Part 1 , Friends, Sick Days - Turntables - Needing - Cold - Silent - Recovery - Comfort - Movie night - Normal?
COD 141 Task Force x Reader (not a series)
Love languages - Injury - Nightmares - Period - Cooking for you - Helping you after a bad mission - Crushes - Work Stress - First dates - Deadbeat Boyfriend
Drabbles (Not Connected)
Perfume (Johnny x Reader)
Agender (141 x reader)
Bloody Noses (Simon Riley x Reader)
Slow Mornings (John Price x Reader)
Hungover with Ghost (Simon Riley x Reader)
Banter (Reader x Ghost)
Polaris (Ghoap x Reader), Starting point, Part 1
Worms (Fem!Reader x 141) Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2
Vile And Vicious (fem reader x Arthur Morgan), Part 1, Part 2 , Part 3
SUPERMAN 2025
Social media manager, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5
THE BEAR
Acrimony
Berzatto Christmas
STRANGER THINGS
On My Nerves(Steve Harrington x Reader), Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
Summary: You have to learn to live life without him.
Word Count: 4.9k
Warnings: no use of Y/N, death of a parent, stages of grief
Author's Note: This one hit me hard as I wrote it, and I'll be honest, I probably will not ever come back to reread this. I don't know what came over me to write this. For those who don't know, my dad passed almost 15 years ago when I was a kid. I have learned to live within my emotions about it, but even then, death anxiety is something I live with daily. Please know that I am always here to talk if anyone is experiencing this in their lives. I would also like to say I do truly love and appreciate any and all feedback, whether it's in the comments or sent on anon. I love it all. Thank you guys so much.
Masterlist
The call comes while Mel is asleep beside you.
Your phone vibrates across the nightstand at 4:17 in the morning. The sound is small, almost polite, but it pulls you awake with your heart already racing. Calls at that hour belong to hospitals, wrong numbers, and sentences people spend the rest of their lives wishing they hadn’t heard.
Mel makes a sleepy sound when you reach across her. Her hand lands on your hip before she’s fully conscious, an instinctive attempt to keep some part of you close.
You answer without checking the number.
The person on the other end says your name. Then they tell you that your father died suddenly during the night.
Your father is dead.
You sit upright so quickly that the blanket falls to your waist.
Mel wakes at once. “What happened?”
“Yes,” you say into the phone. Your mouth is dry. “I understand.”
You don’t understand.
When the call ends, you keep the phone against your ear. The room remains completely ordinary. Mel’s book is open facedown beside the lamp. One of her socks is caught in the blankets near your knee. A glass of water waits on the nightstand with a circle of condensation beneath it.
Your father can’t be dead in a room this ordinary.
“Who was it?” Mel asks.
You lower the phone. “My dad died.”
Mel inhales sharply. Her hands lift toward you and stop in the space between your bodies.
“Do you want me to hold you?” she asks. Her voice is soft but precise. “I can hold you, sit beside you without touching, or get up and start making calls. You don’t have to decide anything else yet.”
You stare at her hands.
“Hold me.”
Mel moves immediately. She wraps both arms around you and draws you into her chest, one palm spreading between your shoulder blades. Her body is warm from sleep. Her heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek.
You wait for grief to arrive.
Nothing happens.
No tears come. You don’t shake or scream. Your mind circles the same impossible sentence while Mel holds you tightly enough to give your body edges.
“I need to call him,” you whisper.
Mel’s fingers pause in your hair. “Okay.”
You pull away and tap your father’s name before she can say anything else. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
His voicemail answers in the familiar, mildly irritated tone he always used when technology required him to perform on command.
You hang up.
“See?” you say. Your breath leaves in a strange laugh. “His phone works.”
“It does,” she says.
You call again.
Mel stays beside you through every ring.
By sunrise, the kitchen table is covered in paper.
“Your aunt said she’ll meet us there,” Mel says. She sits across from you with her laptop open. “I called the Pitt. Robby took me off the schedule for the next three days, and Dana said to tell you she’s sorry.”
You look up. “You can’t miss three days.”
“I can.”
“You just changed rotations.”
“I know.” Mel closes the laptop carefully. “I’m still not going to work.”
“I don’t need you to stay home.”
She studies you, her fingers rubbing the edge of one thumbnail. “Do you want me to go?”
The question makes your chest tighten.
“No.”
“Then I’m staying.”
You push the nearest envelope away. “I don’t know why everyone is acting like this is happening now. He was fine yesterday.”
“You talked to him yesterday?” she asks instead.
“Two days ago.” You rub your forehead. “He wanted to know whether we were coming for dinner next month. I told him I’d check your schedule.”
The unfinished plan rises between you. Dinner next month. A date no one will cancel because it can no longer exist.
You stand abruptly. “I need to pack.”
Mel rises too, then remains near the table rather than following. “Would a list help, or would a list make you angry?”
The specificity nearly breaks through your numbness.
“A list,” you say.
She turns over one of the envelopes and writes in neat, compact lines: clothes, medications, toiletries, charger, funeral clothes, something comfortable, your father’s spare house key.
Her pen stops at the last item.
“Do you know where the key is?”
“In the blue bowl by the door.”
You both look toward it.
The key has been there for years, used for holiday visits and emergencies that always ended with your father alive. It shines beneath the entryway light.
You sit down again because your legs have stopped feeling dependable.
Mel leaves the list on the table and kneels beside your chair. She doesn’t touch you until you open your hand.
Then she places her palm against yours.
The first days pass through rooms you’ll later struggle to remember.
Mel stays close without attaching herself to you.
She learns when to place a hand at the base of your spine and when to stand several feet away. She keeps water within reach. She repeats information when someone asks you a question you’ve already answered and waits for your nod before answering on your behalf.
At the funeral home, a staff member slides a folder across the desk and asks you to choose among options you didn’t know existed.
Your vision fixes on the printed headings.
“I can’t,” you say.
The staff member begins explaining again, slower this time.
Mel leans toward you. “Do you want me to narrow the choices, or do you want ten minutes alone?”
“Narrow them.”
She asks the staff member three direct questions, removes the options that don’t fit what your father wanted, and turns the remaining pages toward you. Her finger rests beside each line without selecting it.
“These two match what you told me,” she says. “You still choose.”
You choose because she makes the decision small enough to hold.
Afterward, in the parking lot, you stand beside the car and stare at the gray sky.
“I just planned my father’s funeral,” you say.
Mel’s hand tightens around the folder. “Yes.”
“Why am I not crying?”
She places the folder on the hood of the car. “Your nervous system is doing what it can. There isn’t a correct amount of crying.”
“Everyone keeps watching me.”
“People get uncomfortable when grief doesn’t look the way they expect.” Mel steps in front of you, blocking the view of two relatives near the entrance. “You don’t have to perform it for them.”
You look at her. Mel’s own parents have been gone for years. You know the facts, some stories, and the dates she grows quieter around. You know she took on responsibilities for Becca while she was still trying to become an adult herself. You have never asked her to turn those losses into instructions for surviving yours.
“Did you cry right away?” you ask.
Mel’s gaze drops to a crack in the pavement. “Not with my dad. With my mom, I started before anyone finished telling me.” She presses her lips together. “It was different each time.”
“Which one was worse?”
She looks up. There is no offense in her expression, only sorrow. “I don’t know how to rank them.”
Shame warms your face. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for asking.” Mel reaches for your hand. “But grief isn’t a measurement. Yours doesn’t have to resemble mine to be real.”
You let her link your fingers.
The tears still don’t come.
Mel drives you back to your father’s house in silence.
At the funeral, you cry because someone says the word was.
Your father was generous. Your father was stubborn. Your father was proud of you.
Each past-tense sentence removes him again.
The first sob folds you forward in your chair. Mel reacts before anyone else. She moves close enough that your shoulder fits beneath her chin and wraps an arm firmly around your ribs. Her other hand closes over yours in your lap.
You cry through the next story and the one after that. You cry until your face aches and your breath keeps catching halfway into your lungs.
“Slow it down with me,” Mel whispers. She presses your joined hands against her sternum so you can feel the rhythm of her breathing. “Not because you have to stop. I just want you to get air.”
You copy her inhale badly. She doesn’t praise you or count. She keeps breathing where you can feel it until your body remembers how.
After the service, people surround you with condolences and offers that have no shape.
Call if you need anything.
Let us know how we can help.
He is in a better place.
Mel intercepts the last one before it reaches you a second time. She steps between you and a distant family friend with an apologetic smile that isn’t quite an apology.
“They need some air,” she says.
She guides you outside, where cold wind hits the wet tracks on your face.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
Mel rubs both hands along your upper arms. “Do you want to leave?”
“I should stay.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I want to go home,” you say.
Mel takes your coat from the rack.
No one is allowed to make you stay.
The numbness ends nine days after the funeral.
It ends over a coffee mug.
When she comes home, she finds you standing in the kitchen with your father’s old mug in both hands. You brought it back from his house because he used it every morning. The chipped lettering across the front advertises a hardware store that closed years ago.
“Hi,” Mel says carefully. She sets her bag near the door. “How was today?”
“Fine.”
Her attention moves to the mug. “Did you eat?”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“There’s soup in the refrigerator. I can heat it up, or I can make toast if the texture is too much.” She crosses to the counter and reaches for the mug. “Let me wash that first.”
You pull it away so sharply that coffee splashes across your wrist.
“Don’t touch it.”
Mel stops. “Okay.”
“You can’t just come in and move things.”
“I wasn’t going to move it. I thought you wanted it washed.”
“I didn’t ask you to wash it.” Your voice rises with every word. “I didn’t ask for soup. I didn’t ask you to monitor whether I ate. I’m not one of your patients.”
Mel goes very still.
“I know that,” she says.
“Do you? Because you keep giving me choices like I can’t make a decision without you reducing it to two options.”
The cruelty of the sentence is visible as soon as it lands. Mel’s face closes, not dramatically, but with a small withdrawal around her eyes.
She picks up her bag again.
“You can be angry,” she says. Her fingers tighten around the strap. “You can tell me that I’m helping in the wrong way. You can’t make my care for you into something shameful because you need somewhere to put the anger.”
You stare at her.
“I’m going to shower,” she continues. Her voice shakes despite its evenness. “I won’t touch the mug. When I’m done, you can tell me whether you want company.”
She walks away before you can answer.
The bedroom door closes gently. That gentleness feels worse than a slam.
You set the mug on the counter. Your father drank from it on the last morning you visited him. He complained that you used too much coffee and not enough water. You told him his coffee tasted like burnt dirt.
The memory is so ordinary that anger tears through you.
You shove the mug into the sink.
It strikes the metal basin with a hard crack.
The handle breaks cleanly away.
For one stunned second, you stare at the two pieces.
Then grief arrives as rage.
You scream into both hands. The sound rips your throat raw. You are angry at the mug, at the funeral, at every person who still has a father they can call. You are angry at Mel for understanding. You are angrier that she understands because the world took both of her parents and still expected her to keep moving.
Mel appears in the doorway with her scrub top half removed and a T-shirt underneath. She takes in the broken ceramic and your shaking body.
“Are you hurt?” she asks.
You shake your head.
“Can I come closer?”
Another sob breaks through the rage. “I broke it.”
“I see that.”
“It was his.”
Mel crosses the kitchen only after you nod. She checks your hands for cuts, turning them carefully beneath the light. When she finds none, she lowers both of you to the floor.
You fold against her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“For the mug or for what you said?”
“Both.”
Mel’s hand moves slowly over your back. “I accept the apology for what you said. I’m not the person who decides whether you’re forgiven for the mug.”
You make a wet, startled sound that becomes half a laugh.
“That was a terrible joke,” you say.
“It wasn’t entirely a joke.” She rests her cheek against your hair. “You loved him. The mug mattered. Breaking it doesn’t change either fact.”
You grip the hem of her T-shirt. “Were you angry?”
“After my parents died?”
You nod.
Mel looks toward the broken handle beside the sink. “I was furious at people in grocery stores. They were buying cereal while my life was ruined. I hated forms that asked for an emergency contact. I hated friends who complained about their parents.” Her fingers flex against your spine. “Sometimes I was angry at my parents for leaving, even though they didn’t choose to.”
You close your eyes.
“Did it stop?”
“It changed.” Mel presses a kiss to your temple. “That’s the most honest answer I have.”
Three weeks later, your father leaves you a voicemail.
It isn’t new. Your phone has preserved it beneath dozens of newer messages, dated two months before his death. You find it while searching for an address.
His name appears on the screen. The small triangle waits beneath it.
You don’t press play.
Mel finds you sitting on the bedroom floor with your back against the dresser. She has learned not to ask what is wrong as if grief is a fresh event every time it surfaces. She lowers herself beside you and waits.
You turn the screen toward her.
“I missed his last call,” you say.
Mel looks at the date. “This voicemail is from two months ago.”
“He called the week before he died too. I was busy, so I texted him. What if he wanted to tell me something?”
“Did he leave a message then?”
“No.”
“Did he usually leave messages?”
“Sometimes.” You pull your knees closer. “I should’ve called back.”
Mel twists one of her rings around her finger. “Do you want a logical answer or do you want me to listen?”
“Both.”
“The logical answer is that you couldn’t know how much time you had. You responded in the way you normally responded on a busy day. One missed call doesn’t define your relationship.” She tilts her head toward you. “The listening answer is that I know logic probably won’t make the guilt stop.”
Your thumb hovers over the old voicemail. “If I had called him more, maybe I wouldn’t feel like this.”
“You would feel different details.”
“What does that mean?”
Mel draws one knee up, mirroring you. “After my dad died, I thought about every conversation I ended first. After my mom died, I thought about every time I got impatient when she needed help. My brain kept building a version where I did everything perfectly and then believed perfect behavior would have made losing them less painful.”
“Did it help?”
“No.” A sad smile moves across her face. “It made me feel busy. Bargaining is busy. It gives you equations to solve when the real problem has no solution.”
You rest your head against the dresser. “That sounds like something from a grief pamphlet.”
“I hate grief pamphlets.”
“You brought three home.”
“Dana gave them to me, and refusing felt rude.” Mel reaches over and turns your phone facedown on the carpet. “They always put the stages in a line. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. That makes them look like steps.”
“They aren’t?”
“Not for me.” Her shoulder touches yours. “They were rooms. I kept walking into the same ones through different doors.”
You let the image settle.
“What if I never listen to the voicemail?”
“Then you don’t.”
“What if I delete it by accident?”
“We can back it up when you’re ready.”
“What if hearing him makes everything worse?”
Mel turns her palm upward between you. “Then I’ll be here when it gets worse.”
You place your hand in hers.
You don’t play the message that night.
For the first time, leaving it unheard feels like a choice instead of a failure.
People stop checking in before you stop needing them to.
The messages thin. Food no longer appears at the door. Conversations begin with ordinary questions, and people look startled when your honest answer includes your father.
Six weeks after the funeral, you wake beneath a heaviness that feels physical.
Mel has already left for the Pitt. A note waits beside the bed in her uneven handwriting.
Water is on the nightstand. Food is in the fridge. Shower is optional. Text me one word so I know you saw this. Any word counts.
You read it three times.
You don’t text.
The day passes without becoming distinct. You move from the bed to the couch and sit beneath the blanket without turning on the television. Your father’s voicemail remains unplayed. The broken mug, repaired with a thin line of visible adhesive, sits on a high shelf where Mel placed it after asking permission.
At noon, she sends a picture of a badly shaped cookie from the staff room.
At two, she writes: No explanation needed. Please send a punctuation mark.
At four, your phone rings.
She comes home shortly after seven. You hear her key in the door, the quick drop of her bag, and her shoes crossing the floor.
Mel kneels in front of the couch. She doesn’t hide her fear.
“I need to ask you something directly,” she says. Her hands remain on her own thighs. “Are you thinking about hurting yourself or not wanting to be alive?”
“No.” The answer costs effort, but it’s true. “I don’t want to die.”
Her shoulders lower slightly.
“I just don’t want to do this.” You stare at the blanket. “I don’t want to wake up and remember again. I don’t want every day to be the first day he’s still dead.”
Mel sits on the floor. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“Have you had water?”
You shake your head.
She reaches toward the glass on the coffee table, then stops. “Can I hand it to you?”
The memory of the mug flashes between you. Mel hasn’t forgotten your accusation. She has adjusted without making you beg forgiveness again.
“Yes.”
She gives you the glass. You drink two swallows and return it.
“I think we need more help,” Mel says. Her thumb rubs rapidly across her fingertips, a sign that she’s choosing every word carefully. “Not because you’re grieving incorrectly. Because you’re carrying something very heavy, and I’m one person who sometimes works fifteen-hour shifts.”
“You think I’m too much.”
“No.” Her answer is immediate. “I think this is too much for two people to hold without support.”
You turn your face away.
Mel stays on the floor. “I found three grief therapists who take your insurance. I haven’t contacted them. I won’t contact them unless you ask.”
“I don’t want to tell a stranger about him.”
“Okay.”
“You’re supposed to convince me.”
“I gave you the information. You said no.” She folds her hands together. “I can ask again another day, but I won’t trap you into agreeing because I’m scared.”
“Ask tomorrow,” you whisper.
Mel nods. “I can do that.”
“Will you sit up here?”
She climbs onto the couch. You turn into her before she has settled, pressing your face against her neck. Mel wraps the blanket around both of you and holds you with one hand cupping the back of your head.
“You smell like the hospital,” you mumble.
“I can shower.”
Your fingers close around her shirt. “Not yet.”
“Okay.” She rests her lips against your hair. “Not yet.”
The next afternoon, you let her place the list of therapists on the table.
Two days later, you make one call.
Therapy doesn’t make grief orderly.
Mel listens when you want to describe the anger at home.
She also tells you when she doesn’t have the capacity to listen well.
“I want to hear this,” she says one night after a difficult shift. She stands in the kitchen, pressing both palms against the counter. “My brain is still in three trauma rooms. Can I shower, eat, and come back in twenty minutes?”
