding chair and cheap alcohol in tow.
Her brow furrows, obviously predicting his route and not wanting to entertain it. “That was different.”
His head tilts. How so?
She’s quiet.
“Do you remember?” He asks again lowly, punctuating the words with dips of his head.
She remembers it vividly, nearly tripping onto the tarred rooftop, bursting violently into the quiet of it before she could even register him there. His head whipping her way as she immediately quipped about her misstep, expecting their usual conversation to follow. The sinking in her stomach is the same now as it was then, when he’d turned away instead of answering; when she’d noticed the toe of his boots snug against the lip of the roofline.
Before then, the most agonized she’d seen him was in flashes; worry or inconvenience, or any drive-by glimpse of emotion painted big by his puppy dog features. But sadness washed his face desolate, the only signs of it the occasional catch in his throat and the streaks over his cheekbones.
Of course she remembers.
“Yes,” she huffs. “That was different.”
“I was a grown man caught crying in the corner by myself. Pretty fuckin’ mortifying to me.”
“That’s not what it was. No one’s supposed to be up there; you weren’t expecting me to interrupt you. And when I did—when we talked—it wasn’t like you were moping over something ridiculous. I just freaked myself out, overreacted—” she takes a breath, flustered in defense of him then and concurrently against his point now. “That is not what this is,” she reasons quietly.
He can picture her concerned face on queue, can remember how much he hated being on the other end of it. Seeing him like that painted her in shock she couldn’t hide. The newness of seeing someone so steadfast at the end of a building obviously hadn’t worn off yet. He’d have been embarrassed for her to know how much of a cliche it was that she was actually witnessing.
“That seemed like a friend helping a friend out. That’s what this seems like to me.”
“I split an eight-dollar bottle of wine with you and lent you a shitty chair. I don’t think I did you any favors.”
He wonders if that’s really all she makes of that night. Of staying when she could have turned around and pretended she didn’t see anything.
His sigh meets her stubbornness.
“I know you go up there sometimes. I mean, I knew. Then. I knew that then.”
Her eyes widen just enough for him to notice as her face settles into realization.
“Maybe I wasn’t waiting, but I knew there was a chance.”
He’s looking at her like maybe he’d hoped there would be.
He offers the slightest twist of his mouth, worry giving way to sweetness for a moment. “Is that ridiculous?”
He thinks better than to note the sudden uptick in her trembling lips, so he lifts his brow to prompt an answer.
“No,” she admits softly.
He nods. “Then maybe you’ll agree this isn’t, either.”
She hesitates, but he continues before she can recycle any protests.
“I’m glad you came here. I wasn’t the perfect host, but I’m glad you did. And I assure you my impression of you is thorough and skewed wildly in your favor.”
He kneads his thumb into her arm, like he can make her feel the words there if she won’t hear them. She looks up at him finally, holding his gaze. The friendliest of surrenders.
“Thank you” is just about all she can manage. Then she tacks on, “I owe you one.”
His face pinches. “You don’t owe me for shoddy medical advice. Or need to thank me for it.”
She thinks back to the roof, “Please, let me. We’re not even close to breaking even here—”
“We don’t need to tally it up.”
She raises a wounded brow.
“I’m not interested in keeping score with you. I’m here. Whenever, whatever. Cup of sugar. The works.”
She stills, seeming to bear the weight of the words rather than hear them. She rocks a bit, not quite still on her feet. For a moment, he’s sure he’s said the wrong thing again, been flippant where he shouldn’t have been. But then she pushes up onto her toes, suddenly in a proximity to him that’s only been imagined until now. It sends his nerves into a tailspin instantly.
He stills, bracing, then stiffens when her arms finally loop around his neck. When she pulls tight, he settles a bit, letting surprised hands fall lightly to the small of her back. It’s her face nuzzling into his shoulder, the press of her firmly against him, that liquifies him. He lets out a breath long enough to fill the spaces between them, wraps his arms tighter, lets his head rest against hers.
Thank you.
This close, he can hear the unevenness of her breathing slowly settling.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re alright,” he cautions, muffled in her hair, “But if you’re not, I’m here ‘til six.”
He feels her nod.
It’s her that unsticks herself from him a moment later; he’d be damned if he was going to be the first to go. She steps back, folding her arms at her front as she looks him over.
“I’ll be fine.” She smiles weakly.
He hesitates for a moment, not wanting to make the wrong move. But then she’s moving again and he can’t help himself.
“Just—” it juts out of him like a plea as he steps around her toward the table. “Here. Just take this. Use it if anything changes or you need a get out of work free card. Anything.”
She smiles down at the torn piece of newspaper with his number scrawled over it.
“Will do.”
His lips purse with lingering worry, but he nods anyway. She’s quiet, her eyes tinged pink and exhausted—and, despite the tender pull of her lips, she looks like an apology in human form. He tilts his head.
Don’t.
Her not-quite-smile deepens a bit. She holds the paper up instead.
“I’ll let you get some sleep.”
She turns for the door and he follows, not deterring her this time. Before she can swing it open fully, she turns back, using most of the small space his entryway affords them to face him. He draws a breath when she rocks up on her toes again, but the peck of her lips on his cheek punches it right back out. It’s soft, a quiet gratitude and nothing more.
But his pulse trips, and for the seconds she takes to make her exit, the only movement in his body is cellular. He can finally breathe again when the latch clicks and jolts his heart back into rhythm.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
summary: robby tells you he wants to keep things casual after you catch him flirting with noelle. he's less enthusiastic when he finds out you've been seeing his best friend. (5k)
characters: michael robinavitch / fem!reader, jack abbot / fem!reader, trinity santos, dennis whitaker, mel king
contents: established relationship, friends with benefits, jealousy, mutual pining, angst, possessive!robby, allusions to smut
FIC #5 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You and Robby were not together. Not officially, and definitely not publicly. You were hardly together privately, if you were being real honest with yourself — aside from a few stolen nights after particularly draining shifts, where he’d show up at your place with takeout and exhaustion sitting heavy in his eyes and promises of distracting you from the hard day; where he’d then wake up before sunrise and leave before you had the chance to miss him.
Casual. That was the point. Because he was an attending, and you were his resident, and Robby had already made the mistake of blurring those lines once before. “It gets messy, sweetheart,” he murmured against your bare shoulder one night, voice heavy with sex and sleep alike. “And when it ends, it… It really fuckin’ ends, you know?”
You didn’t know what he meant by that, actually. You figured he was saying that dating within the hierarchy tends to crash and burn in some way or another, but you didn’t press him on the issue then. Though now you think that maybe you should’ve.
You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.
You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R.
You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.
“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”
Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.
Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose.
“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”
“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”
Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”
Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.
You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.
You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.
“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”
“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him.
He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)
“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.
“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.
Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.
“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.
You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”
The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.
Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up.
“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.
“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”
“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”
“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time— Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”
“I wasn’t—”
A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.
The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)
“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.
You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip.
“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”
You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.
“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”
Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments.
You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.
“Oh, my god—”
“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.
“—That’s what this is about?”
“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”
His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted.
“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”
You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.
“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”
Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out.
You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.
Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours.
“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”
“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff.
Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.
“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”
You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.
Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers.
In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.
“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”
“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”
“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.
You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song.
Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.
“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”
You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”
“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”
“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.
Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.
Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”
“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”
His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”
“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”
Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter.
You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”
“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.
Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.
You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”
“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”
The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.
“Jack,” you echo softly.
The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out.
“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.
The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”
“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”
“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”
Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”
“Eh. Maybe a little.”
You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”
“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”
“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.
“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”
“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”
Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.
Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”
“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”
You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?”
“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”
“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”
“Still counts.”
“Does it?” you squint.
Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”
“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”
“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”
You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more.
“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”
Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”
Your eyes harden in an instant.
Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.
“It’s casual,” you tell him.
Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage.
“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”
Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne.
For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.
Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.
Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.
You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before.
There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.
Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.
Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.
Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.
You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.
You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.
Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”
“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”
The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head.
“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”
You exhale a soft laugh.
Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’ today?”
“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”
“Brutal,” he scoffs.
“You’re fault.”
“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”
“No,” you answer instantly.
“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”
Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”
“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”
“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”
Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”
Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.
“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”
“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.
“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.
You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.
Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.
“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.
“Am I?” you hum.
“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”
“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”
“You usually only do that at my place.”
Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”
His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can.
Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.
“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”
“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”
“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.
“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”
You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day.
The realization hit him like a truck.
His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.
“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”
Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.
“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.
You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”
“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”
An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”
Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”
Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.
“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”
“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.
“Because being with him made me feel good—”
“I said alright!”
“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”
Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.
Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”
“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”
“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.
“Do what?”
“Act like this is what I wanted—”
The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again.
Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.
“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.
She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence.
“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”
The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you.
“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.
“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”
“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”
Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.
a/n - just a little bit of fluff I can’t get out of my head. Nothing special so if it sucks then u didn’t see this, got it?
-
Jack didn’t do bars. At least, that was what he always claimed.
Most weekends he’d kiss you goodbye, remind you to text him if you needed anything, then spend the evening at home while you went out with your friends. Later—usually sometime after midnight—you’d send him a message that ranged anywhere from perfectly coherent to complete gibberish, and he’d come collect you.
It worked, you got your nights out, Jack got to avoid crowds. Everybody won.
Which was exactly why he’d been suspicious when you’d spent the entire week trying to convince him to come out with you.
“You’ve got an ulterior motive,” he’d told you over breakfast one morning.
You’d looked up from your coffee - just the picture of innocence.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That’s a lie.” He pointed at you.
“It might be.” You teased
“You admitted that way too fast.”
Eventually you’d worn him down. Mostly because you were impossible to say no to. So on Friday night, Jack found himself sitting across from you in a worn leather booth, a cold beer in his hand as he surveyed the bar around him.
The place wasn’t what he’d expected.
The walls were lined with old concert posters and framed vinyl records. Neon beer signs glowed softly above shelves of liquor bottles. The crowd skewed older than the places you usually dragged your friends to, and instead of pounding club music, old rock songs drifted from the speakers overhead.
The first thing Jack noticed was the music. The second thing he noticed was the look on your face. You were trying so hard not to smile that your cheeks were practically hurting. Jack narrowed his eyes over the rim of his beer.
“You planned this.”
You immediately looked away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s bullshit.”
The grin finally escaped and Jack sighed. Every song that came on seemed suspiciously familiar. The stuff he listened to in his teenage years - it felt like a lifetime ago. A song started playing and the bartender immediately began singing along while wiping down glasses. A couple near the pool table joined in. Even the woman collecting empty glasses knew the words. Jack knew them too, of course he did.
“You like it,” you said.
Jack snorted.
“I tolerate it.”
“You like it.”
“I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he took another drink. Unfortunately for him, his fingers had started tapping against the tabletop in time with the music. You noticed immediately, Jack then noticed you noticing. His hand stopped. You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your cocktail.
By the second beer he’d stopped pretending not to enjoy himself. By the third, he’d relaxed enough that the crease that permanently seemed to live between his eyebrows had disappeared entirely. He finally had his guard down.
The truth was, he was having a good time. He liked watching you. Liked how happy you looked when you were out with people. Liked hearing music he hadn’t listened to in years. Liked sitting somewhere that didn’t involve fluorescent lights, trauma bays, or paperwork.
He especially liked that every time he looked across the table, you were there smiling back at him. He’d never admit any of that out loud. The two of you spent hours talking nonsense. Arguing about music. Stealing fries from each other’s plates. Making fun of strangers from a safe distance. At one point you made the mistake of calling one of his favourite bands overrated. The look Jack gave you was genuinely offended.
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on.” You protested
“No.”
“They’re a little overrated.”
“They’re one of the greatest rock bands of all time!” He argued, his hand banging on the table.
“See?” you said, pointing at him triumphantly. “Overrated.”
Jack pointed right back.
“You’re wrong.”
“You sound eighty.”
“I’m breaking up with you.”
“You wouldn’t dare” you laughed.
Jack took another drink. Unfortunately, the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth completely ruined the threat.
The night settled into that warm, comfortable haze that came from good company and a couple too many drinks. Not drunk, not really. Just happy.
The kind of happy that loosened something in your chest.
The bar had grown busier around you as the evening wore on. Every booth was occupied. People crowded shoulder-to-shoulder around the bar. Conversations overlapped into a constant hum of laughter and music.
You were halfway through stealing one of Jack’s fries when it happened. The opening notes drifted through the speakers. Soft at first, almost unrecognizable. Then suddenly the entire room reacted.
A collective cheer rose from every corner of the bar. Several people immediately started laughing. Someone near the jukebox threw both hands into the air. Another person shouted, “No way!”
You froze, then slowly turned toward Jack.
“Oh my God.”
Jack immediately groaned.
“No.”
The grin spreading across your face was impossible to stop.
“No, no, no.”
“Jack.”
“Absolutely not.”
The opening lyrics started to Total Eclipse of the Heart. Across the room, a group of women were already singing dramatically. The bartender pointed toward the ceiling as though he were performing in front of eighty thousand people instead of 50 people in a neighborhood bar.
Jack looked around at the crowd and started laughing, a real laugh that creased at the crows feet at his eyes.
“These people are insane.”
“They’re our people.”
“They are not.”
“They absolutely are.” You argued.
The first chorus approached. You were already sliding out of the booth. Jack saw exactly what was happening.
“No no no baby - not happening”
You held out your hand. “Come on.”
“We are not dancing.”
“We aren’t dancing.”
“We absolutely are.”
“We are swaying.”
Jack rolled his eyes.
“That’s dancing.”
“No, it’s not.”
“That’s dancing by definition baby.”
You wiggled your fingers impatiently. For a moment he stayed exactly where he was. Then he sighed, the dramatic sigh of a man who knew he was completely doomed.
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah.” You smirked.
Jack took your hand anyway. The space between tables was crowded with people singing and laughing, but neither of you cared.
The second his hands settled on your waist, something inside him relaxed. Your arms slipped around his neck automatically, comfortable and familiar.
You weren’t really dancing. Just swaying together while the music played around you. The chorus exploded through the speakers. And the entire bar erupted.
“TURN AROUND—”
Every single person in the building shouted it.
Including you and Jack.
You looked up at him so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. His eyes widened.
You pointed accusingly.
“You do know it!”
Jack immediately looked offended, brows furrowed as he looked down at you.
“It’s one of the most famous songs ever written baby.”
“I bet you know every word.” You teased.
“I know some words.”
The next verse started Jack did in fact know every word. Every. Single. Word.
You laughed so hard you almost missed half the song. By the second chorus his forehead was resting against yours. By the third, his arm had tightened around your waist. The crowd around you disappeared into a blur of raised drinks, terrible singing, and dramatic pointing whenever the chorus came around.
For a few minutes, everything else faded away. Jack was smiling, and not the small amused smile he usually wore. Or the polite smile he gave patients. A real hearty smile. Warm and unguarded. The kind that made him look years younger. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him this relaxed. No pager. No trauma. No responsibility. Just music, beer, and you.
His forehead rested against yours as he sang beside your ear, completely giving up on pretending he didn’t know the lyrics.
When the final chorus arrived, the two of you shouted every word along with the rest of the bar. Completely off-key, completely ridiculous and completely happy.
