summary: you’ve been helping smurf and the boys with jobs for three years now. on your third year you’re sent to mexico, once again to prove your loyalty to the family. when you return, there’s news. the addition that was missing inside the family when you first came to know them, pope cody.
notes: suggestive content, afab reader, mention of drugs and alchool, curse words, daren and reader hooked up before he came out as gay but now they’re bff!! craig isn’t in the group chat because him and reader have beef, age gap, based off season 2/3 of animal kingdom, minor spoilers.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
June 1st is TOMORROW. It means that GAY PEOPLE will exist, but only for ONE MONTH. Do not forget to buy your tickets to see them NOW, or else you will have to wait AN ENTIRE YEAR to be able to meet them AGAIN.
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, parent death, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE — May 28th
PART FOUR — June 1st
PART FIVE — June 4th
PART SIX — June 9th
More chapters TBD
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
you feel a deep affection for the little girl who wanders into the store you work at unaccompanied and a deep vitriol for her seemingly neglectful father. when she is given over to the custody of her uncle, it's easy to see he's way out of his depth. less easy to see how completely obsessed with you he is. ( 9.6k words )
warnings : gun mentions, clear neglect of lena on baz's part, reader has an extremely strained relationship with her father, parental abuse, food insecurity, age gap (reader is twenty eight, pope is thirty-nine), mandatory tag for employee/boss relationship but mostly not really 18+mdni cw smut, reader is a bit of a perv (just a bit!!), female masturbation, voice kink/voyeurism? not sure how to tag it? inappropriate use of a platonic voicemail?
note : back to my roots with a long pope fic this is the first full length fic i've written since valentine's day why did nobody tell me???? i do intend for this to be a multi-part fic but that depends on if anybody reads this so if you like it please consider reblogging/commenting i actually worked so hard on this one and i'm really proud of it so i hope you enjoy!!!!
The craft store on Fern Road has been there ever since you could remember. Nestled between a hair salon and a bakery right in the middle of Main Street, it doesn’t get a whole lot of natural light once you venture past the huge open windows. Surrounded by a U-shape of shelving around all three of the back walls, most of the middle of the store is taken up by display tables or large metal crates of stock. There’s a system, so meticulously organised you could probably recreate it with your eyes closed.
Notebooks go on the left wall; A5 bullet journals on one end and A2 canvas sketchbooks on the other and everything else in between. Planners, calendars, to-dos to stick on the fridge, everything had a place. On the right wall were the art supplies, paint at the back and crayons at the front, organised by skill level, price point and colour. The back wall was for the more novelty items, mostly things that you only buy one or two of. Hot glue guns, easels, even a sewing machine that’s been collecting dust since you were in high school.
It had been there the day you got the job; fourteen years old and itching for something to keep you occupied outside of your house. Mrs. Rayskel had been a lot more involved in the operations of the store back when you had first started as its only other employee, but now she mostly leaves you alone.
The middle sections are the ones most likely to entice a child, you think. Huge metal crates of stuffed animals, short, open cabinets of bracelet making kits and paint by number books. There’s a table right as you walk in that has hundreds of different types of pens in dividers on the outside, the entire area of the surface taken up in thick sheets of paper meant for testing pen types, but really just being a place for kids to draw.
You’re assuming that’s what brought in the little girl sitting on the carpet now. It’s pouring with rain outside, early afternoon in the middle of the week, and you haven’t had anyone come in all day. You don’t mind the slow periods. You keep your work station clean and organised (one of the perks of being the only employee is you don’t have to worry about someone else fucking up your shit), you have your crochet projects to keep you company at the desk. Most of the time you put on a calming playlist of royalty-free music and mind your business until the early evening when you close. Mrs. Rayskel only works weekends now, so you’re in every other day from 8:30am to open until 3:30pm to close. You’ve got about two hours until you need to start your sweep (assuming anyone comes in at all), checking the pen caps have been put on, replacing sample paper, rotating stock for visibility, when you spot her.
She’s quite small, can’t be older than seven, sitting on the plush rug by one of the windows. You hire a carpet cleaner every three months to treat the floors here, and you know it hasn’t been very long since the last time. Still, when you approach, you only bend down on your knees. “Hi.”
You hadn’t heard her come in, and you’re not even sure if you were in the store when she did. You could’ve been in the bathroom, or taking a few minutes out the back door, or completely zoned out at your desk.
“Hi,” she says back, shy. She’s wearing a purple raincoat that seems to have done a very good job of protecting her from the downpour, her dark hair sitting loose around her shoulders. In her hand is a stuffed unicorn toy, and discarded in front of her is a pegasus. “Am I in trouble?”
You frown. “No, of course not. You’re not in trouble.” Where are her parents? You’re not sure if she’s old enough to be in school yet, but it’s close enough to midday that she should be there if she is. It’s not particularly cold outside but water is flowing down the gutters like rivulets, and you haven’t seen anyone walk by in almost an hour. “What’s your name?”
She shrinks in on herself slightly. “I’m not supposed to say.” Right, don’t talk to strangers and all that. That doesn’t help you.
You nod slowly, careful not to come on too strong. She’s quiet, most unaccompanied kids you get in here are little hurricanes, impossible to miss. You’re not even sure how long she’s been here. Surely not longer than ten minutes.
You tell her your own name as a gesture of goodwill, pointing to the name tag clipped to your sweater. “I work here,” you wave your hand awkwardly at the rest of the store.
She likes knowing your name, you can tell. She says it softly, stuttering over one of the syllables, before eventually shuffling in her seat and speaking up again. “I’m Lena.”
Okay, you can work with that. Step one is establish trust, step two is locate her guardians. Step three might be call CPS if you can’t get those two done before you close but the likelihood of that happening is extremely low. You have kids wander in here by themselves all the time, just not usually quite so young.
“Hi Lena,” you say gently. “Can I sit with you?”
She nods politely, still looking like you might scold her, and your heart aches for this girl. “I’m sorry for touching your toys,” she says as you cross your legs.
You couldn’t care less. “That’s okay. Do you want to play?”
Lena perks up, still hesitant. “Can I?”
“Sure!” You try to give her your softest, kindest smile. “Do you want me to play with you?”
That’s what really gets her, like she hadn’t been expecting you to offer your time. “Can we play with the ponies?” When she smiles one of her bottom teeth is missing. You never want to let her go.
“We can play whatever you’d like.”
Lena carefully gathers the unicorn and pegasus into her lap, examining them with great care. She hands you the pegasus. “This one is yours,” she says, smile threatening to take over her entire face.
You accept it seriously. “What’s her name?”
Lena looks at you like you haven’t been paying attention properly. “She doesn’t have one. Her name got taken by the evil magic unicorn.” She holds up the unicorn for emphasis. “She has to get it back.”
You haven’t played pretend like a little girl since you were one, but it was pretty easy to get back into the swing with Lena. Never just a game, always a full world with rules that spring forth fully formed, buried beneath layers of stories of princesses and ghosts. You remember how it felt to hold all of that in your head all at once, never about good prevailing over evil and instead how it felt to be betrayed, or forgiven, or loved.
You let her hold onto that for the next thirty-eight minutes until the bell above the door rings again.
“Lena.”
Lena smiles up at the man dripping onto the welcome mat just inside the door. “Hi, Daddy.”
Pretty much all bravado you’ve had about tearing Lena’s guardians a new one, simmering and stewing the longer this poor girl sat here with only a stranger for supervision, disappears immediately when you look up at Lena’s dad. He smiles politely at you in a way that scares you more than anything, barely glancing at his daughter. You’ve been yelled at by customers before, but based on the lump on this guy’s left hip you think this man might not be the yelling type.
“I thought I told you not to wander off,” he says, uneasy smile on his face. You think you might have read him wrong; not the type of man to yell in front of someone else.
Your metaphorical grip on the little girl in front of you tightens in panic. You had thought this entire time that what you wanted was for Lena’s parents to come and collect her, and of course you don’t want for them to have abandoned her. But there seems to be no secret third option where they just misplaced her and they’re worried sick and they took their eyes off her for a second and when they looked back she was gone. “We need to get home.”
Lena looks up at him like for a second she doesn’t recognise him.
This man is clearly her father, or at least another relative. They bear a striking resemblance, the features Lena is still growing into looking sinister and cruel on the older man. You wonder briefly if he’s always looked like that. If there had been a time when her father had been a kind and loving man.
Right now at least she looks like she knows different than to argue with him. “Okay, daddy.”
She looks at you, the same smile on her face that he’d given you. It looks lovely and gentle coming from her. “Thank you for playing with me.”
You don’t want to let her go - least of all without offering some big act of kindness. You want her to remember you, if she ever needs something to hold onto.
“Do you want that one?” You gesture at the unicorn in her hand and hold out the pegasus. “You can have them both.” You’ll take it out of your paycheque. Hell, you’d give her the whole damn crate. She had been so excited to have someone to play with.
Lena’s dad is already halfway out the door as she stands up, brushing her knees off. “No, that’s okay.” She leaves the pony on the floor. “Thank you for playing with me.”
She’s gone before you can figure out what to say.