The request stings before it makes sense.
“You won’t forget?”
Mel crosses the room and touches her forehead to yours. “I put a timer on my phone.”
Twenty minutes later, she returns with damp hair, two bowls of cereal, and her attention fully yours.
You learn that support can include a boundary without becoming abandonment.
Mel learns that not every silence means you want space. Sometimes you need her to ask twice. Sometimes you need pressure, her full weight along your side beneath the blankets. Sometimes you need her in the same room doing something unrelated while you miss your father privately.
You build a language for it.
“Near or far?” she asks.
“Near, no talking.”
Or, “Do you want comfort, solutions, or witness?”
“Witness.”
She sits beside you while you sort through photographs. She doesn’t tell you which ones to keep. When you laugh at a picture of your father wearing a terrible holiday sweater, guilt follows so quickly that the photograph shakes in your hand.
“I shouldn’t be laughing.”
Mel looks from the picture to your face. “Why?”
“Because he’s dead.”
“He was funny before he died.”
“Not on purpose.”
“That is often the funniest category.”
Your second laugh turns into tears. Mel takes the stack before it slips from your lap, places it safely on the table, and gathers you against her.
Joy and grief move through the same opening.
This time, you let both come.
On your father’s birthday, nearly five months after his death, you wake before dawn.
Mel is already awake. She lies on her side facing you, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.
“How long have you been watching me?” you ask.
“Not long.” Her eyes move over your face. “I didn’t know what today would feel like.”
“Neither did I.”
“I want to go to his house,” you say.
Mel nods. “Okay.”
“I want to finish the kitchen.”
You have delayed that room for months. His spices remain arranged beside the stove. A grocery list is still held to the refrigerator with a magnet you made in elementary school.
“Do you want me to come?”
“Yes.” You reach for her hand beneath the blanket. “But I need to choose what happens to things.”
“I’ll only touch what you hand me.”
At the house, afternoon sunlight reveals dust on the counters.
You stand in the doorway until Mel’s shoulder presses lightly against yours.
“Near,” you say.
“No talking?”
“Talking is okay.”
You begin with the spices. Most are expired. Your father kept three containers of cinnamon and no salt because he repeatedly forgot what he had.
Mel reads each date aloud only when you ask. She holds open the trash bag and lets you decide.
At the back of a drawer, you find his handwritten recipe for pancakes. The measurements are inconsistent, the instructions incomplete, and one corner is stained with batter.
“He made these every birthday,” you say.
Mel leans close without taking the card. “For you or for himself?”
“For everyone. He thought pancakes counted as a universal celebration.”
“He was correct.”
You trace the faded ink. “We should make them.”
The first batch burns because you misread the heat setting while telling Mel about the year your father tried to flip a pancake onto your plate, only to have it land on the floor.
The second batch is raw in the center.
Mel cuts into one and studies it with professional concern. “This would be an embarrassing reason to visit my workplace.”
“You’re the doctor. Fix it.”
“My recommendation is more cooking.”
The third batch comes out uneven but edible. You sit together at your father’s kitchen table with two plates between you.
Before taking a bite, you place one small pancake on an empty plate at the head of the table.
Mel looks at it and then at you.
“Too strange?” you ask.
“No.” She adjusts the plate so it sits square with the table’s edge. “It looks right.”
You eat in the quiet house.
Halfway through breakfast, you begin crying. The tears fall without panic, slipping down your face while you chew and breathe.
Mel reaches across the table, palm upward.
You take her hand.
“I miss him,” you say.
“I know.”
She doesn’t say he would want you to be happy. She doesn’t tell you the pain will fade or that he’s still with you. Mel has never filled uncertainty with promises she can’t verify.
She rubs her thumb across your knuckles and lets missing him be enough.
After breakfast, you pack the recipe card, the magnet, and his favorite wooden spoon into the box you’re taking home. You donate most of the dishes. You keep the scratched frying pan even though Mel points out that the coating is damaged and unsafe.
“We won’t cook with it,” you say.
“Then its danger becomes decorative.”
“Exactly.”
Mel labels the box KITCHEN: KEEP in thick black marker.
When you close the front door that evening, you don’t feel finished. Acceptance doesn’t arrive as peace. It feels more like knowing the door will stay closed and turning the key anyway.
You cry in the car.
Mel holds your hand across the center console until you’re ready to leave.
That night, you finally play the voicemail.
You sit in bed with Mel beside you. The repaired mug rests on the nightstand, its broken handle joined by a pale seam.
“Are you sure?” Mel asks.
“No.” You unlock the phone. “Stay anyway.”
She settles against the headboard and opens her arms. You sit between her legs with your back against her chest. One of her hands covers yours around the phone. The other rests over your heart.
You press play.
Your father’s voice fills the bedroom.
He’s calling about nothing important. He wants to know whether you remember the name of a restaurant you visited together. He complains briefly about the weather, tells you there’s no hurry, and says he’ll talk to you later.
The message ends.
You stare at the silent screen.
“That’s it,” you whisper.
Mel’s chin rests on your shoulder. “That’s it.”
“I thought there would be something I missed.”
“There was.”
You turn your head slightly.
She touches the phone with one finger. “His voice. A normal day. Him expecting there would be another conversation.”
Your face crumples.
“I didn’t call him back,” you cry.
“I know.”
“I loved him.”
“I know that too.”
You turn within her arms until you can press your face into her neck. Mel rocks you in a slow rhythm, her cheek resting against the top of your head.
When the crying eases, you remain tangled together.
“Does it always come back?” you ask.
Mel is quiet for a long time.
“Yes,” she says finally. “But you won’t always meet it as the same person.”
You think about the first call, the funeral folder, the broken mug, the couch, and the pancakes cooling on an extra plate. You think about every room Mel described and every door that led you back into one.
“What stage is this?”
Her breath warms your hair. “I don’t know.”
“You’re a doctor.”
“Not that kind.” Mel kisses your forehead. “And I think the stages are mostly useful for explaining why people can feel five impossible things before lunch.”
You let out a tired laugh.
Mel reaches past you and sets the phone safely on the nightstand. “What do you need now?”
The question no longer sounds like a menu offered because she thinks you can’t decide. It sounds like respect. It sounds like love that has learned your grief without claiming ownership of it.
“Pressure,” you say. “And sleep, if it comes.”
Mel turns off the lamp. She curls around you beneath the blankets, one arm firm across your waist and her knees fitted behind yours.
The darkness doesn’t feel empty.
Your father is still dead. You still miss him. Tomorrow may hold anger, numbness, laughter, or another round of bargaining with a past that can’t change.
Mel can’t carry you through grief as if it’s a hallway with an exit. She can’t make the rooms disappear.
What she can do is enter them when you ask.
She can sit beside you without rearranging the furniture. She can help you find water, words, a therapist, or silence. She can tell you when your pain has struck her and still open her arms after you apologize. She can remember that holding you and healing you aren’t the same task.
You place your hand over hers in the dark.
Mel’s hand tightens beneath yours, a quiet reminder that staying isn’t passive. It’s something she chooses with you, again and again, every day that follows.
She can’t promise easy days, only that you won’t meet them alone.
“Mel?”
“I’m here.” Her answer comes without hesitation.
Your throat tightens, but the feeling isn’t only pain.
AN: IVE NEVER RLLY WRITTEN LIKE THIS BEFORE SO YEAH IDK
based on this request
WC:3.1K
MASTERLIST
“I need a cardio consult for my patient in north 4,” Santos rested her elbows on the nurses station desk, multiple of the nurses perking up like drug dogs at the mere mention of anyone from cardiology coming down to help out.
“Please please please let me call up-” Princess lit up like a christmas tree, hand itching to reach for the phone to call up to cardio.
“Why is everyone all worked up over a consult?” Trinity looked around in confusion, the 7 hours into the shift beginning to clearly show both inside and out.
“Because the lovebug might come down!!” Princess was basically vibrating with excitement “and we’re in the window for my pot in the betting poollllll!” she sang picking up the phone to call up to the cardio wing.
“Okay, multiple comments, queries and concerns” Trin held up a finger “number one: who the hell is “lovebug”, number two: why do we care about them coming down here? And three…why is there a betting pool I'm not in?”
Perlah smiled as she leaned her elbow against the station “lovebug is our nickname for a very sweet cardiology senior resident who just so happens to have the most adorable crush on one frank langdon. Who is in fact completely oblivious to the fact she is head over heels for him…” the group stared over at Frank as he moved from case to case, Trinity rolling her eyes at the situation.
“Still missing number 3, as if I care…” Trin stared up at the ceiling becoming overly aware of just how much she cared about the ER social politics.
“We have a pool going on where, when and whether they finally get together…” Princess skipped up to where Trinity was at the counter “she’s on her way!!!”
A few minutes later there was almost a physical shift in the ER when the doors to the hallway pushed open, a huge grin on your lips, a little heart embroidered on your custom scrubs and a tablet pulled tight to your chest with a smile.
“You must be Dr Santos- i’m a fellowship student im doing a fellowship in cardiovascular diseases- im so happy to meet you-” you put a hand out which she immediately took, leading you over towards the case. It was humiliating, the way your heart flipped and fluttered when your eyes snagged on the perfectly messy hair of Frank Langdon, it felt like being thrown back into high school, seeing your hallway crush between classes.
“He’s a douche…” Santos mumbled, however not quiet enough to evade your eager ears.
“Really?” your head tilted like a confused puppy.
“Before he went to rehab- on my first day he totally tore me a new one…” Santos explained before quickly moving to describe the case. You processed the details of the case but your mind wired at the new information about the man you’d had a crush on for around 2 whole years, since you walked through the doors of PTMC.
Your eyes moved over the small child, taking in the blue of his lips, “has he been feeding well?” you turned to mom pulling on some blue latex gloves and sitting by the bedside.
“No he’s been refusing anything I give him….” the mom replied, her teeth pulling on a hangnail at her thumb.
“Alright…have you checked him for rashes?”
“Yeah thats why- i came in originally he had a weird rash on his chest…” you grabbed a small pen light.
“I’m gonna check your eyes okay buddy?” his skin was hot to the touch as you soothed the 2-year-old to the best of your ability. They were completely bloodshot but there was no discharge, your hands then moved to his neck, feeling around for swelling to find a very swollen lymph node. “Let me check in your mouth okay?” you ushered over trinity as you shone the penlight down his throat.
“See this is what I call strawberry tongue…his lips are also quite cracked and… you tilted the light “erythema... think i know whats going on…” you rolled the chair back, stripping off the gloves. “I think Benny is suffering from Kawasaki disease…It causes inflammation of the medium-sized blood vessels, particularly the coronary arteries.” you delicately explained to the mother.
“Oh my god-” the mothers head went into her hands as tears streamed down her face.
“We need to start treatment as soon as possible so I am going to prescribe him…” you moved over to the computer to scan your badge, eyes drifting into the bullpen to see Frank staring into the room, your heart skipping a beat. “...a high dose infusion of intravenous hemoglobin with aspirin to try and bring down that inflammation…and I want him moved up the stairs as soon as possible-” you told trin.
You carefully moved over to the distraught mom “you did the right thing bringing him here as quickly as you did” your arm went around her softly holding her as she curled into your touch. “I’m gonna get him moved to a pediatric cardiology room as quickly as possible so he can get some more rest…but you are doing amazing mom…” she nodded as you pulled a tissue from your pocket, clean of course, so she could wipe away the tears. You carefully parted from the woman and took your leave with trinity on your tail.
“That was awesome…” she grinned ear to ear as you leaned up against the nurses station.
“All in a day's work…” you let out a long sigh, looking around the ER for no reason in particular.
“He’s in a trauma call, lovebug…” Dana scoffed, her glasses low on her nosebridge as she put in the request for a bed up in peds. You couldn't hide the way you deflated as your pager went off.
“I didn’t even get to talk to him…” you grumped, taking off out the doors of the ER department much to the amusement of the nurses scattered about.
“Where’d she go-” Frank stumbled out of the trauma call, his eyes seeking you out in the ER.
“She diagnosed my mystery illness in like 4 minutes flat…got dragged back up to cardio before we could even talk about it…” Trin half smirked as she sat down to chart the discovery and diagnosis in the poor kids file. “Kawasaki disease.”
“Dammnit…” Frank huffed, stood with blood on his scrubs in the middle of the ER. “shit i wanted to talk to her…” he moped off to grab a new pair of scrubs. You reentered the ER to pass off some paperwork to Trin, surveilling the area yet the ER ken was absolutely nowhere to be seen.
“Here trin- some stuff for the mom and some general info over long term impacts but- i would probably wait a bit to give them over to her…” you sighed just as your pager buzzed again. “I’m gonna crush this thing with my bare fucking hands one of these days.” You sprinted back to the elevators, disappearing JUST as Frank re-entered the ED.
“Oh my god…” Trin snorted out a laugh.
“What?” Frank stared around as the nurses all laughed into their hands, spinning around as if he was in a nightmare where he’d shown up to school naked.
“The two of you orbit each other…” Whittaker explained patting Frank on the back.
“I missed her again?” he sighed, his hands slapping down against his thighs with a grump, letting out an exasperated puff of air.
“It wouldn’t hurt to ask her out…” Dana turned her chair to chase Frank as he ran his hands down his face.
“I’ve barely spoken to her, that would be weird- just too cold to ask somebody out on a date? No- no I'm good.”
“Never take ER ken for a loverboy…” Princess pitched in as she walked past the conversation.
“Loverboy and Lovebug…it's got a ring to it…” Trin whispered to Dennis who snorted into his hand, Frank's head snapping over only for the farmboy to try to brush it off as a cough, Trin's palm slapping over her mouth to hold in her “cackles” (as Dennis would call them).
…..
The thought of what trinity told you hadn’t left your head, it was always strange when someone tells you something that would have otherwise been completely out of your understanding of their character. Frank had a problem with bezos, you and the entire emergency department knew that, but to scream at an intern?
The X-rays began to burn your retinas, it was 4 hours past the supposed end of your 24 hour on call. Even if the heart pulled you in the most out of any part of medicine it was days like this when being a cardiologist seemed utterly impossible. On top of that your usual reason to smile on your way down the ER was nullpoint since you’d transitioned into the nightshift once more.
You had to drag yourself down to the ED for a consult, eyes drifting around the ED absentmindedly until Lena flagged you down. “ER ken left this for you….” she quirked a brow, suddenly the sleep deprived reflexes weren't a problem as you gripped onto it tight.
You unfurled the letter seeing the only slight sprawly handwriting of someone who was obviously quite nervous the entire time they were writing.
Hi, I’m Frank one of the ED residents but- we’ve worked together once or twice hopefully you’d remember me
You left quite the impression
I was wondering if you’d go out with me?
Yes ? No ?
(circle your answer.)
~Loverboy
You bit down on your lip, feeling that fuzzy feeling in your stomach before scrawling out a maybe.
You flipped the paper over grabbing a pen and quickly writing.
Dear loverboy.
Unfortunately it's going to be harder than that…I hear you’re quite the polarising figure.
I wanna know more about you to know you aren’t wasting my time ER Ken.
~ Lovebug
You handed it to Lena rushing to the consult before finally charting and freeing yourself from the ER. It felt utterly ridiculous. In an age of texting and snapchat you were still passing notes with your crush in your 20s. The only downside of this schoolgirl method was that in this context it took multiple days to get a response, just waiting until your paths would cross again and you’d land yourself in the ER.
Many people informed you of you and Frank's habit of always missing each other. For a time the superstitious inkling in you told you it was a sign. If you weren’t able to find each other in daily life, how would you be able to sync yourselves up in every other way?
It was slightly embarrassing, the way you rushed into the ER first thing to pick up another note left behind by ER ken, you’d been switched onto the nightshift or his offdays, an inconvenience you could easily blame on the slightly obviously sexist cardio attending who you’d been mercy to. Although he was the reason you were ever down in the ER in the first place.
Hey lovebug,
I think I can get used to using that nickname. Your heart thumped deviously in your chest.
I did some stupid shit in active addiction, I promise I'm not like that anymore. Santos was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but what I did wasn’t right. I’m not going to pretend it was. At least he can hold himself accountable.
I tweaked my back moving my parents into their new house a few years back. But that's not how I want you to know me.
What do you want to know?
~ ER Ken
Abbot leaned over your shoulder with a smile “that kid is smitten.”
“Hey-” you slapped his arm playfully clutching the letter to your chest. Grabbing a pen and leaning up against the bay.
Dear Loverboy,
That's good to know, I wanna know anything and everything about you. I’m scared I have this image of you in my head, that I've romanticized you. I’m still surprised you wrote me in the first place.
I’ve watched a lot of romcoms, and probably too many medical dramas.
I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be the protagonist.
I don’t want this dream to end.
I’m scared that when you really see me, you won’t like what you find.
~ Lovebug
You sighed shakily, shoving it back into its assigned spot in the station before scampering off to your floor, catching barely a glimpse of that familiar black perfect hair as you passed.
“This is getting ridiculous…” Whittaker scoffed at Frank as he wrote out yet another letter. “We’re not in Victorian times, you can ask for her number.”
Trinity perked up as she sensed an in for a joke “If we’re not in the past why do you still look like a sickly victorian child huckleberry-”
“Yes i know whatever-”
“You just don’t understand romance, whittaker…” Princess sighed, leaned up against the station trying to peek at the letter- he ripped it away, not giving her a chance to steal away your vulnerability which you’d instilled in him with trust. “It's something out of a romcom…” She hummed dreamily.
“She loves those…” Frank spoke under his breath, the letter tight in his palm. “She…she loves romcoms…” a lightbulb switched on in his brain.
….
