you're proactively planning your fertility like a responsible med student. dr. abbot, however, would greatly prefer you planned literally anything else.
pairing: jack abbot x angel reader
warnings: just a short lil drabble, fluff, anxiety and overthinking, age gap mentioned, reader is twenty something, reader is a med student, mentions of fertility, flirting in the workplace, implied sexual content, questionable reproductive proposals, basically just angel reader asking abbot to be her baby daddy
wc: 0.5k
ââ and itâs not even like she means to do it, you know? Like she calls and it starts normal, totally normal, weâre talking about groceries or whatever, and then BAM, like clockwork, itâs âso how are your evaluations goingâ and âhave you thought about residency yetâ and Iâm just sitting there like⊠yeah, mom, funny you mention it, I think about it all the time, constantly, obsessively, in a way that is probably not healthy for my long-term psychological stability.â
You cast a sidelong glance at Dr. Abbot, brows arched expectantly, silently imploring him to jump in and extinguish the slow, smoldering anxiety that has spontaneously combusted in your mind and body and soul.
He doesnât bite.
Instead, he offers you his trademark stoic gaze, effectively deflating your balloon of expectation on impact.
âYour evaluations will be fine,â he says shortly. âYouâll match. Now type, please.â
âSorry, charting, right. Doing that now,â you mumble, snapping dutifully back to the glowing screen like a golden retriever who briefly forgot what sit meant.
Your fingers move with genuine, industrious purpose for approximately three whole seconds before inevitably, youâre speaking again.
âBut, then she mentions marriage and having children, multiple children, as if one isnât intimidating enough, because why wouldnât she? Perfect natural segue. And now all I can think about is this random fertility rabbit hole I fell into afterward. Which, by the way, was a lot. That was a lot of information. Like Iâm literally sitting here as we speak, losing eggs by the second, practically fossilizing before your very eyes.â
You hear him release a short huff of air. Can picture him pressing his forefinger into the space between his browsz
âKid, youâre â what, all of twenty-something?â
You wave a dismissive hand, not looking up. âTwenty-something with eggs dropping like New Yearâs confetti at midnight. Tick tock.â
âYouâre not even close to egg depletion,â he says dryly, nudging your chair slightly with his foot. âTrust your attending on this.âÂ
You roll your eyes, immensely grateful he canât see your face.
âEasy for you to say. Your biology lets you remain fertile until, like, the heat death of the universe.â
âWasnât aware youâd taken such a keen interest in my reproductive potential.â
You swivel around in your chair without warning, knees knocking lightly into the desk as you tip your chin up at him.
âWell, listen, I was actually thinking that if I hit a certain age and still have no romantic prospects, we could make a pact,â you muse. âYou generously contribute your objectively excellent genetic blueprint, I carry the resulting small human. Voila, instant legacy preserved. It's a win-win.â
The words have barely left your lips when Abbot nearly sputters coffee all over his pressed white coat. His hand shoots up swiftly, coughing discreetly as his gaze flicks sharply, incredulously, up at you.
âJesus â at least give me a heads-up before you proposition me for genetic samples,â he mutters under his breath, eyeing you cautiously now, like youâre a lab specimen whoâs suddenly started speaking fluent Latin.
You gasp, pulling a hand to your chest. âDr. Abbot, please â I was referring exclusively to a very professional sperm donation arrangement. Entirely above board, paperwork involved, sterile conditions, the whole thing.â
âOf course,â he drawls, skepticism coloring his voice. âNothing questionable about that.â
âItâs all part of my incredibly thorough contingency plan. That I created last night,â you assure him, nodding fervently. âProactive and forward-thinking, exactly the qualities youâre always nagging me to develop. See? I listen.â
âThatâs not what I meant,â he says, fixing you with a stern, pensive look. âFace the screen.â
You obediently face the screen, fingers tapping out a half-hearted sentence once again, before your curiosity inevitably gets the best of you again, eyes flicking over your should to peer at him through lowered lashes.
âNot hearing a hard no,â you hum.
âIt is a hard no,â he starts, leaning in to talk against your ear, âbecause If I decide to help you out with that particular problem, itâs going to be the old-fashioned way.â
He straightens smoothly, unbothered as he walks away, leaving your heart stumbling over itself in dizzy little circles.
ââ â . đ Ì . jack abbot x morgue tech!reader ; after your shift, you go upstairs to the er looking for jack and you run into a few of your boyfriend's coworkers, they bring to your attention just how large jack abbot really is â 4.2k
field trip â . đ Ì . to THE MORGUE
By the time you finished shift change down downstairs, the hospital had already begun its slow transition from night to morning. The morgue never changed much regardless of the hour.Â
The fluorescent lights still hummed overhead with the same dull persistence they had at midnight. The air stilled smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal and the industrial cleaner the day shift janitors liked to use too heavily.Â
The prep tables remained clean and pristine despite the three autopsies that you had preformed. It was peaceful for lack of a better word. But upstairs, however, the hospital would be just beginning to wake up.Â
The emergency department at six in the morning was an entirely different beast than the morgue tucked neatly beneath it. This place moved fast even when exhausted.Â
The whole floor pulsed with motion and noise and overstimulation.Â
You hated it.Â
Don't mistake your dislike for the environment for the dislike of the people inhabiting it. You wouldn't say you were friends with the ER staff, but you were on chit chatting terms with a lot of them since beginning dating Jack. But the sheer amount of everything put you especially at unease.Â
Too many voices, too many bodies darting from one side of the ER to the other, and that meant too many opportunities for someone to accidentally touch you in passing.Â
Which is why you usually stayed downstairs until Jack came to get you. That had become your routine somewhere along the line. Most mornings, by the time you clocked out and gathered your things, Jack was already leaning against your desk in the morgue office with that perpetually exhausted look on his face and a coffee in his hand.Â
Then the two of you would leave together before either of your brains fully registered another twelve hour shift had passed.Â
This morning, however, he hadn't shown. You were a little disappointed but you weren't outrageously upset about it. You knew that Jack got held up all the time and while this meant you would have to brave the ER again, it wasn't his fault.Â
Trauma cases sometimes came in unexpectedly, shift hand off lasted longer when it was busier than usual, and you knew that Robby had a tendency to trap Jack into talking about things that didn't have anything to do with the hospital. Like his new on again, off again situationship with Noelle Hastings from social work.Â
So after a few minutes, you simply slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your water bottle, and made your way upstairs. The elevator ride alone nearly convinced you to turn around.Â
By the time the doors opened onto the ER floor, the department was already in full swing. Phones rang somewhere in the distance. Someone laughed too loudly near the nursesâ station. A monitor beeped insistently from one of the trauma bays, while an exhausted nurse muttered something under her breath about needing a Red Bull.
You immediately regretted coming up here.Â
Keeping your head down, you slipped towards the break room near the back hallway, careful not to drift into anybody's path. The last thing you wanted after twelve hours underground was to become collateral damage in the organized chaos of emergency medicine.Â
You set your things down carefully on the small table inside the break room before leaning your head just barely out the doorway. To the left sat the employee lockers and a supply alcove. To the right was the command desk, where everyone eventually flocked and housed the patient boards.
Jack stood there with Robby and Dana, one hand braced against the edge of the counter while the other rested loosely on his hip.Â
Even from across the department, you could easily see the exhaustion that sat heavily across his shoulders.Â
The dark scrub top stretched across his back whenever he shifted slightly, and the dark wash cargo pants he wore instead of scrub bottoms sat low on his hips beneath the hem of his shirt.
You couldn't hear from where you were, but you could see Robby's mouth moving and Dana's wholly unimpressed look. You can only imagine what they were talking about. Jack, meanwhile, looked like a man mentally calculating how quickly he could escape the conversation.Â
Whether he saw you immediately when you entered the ER or simply felts your stare, you didn't know, but his head turned after a moment.Â
His eyes landed on you instantly and his whole expression changed, annoyance discarded and replaced with pure unadulterated affection. The change was small enough that most people wouldn't have noticed it. But you spent more time staring at Jack Abbot's face than most, so it was easy for you to spot.Â
Jack's brows lifted slightly before he brought his hands together in a quick apologetic and his mouth formed the word sorry from across the room. You smiled at him despite yourself. He glanced down at his watch before holding up five fingers.Â
You nodded once. His mouth curved with something guilty and fond all at once before his expression returned to what it was before he saw you and he turned back towards Robby. It was almost comical how fast the stoicism settled over his face again like armor sliding back into place.Â
You watched him for another moment longer than you probably should've. Long enough to notice the slight tension around his jaw. Long enough that you begun to wonder if his prosthetic was bothering him after being on it all night and then forced to stand there while Robby prodded him for dating advice.Â
Long enough that the clap against your back caught you completely off guard and nearly sent your soul directly out of your body. You startled violently. "Oh my godâ"
"Morning, Morgie."Â
You turned to find Trinity grinning at you like she'd just caught you with your pants down and your hand in the cookie jar. Dennis lingered behind her with the distinct energy of a man who already regretted participating in whatever conversation was about to occur.Â
You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your pulse. "Hi, Dr. Santos."