You close up quietly, doing all your normal checks. You’re not quite sure what to do with yourself, mind stuck on the little girl with the purple coat. You don’t know what’s going on between her and her father. There’s a high likelihood that he’s just having a bad day, that he’s usually warm and affectionate and not someone his daughter has to be scared of. You don’t know this man, and you don’t know his daughter.
But you recognise the look on her face when her father showed up. She’s so small, barely up to your hip. You can’t imagine being her parent and not being obsessed with her. She’s clever, and articulate, and the story she dreamed up with those two stuffed toys shows that. Her father had a gun on him on a Thursday afternoon, in the middle of Main Street. She’s so little, she can’t comprehend cruelty.
She has to make up evil creatures to process things.
You think about her for a few days after she leaves. You kept both the stuffed animals behind the counter; it felt wrong to put them back on display. Who knows, maybe you could have been reading way too far into it anyway.
——
You never really learned how to shop. It wasn’t really a skill that you thought you’d have to learn, you supposed. Adults know how to do it, you’ll probably figure out how to eventually. At twenty-eight, you figure it’ll come to you any day now.
The store is always too bright, even though you always come in the evenings. Harsh, fluorescent lighting makes you feel like you’re somewhere more important than in your body. You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for longer than you need to, one hand down by your side holding your basket against your calf, the other hovering over a box you’ve already picked up twice.
$4.49
You turn it over, reading the nutritional label like you’re expecting anything called ‘Cinnamon Raspberry Crunch’ to be even a little healthy. Most of the other cereals, less sugar, sit right beside it, all about a dollar cheaper.
You put the first box back.
Your basket has exactly three things in it: bread, milk, and a packet of penne that goes on sale every two weeks. You don’t need anything else, you never really plan on getting much. But you’ve been thinking about this stupid cereal for days now, since you last came in and passed it on your way out. You could just buy it. You’re almost thirty.
You can’t explain it, can’t verbalise, can’t even articulate for your own peace of mind the unease that comes from that box of cereal. Your chest constricts and you can’t form any rational argument other than the fact that thinking about buying it makes your head hurt.
Your phone starts ringing. The timing is almost funny.
You let it ring two full times, trying to control your breathing. You never understood how some people can just take a deep breath before doing something and feel braced for impact. It’s never really worked for you.
“Hi, dad.” Your voice wobbles.
Your father doesn’t bother saying hello on the other side, instead waiting. You think it might have been the amount of time it took you to answer the phone, but you don’t bring it up because you hear how ridiculous it sounds even in your own head. “You took your time.”
You shift your weight, glancing the other direction down the aisle to make sure there’s no one else around. “I’m at the store.”
“At this hour?” You can practically hear him deciding what version of himself he wants to be today. “I suppose you are a busy girl.” You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing.
He doesn’t need you to talk to keep the conversation going. “Making good choices?”
“Yes, dad.” You feel like a little girl. Your father never knew what much to do with a girl. He’d call you sport and drag you places like fishing. “I know.”
“You have a few bad habits,” he says, like he’s spoken to you face to face even once in the last five years. You don’t think he could pick you out of a lineup if the cops asked him to. “Never quite grown out of them,” he says gently.
You stare at the shelf in front of you like it might save you from this conversation. “I know.”
There’s that silence again.
“You don’t have to stop,” he says, voice dripping. Disappointment slides into his tone like it knew it was expected. “I’m trying to help you.”
“I didn’t mean to snap.” It’s been a long day and you know you have a pile of laundry to fold when you get home. “I’m sorry.”
Your father exhales, long and slow. You have the entire time to ruminate while he’s making his mind up. There really is no rhyme or reason to him sometimes, it is left purely up to his whim. Sometimes a mood you think is a good one can sour in an instant. You’ve known him for how long and you just can’t get a read on him.
“Anyway,” he breezes past it. “I called because I realised you never paid me back for your electric bill last month. Remember? I covered it because you were short.”
Your car had died and you’d blown most of your savings on getting it fixed, leaving you short on your electric bill for the month. Your father had been practically a last resort, first spending hours researching all possible public transit routes to see if there was any way you could make it work. You’d given him the money back immediately when you’d been paid. Asking your father for anything has always made you feel like you’re disappointing him and when it comes to your dad disappointment can look like a lot of things.
One time when you were really little there had been a party at your house. You don’t remember what it was for — just that it had been really important because your dad said it was, and that meant everything had to be right. You remember more of the buildup than the party itself if you’re honest. The air was tight, so quiet that not even the house dared settle. Every day you would take the school bus home and every day you’d drag your feet longer and longer, anything to avoid getting home.
Your father is a perfectionist, you tell people now. Highly strung. Particular.
You remember being made to eat dinner on the porch that week, plastic plates balanced on your knees. You weren’t allowed at the table, your dad insistent you would make a mess. You didn’t think you were a messy child but your dad isn’t the kind of person you argue with. He hated cleaning up after you — that part, at least, had always been made clear.
The night of the party, the house filled up in a way it never had. There had been too many people, all too loud, all of them laughing like your house wasn’t riddled with landmines intentionally set to detonate around your father. You stayed outside, sitting on the stoop, watching the older boys from the neighbourhood ride their bikes up and down the street under the orange glow of the streetlights.
You could hear everything going on inside. Glasses clinking, voices rising, your father’s laugh louder than you had ever heard it before. Then a sharp sound, one that you knew could only come from the vase on the dining table being knocked over.
You had known what that meant, even back then. Something small goes wrong and everything else follows. The night would fold in on itself, people would leave too quickly.
You could hear someone inside begin apologising and all you could picture was your father standing there, shoulders tight the way they would always be right before he snapped.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, like it was nothing at all.
You didn’t come inside until you were sure the last person had left; nobody came to make sure you were in bed. You have never been sure of where you stand with him.
So you’re careful when you speak up again. “I did pay you back.”
He hums. “I don’t think so.”
You’ve barely been able to afford gas this month because of the extra money being taken out of your account. Your job is consistent and pays you pretty well but you still work retail
“I did, I transferred it. I’ll check-”
He cuts you off with your name, sharp and steady. “Okay, calm down. You don’t have to get upset. If you say you did then I’m sure you did.” He clearly doesn’t believe you. You don’t mind him being wrong, but to assign you facets of yourself that don’t really exist is what spikes your heart rate.
“Dad-”
He doesn’t let you cut him off. “No, I won’t keep you. If you can pay me back when you get paid, I’d appreciate it. Maybe this will take you to be a bit more responsible with your money, hey? Love you, kiddo.” He hangs up after you repeat the sentiment weakly, leaving you staring at the cereal, burning up under the fluorescent lights.
——
You’ve become somewhat of a creature of habit as you enter your late twenties. You have your small, solitary hobbies — your crocheting, your crafts, your scrolling through social media and seeing which of your high school friends are getting engaged. Spring breaks into summer and you spend the next couple of weeks preparing for the summer rush. The rain settles, giving way to a dry heat that has you grateful your car’s air conditioning hasn’t gone yet.
The store’s air conditioning is fairly reliable and since you’re the only one who works no one ever messes with your settings. The store is kind of a hangout spot for some younger kids who have clearly been set loose for the first time. They come in for the ever-rotating collection of board games, and you become somewhat of an unpaid babysitter.
You don’t mind, though. Most of them are polite and well-behaved, and you’ve always loved being around children. Most of the time they’re a lot nicer to be around than adults. There’s no small talk, no worrying about filling the silence, or being annoying. Most of the time, the type of kids who want to come into a quiet store and draw or play chutes and ladders for hours, they just like when adults pay attention to them. You hope you can make them feel important, even if it’s just for an afternoon. Education had been something you’d considered going into once you graduated high school but the workload and the student loans and the decisiveness of the whole thing had been too daunting and eventually you’d put it off for so long it didn’t seem worth pursuing anymore.
You keep the two ponies under the counter, kept safe from stock rotations and curious children by your careful hands. You protect them from dust, keep them safe. It feels a bit silly to keep them there, keep them clean and ready. You can’t bear to separate them.
The summer rush comes and goes and with it comes the back to school rush. You end up paying your father back a second time, too busy with work to have the energy to deal with the stress of it. You don’t think he has your address, but you also didn’t think he had it the last time he’d shown up at your place.
It’s perhaps the first day of the slow season, early in the afternoon, right after all the kids have gone back to school. You’ve done all the restocking, you’ve done all the normal cleaning, all the normal admin. You’ve even gone as far as to dust all the baseboards, you’re that desperate for something to do. Muscling through the boredom, you’ve finally settled in your comfy chair behind the desk, crochet project on your lap and calming music playing through the speaker connected to your phone.
The bell twinkles as the door is shoved open and you don’t even really have the time to look up before your name is being called, bright and warm. She’s not wearing her purple raincoat but you would recognise Lena anywhere. She looks at you sheepishly, like she’s just considered the idea that you don’t remember her.