The song ended to cheers and applause. You were still laughing when you looked up at him.
“You having fun?”
Jack immediately shook his head.
“Nope.”
“Jaaack.”
“Alright - that was kinda fun.”
He pressed a small kiss to your forehead, his hands squeezing at your waist. A smile still lingered stubbornly at the corner of his mouth.
“You tricked me.” He grumbled.
You grinned “I know.”
“You’re not allowed to do that again.”
“You know that’s a lie.”
Jack glanced around the bar. Another song had already started. One he definitely knew and definitely liked. Then he looked back down at you. His arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you comfortably against his side.
“One more song.”
“I fuckin knew it.” You laughed, burying your face into his chest.
For once, Jack didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t having the time of his life with his best girl.
Please i have request 😩where Reader drops by Jacks office/ the hospital to surprise him, only to find a female coworker sitting at his desk, acting overly familiar and joking about being his "work wife" to the Reader's face. The Reader leaves feeling replaced and insecure. When Jack finds out what happened, he’s furious that his professional kindness was mistaken for something else. with happy ending with Jack setting boundaries with the coworker saying he only has 1 wife 😩🙏🏽
The Work Wife
Jack Abbot x wife!reader
Description- Inspired by this request (with a few creative liberties). You pay your husband Jack a visit at the PTMC to drop off some snacks for him and the other nightcrawlers. Before you can find him, though, you run into one of his coworkers, who refers to herself as his work wife and gushes about how special he is to her. No physical descriptors are given for the reader other than having hair, and there's no use of "Y/N" If you're my roommate, stop reading here. I see you girl
CW- relationship insecurity, momentarily feeling in conflict with another woman, lots of mentions of banana bread
AN- I didn't realize how much the banana bread is talked about until right now, but you know what, I have no regrets. It's a damn good food
You were feeling proud of yourself when you strolled into the PTMC. It had been a while since you’d surprised your husband at work, and when you had rooted around in the overstuffed freezer at home, desperate to find a way to fit the ice cream you’d picked up to celebrate Jack’s first full weekend off in months, it felt like divine inspiration had struck. You dared anyone to find a better plan that freeing up freezer space for one treat by making another, and so you’d pulled out a bag of overripe bananas that Jack had wanted to throw out last month but you had insisted on peeling and freezing.
“They’re just bananas,” he had said, giving you a look that said I love you but you look insane right now. “Easily one of the most affordable fruits. I can just buy more.” Maybe he had a point with his look, you acknowledged. It certainly felt strange to take mushy bananas and save them like they were a treasure to be used later, but it was something you stood your ground on.
“I have no doubt that you could,” you countered, not looking at him as you focused on the task at hand, trying and failing to remove the little stringy bits you always found annoying. “Believe it or not, I have banana-buying money too, even without a doctor’s salary.”
That earned an eye roll from Jack, but you didn’t have to look up from your task to know that he was wearing a smile matching your own. He paced around the kitchen island, hands landing on your hips and sliding around your waist in a loose hug as he dipped his head to kiss your shoulder.
“I’d buy you as many bananas as you could ever want,” he murmured against the soft fabric of your sleep shirt. You chuckled, leaning back against his chest for a moment and craning your neck to press an awkward kiss to his temple.
“You’re going to be late,” you chided, glancing at the microwave clock behind him.
Jack exhaled dramatically. You’d think he was going off to war for a second time, not meeting Robby to watch a Steelers game.
“Robby can wait.” His hands landed on your hips again, spinning you around before you had time to process or put up a halfhearted fight. His lips found yours, any protests you had planned to raise dying on your tongue as his found yours, the entire world disappearing until it was just the two of you. His grip on you tightened, a low sound coming from the back of your throat and your hands moved instinctively, one curling into the fabric of his t-shirt while the other fisted at his hair. Only when you realized the weird sticky feeling on your fingers did you pull back, pressing back against his chest with your wrists to prevent further damage.
“Jack,” you all but whined, “I banana-ed you.”
He laughed, full bellied and loud, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder and his arms circling your waist loosely again.
“It’s not funny,” you protested, unable to hide the laugh from your own voice. “You can’t go over there with banana goop all over your shirt. And your poor hair!” You patted at the beautiful mixture of dark and silver curls with the back of your hand, as if apologizing to them for sullying them with your sticky banana-laced fingers.
Jack only pulled back for a moment, still grinning but looking down at you with that familiar smug look you’d fallen for so long ago.
“Believe it or not, they have this great new invention for that,” he drawled, ducking his head to peck you on the cheek. “It’s called shampoo,” he murmured. “Supposed to really be something.”
You rolled your eyes, half heartedly pushing him off so you could wash your hands. “It’s only new to you, old timer.”
You felt almost silly walking through the ED with a paper plate of banana bread muffins, all wrapped up in saran wrap. The clean antiseptic smell in the air stung your nostrils, and you could hear crying from down the hall. It always amazed you how Jack could come back to this, day after day and night after night. It wore him down, sure, no one could leave completely unaffected by the things they saw, but he remained steadfast and stubborn, the same headstrong man who insisted on your fourth date that you’d be married someday with the confidence of a man who knew he was right.
You paused as you neared the central desk, looking around and trying to decide where the best place was to drop off the muffins. You hoped you’d see Jack, just to say a quick hello and tell him about the treat you’d made for him, but you didn’t want to distract him when there was work to be done and lives to be saved. The staff lounge was always a safe bet, but you hadn’t thought to bring a note to leave with them. You didn’t want them sitting there untouched, knowing only a few of the staff who’d been there for years would recognize your form of offering to the kind and dedicated staff of the Pitt. Even the med students deserved a muffin though, especially after the stories Jack had told you about the new recruits struggling with proper nutrition, shoving a few protein bars into their bags at the beginning of their shift and hoping it would be enough to sustain them for 12 hours.
Not on your watch. You would find some spare paper and a pen, and make sure everyone knew they were welcome to a snack. You might even draw an embarrassing heart or write a love letter and slip it into Jack’s locker for him to find at the end of shift.
You were hugging the wall, looking around for Lena or another familiar face not wearing anything bloodstained when someone approached you.
“Excuse me?” the woman asked. “Ma’am, you can’t be here. Only active patients are allowed back here, you have to wait your turn in chairs until someone brings you back.”
You laughed. This wasn’t the first time you’d been mistaken for someone drifting through the wrong door just to end up in the middle of the ED.
“Oh no,” you started, “I’m not a patient. I’m actually here to see a doctor.”
The woman, a pretty woman you’d guess to be somewhere in her forties, glanced over you, as if she was weighing the odds between believing you or not. The plate of securely wrapped muffins in your hands seemed to sway her in your favor.
“Which doctor?” she asked, suspicion leaking into her voice.
“Dr. Jack Abbot,” you answer. “He’s my-”
“Oh, Jack!” she all but squealed, instantly brightening at your husband’s name. “I love Jack, he’s practically my work husband.”
The warm smile on your face flickered at that, a bitter taste forming in your mouth that you weren’t familiar with.
“Is that so?”
The woman, Cheryl, it said on the ID badge clipped to her pocket, seemed to need very little prompting to launch into a tirade of reasons to love Jack. All of which were right, you knew, but somehow that did little to stop the growing knot in your stomach.
“Jack’s the best,” she said, guiding you towards the desk she must have been occupying when she noticed you standing by the wall. “He’s always helping me with my patients, checking it to make sure I’m doing alright, making little jokes just for us,” she looked down almost bashfully, a faint pink rising to her cheeks, though she found no issue continuing to talk.“He walks me to my car at night sometimes. He’s just always there, helping me, looking out for me.”
“Y-yeah,” you fumbled for words. All of that sounds like Jack, in a way. “He’s a great attending. The PTMC is lucky to have him.” You realized with a clench in your stomach that his coffee mug was on her desk, the same goofy travel mug that read Best Doctor on One Leg that you’d gotten him as a joke Christmas present one year. You’d just washed it the night before, still shocked he still used the damn thing outside of the house.
Cheryl snorted a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” she said, leaning across the desk and speaking with an almost conspiratorial hush. “But he’s really here for me in particular, if you know what I mean.” If she can tell from your expression that your stomach drops, the plate of muffins now set aside on the central desk because they feel too heavy for your tired wrists, she doesn’t give any indication. “It’s crazy, it’s like every time I look behind me he’s just staring at me.”
She seemed to remember she was at work and not with her friends at a bar gushing over the cute boys they liked, suddenly looking a bit sheepish.
“So, why are you here to see Jack? Did he treat you?”
You plastered on a fake smile, suddenly wishing you’d taken those acting classes in high school. “Oh, uh, no. No, I just know him. I wanted to bring these by for everyone working today,” you tap the plate of muffins, your hands feeling too unsteady to risk holding them. “I figured I would say hi if I saw him, but he’s got to be busy, y’know, saving lives!”
Cheryl gave you an odd smile then, noticing for the first time that something was wrong. There was something concerned in her eyes, almost pitying, that made you want to crawl out of your skin.
“Okay, well, I’ll tell him someone stopped by,” she offered, using a comforting tone usually reserved for children and people more upset than the situation called for.
Someone. You were “someone.”
You nodded, too sharply, already turning on your heels. “Thanks, you do that.” You grimaced as you began to walk away, cursing yourself for everything that had happened in the last ten minutes.
You were curled up on the couch when Jack came home the next morning. It wasn’t unusual for you to be up so early, preparing a quick breakfast for your husband so you’d be sure he actually ate something and took some time to rest before heading to the gym to work off some stress or collapsing in bed after a quick shower. This morning you’d done none of that though. You had slept like shit, laying awake on Jack’s side of the bed, head pressed to his pillow to breathe in the smell of his shampoo and something distinctly him, watching the ceiling fan spin in endless circles above you. You’d tossed and turned, only slipping under for a few hours at a time before you realized with an uncomfortable ache that you were awake again.
By four in the morning you’d given up, hauling yourself unceremoniously out of bed and trudging to the couch. With a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and a book in hand, you collapsed with a huff, wincing as you turned on the lamp on the end table, even the low light feeling like a sudden intrusion. You stared at the lamp once your eyes adjusted, taking in the smooth porcelain and the small imperfections in the glaze. It was a gift, you remembered, something off your and Jack’s wedding registry. You had loved the set of lamps you’d found at a local farmer’s market, the other part of the pair sitting on a table at the far end of the couch, where you usually sat tucked under your husband’s arm, pressed against his chest to listen to his heart beating, but you had a hard time justifying the cost. Weddings were already so expensive, and even with the modest way you’d chosen to have your ceremony, you didn’t want to go overboard. Jack had laughed at you, teasingly daring you to find handmade lamps at a better price anywhere else, let alone ones that had you so immediately enamored. It wasn’t until two years into your marriage that Jack had admitted during a quiet moment, curled up around each other in bed, that he had been the one to buy the lamps. He had given you that easy smile, all crinkled edges and sleep-tussled hair, when he explained it like it was simple. You had wanted them, but didn’t think you’d deserved them. He disagreed, and, being Jack Abbot, went about fixing it in the most him way possible, treating you with the kindness you’d always yearned for even though you hadn’t even realized it at the time.
You still loved the lamps. Imperfections and all.
Jack kicked off one of his shoes at the door, leaving the other on his prosthesis until he could sit down. He shrugged off his heavy army backpack, laden with all the tools you knew he carried and hoped he never needed, and rested it in the seat of one of the dining room chairs. He moved towards the couch, stepping unevenly at the height difference from still having one shoe on.
“Goodmorning, beautiful.” His hands swept through your hair, gently brushing it out of your face. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, lingering for a moment before straightening back up.
“Have you slept at all?”
You shrugged lazily, giving him a weak smile.
“Some. Definitely not enough though.” You patted the space on the couch next to you, uncurling your legs to make room for him.
Jack joined you on the couch, lowering himself down carefully with a faint grimace. His hands moved to his pant leg, tugging up the fabric to undo the fastenings of his prosthesis. Once it was off, and he’d let out a deep sigh of relief he’d never let anyone else hear, his artificial limb propped up to stand on the floor beside him, he held an arm out to you. You eagerly moved towards him, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder to draw you closer and press a whiskery kiss to your temple.
“Welcome home,” you said, giving him an easier smile as you settled into your spot against him. He leaned back into the couch, letting the soft cushions welcome him like an embrace.
“I missed you,” you continued, no longer trying to hide just how tired you were, physically and emotionally. “I always sleep better when you’re here.”
“I know, sweetheart.” His hand moved soothingly up and down your arm. “I sleep better with you too.”
“Shen said he saw you during our shift.”
There was no accusation to his statement, just a light lilting tone of confusion. You’d never go in and not ask to see him, even if you only had time to press a kiss to his cheek and tell him how proud you were of him before sending him off again with a cheeky wink and the occasional slap to his ass if no one was around.
“Yeah, I made some banana bread muffins and thought you and the troops could use a pick me up.”
Jack didn’t acknowledge how you side stepped the question he hadn’t asked.
“So I saw. They were delicious, by the way,” he added. “We almost had to intervene so Joy wouldn’t get too territorial over them. Thank you, for bringing them in.” Another kiss was pressed to your temple, lingering a little longer than the last. “I’ve gotta admit, I had my doubts when you started freezing bananas, but I stand corrected.”
You chuckled softly. “Damn right you do,” you murmured into his scrub top. The antiseptic smell still clung to him, but you could pick up enough of him that it didn’t matter. “Never question my freezer organizer skills against mister.”
Jack chuckled, his nose pressing into your hair and drawing in a deep breath. His hand drew lazily up and down your arm for a few moments as you sat in silence, just taking each other in again after a long day.
“Want to tell me why you didn’t wait to see me today?” Jack’s voice was quiet, his low tone rumbling in a way you always loved. There was no pressure in his question, just genuine interest and a tinge of concern. You could tell him no, and he’d accept it, just draw you into a firm hug and hold you until he went to shower before joining you back in bed.
“It’s stupid,” you confessed. You toyed idly with the drawstring of his scrub pants, knowing your frown looked more like a pout than you wanted it to.
“Nothing about you is stupid,” he said seriously, tipping his head a bit lower to press his forehead against the crown of your downturned head. “Sometimes questionable in the moment,” he continued, that gruff humorous lilt coming back, “but if we’ve learned anything from the bananas, you have your reasons.”
You rolled your eyes, lifting your head to look at him. He had a self-satisfied look on his face, giving you a sweet smile and a quick peck on the lips when you shook your head at him.
“You haven’t had, like, a super terrible day, right?” You would kick yourself later if you didn’t ask. Some days he came home barely able to anything but shrug and mumble responses, the ED bleeding him dry of any semblance of emotional energy.
Jack smiled softly. “No, sweetheart. Just regular terrible.” His hand found yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Not so terrible I can’t hear about yours.”
You gave him a small but appreciative smile, returning the squeeze of his hand.
“I ran into one of your coworkers before I could find Lena,” you began, voice coming out slightly quieter than usual. Even with his reassurance, you felt silly acting like it was a real problem. “She was nice. New, I think. I’d never met her before, anyway, and I don’t think you’ve mentioned her.” Jack hummed, his broad hand slowly rubbing your back, urging you gently when you paused. “I was going to ask if you were around, but she didn’t really give me a chance. She was talking about you, how great you are and how much she loves being around you.”