"You headed out?" she asked, a mischievous look in her eye.Â
"Trying to," you answered honestly.Â
Trinity barely acknowledged the response. She leaned casually against the doorway beside you like the two of you were old friends instead of occasional workplace acquaintances who primarily exchanged polite nods in passing.Â
You had known people like Trinity your entire life. Loud people, you mean. People who filled silence immediately and naturally. People endlessly willing to push boundaries just to see what would happen. That wasn't to say you didn't like her.Â
If anything, you suspected under different circumstances you could probably even be friends. Unfortunately, friendship required social energy you often did not possess after working nights in basement with dead people.Â
Still, you tried. If not for your sake, then for Jack's. These were his coworkers and you were his girlfriend, you were bound to run into them more often than not, so a good relationship was paramount in your opinion.Â
"How are you doing?" you asked politely. She had ignored the question entirely, opting for her own line of questioning. "So," she started, eye bright with mischief already, "you and Abbot are like a thing, right?"Â
You stomach dropped. "What?" Never in a million years did you think that was going to be her question.Â
Dennis looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him whole. Trinity, meanwhile, looked absolutely delighted with herself. "Oh, come one," she said. "You guys are not subtle."
You blinked at her.Â
You genuinely had not realized that people knew. You and Jack were not actively hiding your relationship persay. The two of you just simply hadn't announced it. You didn't exactly have a social circle to update, and Jack was not the type to stand in the middle of the ER making declarations about his personal life.Â
But apparently none of that really mattered.Â
Apparently the entire hospital had functioning eyeballs. Before you could figure out how to respond to that, Trinity continued. "But I gotta ask," she said lowering her voice slightly despite the wicked grin still pulling at her mouth, "is he packing? Because that man walks like it's heavy."
Your brain stalled completely.Â
Packing? Walks like it, what? Those were only some of the thoughts running through your head. You frowned in confusion. "What?"
Trinity stared at you, disbelieving. "You know," she waved her hands slightly as if that would suddenly make you understand what she was referring to.Â
"No," you admitted slowly, "I actually don't."
For one horrifying second, you genuinely thought she was talkng about his prosthetic. You eyes flicked instinctively toward Jack again. He shifted slightly near the desk, probably trying to relieve pressure from standing too long.Â
Concern immediately sparked in your chest. Was his leg hurting him?
"Santos," Dennis whisper hissed, scandalized, "you cannot ask people stuff like that."
"What?" she asked. "I've been catching print for the last hour. I'm curious!"
Now you were even more confused. What did that even mean, catching print? Surely she wasn't referring to his prosthetic. You didn't have the greatest view of his leg as it was obscured by the other, but even so it was very difficult to notice it under his cargo pants even under the right circumstances.Â
"Catching what?" you asked.
She blinked at you incredulously. Dennis covered his face with one hand. "You don't know what that means?" she asked.Â
"Should I?"
In hindsight, the grin that spread across Trinity's face then should have terrified you, but all you felt was embarrassment beginning to creep up your neck. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Okay. Wait."
Before you could react, she stepped closer beside you and pointed subtly towards the command desk. You followed her gaze automatically. Jack still stood talking with Robby and Dana, completely unaware he was currently the subject of discussion.Â
"I'm confusâ"
"Wait for it," Trinity interrupted.Â
Jack shifted his weight to his good leg, trying to relieve some of the pressure. You noticed immediately because you always noticed when he was compensating with his good leg after a long shift. You eyes dropped instinctively toward the prosthetic, mentally cataloguing the stiffness in his posture and the slight adjustment of his hips.Â
Beside you, she groaned dramatically. "Higher," she muttered.Â
Your brows furrowed but you did as you were told and slowly your gaze dragged upward. Past the heavy line of his thigh. Past the dark wash cargo pants that stretched tighter from the weight shift. You finally understood as your gaze landed on his crotch.Â
Oh.
Oh.Â
Your entire body stilled because now that you saw, there was no way for you to unsee it. The fabric across the front of his pants had pulled taut enough to reveal the unmistakable outline of him beneath.Â
It wasn't obscene or at all intentional. But it was incredibly, horribly noticeable once pointed out. Your stomach dropped directly into hell. Which is exactly where you felt you were. Was it getting hot in here?
It wasn't like this was new information to you. It wasn't like you hadn't seen him naked plenty of times before. It was quite the contrary. You knew exact what Jack looked like beneath his clothes.Â
You knew the weight of him in your palm, the way his hands gripped your hips when he lost control, you knew the vulgar things that came out of his mouth when he got worked up enough.Â
This was different. This was public.Â
This was your boyfriend standing in the middle of the emergency department discussing hospital operations while his coworkers apparently conducted active investigations into the outline of his dick.Â
Another reason you hated the ER, pointless conversation about topics that were better left unspoken.
And to make matters worse, Jack clearly had no idea. Because you knew that had Jack been turned on right now, his neck would be flushed under his stubble, his fists would flex unconsciously, his shoulders would tense.Â
Instead he remained entirely relaxed, still focused on whatever Robby was saying. Meaning that it was simply him. Your face went hot enough to physically hurt. Beside you, Trinity looked seconds away from tears from how hard she was trying not to laugh.Â
You couldn't speak.Â
You couldn't breath.Â
Trinity watched your expression transform in real time and absolutely lit up with satisfaction. Because not only had she succeeded in getting her answer, she had effectively embarrassed the life out of you.Â
"There it is."Â
Your eyes remained locked on Jack against your will. Because now that you noticed, your brain seemed insistent on replaying memory after memory. Dear God.Â
Had it always been that noticeable?
You felt mildly sick and somehow even sicker knowing Trinity was watching you realize it. "I, um, have nothing to say on the matter." She finally broke and a loud laugh burst out of her before she slapped Dennis on the shoulder.Â
"Come on, Huckleberry," she cackled, still grinning wildly. "We've ruined Morgie's morning enough." Then she simply walked away. Leaving you standing there in the break room doorway, staring at your boyfriend across the ER.Â
You almost didn't answer the door.Â
The thought had crossed your mind somewhere between your bed and the kitchen island, sometime after you'd buried yourself beneath your comforter and convinced yourself that if you ignored the problem it would eventually disappear.Â
Unfortunately, simply not answering the door wouldn't make everything alright again, because Jack wasn't actually the problem.Â
The problem was you.Â
It was how Jack made you feel.Â
Jack was thoughtful and kind.Â
The sort of man who noticed when you skipped meals, remembered your favorite takeout order and worried when you took the bus home when he was supposed to drive you.Â
The sort of man currently standing in your apartment hallway balancing enough food to feed a small family. You chewed nervously on your lip for a moment as you stared through the peephole.Â
You hesitated opening the door but ultimately unlocked the dead bolt and pulled open the heavy door. "Jack?" you questioned.Â
The second the door opened, his attention settled on you. "Hey, pretty girl."
The greeting came naturally as if it had been your name forever rather than just for the last few months. His gaze moved over you quickly but it didn't feel invasive or scrutinizing. You could tell he was looking for signs of the sickness you had told him you'd suddenly come down with.Â
"Can I come in?"
You didn't really understand why but with those four words, your guilt doubled. Your stomach lurched as you stepped aside without argument. "You didn't have to do all this."
"Yeah, I did," he muttered.Â
He leaned his crutches against the kitchen island as he began to pull out the various food items.Â
The apartment suddenly felt smaller with him inside it, and it wasn't because his large frame took up most of your kitchen. His broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than physically possible. But more importantly, when he was here, it felt warmer and homey. Jack made your tiny studio feel different simply by existing in it.Â
"You look better than I expected."
You could tell the statement was carefully curated. Meant to reassure himself of your state but not as to blatantly say I knew you were lying when you said you were sick.Â
So you did what you do best in these situations. You doubled down. "I told you it wasn't serious," you explained.Â
"Mhm." The hum could have meant absolutely anything and the different possibilities were making your head spin.Â
You watched him continue unpacking the food. Container after container appeared. Then you also noticed the drink carrier and the large water bottle he pulled out from under his arm.Â
"I didn't know what sounded good," he explained. "So I got options."
You stared. "Jack . . ," you trailed.Â
"Breakfast sandwich. Turkey club, incase you were thinking lunch and chicken noodle, if you're feeling nauseous." Another container joined the lineup. "Hash browns, too."
"Jack, thats too much."
"I know you forget to eat sometimes and I am almost ninety nine percent sure that's what's making you feel sick." He finally glances over at you. "So please. Eat."
Your chest tightened because there it was again. That awful problem. The caring and the concern. The complete inability to stop looking after people.Â
You had spent the entire bus ride home feeling ridiculous. Now you felt ridiculous and guilty. A terrible combination, especially when it came to you.Â
"You sure your head's the only thing bothering you?" Your eyes snapped upward.Â
Jack had settled on to the couch now, crutches leaned against the coffee table as he pulled off his prosthetic. Then leaned back against the cushions with the exhausted posture of a man who had spent twelve hours standing.Â
He tilted his head back and rolled his neck. His legs spread as he shifted further into the couch. Your eyes gravitated towards his thighs and for the first time, you noticed he was wearing gray sweatpants. You immediately looked elsewhere.Â
"I'm just tired," you said quickly, averting your eyes by any means necessary.Â
"Baby, you've been tired before." His voice remained calm, very matter-of-fact. "This is different," he continued.Â
You cursed yourself for letting this silly situation spiral like this. You cursed yourself for letting him in the door and most of all, you cursed yourself for being so damn readable.Â
He had been in your apartment for all of ten minutes and he had already noticed the change in your behavior. Very Jack Abbot of him and very much the bane of your existence.Â
You groaned loudly, "Oh my god, I'm acting weird."
"A little." You hadn't expected him to agree with you so outright, so your face fell a little when you heard his words. Jack immediately softened. "Not bad weird. Just a little off."