You’re sure it must be something awry with you. So desperate for connection, to find the innate good, to understand everything in your life, you’ve always been incredibly quick to attach. Perhaps not attach exactly, you think, you’re probably less attached to Lena than perhaps the idea of her. You don’t have the best memory, it’s not photographic or eidetic or anything, but you remember faces and names. You remember people in your kindergarten class, and adults who showed you kindness, and customers you had completely mundane interactions with. You wonder often what it says about you the memories your brain has decided to latch onto, what has shaped you into who you are. Your preschool teacher scolding you for talking during nap time when you hadn’t been, being abandoned at the bus stop by a friend who promised she’d wait for your bus before beginning her walk home. One time, you had been maybe seventeen, down by the waterfront after a vicious fight with your father. You don’t recall what the fight was about, but you remember the little boy you had seen by the water’s edge. He had a bucket filled with seashells, and his grandmother was sitting on the sand helping him decorate a sandcastle with his findings. Eventually she’d stood up, dusting herself off, and told him they had to head home for dinner with his mama. The boy had cried something awful, tears and sobs, begging his grandma to just help him find one more shell. One more, just one more. Is it odd you can recall the moment with perfect clarity, feeling your own heart split in two just at the sound of his upset?
Lena has grown since you last saw her, and if she hadn’t referred to you by name you would’ve thought you’d projected her likeness onto a new girl. She beams at you with a missing tooth, skipping forward as if it’s been five minutes instead of five months.
She’s flanked by a man who is new to you, not the same guy who had come to collect her last time she’d been in. He’s staring at you when you look away from her, holding the door open for her to come inside and making sure he catches it before it slams. Blue eyes stare straight into you deeper than you think you’ve ever really looked into yourself, and he doesn’t look away at being caught.
He’s thick, broad in the shoulders and stocky in the chest. You squirm under his gaze, feeling suddenly like you’re doing something wrong by looking at him. Your chest stirs and you’re completely aware of every single one of your limbs.
“Hi, Lena.” Her smile widens impossibly far for such a small face. Your heart does the same thing. “How are you?”
She seems more forthcoming this time, telling you all about how she’s just started second grade, the friends she’s been making, how hard the classes are. She talks with a level of familiarity about her life the way only a second grader could, like it would never even occur to her that you wouldn’t have anything to compare it to. You discard your crochet project, scooting your chair forward and leaning over on your elbows to make sure she knows you’re giving her all your attention.
Well, almost all of your attention. The man she came with stands directly behind Lena, arms crossed as if he’d expect you to try and hurt her, and his eyes stay trained on you. You’re not sure if he’s just a starer — some men are; how creepy it is depends on how long it goes on before he tries to talk to you — or if he’s watching for something.
You kick off where you’re leaning, wondering if he might stop if you move. “I have something for you,” you feel foolish already. Chances are she’s forgotten, or she doesn’t even like horses anymore, or she didn’t even at the time but they were her only option. “People bought all the other ones but I remember you liked these ones.” You look like a fool holding out the two stuffed animals in your hand, not even knowing if she wants them. Lena’s eyes light up at the sight of the ponies but she doesn’t move towards them.
Instead, she looks up at her bodyguard. “Can I, Uncle Pope?”
Lena’s uncle Pope finally tears his eyes from you, looking down at her. His mouth pulls into a small smile, strained like he’s not used to doing it but fond like he can’t help it anyway. “Yeah,” his voice is crackly and quiet. “How much are they?” He looks back to you.
You wonder if he thinks you’re going to quiz him on your eye colour or something. You shake your head, practically tripping over your own actions to get ahead of yourself and skip through the first part of interactions. “No, it’s fine. They’re for her.”
Lena gasps, collecting them both into her chest with an iron grip. She thanks you and doesn’t have to be reminded, eyes shining. You get the idea that Pope has heard about the two of them before. He watches her glee, affectionate an albeit untrained smile widening on his face. “Do you want your pen things?”
Her eyes widen to saucers. “I can still have them?” Pope nods and Lena practically shoots off towards the stationery section, leaving the two of you alone. He turns to orient his body towards her instinctively, but he’s standing so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. It sends a hot feeling from your chest to your stomach.
His hair is thick and unruly, such a rich copper it almost looks brown in the warm lighting of the store. His curls look well loved but less well maintained and you find your mind stumbling forward again; what hair products does he use? Does he like it touched? Does he have anyone there to touch it? What would it feel like?
“She talks about you a lot,” Pope says, sounding like whatever the opposite of conversational is. He speaks like he regrets it retroactively, aching for solitude but subjecting himself to small talk with strangers. “Practically begged me to come here since she has a half day. I told her if she did all of her homework she could get some of those pens.” He mimes using a pen. “Y’know the ones, they smell like all the different stuff? Bananas and apples and crap?”
You nod. They’re just called scented markers, but you don’t feel the need to correct him. You picture him at a kitchen counter, trying to coax his niece into finishing a reading log with scented markers. You know Lena has a father, a man that she at least called ‘dad’ five months ago. What happened to him? Why isn’t he bringing her to get sniff pens? Is he still around, with his concealed carry and his seemingly cold indifference? That’s probably unfair, you don’t know this man, and Lena had clearly loved him.
But she looks far happier today than she had the last time you saw her, you can’t lie to yourself about that.
“She’s a good kid.” You have to assume. She’s lovely, incredibly easy to be kind to, but you don’t know her when it really comes down to it. “Seemed like she was having a hard time last time I saw her.” You shrug with an indifference that feels completely unnatural. “I wanted to do something nice for her.”
Pope looks over at her, taking the caps off the sample markers to smell them, then down at you. You feel real juvenile with your little crochet stars in your lap, you’re planning on making bunting out of them, sitting there in your work outfit. He’s clearly older than you by a significant amount, he’s probably got a respectable job, maybe a wife. You wonder what kind of family they are, both of them so different from Lena’s father. Perhaps you’re being unfair, maybe it wasn’t a gun, and maybe he’d just been having a bad day. You want to ask Pope about him, but you bite your tongue.
“You didn’t have to,” he says gruffly, looking down. He doesn’t have a wedding ring on, and the fact that you have noticed makes your cheeks warm. “Lot to do for someone else’s kid.”
You feel a little bit scolded, shrinking into him. This man clearly cares a lot about his niece, perhaps more than her father, you want him to think you’re good for her. Want him to like you.
You’re sure it has nothing to do with the fact that his biceps are too big for his shirt and when he’d been staring at you all the blood in your chest had stalled.
“I didn’t mean to overstep,” you say cautiously.
He blinks at you. The expressions that he’s shot your way have been nowhere near as emotive as the ones he’s given Lena which is to be expected on a certain level, but he’s really been giving you nothing.
He looks at you for so long you have to be the one to break eye contact. Lena bounces up to the counter, marker pigment around her nose with a pack of scented felt tip pens. “Oh, Lena,” you say, eyes darting back over to her uncle. He’s looking down his shoulder at her. “You’ve got pen on your face.”
“Sorry,” she frowns, scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. “’S’it gone?” She juts her head back to present to you.
You bend down to rummage through your purse, fishing out a pack of face wipes from the bottom. “Here,” you pull one out of the package and present it to her. “Do you mind if I wipe it off?”
Lena shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. She’s got beautiful, dark hair, and she clearly didn’t get that from her dad. She doesn’t look much like Pope at all, and you don’t remember her father’s face with as much clarity as you’ll recall her uncle’s, but you don’t see much of a family resemblance between the two of them. He could be from her mother’s side but given that Lena is clearly mixed you’d made an educated guess that the two of them were brothers.
“Thank you,” she enunciates, nodding slightly on each word. You wipe away the pigment gently, catching sight of the way Pope watches you out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if you’d been overstepping when you’d brought it up but you’re pretty sure it qualifies now. You finish up, curling the wipe in your hand and sitting back. Lena looks up at Pope with a toothy smile. “All better?”
He nods at her. “Be careful with them. We can’t go to grandma’s if you’ve got pen all over your face.”
He doesn’t have that way about him that people who spend a lot of time around kids usually do. None of the fake niceties in the voice, there’s clear affection there and he’s good with her, but there’s a level of clumsiness there. The love had come naturally but the mannerisms are still forming themselves. Easy and wrought with the deception of labour in the same breath.
He’s holding a twenty out to you and you realise with a start it's for the pens. “Right.” Your face gets hot and you stand up to escape the feeling. You take the twenty, your fingertips tingling where they’d connected with his. They’re rough, calloused, and they don’t shy away from yours. You reach for the key to unlock the cash drawer in the till to get him his change.
“Keep the rest.”
He says it in a way that makes you not want to argue with him. You ignore that instinct.
“They’re four dollars.”
He stares at you again. “You have a tip jar, don’t you?”
Technically, sure. There’s a jar there that’s labelled for tips, but people rarely leave cash in it. You know his name but you feel wrong saying it. Yours is displayed on the badge you have clipped to your top. You tell him anyway, changing the topic.
Pope blinks, eyebrows furrowing. “Everyone calls me Pope.”