Jack kept his expression neutral, his brow still furrowed as he nodded along, not letting the praise get to him or stroke his ego.
“Obviously she’s right to think all that and say all that,” you add, giving your husband a shy smile to say that it was okay to smile or joke about it. “Honestly, you deserve way more than anything she or I could ever say, but…I don’t know. Something about it felt off.”
Jack frowned. “Off how?” he prompted.
You shook your head, trying to guide the pieces together in your sleepless mind.
“It felt personal to her,” you settle on. “Almost intimate.” You scowled before you could help yourself. “She called herself your work wife. Said you spent more time with her than the others, that you were always looking at her and hovering around her.” You shook your head again, trying in vain to dislodge the ill feelings that were blooming in your chest again.
“And I know you’re a diligent teacher,” you added, looking up at Jack’s concentrated frown. “I know you stare when you don’t mean to, and you have more of a presence than you know-”
“This is starting to feel like an attack,” Jack interrupted, soft grin spreading across his tired face.
You scoffed, hand moving up to cup his cheek, already prickly with the ghost of morning stubble.
“I love your staring and your presence,” you said, firm enough for him to know you meant it, but soft enough to still be teasing. You kissed him once for good measure, enjoying the humorous glint in his eye when you pulled back.
“But they’re for you,” he supplied, putting together the threads between your ramblings. “Not her.”
You gave a small nod, gaze dropping again as a wave of guilt washed over you. You didn’t want to be the person movies and books had trained you to hate for so long, the jealous woman who lashed out when someone looked at her man too long. You didn’t want to be possessive, or read into things that weren’t there, or even worse, punish Jack, your dear Jack, just because you couldn’t get a grip on your own insecurities.
“I don’t want to be crazy,” you all but whispered, hand finding the draw string on his scrubs again and spinning the knot idly between your fingers. “But I didn’t like it. She looked at me decided she had me all figured out. And it felt like she thought she really had a chance with you, and…I don’t know. Maybe I still don’t feel like I deserve you. Maybe I’ve just been missing you more with all the doubles you’ve had to pull. And I know that’s not fair-”
Jack cut you off with one finger held to your lips, shushing you like a child in a way that had your eyes narrowing and looking up to find his. When you did, you found an endearingly soft smile on his lips, looking just as in love with you as he did the day he’d proposed.
“First off,” he said, speaking like he was instructing a new medical student, using only objective facts, “your feelings are always fair. They’re never crazy, or overblown. They always have their reasons, even if you can’t see them right away. Reactions are what matter, and you’re reacting perfectly normally by telling me this so I can help. Alright?” He looked at you, corner of his lip quirking up when you gave a reluctant nod, but raised his eyebrows, giving you a cocky look that you knew meant he wanted a verbal answer. You huffed dramatically, but gave him what he was looking for.
“Yeah.”
He gave you a real smile, hand squeezing your upper arm as a reward.
“Second, you’re not crazy. No one should be talking about me like that at work, even if I was single. And certainly not when I have a foxy wife at home.” His broad hands gripped you as you scoffed out a laugh, dragging you onto his lap so he could wrap his arms around you, smiling smugly at the genuine laugh he’d earned.
“Don’t you dare laugh at that,” he’d added, poking you gently in the ribs. “No one laughs at my woman, not even my woman.”
You grin stupidly wide, arms circling around his neck in a show of surrender.
“Your woman?” you question, clicking your tongue scoldingly. “Guess I’m not the only possessive one then.”
Jack shook his head, his even gaze never leaving yours. “Far from it.” His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face where it had fallen from his manhandling. They lingered on the apple of your cheek, gently holding you as you leaned into the touch.
“I’ll say no to any more doubles for a while,” he said, barely above a whisper. Your brow furrows, but you don’t interrupt as he continues. “I didn’t realize how long it had been since we’ve gotten time for us. I’m sorry about that.” You could see that he meant it, his face serious as a ghost. You leaned forward, kissing the tip of his nose.
“Okay,” you agreed. “I think you need the break, if I’m honest. You’ve been stiffer recently, and I’ve been worried about you.”
Jack let out an exaggerated groan, stretching his legs underneath you.
“God, you’re right,” he sighed, settling a little lower on the couch, and pulling you down with him.
You grinned. “I’m always right.”
He nodded. “That’s why I married you.”
“And my baking skills,” you added, holding up a finger defiantly.
Jack shrugged, pretending to think about it.
“You’ve developed skills,” he settled on.
You gasped drastically, mustering up as much betrayal as you could in your fatigue, clutching your chest as if he’d wounded you.
“Developed?”
“Yeah. You’ve gotten better.”
You scoffed. “You don’t deserve my muffins.”
His voice was low. “Hey now-”
“Next time I’ll make a sign, For anyone but Jack,” you pretended to write across the air, voice trembling with laughter at the way his jaw dropped open.
“That has to be a violation of your wedding vows.”
You smirked. “No sirree, Jack-ass.” He groaned at the nickname usually reserved for when he was being extra pestering. He slumped his head forward, burying his face in your neck as you continued. “Sickness and health, richer or poorer, but nothing about when your husband doesn’t appreciate homemade muffins made with very resourceful banana preservation tactics.”
The side of your neck warmed from the sudden laugh he let out, muscled arms tugging you tighter to his chest.
“Robby will even get to take home the leftovers.”
Jack feigned a cry at that, raising his head and giving you the most betrayed look he could.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
You paused, trying to find it in you to continue the bit when he looked at you so sweetly, eyebrows knit together like his best friend stealing the muffins his wife made would wound his heart beyond repair.
You deflated with a small sigh.
“No,” you admitted, a smile pulling at your lips at how quickly he brightened. “But I might leave a note saying Cheryl doesn’t get any if you don’t get a work divorce.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “Oh, it was Cheryl?”
You nodded, giving him a confused smile. “That change things?”
He hummed in thought. “Doesn’t change them, but it does explain them. She’s new to the Pitt. Doesn’t have a lot of friends, it seems. Don’t remember where she transferred from, but they had different practices, so we’ve been watching her pretty closely to make sure she follows proper procedure.”
You nodded slowly, putting together the pieces in your mind. The feeling like he was watching her, the hovering and checking in, it all made sense. Not that you had doubted his intentions for even a moment. Even if she was the most beautiful woman on the planet, Jack was a man with a strict moral code, and adultery lay far outside the scope of his rules.
“Is it going to be weird working with her? Now that you know everything she said about you?”
Jack frowned. “Nah. I’ll go to HR at the start of next shift, file an anonymous report. They’ll sort things out with her, not make a scene or embarrass her. WIth any luck the whole thing will blow over.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll make sure the work marriage is annulled, sweetheart. Can’t be a workplace bigamist, can I?”
You sighed wearily. “You can try, but if you open that door, every woman, man, and person in between is going to try to jump your bones, doc.” You gave him an overly concerned look. “You think your old joints can handle all of that at once?”
He had the good grace to look offended at that, giving you only a moment to look pleased with yourself before his hands were on your hips, giving you a great heave to flip you both so you were pinned beneath him on your back. You yelped at the sudden motion, but one of his hands made its way behind you, bracing you to cushion your fall on the already soft couch. His full weight trapped you, pressing you firmly into the cushions.
“What was that you were saying?” he teased, the tip of his nose grazing yours.
You could feel your cheeks warm.
“If you think I’m able to think at all like this, you don’t know me very well, Jack.”
His lips twitched again, too busy taking in your expression to give a proper reaction of his own.
“Or I know you too well.” He leaned closer, leaving a trail of kisses from your temple down your neck and to your chest. His breath came hot against your skin when he spoke again. “Why would I ever want a work wife when I have you?”
SUMMARY ➩ Jack Abbot is the perfect neighbor who is always willing to offer you a helping hand. Until you ask him to take your virginity.
WARNINGS ➩ age gap (reader is early 20s and jack is 50), they have sex and all the things that sex brings along, jack might be ooc
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ Well for once I tried to deliver real smut for you guys so buckle up and leave me some feedback on this one if you like it! NOT PROOFREAD AT ALL and it’s probably obvious so be kind about mistakes lol I wanted to get this to you guys asap!
“I need a favor.”
Jack was used to you asking him for help, had been for the two years since you moved into the apartment directly across from his.
He didn’t mind offering you a lending hand when he saw you struggling to carry your boxes from your small run down car, it wasn’t an inconvenience to collect your mail if you ever had to leave town for a few days, and he really couldn’t complain about having to remind you to get your laundry from the unit down below because it held him accountable too.
It was such a common occurrence, you asking him for a favor, that he wasn’t too surprised to find you at his door. He only gave a soft sigh as you pushed past him to enter his apartment, offering you a lot more patience than he did the newbies at the hospital.
You were always sweet, maybe a little bossy at times, but it gave him some amusement in his otherwise strict routine.
Plus it was admittedly nice to feel needed.
You came to him when your apartment had a leak or your air conditioning went out, knocked on his door whenever it was raining and you’d forgotten an umbrella after locking yourself out, and you even sometimes popped over just to get his opinion on what you should wear out on a random night.
Everybody was always telling Jack he needed a hobby that didn’t involve putting his life on the line, so he rarely told you no and tried his best to brush off Robby whenever he asked what was keeping him so busy lately.
It would be hard enough to explain the dynamic he had with his much younger neighbor but even more so considering you were now standing in the middle of his apartment with a frustrated look on your face, hands on your hips as you tapped your bunny slipper covered foot.
“What is it now?” His voice was gruff and disinterested but you knew well enough that he would do whatever you asked and he was well aware of that too. Still, it helped him just a little to pretend to contemplate it for a second or two first.
“I need you to have sex with me.”
You said it like it was as simple as asking him to come over and check your water pressure, falling out of your mouth casually and landing heavily in the quiet room.
There was no need to pretend this time as he fell into a bewildered silence, raising an eyebrow in your direction and letting his eyes track you as you dramatically sighed and went to flop down on his couch. You’d demanded about a year ago that he got some pillows for it, along with a few other interior design suggestions.
He’d picked up four after his shift that night.
“Please say something.” You were turned around on the couch so you could face him over the back of it, arms crossed as you rested your chin ontop of them.
“I have nothing to say to that.” He shook his head immediately, that stern expression he used on an unruly patient or Robby when he got a little too pushy.
This just made you sigh again, loud and exaggerated as you turned back around to fully lay flat on his couch.
“Why are you even asking me that?” He didn’t want to pry because he knew you well enough by now to know you’d just be encouraged by that but his curiosity got the best of him, circling around to sit across from you on one of the living room chairs.
You didn’t sit up but you turned your head to the side to look at him, a slight frown on your face that he didn’t think was particularly genuine. Your personality was always something Jack admired, not getting a lot of time in his own life to be so bold with his emotions and carefree in the way he spoke and behaved.
He was serious and guarded where you were a walking billboard for spontaneity, coming to him crying about random problems after only half a week of living in the building.
It was mostly endearing but there was the more critical part of him that wondered how lonely you must be to be making friends and finding comfort with some random guy across the hallway, a much older one at that.
Jack knew he had a bit of a hero complex but it typically manifested in a more extreme way, quite literally jumping into battle to save lives or operating on them in their lowest moments. This dynamic with you was a new form of care taking and there’d been a handful of times he’d doubted his own motives.
“Because I have a date next week and I am a complete lost cause when it comes to all things intimacy.” You still had a theatrical flare to your voice, not facing him anymore and instead rambling straight up to his ceiling with your hands gesturing wildly.
He tensed up for two reasons now, one being the mention of a date and the other was your implication you didn’t have any experience.
“But you’ve had sex before.” It came out slowly and half like a question, half like an assumption.
There wasn’t any real reason for him to think that other than his own social expectations. You were gorgeous, one of the prettiest women he’d seen in a very long time, and had a naturally magnetic energy to you that even he couldn’t resist most of the time, platonically but also selfishly deep down, a little more than that.
He’d seen you go on a handful of dates in the last year or two, all guys your age that didn’t seem to know how to pick up a check let alone please you properly.
That’s where Jack’s problem stemmed from.
There had been almost no ulterior motive the first year he had known you, genuinely trying to be helpful and to be a good neighbor. He would get upset when his coworkers would call him anti social or make digs at how unfriendly he was because he hadn’t always been like that and he figured helping out the girl next door was a good first step to getting that part of himself back.
You’d told him after a few months that you had no family on this side of the country, completely starting fresh at a new company you’d applied to on a whim.
It was completely innocent.
Yes, you were undoubtedly beautiful in a way that made his head spin for a second when he first saw you. You had been standing near your car and fighting with a box, both by tugging at it and saying less than kind words in its direction like it could understand you.
Jack had hesitated for a handful of seconds before making his way over and offering to help, feeling this weird pull in his chest when you blinked up at him in surprise and eagerly thanked him.
Once you were in his life, you never left. And he made space for you effortlessly because, quite frankly, he had plenty of it to offer up.
About seven months ago was the first time he had ever seen you with a guy.
He’d been coming home from a long and rare day shift (covering for Robby so he could attend Jake’s graduation), dragging his leg behind him and praying nobody stopped him on the way to his apartment so he could crawl into bed for a few short hours before he had to do it all over again for his own shift.
The only distraction he would have allowed was you but you were clearly busy, standing in the hallway as he got off the elevator and touching the rather small bicep of a guy your age.
Jack hesitated, considered getting right back on the elevator before it could close on him, and then slowly walked to his door.
He had hoped you wouldn’t acknowledge him because his throat was already weirdly tight as he eyed you and the way you stared up at the man (boy, if Jack had to really label it) with that soft and curious expression you always had.
“Jack.” Your voice was full of excitement and he faltered, his key left in his doors lock as he turned to give you an attempt at a polite smile. “Covering somebody again?”
If this had been any other day then Jack would have invited you into his apartment to talk instead of lingering in the hallway. He would have ignored his exhaustion to pair his black coffee with the hot chocolate flavor you liked that he kept in his bottom drawer, complained to you about being tired and listened to you scold him for working too much when he didn’t need to.
But you were in a pretty dress that was clearly on its way to dinner and your date was giving Jack that possessive stare that guys fresh out of college thought was intimidating.
So instead he simply nodded his head and continued to unlock his door.
“This is Asher.” You continued abruptly as he turned his door handled, leaving it cracked as he stopped to look at you again.
He gave you a once over to make sure everything was okay, wondering why you were still insisting on talking to him when you were so clearly meant to be going somewhere else. You didn’t look too uncomfortable but you were watching him back just as intensely so he mentally stored the name and face of the guy anyways, just in case something happened.
“Ashton.” Your date finally spoke and his voice was annoyed and laced with immature bitterness, although slightly valid considering you had forgotten his name.
Your eyes widened, still boring into Jacks, and he smiled a little before giving you a small wave and heading inside.
Jack realized quickly after that encounter that his intentions were a lot less innocent than he had initially thought they were. He’d closed his door before immediately pressing his back against it, listening to the sound of your small heels leaving the hallway as you apologized to your date with a clenched jaw and a pain in his stomach.