The apartment fell quiet. You looked away. Suddenly finding everything else more interesting. The outside city noises. A dog barking somewhere down the street. The soft hum of your ancient refrigerator.Â
"Honey?"
"Hm?" You respond but you definitely don't look towards him.
"Tell me what's going on."
You continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. If you didn't answer maybe he'd forget. At least that's what your were foolish enough to think. Unfortunately for you, Jack Abbot possessed the patience of a man who spent his life talking terrified patients through terrible situations.Â
Silence didn't scare him. It merely encouraged him to wait longer. When you sill didn't answer, he sighed. A change in tactics was in store for you. "C'mere."Â
You blinked, confused, "What?"
"Your shoulders are practically touching your ears." He tipped his chin towards the couch. "Sit down," he ordered.Â
"I don't thinkâ"
"Sit."
His command wasn't malicious or harsh. It wasn't even particularly forceful. Yet somehow you found yourself crossing the room anyway. He shifted immediately to make space for you. The moment you sat down, he maneuvered you until your back was facing him and his hands settled on your shoulders. You nearly folded in half at the feeling.Â
"Oh my god."
"I told you." His thumbs worked slowly through the knots gathered at the base of your neck. You hadn't noticed how tense you'd gotten until this moment. How every muscle in your body had tightened up in your fucked up sense of self preservation.Â
But as his hands continued to work over the area, the more you relaxed and in more ways than one. The problem was that Jack's hands felt entirely too good. The problem was also that Jack himself felt entirely too good. The problem was definitely not helped by the gray sweatpants and the fact that you were still very much in the proverbial doghouse you had put yourself in.Â
"You're tight as hell," he mumbled and a strangled sound escaped before you could stop it. Jack froze, one eyebrow raised. "Okay, seriously. What is going on?"
You immediately covered your face as heat flooded your cheeks. "Hey." A hand squeezed your shoulder. "Come on, baby. We talked about communicating, it's important to me."
You groaned into your hands. "Ugh, it's so embarrassing. I don't wanna tell you."
"Well, now you have to," he teased. "It's just me."
"Exactly my point. It's you." You swear if he lifted his eyebrows any further they'd brush his hairline. "Alright, now I'm definitely confused."
You debated lying again. Considered a different excuse, something wholly more believable. But again, Jack had that way about him, which somehow made honesty inevitable.Â
"While I was waiting for you," you finally muttered, "Santos came up to me and she saidâ"
Jack straightened immediately. "What? If she crossed a line, I'll have a talk with her."
"No." You sat upright and turned to him so fast his hands slipped from your shoulders. "No. That would definitely not help."
"Okay," he conceded, though suspicion still laced his voice. "Can you tell me what she said?"
You sighed. "She was just being . . ." You searched for the appropriate description. "Being Santos."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"No, I know." You looked down at your hands. "She asked if we were together."
Jack frowned. "Does that make you upset? That people know?"
"No." You almost shout, the answer coming immediately. You softened slightly. "I mean, I know we weren't necessarily hiding it. I just didn't realize how many people knew."
Understanding flickered across his face. Then disappeared almost as quick as it had appeared. "Alright," his voice gentled. "Then what's got you so twisted up?"
And there it was.
This was the moment. The point of no return.Â
You stared at the wall. Then the floor. Then your hands. Anywhere except Jack. Finally, mortified beyond belief, you mumbled, "she asked if you were 'packing.'"
The silence that followed was immediate.
"What?"
You squeezed your eyes shut, mentally preparing for your next words. "And then she saidâand I quoteâ'he walks like it's heavy.'"
For one glorious second, Jack looked too stunned to react. Then he laughed.
It wasn't a cruel laugh or mocking. Just genuinely surprised. Which somehow made it worse. "Oh my god." You buried your face in your hands. "You're laughing at me. I knew this was stupid."
"No, baby." He was still smiling but he was shaking his head and waving his hands. "I'm not laughing at you."
"You literally are," you said bluntly because he really was still laughing.Â
"It's just kinda silly," he confessed.
"Silly?" you repeated. "What about this is silly?"
Jack shook his head. "So what if people noticed?"
"You don't understand."
"No. I do."
The corners of his mouth twitched. "So what if you noticed? Ain't nothing you haven't seen before."
"Jack."
"What?"
His expression remained entirely too innocent. "It's the truth."
"Jack!" Your panicked voice earned another laugh. You groaned dramatically. "Stop laughing."
"I'm trying." He absolutely was not. The smile gave him away.Â
"C'mere." His hand found your wrist before you could retreat again. The gesture was gentle and familiar. "Baby." The amusement faded slightly and he continued, "you're acting like this is some terrible thing."
"It is terrible."
"Why?"
"You weren't there."
"No." His thumb brushed across your skin."Sounds like I missed a hell of a conversation though," he joked.Â
You glared. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he looked unbearably fond. âI justâ" you exhaled. "I know what you look like, okay? Obviously. But that's private."
Your hand waved vaguely between the two of you. "That's ours."
For the first time since arriving, Jack's smile softened completely. "Then suddenly she points it out and now I'm standing there staring at your pants in the middle of the ER like some kind of pervert."
"Oh."
You narrowed your eyes. âWhat do you mean oh?â
The grin returned instantly. "Are you jealous other people noticed?"
"No!"
You stood without really thinking it through. This was how it was with you. Your instinct was always flight over fight. Unfortunately, Jack caught your wrist. "Nope." The grin widened. "You started this conversation. You're finishing it."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
His eyes lingered on your face. "You're embarrassed because Dr. Santos pointed out something you already spend a lotta time thinkin' about."
Your mouth dropped open.
"IÂ do not."
One eyebrow lifted. You immediately looked away. Which told him everything he needed to know.
His laugh returned. "Hey." Your eyes remained firmly fixed on the opposite wall. "Pretty girl."
"Jack, that's not helping."
"You know I like knowing you think about me like that, right?"
Your face somehow became hotter. "Stop."
"What?" His expression remained shameless. "Sweetheart, we've slept together. More than once."
"Please stop talking."
"There is nothin' embarrassing about bein' attracted to me." You stared. Jack shrugged. "Frankly, I'd be a little concerned if you weren't."
Despite everything. Despite the embarrassment. Despite Trinity Santos. Despite spending over two hours making yourself miserable, a laugh escaped.
The moment it did, Jack's expression softened.
"There she is."
You rolled your eyes. The words settled somewhere warm despite your best efforts to resist them.
And the knot that had been sitting in your chest since sunrise finally began to loosen.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
5 times frank langdon manhandles you and the 1 time you manhandle him back
bet u wanna read my masterlist! ââ .⊠°ââ.àłàż*:
pairing: frank langdon x intern!reader
warnings: fem!reader, sunshine!reader, intern!reader, power dynamics, mild manhandling/rough physical guidance, touch-starved characters, mutual pining, mean!langdon, slow burn, frank langdon is grumpy asf, mild panic attacks and dissociation, caretaking to the MAX, i had my med student best friend proof read this so if itâs wrong blame her not me!!!!
wc: 4.4k
1 Unauthorized Draping in a High-Risk Zone
Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Itâs not a conscious thing you do, but you move anyway. You figure itâs your nervous system trying to siphon off all the anxious energy that perpetually resides within you.
This is just how your body chooses to cope, with tiny, repetitive motion, as if it can shake the dread loose before it calcifies into tears or sweat or both.
You make an effort to stop. To try and plant your feet, tell yourself to be good and normal and someone who belongs in this intimidating world.
But your brain pipes up with its favorite playlist: donât touch anything blue, donât lean on anything that costs more than your rent, donât talk unless someone with a PhD says your name first, donât be weird, donât be you.
Not you-you. Not the klutzy, apology-powered wind-up doll who says âsorryâ when someone else steps on your foot and once high-fived a paper towel dispenser by accident (donât ask).
âWrong hallway. Wrong badge.â
Shit.
Every neuron in your body slams on the brakes at once, and when you turn, itâs with the same slow, dawning horror of someone realizing theyâve just wandered into the morgue by mistake, except instead of toe tags and chillers, youâre greeted by six feet of brutal posture and eyes that look like they havenât seen joy since the inventions of pagers.
You look down at his own badge and frown. Dr. Langdon. The senior resident with the god complex and the too-loud temper and the rehab stint.Â
Heâs severe. Thatâs your first thought. Gaze that makes your mouth dry up and hate how immediately attractive you find him in that hyper-competent, morally disapproving kind of way.
You open your mouth to say something, anything, hi, sorry, I swear this was an accident, maybe even please donât kill me but you donât get the chance, because heâs already moving.
Coming close enough that you can see the indent on his chin, flexing with every angry breath he takes.
His hand then moves to your shoulder while the other catches the tie at your gown and tugs it with quick efficient impatient.
What is happening?
Your ears burn, heart going loud, obnoxiously so, like itâs trying to escape your ribcage and run laps around the hallway.
This is the part where you do something. Step back maybe? Speak? React? Anything that might come across to the effect of: hey stranger danger why are you touching me like that?
Instead, you freeze completely, letting him reposition you like an object with poor spatial awareness, standing there like the worldâs most pathetic statue.Â
âI â wait, I thought ââ you squeak, and itâs not a strong performance, not even close, just a frantic jumble of syllables strung together with the blind optimism that maybe, just maybe, heâll let you explain yourself.
