. ᵒ .༄ JACK ABBOT x MORGUE!READER ! ࿔*
·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🩻 possible trigger warnings .' anxiety
‧ 🥼 ‧ ━━ WC 1.5k
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* ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato
⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · . COLD AND PREDICTABLE ━━ chapter one
⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary in which you ( the reader ) are a overworked and under appreciated morgue tech for the pittsburg trauma medical center. you are solely responsible for clearing out the deceased patients from the emergency department. but when there is a delay and all your cold storage lockers are full, jack pays a visit to this morgue tech he's never heard of ( aka you ) and basically tells you to do your job better ; ' (
you liked the morgue.
that wasn’t something you could say out loud—not even to the handful of people who actually knew your name. but it was true. you liked the quiet hum of the refrigerated walls. the soft thunk of a drawer sliding into place. the hum of the vents. the artificial stillness that wrapped around you like a weighted blanket. it was the only place in the entire hospital that didn’t ask you to be anything other than quiet.
upstairs, the world buzzed. phones rang. radios barked. nurses called to each other across fluorescent hallways and doctors stomped past with clipboards in one hand and coffee in the other. everything moved too fast. everything was too loud.
but down here?
the dead didn’t rush you.
they didn’t care that you wore your scrubs one size too big to hide your hips. they didn’t care that your voice was soft and slow and hard to hear over the hum of machinery. they didn’t ask why you never wore makeup or styled your hair or joined in on break room gossip. they didn’t notice your anxiety. or if they did, they were too far gone to care.
the morgue was a constant. cold and predictable.
you liked that.
your shift started at 6:00 pm, but you always arrived by 5:40. early was better than noticed. being early gave you time to breathe, time to fall into your routine. you changed in the staff locker room, tied your hair back into a low bun, and slipped your badge onto your lanyard—backward. You always wore it backward. the sight of your name and staff photo made you flinch.
there was something about seeing it—your full name, government bold in black and white—that made you feel visible in the worst way. better to leave it unreadable. it feels safer that way.
the other morgue tech on rotation left at 6:15 with a nod and a yawn. you didn’t mind being alone. you preferred it. you’d already checked the autopsy schedule—two expected tonight, maybe three. the overflow drawer was full, but you had room. you always kept it clean, always organized. the medical examiner said you were the best at inventory, and he was old-school—stingy with praise.
it was 6:42 now.
your dinner sat beside you on the break room table: a thermos of reheated lentil soup, a single slice of soft bread, and the green stanley thermos you brought every night with coffee made just the way you liked it. the same thing. every shift. routine was comforting to you.
you weren’t much of a talker. small talk made your palms sweat. eye contact made your pulse spike. you’d been called shy, cold, quiet, even weird—usually by people who didn’t realize you were listening. you always listened. you heard everything. that was your job.
you noticed the smallest fractures in bone. the subtlest bruises beneath the skin. you labeled instruments with care and sketched anatomical details in your private notebook—not because anyone asked, but because it helped you focus. because it gave your hands something to do. because it made you feel useful.
useful was the closest thing to confident you’d ever been.
you stirred your soup, carefully. the fluorescent lights above flickered once, twice, then steadied.
you didn’t eat in the upstairs break room anymore. not since that nurse in green scrubs—jessica, maybe—had looked you up and down and laughed, 'don’t you work with the dead people? what, they let ghosts have lunch breaks now?'
you hadn’t replied. just packed your food and left. she hadn’t meant it cruelly, probably. but the words stuck. most words did.
your thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of heavy boots on tile. you glanced at the clock.
3:14 am. too early for the medical examiner’s rounds. too late for the janitorial staff. too heavy to be anyone but—
the door slammed open.
you jumped.
a man stormed in—tall, broad, shoulders tensed under navy scrub top and dark wash cargo pants ( different from the normal doctor attire you were used to, but man he could pull it off ).
his chest rose and fell with labored breath, his short sleeves stopped mid bicep, exposing thick meaty forearms. his id badge bounced off his chest with every step, and his eyes—sharp, dark, furious—scanned the room like he was ready to fight someone.
you froze halfway to your mouth with your spoon, soup forgotten. 'can . . . i help you?' the voice was so soft, he almost missed it. like the words had to squeeze through a locked throat.
jack stopped dead. not the sight he expected. not even close.
tiny thing. curled up on a rolling stool, eating a thermos of soup like she was afraid it might fall spill out of your hands. drowned in baggy scrubs. barely looked old enough to drive, let alone be the only morgue tech on duty.
he shook off the flicker of surprise.