The next few dates after that just confirmed what he had already realized from the first one.
He was attracted to you.
Maybe even liked you.
You talked to Jack about almost everything going on in your life, even things he definitely would not have cared about if it came from anybody else, but you never once brought up the dates. At first he had worried you had somehow noticed his weird demeanor that day in the hallway but Jack wasn’t very expressive in general so he figured you must keep that part of your life private for other reasons.
The attraction part was easy to accept mostly, he was only a man and you were clearly gorgeous. Although the age gap was something Jack couldn’t get himself to look past.
You were barely in your early twenties, over half his age younger and overly obviously so. You radiated youth, from your appearance and the way you spoke down to your hobbies and interests.
You were clearly a very young girl and he had felt like a pervert from the moment he saw you outside of that car for the way his body warmed. Jack hadn’t felt much attraction to anybody at all since his wife died, at first out of a lingering loyalty to her that barely faded and then just due to his busyness and his own mental blocks.
That was not a problem when it came to you and he had to give a genuine effort when he was around you to act normal.
You’d come over in tiny sleep shorts or a tight tank top that showed your hardened nipples through the thin fabric, join him for morning yoga in downright sinful leggings and he even was attracted to the stupid bunny slippers you wore.
But you were a young girl and he was a disciplined old man so he barely looked twice in your direction when you were bending over to get mail and he never once touched you, setting boundaries for himself and keeping them.
Which was why it was so hard for him when you slowly shook your head to his question about having sex before.
“What about those guys?” His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you and you sighed like you were embarrassed, a rare emotion to see from you.
“We barely kissed.” You shrugged and finally sat up from your dramatic position on the couch. “Please Jack, I don’t have anyone else to ask.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.” He said immediately, slightly offended you were seemingly only asking him because you had no other options.
You looked completely dejected now but Jack knew there was no way he could possibly accept this request, for too many reasons but especially because of his own moral code. He also didn’t want to ruin what you’d had going on, enjoying your company on his hard nights and finding himself finally letting somebody in after so many years alone.
“Okay so no sex.” You say softly and you stand up when he does, following him as he walks into the kitchen and leaning against the counter to watch him set the coffee machine settings. “But can’t you show me little things.”
He sends you a sharp look that you return with a gentle pleading smile, bouncing in place a little like you think your cuteness is the answer to everything.
And it just might be because Jack sighs softly and turns his full attention back to you.
“Like what?” He knows him asking for specifics will give you hope and he can see it immediately on your face, brightening and taking a step closer to him that makes him tense.
“Maybe just telling me what guys like?” You suggest softly and the words coming from your mouth make him almost groan, keeping his face flat and emotionless as you speak. “And some kissing lessons.”
“You know how to kiss.” He shook his head at you and went to turn back to his coffee but your hand wrapped around his wrist to stop him, successfully keeping his attention on you. He realized that it might be the first time you’d ever actually touched him, skin against skin. “I’ve seen it.”
His posture tightens as he reminds himself of that fact, easily recalling the vivid memory of leaving his apartment to head to work and finding you coming home from a date and making out with a guy against your door.
You hadn’t noticed him at first but he had slammed his door harder than normal, shamefully intentional.
There’d been a pang of guilt when you jumped in surprise and separated from the guy who looked the douchiest out of all of them but it was hard to feel it when you have him a slightly grateful look on his way to the elevator.
You were blinking at him now, almost like you were realizing something, and he looked away in favor of glancing at the clock on the wall.
“Not a kiss that feels good.” Your voice was more serious now, sounding genuinely disheartened by the conversation and the slow unveiling of your inexperience.
He sighed again, just trying to get rid of the tightness in his chest, before shaking his head firmly and fully turning away from you to fill up his coffee mug.
“I’m not doing it.”
—
Jack thought about your offer for the next two weeks. Obsessively.
He waited to hear you bringing somebody else over, someone who had jumped on the golden opportunity to touch you for the first time when he hesitated. You didn’t seem to go on any dates but he supposed you wouldn’t have told him anyways.
The thought of you experiencing sex with some asshole you met off a dating app, nervous and unsure on what to do without guidance, was eating away at him.
Jack was a fixer, he liked to help you, and he had already accepted the fact that he was extremely attracted to you. It wasn’t like he didn’t recognize the jealously in his stomach everytime he saw you with somebody else, a type of anger he hadn’t felt since he was preparing to go into a real life war.
Subdued by age and a calmer reality now but it was still fresh hot anger that he couldn’t shake no matter how much he tried.
You came to him with this problem, not just for pointers and tips but you had actually asked him to be the one to take your virginity.
Virginity.
Jack couldn’t get the concept out of his head and while he hadn’t necessarily considered himself somebody who would care about that type of thing, especially not as he entered his fifties, it did bring a wave of heat over him whenever he thought about it.
You’d never been touched before outside of a few unsatisfactory make out sessions. You, the pretty girl with downright sinful choices of pajamas that consumed his day to day life so easily after he spent such a long time alone.
He thought about it endlessly until it led to him knocking on your door, a rare switch of the usual dynamic that left him feeling a little awkward before you answered.
The sensation went away when you looked up at him, eyes a little wide with confusion as you silently stepped back to let him inside. It was rare for you to be so quiet but maybe you could tell what he was thinking by the look on his face, maybe you were thinking about the same exact thing.
“I’ll help you.” His voice was gruff and flat, waiting until your door closed behind him before he spoke. Your face immediately lit up but he silenced anything you were going to say with a raised hand, your parted lips closing as you waited for him to finish. “But I’m not sleeping with you.”
You pouted a little at the condition but stepped forward after a few seconds, far too close to him for his sanity but he figured you’d be getting a lot closer soon so he forced his breathing to stay level.
Jack used to consider himself quite smooth, still a natural flirt when he joked around with older patients or teased Robby.
But he was completely thrown off of any existing game when it came to you. He didn’t even know he could still feel this way about somebody, the yearning and lustful feeling having been dormant for a long time before you moved in.
“I’ll take whatever you give me.” Your voice was soft now and he’d never heard you like that, maybe a bit of a whine when you impatiently asked him to help you with something, but never so pleading.
You’d shifted even closer as you spoke and he couldn’t help himself now that he practically had permission, his large and rough hand sliding over your waist to rest on the small of your back.
You sucked in a sharp breath at the feeling and he was suddenly aware of how much fun this was going to be if you were that sensitive.
“Not tonight okay?” He replied and his low tone made your eyes soften, nodding eagerly and hesitantly letting your hands land on his chest in balled up fist. “We can talk about it more later and work out some conditions.”
“You’re giving me rules?” You’d collected yourself enough to finally give him some of that familiar attitude, smiling slightly as you stared up at him. He rolled his eyes but let his hand tighten against your back, moving you forward and just trying to test your reaction to the touch.
You lost your smile immediately, shuffling closer until you were pressed against him as your eyes darted all around his face with surprise. It was clear you didn’t expect him to accept at all let alone this easily, despite his two weeks of contemplation, he wasn’t at all hesitate now.
“You need them.” He retorted and his free hand brushed some of your hair behind your ear, the first time you were ever really touching each other being this intimate was sending another wave of affection through him.
A few years ago, Jack couldn’t even get himself to look at another woman, let alone hold one so gently. Even with the slightly out of the ordinary circumstances, he cared for you and you trusted him and that was all that really mattered in his eyes.
“You’re mean.” You’re whispering it and his head tilts at the sound it, overly fond and curious how you can affect him so much just by changing the tone of your voice. “Kiss me atleast.”
It comes out a demand and his eyebrows naturally furrow at the sound of it, knowing immediately that will have to be one of the rules he gives you when you talk them over.
Manners.
He doesn’t respond for a second but you seem to understand before he even needs to scold you, lips parting in realization before they form a small pout and you unclench your fist so your palm is flat on his chest now instead.
“Please give me a kiss Jack.” You sound sweeter now and he would think it was an act, making fun of him for his sudden silent sternness, if it wasn’t for the genuinely pleading look on your face.
The knowledge that you listen so easily, even when he doesn’t actually say it, overrides his senses so much that he actually does bend down to kiss you.
It’s soft at first which you don’t seem to understand, immediately trying to eagerly make out with him like that’s all you really know. He moves one of his hands from your side to hold under your jaw, applying a little bit of pressure near your throat to indicate he wants you to slow down.
You melt against him at the touch but do as he silently communicates and relax a little bit, still moving your mouth a bit sloppily against his but learning to adapt to his slow and easy pace.
Eventually you get the rhythm down perfectly, lips moving together without anything extra added. You asked Jack to teach you so he was going to do exactly that, starting from the basics.
Your face was completely dazed when he pulled back, instinctively shifting forward to try and kiss him again and making a small disappointment noise when his hold near your throat tightened in warning.
“You asked for a kiss.” He said in a low voice, still close to your face so he could perfectly see the way your widened eyes shifted around his features.
He was a bit mesmerized by the way you looked now, so unlike yourself on any other day. It both made his guilt over being perverse grow and also solidified that he didn’t care how wrong it was as long as you kept looking at him like that.
“Get some sleep.” He waited a few seconds before taking the necessary steps away from you, taking a sharp breath as he turned and left your apartment.
His own door had barely closed behind him before there was insistent knocks on it, his head immediately hanging since he knew exactly who it was.
Your eyebrows were furrowed when he pulled the handle to reveal you in the hallway, standing stiffly and glaring up at him but not making any move to come inside. You shifted in place and let out a huff of annoyance as you seemed to search for the right words to convey what you wanted.
“Can you kiss me one more time?” You eventually settled on the blunt question, shifting closer so you were both halfway in his doorway.
While he had a foot inside his apartment still, you had one in the hallway. It left you standing too close for his sanity, feeling it slip almost entirely again when your small hand landed on his forearm and rubbed softly.
“What’s wrong?” He asked softly, sensing your frustration but not knowing where it was stemming from.
He cupped your face with one of his hands, letting the other rest back on your side. You stared up at him as he took a few slow steps forward, backing you up with each one until your back hit the doorframe and took a soft near gasp from your lips.
“Nothing I just…” You trail off as you pout, scanning over his face and then down his chest until you can’t bend your head anymore to look. “I want one more. Please.”
You added it as an afterthought but it was enough for him, pressing his mouth back against yours.
This time, apparently a very quick learner, you were able to meet his pace right away and your mouths moved softly together. Your arms went around his neck so you could fully cling to him as you kissed deeply, heads tilting and quiet pleased noises rumbling in your throat.
You only got louder when his tongue pressed lightly into your mouth, mostly just to test your reaction but unable to stop himself when you were eagerly matching the actions.
It was sloppy and a little too wet, sounds of your tongues tangling together filling the silent hallway and sending a sharp heat down to his gut. He liked how clumsy you were, growing addicted to the way you seemed to have no idea what you were doing but too desperate to stop yourself and ask him for his help.
Jack knew he liked feeling needed but this was a whole different beast, one that came paired with some light shame.
You weren’t innocent and you knew exactly what you needed to about sex but your body was inexperienced and it was getting clearer by the second, your little gasp when he kissed you deeper and the way you tightened your hold on him everytime he went to pull back and attempt to slow down.
You’re red in the face by the time he manages to get you to stop eagerly kissing him, still instinctively shifting closer when he moves back. He gives you a lighthearted sigh, occupied by the softest smile he can manage so he doesn’t actually hurt your feelings when he presses you back against the doorway with the hand that’s still on your hip.
“Time for bed.” He tries to keep his tone light but it comes out more authoritative than he had meant for it to, most likely driven by the way you automatically started to frown as soon as he held you away from him. “We can talk tomorrow.”
You clearly weren’t happy about that but you surprisingly gave him a soft nod, shifting your body until you were out of his entrance and closer to your own.
He watched you and your dazed face, slightly wobbly on your feet, as you disappeared behind your apartment door with a small wave.
-
Jack had started off his day rough the following morning, barely able to sleep after what had happened.
It was a completely split mixture of wanting you so bad it was driving him to literal insanity and feeling disgustingly guilty for even looking in your direction.
He almost considered calling Robby about it but he really didn’t need to hear the lecture that would undoubtedly come his way about the situation. Plus he figured that whatever Robby knew, Dana knew, and if Dana knew then it was only a matter of time before the entire emergency department was gossiping about Jack Abbot and his young neighbor.
The dilemma was so strong that he had almost completely forgotten about the fact he had told you that you’d talk today, although almost intentional.
He was halfway avoiding having to actually sit down and make this arrangement a reality, still having a hard time believing what had happened last night was even real.
He had just started to get changed for work when the knocking on his door started and he knew it was you immediately, standing still and hanging his head for a few seconds like he figured he could just wait you out.
It didn’t take long for his senses to kick back in and he was pulling on a plain black shirt before making his way over to the door, raising his eyebrows at you when he saw how irritated you looked.
You brushed past him immediately and he lingered with his hand on the door knob for a moment before closing it and preparing himself to face whatever wrath you were about to send his direction.
“You didn’t come over.” You immediately accused, finger pointing in his direction as you stood in the middle of his living room with an angry expression. “You didn’t even text me.”
He was already walking closer to you as you spoke and your defenses naturally crumbled at the proximity, especially when his hands were sliding over your ribs to both hold you steady and let him feel your breathing as subtly as possible.
“You can’t just kiss me like that and then ignore me.” You continue on but your tone is a lot softer now that he’s touching you, already getting that dazed edge to it he had heard last night.
“I didn’t mean to ignore you.” He shakes his head and frees a hand to tuck some hair behind your ear, your features have completely softened now at the movement.
Jack wonders for the first time if you might have feelings for him beyond trust and attraction.
For some reason, he hadn’t really considered the possibility before. You were practically his polar opposite and he had nothing in common with any of the boys you went on dates with.
But now, with you blinking up at him like you were hanging on to his every word, he let himself think it might just be likely.
“I figured you changed your mind.” Your words are a little slurred from the insistent pout you have on your face and he sighs again, gently leading you over to sit on his couch.
Your knees brush together as you scoot closer to him the second he’s settled on top of the cushion, your hand wrapping around three of his fingers and squeezing lightly as you wait for him to respond to your fear of being rejected.
“I didn’t but I want to make sure you understand what you’re asking.” His voice is low and nearing stern, the same tone he uses on the new med students who seem a little more cocky than they are willing to learn. He knows that’s not the case with you, knows you’re desperate for any expertise he can offer you, but he still wants you to pay attention and properly understand him. “There’s other ways for you to do this.”
“What, like other guys?” Your eyebrows furrow like the thought confuses you.
His stomach tightens immediately, sick at the thought of it, but he stiffly nods his head.
You’re shifting even closer immediately and he lets out a breath when you’re leaning over his knee nearly, closer to his face than before and scanning over it again.
“I don’t want another guy Jack. I just want it to be you.” You’re whispering now and he can’t stop himself from pressing a light kiss to your mouth, brief but necessary when his brain processes the lack of distance between you. That makes you smile finally and he suddenly feels very stupid for ever questioning you when you’re making a request like this.