You were basically sprinting into the ER as soon as your shift began, there was a weird unspoken thing between you and Frank, that you didn’t go out of your way to seek each other out. The letters became a reason to smile when you rushed into a job that stripped you raw. It had been going on for weeks.
it was weeks of:
I saw you on the way in, I love how you did your hair ~ Loverboy
I heard you reset a guys spine in the ER...is it wrong that was hot to me? ~lovebug
I'm scared to talk to you in person, i don't know if words or incoherent sounds will come out ~lovebug
I'm sure i'll love whatever sounds come out of your mouth....that sounded dirty I swear i'm a gentlemen most of the time ~ Loverboy
There was a new and deeper kind of intimacy that lingered in words, a deep affection which was often morphed and lost in issues of tone and connotation. Not to say that someone particularly brilliant needed to be the holder of that pen, words are just words, there is no lie in that statement. But rather the purity of the intention behind them gave them strength and gave them real and sincere meaning.
You felt that in the way Frank wrote, while he wasn't the most exceptionally articulate, had the purist of intention. So when you rushed into the ER a month into the endeavour your heart dropped as you saw your special writing spot empty.
“Was he sick?” the query shot out of your mouth like a bullet of self defense, arms wrapped around you like a shield.
“No sweetheart you should go up to your floor…its hell down here-” Lena was rushing around, your stomach twisted like a wet rag, your body protesting as you moved towards your floor.
The shift had destroyed Frank, an aching in his back sending violent shocks through his legs, the nerve in his leg charging like an angry ocean. It wasn't until he slipped his hand into his pocket to grab his keys that he felt the lined paper against his fingertips. “Shit-” he ignored the pulsing agony as he swung his legs out of the car, rushing back into the hospital, bolting towards the cardio floor.
His hand rested against the wall trying to settle himself with a huff as his eyes drifted over the apartment. A thump hits his back, forcing a loud growth out of his lips, sending him stumbling toward. He felt the warmths of hands on his biceps, settling him back against the wall.
He heard a small sniffle, opening his blue eyes that had been clenched shut with pain and looking down. Your eyes were puffy, sleeves pulled around your palms, telling him you’d been using them to wide away weepy eyes, your hair fell fucking perfectly everything was fucking perfect. An angel had fallen from heaven and landed on him, he inhaled sharply, unsure if it was caused by pain or shock.
“You didn’t leave a letter…” you whispered.
He simply offered out his two fingers, the paper clenched between them. “My back was killing me- I'd written it, I just forgot to leave it…” Frank’s hands hovered over you, not sure if he was allowed to touch the artwork, imagining sirens blaring around him if he had the gall.
“You should lay down…” you muttered, unfolding the card and seeing his familiar and now comforting scripture.
Hey lovebug,
People have told me we orbit each other. In the beginning I took it as an insult, that there was a cosmic distance between us forcing us apart.
Over the last month you gave me something to look forward to, despite the tension and unpredictability of the ER.
And while I promised myself I would never become an addict again, I guess I failed.
I’m addicted to your affection. And it drives me crazy.
You make me want to be a better man.
So I'm just a boy. Writing to a girl. Asking her to give him a shot.
(I think you know me well enough by now)
~ your loverboy.
Your hands shook as your eyes rose to meet his, a small smile dawning your face with a rapid nod. “C’mere…” he pulled you into his chest. “I’m never gonna let you down again…” he spoke against your temple.
“How is this happening?” you smiled shakily, unable to discern whether or not this was your reality, was the man you've had a crush on for a humiliatingly long period of time holding you in his arms. Had you fallen in a pool of your own tears on the way to cardio and this was all some sort of complex hallucination as your mind tried to protect you in your final moments.
“I don’t know…” Frank laughed, forgetting the ache. “I’m just happy it is.”
Some keypoints abt the current situation in India:
India holds a once a year National exam for students who want to become mbbs doctors called NEET. Before 2012 every state had its own exam but after 2012 it was decided to conduct a single exam.
This exam is a ticket for many to change their financial situation. You could even call it a lottery to get out of poverty. Many Poor farmers sell their lands, middle clases take out loans and go in debt just so they can send their teenage children to tutions and coaching centers to study for this exam.
Some kids start from as early as age 14-15 to study for this exam. These teenagers miss out on everything each day they have to study for 8+ hours after school or even more to prepare for the exam the pressure is high because there are limited seats and millions of students are competing for a couple thousand seats. Some students literally take 8 drop years for this exam.
Now here comes the issue:
under the current education minister 9 paper leaks were conducted. In 2026 the exam which took place on 3rd may 2026 where millions of students was declared cancelled on 12th may 2026. Imagine working under constant pressure for something for years and suddenly it didn't matter anymore? Not good. Then the education minister decided to hold a re exam on 21 june 2026. The student who were scoring good in the 3rd may exam were devastated. Many of these poor sould commited suicide. Only 21 are reported we dont know how many there are in total.
So the students asked for accountability from the govt. , govt. Didnt answer. A party called cockroach janta party (cockroah peopls party) was formed by teenagers after a remark from the cheif justice about "how lazy the youth is they are basically cockroachs". This party decided to hold a peaceful protest in jantar mantar in Delhi.
Sonam wangchuk a environmentalist, engineer who has help build schools in rural areas and has refused to get his inventions patented bc he wants other to use them, decided he would go on a hunger strike for these students till the education minister resign. The govt. Declared this man as an anti-nationalist.... 20 day pass this man and some other students still surviving only on water dont hear a word from the govt. On day 20 Sonam sir was force fully taken by the police force and admitted in a hospital. No further updates were given about his situation not even to his wife.
So the students decided to hold a march to the parliament to ask the educational minister to resign. The march was going peacefully when police started attacking these teenagers with batons, throwing expired tear gas , police officer even tore womens clothes and harrassed young girls. children n teens were suffering from head injuries. police pulled out guns, detained some of the teens leaving the parents distressed.
The opposition party leader along with his members gathered at the current prime ministers house to ask about accountability. He was then detained by the police n taken away.
The media wont cover this no matter what. Whoever speaks up is declared anti-nationalist or even terrorists funded by other country. The world's largest democracy is falling apart.
Every country turning to fascism because they want to control the educated and the poor with no regulations to stop the rich from being too rich— so sick of this shit
Can I please request a Frank Langdon x reader fic??
She's fall head over heels for Langdon (she works in another department in the hospital or in the ER) and this is kinda the butt of the joke since everyone knows.
I'm a sucker for the "she falls first but he falls harder" trope ahahah
(he's not married in this because I always feel bad for our girl Abby)
Sorry for the bad English!!
oh i'm cooking something up...its maybe my favourite concept i've had in a minute...
AN: IVE NEVER RLLY WRITTEN LIKE THIS BEFORE SO YEAH IDK
based on this request
WC:3.1K
MASTERLIST
“I need a cardio consult for my patient in north 4,” Santos rested her elbows on the nurses station desk, multiple of the nurses perking up like drug dogs at the mere mention of anyone from cardiology coming down to help out.
“Please please please let me call up-” Princess lit up like a christmas tree, hand itching to reach for the phone to call up to cardio.
“Why is everyone all worked up over a consult?” Trinity looked around in confusion, the 7 hours into the shift beginning to clearly show both inside and out.
“Because the lovebug might come down!!” Princess was basically vibrating with excitement “and we’re in the window for my pot in the betting poollllll!” she sang picking up the phone to call up to the cardio wing.
“Okay, multiple comments, queries and concerns” Trin held up a finger “number one: who the hell is “lovebug”, number two: why do we care about them coming down here? And three…why is there a betting pool I'm not in?”
Perlah smiled as she leaned her elbow against the station “lovebug is our nickname for a very sweet cardiology senior resident who just so happens to have the most adorable crush on one frank langdon. Who is in fact completely oblivious to the fact she is head over heels for him…” the group stared over at Frank as he moved from case to case, Trinity rolling her eyes at the situation.
“Still missing number 3, as if I care…” Trin stared up at the ceiling becoming overly aware of just how much she cared about the ER social politics.
“We have a pool going on where, when and whether they finally get together…” Princess skipped up to where Trinity was at the counter “she’s on her way!!!”
A few minutes later there was almost a physical shift in the ER when the doors to the hallway pushed open, a huge grin on your lips, a little heart embroidered on your custom scrubs and a tablet pulled tight to your chest with a smile.
“You must be Dr Santos- i’m a fellowship student im doing a fellowship in cardiovascular diseases- im so happy to meet you-” you put a hand out which she immediately took, leading you over towards the case. It was humiliating, the way your heart flipped and fluttered when your eyes snagged on the perfectly messy hair of Frank Langdon, it felt like being thrown back into high school, seeing your hallway crush between classes.
“He’s a douche…” Santos mumbled, however not quiet enough to evade your eager ears.
“Really?” your head tilted like a confused puppy.
“Before he went to rehab- on my first day he totally tore me a new one…” Santos explained before quickly moving to describe the case. You processed the details of the case but your mind wired at the new information about the man you’d had a crush on for around 2 whole years, since you walked through the doors of PTMC.
Your eyes moved over the small child, taking in the blue of his lips, “has he been feeding well?” you turned to mom pulling on some blue latex gloves and sitting by the bedside.
“No he’s been refusing anything I give him….” the mom replied, her teeth pulling on a hangnail at her thumb.
“Alright…have you checked him for rashes?”
“Yeah thats why- i came in originally he had a weird rash on his chest…” you grabbed a small pen light.
“I’m gonna check your eyes okay buddy?” his skin was hot to the touch as you soothed the 2-year-old to the best of your ability. They were completely bloodshot but there was no discharge, your hands then moved to his neck, feeling around for swelling to find a very swollen lymph node. “Let me check in your mouth okay?” you ushered over trinity as you shone the penlight down his throat.
“See this is what I call strawberry tongue…his lips are also quite cracked and… you tilted the light “erythema... think i know whats going on…” you rolled the chair back, stripping off the gloves. “I think Benny is suffering from Kawasaki disease…It causes inflammation of the medium-sized blood vessels, particularly the coronary arteries.” you delicately explained to the mother.
“Oh my god-” the mothers head went into her hands as tears streamed down her face.
“We need to start treatment as soon as possible so I am going to prescribe him…” you moved over to the computer to scan your badge, eyes drifting into the bullpen to see Frank staring into the room, your heart skipping a beat. “...a high dose infusion of intravenous hemoglobin with aspirin to try and bring down that inflammation…and I want him moved up the stairs as soon as possible-” you told trin.
You carefully moved over to the distraught mom “you did the right thing bringing him here as quickly as you did” your arm went around her softly holding her as she curled into your touch. “I’m gonna get him moved to a pediatric cardiology room as quickly as possible so he can get some more rest…but you are doing amazing mom…” she nodded as you pulled a tissue from your pocket, clean of course, so she could wipe away the tears. You carefully parted from the woman and took your leave with trinity on your tail.
“That was awesome…” she grinned ear to ear as you leaned up against the nurses station.
“All in a day's work…” you let out a long sigh, looking around the ER for no reason in particular.
“He’s in a trauma call, lovebug…” Dana scoffed, her glasses low on her nosebridge as she put in the request for a bed up in peds. You couldn't hide the way you deflated as your pager went off.
“I didn’t even get to talk to him…” you grumped, taking off out the doors of the ER department much to the amusement of the nurses scattered about.
“Where’d she go-” Frank stumbled out of the trauma call, his eyes seeking you out in the ER.
“She diagnosed my mystery illness in like 4 minutes flat…got dragged back up to cardio before we could even talk about it…” Trin half smirked as she sat down to chart the discovery and diagnosis in the poor kids file. “Kawasaki disease.”
“Dammnit…” Frank huffed, stood with blood on his scrubs in the middle of the ER. “shit i wanted to talk to her…” he moped off to grab a new pair of scrubs. You reentered the ER to pass off some paperwork to Trin, surveilling the area yet the ER ken was absolutely nowhere to be seen.
“Here trin- some stuff for the mom and some general info over long term impacts but- i would probably wait a bit to give them over to her…” you sighed just as your pager buzzed again. “I’m gonna crush this thing with my bare fucking hands one of these days.” You sprinted back to the elevators, disappearing JUST as Frank re-entered the ED.
“Oh my god…” Trin snorted out a laugh.
“What?” Frank stared around as the nurses all laughed into their hands, spinning around as if he was in a nightmare where he’d shown up to school naked.
“The two of you orbit each other…” Whittaker explained patting Frank on the back.
“I missed her again?” he sighed, his hands slapping down against his thighs with a grump, letting out an exasperated puff of air.
“It wouldn’t hurt to ask her out…” Dana turned her chair to chase Frank as he ran his hands down his face.
“I’ve barely spoken to her, that would be weird- just too cold to ask somebody out on a date? No- no I'm good.”
“Never take ER ken for a loverboy…” Princess pitched in as she walked past the conversation.
“Loverboy and Lovebug…it's got a ring to it…” Trin whispered to Dennis who snorted into his hand, Frank's head snapping over only for the farmboy to try to brush it off as a cough, Trin's palm slapping over her mouth to hold in her “cackles” (as Dennis would call them).
…..
The thought of what trinity told you hadn’t left your head, it was always strange when someone tells you something that would have otherwise been completely out of your understanding of their character. Frank had a problem with bezos, you and the entire emergency department knew that, but to scream at an intern?
The X-rays began to burn your retinas, it was 4 hours past the supposed end of your 24 hour on call. Even if the heart pulled you in the most out of any part of medicine it was days like this when being a cardiologist seemed utterly impossible. On top of that your usual reason to smile on your way down the ER was nullpoint since you’d transitioned into the nightshift once more.
You had to drag yourself down to the ED for a consult, eyes drifting around the ED absentmindedly until Lena flagged you down. “ER ken left this for you….” she quirked a brow, suddenly the sleep deprived reflexes weren't a problem as you gripped onto it tight.
You unfurled the letter seeing the only slight sprawly handwriting of someone who was obviously quite nervous the entire time they were writing.
Hi, I’m Frank one of the ED residents but- we’ve worked together once or twice hopefully you’d remember me
You left quite the impression
I was wondering if you’d go out with me?
Yes ? No ?
(circle your answer.)
~Loverboy
You bit down on your lip, feeling that fuzzy feeling in your stomach before scrawling out a maybe.
You flipped the paper over grabbing a pen and quickly writing.
Dear loverboy.
Unfortunately it's going to be harder than that…I hear you’re quite the polarising figure.
I wanna know more about you to know you aren’t wasting my time ER Ken.
~ Lovebug
You handed it to Lena rushing to the consult before finally charting and freeing yourself from the ER. It felt utterly ridiculous. In an age of texting and snapchat you were still passing notes with your crush in your 20s. The only downside of this schoolgirl method was that in this context it took multiple days to get a response, just waiting until your paths would cross again and you’d land yourself in the ER.
Many people informed you of you and Frank's habit of always missing each other. For a time the superstitious inkling in you told you it was a sign. If you weren’t able to find each other in daily life, how would you be able to sync yourselves up in every other way?
It was slightly embarrassing, the way you rushed into the ER first thing to pick up another note left behind by ER ken, you’d been switched onto the nightshift or his offdays, an inconvenience you could easily blame on the slightly obviously sexist cardio attending who you’d been mercy to. Although he was the reason you were ever down in the ER in the first place.
Hey lovebug,
I think I can get used to using that nickname. Your heart thumped deviously in your chest.
I did some stupid shit in active addiction, I promise I'm not like that anymore. Santos was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but what I did wasn’t right. I’m not going to pretend it was. At least he can hold himself accountable.
I tweaked my back moving my parents into their new house a few years back. But that's not how I want you to know me.
What do you want to know?
~ ER Ken
Abbot leaned over your shoulder with a smile “that kid is smitten.”
“Hey-” you slapped his arm playfully clutching the letter to your chest. Grabbing a pen and leaning up against the bay.
Dear Loverboy,
That's good to know, I wanna know anything and everything about you. I’m scared I have this image of you in my head, that I've romanticized you. I’m still surprised you wrote me in the first place.
I’ve watched a lot of romcoms, and probably too many medical dramas.
I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be the protagonist.
I don’t want this dream to end.
I’m scared that when you really see me, you won’t like what you find.
~ Lovebug
You sighed shakily, shoving it back into its assigned spot in the station before scampering off to your floor, catching barely a glimpse of that familiar black perfect hair as you passed.
“This is getting ridiculous…” Whittaker scoffed at Frank as he wrote out yet another letter. “We’re not in Victorian times, you can ask for her number.”
Trinity perked up as she sensed an in for a joke “If we’re not in the past why do you still look like a sickly victorian child huckleberry-”
“Yes i know whatever-”
“You just don’t understand romance, whittaker…” Princess sighed, leaned up against the station trying to peek at the letter- he ripped it away, not giving her a chance to steal away your vulnerability which you’d instilled in him with trust. “It's something out of a romcom…” She hummed dreamily.
“She loves those…” Frank spoke under his breath, the letter tight in his palm. “She…she loves romcoms…” a lightbulb switched on in his brain.
….
You were basically sprinting into the ER as soon as your shift began, there was a weird unspoken thing between you and Frank, that you didn’t go out of your way to seek each other out. The letters became a reason to smile when you rushed into a job that stripped you raw. It had been going on for weeks.
it was weeks of:
I saw you on the way in, I love how you did your hair ~ Loverboy
I heard you reset a guys spine in the ER...is it wrong that was hot to me? ~lovebug
I'm scared to talk to you in person, i don't know if words or incoherent sounds will come out ~lovebug
I'm sure i'll love whatever sounds come out of your mouth....that sounded dirty I swear i'm a gentlemen most of the time ~ Loverboy
There was a new and deeper kind of intimacy that lingered in words, a deep affection which was often morphed and lost in issues of tone and connotation. Not to say that someone particularly brilliant needed to be the holder of that pen, words are just words, there is no lie in that statement. But rather the purity of the intention behind them gave them strength and gave them real and sincere meaning.
You felt that in the way Frank wrote, while he wasn't the most exceptionally articulate, had the purist of intention. So when you rushed into the ER a month into the endeavour your heart dropped as you saw your special writing spot empty.
