Warnings: cursing, some anxiety, use of Y/N, she/her pronouns, Abbot and that damn rooftop, not really proof-read (might not make much sense, I'm tired)
A/N: it seems I am back from my little hiatus (let's see how long that lasts). I've done this before for different characters and decided I wanted to do it for the Pitt universe. Let me know your thoughts, if you guys like it, I was thinking of making some for Langdon and Park the Shark. Anyways, enjoy!
Masterlist
They're not dating but he always waits for her to arrive before starting night shift rounds.
"Are we ready?" Robby asks, rubbing his hands together (his signature move) as the day and night crew stand in a circle around him.
"Not yet." Abbot shakes his head. He doesn't elaborate, but everyone knows what he's referring to.
She's not here yet. Robby nods his head, wordlessly waiting until the woman of the hour arrives. It isn't until five minutes later that she finally rushes in.
"Sorry, I'm here!" She's breathless, clearly having rushed to the hospital in time. And yet, Abbot thought she looked as beautiful as ever. "Have you guys started?"
"Nope, courtesy of Abbot." Robby is trying to hide his amusement, thinking to himself how whipped his best friend is.
"Thanks," she whispers to Abbot, taking her usual spot next to him as she listens to Robby's debrief.
They're not dating but he's always in tune with her - her emotions, her mood, her cases, etc.
"Where's Y/N? I have a cool laceration I want her to see," Shen asks Lena, tapping his fingers on the nurse's desk.
"She's in central five," Abbot pipes up, standing five feet from Shen, eyes dissecting a file on his Ipad.
Shen smirks, knowing full well why Abbot knew the girl's exact location. "Thanks, boss," he pats Abbot on the back as he walks her way.
They're not dating but she stands next to him on the rooftop in silence as long as he needs her to.
There was a chill in the air, the sun rising to wish the citizens of Pittsburgh a good morning. Abbot stood in his usual spot on the rooftop, on the more dangerous side of the railing. He knew she didn't like it, he knew she thought it was unsafe. She didn't think he would jump or anything of the sorts, but it still scared her. He couldn't help it - standing so close to the edge grounded him (ironic, I know). It had become a sort of routine - a stressful case would come in, he would come to the roof, she would follow.
The familiar creak of the door broke him out of his train of thought. She's finally here, he thought. He listened intently as her steps moved her closer to him, as she stepped under the railing - which stressed him out because he worried for her safety - to get to him.
Each moment in the rooftop went the same. They shared little words, they didn't have to speak. She knew how he felt, how much he cared for each patient that ended up on his table. As much as she wishes it were different, she knows that there is nothing she can say to alleviate his pain. So, she stands there with him, showing him she cares and that she is there for him without having to say it. And this fact does little to lessen the massive crush he has on her.
They're not dating but she invites him to play pickleball with her on their mornings off.
"Boom!" Her yell echoes across the pickleball court. "7-4, old man," she brags after scoring yet another point on him.
He laughs, shaking his head. "I'm taking it easy on you," he quips back.
At that comment, she scoffs "yeah right," under her breath.
He can't help but smile, watching as she bends her knees to prepare for the next play. He might be hot and sweaty and disgusting, but he wouldn't trade their pickleball days for anything.
They're not dating but she's the only one who can call him 'old man.'
"Your age is showing, old man," Shen speaks, elbows deep into the chest cavity of a trauma patient.
Abbot scoffs, "Oh, I know you're not talking to me." He knows Shen means no harm, and he knows that he is in fact teetering on the edge of being geriatric, but he can't help but get annoyed at Shen for his comment.
Before he can come up with a snarky retort to Shen's dig, Y/N pipes up from the corner of the room, "hey, I'm the only one that can call him 'old man,' Shen." The edge of Abbot's lips twitch, a smirk fighting its way to his face.
"Yeah, Shen. Only she can call me 'old man'."
They're not dating but, even though she teases him mercilessly for it, she always makes sure to walk into the hospital with both her usual vanilla latte and his black coffee (I could never drink black coffee straight).
"Here ya go," a hot drink cup is placed next to where Abbot sits, charting so Gloria gets off his ass about record-keeping.