He doesnât. He talks right over you, his words slicing through your sentence.Â
âYouâre not cleared,â he says, cool and direct, the kind of tone that doesnât invite conversation so much as it ends it. Then, as if the knife needed twisting: âNo one told you to suit up.â
He undoes the final knot, as if heâs unwrapping an inconvenience instead of peeling the last bit of your dignity off your shoulders, and when you donât drop the gown fast enough he just takes it from you, tossing it in the linen bin.
He shoves a chart into your hands.
âTriage notes need updating,â he says. âDo that.â
Youâre still rooted to the spot, stunned into inaction, gripping the clipboard like it's the only thing keeping you upright.Â
You manage one step backward. Then another. It feels like learning to walk again.
Behind you, he adds, âAnd drink some water. You look like youâre about to pass out.â
2 Manual Dexterity: Failed Check
Youâre staring at your hands. More specifically, the gloves that reside there. They feel weird on your skin, too loose at the fingertips, too bunchy on the palms.
Thereâs this awful puff of air trapped between your fingertips and the latex, and you keep flexing your hands like thatâll make it better, but it only makes the squish-snap worse.Â
You could take them off and grab a better-fitting pair, but that would involve drawing attention, and youâre already pushing the acceptable intern limit for âvisible fumbling.â
Especially not with Dr. Langdon standing nearby. Dark hair, cutting eyes, that carved-from-contempt expression that already seems to say youâre wasting his time just by existing. His whole aura screams, I have better things to do than acknowledge your carbon footprint, and it works, youâre been trying to stay out of his way since the Gown Incident (capital G, capital I), but he has this unnerving talent for appearing exactly where you donât want him to be.Â
And you could maybe cope with that, if your body didnât decide to implode every time he got close. Five feet is the threshold, apparently. Any closer and all the blood rushes to your cheeks.
Youâre so focused on pretending to be normal (chin up, shoulders back) that you donât even realize heâs moved until itâs already happening.
A common theme, apparently.
His hand is around yours, lifting up your own like itâs some sort of misfiled lab result and brings it up under the light. He turns it over once. Then again.
You think for a second he might have forgotten itâs attached to a living, breathing person.
His brows furrow in what you assume is either concentration or deep disappointment. Probably the later.
âWhat are you doing?â you whisper, because thatâs all your vocal cords will give you right now and youâre deeply afraid of drawing more attention than he already has.
He doesnât answer, but rather just releases you hand. The loss of contact leaves a strange chill behind.
He stalks off toward a shadowy corner of the room that apparently hides a second supply cart.
A cart youâve walked past, what, twenty times? He crouches, grabs a glove box from the bottom shelf, glances at the size like heâs memorized your hands from the quick thirty second glance over he gave them, and straightens in one fluid motion.
Heâs back in front of you before you can fix your face, reaching for your hand to unpeel the glove in a way that makes your knees whisper things like maybe buckle now?.
The material slides away with a snap, leaving your hand bare and tingling in the open air.Â
âI can do it,â you hiss, âI knew they looked weird. I mean, not my hands, the gloves obviously, my hands are normal, at least I think theyâre normal, unless you â no, sorry, what I meant was â I just didnât know there were any smaller ones and I didnât want to slow anyone down and ââ
He positions the new, correct-sized, glove and slides it onto you, smoothing it down with expert hands.Â
He has really nice hands you realize. You mourn the second the go out of view.
âWrong size compromises dexterity.â
âOh,â you say, and then immediately regret it, because oh is not a real response to anything, so you tack on a breathless, âThank you. I mean â for noticing. And fixing it. Sorry again.â
Youâre smiling now. Why are you smiling?
âDonât thank me.â
âRight,â you say, nodding. âNo, yeah. I didnât. I mean, I did, but⊠un-thank you. Consider the gratitude rescinded. Retracted. Gone.â
What a loser.
You wish the floor would do you a solid and just open up, suck you in, maybe relocate you to a dimension where youâre not inventing new ways to embarrass yourself in front of the grumpiest man alive. Preferably somewhere tropical and remote. With no gloves.
He looks at you like heâs deciding whether or not to dignify that with a response.
Then: âYou done?â
âUh-huh,â you say, âDone. Done talking. So done.â
He lifts his chin, gestures down the hall toward curtain three, and starts walking.
You follow like a kicked puppy. A very polite, professionally dressed, medically licensed kicked puppy.
3 Redirecting a Human GPS Malfunction
âSheâs hyponatremic but still alert, which makes me think itâs chronic rather than acute, and the reflexes were intact except for a slight delay on patellar, so Iâm leaning away from neuro, but if her cortisolâs low again I think we need to rule out secondary adrenal insufficiency, especially since her ACTH levels havenât come back yet and nobody seems concerned about the mild orthostasis.â
Dr. Langdon hums low in his throat. Itâs not disapproval. But itâs not agreement either. Itâs a sound that lives somewhere in the neighborhood of try again, but smarter. Â
âAnd if the ACTH comes back low?â
âThen Iâd want a CRH stimulation test to see if the pituitaryâs response because if both ACTH and cortisol are low, we could be looking at hypothalamic suppression instead of adrenal failure, and at that point, imaging the pituitary would be the next step. Unless sheâs been on chronic steroids, but I didnât see anything in her med list to suggest that.â
âGood. But keep an eye on the sodium trend, if it spikes with fluids, you might be chasing the wrong diagnosis.â
Good.
Itâs one word. One syllable. Not even said warmly, more of a clinical stamp of temporary adequacy. But your brain grabs onto it like a starved plant seeing sun for the first time in weeks.
You want to keep your face still. You really try. You train every muscle into neutrality, schooling your expression like a child behind glass. But inside⊠inside itâs glowing. Confetti. Champagne. Tiny internal high-fives.
You got a good. From him. From Dr. Langdon, who looks at most people like theyâre bad test results. Whoâs allergic to praise. Who speaks in critiques and glares and weaponized silence.
âYep. Sodium. Absolutely,â you nod eagerly. âYou know, I read this case study once where a woman presented with severe hyponatremia after a hot yoga retreat and it turned out sheâd been drinking like three gallons of water a day because she thought it was detoxing her live, and her sodium dropped to 118, which is horrifying, but she was totally asymptomatic until she passed out in her car.â
He looks at you. âYou ever do that?â
You blink. âSorry, do what?â
âHot yoga.â
âI have! Um, I went through this whole phase junior year where I was like, trying to become one of those âbalancedâ people who wake up early and do gratitude journaling and drink matcha and just like, glow all the time? So I signed up for a free week at this studio that was supposed to be âsoul-transforming,â which in hindsight shouldâve been a red flag, but I was optimistic, and kind of desperate â anyway, I made it halfway through the first class before I realized Iâd accidentally worn fleece-lined leggings, and then I couldnât leave because the instructor locked the door for âheat-integrity,â and ââ
His fingers close over your collar, tugging you just enough to redirect you a few steps to the left before you cheek meets drywall.
ââ and I was already sweating like crazy but trying to act normal because everyone else looked so serene, and then ââ
He stops walking. You stumble to a halt just behind him, trying to get a handle on your breathing and your mouth, which have both been sprinting ahead without a permit.
âWatch where youâre going,â he says, flat and unbothered. âIâm not doing that again.â
Youâre not quite sure what he means, but apologize anyway, âRight. Sorry.â
He pauses. Glances over his shoulder. âAnd stop apologizing.â
âMhm. Got it.â You give him a weird little salute. Loser strike two.
âGo check on your patient.â
âGoing!â
You make it three steps before his fingers wrap around your elbow. He spins you back around with minimal effort. âWrong way.â
You glance sideways. âThought you werenât doing that again.â
He doesnât let go yet. Just raises one eyebrow. âDonât be a smartass.â
His mouth twitches. A small, tiny flicker of amusement. It feels like a secret you werenât supposed to see, so you pretend not to.
4 Medical Intervention (Sandwich Required)
Youâre not even sure when you stopped standing and started leaning, all you know is the supply cart is cool and metal and solid under your palm, which is more than you can say for your knees.
Sixteen hours in, eight traumas logged, and your internal organs are currently operating on a diet consisting of two cups of hospital coffee (burnt and betrayal flavored) and a single saltine you found crumpled in your pocket.
You blink against the sudden fuzz crawling at the edges of your vision, but itâs no use, the black spots are doing synchronized jumping jacks now. Little warning flares that youâre probably pushing your luck. Again.
Dana steps into your line of sight, eyes narrowing. âYou okay, kid?â
You slap on a smile like a band-aid over a bullet wound. Your special-sauce if you ever had one.
âYup! All good. Just needed a minute. Long day. A lot of⊠exciting cases. You know how it is.â You do a vague jazz-hands motion. âCrushing it.â
Your vision pulses again. You do not, in fact, appear to be crushing it, youâre very sure of that. Maybe in the way a soda can gets crushed under a steel-toed boot.Â
âAnd Iâm the Queen of England.â She takes one long look at your pale face and glassy eyes. âSit. Before you faceplant and I have to explain to Gloria why we lost one to stubborn optimism.â
âI promise Iâm fine! I just â stood up too fast.â
âBullshit.âÂ
His hand appears at the same time as his voice, both faster than your excuses.
One moment youâre vertical and the next youâre yanked with just enough force, like he knows how much pressure you can take without crumbling.
His grip is all calloused heat, palm pressing into your arm as he pulls you into the chair.
The world tilts once, then slams back into place. Cold metal bites into your thighs. His hand lingers a second too long, fingers flexing like heâs still gauging whether youâll tip over again.Â
âI couldâve sat on my own, you know,â you grumble half-heartedly.