“Was he sick?” the query shot out of your mouth like a bullet of self defense, arms wrapped around you like a shield.
“No sweetheart you should go up to your floor…its hell down here-” Lena was rushing around, your stomach twisted like a wet rag, your body protesting as you moved towards your floor.
The shift had destroyed Frank, an aching in his back sending violent shocks through his legs, the nerve in his leg charging like an angry ocean. It wasn't until he slipped his hand into his pocket to grab his keys that he felt the lined paper against his fingertips. “Shit-” he ignored the pulsing agony as he swung his legs out of the car, rushing back into the hospital, bolting towards the cardio floor.
His hand rested against the wall trying to settle himself with a huff as his eyes drifted over the apartment. A thump hits his back, forcing a loud growth out of his lips, sending him stumbling toward. He felt the warmths of hands on his biceps, settling him back against the wall.
He heard a small sniffle, opening his blue eyes that had been clenched shut with pain and looking down. Your eyes were puffy, sleeves pulled around your palms, telling him you’d been using them to wide away weepy eyes, your hair fell fucking perfectly everything was fucking perfect. An angel had fallen from heaven and landed on him, he inhaled sharply, unsure if it was caused by pain or shock.
“You didn’t leave a letter…” you whispered.
He simply offered out his two fingers, the paper clenched between them. “My back was killing me- I'd written it, I just forgot to leave it…” Frank’s hands hovered over you, not sure if he was allowed to touch the artwork, imagining sirens blaring around him if he had the gall.
“You should lay down…” you muttered, unfolding the card and seeing his familiar and now comforting scripture.
Hey lovebug,
People have told me we orbit each other. In the beginning I took it as an insult, that there was a cosmic distance between us forcing us apart.
Over the last month you gave me something to look forward to, despite the tension and unpredictability of the ER.
And while I promised myself I would never become an addict again, I guess I failed.
I’m addicted to your affection. And it drives me crazy.
You make me want to be a better man.
So I'm just a boy. Writing to a girl. Asking her to give him a shot.
(I think you know me well enough by now)
~ your loverboy.
Your hands shook as your eyes rose to meet his, a small smile dawning your face with a rapid nod. “C’mere…” he pulled you into his chest. “I’m never gonna let you down again…” he spoke against your temple.
“How is this happening?” you smiled shakily, unable to discern whether or not this was your reality, was the man you've had a crush on for a humiliatingly long period of time holding you in his arms. Had you fallen in a pool of your own tears on the way to cardio and this was all some sort of complex hallucination as your mind tried to protect you in your final moments.
“I don’t know…” Frank laughed, forgetting the ache. “I’m just happy it is.”
Can I please request a Frank Langdon x reader fic??
She's fall head over heels for Langdon (she works in another department in the hospital or in the ER) and this is kinda the butt of the joke since everyone knows.
I'm a sucker for the "she falls first but he falls harder" trope ahahah
(he's not married in this because I always feel bad for our girl Abby)
Sorry for the bad English!!
oh i'm cooking something up...its maybe my favourite concept i've had in a minute...
Summary: After Jack pushed you into therapy following an inpromptu flashing (unrelated to the therapy) you learn how thankful you really are for one Jack abbot
CW: kinda wild in the start, non sexual nudity & jokes abt it, a lot about food & neglect, parental illness, allusions to childhood abuse, child neglect
WC: 2k
AN: final part of this for now sadly...might do more like this if requested but likely not chronological
Part 1 - Part 2 - MASTERLIST
The sun was scattering sunbeams over the hardwood of the apartment's floor, your feet casting shadows along the wood lining. You’d woken first, lightly reopening the slated blinds to open the gates to the mid afternoon luminescence. You moved to the space by the kitchen, the small balcony which you never stepped foot on for no particular reason.
“Morning sweetheart” there he was, jack abbot, stark fucking naked. Doing yoga.
“FUCKING HUH-!” you stumbled back, hand slapped over your face as you immediately moved over to the safety of the couch. You could hear his distant belly laugh at your reaction, your whole body buried under the fluffy blanket as you attempted to eradicate the image of your attending and roommates asshole from your mind.
“I didn’t think I was that hard on the eyes-” Jack laughed as he moved into the apartment, a robe wrapped around his body.
“Context- context abbot-” your hands rubbed at your shut eyelids, “I wasn’t expecting straight hole on a fucking tuesday morning- i know I don’t know whats normal and whats not normal but there is no WAY that that is normal-” your hand shook as you pointed at him.
“I’m sorry I thought you were aware of my naked yoga habit given the entire ER knows-” he smiled down at you stropping on the couch with his arms crossed over his check. His smile softened as you finally broke into a small laugh, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that normal thing…”
“You can not segway hole to deep conversation about my traumatic childhood-” maybe jacks dark humor manner of coping had rubbed off on you a little too hard.
“You know I'm glad you’ve come out of your shell, less so that I seem to always be at the butt of all your jokes-” he grinned as you scrunched up your face with your groan “pun unintended”
“I don’t like talking about it…” you sighed, eyes locked onto the overhead lighting of the fancy place. “Describing ages 0 - 18 as a childhood in context to me is…inaccurate…”
“Inaccurate…” he carefully sat on the couch so as not to expose himself to you unintentionally again. “You know I have a great therapist-”
“Ha. no.” you forced a smile, slowly bringing yourself up to your feet to literally leave the conversation. “I don’t do shrinks-” you huffed moving to the kitchen as if you were able to prepare anything but scrambled eggs.
“I used to think the same-” he followed, having grown up constantly listening for footsteps you’d gained the ability to identify people from their gait. Of course Jack’s prosthesis made him especially easy to identify. “After I lost my leg…and the PTSD got really bad.”
Your hands rested back on the island with a roll of your eyes “yeah because you went to war- your leg got blown up- you lost your wife for fucks sake!” your hand clasped over your heart with a small shake. “I had a sad life, yeah whatever- I’m alive- I’m in one piece-” you looked over your body “yeah i freak out when you leave me alone but thats cause i’m immature-”
“Stop it.” Jack cut in, his mean stern attending face taking over his visage. “Drowning in a paddling pool and drowning in the ocean aren’t all that different- you still drown.” he had to duck his head to get into your eyeline, a habit built off the fact that you refused to make eye contact in day to day discussion. “You’re not just sad you’re traumatised.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m just overreacting- whatever attention I didn’t get has me stuck like this and that's my problem.” you weren't angry per se, jack could tell that much, you veered more into the uncomfortable box.
“What are you feeling right now?” Jack leaned back against the counter, eyes narrowing as he stared at you.
“What?”
“Tell me the emotion that you are feeling right now. And I won't make an appointment with the shrink for you.” Your chest tightened up at the threat, mind worrying to come up with a sufficient answer to the question.
“I-” you huffed, looking down into your hands as if the answer was snuck into your palm like you were cheating on a grade school test. “Not happy.” were the words that decided to leave you.
“Are you sad?”
“No?” you retorted, unsure in yourself what this tension in your back was, the way your words were caught on a ledge coming up your throat and out of your mouth, the slight aching in your skull. To explain why you wanted to punch a wall, or bite your first, not out of anger but something else deeper than that.
Jack watched the clogs manually turn in your brain, carefully moving over to stand in front of you, his arms opening wide to pull you in. Your head bobbed slightly as he pulled you into his chest, his palm resting at the back of your skull to stabilize it. “I’ll go with you…just let me take care of you.”
……..
“This is ridiculous…’ you mumbled staring at the chart the stupid shrink had sent you home with. A big wheel of emotions broken down into subsections, as a grown adult you’d never thought anyone was going to bring you back to the basic chart you’d give pediatric patients to describe how they felt. You threw it down onto the coffee table, collapsing onto the couch with a huff. “It's infantilising.”
“It’s a tool. Which you need” jack sighed “same way i need my leg you need your…chart.” He waved his hand at the laminated piece of paper.
“And this shit about a diary- when do i have- have time for a diary- and reparenting my innerchild- bullshit- I parented myself the first time why do I have to do that again!” you huffed as Jack leaned over to pick up the chart.
“Would you say you’re feeling….” his eyes scoured the chart for a word he could pin this emotion to in your brain “frustrated?”
“Yes. yes i’m frustrated…” you rolled into a pillow as he threw the blanket over you haphazardly.
“Progress is progress.” he snatched the TV remote before plopping down onto his armchair and slipping off his prosthetic leg. “Do you want food? I’m thinking of ordering something. I'm feeling lazy today…”
“Whatever you want is fine…” you mumbled with what you know adeptly identified as frustration.
“Alright.” he tapped on his phone far too loudly for your liking as you rolled onto your back, the conversation with the therapist looping in your brain. The way she’d made you describe your childhood, what you remembered at least.
“My mom wasn’t a bad mom.” you declared to the room, not even to Jack in particular, not to say he didn’t perk up at the statement. “She was ill, she didn’t mean not to take care of me…” a tear trickled down the corner of your eye, “she’s the reason I went into healthcare because that was easy- taking care of someone when they needed you was easy…”
Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “Where was your dad?”
“Fuck if i know…when he was around he was never any good…” a frog settled in your throat nails digging into your forearms as flashes of your life when your father was home flashing whenever your eyelids shut to blink.
“You’re safe…i’m here.” Jack spoke through the chaos in your mind, his hand lightly gripping your foot to remind you he’s there.
“Yeah…” you rolled to face him pulling the blanket back over you properly.
“Cool…” Jack sighed with a small smile “what are we gonna do for thanksgiving?”
“Oh…”
“We’ll invite the night crew over for a thanksgiving day lunch, can we host it here?” Jack queried seeing your pensive expression.
“Have you ever had a real thanksgiving growing up?” you shook your head as Jack let out a small sigh. “Then it’ll be a first I guess…”
“Lotta firsts here…” you mumbled.
“Yep.”
……
The table was covered in food, a sight so seldom witnessed by you. In fact it was harder to see the mahogany of the table with the dishes and placemats laid out. The apartment was filled with people, the noise comforting yet overwhelming. You’d watched TV whenever you had the chance growing up, fixated on the holiday episodes and parties the actors would play out. The comfort was “This is gonna put us into a food coma before work…” Shen sighed, staring over the table with his hands settled on his hips.
“Food coma? Is that an actual thing?” you muttered to yourself, pushing past people, gravitating over to Jack who was buried in a conversation about work with Ellis and Lena. “When are we gonna eat?” your stomach grumbled loudly, giving away your hunger as you looked over at everyone. You’d surveyed the table, trying to figure out the best possible spot to sit to reach all of the food as quickly as possible, the most reach, the most variety.
“I could eat?” Lena smiled, guiding you over to the table, arm slung around you happily squeezing you into her side with a kiss to the crown of your head. You slipped into your self assigned chair, knee bouncing as your hands trembled on the table. “Should we say what we’re thankful for?” she folded a napkin over her lap, a move you instantly followed. A small smile on Jack's face as he watched the movement.
“I am thankful for my new roommate…” Jack started his eyes finding yours “and I am thankful that someone is in my life who has shown me to appreciate all the little things-” you forced yourself to swallow down the cry that wanted to escape you. “-and for showing me the world is so much wider than the ER” a tear rolled down your cheek as the group began clapping, mateo hugging you into his side.
“Your turn” Mateo pushed your shoulders, it was how you imagined it would feel to have a brother teasing you.
“Um…I've never really done this before…” There were a couple tilted heads as you looked up at Jack “I’m thankful for…finally having-” your voice cracked, eyes moving up the ceiling. “-the family i never thought…i would ever get to have-” your chest rose and fell as more tears fell, your eyes moving around the table “for showing me- that being cared for isn't a burden-” Lena’s hand wrapped around yours under the table squeezing three times. Your heart physically burned as you spoke, tears flooding down your face “im sorry-”
“Don’t be sorry…no one wants you to be sorry…” Parker spoke clearly, her eyes bearing into yours as you wiped them with your sleeves.
“Thank you so much-” you managed to sob out as mateo pulled you in for a long hug, jack rounding the table to stand at the back of your chair, reaching around to give you a good long squeeze. A kiss pressed onto the side of your head with a soft “so proud of you kid…”
By the time everyone said what they were thankful for there wasn't a dry eye, Lena announcing “all this crying is making me hungry…lets eat…” you moved so quickly it felt like no one could actually see you move. Your eyes moved to the chicken which was placed right in front of Jack whose eyes latched to yours. “Slow down…we aren’t gonna take it away, there's enough for everyone here…” Jack loaded chicken and turkey onto your plate.
The rest of the lunch/dinner passed as conversation filled the apartment, it was unfamiliar yet not unwelcomed as the clock ticked into the afternoon and evening hours. “We should get ready for work…we’ll meet you at the ED…” Shen sighed, people filtered out, the door finally clicking shut.
Jack wasted no time moving over to you, his arms squeezing around you as he swayed back and forth slightly. Burying your face in his chest as he hummed, the vibrations regulating as the crusted tears wiped away on the cotton of his polo. “I’m so proud of you…” his cheek rested against the top of your head.
Hey I was just wondering do you write for more than just Arthur in RDR2 no worries if not xx
Uhhh maybe? I think i’d have to go back and replay a bit just to get a better grasp on their characters (Arthur included cause it’s been a hot minute since I played)
A violent patient attack leaves you non-verbal (for a short period), stimming and rocking. Jack Abbot is the only one who can calm you down.
Word count: 3.3k
TW/Tags: mention of attack, violence, blood
Notes: No pronouns for reader. Reader has a nickname. Based on this request.
P.s The guidance in my country says you can sleep after a concussion.
Being a doctor is challenging, because you are always expected to be the best. Being an autistic doctor is even more challenging, because your mind was in a constant battle with your emotions and senses, finding a balance between not going into overdrive, but working in an environment that requires your senses to be heightened all the time.
Your colleagues were no strangers to your autism — it was once mentioned in passing conversation. But even medical professionals often forget how to talk to someone autistic, and what to do if that person is overwhelmed. It is in human nature to forget, truly, but it also doesn’t take any effort to simply remember.
Jack Abbot however, the handsome and kind attending, who remembers everything about everyone, never once overlooked your neurodiversity.
He had asked you once, whether calling you by your last name is too formal and you might not like it, or if you prefer a first name. He understood that the tone of voice he uses with you has to be specific, otherwise you might not be fully be able to understand it. Because autistic individuals often process tone differently than a neurotypical person.
So it was agreed, that he would only call you by your last name if he is talking about something serious. Your first name, if it was a causal conversation, and a nickname, when he is talking to you as Jack. Your friend Jack.
“Do you have a nickname in mind for me?” You ask him, not maintaining eye contact with him. It made you feel uneasy, maintaining his gaze — sometimes causing sensory overload if you had to stare at anyone too long. So you opted to look at just over his shoulder when you spoke with him. Jack on the other hand, never took offence once.
“I don’t have one in mind no… what is it you are interested in? Hobby wise.” Jack asks you a direct question, not an open question that would require a lot of conversation of thinking. Because with overthinking, comes spiralling.
“I like… puzzles. They calm me down.”
“How about Patch? Or patchy?” Patch because you’re patching people up, but also because of your love for puzzles.
“I like that!”
“Are you sure?” Jack asks again, to check if you are okay with it.
“Of course!” You smiled and look at him for a brief second, “so last name for formality, first name for informality and conversation, and nickname when we are talking as friends?” You like to double check the information, because over the years you realised that people don’t often say exactly what they mean.
“Exactly!” Jack smiles widely. “I’ll let you go, Patchy; it was good speaking with you.”
You sigh of relief once the conversation ends, not because you didn’t like speaking with Jack, but often maintaining a conversation with someone can be exhausting. Especially working in the ER — where you don’t get a moment of silence.
You and Jack became incredibly close at work because it was easy to speak with him. He maintained a great balance between pressuring you to do a task so it would benefit your career and delivering it in a way that you felt comfortable doing. He was incredibly gentle and patient, and you found yourself at ease whenever you were with him. You grew fond of him very quickly and found yourself looking forward to seeing him every day.
This fondness grew into something much warmer; something that made your chest flutter and not because of anxiety. The way he'd say your nickname made your stomach flip, and the crinkles around his eyes were so prominent when he smiled at you.
He never made you feel like you had to be anything other than yourself.
Jack, on the other hand, had grown deeply attached to you, too. He admired everything about you, including how resilient and determined you are. He loved the way your face lit up when he used your nickname, and how you always chose to present to him and not Shen. Over time, Jack found himself lingering after shifts just so he could speak to you or coming up with excuses just to check in on you.
You found your safe person and Jack found his.
Today had particularly started off wrong. First, everything went wrong when you tried to make your food. You burnt the toast, which set off the fire alarm, and that was your first push. You then had to turn on the extractor fan, which was incredibly loud and overstimulating. You then gave up on food and decided to grab it on your way in. But the restaurant was far too loud and busy, and you were starting to sweat as you waited for your takeout. You also overthought the conversation you had with the waitress, and worried you came across rude when you were simply too overstimulated.
You made it to work just on time, and that was another thing that almost tipped you off the edge. You hated being late. You didn’t have the time to take a breath before you got called into a trauma room, along with Jack. He instantly notices that you’re not yourself, given the subtle shaking of your hands as you put gloves on. He doesn’t ask; instead, he waits a few more minutes and studies your demeanour. You did well, hiding how overwhelmed you were and focusing on the task ahead. But with every noise, you felt as if someone was digging a knife in your ear. With every touch, you felt your skin crawl. You needed a minute, and your shift hadn’t even started yet. You hadn’t done rounds yet — and that required a lot of memorising, and your mind was already mushy.
Once the patient was stable, which felt like hours later, you managed to finally breathe. You rushed out of the room, wanting to get to the bathroom for some silence, but Jack caught up with you.
“Hey wait up”
“Sorry Dr Abbot I really-“
“Need a minute, I know” he says quietly. “Let’s go to the supply closet. It’s dark and much quieter than the bathroom.”