'you can explain,' he barked, taking a step in. 'why there are three bodies still in my er taking up beds i don’t have.'
her hands immediately retreated to her lap, soup abandoned. she didn’t even flinch—just… deflated. like someone used to being spoken to like that.
you blinked but otherwise still didn't answer. he advanced two more steps, hands on his hips, jaw clenched. 'can someone explain that to me?;
'i—I know,' she said, not quite looking at him.
'you the tech on tonight?' he asked as if he didn't already know the answer. you nodded. he exhaled through his nose. loud. 'perfect.'
you swallowed hard. 'i’m sorry. 'didn’t mean—'
'don’t apologize,' he snapped. 'just do your job. i’ve got live patients bleeding out in hallway beds while corpses are parked in mine like they’re waiting for the fucking valet.'
you flinched.
'why the hell are they still upstairs?'
his voice was like gravel—low and hoarse and too loud in the cold quiet of the morgue. you looked down, pulse in your throat.
'i can’t bring anyone else down,' you said softly. 'the storage is full. every drawer. every overflow table. i’ve been waiting on the funeral home pickup since midnight. they said morning. i—i sent three emails. no one responded.'
'who’d you email?'
she hesitated, eyes flicking to the badge on clipped to his scrub top pocket, then back down.
'uh, you.'
a beat of silence. just turned on his heel and walked straight out.
didn’t say thank you.
didn’t say sorry.
didn’t even close the morgue door gently behind him.
the door swung shut behind him with a dull clack.
you stared at it. then stared at your soup. then back at the door.
your fingers were still curled around your spoon, but your hand had gone numb. a familiar prickle crawled across your scalp and down your spine—the start of the cold-sweat panic you knew too well. it always came after. after the confrontation. after the humiliation. after the worst-case-scenario played out in real time.
you hadn’t cried. not yet. but your eyes stung.
you pushed your soup away, the smell suddenly sour.
why did you apologize?
he told you not to.
and you still did.
you always did that.
and of course it had to be him.
of course the first person to raise their voice at you in six months had to be that doctor—the one everyone talked about like he was a war god with a scalpel. jack abbot. trauma attending. king of the fucking er.
you’d seen his name on postmortem charts before, but you’d never met him face-to-face. he was a phantom. a rumor. a string of growled curses through stairwell doors.
but now?
Now he was the man who yelled at you while you held a spoon and shook like a leaf.
your heart wouldn’t settle. it beat in your throat, heavy and wet and fast. you stood slowly, hands trembling as you carried your tray to the small break room sink. dumped the soup. rinsed the mug. mechanical movements. muscle memory.
you didn’t do confrontations. you just weren’t built for them. every sharp word echoed inside you like it was etched into bone. every second of that encounter—his voice, the way he looked at you, the rage on his face—played on repeat, looping again and again with increasing sharpness.
why are there four bodies still taking up beds in my er?
like you’d chosen it. like you wanted the drawers full. like you weren’t down here alone, managing twenty-two corpses in twelve hours with no help and no backup and no one reading your emails for you.
and when you’d finally explained?
he hadn’t even looked at you. just turned around and left.
did that mean he believed you?
or that he just didn’t care?
you stood in the middle of the break room with water dripping off your hands and your badge still flipped backward on your chest. you didn’t move. you couldn’t.
you tried to shake it off. to tell yourself that it didin't matter. that him and his words were nothing to you.
you’d had worse days. you’d heard worse things.
but somehow, this felt different.
because this wasn’t just any doctor. this was jack abbot.
and you hated—hated—that even now, with your pride in pieces and your chest still tight from holding back tears, part of you still cared what he thought of you.
He so often plays grumpy, angsty, nasty, or unhappy characters, but can we just take a moment to appreciate what a lovely smile he has IRL! Even if we rarely see it on screen.
Makes me giggle and kick my feet every time!! 😍
Who is inherently formless, a spirit tiedto the place where he was slain.
He is a creature of song, an old wives' tale now, among the younger uruk who still share his stories, and is only visible to those with his corrupted blood.
In the forest surrounding his grave uruks are protected. Roots tripping up enemies and vines constricting anything who wishes to cause his children harm.
When he does manifest his form is of a large stag with burned grey flesh and black fur, or a large Warg-like beast that surrounds his children to scare off attackers.
Wherever his children camp in his lands, sage blossoms will bloom, as protection charms they may pluck and bring on their travels.
areudirty
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vaporwave
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tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
dededos