“Tell me why.” He mumbles, easily sliding his hands around your middle so he can tug you over more and into his lap. You kiss him again once you’re settled in his lap, still quick like you’re both using it as punctuation during your conversation. “Why me?”
He wants to hear you give a legitimate reason, to undo the hesitance you gave him when you said it was only because you didn’t have anybody else to ask. That’d been weighing on him more than anything else, the thought that you had just settled for your older lonely neighbor who was clearly willing to help you with anything in spite of himself.
Your next kiss was much longer, deeper as you fully sink down in his lap and move your mouth against his desperately. He’d accept that alone as an answer, big palms rubbing over your back and sides so he can keep pulling you impossibly closer.
Your nose is rubbing against his when you pull back, the sounds of your breathing being heavier now making his head spin with the necessary impulsivity to keep making terrible decisions with you.
“You’d make me feel good.” The answer you’d landed on was much more devastating than he was prepared for, his eyes darkening at how confident you sounded in that fact. “I know you would.”
His hands tightened around your soft skin for a second, needing to take a deep breath to ground himself.
It takes a second for him to reply, tucking his face into your neck and inhaling sharply. You smell as sweet as you always do but it’s intoxicating to have it this close after so long, skin soft under his lips as he kisses you softly.
Your breathing gets shaky, arms looping around his neck so you’re practically hugging him. You’re warm on top of him and making the sweetest noises when he moves along your jaw, shifting in his lap to try and get his attention back on your conversation.
“You’ll do it right?” You ask softly, running your hand through his hair and tugging just enough to make him finally look back at your face. His eyes are dark and unfocused as he stares at your pretty features. “Jack?”
“Yeah honey.” He says back after another long silence, voice deeper than he’d ever heard it as he leans in to kiss you again.
You kiss for a long time, wiggling around in his lap when your tongues tangle together and you get to taste him properly again. It’s addicting for both of you, both of your hands running all over the other’s body like you’re trying to learn every part of it you can reach.
Eventually you’re fully rocking against him from your neediness and it takes a second for him to process it, snapped back to focus when he hears the way your whines are getting higher pitched. A near growl leaves his throat as he grabs your hips firmly, thumbs pressing into the bone so he can stop you from moving on top of him like that.
“Jackie.” You whine desperately, kissing him again and successfully distracting him long enough that you can start humping again.
“Stop baby I have work soon.” He scolds in between the sloppy kisses, lips and chin slightly wet from how uncoordinated you still are.
You make another soft noise and he’s confused for half a second before he realizes it’s because of the pet name, smiling softly from his fondness for you as you hide down in his neck for a second.
“You’re hard now, I can feel it.” You’re whispering right against his skin and a shiver runs over him at the lewd words falling from such a pretty mouth, high pitched and almost innocent voice making the sentence sound so much dirtier than it needed to be.
At first Jack doesn’t think you’re right, knowing himself and his body enough to expect he’s not stirring down there even if he wants you so bad it makes him feel insane.
He’s had issues with it for years now, a deadly combination of his age, his traumas, and the carousel of medications he has to be on for a variety of things he wouldn’t disclose to you out of his own pride. That was the reason Jack had stopped trying to hook up with people years ago, giving up on porn entirely when he’d have to spend an hour trying to get hard before he could even attempt to actually get himself off.
It was in the back of his mind when you’d asked him to help you with this but he figured this was about your pleasure, he wouldn’t need to be hard to get you off especially if he stuck to his guns about not actually having sex with you.
He was sucking in a deep breath to explain this to you in less detail, make sure you understood that he wasn’t hard but it had nothing to do with you or his attraction to you, when you gave a particularly deep and slow roll of your hips.
And the effect was completely undeniable.
A shudder ran over him, eyes dropping to his lap that you were still rocking on top of. Your tiny little shorts were so clearly pressing against the tent in his scrub pants, catching on it whenever you lost the energy to move properly as you let out another needy whine and hid back in his neck.
You were completely unaware of his current mental situation, baffled at how easily you’d gotten him to this state from just some sloppy kissing.
You must’ve thought he was ignoring you because you picked up your head to glare at him, a pout on your swollen lips.
“Sorry sweetheart.” He sighed and kissed you gently, rubbing your sides up to your ribs and coming back down right when he felt the swell of your breast against his fingertips. “I really have to go.”
“Let me suck you off.” You requested easily and his breath caught, nearly choking at how simple you made it sound. “I wanna learn and you’re so hard right now Jackie. Please let me do it.”
“That’s not the point of this.” He shook his head immediately and moved you by your hips so you were sat next to him and no longer settled in his lap, clearly upsetting you as you scrambled up on your knees and gripped his bicep so he couldn’t get off the couch yet.
“The point is to teach me things about sex and I’ll need to know this.” You counter, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at why he’s rejecting you.
He finds it a little amusing that you’re so used to him accepting your requests for things that you’re genuinely lost when he doesn’t immediately fold for you. It’s a bratty habit he should have corrected months ago but he can’t find himself caring too much, liking how dependent you’d become on him.
Jack has to contemplate this because he knows you’re right, stomach turning a little at the reminder that you’re going to use whatever he shows you on somebody else down the line.
That selfishly makes him want to cancel this whole thing and leave you completely clueless, hopefully to the point you decide to swear off sex with other men entirely. But he knows how stubborn you are and how stuck you get on something once it catches your attention, figuring you’d get on a dating app and find some idiot in finance to take your virginity as soon as he put an end to this arrangement.
So he lets you slip to your knees off the couch, taking his hesitance to decline again as a positive sign.
“Wait.” He interjects and you freeze, sighing in annoyance as you prepare for him to give another reason you can’t do it. Instead he pulls one of the pillows off the couch and slides in near his feet, your eyes softening as you shift so you’re kneeling on the plush cushion instead of the floor.
“How do I start?” You ask softly, eyeing the bunched up fabric in front of you with interest. He has to stare at the ceiling for a second, slightly losing it at the sight of you kneeling on his floor between his legs. “Do I have to get you ready?”
“No.” He says it gruffly and you tense again, his tone way sharper than he’d meant for it to be. “It’s… I’m ready baby trust me. Just give me a second.”
That calms you down immediately, enough that you rest your head on his knee as you try your best to be patient. His eyes go back to you at the touch and he watches the way you squirm against the pillow, clearly still riled up from the kissing and maybe even the thought of taking him in your mouth.
“Has it been awhile Jack?” Your voice is ridiculous now, clearly teasing him and developing this soft purr that almost irritates him.
His hand goes into your hair at the sound of it, tightening enough that you lift your cheek off his knee and stare up at him with wide eyes.
“Watch it.” He says lowly, using his free hand to untie his scrub pants as you eye the movement with fascination. Your lips part as you stare at his hand and the way his fingers twist the strings, he has half the thought to make you choke on the digits before you try and take anything bigger but your attitude has left him feeling just as impatient. “We’ve got to work on your manners if you want me to teach you.”
That makes you snap back into focus, frowning at his words and shaking your head as you straighten up on your knees.
“I have manners Jack.” You’re clearly trying to convince him, small hands smoothing over his thighs.
He starts to deny it but he’s cut off when you lean forward to nuzzle against him, face pressing right where he’s currently aching under two layers of fabric. His breath catches in his throat and he instinctively tightens the hand that’s in your hair, mumbling out an apology when you make a pained noise but barely loosening it after.
He feels like he needs to keep it there to have any sort of control in this situation, especially given the way you’re almost desperately rubbing your face on his lap.
“Should’ve told me you were this needy.” He half scolds as he shifts his waistband down lower, waiting for you to notice and pick yourself up just long enough to get his pants down.
You don’t give him long at all before you’re back to obsessing over the sight in front of you, eyes fully dazed now that it’s just his boxers separating you from putting your mouth on his hard length.
You’re clearly trying to be patient in an attempt to prove you have any sort of manners, a little pride rippling through him similar to the feeling he got when you had corrected yourself the other night to politely ask him for a kiss.
“You wouldn’t have done anything about it.” You say softly, not accusatory but confident in it like you know it’s true. You lean forward and kiss against the covered bulge, a groan leaving him. “You’re too good of a guy.”
“Clearly not.” He rasped just as you start to lose that faux patience you’re trying so hard to pretend you have, tugging at the waistband of his underwear and smiling softly when he lifts his hips off the couch without arguing. “And you know I never tell you no sweetheart.”
“Yeah?” You’re still trying to talk to him but now you’re completely lost in the sight of him half naked and sitting there with his legs spread in front of you, too desperate to even be intimidated by the size of him. “You would’ve let me do this months ago Jackie?”
He sighs and tightens his hold in your hair again, bringing you forward until he can feel your breath where he’s most sensitive.
Your eyes flicker up to him and the sight is devastating for how deprived he’s been, a pretty young girl like you sitting so nicely on your knees for the first time ever. He can barely even feel that guilt and slightly sick sensation, knowing how perverted it is that he could probably get off just looking at your face and thinking about the way he’s about to corrupt you.
“Stop talking.” He instructs gruffly and you nod eagerly, eyes back on his length and only now looking a little nervous as you swallow before your lips part in anticipation. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Want it so bad.” You don’t hesitate to answer and your voice is a little whinier, swaying forward like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.
Jack lets you move until you’re right there, eyes locked on your face as you give him a nervous look and try to take him in your mouth.
It’s awkward and you’re tense, expression full of hesitation like you’re waiting for him to tell you how to do it properly but he lets himself bask in this for a few seconds.
He knows it’s sick but he finds you the most beautiful like this, confused and desperate to please him without knowing how to. You go between sucking and licking at the tip of his length and while it feels good, no doubt about that especially after how long it’s been, it’s nothing compared to how clearly inexperienced you are.
Finally, he snaps out of his sick fantasies of watching you embarrass yourself trying to please him, and he decides to actually do what you’d asked and teach you something.
“Relax your jaw baby. Just take what you can okay?” His voice is low and gentle, hand loose in your hair but clenching into a tight fist whenever you brush against his sensitive skin with your teeth on accident or try to overachieve and take him deeper.
You do seem to calm down a little now that he’s finally speaking, shoulders slumping and your eyes fluttering shut as you get used to the feeling of him on your tongue.
You’ve barely taken him at all but he’s transfixed by the sight, perfectly content to sit here and cock warm your mouth until you were ready to move him down your throat.
He watches you closely as you pull back to take a few deep breaths, pouting a little at his length and hesitating before you’re touching him with your hand. It’s all experimental, tugging and feeling the skin against your palm while he grunts above you and tries to control himself.
It’s barely sexual on your end considering how fascinated you are by the new experience but he’s halfway losing his mind knowing this is the first time you’re touching somebody like this.
“I gotta go soon sweetheart.” He says and your eyes finally snap back up to him, turning a little red considering you’d been caught just staring at his length as you touched him. “You can play with me all you want after my shift.”
Now you’re full on blushing but you nod your head obediently and lean back in to take him in your mouth again, a little more confident now as you lick around the head and repeat movements whenever it draws a sound out from him.
Jack can barely stand it and he has to put both hands in your hair to keep himself from fucking up into your warm mouth, groaning from the effort it’s taking and considering telling you to get back on the couch before he goes too far with you too early.
You’re clearly just as impatient because you try to take more of him finally and immediately gag at the sensation, pulling back and frowning up at him.
“Help Jackie.” Your voice is whiny and has a little rasp to it now and he kisses his teeth at the sound, petting your hair back out of your face.
“I can’t help with that baby, you’ve just got to practice.” He tries his best to soothe you but you’re clearly frustrated.
“Can’t you just force my head down?” You’re rubbing his thighs as you speak in that ridiculously bratty voice, wiggling around on the pillow like the thought alone is exciting you.
He wants to say no, wants to tell you why it’s such a terrible idea for him to forcefully fuck your throat right before he has to go to work. There’s a million reasons he should be rejecting you right now but that sick voice in the back of his head is struggling to get the words out, especially when you go back to softly kitten licking at his length to keep him hard.
“Fuck you’re nasty.” He gruffs out and your eyes light up at the words, nodding your head and taking him back in your mouth as you keep trying your best to fit him deeper. “You want me in your throat that bad?”
You can’t talk now but your desires are obvious.
He eyes the way you’re shifting on the cushion below you, adjusting his foot the best he can so it’s between your thighs as you kneel. That seems to make you even more desperate, rubbing against him almost feverishly now as you try to focus on having him in your mouth.
There’s no option to do so when he brings his hands back to your hair, silently showing you he accepts your request when he moves his hips off the couch and keeps your face firmly in place so he can push deeper down your throat.
He feels you gag slightly around him but your eyes roll to the back of your head at the same time and you hump against his foot even faster so he can’t find it in himself to stop, thrusting slowly to make sure you don’t end up getting sick or feeling too sore by the time he’s finished.
Jack knows this is far beyond teaching, he’s not even speaking anymore and instead just using your throat to get himself off but you’re even more eager for it than him and he’d never deny you anything you asked for.
“This tiny little throat.” His voice is nearing a growl as he helps move your head up and down his length, reveling in the way you gag and drool around him. “You’re doing so good baby.”
The praise seems to do it for you more than anything else, rubbing your core against his foot so eagerly that you can barely focus on sucking him off. You’re getting too messy to control yourself, mouth slipping off every few thrust before you whine at the loss and immediately take him back in your throat.
Jack takes pity on both of you, both for his own sanity and because he can’t stop thinking about the fact he’ll need to leave as soon as this is done.
You’re clearly upset when he pulls you off, making a loud noise of disagreement that barely sounds like an actual word and frowning at him when he sends you a stern look and wraps his hand around himself instead.
You seem to forget your anger pretty quickly as you watch him touch himself, hips slowed down to a slow rock against his foot as you stare at his length and the way he’s making himself feel good above you.
Jack has to look away when he comes because he feels pretty close to forcing your head back down and making you swallow it, although half positive you’d actually enjoy that more than him judging by how eager you are to try things.
You’re laying your head back on his thigh while he grunts and curses, tightening his fist and going back to staring at your face just for a brief moment so he has a clearer picture to think about.
It’s quiet in the living room afterwards and he feels an odd sense of embarrassment, a rare vulnerability considering you’re still fully clothed and kneeling on the floor. He fixes one of those problems by effortlessly pulling you up by your arms, settling you back against the cushions.
He stands and pulls his pants up while he does so, knowing he’ll have to shower off before he can go to work and get a new pair of scrubs anyways.
There’s a second of hesitation before he goes to get you some water, leaning over your dazed frame and kissing you softly.
“Was it good?” You ask quietly against his mouth, hand tangling in his hair like you don’t want him to go anywhere without answering you first. “You stopped me.”
“You were perfect.” He answers simply and he means it, would probably feel the same if you had accidentally bit him though.
“I wanted to taste you.” You’re pouting again and every time he thinks he gets used to you, you prove him beyond wrong. He sighs and leans further against you on the couch so you’re fully sinking into the cushion below you.
“Next time.”
It comes out before he can stop it and he fully plans to backtrack but your eyes light up at the idea of him letting you do that again so he doesn’t, letting it linger for a few seconds.