“I’m fine truly” you say quickly, rubbing both of your palms together to soothe yourself, “I just- today it was- I don’t know what I’m trying to say it’s all-“
“Hey, let’s not talk. No one needs to talk. Let’s go.” He doesn’t touch you, but instead gestures for you to follow him into the supply closet. “There’s no lock on the door but no one ever goes in here. Well, I do, when I need a minute. Take five.”
“Five?”
“Five minutes”
“Like literally five minutes?” You ask again, wanting to know the exact amount he’s allowing you to take.
“Yes five minutes. Close your eyes and focus on slowing your breathing down.” He says softly, “I will set a timer so the noise doesn’t interrupt you, okay? I’ll come back and knock quietly.”
“I’m sorry, im really sorry I’ve only just started my shift and-“
“No one is angry or upset with you. It seems like your day’s going terrible and it’s not even started yet. Take five, I’ll be back.” He says quietly, and leaves you in the closet, closing the door very gently behind him. He sets a timer for five minutes — although he wants you to take longer, but he knows that punctuality is essential when it comes to you so taking ten when he said five, will only upset you further.
You sit in the corner and hug your knees up to your chest, and focus on nothing but your breathing. You remind yourself that just because today started off wrong, doesn’t mean it should end this way. But it’s not always as simple as that. Because once you’re hyper aware of everything that could remotely affect your senses, everything automatically becomes heightened. The five minutes are up, and Jack slowly opens the door and whispers, “hey”
“I feel okay now”
“Can I sit with you?”
“Don’t they need us out there?”
“Day shift is actually still here, something to do with an unfinished case so they’re helping.” He whispers again as he lowers himself on the ground slowly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure”
“How can I help you when you’re feeling overwhelmed?”
“What you did today was good, Jack”
“But how can I do it better?”
“It’s difficult.. because I don’t know what helps me sometimes.”
“Do you benefit from deep pressure stimulation?”
“I try and do it on myself sometimes but… my hands are usually shaky and I start fidgeting a lot so I cant maintain the movement.”
“Want me to try? So you tell me if I’m doing it right?”
“Yes please”
“So from what I’ve read….” Jack murmurs as he shifts on the ground, “it’s best to apply pressure on large muscles, could be arms or legs…”
He had read about it? You wonder what else he researched and it warmed your heart how attentive he is.
“I’m gonna touch your shoulders, let me know if it’s good.” He shifts and faces you, leaning in and gripping each side of your biceps and he squeezes gently.
You murmur, “maybe a bit harder?”
“Sure?”
You hum and nod.
He squeezes your biceps harder and you feel your body as it grounds itself to his touch. You can’t help but close your eyes and focus on his squeezing. Jack smiles to himself, noticing how your face had already relaxed. “I’m gonna move down slowly…”
He moves down to your forearm, squeezing hard then reaches your hands. “I’m gonna go gentler now.”
He holds your hand, making small gentle squeezes on your palm. For a moment, your mind goes silent, your breathing is back to normal and you want nothing more but to stay here with him.
“Patchy?”
“Yes Jack?” You murmur, opening your eyes slowly and you’re met with his warm gaze.
“Feeling better?”
“So much better. Thank you”
“Anytime sweetheart. Do you think you’re ready to go back out there with me?”
In that moment, you felt like you would go anywhere with him. The feeling of being this content around someone was so incredible and comforting, and you never wanted it to end.
“Hey Mateo, you know that patient in room eleven — does he seem a bit… odd to you?”
“In what way?”
“Just… not right. I don’t know how to explain it.” You had just left his room and asked him a couple of questions, but he didn’t seem… stable. It’s incredibly difficult to explain to a neurotypical individual how well you can read people's expressions. Maybe not tone of voice... but facial expressions or body language were different. Others may see him just like any other person, but over the years you’ve learnt to recognise patterns so you can truly understand one’s behaviour. It wasn’t always so simple, but in this particular case, something was not right. You went to find Jack, who was finishing up with a patient. “Hey Dr Abbot, do you have a moment?”
“Not this second — I’ve got a meeting in 2 minutes. Everything alright?”
“Ummm” you hesitate, not entirely sure how to explain it to him, “never mind.”
“You sure? Do you need me or an attending?” You, you thought. You needed his attention to explain how you’re feeling, but you figured it wasn’t his responsibility to take ten minutes out of his day so you could try to explain a feeling. "I can be late for my meeting, no problem." He smiles softly and approaches you closer. "Is something bothering you?"
"No, don't worry about it." You mumble and quickly walk away.
He calls after you, “Hey, Patchy, we’ll catch up after my meeting, I promise.”
“Okay” you smile, and hold onto his promise as you head in the direction of room eleven.
“Caleb?” You knock and walk in, but he was not in bed. “Mr Richard?” You say quietly. Where has he gone?
“You” an animal like growl hisses from behind you. You turn around and see him standing in the corner by the door, with a psychotic look on his face. Psychosis eyes. That’s exactly what that look was. That was the feeling you couldn’t explain.
“Caleb?” Your voice instantly shakes as you walk away from him. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“He’s behind you”
You look over your shoulder in a panic, but no one is there. “Okay, what-what does he want?”
“He’s telling me things, things that are not good!” He yells. You look over at the panic button across the room, but you have to pass him to get to it.
“Don’t listen to him, maybe listen to me? Okay?”
“No!” He yells again, “he’s telling me to hurt you!”
“Please, please don’t hurt me” you plea, “don’t listen to him!”
He yells something inaudible again, and so you yell at the top of your voice, “hula hoop”
He charges toward you but you jump on the bed to avoid him, wanting to get to the panic button. But he was too quick, and too big. He gets hold of the back of your neck, pulling you back up. You scream hula hoop again, repeatedly, until he slams your face into the wall. Pain, like you’ve never felt before, wraps all around your face, and not a muscle in your body has the energy to fight him. Everything then goes silent, and you are well aware that you have now dissociated.
Ahmed was the first one to run in, pulling the patient off you, followed by Lena, Parker, Mateo who are now surrounding you.
Commotion had taken over the atmosphere as everyone started yelling, security is now in the room, dragging the patient away, who’s aggressively fighting them off.
“Hey, you’re okay” Parker wraps her arms around you in an attempt to protect you from the chaos, but the walls were closing in on you, and the last thing you needed was someone being this close. “I’ve got you”
Her fingertips on your shoulder feel like sandpaper as you push her off and fall to the ground.
“Sweetheart” Lena crouches down next to your, lifting your bloody chin up, “come with me.”
Your hands cover your ears, tapping on them repeatedly as your body starts to rock back and forth.
"He's not gonna hurt you now." Parker crouches down next to her, "Can I please touch you so I can stop the bleed?"
But you don't respond. You wouldn't be able to even if you tried.
"Mateo, can you call Abbot, please?" Parker adds, "He might be the only one who can help."
"Already did, no answer. I’ll text” ER. Stat. Hula hoop
Jack doesn’t need to know who was involved in code Hula Hoop, but as he runs into the ED, he goes to room eleven. Call it a gut feeling, but he knew it was about you, and blamed himself for not taking the few minutes of his time to talk to you, maybe the outcome might have been different,
Everyone’s surrounding you, desperate to try and check for injuries, but he finds you stimming, eyes closed, and rocking back and forth.
“Everyone out!” He doesn’t mean to yell, knowing it’ll only make it worse for you but he’s far too anxious. “Now!” Bodies hesitate to move at first, but Jack pushes through them to get to you, saying once again in a firm and authoritative tone, “Everyone out now!”
He crouches down to your level, shaking his head at the mess the patient had made of you. Seeing you like this broke his heart, and he tries not to think about the guilt that sat deep in his chest.
He whispers, “It’s just me” and then slowly reaches for your hands that are hitting your ears. He holds both of your hands and starts squeezing them gentling, without saying a word. Calming you was his priority first, then attending to your injuries. He rests your hands on your knees then grabs hold of your biceps, squeezing them gently at first, then increasing the pressure slightly a bit by bit, until your rocking eventually slows down.
He says gently, “You don’t have to answer me but I need to know what he did. Nod for a yes shake for a no”
You give him a shaky nod, eyes still closed.
“Did he hit you anywhere apart from your face?”
You point at your neck and Jack slowly moves to look at it. “Did he do anything else, like hit your body?”
You shake your head.
“Can I take you to another room so I can properly examine you? Please?”
You shake your head quickly, and your hands move back to your ears.
“Okay sweetheart let’s stay here.” He pulls up gloves from his pocket, snapping them on quietly, “I’m gonna touch your face so I can look at your nose.”
You nod and eventually open your eyes, wincing at the brightness of the fluorescent lights above your head. Your eyes meet his for a moment before he looks away. He can’t risk tearing up in front of you. He murmurs, “I’ll turn them off in a minute. I just need to check your injuries, okay?”
You whisper, "Jack?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Don't leave."
"Not going anywhere," he murmurs, "I'm right here...I’m so sorry this will probably stress you out even more but I need to know how hard you hit your head”
You shake your head, not wanting to think of what happened.
“Okay, okay, I’m gonna check for a concussion, then we’ll go to a dark room. Hmm?” Jack carries out his checks gently and slowly, careful not to startle you. Despite not saying much or answering his questions, your pupils showed signs of a concussion, but refused to be moved to a room. "Shall we go home? Instead of a dark room?"
"I can't take the bus or-" you whisper.
"I'll drive you home and i'll stay with you."
"Promise?"
"I promise, Patchy, I'm not going anywhere."
Jack keeps his promise, not letting anyone near you as he finishes up the last bit of paperwork before guiding you out of the ED through the side entrance. He unlocks the car, opening the door for you and patiently waits as you get in and settle. He starts the engine, reaches over, clicking the seatbelt in, "no radio, close your eyes if you need to."
The drive is quiet, and every few minutes he glances over, checking on you without making it obvious. When your hands start trembling again, he doesn’t say a word; instead, he rests his hand palm up on the centre console, as an open invitation if you want it. After a few minutes, you take your hand in his and start squeezing hard. He squeezes back -- the exact deep pressure that you prefer.
Your apartment is dark when you arrive, and Jack only turns on a small lamp in the corner. "Couch or bed?"
"Couch", you whisper.
He guides you over to the couch, helping you sit comfortable in the corner,, i'll go get you a change of clothes, can I go through your closet?"
"Sure"
He disappears and returns a few moments later with one of your jumpers and joggers, along with antiseptic wipes and a warm cloth. He helps you out of your shirt first, and slowly starts wiping the dried blood away. His jaw tightens at the bruises that sat on your face and neck, "is this okay?"
You nod.
Once your face is clean, he hands you the change of clothes, and helps you change slowly and quietly.
“I'll go get you some water." He brings it with a straw so you don’t have to sit up too much. After you drink, he sits next to you, keeping a respectful distance, but also staying close in case you need him. "You don’t have to talk,” he murmurs. “But I’m right here. I’m staying the night...on the couch if you want space, or in the chair if that’s better. Whatever you need, Patchy.”
You reach out and tug lightly at his sleeve until he shifts closer. He understands immediately and carefully lies next to you, letting you nestle against his chest. He pulls a weighted blanket on top of both of you, feeling you relax under his touch.
"You're safe, and I've got you." He murmurs against your head, "It's just you and me in here, and no one else."
"Thank you" Your eyes sting, and you feel physically exhausted, "for being here with me."
"I need you to promise me something."
"Sure."
"Promise me next time you have a bad feeling about a case, you come to me." He murmurs, gently lifting your chin up to look at him, "Promise me that you'll tell me everything. Because I never want to see hurt like this ever again."
"I promise you, Jack."
"Good." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "I'll always be there for you."
CW: allergic reactions, medical inaccuracies, always research this is from my knowledge of allergies and allergic reactions & some research of my own. Reader is stated to be allergic to Citrus & Tomato but more is possible
Summary: growing up you allergies always seemed like the the most awkward confession. So avoiding outings with a high probability of cross contamination became a must. But when you're hot af attenting learns you half-hazardly agreed to a night out, you can't say no.
AN: Jack is kinda OOC here my bad- but I love an Awkward!jack headcannon (i think he'd struggle to approach women after leaving his wif
Based on a request (kinda) from @lunarayletters (show her some love)
WC: 2.6 k
“Hmmmmmmmmmm….” Shen toyed with the paper straw with his tongue, the ER was absolutely dead, usually was around the 4am to 6am stretch at the end of the shift. Usually just coping through a flood of residual patients that came in from a rough night partying. “Never eat pizza again….orrrr all of your sodas are always room temp…”
“Never eat pizza! Are you kidding!?” Mateo erupted as if you’d asked him to choose between his wife and child. “I guess I'd never eat pizza but thats fucked up man-” mateo pointed a finger into Shen’s arm.
“I would die without a cold diet coke after a shift…” Lena leaned back in her swivel chair with a sigh.
Shen’s elbow pushed into your arm as you watched the conversation “oh me?” your finger pointed into your own chest, “Don’t like Pizza,” your lips pressed together awkwardly. “Tomatoes make my stomach sick…” A slight down play to the reality of your allergy.
It shouldn't be as embarrassing as it is to admit to someone that you have potentially life threatening allergies. But it had a striking emotional resemblance to having to order off the kids menu in a fancy restaurant in front of all of your friends.
“You’re kidding- that must fucking suck.” Ellis joined the group on your free side. “No lasagne, spaghetti bolognese- fuck no bloody marys!” your stomach rumbled at the thought, even if you couldn’t eat it, the mental image of delicious hot italian food taunted you.
“You get used to it…” your chin rested on the counter over your hands which were folded over each other. “The only annoying thing is that stupid restaurants never put it on the menu in meals, so it's like a mystery until it’s sat in front of me.”
“Damn.” Shen’s brows raised as the conversation spotlight landed on you, and well, you most definitely had stage fright.
“Sorry- I made it awkward- my bad-” you stumbled over your words.
“No it’s better that we know-” Ellis bumped her hip against yours, “otherwise we would invite you to an Italian themed bar tomorrow night…” her voice lilted upwards slightly as you rolled your eyes. 3 months in the ER had cushioned you in, still you were yet to meet them on one of their monthly nights out. Bars just weren't really your scene, cross contamination was a constant worry even in high end restaurants. It didn’t help having the most obscure list of allergies that ranged from peanuts to a specific kind of chemical in most makeup.
“I don’t know” your shoulders curled in on themselves “I don’t do great in busy places in public-”
“All of us will be there and make sure you’re okay?” Shen leaned in “pleaaseeeeeeee” your palm went over his face with a groan.
“Fineeee” you whined looking back up at the patient board, “I should check on North 5-” you turned to make your way towards the bay only to knock into a solid wall of flesh. The smell of leather and pinewood filled your nostrils as he recalibrated his center of gravity, hands steadying you by gripping onto either forearm.
“Careful there…” Jack abbots devilishly attractive smirk seared into your retina’s, the angle, the way the fluorescent light caught on the grey stubble which was growing in, picking out the small evidence of his auburn hair now that he had gone almost fully grey. His hands could wrap around your arms with a seductive ease, sending a dizzying flood of blood up to your cheeks. “I can’t believe my ears… are we finally finishing up Wisp’s nightcrawler initiation?” he smirked, throwing an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in under his arm without thinking about it.
You’d kept it down to the single allergy letting “I- Yeah-” your heart thumped heavy in your chest. Either Jack knew you had an absolutely humiliatingly huge crush on him and this was some kind of humiliation ritual or he was completely oblivious which was equally as bad because everyone in the ER knew. Either way, without his consent, you’d decided that there was no possible way that a universe could exist where you and Jack Abbot would be a plausible coupling.
“Well then we better make it a big one!” he clapped his hands together with a wolfish grin, your shoulder aching where his arm had been, clearly missing its company. “Now- get back to work-” his hand patted down on your back and you were all sent off your separate ways.
The end of the shift came and weariness settled deep within your bones, hands cracked raw from the ER’s soap which you’d been forced to use for the last 12 hours, one which you were most definitely not tolerant of.
The awkward outfit selection didn’t do anything to relax you, the little worms in your brain reminding you that anything you wore was going to be witnessed by your literal boss. And unhelpfully your crush.
A low cut top- hell no imagine dropping your purse, leaning over to get it and giving the whole emergency department nightshift staff a whole show. Instead reaching for the turtleneck sleeveless shirt which was just the perfect shade of brown for your skin.
That cute skirt that you kinda stole from your college roommate? Can’t it very much give away your past desire to pick up any old random by basically mooning them. But the summer heat was too much so you instead settled for a pair of decent yet sexy shorts. A brown belt to match your shirt hooked around your waist. The added pro was easy access in case you needed to use the epipen tonight.
You shoved the thought down in the exact name you shoved the two epipens into the outfits matching purse, tugging on a pair of sneakers and grabbing your keys before heading straight out the door.
Was walking to the bar at all responsible? No. But it was only two blocks from your apartment, a trek you’d pulled more times than you could count with your roommates after a couple too many cocktails.
“Theres Wisp!” Jack cheered as you walked into the bar being met by the claps and smiles of the nightcrawlers, his arm landed where it often did, slung around your shoulders patting your arm before pulling away. Wisp was a nickname created by several iterations. In the first two weeks, of you working in the ED everyone swore that they hadn’t heard you say a word outside of treatment. Then when you did speak it was mostly a polite shy whisper. Then “Whisper” was affectionately shortened to “Wisp” which barely fit anymore as they had successfully pulled you far enough out of your shell to handle a large bout of small talk.
“Hi guys” you shyly raised a hand before taking your place in the booth, swiftly followed by Jack sliding into place beside you. He may be oblivious to the cheeky looks of the crew but you were unfortunately anything but. Settling into the conversation was easier than you had believed it would be but eventually Jack's elbow nudged into yours.