You glance toward Dana, hoping for backup, or at the very least a supportive eyebrow raise. She meets your gaze, chews her gum, and shrugs one shoulder in a perfect display of girl, please. Entirely unsympathetic. Possibly amused.
âNope,â she says. âYou were about one sway away from eating tile. Survival of the smartest, sweetheart. â
âDonât care if you couldâve,â he says as he crouches. âIâm not scraping you off the floor because youâre too much of a hard head to sit when youâre clearly crashing.â
Then, without asking (because when does he ever ask), he takes your wrist in his hand, thumb pressing gently into the inside. You try not to squirm.
âThereâs a difference between committed and careless.â His brow furrows as he counts the beats under his thumb. âRight now, youâre leaning toward the wrong one.â
âI wasnât trying to be careless, I swear. I just lost track of time, which is funny because Iâm usually really good at that, like I even set alarms for hydration, but I ignored all of them because I didnât want to miss rounds and then one trauma turned into five ââ
You stop when you realize heâs still holding your wrist. And staring.
He exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head.
âYouâve got ten minutes here with food,â he says. He jerks his chin at Dana, who nods and heads for the cart without needing more. âThen fluids. Then, and only then, you can check on the lac in bay four.â His eyes cut back to you. âAnd if I see you wobble even once, youâre off the board for the night.â
âYes. Yes sir â uh, not sir, just â yes. Iâm staying.â
Dr. Langdon nods once, brushes his fingers briefly over your shoulder in what might be the lamest pat in human history (the universal âdonât make me come backâ signal), and walks off without another word.
Dana returns with a sandwich and a raised brow.
You unwrap it slowly. âIs he always so â uh â intense?â
She barks a laugh. âThat was him being gentle.â
5 Objects in Motion (You) Meets Immovable Force (Also You, Apparently)
ââIâm telling you, heâs been on my ass before the sun even showed up,â Santos grumbles, tapping her pen against the desk. âI said good morning, and he looked at me like I suggested we kick a puppy together. Someone pissed in his Cheerios, and now Iâm the one getting crucified for it.â
You tilt your head. âMaybe he just needs a snack. Or like⊠a hug.â
She snorts without looking at you. âI was thinking more along the lines of a double whiskey and a week locked in solitary with nothing but his own guilt complex, but sure. Hugs. Why not.â
âThatâs so mean! Dr. Robby is not that bad. He just⊠glares at people like they personally ruined his life on occasion. Heâs usually very kind.â
âNext youâre gonna tell me heâs just misunderstood and has a good heart underneath it all.â
âI mean⊠yeah. I kind of believe that about everyone. Doesnât mean Iâm right, but like⊠Iâm not not hoping.â
Santo swivels in her chair, stares. âEven Langdon?â
You falter there. Step back. Physically, even, as if thatâll help distance you from the question, from the thought, because now itâs in there.Â
Dr. Langdon. Frank Langdon. The man who speaks in flat tones and judgmental silences. Who glares like itâs a sport and youâre always losing.Â
And now youâre thinking about him with⊠layers. Like, not just as a terrifying force of workplace intensity, but as someone who maybe carries all that stormy energy because he doesnât know what to do with the softer parts.
Someone who maybe, just maybe, has a good heart buried underneath a mile of barbed wire
You chew on the thought like itâs an overcooked piece of gum â rubbery, bitter, sticking to the inside of your skull even as you try to spit it out â and youâre not even sure what part is more disturbing: the possibility that Langdon has hidden depths, or the fact that your brain insists on exploring them like a museum exhibit you werenât emotionally prepared for.Â
But before you can get to the part where he maybe owns houseplants or secretly feeds stray cats behind the loading bay, the thought shatters, violently, like someone dropped a wine glass in the middle of your mental dinner party.
Noise. Sudden. Loud. A voice shouting something urgent, boots hammering the floor, movement that feels too fast for the space.
You flinch instinctively, start to pivot toward the commotion, but before your body can even decide what direction to go, a hand snaps around your waist and then youâre moving, pulled into something broad and unyielding and extremely human-shaped.
Specifically, Dr. Langdon-shaped.
Your cheek brushes the starchy edge of his scrub top. His arm curls in front of you, protective like a steel beam, while a crash cart screams past, inches from where you were just standing, the air it kicks up biting against your skin.
You realize, distantly, that you wouldâve been directly in its path if not for him.
You can feel his heartbeat through the wall of muscle between you and everything else.
You can smell him, too. Clean, masculine soap invading your senses.
You shift, just slightly, enough to tilt your face upward.
Heâs looking down at you like youâre a particularly complicated equation heâs trying not to solve out loud. And for a second, you donât breathe. Not really. Because his grip tightens and you swear, you swear, his eyes flick down to your mouth.
âJesus,â Santos mutters, breaking the spell as she peers after the cart. âYou good? That thing was flying.â
You blink, realizing a second too late that Santos was talking to you.
âHuh?â You clear your throat, a sound that comes out way too dry. âOh, yeah. Yeah, Iâm good.â
At the same moment, Langdon steps away. Lets go. And the absence is bizarrely loud, like someone hit mute on the part of your body that had been braced against him.
Youâre suddenly hyper-aware of not being touched. Of gravity reasserting itself. Of how your arms feel too light and your chest feels too tight and none of it makes any damn sense.
âYou couldâve gotten flattened,â he mutters, jaw tight. It sounds like criticism, but thereâs something else under it. Concern, maybe. Or frustration aimed more at the situation than at you.
You rub at your forearm, pretending it itches instead of tingles. âYeah, well. Iâm thinking of investing in high-vis tape and a âplease donât run me overâ sign.â
He doesnât say anything. Just stares at you with that signature flat, heavy-lidded expression like even he canât believe how often he has to save your life from your own proximity to disaster.
You canât really believe it either.
âI wonât say thanks,â you say. âI know you hate that. And apologizing. But uh⊠I didnât die. Thatâs⊠cool. For both of us. I mean, mostly me. But also you, probably, because paperwork wouldâve sucked. Iâm gonna leave before I say something dumber than that, which is a very low bar, so ââ
âDo you really believe that?â he says behind you.
You stop.Â
âWhat?â
âWhat you said earlier. About everyone?â
It takes a second. Heâd heard that?
You scratch your cheek, suddenly feeling exposed.
âYeah,â you say finally. âI really do.â
+1 Please Just Stay
The stairwell is freezing, cement bones and rebar spine, and youâre crumpled against the wall like a misfiled piece of paper. Itâs quiet here, except for the stupid way your breathing bounces off the walls and makes it sound like someone else is crying too.Â
But itâs just you. Itâs always just you. The tears keep coming, hot and salty and mortifying. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, again and again, but they just keep returning, stubborn as guilt.
Everyone said it wasnât your fault. In serious tones people use when they want to sound very sure. As if it makes a difference. It really doesnât.Â
It was your first patient death.
He was somebodyâs father. Somebodyâs brother. Somebodyâs son. And in the end, you were the last person to touch him. You watched the monitors go still. You felt his hand lose its warmth.Â
Footsteps echo up the stairwell.Â
Your body reacts accordingly, jolting upright like youâve been caught doing something illegal (crying isnât illegal, you remind yourself, but it sure feels like it), and your hands fly to your face.
Both of them. Too rough, too fast, trying to erase the emotions by brute force.
Your shoulders curl in, chin tucking down so far it could hit your collarbone. Hide, hide, hide. You try to stop the sniffling, will it down your throat, but it stutters out of you anyway, weak, wet, pathetic. Perfect.
âOh â shit. Sorry.â It takes you half a second to recognize the voice. A half second too long, because by the time it clicks, itâs already too late. Dr. Langdon.Â
Your stomach flips so intensely it feels like itâs trying to escape through your throat, a sudden swoop of nausea and disbelief tangled together. Of all people.Â
You hear the shift, his footsteps faltering, uneven now, breath snagging mid-step before everything goes still. The stairwell swallows the sound.Â
Then: âYouâre crying.â
You let out a exhale that stumbles out halfway between a laugh and a cough.
It sounds pathetic, honestly, but you donât have the energy to care. âThat obvious, huh?â
Silence stretches long enough to get awkward, and you start to hope maybe he took the hint. Maybe he backed away, quietly, like a decent person who knows how to pretend they didnât just catch someone crying their face off in a desolate place. Maybe you get to keep your breakdown private.
However, you arenât so lucky.
âFirst time I lost a patient, I threw up in the supply closet.â He doesnât sound embarrassed by it, just matter-of-fact, like heâs naming a side effect. âI told the attending that it was food poisoning. It wasnât.â
You twist toward him, shoulders still hunched, face hot and raw. Youâre sure you look like hell, and he sees all of it, but he doesnât react. No flicker of discomfort. No awkward glance away.
âDoes it⊠ever get easier?â
It sounds fragile on your tongue. Like youâre scared of the answer, but more scared not to ask.
He looks past you for a second.Â
âNo,â he says. Then, almost like an afterthought, âIf it did, thatâd be worse.â
You swallow around the lump in your throat. âYeah,â you whisper. âThatâs what I was afraid of.â
He nods and you see the look on his face that suggests maybe he wants to say more. But he doesnât.
âTake a minute. If you need anythingâŠâ He hesitates. âCome get me.â
He turns, just slightly, like heâs giving you privacy. Respect. Distance.Â
And maybe that was what you needed. What you thought you wanted not even two seconds ago. But not anymore.