“Not when I have to leave you right after. You won’t like it and I don’t want to hurt you.” He’s talking in the stern and no nonsense way he does at work, trying to make sure you understand even though you’re slowly starting to smile as he speaks and he realizes you’re probably not paying any attention.
“You won’t hurt me Jack.” You whisper and it’s so sweet he almost considers calling in so he can stay with you a little longer. “Not in a way I won’t like.”
That makes him scoff out a laugh, a rare sound from him and you look even more pleased at the noise.
“You don’t even know what you like sweetheart.” He says softly and brushes your hair out of your face, letting both his fingertips and eyes trail down your neck until he reaches your collarbones. “But I’ll show you.”
“You’ll show me?” You’re teasing him now, biting your bottom lip to try and hide your smile to no avail.
“Yeah I will.” He smiles too and kisses you again, a little too soft considering what you actually are to each other.
He eventually manages to get off of you long enough to get you some water, watching carefully as you take a few sips and rubbing your knee when you wince at first. He wants to feel guilty for making your throat sore but he can’t, sick enough to admit he just feels the urge to make you take him deeper next time to see if you’ll really let him.
You’re still laying on his couch when he gets out of his brief shower, having changed his pants and taken a few deep breaths while staring in the mirror to try and get ahold of himself. He needs to switch back to reality for atleast a few hours, become the weathered doctor who doesn’t lose his mind over a pretty girl asking for favors.
You set your phone down on your chest, giving him your full attention as he moves towards the door to tug his shoes on.
There’s no indication you plan to leave before he does but he can’t find it in himself to mind the intrusion, going back over to the couch to give you a kiss on the forehead.
“Staying here?” He says in a low voice and you nod eagerly, eyes locked on his.
He lets himself think about his entire way to work, the image of you being there when he gets home from a hard shift. It had been a long time since he had someone to come home to and having you across the hall was already a gift within itself.
Now you’d crossed a line and if he let himself forget the terms and conditions, the fact you were loosely using him just to end up with somebody else as the actual end goal, then he could pretend for a moment that you were the person he got to crawl into bed with when work was tough.
Despite how much he thought about you during his shift, every moment he wasn’t being bombarded with questions or saving somebody’s life on autopilot, you weren’t actually there when he came back.
He knew it before he even opened the door, confirmed by how neatly the pillows on the couch were placed again and the fact your glass of water was rinsed and put away in the dishwasher.
You’d made it look like you were never even there and he knew you still enjoyed his company, maybe enjoyed the newly added sexual dynamic even more, but that didn’t mean you wanted to comfort him after he lost a patient or help soothe him when his leg was bothering him from standing all day.
Jack had to remind himself of the part he was playing in your life currently and try his best to not be disappointed.
It’s two days until he sees you again and he thinks it’s one of the longest spans you’ve gone without talking in almost a year.
He’s just about to start really acting out of character by banging at your front door and asking if you’re avoiding him when he runs into you downstairs, freezing as soon as he enters the lowly lit laundry room to find you leaning against one of the washers and looking extremely bored.
You’re as beautiful as always, casually dressed in nothing but an old band shirt that hangs off your shoulder and a pair of shorts so small he’s pretty sure it’s just boxy underwear.
You don’t look up when he comes in until his leg slightly catches on the step, accustomed enough to the sound of the light dragging he sometimes can’t stop from happening when he’s extra tired.
It’s a relief to find that you don’t have any awkwardness on your face, no sign of being uncomfortable or upset with him.
Then he figures that might just be worse.
He would just about die if he had done anything that made you want to avoid him but the alternative seems to be that you just didn’t want to speak to him and that makes his chest sting.
There’s nothing but silence and the rattling of the old washer as it rocks back and forth on the cement floor, both of you seemingly having decided to not speak to each other first.
(sorry for the brief awkward spacing tumblr says this is too long)
It’s another five minutes of the now awkward stretch of quiet before you clear your throat, turning to face him where he’s fidgeting with his laundry baskets broken handle just to have something to focus on.
“So I went on a date last night.” You say softly, eyebrows raised like you’re genuinely interested in his reaction.
His stomach turns but it’s a relief to have you looking at him again so he takes it, swallowing hard and racking his brain for a response that’s appropriate.
“How’d it go?” He’s asking out of politeness but he’s silently praying you suddenly decide you don’t want to tell him about it. It wouldn’t even make him feel better to hear it had ended terribly, not wanting you to feel any type of negative emotions even if it technically was in his benefit.
He definitely can’t take any sort of mention of you being with another guy physically. He knows it’s coming eventually, it’s the sole purpose behind why he even gets to touch you, but he’s not ready just yet.
You’re quiet again and he really looks at you now, takes in the silent contemplation on your face and the way you tap your fingers on the metal of the washer for a second before pushing off of it entirely.
Then you’re in his space again and it’s like an instinctive move to cup your face, hand on your waist so he can lightly push you back against the machine he’d been in front of. You touch his chest, lightly rubbing in soft circles, and he wants to sigh in relief if that wouldn’t be so painfully obvious.
“Wasn’t a great time.” You whisper and your eyes are on his lips as you speak.
His eyebrows raise and his hand on your body tightens slightly at the same time he uses his thumb to press under your chin and make you tilt your jaw back.
“Why not?” He hates the thought of getting details but he needs to know some idiot from a dating app hadn’t done anything to hurt you.
You don’t answer right away, just standing there and letting your eyes scan over his features on rotation. You finally let out a small breath like you’re about to speak but it never comes, small hands moving to grip his biceps.
“Did he touch you?” He can’t stop himself from asking even though the question makes his voice come out low enough that your eyes flash with surprise for a second, snapping away from his mouth to meet his stare again like you’re looking for something in it.
You shake your head immediately, squeezing his arms and shifting against the vibrating machine.
He’s kissing you then and he tells himself it’s out of relief, the knowledge that you’re still untouched by anybody except for him instantly making this conversation easier.
You’re returning it right away and he’s pleasantly surprised by how quickly you caught on to the type of kissing he likes, his personal preference. He figures he should eventually tell you that not ever guy was going to like your constant licking into his mouth but for now he lets it be, wants you to be trying to please him specifically and not whoever you’d use these lessons with.
It’s ridiculously cute how desperate you get, only needing a few seconds of your tongue inside his mouth before you’re arching off the machine and making soft noises against his lips.
His hands are all over you as soon as he notices the state of you, sliding down to cup your ass with both palms and tug you tighter to his frame.
That makes you out rightly whimper, clumsily trying to hitch a leg around his waist and sighing in relief when he holds your thigh to keep it there. The wet sounds of your mouths fill the small room, body slightly shaking both from need and from the way the washer is vibrating against your back.
“Missed you.” You whimper it out when he pulls back to let you breathe, kissing down your jaw and tightening his grip on the soft curve hidden under your underwear. “Didn’t call me.”
“Were you waiting for me to call baby?” He asks softly, despite how much it had been bothering him, he would never want to make you feel guilty for not reaching out to him after what you’d done.
You don’t answer so he pulls his head out of your neck to look at your face, seeing the soft frown and the hesitation in your eyes.
“Hey.” He breaths out and pushes your hair back to get your attention fully on him, your body softening and completely leaning against his to the point you’d definitely fall if he took a step backwards. “I wanted to give you space. Let you decide when you wanted to continue this, if you did.”
“I don’t want space.” You counter and it’s a little past bratty but he’s so beyond fond of you that he can’t help but let the corners of his mouth turn up at the sound of it. “You’re supposed to take care of me.”
He’s not sure when your dynamic became this way but he feels it as much as you apparently do, knows it’s his duty to make sure you’re always fine and not needing anything he can’t fix. Now there’s the added element of making you feel good, touching you in ways you’re not used to and showing you what pleasure can be like, and he’s not taking it lightly.
“Then I’ll call.” He say softly and your eyes lock on his as you nod in agreement, his hand cupping your cheek so he can keep you still enough to kiss you briefly. “You want me to chase you and I’ll chase you.”
“Right now I just want you to kiss me.” You whisper and he doesn’t need to hear anything else.
You’re back to kissing and it’s feverish now, more tongue than anything and your hands groping each other anywhere you can touch.
He’s lifting you up off the ground just so he can press himself between your legs and swallow the soft needy noises you let out at the feeling, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist so he can’t pull away at all. You’re pressed back against the metal with his hands under your shirt and wrapped around your frame to make sure you don’t fall, thick fingers splayed out against your ribs.
It’s getting hotter in the room and it’s mostly due to the way you’re whining and trying to roll your hips into him, unsuccessful considering how hard he’s got you pinned back to the washer.
“Jack please.” You pant and pull away from his mouth, tucking into his neck and rubbing your soft cheek against his stubble like a needy cat. “Please touch me. Do anything.”
He’s grunting at the request and gently setting you back down on your feet so he can free up a hand, using it to push your shirt up to your neck. He’s not too surprised to find that you’re not wearing anything underneath and your surprised gasp swallows the sound of his low groan.
You’re whining lewdly when he leans down to press kisses against your skin, middle of your breast first to avoid putting his mouth where you really want it. You’re panting, chest rising and falling under his mouth, and tangling a hand in his ash colored curls to try and steer him where you need him.
He wants to smack your hand away and warn you to be patient but he wants you too bad to try and discipline you right now, letting his mouth latch onto to one of your hard nipples so he can hear whatever noise that brings out of you.
It’s loud and intoxicating, his head spinning a little as he keeps sucking and licking your skin, letting your shirt rest on the top of his head so he can use his other hand to roughly grope your other breast and make sure you’re getting equal attention.
“Oh fuck Jack.” You’re whimpering and trying to hump against nothing, back arching as you whine and hold him to your body like he has any plans of getting away from you. “T-that feels so good.”
“Come upstairs.” His voice is so rough it surprises himself, picking his head off your chest and letting your shirt drop so he can kiss you swiftly.
You frown at the loss of contact, rubbing your nose against his and still lightly petting his hair.
“Why not here?” You ask softly and he gives you a disapproving look that makes you sigh and rest your forehead down against his shoulder for a few seconds while you catch your breath. “It’s too far.”
He thinks for a moment before he’s adjusting his stance to pick you up off the ground, abandoning your laundry and his that both likely need to be switched out soon. He’d gladly let it sit and wash it again later if it means getting you up to his apartment as fast as possible.
You make a small surprised noise and cling to him, arms behind his neck and legs wrapped around his middle and he makes his way up the few stairs towards the elevators.
“Jack your leg.” The sight of the steps seems to remind you of his disability and he’d be more irritated by your worry if it didn’t sound so genuine.
You clearly don’t ever think too much about his leg restricting him, never shying away from asking him to lift heavy things or walk with you down to the store. You don’t treat him like he’s fragile or any less of a man for having limitations and he’s always liked that about you, same way he somehow likes your gentle concern even though it would have bothered him if it was anybody else.
“Think I can’t throw you around because of my leg?” He mumbles and you tense in his hold as he walks like you think he might be serious before you’re breathing out a laugh and hiding in his neck.
Jack finally gets back to his apartment, going crazy from the way you’d started to kiss his jaw and whine impatiently in the elevator. Your hands run up and down his arms like you’re marveling at the strength it takes to carry you for as long as he was, making soft needy noises and squirming around.
He can’t even care about the possibility somebody could see him with you, one of the neighbor he’d lived next to for years watching as Jack Abbot carries the much younger girl next door through his entry way as she whines for him to touch her more.
“Calm down baby.” His voice is soft once he gets to his room, setting you down on his bed and taking a few seconds to stare at you as you lay there and pout up at him.
You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and his gut twists a little at the observation, a mixture of desperate unfamiliar need and the same guilt from before accompanied by a new layer of it.
He thinks of his wife for the first time in a while. He used to spend every waking second with her on his mind but she had naturally started to fade from his mind once he met you, something he hadn’t even noticed until you’d already been living across the hall for a few months.
You’d came over for the first time and asked him to borrow some ingredients, strolling around his living room and eyeballing the photos on his walls while he poured some sugar into a small tupperware bowl for you to take back to your place. You had turned to him with a curious face and asked him where his wife was, obviously confused considering you’d never heard of her before despite how frequently you and him small talked.
That was the first time Jack noticed how little he’d been thinking of her lately, not just in the painful mourning way he’d been suffering through since she passed but in general too.
Now he was waking up in the morning and anticipating the next time you’d knock on his door, focusing on his health again so he could occupy you on your walks and not picking up too many extra shifts at work just incase you needed something and he wasn’t there.
Jack was thinking about her again now as you laid on his bed but only because he couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted something this bad, trying to compare the feeling of you to how he felt in his marriage and still thinking it fell short.
He had loved his wife, undoubtedly, but he craved you in a way that almost felt inhumane.
“You’re being mean to me.” You say softly to break him out of his trance, having zoned out just staring down at you and the way your chest was rising and falling with every deep breath.
“I’m never mean to you honey.” He whispers back and finally moves to lay down with you, hovering over your frame and running a hand from your waist to your ribs as he kisses you softly. “I take good care of you, don’t I?”
It’s a bit mean to throw your words from earlier back in your face, especially as he lets his mouth trail down your neck. You make a whiny noise and grip his shoulders, nodding your head and shifting under him so your legs are spread further.
“Yes Jack yes, you take care of me.” You’re practically whimpering and he feels almost drunk from how easily you get this needy, pausing his soft kisses to shift up on his knees and tug your shirt over your head.
You’re the prettiest sight he’s ever seen and he can’t help himself from bringing his mouth right back to your chest, drinking in the way you gasp and moan while he’s licking and sucking on your nipples. His other hand is softly groping whichever breast he doesn’t have his mouth on at the moment and your backs arching off his bed, scratching his shoulders through his shirt.
“Please touch me.” You’re begging after only a few minutes of the slow torture and he lets out a sharp breath, shifting so he’s more to the side of you than on top.
You’re quiet when he rubs his hand down your chest and over your stomach, rubbing at the waistband of your underwear for a few seconds just to hear the way you pant before he’s smoothing over your thighs.
Your back is basically against his chest as he hooks your leg over his to make sure yours are nice and spread for him, kissing your neck softly when he rubs your hips above your underwear.
You bare your neck for him easily and he’s selfish in the way he marks you, sucking any part of your warm skin he can reach so you’re left purple and red all over. He wants anybody you see for the next week or two to know you’ve been with somebody else, to see the claim he laid to your body even if he doesn’t let things go as far as you want him to take it.
Jack doesn’t need to be asked twice to touch you, big hand leaving your hip so he can fully palm your core.
Your reaction is just the way he had hoped it would be, sharp gasp leaving your lips as you instantly buck up against his touch. You whine desperately when he goes back to rubbing your thigh instead, giving you a second to work yourself up to the point he wants you to be at.
“Jack.” You don’t even sound like yourself now and it’s intoxicating, so pleading and broken. “Please.”
“Please what?” He’s practically whispering, perfectly calm and the direct opposite of how broken you sound just from him lightly touching you.
He moves you so you’re fully between his legs, back against his chest as he cages himself around you to keep you from moving.
You’re practically shaking, whimpering and moving your hips against nothing with the hopes he’ll cave and end up touching you again. You’re distracting to look at, body bare except for the pathetic excuse of underwear shorts you’d been wearing under your shirt, like you’d just been hoping he would be the one to find you in the laundry mat.