“Well, Pope,” you say as if you hadn’t collected that and tucked it away the second that Lena had referred to him. “That’s like a two hundred percent tip, so.” You turn the key and the drawer pops out. You tuck the twenty away and hand him back a ten. $5.15 with tax, $4.85 tip. "Happy?” You dump the coins in the jar. He frowns, which is more of a reaction than you’ve gotten the entire rest of the time, so you take that as a success.
Lena tugs on his sleeve. “Are we going to Grandma Smurf’s now? She said I could go in the pool, s’long as I wear sunscreen.”
Pope’s frown deepens slightly but he manages to fix his face before he looks down at her. “We can go now. You sure?” Lena nods resolutely.
You watch them go, Lena turning around to wave at you at the door. Pope looks right at you and raises an arm in goodbye. There’s a vein that runs down his arm and you have to duck behind the counter, mortified. When you make your ascent they’re gone but your face is still hot.
You spend the rest of the night thinking about Lena’s uncle Pope. You wish you’d introduced yourself with your surname so he’d been inclined to do the same. He hadn’t given you any indication that he had liked you in any way, so you’re not sure exactly why he’s got you all hot and bothered. He’s at least a decade older than you, if not more, but you can’t argue and claim that’s not your type.
He probably wouldn’t have captured your attention so severely if he hadn’t been so good with his niece. It had been something that you’d realised rather suddenly a few years ago; that you were no longer a girl but rather just a woman. You’d felt your whole adolescence that you were too young to be an adult. Mrs. Rayskel had hired you two days after you had turned fourteen, so when you woke up one day and realised that you were actually an appropriate age to be working, in your mid twenties. That you’re not a young adult, instead, an adult. An adult who thought she would’ve been in a relationship secure enough to at least be thinking about having children. Men your age don’t want to settle down, at least none of the ones you’ve ever met have.
But an older man with a niece he clearly adores? You have to slap yourself in the middle of stirring your pasta to stop yourself from perving on this poor man. You wonder if he’d mind.
——
You spend maybe two weeks having your heart race every time the door to the shop opens, and are rewarded for your diligence when eventually Pope does return, this time without Lena in tow.
You’re actually working this time, restocking the board games in the corner. You’re mostly hidden behind a shelf so you’re able to pretend you haven’t seen him and thus, act adequately nonchalant as he finds you.
“Oh, hi.” You’re kneeling on the floor restocking the bottom shelf and despite the fact that your skirt ends at your calves you tug it down self-consciously. “Lena’s uncle, Pope, right?”
He nods slowly, so slow it’s like it’s something he needs to process. He looks marginally less happy this time and you know it’s probably because his niece isn’t with him but there’s a small spark in the back of your head that whispers his frown is directed at your outfit. You’re being ridiculous, he doesn’t give a shit what you’re wearing. He offers a hand and you don’t even think before taking it. His hand is so much bigger than yours, and the vein on his arm bulges as he helps you stand. “Everything okay?”
You dust yourself off, looking down at your ruffled socks against your boots. It’s still been fairly warm during the day but you have errands to run after sundown. You’ve come to the conclusion about Pope that he might just be a quiet man. It’s not any disdain for you or anything you’ve done, he’s just a pensive man.
“What…” he clears his throat. Pope leans up to tug on a patch of his hair at the back, centring himself and speaking up again. “What do you do when you’re not at work?”
You perk up a little bit. There’s no way… he’s not asking you out, right? It’s probably that he wants to know which crafts you engage in, maybe he needs gift ideas for Lena. The answer is embarrassingly sparse, and you definitely paint yourself as a bit of a homebody. “Crochet, drawing, I watch documentaries sometimes…” you need to work on how you present yourself. If he wanted to go out with you before he probably won’t after this. “Then errands mostly.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend? Kids?” He asks bluntly.
“Uh… no. Why?”
He has the good sense to look sheepish at his abruptness. “Lena’s my brother’s daughter.” You can hear every breath he takes, heavy and with a heaving chest. That answers that question then. “I don’t know how to take care of her, thought this shit was meant to be easier. Thought all the hard parts about parenting were diapers and tantrums and she’s got neither of them. All I had to do was make sure she ate and did her homework and said please and thank you.” He lets out a hot rush of air. “’S not like that at all.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling.
You have no idea what he wants you to say. Did he come to vent — for parenting advice? Did he assume you must have kids based on how you acted with her?
“All that shit was fine when she had her mom and dad but now,” he looks down at you, and for the first time since you first met him there’s a different emotion behind his eyes. You don’t have very much to go off, can’t even name his baseline, but from the fluttering eyelashes and the furrowed brows this looks very much like a man out of his depth finally confiding a fear. “Now I have to look after her. Have to, get to.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how he did it. But I have to work, and she needs someone to watch her after school, and the sign out there says you guys shut before four in the afternoon.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, more surprised than anything. “You want me to… babysit her?”
Pope seems to realise that this is an odd request. Perhaps not the most appropriate, either. He clears his throat and pulls again at the curls on the nape of his neck. “You can tell me to get lost.”
“No, just…” you feel like if you don’t shut your mouth he might realise how strange this is. Most people would like to vet a babysitter, I’m a random adult you’ve met once, how do I know you’re not insane and won’t just dump her here and run away? “You want me?”
Pope gestures to you, your pretty skirt, your general disposition. “She likes you.” He shrugs stiffly like the action is something unfamiliar to him.
“When would you need me?” As much as you like Lena and as much as the thought of having him in a position where you’d need to see him every day makes your heart palpitate against your ribcage, this is your job. You can’t quit it for this, definitely not before you’re sure it’ll shake out. “Like after school? I’m usually here until four-ish.”
“She finishes school at three forty-five, it’s only three blocks. You have a car?” You nod. “Good, a license?” You nod again. “If you need to stay here to finish up she can take the school-bus here, stops down the street.” He points out the window, you’re too preoccupied looking at the way his shirt strains at the arm to see the bus stop. “If you can, you pick her up from school, bring her back here or to your house or the park or my apartment or wherever. Keep her entertained, make sure she does her homework and eats her veggies. Sometimes I’d need to work late, so she’d need to spend the night with you and you’d have to take her to school. You can do it at my place or if you want to keep her at your apartment that’s fine. School starts at nine but she can go in at eight if you need to be here. Plus weekends. Not every day, and not always that late. I just…” he looks almost embarrassed to need the help. “I can pay you.”
You’d hope so, for all that.
“Lena mentioned her grandma?” You ask gently. “Do you think Lena could stay with her some days?”
He looks at you as if he’s surprised you would bring her up. “No, I don’t want her around my mom.” He sniffs, looking away from you. “If you don’t want to just say it. Don’t have to make shit up to help me. I could give you fifty bucks an hour — what do you make here?” It’s not fifty bucks an hour, you can say that right now. “Double on weekends and for nights. Plus money for anything she needs, gas money for you to pick her up, money for dinner and whatever.” He’s almost breathless. “I can pay you.”
What the hell does this man do?
“Pope. It’s a lot to ask,” you say. “I can definitely take her on the weekends, and probably a couple of days after school. I don’t know about nights, but depending on where you live I could maybe swing by in the morning and help her get ready for school, drop her on my way?”
Pope looks back at you, some semblance of a smile twitching the corner of his lip upwards. It’s the kind of smile that makes it impossible for you to not smile as well, which is surprising considering it still doesn’t make him look particularly happy. For a guy this steely, you suppose any amount of joy on his face makes you smile.
“Why don’t I give you my phone number, and we can talk about this while I’m not at work?” What Pope and Lena probably need is a nanny, or at least someone who can full time devote themselves to Lena. You have a job that, while it awards you a lot of freedom, is something you couldn’t live without. And while you adore Lena, and you’re sure that’ll only grow with time, you need the money desperately.
Pope reaches for you and after drawing a complete blank, you realise he wants your phone. “Oh, sorry. I left it on the desk.” Your father has been calling you, upset that you’d fallen asleep last night and forgotten to reply to his message. You know what it’ll be, either asking you for something or scolding you. You haven’t the energy to entertain him at the moment. The two of you swap information and when he hands you your phone back he lingers.
“Do you like this job?” He asks quietly, cocking his head and studying your face. You nod, lost for words with him so close. One step further in and you’d practically be chest to chest. “When you were a kid you wanted to be a… craft girl?”
You can’t hide your snicker, ducking your head, and he frowns like you’d yelled at him.
“No,” you admit. “This isn’t what I wanted to do when I was little. I wanted to be a teacher.” You’ve never really told another person that, never had another person to tell. By the time you graduated high school you were lucky if your father noticed you hadn’t been home in days, and when you finally moved out at twenty he’d looked at you like he’d forgotten you even lived there. Now he calls you every week, which is nice of him, but you wished in the decade it’s been since you last saw his face you’d developed a thicker skin. Or at least the ability to not cry whenever he hurts your feelings.
Pope’s eyes light up. “See, you’re perfect.” He tilts his chin down to mirror yours like the two of you are sharing a secret. “This is basically like being a teacher.”
You laugh again and this time he doesn’t seem so offended. “Goodbye, Pope.”
This time when he leaves he doesn’t turn to wave at you, but it gives you ample time to watch him cross the street to his car. There’s a man there who snickers and punches Pope’s chest when he gets in, but Pope doesn’t even bat an eye, pulling the car out and meeting your gaze right as he reaches the edge of the window.