Because the second he turns, the second his body shifts and his presence starts to pull away even by the smallest degree, panic claws its way up your chest like a reflex, like a toddler reaching out in the dark, and your hands shoot forward without asking permission from the rest of you, both of them closing tight around the soft fabric of his scrubs. Clumsy and fast and maybe too hard.Â
You donât even know what you're holding onto exactly, not really, except itâs him, and heâs warm and real and not going anywhere, not unless you let him, and for a second you just stand there like that, fists full of fabric, heart full of please donât leave.
âDonât ââ you choke, the word cracking like itâs too big for your throat, and you bite it down fast, try again, quieter this time, like whispering might make it less desperate. âCan you just⊠stay. Just a minute. Please.â
He doesnât say anything right away, and for a terrifying, breath-holding moment, you think maybe you misread it, maybe heâs about to step back, untangle himself from your grip, do the polite thing and leave you to cry in peace like people do when they donât want to deal with someone elseâs damage.Â
His eyes drop to where your fists are bunched in his scrubs
âYeah,â he murmurs. âYeah. Okay.â
His arms come around you. Not expertly either. Itâs real and maybe a little uneven, a little unsure, like heâs not totally certain where his hands are supposed to go.
But he does it anyway, one hand finding the back of your head, fussing with the tag on the back of your shirt, the other curling around your back.
And for the first time all day, you donât feel like youâre falling.
Description: Youâve been secretly losing your mind over Dr. Abbot for months. One slip on ice later, and your giant crush on the night attending becomes everyoneâs business thanks to a concussion and a mouth that wonât stop calling him gorgeous.
or, Cristina Yang slips and gets saved by Owen Hunt in uniform, but make it The Pitt âš
Tags/Warnings: Nurse!reader, you're so down bad for him, descriptions of a concussion and a mild icicle injury to the stomach, suggestive comments, banter and flirty Abbot.
Note: Once again a Grey's anatomy inspired fic lol. I had a lot of fun writing this one, enjoy!
Masterlist
You are so gorgeous it makes me so mad,
You make me so happy, it turns back to sad
Jack Abbot is ruining your life, and he doesnât even know.Â
He goes to work every day completely unaware that somewhere across the hospital, you, a licensed, very mature and very competent nurse, is being driven insane by the simple fact that he exists. And quite frankly, you hate him for that.Â
Because heâs kind and smart. Annoyingly smart. Calm in a crisis, quick on his feet, always three steps ahead, always knowing exactly what to do. Patients love him. Nurses love him. Residents love him. Dr. Robby loves him. You loâno, no you donât.Â
And to make matters worse, he just had to be gorgeous too. Â
That salt and pepper thing he has going on? Unfair. The way he shows up wearing those black shirts out of nowhere? Mega unfair. The way he holds eye contact while expecting you to focus on doing your job? Sick and twisted, actually. And donât even get started on his hands. Or his voice. Or his bedside manner. Or hisâŠeverything.
Itâs infuriating.
Heâs the kind of gorgeous that has you staring at a particular spot on the floor for too long, in the loneliness of your apartment, when you remember the way he said âGood night, you did a good job today,â during shift handover. Because the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that you barely get to see him. Your lives only overlap in scraps that mean nothing and everything to you.Â
Youâre a day nurse, heâs a night attending. Thatâs your 13th reason.Â
No, actually, you know what it is? I know you do. Weâre all thinking the same thing here.Â
That uniform.
That stupid, cursed, virtue ruining SWAT uniform that makes you forget youâre a professional. A professional who has, on more than one occasion, had to physically remove herself from the nurse station and hide by the stairwell to look at the lava lamp video Dr. King so kindly shared with you, because Dr. Jack Abbot walked in wearing camo, and the devil on your shoulder told you to jump him and bite those biceps.Â
So yes, without being dramatic or anything, he is ruining your life.
By being hot. By being kind. By being good at everything he does. By flashing you those little smiles when your shifts overlap, when he has no idea what they do to youâŠor maybe he does. Because he always requests your help when he comes in during the day, like itâs nothing, like it doesnât send you straight into the land delusion for the rest of your shift.Â
You tell yourself itâs because youâre a good nurse, despite it all. Princess says itâs because he likes you.Â
But Princess is insane. Maybe as deluded as you are, to be honest.Â
And having a silly work crush was fun at first, but itâs not fun anymore when all you do is wait for those tiny moments. When 7 p.m. has become your favorite and least favorite time of day. When you catch yourself smoothing down your scrub top before shift change, just in case. When you know the sound of his voice from three trauma bays over. When you start wondering whether switching to nights only for him would be that crazy after all.
All while Jack remains oblivious to the fact that he is the reason youâre stepping outside the ambulance bay at 6:30pm on a freezing Friday evening, completely exhausted, yet still hopeful enough to be the first one he says hello to on your last break.Â
You sigh as you lean on the brick wall near the entrance, tucking your hands deeper into your jacketâs pockets looking at nothing in particular. The snow has been shoveled away from the ambulances path, but thereâs still a few patches of ice glistening on the asphalt.Â
âThere you are,â a voice behind you makes you startle. You turn around slightly, finding Princess walking to you with a knowing smile. âYouâre gonna freeze yourself out here.âÂ
âIâm just excited itâs Friday,â you say, but thereâs no actual enthusiasm in your voice. âCanât wait to get out of here.â
âOhhh, you got big exciting plans for the weekend?â She wiggles her brows, nudging you with her elbow. âSomeone to warm you up?â That makes you snort, shaking your head and nudging her back.Â
âI wish. Itâs just me and my couchâŠand my dog.â
âAlone?â
âAlone.â
âThat bad,â she teases, but you know thereâs no malice in it. âTragic,â she sighs, before perking up just as quickly. âMe howeverâŠâ
âOh the firefighter?â You chuckle, watching a stupid little grin spread over her face. âYouâre seeing him tonight?â
âThird date,â she sing songs. âYou know what that means.â
âHmm. Bunch of cardio.â Â
âIt keeps me healthy,â she shrugs, beaming. âIf you donât hear from me tomorrow, assume I died happy.â
You both start giggling, and you feel genuinely happy that at least your best friend is getting wrecked by a man in uniform. Not that you have imagined something like that. Actually, youâve imagined a lot of things. Some more HR friendly than others. You let out a sigh without noticing, and Princess bumps your shoulder this time.Â
âSee, that little pathetic sigh is why you need to do something about your little situation,â she starts.Â
âWhat little situation?â You donât even turn to her, but you know sheâs glaring at you. âWhat?â you say again.
âOh I donât know, maybe the one with the silver fox attending youâre into.â
âPrincess!â
âWhat? Honey youâre already halfway through a shift switch petition.â
âSo what? It has nothing to do with Dr. Abbot,â you snap, but realize your mistake as soon as the words leave your mouth.Â
âI never said Dr. Abbot,â she drawls.Â
You groan and look away as heat crawls up your face. At least it brings comfort against the unforgiving winter air. Â
âItâs not like that. I just think the change of pace could be interesting,â you excuse yourself, very poorly.Â
âUh-huh. You just wanna stare at him more often,â she says, less teasing than you expected. âHave you ever thought he might like seeing you more often too?â
The sole idea of it makes you snort. âYeah, sure.âÂ
âI am serious, girl. I really think he likes you,â she reassures.Â
âNo, he doesnât,â you shake your head.Â
âHe always asks for you.â
âBecause Iâm good at my job.â
âIâm good too, but he smiles at you differently.â
âPrincess,â you warn, because living in delulu land has done nothing for you these past months. âStop.âÂ
âIâm just saying,â she shrugs with a little smile. âOne day youâre gonna have to admit that man is ruining your life.â
Oh he is. And you know it very well.Â
âYeah yeah, call it whatever you want. Now letâs go back inside before we freeze to death and Dana kills us for dying,â you chuckle despite yourself, making her laugh in agreement.Â
You turn toward the doors, a little disappointed to not have spotted the subject of your discussion yet, but you donât have much time to mourn when your shoe skids on a thin layer of ice you didn't see, sending you flying back in a matter of seconds. Princess almost slipped too trying to catch you, but your head hit the pavement before she could.Â
For a second you only see the blurry lights of the ambulance bay, and a few glistening icicles lined above you. And because life loves you, when your vision manages to focus more, you catch the horrifying moment when one of the icicles breaks from the roof and falls straight into the side of your stomach. The impact makes you groan, Princess gasps and covers her mouth with both hands.Â
âOuchâŠâ you wince, trying to lift yourself up to see the damage but your head feels too heavy.