“Wanna grab a drink?” Jack’s breath fanned over your ear, trying to cut through the chaos of the conversation which surrounded you. You forced out a nod before making your way over to the bar, Jack parting the crowd like the red sea to give you a clear path through the chaos.
You pulled yourself up onto the bar stool as jack stood by your side, waiting for the bartender to walk over, your knees pressed to the warmth of his tree trunk thigh. “Whats your drink of choice?” you smiled over at him, desperately trying to grip onto sanity at the touch.
“Usually a whiskey neat…” he exhaled his hands going into his pockets, he leaned in to make sure his voice reached you, crowding over you slightly. “But when I’m out with these guys I usually try to stay sober…”
“Are they really in that much trouble?” you chuckled, staring into his hazel eyes as the bar buzzed around you. Jack shook his head with a small laugh.
“The stories you have yet to hear,” he smirked, as the bartender approached the sticky part of the bar you’d sat by. “I’ll have a Miller zero and a…” his hand gestured towards you. “Sorry-” he moved over to the table for a few seconds to listen to some random bullshit debate she and Ellis were having.
“C- can I have a Moscow mule? But uh- leave out the lime please i’m allergic-” you offered a polite smile, turning back to Jack, who’d retaken his spot by your side, before you could realise that the bartender sarcastically rolled his eyes. The conversation flowed easily as you waited on the drinks, Jack buffering anyone from moving into your space.
The drinks were placed in front of you, Jack insisting it be added to his bill. “Sorry- i’m-” your hand went to his bicep holding him in place, “look I know this is forward and probably completely inappropriate given the fact that you’re my fucking boss- but i’m really having fun talking to you one on one and I kinda wanna keep that going?” you physically braced for the injection as Jack stood with his eyes wide staring at you. His head shook lightly before he leaned his body down on the counter with a sly smile. His crows' feet curled deliciously. The LED bar lights perfectly highlighted the pronounced biceps attached to the carved chest which was conveniently on full display because of his tight black shirt.
His eyebrows stayed raised as blood rushed up to his cheeks, his dogtags bounced against his chest as he moved onto the stool next to you, tilting his head over at you. “Uh- ditto…”
You barked out a laugh “Smooth.”
“Sorry- i’m just kinda rusty?”
“What do you mean rusty?”
He raised the bottle of faux beer to his lips, taking a gulp as if it could give him a placebo liquid courage. “Well I don’t get to talk to women as perfect as you on the regular.”
You damn near choked on the mix of gingerbeer and vodka as you sipped it, whole body tingling at his comment. The words stalling in your throat as you glanced over at him. “Wow.”
“Was that good?” his brows furrowed as he held in a chuckle, his hand pulling over his face.
“Amazing-” your voice croaked as your hand tentatively moved up to your neck, palpating lightly.
“Are you okay?” Jack leaned in closer to you, his hand moving to your drink, immediately inspecting the bottom of the glass for any residue.
“Yeah-” your tongue began to swell as you pushed him away gently “bathroom-” you clutched your purse to your chest before making a break for the toilet. Jack stood at the bar his head hung slightly, assuming he had somehow managed to insult you or read your intentions completely incorrectly, despite the fact you had just told him you enjoyed speaking with him.
You stumbled past a couple of lesbians making out on the sink, giving them a polite nod as you shuffled into the stall and pulled out the epipen.
“Fuck fuck fuck-” the bartender rushed over to the bar just as jack was about to leave, grasping your cup and realising what he’d done. “Uh- that chick you were with- did she drink this?”
“Yeah…” Jack turned slowly, his gut dropping.
You fumbled with the cap feeling your lungs burn and scratch for air, sweat collecting on your brow as your tongue tingled. “Fuck-” the needle stung as you pushed down against your thigh.
“Fuck- you might um-” the bartender ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders tensed up as he smelled the drink. “You need to go check on her- I mixed up her order- that girl over there just complained her mule had no lime- so i must have- mixed them up-”
“Thats…not a huge deal-”
“She said she’s allergic to lime-” Jack moved as quickly as he could, the door clattering against the adjacent wall, pausing only slightly to see the girls separate and rush out to find somewhere more private. “Ladies-” he gulped, ducking his head and pounding on each bathroom door to find you, yelling your name.
You unlocked the door, wheezing giving away your presence. You put your palm out with two pens in hand, Jack's heart dropping. “It’s okay- you used it- okay-” he inspected the pen seeing the 3 year old expiry date. “Do- do you feel better?”
You nodded “only a little- the first one didn- didnt work and- the second one- helped-”
“We’re gonna go to the ED come on-” he pulled you off the toilet, holding your bag and parting your way outside of the bar. “We’re taking my truck come on-” he basically dragged you out of the bar and lifted you into his car as time passed. He figured the bar covering the bill was the least they could do.
“It’s getting better-”
“You know reactions can come back it’s always better to go to the hospital- especially when epipens past 2 years expiry are only- 80% effective-”
“Do you always rattle off medical shit when you’re stressed-” Jack’s head snapped over to you for a few seconds, worry baked into his perfect brow furrow. He stumbled over his words as he put the car into gear.
“Yeah- yeah I do-” he sighed before taking off, driving as responsibly as possible towards the hospital. He couldn't help but stare over every few seconds to check in on your condition “how’s your throat-?”
“Never had complaints-” your hand shot over your mouth as Jack let out an unintelligible sound of pure surprise. “Sorry i think the adrenaline makes me lose my filter-”
“Uh- I-” Jack shook his head, flustered beyond belief.
“I don’t know why i said that- i’m not like-”
‘Stop- don’t say anything else- I think you’ll kill me if another word leaves that mouth of yours-"Jack pulled into the parking lot, stepping out into the night and just taking a moment to regain his sanity. You stepped out, making your way down to the ER with him.
You laid in the hospital bed, just needing to be monitored for a few hours as jack stayed posted up by your side. “You know you should tell me all your allergies just in case…” Jack held your chart on his lap.
“I’m not allergic to any medication thankfully- don’t respond well to morphine but otherwise not relevant-”
“No I mean…” Jack rested his hands on the handles of your bed leaning in over you slightly. “I should know, for when I take you out to breakfast.”
CW: allergic reactions, medical inaccuracies, always research this is from my knowledge of allergies and allergic reactions & some research of my own. Reader is stated to be allergic to Citrus & Tomato but more is possible
Summary: growing up you allergies always seemed like the the most awkward confession. So avoiding outings with a high probability of cross contamination became a must. But when you're hot af attenting learns you half-hazardly agreed to a night out, you can't say no.
AN: Jack is kinda OOC here my bad- but I love an Awkward!jack headcannon (i think he'd struggle to approach women after leaving his wif
Based on a request (kinda) from @lunarayletters (show her some love)
WC: 2.6 k
“Hmmmmmmmmmm….” Shen toyed with the paper straw with his tongue, the ER was absolutely dead, usually was around the 4am to 6am stretch at the end of the shift. Usually just coping through a flood of residual patients that came in from a rough night partying. “Never eat pizza again….orrrr all of your sodas are always room temp…”
“Never eat pizza! Are you kidding!?” Mateo erupted as if you’d asked him to choose between his wife and child. “I guess I'd never eat pizza but thats fucked up man-” mateo pointed a finger into Shen’s arm.
“I would die without a cold diet coke after a shift…” Lena leaned back in her swivel chair with a sigh.
Shen’s elbow pushed into your arm as you watched the conversation “oh me?” your finger pointed into your own chest, “Don’t like Pizza,” your lips pressed together awkwardly. “Tomatoes make my stomach sick…” A slight down play to the reality of your allergy.
It shouldn't be as embarrassing as it is to admit to someone that you have potentially life threatening allergies. But it had a striking emotional resemblance to having to order off the kids menu in a fancy restaurant in front of all of your friends.
“You’re kidding- that must fucking suck.” Ellis joined the group on your free side. “No lasagne, spaghetti bolognese- fuck no bloody marys!” your stomach rumbled at the thought, even if you couldn’t eat it, the mental image of delicious hot italian food taunted you.
“You get used to it…” your chin rested on the counter over your hands which were folded over each other. “The only annoying thing is that stupid restaurants never put it on the menu in meals, so it's like a mystery until it’s sat in front of me.”
“Damn.” Shen’s brows raised as the conversation spotlight landed on you, and well, you most definitely had stage fright.
“Sorry- I made it awkward- my bad-” you stumbled over your words.
“No it’s better that we know-” Ellis bumped her hip against yours, “otherwise we would invite you to an Italian themed bar tomorrow night…” her voice lilted upwards slightly as you rolled your eyes. 3 months in the ER had cushioned you in, still you were yet to meet them on one of their monthly nights out. Bars just weren't really your scene, cross contamination was a constant worry even in high end restaurants. It didn’t help having the most obscure list of allergies that ranged from peanuts to a specific kind of chemical in most makeup.
“I don’t know” your shoulders curled in on themselves “I don’t do great in busy places in public-”
“All of us will be there and make sure you’re okay?” Shen leaned in “pleaaseeeeeeee” your palm went over his face with a groan.
“Fineeee” you whined looking back up at the patient board, “I should check on North 5-” you turned to make your way towards the bay only to knock into a solid wall of flesh. The smell of leather and pinewood filled your nostrils as he recalibrated his center of gravity, hands steadying you by gripping onto either forearm.
“Careful there…” Jack abbots devilishly attractive smirk seared into your retina’s, the angle, the way the fluorescent light caught on the grey stubble which was growing in, picking out the small evidence of his auburn hair now that he had gone almost fully grey. His hands could wrap around your arms with a seductive ease, sending a dizzying flood of blood up to your cheeks. “I can’t believe my ears… are we finally finishing up Wisp’s nightcrawler initiation?” he smirked, throwing an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in under his arm without thinking about it.
You’d kept it down to the single allergy letting “I- Yeah-” your heart thumped heavy in your chest. Either Jack knew you had an absolutely humiliatingly huge crush on him and this was some kind of humiliation ritual or he was completely oblivious which was equally as bad because everyone in the ER knew. Either way, without his consent, you’d decided that there was no possible way that a universe could exist where you and Jack Abbot would be a plausible coupling.
“Well then we better make it a big one!” he clapped his hands together with a wolfish grin, your shoulder aching where his arm had been, clearly missing its company. “Now- get back to work-” his hand patted down on your back and you were all sent off your separate ways.
The end of the shift came and weariness settled deep within your bones, hands cracked raw from the ER’s soap which you’d been forced to use for the last 12 hours, one which you were most definitely not tolerant of.
The awkward outfit selection didn’t do anything to relax you, the little worms in your brain reminding you that anything you wore was going to be witnessed by your literal boss. And unhelpfully your crush.
A low cut top- hell no imagine dropping your purse, leaning over to get it and giving the whole emergency department nightshift staff a whole show. Instead reaching for the turtleneck sleeveless shirt which was just the perfect shade of brown for your skin.
That cute skirt that you kinda stole from your college roommate? Can’t it very much give away your past desire to pick up any old random by basically mooning them. But the summer heat was too much so you instead settled for a pair of decent yet sexy shorts. A brown belt to match your shirt hooked around your waist. The added pro was easy access in case you needed to use the epipen tonight.
You shoved the thought down in the exact name you shoved the two epipens into the outfits matching purse, tugging on a pair of sneakers and grabbing your keys before heading straight out the door.
Was walking to the bar at all responsible? No. But it was only two blocks from your apartment, a trek you’d pulled more times than you could count with your roommates after a couple too many cocktails.
“Theres Wisp!” Jack cheered as you walked into the bar being met by the claps and smiles of the nightcrawlers, his arm landed where it often did, slung around your shoulders patting your arm before pulling away. Wisp was a nickname created by several iterations. In the first two weeks, of you working in the ED everyone swore that they hadn’t heard you say a word outside of treatment. Then when you did speak it was mostly a polite shy whisper. Then “Whisper” was affectionately shortened to “Wisp” which barely fit anymore as they had successfully pulled you far enough out of your shell to handle a large bout of small talk.
“Hi guys” you shyly raised a hand before taking your place in the booth, swiftly followed by Jack sliding into place beside you. He may be oblivious to the cheeky looks of the crew but you were unfortunately anything but. Settling into the conversation was easier than you had believed it would be but eventually Jack's elbow nudged into yours.
“Wanna grab a drink?” Jack’s breath fanned over your ear, trying to cut through the chaos of the conversation which surrounded you. You forced out a nod before making your way over to the bar, Jack parting the crowd like the red sea to give you a clear path through the chaos.
You pulled yourself up onto the bar stool as jack stood by your side, waiting for the bartender to walk over, your knees pressed to the warmth of his tree trunk thigh. “Whats your drink of choice?” you smiled over at him, desperately trying to grip onto sanity at the touch.
“Usually a whiskey neat…” he exhaled his hands going into his pockets, he leaned in to make sure his voice reached you, crowding over you slightly. “But when I’m out with these guys I usually try to stay sober…”
“Are they really in that much trouble?” you chuckled, staring into his hazel eyes as the bar buzzed around you. Jack shook his head with a small laugh.
“The stories you have yet to hear,” he smirked, as the bartender approached the sticky part of the bar you’d sat by. “I’ll have a Miller zero and a…” his hand gestured towards you. “Sorry-” he moved over to the table for a few seconds to listen to some random bullshit debate she and Ellis were having.
“C- can I have a Moscow mule? But uh- leave out the lime please i’m allergic-” you offered a polite smile, turning back to Jack, who’d retaken his spot by your side, before you could realise that the bartender sarcastically rolled his eyes. The conversation flowed easily as you waited on the drinks, Jack buffering anyone from moving into your space.
The drinks were placed in front of you, Jack insisting it be added to his bill. “Sorry- i’m-” your hand went to his bicep holding him in place, “look I know this is forward and probably completely inappropriate given the fact that you’re my fucking boss- but i’m really having fun talking to you one on one and I kinda wanna keep that going?” you physically braced for the injection as Jack stood with his eyes wide staring at you. His head shook lightly before he leaned his body down on the counter with a sly smile. His crows' feet curled deliciously. The LED bar lights perfectly highlighted the pronounced biceps attached to the carved chest which was conveniently on full display because of his tight black shirt.
His eyebrows stayed raised as blood rushed up to his cheeks, his dogtags bounced against his chest as he moved onto the stool next to you, tilting his head over at you. “Uh- ditto…”
You barked out a laugh “Smooth.”
“Sorry- i’m just kinda rusty?”
“What do you mean rusty?”
He raised the bottle of faux beer to his lips, taking a gulp as if it could give him a placebo liquid courage. “Well I don’t get to talk to women as perfect as you on the regular.”
You damn near choked on the mix of gingerbeer and vodka as you sipped it, whole body tingling at his comment. The words stalling in your throat as you glanced over at him. “Wow.”
“Was that good?” his brows furrowed as he held in a chuckle, his hand pulling over his face.
“Amazing-” your voice croaked as your hand tentatively moved up to your neck, palpating lightly.
“Are you okay?” Jack leaned in closer to you, his hand moving to your drink, immediately inspecting the bottom of the glass for any residue.
“Yeah-” your tongue began to swell as you pushed him away gently “bathroom-” you clutched your purse to your chest before making a break for the toilet. Jack stood at the bar his head hung slightly, assuming he had somehow managed to insult you or read your intentions completely incorrectly, despite the fact you had just told him you enjoyed speaking with him.
You stumbled past a couple of lesbians making out on the sink, giving them a polite nod as you shuffled into the stall and pulled out the epipen.
“Fuck fuck fuck-” the bartender rushed over to the bar just as jack was about to leave, grasping your cup and realising what he’d done. “Uh- that chick you were with- did she drink this?”
“Yeah…” Jack turned slowly, his gut dropping.
You fumbled with the cap feeling your lungs burn and scratch for air, sweat collecting on your brow as your tongue tingled. “Fuck-” the needle stung as you pushed down against your thigh.
“Fuck- you might um-” the bartender ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders tensed up as he smelled the drink. “You need to go check on her- I mixed up her order- that girl over there just complained her mule had no lime- so i must have- mixed them up-”
“Thats…not a huge deal-”
“She said she’s allergic to lime-” Jack moved as quickly as he could, the door clattering against the adjacent wall, pausing only slightly to see the girls separate and rush out to find somewhere more private. “Ladies-” he gulped, ducking his head and pounding on each bathroom door to find you, yelling your name.
You unlocked the door, wheezing giving away your presence. You put your palm out with two pens in hand, Jack's heart dropping. “It’s okay- you used it- okay-” he inspected the pen seeing the 3 year old expiry date. “Do- do you feel better?”
You nodded “only a little- the first one didn- didnt work and- the second one- helped-”
“We’re gonna go to the ED come on-” he pulled you off the toilet, holding your bag and parting your way outside of the bar. “We’re taking my truck come on-” he basically dragged you out of the bar and lifted you into his car as time passed. He figured the bar covering the bill was the least they could do.
“It’s getting better-”
“You know reactions can come back it’s always better to go to the hospital- especially when epipens past 2 years expiry are only- 80% effective-”
“Do you always rattle off medical shit when you’re stressed-” Jack’s head snapped over to you for a few seconds, worry baked into his perfect brow furrow. He stumbled over his words as he put the car into gear.
“Yeah- yeah I do-” he sighed before taking off, driving as responsibly as possible towards the hospital. He couldn't help but stare over every few seconds to check in on your condition “how’s your throat-?”
“Never had complaints-” your hand shot over your mouth as Jack let out an unintelligible sound of pure surprise. “Sorry i think the adrenaline makes me lose my filter-”
“Uh- I-” Jack shook his head, flustered beyond belief.
“I don’t know why i said that- i’m not like-”
‘Stop- don’t say anything else- I think you’ll kill me if another word leaves that mouth of yours-"Jack pulled into the parking lot, stepping out into the night and just taking a moment to regain his sanity. You stepped out, making your way down to the ER with him.
You laid in the hospital bed, just needing to be monitored for a few hours as jack stayed posted up by your side. “You know you should tell me all your allergies just in case…” Jack held your chart on his lap.