You look down at your phone. “Pope Cody…” you muse, looking at his contact information. You’re surprised he offered his surname at all, the longer you speak to him the less he seems the type. You smile down at it and startle, caught, at the sound of the bell. Your phone slips from your grasp and you bring up your other hand to catch it before it hits the floor. The app closes in the fuss, and with it goes his unsaved contact information. “Shit.” You hiss, looking up at the customer, a mom and two little boys who thankfully don’t look like they heard your expletive and put your phone down on the counter. You can only hope that he texts you first, you suppose you’ll find out if he expects you to make the first move.
——
It’s late when your phone rings. So late, you know it’s not Pope. So late you’re going to regret this in the morning when you have to get up and clean your apartment in the morning. You’re not not going to sleep, you’re just not trying very hard. You’re sprawled out on your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, trying to fight off a headache.
It’s your father, he’s the only man with the audacity enough to call you at midnight on a Friday night. You’ll call him back in the morning, he has no way of knowing you’re awake to ignore him. You’re so exhausted, your sheets are so warm and smooth, you’ve been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a while now. The vibrating doesn’t even catch up to you until it’s almost finished ringing.
Your phone screen goes black again, plunging the room into the sub-darkness that only comes from the whole city being asleep. Then, it lights up again with a text.
Huffing, your face pressed against your pillow, you slap the mattress on your side until you finally wrap your hands around the device.
You have 1 New Voicemail.
Your father has never left you a voicemail. Spam callers might, but usually they’re unintelligible. Your phone will have taken a transcript as best it can, and you squint at the brightness. It streaks right past your retinas and into the core of your brain, making your headache worse.
Uh hey it’s pope Cody—
You scramble up until you’re on your knees, heart rate spiking. You can’t be laying down, not with your ears ringing the way they are. Based on the paragraph it’s not a super short message, and you bite your lip with delight when you see it’s almost a full minute.
There’s a feeling in your chest you can’t get rid of, can’t deep-breath or count-to-ten away. Itching for movement, you feel your hand start wandering up of its own accord from where it’s resting on your thigh upwards, slipping under the hem of the big t-shirt you’d been intending on sleeping in and finding your nipple. You toy with it almost distractedly, stuck in limbo of being desperate to rake your eyes over his words and wanting to hear him.
God, how tragic are you? Your nipples are both hard already and perhaps it’s just from the breeze drifting through the open window but you also feel a throb of neediness light up your core. You roll onto your back, clenching your thighs together. This is a line you shouldn’t cross. Sure, it’s late, you’re horny, whatever. But this guy is about to be your boss, you should be able to listen to a voicemail without needing to touch yourself.
He’s such a serious man, you can’t imagine what he’d say if he saw the state of you, shirt lifted just below your breasts, soaking a damp patch into the front of your panties. The only way you’re going to be able to get through the message is going to be to get yourself off first like a teenage boy trying not to get a boner on a first date.
Pope’s also painfully awkward and it really does it for you. From the way he moves, to the faces he makes, to the way he talks. Fuck, the way he talks. You let your phone rest on your chest and your other hand finds its way down underneath your panties.
You haven’t been fucked in a while but you’re way more turned on than you have any right to be. You don’t bother teasing yourself, pressing the flat of two fingers against your clit. Your hips buck at the feeling, clearly more untouched than you thought.
Your fingers aren’t as thick as his, and you can’t help the perversions that cross your mind at the thought of Pope. How would he touch you? Would it be clumsy? He’s pretty assertive, perhaps that would overtake the awkwardness. You let a whine escape your bitten lips into the darkness of your bedroom as you rub your clit.
Fuck this, you reach for the phone blindly, half blinded with the vision of his hand shoving yours out the way. You fumble for the button, but after a little while his voice rings out in your bedroom.
“Uh,” he coughs. “Hey, it’s Pope Cody.” Two of your fingers slide inside, your other hand coming to replace the fingers at your clit. The position is awkward but you can’t focus on anything but the sound of his voice, already humiliatingly close. His voice is low and the phone quality crackles but it mimics the grooves of his voice well enough you don’t even care. “Look, I know it’s late but do you think you can call me in the morning? I don’t know how this thing usually works, the whole babysitter thing.” His fingers would probably get deeper than yours, but you curve them slightly until they hit your sweet spot.
Frustrated with the limitations the fabric is giving, you pull both your hands out and shove your underwear down your legs, letting it slip off your foot and onto the floor of your bedroom. “And you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“Fuck,” you hiss, drawing your fingers from your hole and fucking them back into yourself slowly. He seems like the type of man who would take his time, or maybe that’s just you projecting for slowing down so you don’t cum before he’s even done talking.
“And I’m sorry about ambushing you at work, it felt like the best place to come talk to you. I won’t come by again, if you don’t want. But I want to see you.”
You’re only halfway through it and you can already feel an orgasm forming. It’s downright sinful the things you want him to do to you.
“I need to talk to you, I mean. About Lena. And about… yeah. I know this is probably stupid as shit but I’m way in over my head here so… Whatever it is you want to do, I’ll do it. You want more money?”
You bring the hand rubbing your clit up to your mouth to sink your teeth into the back, instead grinding on the palm of the hand you’re using to finger yourself. The walls in your apartment are thick enough you don’t have to worry about making a small amount of noise, but you don’t need Erin and Carlos from next door to hear you whining. “Anything you want. Anything.” You can practically feel him breathing into your ear. Anything you want.
He says your name, low and deep and you tip into your orgasm, back arching against your sheets and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. They’re clenched shut, white filling your vision, and his face lives on your eyelids. Those big, sad eyes. Thick fingers and thicker arms.
He’s gruff, and unsmiling and awkward and stiff, but Pope doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to get hung up on rules. He’s older than you, and he’s about to be your boss, and you realise with a thrill that you don’t think that would stop him if he wanted you.
“Or if you don’t want or, or you can’t or whatever. Then if you know anyone, or like, a way I can find a babysitter? I don’t fuckin’ know… Thanks for the help. I’m around, if you want to call me when you’re not asleep. Okay.” He ends the message without a goodbye.
Your eyes are practically glued shut, walls fluttering around your fingers as your breathing slowly returns to normal. How the fuck are you meant to work this job? You can’t even listen to the man talk for a full minute without soaking through your underwear.
You don’t remember falling asleep, you wake up with a rumpled shirt and a new pair of panties you must’ve slipped on in a daze. It’s a Saturday, so you don’t have to get up if you don’t really want to. You have chores to do and sleep to catch up on, you can hear the faint sound of rain picking up outside. Perfect circumstances for a day at home, resetting and fixing yourself up on one of your two days off.
Instead, you roll over and immediately reach for your phone.
Hey, sorry! I fell asleep and didn’t get your call. I’m free today, I’d love to see you. You chicken out and tack onto the end and Lena! I can come over to your place or we can meet somewhere else?
You barely have time to close your eyes again before your phone is vibrating in your hand, once, then twice. The first message is an address. The second: give me an hour.
You roll back onto your stomach and try to stop yourself from screaming into your pillow.
cw : modern au. non con (first part) , bodering on non con at other times, dubcon, age gap.reader is 20s and maekar is 40s, clueless reader / bimbo reader. old grump!maekar. hermit!maekar. smut. 18+ MDNI (please read individual warnings for each post)
timeline order:
your recluse neighbour maekar misunderstands your kindness
your miss your old grump of a neighbour maekar
asking maekar to fuck you in a headlock
catching maekar eating a slice of pie at night
second ovulation week with maekar, and he thinks he knows what can help?
how to hide your incredibly hot younger neighbour from your children?
maekar's great idea to preserve water, washing together
in which maekar says the wrong thing
in which maekar is completely lost without you
you want closure, maekar's sons want to get you two back together
more to come...
random thoughts:
photos after sex
photos you take of him
polaroid pics he keeps with him
BOTH HANDS AND A GENTLE MOUTH !
─── baelor targaryen
summary: baelor takes in a naive handmaiden out of kindness, but soon finds himself developing feelings for her that he knows neither rank nor crown would allow. (4k)
contents: yet another fix it fic, forbidden romance, power imbalance, angst, hurt/comfort, so much yearning, pre and post trial of seven, canon divergence cw for mentions of injuries, smut 18+ (MDNI): ring/hand kink, fingering, finger sucking, post-injury sex, cockwarming
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Baelor could not quite place when his profound admiration for you turned into a desire he could hardly stomach.
You came to him, a year or more ago, as a young handmaiden who had only served ladies in Dorne — sunkissed, sparkling, and shockingly naive. The nobility you’d arrived with had inherited the more highborn Targaryen servants, upon her marriage to the Crown Prince’s nephew, Aelor.
Baelor was at the feast on their wedding eve when they discussed what would come of you — of whether they should ship you back to Sunspear or leave you to your devices in King’s Landing and hope you landed on your feet.
It weighed endlessly on his conscience for a reason he could not name. His father always told him that he was much too soft for his own good, and he didn’t truly understand what that meant until he found himself taking on an inexperienced handmaiden as part of his staff.