He has half the thought to make fun of you for that, make you tell him exactly what you were thinking when you left your apartment wearing so little, but he doesn’t think you could handle him saying much at all right now especially not something so demeaning.
“I’m going to touch you.” He says gently instead and kisses the side of your head, letting his hand go back to groping your chest just to make sure you stay worked up.
Even though he doubts at this point he even needs to touch you for that to happen.
“Yeah yeah.” You’re nodding in agreement, seemingly pleased at his decision as you relax back against him and let him touch you freely.
His other hands back between your legs now, letting you get used to the feeling of somebody touching you where you’re most sensitive. He’s just rubbing back and forth, listening to the way you pant and pulling back whenever you start to try and shift against his hand on your own.
“You’re wet just from that?” His voice is a little mean now but you don’t seem to mind, trying to clamp your thighs around his hand but being stopped by the sharp swat he sends to your skin. You wince but move your foot back to the other side of his leg so yours stay open, pouting softly at the silent punishment. “Answer me when I ask you something.”
“I’m always wet around you.” You admit with an embarrassed tone lacing your words, squirming like you wish you could hide yourself from the way he’s staring down at your body. “Want you so bad.”
“I want you too.” He kisses the side of your head, still rubbing you with just enough pressure to make you feel the friction but not to actually get off. “Gonna make you feel so good, you’ve just got to be patient.”
“Stop being scared to hurt me.” Your voice is shaky but as firm as possible, trying to show him you’re a big girl and can handle a little bit of the roughness he’s so clearly holding back.
It’s obvious in the way he was grabbing your throat your first kiss, moving your body around easily whenever he needed to, and scolding you just enough for you to be able to catch the mean tone seeping in accidentally.
Jack clearly has a darker side to him that he’s not letting you see and it’s obviously frustrating you, wanting to be taken seriously.
“I’ll hurt you if that’s what you want sweetheart but not for your first time.” His words don’t leave any room for argument so you don’t even try, sinking back against his firm chest and letting out a deep breath when he shifts behind you and presses himself forward.
It’s not long before you’re not able to wait anymore and he lets you scramble to tug down your underwear, keeping his fingers lightly rubbing between your folds and watching as you struggle to get the fabric past his insistent hand.
Eventually he lets you pull them off and then he’s right back to touching you, bare this time. You both suck in a breath at the contact and you’re practically laying down from how far you’d slid down his chest, spreading your legs as wide as they can go and whimpering while he touches you.
“Do you touch yourself like this baby?” He can’t help the curiosity, the image of you in your bed trying to get yourself off stuck in his mind now.
You shake your head and frown, trying to twist your neck to look at him but being stopped when he uses his free hand to roughly grip your chin and make you keep your eyes on the way he’s touching you, thumb on your sensitive clit now while you roll your hips the best you can.
“No I…” You can barely think let alone speak, clearly struggling as you make a pained and desperate noise. “I get nervous.”
Jack sighs and collects some of your wetness on his middle finger before finally pressing it against the tightness of your hole, not pushing in just yet but teasing it with light pressure and letting you get used to the feeling.
“When you’re with somebody, they should always be this gentle with you at first.” He’s saying softly, remembering that he’s supposed to be actually teaching you something and not just getting you off because he desperately wants to.
You frown deeply as he starts to talk and he doesn’t really understand why, thinks maybe you’re still being pouty that he won’t get rougher with you.
He tries to distract you by finally pressing a finger inside of you and it seems to work for a second, another gasp leaving you as you instinctively clench around the intrusion. He groans, his length throbbing against your back at the thought of being fully inside you instead of just a finger.
“Fuck you’re tight.” He rasps and buries his face in your hair for a few seconds to try and collect himself enough to keep teaching you something, anything at all so he doesn’t keep letting himself think this is something it isn’t. “They’ll have to really get you stretched before anything okay? You need to remember that baby.”
It bothers him so much he can barely focus, the thought of somebody not taking their time with you. He doesn’t want to picture you with another man in general but especially not in a way that hurts you, leaves you too sore the next morning with nobody to take care of you.
He’s so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice your face stiffening at first, body a little tenser against him even though you’re still softly squirming to try and get him to put his finger deeper inside you.
“Jack stop.”
He does so immediately and goes to pull out of you before you’re making a panicked noise and closing your thighs around his hand. He lets you this time, pauses all movements just to wait for whatever it is that you need.
“N-no don’t stop that, god please don’t stop that.” Your voice is breathier now like the thought of him taking his hand away from you makes your chest tighten. “Just… stop talking about anyone else.”
It takes him a few seconds to register that and then his hands moving again, enough for you to relax and spread your legs back open.
You’re both quiet now as he adds another finger, lingering in the weight of your request and what it could mean if anything. He’s half sure you only asked because it was pulling you out of the moment, maybe making you nervous to think about doing this again with actual stakes, but the way you desperately tried to stop him from pulling away lets him pretend it was for another reason.
He’s selfish in the way he touches you now, thick fingers moving in and out of you while you cry and whine, gripping at his forearm whenever it feels like too much. He likes the way your nails dig into his arm when you think you might be close, thighs clenching and shifting when his thumb gently circles your swollen clit and how your lips part in breathy cries of his name.
He especially likes that.
You come with moans of his name filling the room and nobody else’s after you’d specifically asked him to stop mentioning other guys. Jack knows it’s selfish, even a little sick and perverted, but he could probably finish just from hearing that.
He’s throbbing against your back and he’s sure you’d be able to feel it if you were able to focus on anything after coming, body shaking a little as you pant endlessly and fall limb in his hold.
There’s a lot of softness that comes after, kissing the side of your head and being gentle in the way he cleans you up. It’s torture to be between your legs and getting to fully appreciate the sight of you for the first time without be able to touch you more but he doesn’t want to overstimulate you so early on.
He does let himself think about that vividly though, kissing against your thighs and picturing when he’s going to be able to put his mouth on you.
You’re quiet above him, eyes a little tired but still overly soft as you run your fingers through his hair and watch him wipe you down.
Then he’s back ontop of you and kissing you softly, shifting your back so you’re laying back against the pillows and not sitting up. It’s soft and bordering on romantic which makes his chest tighten, hoping you have no plans to leave his bed anytime soon.
“You okay?” He asks quietly against your mouth and he can feel you smiling, still touching his hair with one hand and letting the other drift down to the back of his neck.
“Felt so good.” You whisper back and your voice is a little hoarse from all the whining you’d been doing, nose bumping against his and then rubbing on his stubble for a few seconds. “Can I take a nap here?”
“You can do anything you want.” He says immediately, no hesitation as he gets up to get you one of his shirts and help you get comfortable, jumping at the opportunity to keep you with him just like he wanted.
Jack typically has a hard time sleeping through the night in general so he definitely never naps, needing to be truly past the brink of exhaustion to ever rest.
Yet he finds it to be the most simple thing in the world to crawl into his bed with you after taking off his leg, kissing you for a few more minutes before he’s wrapping you in his arms and tugging you back against his chest. He’s rubbing your stomach softly, hand under the shirt he’s given you, listening intently until he hears your breathing even out and then drifting to sleep right after you.
—
It’s one of the highlights of his decade to get to wake up with you still there, warm and making soft tired noises when you feel him start to stir.
His room is dark now other than the slight illumination coming from the moon outside of his window, casting just enough light for him to be able to watch your eyes flutter open.
You give him a soft sleepy smile and instinctively lean in to give him a kiss.
It’s easy to pretend that you are more than whatever this is when you act like this, mouths moving together sensually as if you have nowhere else you’d want to be.
Jack groans softly when your tongue pushes into his mouth, meeting it eagerly with his own and moving so hes hovering over you. Your hands are on his back, spreading your legs below him to let him slot between them.
He feels like a teenager again from how quickly he gets hard, your soft body under his putting him under some sort of spell. His hips shift and you let out a needy whine, scratching his shoulders lightly like you’re trying to encourage him.
You’re still making out slowly when he starts to thrust down against you, slow rolls of his hips to give you just enough friction to start to get desperate.
You’re tugging at his shirt fabric and he takes only a second to sit up and pull it over his head, back on you immediately and kissing you even more frantically. He’s moving your own shirt up towards your ribs but neither one of you wants to stop long enough to take it off, only able to when you need a quick second to take a breath.
It’s the first time you’ve both been nearly undressed together and he feels the effects of it instantly, your chest pressing against his when he lays back over you. Your skin is soft and hot to the touch, those now familiar soft whines leaving you when he lets his hand knead at your chest again.
“Jack please.” You’re whimpering and he finally stops kissing you in favor of sucking at your neck, bringing those marks from earlier back to the surface. “Can’t you just fuck me?”
He groans at the words and has to tuck his face in your shoulder, still rocking his hips against you even though they stuttered when you said that in that whiny voice of yours.
“Trust me, I want to fuck you so bad I can’t even think.” It leaves his mouth before he can stop it, not wanting to reject you again without making sure you know how badly he wants you.
“Then do it.” You’re begging now and he picks his head up to look at you, eyes wide and a little frustrated like you know he’s going to say no. You gasp when he thrusts down even harder, biting your lip as you stare at each other desperately. “Please Jack? Want you inside me.”
“I can’t baby.” He growls and kisses you to give himself a second to think without you arguing.
You’re quick to forget you were trying to convince him of something because you’re kissing him back deeply, angling your head so his tongue can get further and further inside your mouth.
He has that sick and perverted thought again that he’s coincidentally training you to be the perfect girl for him, kissing in a way he likes and not knowing how else to do it. Jack is selfish and wants everything you do to be for him, wants your body to instinctively move and react how he taught you regardless of who gets you next.
The thought of somebody else makes him want to forget his morals and fuck you like you’re begging him, be the one to take your virginity and fill you up for the first time.
He starts to reason with himself that it would actually be a good thing because Jack would never let himself hurt you in a way you didn’t like, he’d make sure you felt good around him and came so hard you weren’t able to see straight.
There’s nobody else who could fuck you like he could so he’s almost convinced himself that it’s a good idea when your phone rings on the nightstand.
You both stop, you’re completely tense under him and he sighs as he kisses you one more time and rolls off of you.
He lays there on his back as you sit up to grab your phone, screen a little too bright in the dark room and causing you to wince. He stares at your pretty face under the light as you open it up and answer it, not thinking much about the interruption despite the small disappointment he feels.
His hand is on your bare knee and rubbing your skin is soft circles, soothing both you and himself by keeping the contact.
“Hello?” Your voice is as soft and sweet as always, a little confused sounding which makes his eyebrows raise. “Oh Carter.”
Jack tenses up at the sound of a males name leaving your lips, his hand freezing and falling still on your knee. You’re avoiding looking at him as you listen to whoever it is speak on the other line, a deep voice bleeding through the speakers just enough for him to hear but not enough to make out the words.
“Tonight?” Your eyes go to the small digital clock on Jacks side of the bed, having to glance over his body in the process. You meet his eyes just for a second before they’re darting away again and it makes the pit in his stomach grow in understanding. “Of course I didn’t forget. I’ll be ready by nine.”
You’re hanging up after a quiet goodbye and now it’s suffocatingly silent in the room.
You’re still sitting up with your legs crossed under you, avoiding looking at him like you’re not still wearing his shirt and covered in marks he’d given to you. He waits for a minute before he’s sitting up and running a hand over his face, on the opposite side of the bed from you and facing the wall so you can’t see his expression when he finally gets himself to speak.
“You’ve got a date tonight?” He rasps out, trying his best to sound unaffected even though it comes out low and tight.
“I forgot.” You whisper back and you sound further away now, a glance over his shoulder confirms that you’d stood up off the bed and are searching for the shirt you’d shown up in so you can swap out of his. “He’s taking me to some art show downtown.”
Jack stares at you as you move around the room, eyes scanning over your body when you pull his shirt over your head and neatly fold it before putting it on his dresser. It feels really final to watch you change back into your own clothes, turning to meet his eyes and letting out a soft sigh when you see he’s already watching you closely.
He hopes it doesn’t show on his face, doesn’t want to be too obvious that he’s probably about two seconds away from throwing up.
“Carter.” He says simply and now you really stiffen.
You stand there for a few seconds like you’re waiting for something, eyes a little expectant and then full on disappointed when he scoffs and moves to put his leg back on so he can stand up and get out of the room that’s suddenly suffocating.
You leave his apartment and all the warmth goes with you.
He stands in his dark kitchen with regret sitting heavy on his chest, wishing he had stopped you and asked you to stay with him instead.
He isn’t sure if it’s the fear of rejection or his own guilt that stopped him but he knew he couldn’t ask you to do that. You deserved better than him and his baggage, his late hours at work and his dangerous hobbies that he needed to keep himself busy with to not think about the things that sent him spiraling.
He couldn’t imagine forcing you into a life where you had to explain him to your friends and family, ignore the curious and judging looks from his own when they realized just how young you were.
Jack knew you were lonely, it was obvious considering how much time you willingly spent with him and it was bad enough he’d taken advantage of your desperation for connection and nearly slept with you.
He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he stopped you from enjoying your youth, having a fun late night in the city surrounded by artsy people your age and not stuck on his couch watching old reruns because he’s too tired after work to properly take you out.
Jack hates himself for thinking all this and then still obsessively wanting you.
So much so that he purposely lingers near his truck right around the time you’d told your date you’d be ready. In his defense, he did actually need a few things from the corner store, so he sat in the parking lot and waited until he saw you come down.
Your date met you at the entrance of the lobby but didn’t take your purse from you or the jacket you were holding, smiled at you politely but couldn’t be bothered to open the door of his car or even wait for you to get in before he did.
It made Jack sick to his stomach all over again, jaw clenched as he sat in the dark interior of his truck and watched you drive off with some asshole only an hour after he’d had you sleeping next to him, panting under him and begging him to fuck you.
Jack decides right then that it all needs to stop, not just the sex lessons but helping you in general. He can’t be that person for you without wanting more, he’s selfish and possessive over somebody that was never supposed to be his and he knows it’s not fair to you.
So he doesn’t answer any of your texts that night, stays quiet in his living room whenever you knock on his door and waits until he hears you leave for work before he goes to check the mail.
He feels terrible for avoiding you but keeps trying to convince himself it’s in your best interest.
Jack is half asleep when the silent treatment finally breaks.
He’d fallen asleep on his couch accidentally, a beer can too many on the table in front of him and the same movie he’d been watching beforehand starting to roll credits. He should have been in bed sleeping after pulling a double at work but he couldn’t stand being in there lately, tossing and turning and trying to catch the faint scent of you lingering on his pillows.
There was a second of confusion, not sure why he had waken up in the first place, until the sharp knocks on his door made him flinch.
He was standing up on autopilot to open it, wincing at how stiff and sore his leg felt from falling asleep with it still on.
Any thought of his pain was gone the second he opened his door and saw your face, tears on your cheeks and your eyebrows furrowed in frustration.