âOhmygod, ohmygod,â she panics, kneeling next to you and slapping your hand away when you reach for it. âNo, no. Donât touch it! Heyâare youâŠare you okay?âÂ
You barely lift your head, only to stare blankly at her, not exactly sure why youâre on the floor. She expects you to curse, cry or scream at her. Anything. But all you do is giggle in response, completely out of it. She looks like she has two faces, and stars around her.Â
Red flag.Â
âAlright, alright, donât move Cristina Yang. Iâm getting you help, just wait for me babe,â she says, already getting up and running inside.Â
âNooo, donât gooo,â you say softly, but it sounds more like youâre amused than an actual cry for help. âHelpâŠâ you whisper, chuckling at how funny you sound.Â
You lie there, on your back in the ambulance bay, wondering if this is what rock bottom looks like. Attacked by an icicle after daydreaming of the hospitalâs McSteamy, like youâre part of some medical drama.Â
You giggle again.Â
Yup. That can't be good.Â
You hear loud footsteps approaching you, but theyâre not coming from the direction Princess took. You yelp when a face hovers over you, upside down from your perspective, and that face is none other than the one youâve had at least a thousand inappropriate fantasies about.Â
âWell, what do we have here?â He drawls, tilting his head when he sees the icicle and the little patch of blood around it staining your grey scrubs. The amusement goes away in an instant.Â
He drops to one knee beside you, lifting your head a little to check for any blood under, but your hair is only wet from the leftover snow on the asphalt, making him exhale in relief. His hands hover near the icicle without touching it. Itâs only when heâs closer that you notice heâs not in scrubs, but in his god forsaken SWAT uniform, no vest.Â
You canât really find yourself to complain in your hazed state.Â
âOh noâŠâ you gasp softly, in a failed attempt to hide your sudden giddiness. He already looks like he has little pink hearts floating around his head.Â
âHey, hey itâs okay,â he coos, oblivious. âCan you tell me what your name is?âÂ
âOf course I know my name, silly,â you snort, proudly reciting your full government name. He bites back a smile at the jab, nodding.Â
âThatâs good. Do you know what day?âÂ
â...Wednesday?â You narrow your eyes, he just shakes his head softly.Â
âAlready went through that one this week. Come here.â
He slides one arm under your shoulders, the other carefully under your knees, making sure he doesnât bend your abdomen too much as he hauls you up with a groan. Your brain blocks the pain and decides this is the funniest thing in the world, giggling into his long sleeve camo shirt as he stands. Once heâs got you in his arms, with his face close enough to hurt more than the piece of ice inside you, he grins at you.Â
âWhat about my name?â He asks playfully. You huff in offense.Â
âOh Dr. Abbot. Youâre a hard one to forget,â you sigh dreamily, drawing circles on his chest. âWith that faceâŠand those eyesâŠand that uniform clinging to that bodââ
âOkay, honey. Thatâs a concussion speaking for you,â he cuts you off with a chuckle, telling himself the blush on his cheeks is due to the cold. âIâm gonna get you inside, alright? Weâre gonna keep your new friend exactly where it is until it's safe to take it out.â
If your head wasnât in wonderland right now, you wouldâve probably coded over the fact that he just called you honey.Â
âMmm. Whatever you say, doc,â you hum, resting your head on his chest. He canât fight the smile this time.Â
âYou day shift girls really know how to make an exitâŠâ He mumbles fondly with a shake of his head, making his way back inside. The glass doors slide open, and Princess nearly collides with him, her sneakers coming to a stop in front of him.Â
âDr. Abbot! There you are,â she yelps. âWe were just talking and she slipped, and then BAM, an icicle! So I went to get you, of course. Or any doctorâactually, no, preferably you. She definitely prefers youââ
âI got her, Princess,â Jack snickers without breaking stride, carrying you in his arms like itâs the most natural thing in the world.Â
You barely lift your head to grin at her, and manage to point at the man carrying you while mouthing an âoh my godâ to Princess. She nods just as giddy, turning away so Jack doesnât see her expression.Â
The chilly air gets replaced by the warmth and noise of the ED, all heads turning in your direction when he strides in, suddenly turning into the most interesting thing happening on that floor. Thatâs on you for giving them the material anyways. Jack Abbot, in full camo, carrying a giggling, icicle stabbed day nurse? Itâs free real estate!
âOh shit, is that an icicle??â Dr. Santos calls from the charting station, propping herself up over the desk to get a better look. âCan I go in there, Dr. Abbot? Please tell me I can go in there.â
âYouâre off the clock, Santos. Go home,â he says, ignoring the way she mutters something under her breath as she turns back to the computer. âLena, whatâs free?âÂ
âTrauma two,â Lena replies, eyes widening when she sees the thing sticking out of your stomach. She stands up from her swivel chair to trail after you into the room. âWhat the hell happened?"Â
âWinter hates meâŠâ you say with a little laugh, before falling back into Jackâs chest. âOr maybe it did me a favorâŠâ you mutter under your breath, making Princess and Lena exchange a knowing look.Â
Jack sets you down so, so gently on the bed that you fight the urge to kick your feet at the contrast of his rough hands adjusting your body delicately. Princess is already hooking you up to monitors you canât really manage to read right now.Â
âWinter assault indeed,â Jack chuckles, popping on a pair of gloves as he analyzes your injury from multiple angles. âPenetrating trauma, left lateral abdomen. Looks superficial, but I want imaging before I yank this thing. Can you page Dr. Shen for me? This has his name written all over it.â
âAre you sure you want Shen here?â Lena raises an eyebrow, cutting your scrubs open with some scissors, as Jack briefly checks your pupils with a penlight.Â
âOh, heâll be offended if I donât call him for an icicle,â he says, pocketing the penlight. âMild concussion, no need for a CT.â
âAlright,â Lena says, putting down the scissors and patting your leg in reassurance before she leaves. âHow are you doing, kid?âÂ
âBooored,â you sing, trying to lift your body up but your head swims and your abdomen screams in pain before you can. âOw owââ
âHey, hey. Easy,â Jack says, pushing you gently back onto the bed. âStay still for me, alright?â
âJust get it out already!â
Jack catches your wrist just before you can grab the icicle piercing your side. âUh-uh, what did I say?â he scolds. âWeâre not doing an extraction yet.âÂ
You groan in frustration, unaware of the way Princess and Jack exchange looks.Â
âWhat do we have?â Dr. Shen asks from the entrance, iced coffee in one hand as he walks to his rightful place beside Abbot. He tilts his head at you and your stupid icicle, and whistles. âWow. I donât wanna see the other guy.âÂ
âDonât worry, John. Dr. Abbot saved me,â you huff out a weak laugh.Â
âOf course he did,â Shen glances between the two of you, amused. âOur noble SWAT doc.âÂ
Jack keeps his gaze on you with that maddening smirk, only breaking eye contact when Princess lets him know the XR tech is there. People start moving around you, and by this point you start to feel everything catching up to you because things donât seem so funny anymore. You feel so tired all you want is to go to sleep. You try to fight it by blinking at the ceiling, trying to count the lights but failing very quickly.Â
Jack is suddenly by your head, one hand braced on the bed near your shoulder, closely monitoring the process.Â
âHold your breath,â he whispers, way too close to your ear. âJust for a few seconds. Youâve seen a hundred patients do this, right?âÂ
âHave I?â You try to joke, but you sound more drowsy than amused to him.Â
That makes him frown and straighten up to check your pupils again. âMaybe you do need that CT...â
You squint at the intrusive light, trying to push his hand away but the tech mumbles not to move. âStop with thatâIâm okay, just let me take a nap hereâŠâ you say, already closing your eyes.Â
âNo, no. Eyes open,â Jack orders, snapping his fingers in your face to keep you awake. âStay with me, trouble.â
Your lashes feel heavy but you manage to drag your gaze up to his. Itâs easier than trying to focus on anything else anyways. You feel the XR ray tech pulling away and leaving the room.Â
âYouâre gonna be fine,â Jack tells you, so serious that youâd debate if heâd just picked you up from a dumb fall or if he'd saved you from a building engulfed in fire. âWeâre gonna patch you up, and maybe get you a few days off. Milk this for all the sick time you can get. Okay?âÂ
You nod, managing a small tired smile. Heâs leaning over you now, allowing you to admire his face from up close. His beautiful hazel eyes, his jaw dusted with stubble, the salt in his hair shining under the harsh lights. You can even see the little lines at the corners of his eyes.
Thatâs when the single neuron left in your brain produces a thought. And you should definitely not say the thought.Â
You absolutely say the thought.
âDr. Abbot, youâre so gorgeous,â you announce, loud and clear.Â
The entire room freezes. Jack feels heat go up to his cheeks. Shenâs eyebrows go up as he sips loudly from his straw, and Princess, who was in the corner pretending to look busy with the vitals machine, bites her lip to stifle a laugh.
âIââ Jack starts, then stops. Whyâs he getting so flustered? âOnce again, concussion talking,â he clears his throat, looking around him.Â
âBut I mean it,â you insist, fighting the urge to close your eyes out of pure spite. âLook at your face.â
Jackâs mouth twitches, trying very hard not to smile. Princess is just fighting the urge to pull her phone out and film the whole thing.Â
âAnd your stupid SWAT uniform,â you continue, groaning dramatically. âOut of all days you had to wear it today. Ugh. Youâre soâyouâre so gorgeous it makes me so mad.âÂ
Jack decides this is the perfect moment to turn to the computer in the room, for âcharting purposesâ but completely forgets the part where he has to tap his ID on it and just stares at the hospitalâs logo on the screen. Â
âRight back at you, sweetheart,â he mumbles under his breath.
Shen and Princess exchange the most dramatic side eye in the history of side eyes and then both simultaneously pretend they heard nothing.
âAbdomen films are back,â a nurse entering the room says, offering an iPad to Jack.Â
He takes the tablet, shoulders dropping as he scans the images. âGood news! Our icicle is more dramatic than dangerous. No organ involvement. Superficial muscle at most.â
âBoring,â Shen mumbles, chuckling when Princess glares at him.Â
âWeâll do it here,â Jack decides, handing the iPad back. âLocal and a quick pull. Shen, wanna do the honors?âÂ
âIâll just watch,â Shen shrugs, placing his iced coffee on a table nearby in case heâs needed. âWouldn't miss it for the world.â
âOkay, little pinch,â Princess warns you. You take a breath as the needle goes in, your hand flies up instinctively, but Jack catches it and redirects it to grip his forearm instead.