He smiles, his heart skipping a beat at the fact that his favorite resident memorized his coffee order. "Kid, I've told you to stop wasting your money on me."
She smiles shyly, eyes shifting to her feet. "I don't see it as a waste of money," is all she says before walking away, her own coffee in hand.
Yeah, safe to say Dr. Jack Abbot is whipped.
They're not dating but he always has a stock of chocolate in his locker because he knows she loves it.
Y/N stands at the nurse's station, chatting away with Lena. He could tell that her mood was dropping slightly, so he made the walk all the way to his locker to grab a Kit-Kat he gets just for her.
Her head turns when he appears in the corner of her eye, holding out the candy bar. His heart swells as her eyes light up, a beaming smile taking place on her face.
"This is why you're my favorite." She grabs the bar from his hands, fingers working to undo the wrapper until she suddenly stops and says, "thank you," in the most earnest tone he has ever heard.
"Anything for you, kid."
They're not dating, but he is the first to reassure her whenever she gets nervous or anxious.
She feels her hands begin to shake as she sutures up the bullet wound adorning the guy on the table's stomach. There was too much blood, too much liquid spilling out, too much paleness taking over the man's body.
"Hey," his voice tore through her mind, "you're doing good. Breathe." His words soothed her, grounded her. If he wasn't freaking out, then she shouldn't either. If she royally fucks it up, it's technically on him as the attending. And if he believes in her, then she will do everything in her power to deserve his praise.
After the patient is stabilized, after the nurses and the doctors clear out of the trauma room, leaving her and Abbot alone, she can't help it.
"You okay?" He asks. Her answer comes in the form of a hug. She squeezes him tight, arms wrapped around his torso as if he is her lifeline. It doesn't take more than a second before he is squeezing her back just as tight.
"Yeah," she sighs, "I'm okay now."
They're not dating but there is a betting pool on when they're going to get together.
$30 they're already secretly dating - Garcia, Whitaker, Mohan, Princess
$25 they're hooking up - Matteo, Santos, Shen
$50 they're madly in love with each other but refuse to confess - Robby, Dana, Langdon, Mel, Javadi, McKay, Perlah, Abbot
^ has nobody noticed that Abbot himself literally bet on this - Javadi
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x mom!reader x toddler!daughter
Warning: fluff, domestic sweetness
Summary: Jack returns home to find his sleepy babygirl clinging to a very special teddy.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
The morning sun was just starting to peek through the blinds. Jack quietly unlocked the front door, his entire body was aching and all he wanted was to crash.
But as he hung up his jacket, your soft voice pulled him toward your babygirl's bedroom.
No matter how exhausted he was, seeing his girls was the only cure for a rough shift.
You were already by the crib, a mug of coffee warm between your hands. You looked up as he slipped into the room, your eyes softening at the dark circles under his.
"Hey, handsome," you whispered, setting your mug down on the side table. "Survived the night?"
"Barely," Jack murmured back. He walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "Missed you, beautiful."
"Missed you too, Doctor." You tilted your head, kissing his cheek. "Say hi. She’s just waking up."
Jack smiled, pulling away to step over to the crib. Inside, your daughter was starting to stir. She blinked sleepily, her eyes rubbing against her fists until they landed right on Jack. Instantly, a tiny smile broke behind her pacifier.
"Daddy!" she screamed with a sleepy voice.
She immediately poked her hands up into the air, making her uppie arms.
Jack’s heart completely melted. He leaned over the railing, scooping her warm body up against his chest.
"Hi my beautiful girl," Jack whispered as he pressed a long kiss into her hair.
She let out a giggle, her hands immediately coming up to cup his face. Her fingers patted his cheeks, testing the rough morning stubble on his jaw. "S'atchy," she mumbled, but she didn't pull away. She leaned her forehead against his nose, rubbing it side to side in a sleepy greeting.
"Yeah, Daddy needs a shave, doesn't he?" Jack cooed, rocking her gently from side to side as she buried her face into his neck.