“I need to talk to you.” You said immediately and he ushered you into his apartment, not necessarily wanting to be in an enclosed space with you but recognizing your tearful voice was far too loud to have a conversation in the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” He said softly and takes a few steps towards you on instinct, cradling your cheek and staring down at you when you nuzzle against his touch. “Why are you crying?”
“Because you’re an asshole.” You seem to remember that you’re mad at him because you step away from his touch, pushing his arm back down to his side and storming further into his apartment.
He stands there completely frozen as you toss your purse onto the chair near the couch, your eyes scanning over the beer cans and the obvious indent of where he’d been sleeping.
Then you’re back to looking at him and he knows what he probably looks like to you. The exhaustion is obvious on his face, clothes a little baggier than normal from a lack of taking care of himself and a constant awkward shifting on his leg to keep pressure off of it.
“Why aren’t you talking to me?” Your voice cracks a little and he deflates, taking a few steps closer again even though he doesn’t think you want him to touch you. “Did I do something wrong?”
“What?” His face faces in disbelief at the idea you could ever do anything wrong in general, especially to him. “Of course you didn’t sweetheart.”
“Then why?” Your words are louder now and they linger in the tense air, face pained as you wait for him to answer.
He sighs and runs a hand over his stubble that desperately needs some maintenance, wishes he had the time to plan out everything he wanted to say to you so he doesn’t accidentally fuck it up more than he already had.
“I just… I can’t do it anymore.” He lets his hands fall to his sides with a loud defeated clap and shrugs his shoulders. “I can’t watch you go out with these idiots knowing they can’t take care of you.”
He hopes what he’s trying to say is an obvious to you as it is to him, not able to bring himself to actually voice the fact that he has feelings for you beyond helping out a neighbor.
“You didn’t stop me.” You sound devastated, head shaking like you don’t believe anything he’s saying to you.
You’re not crying anymore thankfully but you look so hurt and disappointed that it makes him physically ache, moving to grab your arm softly and guide you to sit down on the couch with him.
“I waited for you to stop me and you didn’t.” You continue once you’re sitting beside him, legs pressed together in a small amount of addicting content. “Isn’t it obvious by now that I only want to be with you?”
The words hit him so hard that he doesn’t even have time to process them, eyebrows furrowing as the need for more information pushes him to speak.
“Why would that be obvious? The entire point of this was for you to be ready for other people.”
You look a little embarrassed at his sound logic, staring down at your lap where your hands are fiddling with your fingers. He sighs and takes one of them in his, squeezing it softly until you let your gaze drift back up to his.
“I don’t want other people.” You whisper, staring at him with a small amount of hope in your eyes like you’re just waiting for him to understand. “And I don’t want you to be with anyone else either. I just figured… you wouldn’t cross that line without a good reason.”
Jack thinks it’s a little juvenile of a plan but he also knows you’re not wrong. He would have never touched you without the feeling of helping you out with something, no matter how much he had wanted you since the second you moved in.
That little lie was all he needed to get himself through the shame and guilt, the ability to pretend it was for a greater cause and not because he was sick and desperate for a girl half his age.
“Jack.” You sigh when he doesn’t respond for a few seconds, turning so you can face him better and press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw. “Stop thinking.”
“That’s a big ask.” He mumbles back but he gladly turns to give you a real kiss, holding your face in his hand and keeping your mouth against his.
You kiss until you run out of breath, pulling back from him but rubbing your nose against his and letting your small hands grip his forearm desperately.
“Then just be with me for tonight.” You try to reason with him in any way you can, rubbing his arm softly and blinking at him with those big pretty eyes that drive him so crazy.
He stares at you for a moment before he’s standing up off the couch and tugging you along with him, ignoring the little surprised noise you make in favor of lifting you up with his hands on the back of your thighs. You gasp and then giggle softly once he’s got you in the air, arms behind his neck and legs around his middle as he starts to walk you to his room.
“You’re crazy if you think you’re going anywhere after tonight.” He tells you once he gets you settled on his bed, kissing the smile off your face as he climbs over you.
It’s a direct mirror of the other night as you get each other undressed fully this time, kissing the entire time and tasting his tongue deep in your mouth when it starts to get more heated.
“You’re going to be mine.” He says firmly once he’s got you in nothing but your panties, making sure your eyes are locked on his when you hear it. His free hand is all over your body, rubbing from your smooth thigh up to your chest and cupping around your neck for a brief moment while he waits for you to respond. “If I fuck you then you’re mine.”
“I’ve been yours.” You whisper easily, like you didn’t have to put any thought into it.
He falters, hand tightening around your throat on instinct and then releasing the pressure when he sees the way your eyes light up with interest.
“Don’t be nasty baby.” He’s teasing, kissing the corner of your mouth and bringing your leg up so it’s around his waist and he can press himself against you. “Gonna be gentle with you for your first time. You deserve it.”
“I want you to fuck me.” You’re pouting and gripping at him impatiently, running your hand between your bodies to touch his stomach and fidget with the waistband of his boxers. “That’s what I want Jackie.”
“Didn’t ask what you wanted.” He grumbles back, not caring that it comes off a little mean because you whine at the sound of how rough his voice had gotten and he knows you like it.
He’s back to kissing you and it’s filthier than normal, more tongue and spit than anything else.
You’re as vocal as always, whining and begging impatiently when he gets your underwear off and starts to touch you again.
Jack can barely think straight when he’s back inside of you, fingers pushing in easier this time now that you’ve felt the intrusion before and know what to expect. You’re gasping and crying out immediately, unintelligible words that he blocks out in favor of focusing on how you feel when he’s stretches you out.
“Want it so bad.” Your near sob gets through to him and he hisses through clenched teeth at how wrecked you sound already, shushing you softly and kissing your cheeks to try and calm you down.
“I know baby I know.” He’s whispering but you don’t seem to be hearing him, spreading your legs further to try and make space for him to slot back between them instead of using his fingers.
Jack is just as impatient as you but he’s terrified of hurting you too early, although throbbing so hard in his boxers that it’s painful to shift around.
It’s not long before it’s too much prep for both of you and you’re watching him with your chest heaving as he gets himself undressed the rest of the way, leg going on the floor right alongside your underwear that he had slowly pulled down your body before climbing back over you.
Your eyes go down between your bodies where his leg is and he tenses for a second despite knowing you mean well with the concern you have on your face.
“Let me ride you.” You say softly and his chest tightens with that old familiar shame he was still actively working on ridding himself of.
“I can fuck you.” He says gruffly and your eyes flash with regret, pouting a little like you’re worried you’ve hurt his feelings with your thoughtful suggestion. He kisses the expression off your face, a long deep one followed by a few quick pecks to try and ease your mind. “Next time baby.”
He says it both because he knows realistically he has limitations, there will be plenty of nights he’s not able to rail you into his mattress like he wants to, but also because he knows he would die a happy man the second he got to see you bouncing on top of him and desperately trying to get yourself off.
You look like you want to argue but you’re stopped when he’s pushing your legs apart and moving between them, sharp gasp leaving you when you feel his hard length pressing against you finally.
“Fuck Jack.” Your voice is sharp and already a little pained just from the dull sensation of him lining up with your hole, a growl leaving him at the sound of your distress.
“Just relax baby.” He says as softly as he can even though his throat feels tight and raw, kissing you gently to try and get you to calm down enough for him to push in. “You’re too tight sweetheart.”
“I… I can’t.” You let out another sharp cry when he shifts forward, nails digging into his shoulders so deep it makes him wince and lower his head down on your shoulder.
Jack has to use every ounce of self control he can muster to not just fully push himself into you and feel that tight heat he’s getting a taste of, that same sick and selfish part of him that wants you in the first place begging him to just take you already.
Instead he takes a few deep breaths before he’s kissing you with more focus, going back and forth between softly rubbing your side and massaging your inner thigh to try and urge your body to relax and accommodate him.
It’s a torturous ten minutes, especially due to your soft whimpers and the way you cry his name whenever he accidentally moves himself deeper.
Then you’re finally calm enough, bare chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he’d instructed you to take.
“Want you inside Jack.” You’re whining in his ear, clinging to him tightly and almost suffocating him when he immediately takes your queue and pushes in. You tense up again at the brief surge of pain and then let out a satisfied cry when you feel how full you are, clenching around him so ridiculously that he almost needs to pull out to give himself a break despite barely starting.
You’re both too overwhelmed to speak much more once he starts to actually fuck you, deep thrust accompanied by filthy kisses to keep you from waking up the neighbors with how desperately you’re whining for him to keep giving you more.
It’s pure need on both ends, your hips eagerly rocking upwards to try and meet his thrust sloppily while he uses his free hand to roughly push down on your stomach and keep you in place.
“Jackie.” It’s nearly a sob from you now and he can tell you’re close from how much tighter you’d gotten, almost an impossible squeeze for him to keep fucking you through.
He’s grateful you’re so inexperienced because he doesn’t think he’d last long either, not with the way you look as you stare up at him with teary and trusting eyes.
“I know baby you’re doing so good for me.” It’s more of a growl than anything else but he can barely think let alone speak enough to keep encouraging you. “Taking me so well sweetheart.”
“I’m so full Jack.” You whimper and cling to him tighter, nearly pulling him fully down on top of you and knocking him off his balance. “Feels so good.”
You’re stuttering through your sentences and slurring each word, eyes a little dazed in a way that makes him need to squeeze his shut to avoid coming inside you just from that fucked out look you have.
It’s more sweet than heated when you actually do finally reach your peak, holding onto him still and kissing the side of his jaw softly with your face buried in his neck as you squirm and shake your way through your orgasm.
He stays inside of you for as long as he can so you’re not shocked from the sudden feeling of emptiness but you’re squeezing him too tight and he has to pull out as soon as you’re starting to relax. You whimper immediately at the lose and pick your head up to pout at him, eyes panicked like you’re genuinely distressed he didn’t finish inside you.
He shushes you gently and kisses your face over and over, rubbing your side as he lets you fully come back to reality before attempting to clean either of you up or get you dressed.
“Jack.” You’ve got the needy and frustrated tone he loves so much and he knows you’re not dropping it, meeting your eyes with a fond sigh as you glance down at where he’d came instead of inside you.
“Next time.” He promises again and he means it, fully intending to have that conversation with you ahead of time now that he’s got you like this.
Jack isn’t too opposed to the idea of getting you pregnant, not even sure he’s able to with the amount of pills he takes, but he has to push down that thought along with the rest of the sick ones he gets when he looks at your needy eyes.
You smile a little at the loose promise and tuck yourself back into his shoulder, soothing any concern he has about what just happened or how you’re supposed to operate going forward.
He’s undoubtedly the luckiest guy in the world to have you wanting him like this, feeling safe in his arms and desperate for him in the way he’d been for you since the second he laid eyes on you.
Jack was never the type of person to take the duty of taking care of somebody lightly and he doesn’t plan to let you down for even a second, kissing the top of your head softly and letting himself forget about any shame or insecurity just to hold you for awhile longer.
Beau hated her boyfriend. In fact, it was impossible not to hate that jerk. Mike was one of the cops in her department and was known for his excellent work. But on the other hand, when you visited him at the station to drop off a piece of cake or just to see him, he could be a real jerk. The first time Beau saw you was in the elevator as you were leaving, after your morning visit to your boyfriend, holding back tears. Beau heard that on that day, the two of you had been fighting and you wanted to make up, but Mike wasn’t in the mood to talk and was rude. And it was there, in that elevator, that Beau realized he wanted to get to know you.
S/N is beautiful. Brown eyes that sparkled in the sun, curly hair, always well-dressed in a suit or a skirt and blazer ensemble. She worked at the book publishing house Magia da Criação, famous in the city, and was involved in the entire process from creation to the launch of the books. She always walked with confidence, as if she knew what she wanted, where she wanted to go, and how she wanted it.
And one day, you went to the police station to have lunch with Mike. He was late—maybe on purpose or because of a pile of paperwork—but he was late.
I kept fiddling with my phone, checking our conversation and waiting for a reply, when I heard a voice:
“Hey, S/N? You down here?” Beau’s voice joined his presence in the spring air.
“Oh, hi! Sheriff Arlen! Yeah, I’m waiting for Mike… again,” I say, trying to stay patient.
“That’s weird. His lunch break was earlier today… I saw him leave half an hour ago and—”
Beau’s voice is cut off when I see Mike walking back to the station.
– Honey? What are you doing here?
I held up my phone, trying to stay neutral. – Lunch, remember? I thought we were going together.
– My phone died – he lies. Right to my face.
I just dial his number and his phone vibrates in his pocket. I look at Mike, waiting for a response. Just then, I see Beau excuse himself and leave, perhaps taking a deep breath to keep from punching Mike right there.
– Are you always going to want to control my schedule now? Let’s not turn this into a stupid argument, okay?! – Mike defends himself.
I look at him and take a deep breath. – If you didn’t want me here, you should’ve just said so! I wasted my lunch break waiting here for you like an idiot and—
– Stop bugging me! I just left for lunch early; the workload is heavy. You know what I’m going through, and you keep holding me accountable for everything! – Mike raises his voice a little and takes a deep breath. – We’ll talk about this shit later. I’m not going to stress about it here. I’ll stop by your place later.
Before I can even respond, he walks into the police station and takes the elevator up. Typical of him; I’m still wondering why I’m here, insisting. I take a deep breath, feeling a lump in my throat and, even worse, hungry. Before I can head over to the nearby diner, Beau approaches:
– It’s mean to leave someone hungry. If you don’t mind, I’d love some company for lunch.
I smile awkwardly. – No need to bother—I can eat lunch on my own.
– I know you can, but I can’t. Are you up for it? – He’s persistent. Even though I only know the basics about Beau, something feels off. I mean, having lunch with my boyfriend’s boss? That was… wrong? He snaps me out of my daze as he adds – It’s okay if you don’t want to; I know it’s weird. But we’re just having lunch as colleagues—can we keep that in mind?
We placed our order, and I felt shy for a moment. Maybe he noticed, because he asked some icebreaker questions while we waited for the food, and they really helped. By the end of lunch, I was already laughing freely and openly at all the work stories he was telling or whenever I asked him to tell me about his. He was always interested in hearing what it was like to work at the publishing house or how I spent my free time. We seemed like old friends. I glance at the time:
– Oh shit, I have to get back to work. If I’m any later than this, I’ll get fired. – I laugh, still enjoying his company. He insisted on paying the bill even though I kept insisting we split it.
– Thanks for lunch… you saved my afternoon and my stomach – I say softly. I notice his gaze, smiling at me. He picks up his hat and holds it to his heart, saying:
– I’m the one who should thank you for your company. I didn’t know I needed this so much.
– Neither did I.
Our gazes linger for too many seconds to be anything simple. It was just a lunch with a guy I’d seen several times at my boyfriend’s work, who made me laugh, treated me ten times better than Mike ever did. Oh, for heaven’s sake, I wasn’t needy. Or was I?
I clear my throat. – Well, I’m heading over there now… See you another day? – It just slipped out
– Definitely. I’ll be holding you to that next lunch. – He says, and I see him hesitate a little as he approaches. He didn’t want to force closeness, and I was mentally grateful for that.
I smile and just walk away. Thinking about what I just felt while looking at him. It was the first time, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last.
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