“I’m not allergic to any medication thankfully- don’t respond well to morphine but otherwise not relevant-”
“No I mean…” Jack rested his hands on the handles of your bed leaning in over you slightly. “I should know, for when I take you out to breakfast.”
Summary: based on this request to write about DV between siblings. It was later changed from FL to JA here.
‼️ TW ABUSE ‼️ You, grew up in an abusive household, under the hands of your brothers. As you got older, you kept in touch until one night, the same brother who hit you dedicated his speech to you, all in the name of raising money for a charity that helped kids who had gone through abuse. That was the night you decided you wanted nothing to do with them. It was also the night you met Jack Abbot, who helped calm you down after your panic attack.
Two years later, a text message from one of your brothers sends your world crashing down, secrets unravelling, as you go through a traumatic flashback in front of yours and Jack's PTMC friends.
Revenge is sweet, and no one loves revenge more than your darling boyfriend.
Word count: 6.6k
TW/TAGs: abuse, anger, yelling, blood, panic attacks, vomiting, use of nickname: dolcezza, as per anon request, swear words,
Notes: sending you my love, my darling anon <3
ngl not very well proofread. i wrote from the heart, and whatever came out i wrote it down. i dont feel like polishing this story, i want it to be as real as possible
@lacy1986
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
‼️ TW ABUSE ‼️
If your life were to be a book, the first line would be: fuck my family.
You can only imagine the shocked and surprised faces of people who worship their families as they read your book.
How dare you say such a thing about your family?
Because we have to respect our families, regardless, correct?
Fuck no.
Using DNA just so it's a lame excuse for abusive behaviour?
Another fuck no.
Your older brothers were not kind people — they were messed up in the head, to no fault of anyone but themselves. And the reason for it? There simply isn’t one.
It wasn’t until you grew older that you realised that what you had gone through was indeed abuse. Because a twelve-year-old getting hit by her brother was not ‘playing’ or ‘teasing’. An eight-year-old getting dragged by the hair across the floor was not because ‘your brother cannot control his anger’. It was simply abuse.
And to make matters worse? They all work in health care. Care. They care for people when they cannot care for their own sibling. One of your brothers went through med school, pretending to care about patients when his own sister had a purple bruise around her beautiful, small eye.
You hid it well, the bruises and the burns, the heartache and the anxiety. You did so well. And you kept in touch with them, even after you all went your separate ways for a while, because you are their dolcezza, their sweetheart, the one that can never say no to them.
Until one day… you realised how fucked up they truly are.
You sat at the table, surrounded by doctors, surgeons, nurses, pharmacists and hospital administrators. Today is a fundraising event, with hospitals from all over Pittsburgh attending to raise money for all sorts of charities. You wore a beautiful, sleeveless black satin dress, showing your beautiful skin.
Now that you no longer have bruises to hide, you show as much skin as you want.
Your brothers sat on the table, along with their dates. You came along as one of their plus ones — because, being the kind-hearted person you are, you wanted to support them.
Until your older brother took the stage and started his speech, talking about the charity he and his team will be fundraising for.
It was for a charity, supporting children who had gone through abuse and neglect.
Was this some sort of sick joke? Your stomach twists into a painful knot.
And to make matters worse, he dedicated his speech to his dolcezza.
You.
The sweetheart of the family.
Bile rises in your throat, and you can no longer hear the speech or see clearly. You lose all your senses, and you are convinced this is what death feels like.
Slow. Painful. Nauseating.
You kick your heels off, push off the chair and run out right in front of the entire hall that was now staring at the damsel in distress.
Your brother, however, continues with his speech. Your other brothers, who sat at the table, are now planning revenge for why you did such an embarrassing thing. Their little perfect girl, running away like this?
You sprint down the empty hallway, looking for the bathroom. You needed to be sick. Needed to breathe. Wanted to die.
In a panic and a rush, you run straight into a man and knock him clean off his feet, and fall right on top of him. “I’m sorry” you cry out as you try to move off him, but the panic in your chest is making it impossible for you to stand straight “I’m so sorry!” You are convinced this man was going to drag you by your hair, slap you, even.
But instead he softly says, “Hey, that’s okay. It was an accident.”
You eventually manage to stand up, stumbling as if you are drunk. But you had nothing to drink. You don’t even offer to help him stand, but the man manages to get up on his own. “Do you need a hand?” He asks you.
You try and breathe but your lungs seem to have stopped working “Bathroom- I need - bathroom - i’ m gonna-“ you let out a gag and press a hand to your stomach. The man instantly grabs your arm gently to steady you and leads the way to the accessible bathroom.
Your mind convinces you that he is about to hurt you, hell even take advantage of you in the bathroom but he doesn’t do any of the sort. He pulls your hair back as you hug the toilet seat and vomit. One hand stays on your back, gently moving up and down your bare back, making soothing motions. “I’ll go get you some water, do you think you will be okay on your own for a while?”
“You don’t have to stay with me..” you say weakly, as you feel your the post adrenaline crash, “i’m really sorry about this.”
“You’re ill, there’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“I’m drunk and a mess.” You lie. It was much better to say, instead of having to explain why you’re in this bathroom, with a strange man, vomiting your guts out over your brother’s speech. But the man doesn’t think you are drunk. He’s well aware you’re having a panic attack. He leaves the bathroom for a few minutes and returns to find you sitting against the wall, with tears streaming down your face. Your mascara had run down your face, leaving long black streaks. You looked broken, and he wonders who broke you. “Here’s some water” he says gently as he lowers himself to the floor, “Would you like me to take you home?”
You look up at the man and instantly recognise him — it was Dr Abbot, the one who was speaking with your brothers at the welcome drinks. “I can manage.”
“No worries, I won’t push it.” He says softly, offering you a hand to help you stand. “Do you have your purse and phone?”
“No… no it’s back at the table. I uh…” You simply cannot go back into that room without having another panic attack. You need to be away from them, as far as possible.
“I’ll grab it for you. Is it the gold purse you were carrying? You are sitting at table five?” Jack recognised who you are, the moment he saw you running down the hallway. Because when someone as beautiful and elegant as you are is in the same room as him, he remembers. “I’ll grab your heels too.”
“Mr Abbot? Sorry Dr-“
“It’s Jack.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“It’s what people do for each other, isn’t it?”
Kindness, such as this, was a stranger to you.
He leaves you in the bathroom once again, and you manage to collect yourself, wash some of your makeup away and look somewhat presentable. He returns a few minutes later, helps you slip your heels back on, and hands you your things. “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay getting home safely?”
“Actaully, can I take you up on that offer? If it’s not too much to ask?”
Jack instantly smiles, warm and kind. Growing up in an abusive household, you quickly learn people’s smiles, speech and body language. Because at any given moment, a punch can be thrown and you need to duck down. Some smiles can be deceptive and evil — but his smile isn’t. “Sure, but first, how do you feel about grabbing dinner with me? Pancake House is still open.”
“I would love that, Jack.”
Your quick dinner turned into a three-hour conversation with Jack. You learnt that he is an ER doctor who had met some of your brothers in passing, but was not close with them. “I’m not close with them, actually.” You lie, “We don’t speak. Tonight was a one-off.”
Jack doesn’t question it further because families fall out and argue. Right?
He asks you some more questions about what you do and what you're interested in. He didn't want this to end; it was only when you rested your head on the booth and started to fall asleep that he suggested going home.
He wrapped his jacket around your bare shoulders and supported your sleepy body as he walked you out to his car. You fought sleep, not wanting to let go of this moment just yet.
“I really enjoyed tonight” You say quietly just as Jack pulls up outside your apartment. “Thank you for making me feel special.”
You don’t want this night to end, and neither does Jack. He hasn’t had this much fun in years, and the unfamiliar feeling of butterflies in his chest was a stranger. Until they appeared tonight, he was reminded of how much he missed this rush and excitement. “I would love to do it again sometime.” He murmurs softly, and you admire how good-looking he looks, sitting in the leather seat... his tux shirt is unbuttoned slightly... his curls slightly messy.
“Do you have any plans tomorrow?” You ask hesitatingly, leaning toward him slightly.
“I do…” Jack murmurs, leaning toward you too, “I have a date with a hot girl.”
“Oh yeah? Where are you taking her?”
“Somewhere beautiful, but not as beautiful as her.” He leans in, hand gently tracing up your neck as he pulls you toward his lips. “I hope she says yes.”
You kiss him softly and slowly, and you feel safe and content. A feeling you never thought you’d ever, ever feel. “She says yes.”
“Good, that’s very good.” You feel him smile as he continues kissing you. “I can’t wait.”
The next morning, you woke up to hundreds of messages from your brothers asking where you were. They knew where you lived, and you feared that they would come knocking on your door. You texted back, apologising for your behaviour, and acted like the good girl they expect you to be. But little did they know that you handed in your tenancy notice that morning, asking to move out as soon as possible.
That same day, Jack came over and took you on your first date. And since that day, you became inseparable and Jack never left your side.
It was like the universe had sent him your way.
You kept the peace with your brothers and came up with excuses for why you couldn’t see them.... until the day of your move-out. The day you collected keys to your brand new apartment, which is in Jack’s building, because he was the one who helped you find it and move. You changed your number, and so to them, you disappeared overnight without a trace.
That was the proudest moment of your life.
Cutting off your fucked up family for good.
They don’t deserve your love or attention.
They don’t deserve to call you dolcezza.
They deserve hell, today and every day for the rest of their earthly life and wherever they go after.
Jack on the other hand, was the only family you needed. It didn’t take long for the two of you to make your relationship official. His kindness and generosity were something you did not know existed. But every day, he surprised you further. You couldn’t help but fall in love with him, and he was the only one you saw in your future.
However… you were carrying a heavy secret that you didn’t know if you could ever share with him. You buried this secret 10 feet underground and never imagined it would ever resurface within seconds.
All it took is a simple text message to send your world spiralling.
A simple message, asking how you were, and inviting you over for a family dinner.
Two years of no contact. Where the hell did they find your number?
Two years of disappearance. Do they know where you live?
Two years of peace and love. From Jack and only Jack. You live with Jack now, so surely they can’t hurt you?
It took two seconds for them to ruin the peaceful life you have carefully created for yourself.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
It was evening time, and Jack was expected to come back anytime. The text message had sent you spiralling all day, choking you slowly and painfully. You broke one wine glass and two dishes as you attempted to make dinner, and you cleaned up any evidence of what you had done.
Because the mindset you have worked so hard to forget and overcome has now taken over your mind overnight.
Broken dishes often meant broken fingers. Or broken noses. Or broken hearts.
You don’t hear the door open or close as you stare at the water that is boiling and splattering all over the hob. You can hear yelling and awful cries — but was it coming from your apartment?
It was the gentle touch on your back that sent you into a panic. You spun around quickly, arms coming up instinctively to cover your face, anticipating five fingers. But your heart stopped your arms from shielding your face, because it was Jack who was standing in front of you. And there was no yelling or crying.
“Baby, are you okay?” Jack frowns at your reaction; you are never this jumpy. There is a look of fear in your eyes that he has never seen before.
“Yes sorry, all good!” you force a smile and hug him tightly, “it’s been a bad day.”
He embraces yor hug, pulling you against him tightly, “wanna talk about it?”
“Oh no it’s fine, it’s just one of them days.” You say quietly, feeling the panic ease, knowing that you are safe in his arms, “was work okay?”
“It was bad; all I wanted was to come home to you. So I’m better now.” He murmurs in your ear, “How about I continue dinner?”
“You’ve had a long shift — go freshen up i’ll do it.”
“If you’re sure baby” he pulls back, arms gently trace up your body, cupping your face, “I want to quit my job… and do nothing but be here with you… kiss you and love you all day. I hate work.”
“That would be the dream” you tilt your head playfully, “but you have an expensive lifestyle that you need to maintain”
He tips his head back and laughs, and you join him too. But you’re quickly reminded that this lifestyle you’ve curated might not be this peaceful forever.
Every morning since you received the text message, you woke up after not having much sleep and you checked your phone, clicking on your brother’s number and text messages. It wasn’t the oldest brother who had messaged — it was actually another brother who ‘was not that bad’, when it came to abusing you. You haven’t replied and haven’t blocked his number either. You had so much you wanted to say to him, so much anger that needed to be let out.
But for now, you clicked the phone shut and turned over to Jack, who was still fast asleep. A few minutes later, his alarm goes off, and you quickly jump over him in an attempt to turn it off so he can have a lie-in. It was his day off, so why the hell does he need to be up at 7 a.m.?
As you move over, you knock his phone over along with a glass of water that tips over, splashing all over his phone, which now sits on the bedroom floor. Tangled in the sheets and full of panic, you try and move over but you end up falling to the floor too. You try not to let out a sound, but Jack hears a loud thud and jolts wide awake.
You broke your brother’s phone once when you were seventeen. No amount of ice packs brought down the swelling on your cheeks and you never made it to school that day.
Your mind reminded you that you don’t have ice packs in this apartment.
“I’m sorry!” you cry out once you see Jack awake. “I’m so sorry; I’ll fix it!”
“Sweeth-“ Jack stops himself. You had asked him once not to call you sweetheart or honey, because the nickname made you cringe. Dolcezza meant sweetness, and you hated the nickname. But Jack didn’t know why you hated it.
You pick up his phone and walk away from the bed, “i’m so sorry Jack I promise it was an aciddent and-“
“Baby, can you calm down, what even happened!” Jack flicks the sheets off him, but he can’t reach his crutches and can’t get to you.
“It was an accident I knocked it over and then it fell and I fell and-“
“Baby slow down and come back here, you’re not making sense” he says softly. “Please, just- can you grab me my crutches?”
You shake your head, standing in the corner of the room, hot tears running down your cheeks, “Please don’t be angry”
“I would never be angry with you! Can you just tell me what happened?”
“I broke your phone, and then water fell on it.”
“And you fell? Did you hurt yourself?”
A little voice in your head whispers, “Dolcezza, did you hurt yourself? The answer is always yes. You tell them you’re clumsy and the bruise is from playing football with your brothers.”
You shake your head, trying to shake the voice out, “i’m good! i’m good!”
“Okay, that’s good.” Jack forces a small nervous smile, “Can you come back to me…yeah? just a few steps toward me. I’m not gonna hurt you I promise.”
Liars. They’re all liars. The voice whispers again.
You take small steps toward him, and with shaky hands, you hand him his phone. “I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted my love. Now, can you sit next to me?”
You nod and hesitantly sit on the edge of the bed. He shifts over next to you, reaching out for your hand, “I don’t know what’s changed… but I will never be angry with you. Never. Okay?” Jack doesn’t want to question your behaviour any further. Not yet. He wants to study more of your behaviour and reactions before he starts questioning it. Because this… This isn’t a behaviour that’s been brought on overnight. “We’ll soak it in some rice — worst case I’ll buy a new one. It’s nothing really..”
“Mhmm”
“Now shall we go back to bed?”
“Yes, please.”
“It’s my day off today, so I’m getting all the cuddles, if that’s okay?”
“I’d love nothing more.” This definitely wasn’t a lie. You wanted to feel safe again, and his arms were your only safe space.
“You sleeping okay?” He asks as he shifts on the bed, lying down next to you. He felt you in the night, tossing and turning, and waking up at the early hours of the day. But you always came up with an excuse that he believed. Until now.
“I am, of course I am.” You lie as you turn over to face him, forcing yet another smile. Jack starts talking to you, but your mind shuts off, taking you back to when you were a teenager, reminding you of all the ugly things they did to you as you fall back to sleep.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
The invitation for Dana’s housewarming party has been sat on your fridge for weeks, but now that it’s actually time to get ready and leave, your body refuses to move. Your mind’s been foggy since the text message came through, and your anxiety has been slowly brewing, and you knew that the comedown will be ugly. You still haven’t replied, and you've decided that you won’t be replying. They don’t deserve you, so why the hell should you put yourself through this for them?
You have no excuse on why you won’t be able to attend Dana’s party, so you brave yourself and head out of the door, over to the cafe to pick up some pastries. Jack insisted he’d come over and meet you but you told him to meet you there. The last thing you truly wanted is for Jack to start questioning on why you’ve not slept, eaten, and cannot form a full sentence without slurring your words.
“Order sixteen?” The waitress calls out.
“That’s me! Thank you.” You approach the counter and pull your purse out to pay, “How much do I owe-“
Ugly eyes were staring back at you.
You’d recognise these demonic eyes anywhere.
The same eyes that stared into your soul when you got beaten up.
That malicious smile..
It stabbed you right in the chest. Suddenly your chest was starting to hurt, your body reminding you the many times your older brother punched you.
“-ready when you are” the waitress says.
“Hmm?” You finally break away from his gaze and look back at the waitress, “uh… oh.. I uh..”
How long has he been sat there for?
Does he know where you live?
Is he going to hurt you?
“I’m sorry I uh-“ you turn your back to him, abandoning your order on counter and sprint out of the cafe. You haven’t had a panic attack this bad since the dinner — the same night you met Jack. Except this time Jack isn’t here to calm you down. You’re alone and in danger.
“Well if it isn’t the favourite child” the ugly voice says.
Your legs can’t move quick enough before he caught up with you. He always caught you, regardless of where you hid.
“Let’s talk, sis” he smiles as he grabs hold of your arm and pulls you down a quiet alleyway.
Your body wants to move, fight, scream but his evil stare paralyses you on the spot.
“I’m so happy I bumped into you…” he says slowly, grinning as he leans in. “It’s been a long two years, sis”
“What do you want?”
“The whole family’s upset with you… running away like this?” He clicks his teeth, then slowly pushes you against the wall. “I missed you.”
“Let me go”
“Oh you can run if you want to… but I know that you don’t. Because you miss me. Dolcezza.” His wink sends a wave of nausea through you.