As he hoisted her a little higher, Jack noticed something else in the crib. A familiar fluffy brown teddy bear dressed in a miniature set of blue hospital scrubs with a very cute little stethoscope.
"Since when does she sleep with plushies?" Jack asked softly, turning to you with an arched eyebrow. "She usually kicks everything out the second she lays down."
You let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his waist, leaning your head against his shoulder. Hearing your voice, your daughter reached one hand to pat your face, ensuring both of her favorite people were within arm's reach.
"She only sleeps with that one," you explained. "And only on specific nights. When you're on a night shift and you can't put her to bed, she gets incredibly restless. She sits by the door waiting for you."
Jack’s chest tightened. The guilt of the long hours at the hospital was a constant weight.
"So, I started giving her the bear on those nights," you continued, reaching out to smooth a stray curl away from your daughter's forehead. "I told her that whenever Daddy is at the hospital helping people, this guy is on duty to keep her safe until you get home. Now, she won't go to sleep without him when you're gone. I think it's her way of keeping you close until you come back."
Jack looked down at the scrubwearing bear on the mattress. He reached down with his free hand and picked up the plushie, holding it up so his daughter could see it.
"Who's this, sweet girl?" Jack asked her gently, shaking the bear's little paw. "Is this your helper?"
The toddler blinked sleepily at the bear, then looked right at Jack, her little thumb poking the bear as she nodded. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and pointed a tiny finger at the plushie.
"He's night dada," she mumbled softly, her voice muffled around her paci.
Jack froze. New emotions emerged at the realization that she considered the little bear her version of him when the sun went down.
"Night Dada, huh?" Jack pressed the plush bear gently into her arms, and she instantly hugged it tight against her chest, right alongside his own neck. "He takes good care of you when Daddy's at work?"
The toddler nodded and whispered. "Dad doctor."
He wrapped his free arm securely around you, needing the comfort of his family.
"Thank you," he whispered to you, leaning down to kiss your lips. "For being here for her when I can't."
summary: you think about all the times brendon park has been good to you whilst others question if he could ever partake in a relationship. (wc: 2.3k)
pairing: brendon ‘the shark’ park / pitt!f!reader
content: fluff. secret relationship with the pitt’s shark. grumpy x sunshine duo. pilates princess!reader?? 100% park the shark ooc because i didn’t watch all of the season & he’s on for all of 1 minute lmao.
dedicating this draft to @novatheory for dragging me by the collar back into the pitt obsession
“Do you think he ever feels anything other than bitter resentment?”
You peered over the monitor you had been using to compete in the catch up with Santos on your charting—something Dr. Al-Hashimi took great pride in addressing from time to time. Whitaker and Javadi had their elbows leant against the work station, whilst Santos pressed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets from the mild distraction caused by her peers.
(Safe to say, you were winning the catch up game. Well, until your interest had piqued too.)
Fingers paused on the keyboard, you awaited the conversation to strike up against after a pregnant pause.
Whitaker hummed, “I think he just stares at a wall when he goes home.”
Who were they talking about? You craned your neck to look into Trauma One, where—from your seated position—you could only make out a green fleece and rounded shoulders.
“Dr. Robby?” You dove into the discussion head first. Three sets of eyes turned to the sound of your voice, and you managed to return the blank look on their faces. “Are you talking about Dr. Robby?”
It would make sense. You weren’t partial to the knowledge that Dr. Robby could hold an immense amount of resentment, and spend his spare time boring his eyes into the blank slate of a bedroom wall. There was a great depth of sadness behind those brown eyes and weathered features that would wrinkle in amusement any time you spoke.
Dr. Robby liked you. A breath of fresh air in an all-too-consuming atmosphere that often felt like the walls were closing in with no exit in sight. In spite of this, you weren’t immune to his wrath of a bad day and unaddressed mental health problems that he struggled to pin down.
However, it didn’t entirely make sense for the three musketeers loitering at the work station, to be putting negative connotations on their nuanced Chief Attending; that often gave them the benefit of the doubt.
Santos rubbed at her forehead, speaking lowly, “No. They’re talking about Park the Shark.”