You doted on him like you would the ladies back in Dorne instead of like a future king, because it was the only thing you knew how to do. You dressed him, pampered him, managed his chambers when he was away, and kept him company when he was alone. Baelor had not the heart to correct you — he was endeared by your naivety, and grew to long for it whenever you retired to your chambers for the night.
You nicked him once, while trying to place his Hand pin on his coat, and it felt strangely like a kiss.
“You’re very kind, Your Grace,” you’d said, voice still trembling, even after he’d dismissed your rambled apologies. “I’ve been beaten for less back in Dorne.”
Baelor’s chest flared with anger at the thought, but he covered it quickly with a gentle smile, half-hidden behind his greying beard. “It was only an accident… It would be ungallant for a prince to beat someone for a mishap— or at all, in truth.”
“As I said,” you hummed, bowing your head to hide your smile while you adjusted his silver pin with more careful fingers. “You’re very sweet, Your Grace.”
“Sweet, am I?” Baelor scoffed. “I fear you would be the only one to think so, my girl.”
The term of endearment spilled effortlessly from his mouth, and had for some moon turns since. You were too lowborn for any real titles, but the absence of such in conversation felt strange to him. He did not mean for it to sound as possessive as it did, though your stomach warmed at the thought of belonging to him in some way.
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m the only one that matters, then, isn’t it, Your Grace?” you’d quipped with a wider grin and a sparkling look in your squinted eyes.
Baelor got the feeling that it was custom for you to joke with your ladies in such a manner, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that your words were a prophecy of some kind. Like you knew, as well as he did, that you were going to become a much bigger part of his life than he’d planned.
“Aye,” he grinned. “That you are, my girl…”
Somewhere between now and then, the veil had slipped, and he could no longer distinguish his want for you from his need. He found himself tethered to your very existence, bending to your gravity like the tide and the moon. It sometimes felt like he lived only to be touched by you; the uncertainty of the rest of the world slipped away whenever your fingers brushed his skin.
Even now, he has to fight back a shiver as you slide his rings on one by one — with far more gentleness than should likely be allowed, in the very most literal sense.
Baelor watches you in the long mirror propped in the corner of his chambers while you stand at his side, plucking the silver jewelry from the small table beside you with a precision that feels almost methodical.
His eyes fall over your messily fixed hair, as if you’d done it in a hurry or slept in it the night before; then to your dress sleeve, which threatens to slip down your shoulder, that you make no move to raise again; and to your heeled shoes, peeking beneath the skirt of your dress, which you had kicked off to rest your feet and think he doesn’t notice.
But there is nothing about you, he’s found, that would not capture his immediate attention.
“This is a new arrangement,” Baelor observes as he peers down at his hand, now adorned in a different array of silver than he’s used to. You’ve switched the usual pattern of them; added a couple new ones and a few he’d forgotten that he had.
“Aye, Your Grace,” you nod with a proud, sheepish smile as you slip the dark dragon insignia ring — which belonged to his grandfather many years ago — down the middle finger of his left hand. You cradle his wrist gently in your free one and absentmindedly trace the ridges of his knuckles with your thumb. “I dreamt of it last night and wanted to see how it looked…”
Baelor grins, and with a teasing squint in his brown-blue eyes, wonders aloud, “Dreaming of my fingers often, are you?”
Your wide eyes snap to his glimmering, mismatched ones in an instant. He watches your shy smile fade in a flash, ebbing into a frightened sort of look — because he has had a way of plaguing your dreams, for a while now, really; and his sudden inquiry on the matter makes you feel nothing short of utterly caught.
“Sorry, Your Grace. That was— That was inappropriate of me,” you stammer and turn away. Baelor mourns your touch when you drop his hand to face the table on your other side. You go to pick up one of the rings there, but have since forgotten which one you’d had in mind, and how to use your hands. “I shouldn’t have— I just meant that—”
“I only jest, my girl, I assure you,” Baelor says with a breathy laugh. “I am not much to dream about, I know.”
You roll your eyes at his self-deprecation, which turns into a squinted look when you glance at him over your shoulder.
“Of course not, Your Grace,” you answer drily, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because the Crown Prince of the Iron Throne isn’t the most eligible bachelor in the Seven Kingdoms, after all.”
Baelor flares hot under his all-black grab while you pluck another ring from the table — a dark silver paired with a Targaryen ruby in the center. He hopes the embers tingling suddenly in his skin don’t show as red on his face when you turn back to face him.
“Well, most women aren’t exactly searching for an old widower with two kids, are they?”
You shrug, with your lips thinned into a tight line, as you reach again for his left hand. You cradle his palm with your own as you slide the ring onto his barren pointer finger.
“Well, I presume many old widowers with two kids aren’t future kings, Your Grace,” you hum. “And most future kinds aren’t usually so handsome.”
“You flatter me,” he dismisses with a shake of his head.
“Isn’t that my job, Your Grace?” you giggle and turn away again.
Baelor’s eyes narrow at your profile.
“Is that it, then?” he wonders aloud, then smiles at the confused look you give him in response. You try hard not to cower under the weight of his crooked smile and the suspicious glint in his brown-blue eyes. “Are you only so sweet to me because you feel it is your job to do so?”
Your eyes widen, caught again.
You swallow and calculate your next words carefully. “Well, anything otherwise would be… inappropriate, Your Grace, would it not?”
“Aye,” he nods. “It would be…”
You avert your gaze and fumble with the weighty Hand pin left on the silver tray in front of you. Your clammy fingers tremble faintly when you turn back to him, weaving the needle through his black coat.
Baelor watches you with an unwavering gaze, silently praying that you’ll nick him with it like you did the very first time — so that he can be coddled by you, maybe, or so he can bleed and feel an ounce of release.
“’Tis a shame, is it not?” he hums distantly. “A king is allowed only two things: his lady wife and his whores. Anything in between could start wars, history proves. If you were highborn, no one would think to look at us twice…”
The gravity of his words — the confession that lies within them — hits you like a punch to the stomach. It threatens to steal your breath the same way.
“Would you, Your Grace?” you hear yourself ask, voice trembling, as you press the silver pin to his chest. Baelor’s brows raise in an expectant look, and you struggle to find the courage to repeat yourself for several long moments. “If I had been born a lady, I mean… Would you look at me twice?”
“I do already,” Baelor confesses with a gentle smile and a tender look in his mismatched eyes, tilting his head towards the door. “It is only out there that I cannot.”
“So…” you trail off and swallow hard. “If we’re alone, in here, then…”
“Then I presume what the rest of the kingdom doesn’t know wouldn’t hurt it.”
You try to meet his smile with one of your own, though in your sudden stupor, the corner of your lip only flickers faintly upward. “Aye. I guess you’re right, Your Grace.”
Your fingers freeze on the silver sword on his chest when he lifts a ringed hand, reaching slowly for your face. Your breath hitches when his fingers, warm and softly calloused, meet your burning skin. He swipes an eyelash from the apple of your cheek with a touch far gentler than you thought any man could possess.
He lingers there, just against you. Your heavy breaths entwine as the anticipation crescendos within the cobblestoned bedroom.
“Are you going to kiss me, Your Grace?” you ask, already made breathless and heavy-eyed by the thought alone.
Baelor shakes his head.
“No. I’m not,” he mutters, though the heavy look in his glimmering eyes says otherwise. “Not until you say so, anyway…”
You flare hotter when his fingers trail slowly down your cheek and over the curve of your jaw, like he’s memorizing how your skin feels under his touch.
“Nothing happens until you say so,” the older man assures. “If you want me to stop, give me the word, and I will speak naught of this ever again.”
You swallow hard.
“And… If I don’t want this to stop?” you wonder on bathed breath, as the pad of his thumb traces gently over the curve of your bottom lip. Baelor’s lidded eyes train there, and his mouth waters for a taste of you.
“Then you need only give me a sign… And I will give you whatever you want…”
Your mouth parts gently. You go to say something, but the words get hung in your throat. You tilt your chin and press a chaste kiss to the pad of his thumb, instead — peering up at the man from beneath your lashes as you test the newfound waters.
Baelor’s brown-blue eyes turn glassy under your touch in an instant, and your stomach swims with a warmer feeling. With a bit more confidence than before, you wrap your lips slowly around the tip of his thumb — which you had trimmed and buffed for him the night before. You can still taste the sweet oil you’d rubbed onto his nail beds when you suck gently at the digit, without ever once taking your eyes off the man in front of you.
You pull away a moment later with a low pop, wearing a spit-slick mouth and a mischievous half-smile. “Is that enough of a sign, Your Grace—?”
His wide palm smooths across your jaw and around the back of your neck before you can properly get the words out. He pulls you closer with a suddenly firm hand, pressing his lips to yours before you can blink and kissing you like he’d swallow you whole if he could.
You moan when he licks into your parted mouth. His tongue feels like velvet against your own, and tastes of mint leaf, blood oranges, and flat cakes from an early breakfast. Your trembling hands reach for the silver chain keeping his cloak in place and tug at the chain to pull him closer. You exhale hard through your nose when his greying scruff scratches at your delicate skin.