His muscles feel solid under your fingers, and this feels like information you should not have in this condition. You squeeze your eyes shut, because if he keeps looking at you like thatâ
âYouâre doing great,â he reassures. His voice is so close, so warm and so low and SO UNFAIR.
You crack one eye open, and immediately regret it. Itâs the light brown eyes with little green flecks for you.Â
âGod, that hurts,â you whisper. Not a single sane thought behind your eyes anymore.Â
âThe icicle?â he asks, ready to order more anesthesia.Â
âNo,â you say, a little breathless. âYour face.â
Princess makes a weird strangled noise next to you. Jack actually laughs this time.Â
âThatâs a new one,â Shen says.
âAlright,â Jack smiles at you. âBefore you say anything else thatâs gonna end up in the groupchat, letâs get this thing out.â
He positions himself above you, one hand pressing your hip to stabilize you, the other wrapping around the base of the icicle, careful not to push it in further.Â
âDeep breath in. Iâm gonna count to three, okay?â he says. You do as youâre told, trying to avoid his gaze. âOneâkeep looking at me. Twoââ
And then, still keeping that steady eye contact, he pulls. The icicle slides out in one slick motion, leaving behind a sharp sting that makes you squeak.
âYou took my icicle out before three!â you gasp, scandalized. âThatâs not nice!â
âWeâll get you another one next Christmas,â Jack chuckles, tossing the thing into a tray as Shen presses gauze firmly to your side.Â
âYou did amazing,â Princess tells you earnestly, running her hand through your arm. âThat was so cool. I meanânot cool that you got stabbed, cool that youâuh never mind. Youâre very brave, babe.âÂ
âBest story at the nurseâs station,â you smile at her, throwing up a peace sign.Â
âEasy there, Winter Soldier. Best story in the group chat, at best.â Shen says, managing a little snort from you.
âOh the group chat will hear about this,â Princess adds.
Jack shakes his head, but thereâs fondness in his features as he strips off his gloves. âOkay, hereâs the plan. Observation overnight for the concussion, pain meds for the side, no lifting, no heavy shifts for a few days. And no more confessions, alright?â He smiles down at you, winking playfully. âYouâre gonna be okay.â
You stare at him again, taking in his stupid perfect face, his stupid perfect hands, his stupid heroic camo long sleeve.Â
No, youâre so not going to be okay.Â
You open your eyes and immediately regret it. Your head pounds, thereâs harsh white lights shining down on you, and the familiar ED noise coming from outside the room doesnât help.Â
What on earth happened?Â
You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but the moment your head lifts from the pillow, your body says Not today.Â
âShit,â you groan, dropping back down with a wince, squeezing your eyes shut.
âEasy there.â
That voice alone is enough to almost make you forget about the headache and the strange sting in your abdomen. You open your eyes and squint at the doorway, where none other than Dr.Jack Abbot is standing, wearing a black shirt and scrubs pants.Â
There he is. The bane of your existence and the object of all your desires.
He looks maddeningly calm for someone who exists just to personally ruin your peace. He pushes off the doorframe and walks in with a smug little grin. You stare at him, mind completely blank as he stops beside a little table and offers you a cup of water with a straw.Â
âHere. Small sips,â he says, gently helping you sit up. And when he uses that voice? All you can do is mindlessly do what he says.Â
âThanks, Dr. Abbot,â you rasp, clearing your throat after drinking some water. âSoâŠwhat happened?â Â
Jack stares at you for a moment, debating if thereâs a chance youâre messing with him, but you seem genuinely confused. Itâs normal after a hit like that, so he just huffs a little laugh and explains.Â
âYou were outside the ambulance bay with Princess and slipped on ice. You hit your head, and then got stabbed in the side by an icicle.â
�??
âAnâŠicicle?â You ask in complete disbelief, he nods amused. âLike in Greyâs??âÂ
âEhhâyouâre gonna have to ask that to Princess,â he chuckles. âI wish I was joking, but thereâs nothing to worry about, it was superficial. Imaging was normal, Princess numbed you up and I pulled it out. Youâre a little bruised and concussed, but otherwise intact. Robbyâs gonna have to give you a few days off, though.âÂ
âOh my God,â you sigh, leaning back into the pillow dragging your hands over your face. âOut of all the ways I couldâve gone down in hospital loreâŠâ
âTell me about it,â he mumbles, biting back a smile.Â
âWhat was that?â
âNothing,â he says, a little too quickly for your liking, then steps closer. âI just want to check you again before I let you keep hating yourself in peace.â
Before you can ask what that means, he moves to the side of the bed and leans over you, making your entire nervous system short circuit as he removes your hands from your face.Â
âWowââ you breathe, shrinking back into the pillow on instinct. Being this close should be illegal for this man. âWhat are you doing, Dr. Abbot?â
âShhh,â he mutters, âjust checking on you. You hit your head pretty hard.â
His hand comes up, careful fingers tilting your chin slightly. His thumb brushes near your cheekbone as he angles your face toward the penlight and scans your pupils. Your heart starts beating in places it absolutely should not be beating.Â
Guess the butterflies are flying very low today.Â
He finishes the exam, but he doesnât move back. Instead, he shifts just enough to brace one hand on the wall above your head, still leaning over you, caging you into the mattress in a way that feels anything but accidental. This is not helping your concussion, if anything, itâs making it substantially worse.
Your breath hitches, and because your mouth clearly exists to betray you in his presence, you blurt out, âGod, that hurts.â
âWhat hurts?â He asks, tilting his head.
The words are right there. Your face. Your stupid gorgeous face.Â
âMy head,â you say instead. Good girlâŠor not? Because something you canât quite point out flashes in his eyes.Â
âMmm, well, for what itâs worthâŠâ he saysâdid his eyes just flicker to your lips??? âI think youâre gorgeous too.â
5@$%)#&
Everything inside you stops. Your face goes hot so fast it feels like your head is about to combust. For one unhinged second you wonder if youâve blacked out again and this is some kind of fever dream created by your useless brain.Â
âDidâŠI said that out loud?â You ask weakly and cover your face again with your hands, creating a barrier between you and the predator above you.Â
âYou really donât remember, do you?â
âOh noâŠâ You whine. This is it, this is how you leave this earth.Â
âOh no?â He laughs.
âOh no,â you repeat miserably, peeking at him through your fingers. âWhat did I say, Dr. Abbot?â
â...Enough,â he says, maddeningly vague. He straightens at last, mercifully putting a little distance between you and your impending death by humiliation. âMore than enough, actually.â
âDr. Abbot,â you insist, more serious now. âWhat did I say?â
âMmm, not a chance,â he crosses his arms over his chest. Okay now he's just being unfair.
âPlease.â
âUh-uh.â
âJack.â That slips out before you can stop it.
His eyebrows rise in amusement, but he clears his throat before turning to check your chart on the computer, like the conversation that just derailed your life didnât even happen.Â
âYou slept almost through the whole night shift, it looks like youâll be discharged in a few hours. All the scans were clean but youâll need someone to stay with you today, though. Hospital policy after a concussion.â
You let out a sigh, looking at your hands over your lap. He turns back to you, a worried look on his face.Â
âWhat?â
âI uhâdonât have anyone to call,â you say, trying to sound casual and failing a little. âPrincess is probably with the firefighter, so I guess it's just me andâŠmy dog.â
He hums, tucking both hands into his pants pockets, and rocks back a little on his heels as if contemplating something.Â
âGood thing Iâll be out in a few hours too, then,â he says, casual, too casual.Â
ââŠWhat?â You let out a weak laugh.Â
âIâm taking you home,â he shrugs, like itâs not a big deal. âPets are great emotionally, less useful for neuro observation, so Iâm making sure you donât pass out unsupervised.â
âDr. Abbotââ
âJack,â he corrects.
âJack,â you try again, weaker now. âYou donât have to do that.â
âI knowâŠtrust me, I want to.â He says it soâŠcertain, with a softer voice that makes you melt onto the mattress. âTry to rest for a bit, drink your water and donât try to escape. Iâll come get you when your paperworkâs done,â he points a finger at you, half turning to the door. âJust wait for me, gorgeous, okay?â
Jack waits for you to say something, but all you can do is nod slowly, because speech has abandoned you entirely. He gives you one more devastating smile, before stepping out, leaving you wishing you could turn over so you could scream into your pillow. You finally let out the breath you were holding, and very carefully reached for your phone on the little rolling table beside the bed.
There are at least a dozen messages from Princess with a few voice notes. You stare at the screen in horror, and from what you can briefly read without actually opening her chat, you really fucked up last night.
That explains the look on his face. That explains everything.
And still, *wiggles eyebrows*, he is taking you home. Apparently. So, because there is truly no helping you, you canât help but smile.Â
Girl whatever.
If Jack Abbot wants to ruin your life, he can go right ahead.
Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated đ€âš
âź summary â when he left nebraska to begin a new life, dennis was forced to give up a lot of things that he held dear to his heart, including his emo phase⊠he couldnât risk being bullied at college too. he doesnât know how, but he made it. heâs an adult now, an employed adult, working as a doctor at the PTMC. but what happens when the cute new nurse looks a little too much like the online girlfriend he ghosted a decade ago?
âź content warnings â nurse!reader who works the day shift, mostly crack, swearing, VERY ooc dennis, some nsfw mentions so mdni pls, dennis and reader dated for a couple months when they were eighteen, timeskip of 10 years, both of them are just down bad idk..