Now, that was a name that made you forget about the looming deadline of your charting.
Park the Shark. The rather foreboding entity that bestowed his abrasive presence within the ED when he was called down from Orthopaedics to leer over a case. Broad shouldered with sharp facial features and an attitude that would silence a room rather than liven it up. Some would assign him to the adjective: arrogant.
If you were playing the same crossword, you much preferred the noun: boyfriend.
(Something that wasn’t common knowledge to the hub of gossip in the PTMC.)
Your smile grew wickedly. Nothing quite like hearing your boyfriend of five months and ten days catching strays whilst inspecting a broken femoral bone alongside Dr. Robby.
“Oh—” You started, standing from your spot to join Whitaker and Javadi with your half drunken coffee in one hand. You nudged Whitaker to move up, “—I’m sure he’s a kitten beneath all of that mean facade.”
“Coming from the person who always gives people the benefit of the doubt?” Javadi laid her eyes on you with a playful smile, “Yeah. Your opinion is invalid. Look where that landed you last time.”
Javadi was referring to the dicey situation you landed yourself in with a flighty forty-year old man with a bad burn and enough pills in his bloodstream to hallucinate that you were a six-foot threat holding a knife designed for his jugular. You had taken the case with a pep in your step, and a broad smile—because you wanted to help. The same friendly smile and dash of naivety that got wiped clean off your face when the man lunged at you with the intention to block your windpipes on a more permanent basis.
It took Donnie, Robby and Jesse—with a couple of fists to the back from Dana—to pry the guy off of you.
You scrunched your nose up at the memory. “Low-blow, Dr. J.” You took a sip from your straw, eyes trained on the large surface area of your boyfriend’s back as he manoeuvred around the patient.
Javadi spoke again, “Can you imagine him in a relationship?”
Yes. Yes, you could!
By all means, Brendon Park was nothing short of a grouch. Low-browed, body made up of ninety-nine percent brood, loathing things such as, his time being wasted, small talk; or long queues in traffic and in the stores on his rare day off.
The other one percent, though? All made for loving you.
When it came to you, Park the Shark—as he had been so graciously titled in the Pitt—was all softened edges and lack of authority in contrast to his razor-sharp reputation in the workplace. When Brendon Park was around you, doors would magically open, the caffeine addiction wouldn’t come with a small dent in your chequing account, and if you suddenly found the inspiration to invest in a herb garden at 9AM? Brendon Park conjured up a green-thumb and made it happen.
He would press a soft kiss to the back of your hand at stoplights, power through four episodes back-to-back of Love Island, despite finding it the most mind numbing piece of garbage that was ever thrown on TV. He would find the right angles for semi-planned candid photos for your Instagram feed, with zero means of protest. He would sweat through a Pilates class after some light teasing from you, that someone with his stature couldn’t possibly make it through an entire session. (He did, but he wasn’t far from quitting.) One time, in between sharing a bad takeaway and a movie that you had pleaded to watch, Brendon tried out your LED face-mask that you had bought on a whim.
Just because you asked him to.
Let’s not even address what had happened behind a closed curtain and the aggressor of your attack, when Park had found out upstairs.
Which, funnily enough, had been the pinnacle moment in where you began to realise how deep Park’s feelings ran for you.
1.) Because what business did an OR surgeon have with a man under the influence of narcotics and a bad burn on his forearm? And 2.) Because it hadn’t always been smooth sailing seas to the heart of the Shark hunting the shallow waters of the ER.
“You’re like a cockroach.” Park had stated with a yank of his latex glove. He had been brought down with Garcia, and quickly realised that he was surrounded by incompetent butchers, which only furthered his impatience when you approached him with the sunniest disposition and a mouthful of conversation for him.
It seemed that you were the only person in the entirety of the PTMC that would rush to the opportunity to speak to the infamous, Park the Shark. Your consistency was a little vexing, because Park didn’t exude the whole ‘please talk to me!’ vibe, in fact, the only other thing than work that he put effort into; was being closed off.
(Didn’t mean he shut off the ability to recognise a visually astounding resident.)