Your lips click faintly when Baelor pulls away, far too soon for your liking. He smiles with your spit on his mouth when you try hopelessly to chase his kiss.
“When I asked, earlier, if you had dreamt of my fingers…” he trails off through labored breaths, nudging the bridge of your nose with the tip of his. “You looked frightened… As if I had caught you in some secret… Is that a fair assessment, would you say?”
You nod, not trusting your voice enough to speak.
“And what was I doing with them?” he asks, eyes darting back and forth between both of yours. “In those dreams of yours?”
Your kissed mouth opens to answer him, but nothing comes out for a long, embarrassing beat.
Baelor’s lips curl slowly into a sympathetic grin.
“Show me,” he commands; he pleads.
Your hands shake when they reach for his ringed one, still cradling gently at the back of your neck. Your fingers wrap around his wrist right before you step away from him, just to tug him with you across the expansive room. Your boots slip from beneath the skirt of your dress as your bare feet pad across the cobbles to the made bed against the wall.
You tilt your chin to keep his gaze as you sit gingerly on the edge of it. The feathered mattress, topped with silk and velvet made of Targaryen red, dips under your weight. You lift the thin skirt of your dress to your thighs with one hand, while your other guides Baelor’s between your legs. He smells of leather and something sweet when he towers over you, peering down at you from the chiseled bridge of his nose as his fingers near your warmth.
Your mouth parts with a gasped breath when his middle and forefinger trails over the velveteen edges of your cunt, now blanketed in the thin layer of silk you leak for him. He traces slowly down your labia and up again. You twitch on instinct when he nudges your sensitive clit, and his mouth lifts into a slow half-smile.
Your grip on his wrist tightens as the pad of his middle finger dips into your pulsing entrance. “Please…” you hear yourself beg. It fades into an airier breath when he pierces you slowly with the digit. You coat his skin in a layer of honey that allows him to slip inside you with ease.
He exhales hard through his nose, in what you think is meant to be a laugh, as he smiles lazily down at you.
“Look how easily you open up for me…” he murmurs in a soft, melodic voice. A whimper sounds in your throat when he slides his finger out and back again. “Imagine how well you’ll take my cock…”
Your lip flickers into a dazed sort of smile. “Do you imagine me taking your cock often, Your Grace?” you tease despite your audible breathlessness.
“Aye,” Baelor nods once. “I do.”
He presses his thumb hard to your swollen clit, bending at the waist to swallow your moan with a searing kiss before the guards outside can hear it. He presses you back into the mattress, which feels like it might swallow you whole, and cages you beneath his broader body while he pulls an orgasm from your body with nothing but his fingers.
You have to change the sheets again when he’s done with you.
And he attends the following council meeting with his fingertips pruned and smelling of you.
When Baelor needed help donning his armor that foggy morning before the Trial of Seven, he called upon his trusted handmaiden, as he had done for many years. You dressed him with all the obedience of a hired servant, but carried an air of stubbornness with you that came with loving him as deeply as you had come to.
You were more than his maid by the time you arrived in Ashford — you were the woman who shared his bed when the nights were quiet and empty, the woman who caused the future king to refuse to ever court another. You loved him like a wife, even though you knew the title would never be afforded to you. Baelor always joked that you were as stubborn as one, too, which is precisely why you heavied the room with your silence as you dressed the man in steel armor a size too small for him.
“You’re trembling,” he’d observed as you loosened the clasp on his dragon-crested chest plate.
“Apologies, Your Grace,” you said in a detached monotone.
Baelor only grinned, because he knew you only saved such formal titles for when he’s gotten himself into trouble. “You don’t have to fear for me, my girl— I’m fighting my brother and the King’s Guard; neither will bring harm to me, I assure you.”
“And what if they do?” you’d asked with venom coating your every word. “If you get hurt— If you die on that field— What will come of me?”
“Well, there are plenty of highborns in need of handmaidens—”
You shoved him hard by the shoulder — perhaps the only lowborn in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms that could do so without punishment — and met his furrow-browed look of confusion with a hardened scowl.
“Do not patronize me, Baelor— Don’t assume that I’m only worried to be out of a job when you know…”
You trailed off with a gasped breath, not entirely sure of what words should follow.
Baelor heard you anyway, even in your silence.
“Aye. I know,” Baelor nodded, soft eyes glittering in the orange candlelight. “And that is why I’m coming back when this trifle is through— You’re not getting rid of me that easily, my girl.”
You could not save him from the stands when the trial commenced and the battlefield turned into a blur of merciless blows; nor were you permitted into the barracks when Aerion yielded and the opposing sides received treatment in separate camps.
You created quite a stir with your cries, and the hysterical curses you spat at the knights keeping you out. You know it’s bound to be discussed in whispers on the morrow, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care about it now.
You and Baelor don’t share a word upon his return — because you don’t think you can open your mouth without crying, and his distant shock is still slow to wear off. You undress him with numb hands that tremble at the sight of crimson blood, and the blooming, plum-wine colored bruises that decorate his pale skin.
You prepare a scalding bath with healing oils and ease the man slowly into the steam. You have to change the water twice before it finally runs clear, untainted by swirls of pink-red blood.
You kneel beside the tub and press a warm cloth to his spine, where a dark bruise turns black at the very base of his neck. Baelor shivers at your gentleness, and at the droplets of silken water that rush down his back. You watch the tendons in his freckled shoulder twitch under the skin. The carnage painted like watercolor along the canvas of his back and ribs makes you feel like crying all over again.
Baelor’s heavy head lifts at the sound of your sniffling. He grimaces at the ache in his neck when he turns to look at you. The pained look etched across your features stings physically at his chest — like a lance to the sternum times a thousand.
“Oh, my love,” he coos, voice laced with exhaustion. “Don’t cry, my girl— Don’t cry.”
He lifts his hand from the water to reach for the one bracing yourself on the edge of the tub. You notice his knuckles are bruised when he cups your fingers in his palm, dragging them to his mouth to press his lips over the delicate skin — not kissing you there exactly, just feeling you.
The rag in your other hand splashes when it falls from your fingers and into the water. You splay your hand over his freckled shoulder to coax him closer before pressing your cheek to the crown of his head. He smells of tea tree oil and clean soap, but the scent of blood still lingers in the grey-black strands.
“I’m sorry,” you whimper in quiet sniffles.
“Don’t apologize, my love,” he whispers against your knuckles.
“I was— so frightened for you,” you confess through gasped breaths. “I thought for certain that your brother’s mace had—”
“Do you feel this?” Baelor mumbles against you, right before he presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles, and smooths his grey scruff over the delicate skin when he turns to look at you. You sit back on your haunches with your features contorted in a confused look, which he meets with a tired smile. “I am here. I’m alive. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Do not do that to me again, Baelor,” you tell him, suddenly hardened.
His quiet smile grows.
“I do not plan on it, my girl, I assure you,” he hums in a melodic voice.
He tilts his bearded chin in a silent plea for you to kiss him. You bend over the tub’s edge to meet him halfway, and fight the urge to cry when your lips lock with his chapped ones. You kiss him once, twice, and then a third time until you lose count. Baelor speaks through each of them.
“I plan on— Returning home with you— And marrying you— In front of the prettiest weirwood tree in King’s Landing— And letting all the rest of it fall where it may—”
Your mouth is softly swollen from his kisses when you part from him. Your heavy eyes flit back and forth between his brown-blue ones, lidded and glimmering with fatigue and contentment. Your brows lower in a worried sort of look — because he had told you, not too long ago now, that marrying anything lower than a lord’s daughter could start a rebellion across the kingdoms.
“Is that wise, Your Grace?” you murmur with an audible waver in your voice.
“No,” Baelor hums with a shake of his head. “But let’s do it anyway.”
Warm water stains your skin when his wide hand smooths across your cheek, dragging your mouth back to his. He kisses you harder this time, deeper, sliding his tongue between your lips like tasting you removes the remnants of war from his mouth. You cradle his jaw and neck in gentle hands while his free one curls around your shoulder, dampening your dress as it reaches down your back to unknot the tie in your corset.
You rise from your kneeled position to loosen it the rest of the way. You slide your arms from the sleeves and let the thin fabric pool at your feet with a soft thud when it hits the cobbles. You try not to cower at the glint in Baelor’s mismatched eyes, as if he were seeing you for the very first time in that moment — discovering something new within your naked body that he had seen a hundred times over.
You take his hand and step gingerly into the bathtub with him. The steaming water feels like satin against your cool skin as you sink down into it. Baelor’s palms splay over your ribcage to keep you steady when you straddle his scruffy thighs. You keep the bulk of your weight on your knees when he tries to pull you closer.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you tell him, cradling his neck in gentle hands.
“You couldn’t,” Baelor whispers.
You brace yourself on his shoulders, careful to avoid his bruises there, as you reach into the silken water and between your bodies. There’s a dull cut on his ribs, likely from where his armor had dug into his skin from a blow from an enemy lance. You’ll have to fight him to let you tend to it later, you know; but for now, you cup his half-hard cock in your gentle palm and massage him there until he’s fully stiff in your grasp.