He is right — you do want to run but your legs stop moving. They’re a heavy and dead weight, and suddenly you’re sixteen again, cornered in your bedroom, while he yells at you, throwing punches around you until one lands on your body.
“So are you coming to the family dinner? We miss our girl.”
“Fuck you” you spit out, knowing it will get you in a lot of trouble, but you’re done being sweet. You’re not as sweet as they think. “Fuck you!” You yell again and push him off, making a run for it, but you don’t make it very far as he holds onto your hair and pulls you back toward him . “Can’t leave now without saying goodbye? Hmm? I also have your pastries… they’re as sweet as you.”
He shoves you against the wall awfully hard, and your mind convinces you this is the moment you’re going to die. And Jack… oh Jack you never got to say goodbye. If only you told him the truth.
“Give me a fucking hug, dolcezza. Don’t be a bitch and make me kill you.” He stands there with his arms wide open, with the same malicious grin on his face.
It’s either this or dying. But you can’t die yet, not until you say goodbye to Jack. You step forward, embracing his hug, smelling his cologne. The same cologne he sprayed every morning, the same one that lingered in the air after he beat you up.
“Good to see you sis, enjoy the pastries.” He pulls back slowly, leans in and giving your forehead a kiss before turning on his heels.
The kiss burns your skin, and you instantly wipe it off, rubbing the back of your hand across your forehead. Over and over and over again.
“Okay, okay” you gasp for a breath, “I’m okay, I’m okay.. okay.” You look at the box of pastries that is now crumpled, and you hold it tight against your chest so your shaky hands don’t drop it to the ground. Luckily you had some wipes on you, so you clean off the blood that now trickled down your face from your scalp. “It’s only a cut..” you whisper to yourself, “just a small cut. It’s just a cut…”
You don’t remember making it over to Dana’s house, because that fog that took over your mind these last couple of weeks? Was now much much worse. Your legs were like jelly, and with every step you took approaching the door, you felt yourself get more dizzier and dizzier.
“Hi Dana!” Years of faking excitement so you’ve mastered the perfect reaction, “it’s so good to see you!”
“Hello Doll don’t you look lovely!” She embraces your hug, and your body reminds you that’s not ready to be hugged yet.
“These are for you, I’m sorry the box is.. damaged. Someone bumped into me.”
“No stress sweet” she chuckles, and your stomach twists at the way she said sweet. “Come on in, Jack’s been antsy waiting for you.”
She leads the way to the lounge where everyone is now gathered, and Jack’s face lights up the moment you approach him.
“Hi baby” he pulls you down toward him, sitting you closely next to him, “missed you.” He coos in your ear; you wish you could feel something, anything happy, but instead your stomach twists in anxiety again.
“Me too Jacky. Sorry I’m late.”
“You okay bub?” Maybe you could fool everyone, but not your boyfriend. Jack’s been monitoring your behaviour the last couple of days, and he’s convinced something has changed but he’s not too sure why. Little does he know, it started when you were just a kid. His hand wraps around you, strong fingers gripping into your forearm to ground you. But again, little does he know, his touch was making you feel sick and panicky.
“All good.” You force another smile, turning your attention to Santos and Whitaker who sat next to you.
You try your hardest to keep up with conversations, but ugly images of your brothers from over the years, including today, keep flashing in your vision. It became incredibly difficult to distinguish between reality and the past. Your throat has gone dry, and your lips now felt like sand paper. Reaching over for a glass of water, someone coughs and your shaky hands knock it over and it shatters; glass and water splattering at Whitaker and Robby’s feet.
“Dolcezza, what the fuck did you do that for?” Someone says.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” You cry out.
“Pick it, bitch”
You do as they say and lean forward to pick up the glass, trying your best to ignore the yelling. But a hand out of nowhere comes too close to your face, and it’s got to be one of your brothers who was about to hit you? Right? No. It was only Robby trying to help you clean up the glass, but you yelped in fear, falling off the sofa straight onto the glass.
“I’m sorry” you spit out, looking around the room and your bothers are staring back at you.
“Pick it up Dolcezza. Get on your fucking knees and pick up the mess you are.”
“Okay, okay I will!” You scoop up the mess you made with bare hands, shrugging off the hands that now sat on your shoulder pulling you back.
Someone was yelling at you, but you don’t recognise the voice. It wasn’t any of your brothers’ voices?
“I’m cleaning it up! Please don’t touch me!” You shrug the hands off again as you scoop up the glass into your hands.
You’re no familiar to the smell of blood, but this time there was ao much of it, now tricking down on the carpet. Tears, mixed with blood and glass sat on the floor in front of you.
“C’mon pick it up quicker!”
“I’m trying” you cry out, “I’m really really trying!” They were going to punish you, you are certain of it.
The same hands wrap around your waist, pulling you back away from the mess. The glass you’ve now collected has fallen back to the floor and you cry out again. The voice behinds you calls you baby, but none of your family or friends ever called you that.
No one except one.
“I’m here, it’s okay, I’m here” the voice coos in your ear, “baby just breathe with me, hmm?”
“No, no- I’m sorry let me clean it up.”
“You’re here with me, with Jack. It’s just me bub and our friends” he manages to drag you away from the glass, taking you straight outside into the garden, “you’re with me and safe”
“I’m sorry I broke it! I- didn’t mean to- I promise I didn’t” you wipe the tears away, spreading glass shards and blood over your face.
“I’ll get the med kit” Robby tells Jack as he runs back inside.
“Jack do you want us to do anything?”
“Bowl of warm water please so I can clean her up,” he rasps out, not taking his eyes form you for one second, “she’s having some sort of flashback, I’ve never see her like this.”
“I’ll get the water” Santos runs in, and Dana adds, “I’ll get everyone to move away, the last thing she wants are prying eyes.”
“I’m really sorry Dana” you have snapped out of your flashback, all thanks to Jack’s touch grounding you, “I really didn’t mean to”
“No stress sweet. It’s just an accident.”
“I’m sorry I know but-“
“Hey how about we buy Dana a new glass? Hmm?” Jack says softly as he holds onto your wrists so you don’t hurt yourself, “sound like a plan?”
“Okay”
“Okay baby, now can you sit down on the chair for me? So I can clean you up?”
“I-I can do it? It’s fine really you don’t have to”
“But I want to, if you let me. After all I’m the doctor?” Jack forces a soft smile, because he has no other option but to smile. “Shall we go home after this? Yeah?”
“Yeah okay” you nod shakily.
“Wanna tell me what happened there?” He says taking the med kit from Robby, and starts cleaning up your hands gently. Robby pulls a chair next to you, and he notices the dried up blood that’s wrapped around your hair.
“It was nothing, I’m sorry if I acted weird, I really didn’t meant to ruin anyone’s day! Please don’t be upset-“
“No one’s upset baby, I promise you that. Right Robby?”
“It was only a bit of water and some glass. It’s nothing really.” Robby forces a small smile, but it’s clear that you’ve been assaulted because why else would you have dried up blood in your hair? “Hey Jack how about I clean her up and you can sit next to her?”
Jack frowns but Robby subtly points at your hair, so they swap. Jack puts one arm around your shoulder, leaning in toward you. He sees the dried blood and his heart sinks. But he can’t risk asking you question, not wanting to send you into yet another flashback.
He waits until Robby cleans you up and stitches your hands to take you home. Jack never letting go of you, murmuring supporting and loving words to help ground you, all the way home, until you’re back safe and sound in your apartment.
“Do you feel like having a shower? “Clean off the blood?”
You answer him but Jack tilts his head and frowns, “say that again?”
“I said I’ll shower in the kitchen”
“Baby what are you trying to say?”
“I said-“ the nausea stops you from saying anything further, you gesture of him to wait, until the twisting and sickly feeling settles. You take a deep breath, and quickly mutter, “I’ll go shower”
“Can we talk? About what happened today?”
“There’s nnnnothing to say?” You shake your head in attempt to focus, “I um my head hurts I think from the blood?”
“Let’s sit you down, I’ll take off your jacket to cool you down” he helps you over to the couch, sitting you down slowly, slipping your jacket off, revealing your bare arms that had a bruise on it. A finger print bruise.
“What’s… this?” With shaky hands he grabs hold of your arm, examining the bruise, “baby who did this?”
“It’s a longggg story…”
“I have time; I need to know what else they did?”
You shake your head and the movement sends stabbing pains down to your ears and neck, “no no no I promise I’m fine!”
“Okay you have a concussion, baby you gotta tell me everything. Please.” Jack can now see how obvious it is that you’ve got a concussion: the blood on your hair from blunt trauma, the slurring of speech and dizziness. Panic sets in and he can no longer act like he’s fine with whatever this is.
You shake your head again and burst into tears.
“Okay, please don’t cry hmm? Let’s get you to bed. We can sit in bed and I promise we don’t have to talk. Not yet.” It kills him that you’re not saying what has happened to you.
You nod and do as he says, your brain far too foggy to make any decisions or argue.
Jack sticks to his promise, stays in bed with you, but he can’t look away from the bruise. How is it he can approach a conversation without sending you into a crash down?
“Where do you want to go for our next vacation?” Jack asks softly, his fingers gently trailing up and down your bruised up arm.
“Anywhere you want”
“You don’t want to go anywhere specific? Anywhere in Europe?”
“I’ll go anywhere you go”
“Anywhere, anywhere?”
“You’re the only one I ever need Jack.”
“Same goes for you baby” he murmurs, “I’ll follow you to end of the earth if I have to.”
“Why would you do that for me?”
“Because I love you”
“I don’t know if I deserve that”
“Deserve my love? What makes you say that?”
“I’m scared Jack”
“Of me?”
“Of them.”
So you tell him. You tell him everything. From the moment they laid hands on, to the night at the gala where you first met Jack, and until today’s events.
You don’t lie about a single thing.
Because love is strong, love is honesty, and love wins above all.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
Do you know what’s more powerful than love? Revenge.
And that’s what Jack Abbot set his mind to, the moment you told him everything your family has put you through.
He woke up every morning, and planned his revenge.
He went to sleep every night, and planned his revenge.
He pulled up outside your brother’s house, and has already planned his revenge.
Jack Abbot was never an angry man.
But now that’s in love, with someone as kind as you, he’d sell his soul to the devil if that means keeping you safe.
He gets out of the car first, then comes over to your side, slowly helping you get out of the car.
“You can do this.” His voice is gentle but firm, grounding you to the ground that seems to shake underneath you with every step you take. “Say the word and we will leave. Okay?”
“Okay, yeah okay.”
Jack walks into the house and is greeted but what looks like a normal family. Everyone’s so happy and smiley, but also so fucking fake. He doesn’t let go of your waist once. Not even when your brothers take you in for a hug, one by one.
Jack carries out with conversation as normal, but his revenge plan was calculated to perfection.
He may or may not have dropped a couple of hints about what they've done to you, but only when you weren’t around. Only when he was with the brothers.
He may or may not have said that you shared too much of your sweet…. Sweet childhood.
Was it dangerous to interrupt wasps while you’re in the middle of their hive?
Yeah it was so fucking dangerous. But Jack would die for you, if he had to.
He mentions how highly you speak of them. How touchy feely they were growing up. How hands-on they were.
He gives them credit in his mind — for being such good actors.
He waits until it was almost dinner time, when everyone has had a bit too much to drink.
“Hey baby, shall we go home?”
“What? Why? Did they say something did they hurt-“
“No it’s just my leg. It’s aching. I think it’s best if we call it a night.”
“Okay sure, I’d love nothing more than to leave.” Jack watched you the entire evening — the person he fell in love with was completely different to the woman in front of him. You’re quiet, nervous, anxious, shaky and jumpy. Oh he could not wait any long for his plan to fall into place.
“Wait in the car, I’ll say my goodbyes.”
But Jack doesn’t say his goodbyes, no.
Jack hangs around the kitchen, looking at all the pictures that hung on the fridge. Pictures of all of your brothers, and their kids, but none of you.
“Beautiful photos” Jack murmurs. “Shame she’s not in any of them.”
“She was never a fan of taking photos.”
“Huh I wonder why…”
He scoffs, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh it’s nothing” Jack waves his hand casually, “I’m just being silly.”
“Huh”
“Speaking of silly… how are your kids? Are they silly?”
“Kids are kids you know..”
Jack clicks his teeth, “wouldn’t know, don’t have them, don’t want them. They’re dirty and messy.. and they break things and then you have to resist the urge to smack them. Gotta learn their lesson.” He lies.
“Huh”
“So anyway, we’re gonna be heading out. Sorry we’re not staying for dinner, but I got you this bottle of wine as an apology.” Jack hands him the bottle of wine, with a photo stuck on the front of it. A photo of your brother’s handprint on you. But just before Jack hands it over, he deliberately drops it to the floor. Red wine splashes against the white kitchen cabinets, along with shards of glass.
“Ooops” Jack says slowly, with a smirk on his face, “you better clean that up.”
“I don’t know what you’re playing at.”
“Me? Literally nothing. It’s just a little birdie told me you sometimes get rough when kids break things. Right?”
“You’re lying”
“And you’re not denying it” Jack shrugs, “or are you? Because the CCTV footage of you shoving her against the wall in that alleyway is more than proof.”
“Get out of my house.”
“Or what? You’re gonna hit me like you hit her?”
Jack sees your brother’s nostril as they start to flare — his face is angry and red, his eyes — this stare is a devil’s stare. It cannot be described any other way.
Bingo. The wasp is finally angry and about to sting.
“Don’t worry she told me everything. Like literally everything.”
Your brother takes a step forward toward Jack, stepping on the broken glass like it was nothing, “she’s a little bitch”
Jack clicks his teeth and shakes his head, “now that’s not very nice of you. Is it?”
“Dolcezza needs to learn how to keep her mouth shut.”
“Why? Is it like a family secret… like a secret tomato recipe like they do in Italy?”
“Get out of my house!” He yells, “before I-“
“Before… what?”
The wasp is angry. Very angry.
“I should’ve cut off her tongue when I had the chance. Maybe the bitch wouldn’t have over spoken.”
“That’s a bit harsh don’t you think? Cutting off her tongue? Maybe a little slap or a punch…” Jack teases, angering the wasp just a tiny bit more.
“The bitch had enough of those. She never learns.”
"Enough of your fingerprints on her? Enough punches?"
"I wish I hit her harder", he spits out.
“Perrrrfect.” Jack purrs. He puts his hand out, gesturing for your brother to stand still. He sticks out five fingers.
He lowers one.
And another.
And another.
And one last one.
“Boom.” The entrance door swings wide open, and police swarm the house, coming straight into the kitchen.
That sweet look of betrayal on your brother’s face, and the sweet look of revenge on Jack’s face.
Jack takes a step forward, careful of the glass, smiling from ear to ear, “the beauty of hidden cameras. Say hello” he points at his chest. “See… unlike you I’m a nice guy. And when you’re this nice, and have connections… then well, people start owing you favours. But… you don’t have to say anything because you’ve confessed to more than enough. Anyway…” Jack clicks his teeth, letting the officers handcuff him. “I heard that they’ll reduce your sentence if you tell them what your brothers did too.”
Jack looks back at the family that is now watching a horror scene unfold. All of their secrets are now out in the open. Someone's crying, others are yelling, and one of his kids... is smiling.
“I’ll make sure you never practice medicine again. Enjoy prison; I’ll ask for all of you to be put together.”
And with that he leaves the house, closing a chapter of your life for good.
“Shall we go home?” Jack asks calmly as he gets in his car.
“Uhhhhh Jack?” You look in disbelief over at him, “What happened…?”
“Nothing you need to worry yourself about.”
“Is that my brother in handcuffs?”
“Oh yeah” Jack chuckles as he watches him getting dragged outside, “he’s going to prison, by the way. Hope that’s okay with you?”
You burst into hysterical laughter, tears streaming down your face as the absurdity of it all finally catches up with you. As Jack pulls away, you roll down the window and stick your head out, shouting complete gibberish into the air.
Not as sweet as you think.
That’s what you’d title your book.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
A/n
I'd like to imagine that Jack proposed to her one day while they were in bed. It was simple, quiet, and just the two of them. I imagine that, straight after proposing, he takes her out on a car ride and drives over to a small cottage. Like the one Miss Honey lived in (from Matilda). They get married there too.
I also imagine that when the topic of kids was brought up, she said she doesn't want biological children. So when they start their adoption process, they are matched with a little boy who's four years old. The agency informs them that he has a sister who is also in foster care, who's no older than seven.
I imagine Jack comes home from work, she's outside in the garden, playing with her two beautiful children, surrounded by far too many animals that she's rescued.
I’m so happy to be receiving more requests as of recently but just wanted to make my boundaries clear since I haven’t really done that before now.
Who I’d Write For:
Jack Abbot (The Pitt)
Michael Robinavich (The Pitt)
Dennis Whittaker (The Pitt)
Frank Langdon (The Pitt)
Dana Evans (The Pitt)
Trinity Santos (The Pitt) (havent yet but very interested in)
Mel King (The Pitt)
Arthur Morgan (RDR2)
Simon “Ghost” Riley (COD)
Johnny “Soap” Mactavish (COD)
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick (COD)
John Price (COD)
Ryland Grace (PHM)
Clark Kent (Superman 2025)
I write mostly Fem!Reader but am more than happy to write Gender Neutral & non!binary!Reader.
Things I don’t write:
I stray away from topics revolving around dark romance in my own writing (i don’t think i could do it justice and for me it can be triggering) this includes stuff like Yandere, Noncon, Stalker (if it is something like x Stalker!Character)
Things I am willing to write:
I haven't strayed into Smut yet, not so say i think i never will
Heavy topics (SA, EDs, Abuse, Domestic abuse) I just hope I can do it justice
Chronic illness (as someone who suffers with chronic illness and chronic pain I would love to write more about it)
Things I don’t tolerate:
AI use, unsolicited vent/rant (if it's giving a little context to a reason for an ask do so with discretion), crossing of boundaries.