You placed a hand to your chest in faux-flattery, “Thank you, Park.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Despite wanting to project a healthy amount of space between him and you, Park still made sure to hold the door open by his foot until you sauntered past him. You flashed him a mischievous grin in passing, “The symbolism of a cockroach is that they’re resilient. They thrive even in the most extreme environments.”
With his palm held beneath the dispenser, Park didn’t spare you as much as a glance as he scoffed, rubbing the spit of sanitiser up to his wrists before stalking over to the stairs to retreat back into the confines of the OR.
You had watched him go, calling out to him before he disappeared, “I’ll be ready with more animal facts for whenever you’re needed down here!”
And, you did exactly that.
Any snippet caught of Park the Shark lurking in the murky waters of the ED with a hardened expression and little time for pleasantries, you were there with useless facts on a vast array of animals. It started off vague, and then you thought it would be fitting to only present shark facts to the local grump.
The first fact had been met with a brief look up and down in utter silence. The second time, you had matched his strides toward Trauma Two and uttered that capybaras made great companions to alligators which earned you a shake of the head, and a slight curl of his lip—something you would have missed, if you hadn’t been inspecting his facial expressions. The third, fourth and fifth time, Brendon Park could be considered a hypocrite. No apparent time for small talk, but now, he would find himself slowing his walk whenever you giddily rounded the work station to do your fair share of sugar talking.
A man of few words spoke a great deal when it came to his actions.
So, when Park the Shark idled up next to you with his hands braced against the edge of the countertop, and a thunderous face; anyone might have presumed you were about to receive an earful.
(You hoped not. This was the day that, just hours prior, a patient had you in a chokehold.)
“Female sharks have evolved to have skin that is three times thicker than male sharks.” Park uttered the fact to you, whilst his eyes softened remarkably under the intrusive lighting overhead.
You blinked, not expecting him to partake in your adolescent game. “I—Uh…”
“All good?” He interjected.
“Yeah…Yeah, I’m good.” You swallowed, cringing when the reminder of the assault struck a sharp pain down your throat. You smiled meekly.
Park gave a curt nod, “It’s been dealt with.” And, then he knocked his knuckles against the surface top and parted through the sea of nurses and patients.
You were left utterly bedazzled.
Dana Evans, who stood close by and had no intentions of minding her business when she witnessed the lonesome Shark prowling about her ED, swimming up to one of the fresh-faced residents with all the suaveness he could muster from his cold exterior; simply let out an impressed chuckle, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder to give it a quick squeeze.
You tilted your chin up to stare at the mother figure of the Pitt.
“You did it, kid.” Her accent thick as she spoke into your ear, “You’ve caught a shark.”
The charge nurse was then subjected to a tight-lip and a nonchalant shrug if anyone—like Perlah or Princess—queried Park the Shark’s regular attendance in the ED, even when he was not required. She turned a blind eye to the coffees delivered under your name with a cryptic note that had been left for your deciphering only. And, when you adorned a cute little shark pin on your badge…well, Dana Evans bit her tongue and diverted her attention to what mattered.
The only thing Dana had commented on was that, against all stereotypes of the big bad boyfriend and bubbly girlfriend, she had become privy to the knowledge that Brendon Park liked his luminous green matcha and you liked your black coffee; this was after she had caught you sneaking a kiss with the intimidating OR figure before your shift started, both grappling onto your drinks of choice from the local coffee shop a few blocks down the road.
It was also the first time Dana had ever seen a smile on Park’s face. (Something she thought about for the rest of her shift, because clearly, you were doing something right to soften that concrete shell of his.)
So, as a collective, Brendon Park exceeded all expectations for a man who severely lacked the traits of a social butterfly. He was a man that proved that being mean to the world never encroached into the space of when it came to loving his girl.
And, you were being loved right.
With all this thought about having a magnitude of gratitude for the hostile OR surgeon that made enough space for you and your bizarre animal facts to slot into his life, you watched as Park peeled the latex gloves from his hands and exited the room that Dr. Robby remained in for a few moments more. His hand—as everyone’s routinely did—came to the sanitiser dispenser; eyes scoping the chaotic scenes of the Pitt until he managed to find you amongst the other residents.