Baelor’s grumbled sigh fills the quiet bathroom. He tilts his head back and struggles to keep his eyes open as you shift on top of him. Your breasts rise from the top of the water and press against his scruffy chest when you pierce yourself with the bulbous head of his cock. Your quieter whine fills with his soft groan when you sink fully on top of him.
You go to rock your hips over his thighs, but his hands on your hips tighten to keep you still.
“Stay like this…” he pleads through bated breaths. “Just for a little while…”
Your cunt flutters around him at the thought, though your chest still tightens with worry. “What if someone comes in? What if they see?”
Baelor just grins, dizzy with love and the evasion of death. “Let them see.”
WHAT WOULD YOU DO WITHOUT ME?— Baelor & Maekar Targaryen
Baelor x wife!reader x Maekar
Valarr, Aerion, Daeron, Egg x mother!reader
content: Your whole family has gone to shit in a matter of days without you, but they shall not worry you are here to fix them all…or perhaps they should be a little scared that you have come to fix everything
words: 1.6k
cw: none, everyone just getting put into their place and forced to apologize for the events of the Tourney of Ashford that has taken place without you.
author's note: you are both maekar & baelor's wife and all of their children are yours (you live with constant high blood pressure). this was so much fun to write and I hope you enjoy!
Another Part
more dragon princes’ wife content
Duncan stood before the table still very much confused as to what a Trial of Seven was when a an anger voice reached all within the hall, “Where the fuck are they?”
He watched as all three Targaryen men's shoulders tensed at the voice, suddenly you appeared in the doorway, little Egg and Ser Roland following behind you. The anger was evident on your face, clear as days, your eyes wide jaw clenched as you moved forward.
“You cannot handle them on your own for a few days!” you exclaimed angrily.
Dunk’s eyes flickered down to the boy beside him, “Who is that?” he whispered
“That’s my mum.”
You pushed the anger from your face turning to the two Lords of the Reach, “If you would excuse me I wish to talk to my family alone.”
The two men nodded and hurried out of the room as you turned to Ser Roland, “Fetch me Daeron and Valarr,” you commanded as the two eldest Targaryen’s shared a glance before standing making their way to you.
“Why Valarr, my love?” Baelor asked gently, reaching a hand out to you.
You swatted his hand away glaring at both the men. Dunk was now even more confused than before. If you were Egg’s mother then you must be Maekar’s wife…then why was Baelor referring to you as “my love.”
“He is the one who wrote about this shit show.”
“Of course he is,” Aerion muttered from the table.
Your burning gaze turned from them “If I hear one more snide remark from you it will be the last one we all hear because you'll be going to the wall, understood?”
He huffed out a breath before slumping in his chair crossing his arms over his chest as he nodded. He no longer resembled the vicious prince from earlier, but instead a child who had been reprimanded.
The hedge knight now wished you had been here this whole time. You finally set your sights on him and he flinched slightly, “What is your name?” you questioned.
“Dunk… Ser Duncan,” he stuttered out.
Maekar finally called out your name, and the knight instantly noticed how soft it sounded even coming from the man’s mouth. You ignored him, your eyes squinting as you stared at the large man, “Well, please take a seat, Ser,” you said kindly.
Valarr and Daeron had now arrived to join you all.
“Mum!” Valarr exclaimed happily, voice cheerful as he was the only one not bound to feel your wrath to tonight.
Duncan who now sat next to Egg looked to him in confusion, “How is she your mom and Valarr’s?” he whispered, but it wasn't very quiet as Maekar had heard him.
The man scoffed, but his youngest son got a reply out before he could, "She's married to both of them, Ser,” he said, hoping the man would drop the conversation there.
He didn't.
“To both the princes!?” he exclaimed. The young boy only nodded, shooting him a look urging him to be silent so that he could keep his head.
He had heard of Aegon the Conqueror having two wives,but had no idea that the brothers shared a wife. That seemed like something Ser Arlan should have mentioned or even Raymun on his rant about the Taragyen family earlier. He now looked at the children and could see small pieces of you in each of them, everything piecing together slowly.
He watched as kissed Valarr’s cheek slightly, and even cast Daeron a small smile as they also took a seat now the only one standing was you, and with one look alone the room became quiet. Duncan felt as if he was intruding on a family affair, but didn't dare argue with you.
“How did you manage to get here so fast?” Maekar asked, causing you to roll your eyes.
You took a deep breath, “The three of us will talk afterwards for now were going to go in order,” you turned your sights on Daeron who seemed to sober up immensely upon your gaze.
“Why is your brother bald?”
He scratched the back of his neck, then you turned to Aerion, “Do not get me fucking started on your behavior. When is that acceptable?” you asked, raising a brow. Now you turned to the youngest, “Must I tie you to your fucking bed post to prevent you from running off again?” Finally you now looked at your two husbands, “And you two! You cannot manage to keep your sons in line for a few days without me? Youre just as fucking bad as the rest of them.”
The silence was suffocating as everyone watched the wheels turning in your head. You turned to the hedge knight, “You struck Aerion because he broke a woman’s finger?”
“They were–” Aerion started, but didn't get very far as your head turned back silencing him once more.
“But!”
“Listen to your mother!” Maekar and Baeleor both commanded sternly, causing him to sulk back into his seat.
“Yes that is my recall, my lady.”
“Withdraw your accusation, Aerion,” you now commanded.
His eyes widened, “But he hit me!” he whined.
“Did you lose any teeth?”
“No.”
“Are you gravely injured?”
“No.”
‘Did you perhaps deserve a good knock upside the head?”
“Yes,” he whispered, crossing his arms.
You smiled nodding your head toward the Hedgeknight, ‘I withdraw my accusation,” he said, begrudgingly causing you to nod. “Great, we will discuss your punishment for the horse later, go clean the damn blood off yourself.”
He sighed standing to his feet, but before he could leave you moved forward cupping his face gently in your hand whispering something to him which caused him to frown slightly, but nod. You pressed a kiss to his temple and then he was gone.
“What else was there?” you now asked, turning toward Baelor and Maekar once more.
“Daeron accused Ser Duncan of stealing Aegon,” the elder reminded you, causing you to hum.
“Aegon, did you willingly go with this man?” you asked.
“Yes, mum,” he told you.
“Apolgize to your father for running off.”
He turned toward Maekar, “I am sorry for running off father,” he told him.
The man only grunted until his eyes met yours, “Do not do it again,” he told him.
“Now hug him.”
Egg stood hugging him, and Dunk couldn't help, but notice how awkward it looked especially in comparison to the gentleness you just used with Aerion. The boy then moved, hugging your legs tightly as you pressed a kiss to his bald head, “Go prepare for bed and I will come discuss your punishment with you.”
He nodded, moving out of the room. You now pinched the bridge of your nose slightly before setting your sights on Daeron. “Where is your brother’s hair?”
“I shaved it off. We were going to hide out at an inn until the tourney was over.”
“And your brother ran off and you just stayed there?”
“He told me he was leaving. I lied to father, because I didn't want him to gwt angrier at me.”
“Apolgize to your father.”
“I am sorry for lying and worrying you father,” he told him, his voice filled with genuine honesty.
Maekar nodded slightly, looking at you. “Go to your chambers and if I find you drinking tonight I will pour water over your head.”
He nodded standing to his feet, you moved to him hugging him gently like you did the other two before sending him on your way. Then you looked to your eldest, “Have you done anything?” you now asked, a slight smile playing on your lips.
“No, but I would like to point out I was right,” he declared standing to his feet moving next to you.
“That you two would perish without her,” he kissed the side of your head before moving out.
Duncan was now terrified as your eyes turned to him, along with your husbands. “I do hope you do not make it a habit of striking royalty, Ser Duncan. It is a fast way to lose your head,” you started with.
He swallowed harshly, eyes widending, “Of course, Your Grace. I mean–” he continued to splutter over his words.
“Seven hells she knows what you mean shes not a fucking idiot,” Maekar hissed.
“Maekar,” you chided, causing him to grunt leaning back in his chair.
You stared at the hedge knight, your eyes scanning him causing him to squirm, “I would like you to swear your sword to Baelor. It will show your loyalty to House Targaryen and can be seen as a punishment,” you decided. Ducan took it gratefully doing as he was told before leaving, a servant be instructed to find the man a chamber and draw him a proper bath for the night.
Now it only left the three of you, “Honestly what the fuck would you two do without me? You’d probably both have let that foolhardy play out on your own.”
Both men stood making their way to you, as they trapped you between them, “There is a reason we both married you,” Baelor teased, moving to lean in, but you wormed way out of your hold.
“Not tonight. You two will be left to your hands for release, that is your punishment,” you called out before leaving the room, going to visit each of your children like you had stated earlier.
Maekar sighed leaning moving to his chair letting out a groan, “We are never traveling anywhere without her again,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“We are in agreement on that. Can you imagine what would have happened if she hadn't arrived?”
Maekar chuckled slightly, “I do not wish to find out.”