No animal facts today, big guy.
You took a sip of your coffee.
Park tilted his chin at you when he began to rub the sanitiser into the callus of his hands. There was not a singular hint of a smile, but from the intensity of his stare, you could presume his thoughts were far from the means of child friendly.
(Neither of you had the desire to catch a HR case with Glorida Underwood. So, the PDA of it all stayed within the confines of the PTMC car park, or either of your apartments.)
“He’s looking right at us.” Javadi muttered under her breath, body turned to face Whitaker—who was quick to busy himself with his watch—and you from the side to prevent the obvious staring you had all been doing.
Park began to wade through the ED, eyes set on you as he made his way back to the stairs—because he didn’t have time for elevators. You spoke to him through the subtlety of facial expressions, and he exchanged yours for a brief wink which made your skin prickle with heat.
He disappeared to the staircase, and your phone brightened up in your scrub pockets.
Sharky (4:26pm): You’re beautiful. Love Island tonight.
Yeah. You thought. Who could ever tame a shark like that?
oh to get pulled over for speeding by your husband sammy <3
shrugging your shoulders and forming a wince when you see the officer sammy bryant rolling up to your window. eyes squinted shut a bit at "okaaaay, license and registration."
when he finally gets a good look at you, he's cooing "baby... what the fuck? this is a 30, you were doing 45. what's the rush princess? whatsa matter?"
you're pleased to find out that crying does, indeed, still get you out of a ticket. you're hyperventilating as sammy watches, "shh, shhh okay, okay honey c'mon outta the car."
he opens the door for you, helping you stand up and hugging you, a gentle rock back n forth as he tuts into your hair "gotta be careful baby, you're precious cargo, you know that? huh?" sammy holds you for a few more minutes, big soothing hand running down your back to help even your breaths. you never did like getting in trouble, and it's even worse when you disappoint him.
after a few minutes and a call over the radio, sammy pulls back with thumbs rubbing at your arms. he meets your eye level, putting on that soft dominant voice you love so much, "now get your pretty lil ass back in the car, drive home- slowly now, okay? and go lay down for a little, you're too worked up sweetheart. i'll be home soon, kay? okay baby? alright.. g'head" tapping your butt as you get back in the car, closing the door for you on the way.
when you pull away he smiles at you, making the "i'm watching you" signal with his pointer and middle finger and flashing you his million-dollar, crooked, charming smile.
synopsis: bothering jack abbot is your specialty, fuck whatever your actual job is.
content: swearing, medical inaccuracy obviously--sue me I'm in law not medicine, minor gaslighting but only un poquito, jack cant even be mad at reader LMFAO he is so whipped. but like he can though. but also in the moment he cant. he just needs a little time, I kept it T for freaking teen baby!!
a/n: what is there to say...technically preceding goldilocks but you don't have to read that to read this and vice versa. dani @alexturner once said to me "i love how she's the lawyer but he's always the one winning arguments" and i was like hm. perhaps i should rectify that. ok bye
Jack is elbow deep in someone’s chest cavity when his phone buzzes, cutting straight through the controlled chaos of consequences befalling a man rushed into his trauma bay after poor seatbelt choices and an accident straight out of Final Destination.
It starts as a faint tremor in the pocket of his scrubs—more vibration than sound—but even beneath layers of sterile gown and adrenaline, he feels it.
He doesn’t acknowledge it.
He can’t. His hand is currently cradling some guy’s inferior vena cava like it’s made of glass, and one wrong twitch means this guy is leaking faster than a bullet-addled DC-10.
But the buzzing doesn’t stop.
It goes off again.
And again.
The third time it happens, Ellis glances toward the tray table. “Dr. Abbot, your phone—”
“I know,” he says, voice calm but clipped. “Ignore it. I need suction.”
It’s not that he isn’t curious. Of course he is. Jack’s phone never rings this much unless something’s on fire—or worse, you tried using his gas stove again.
But there’s a heart in his hand, so it can wait.
Probably.
Hopefully.
God willing.
And then it fucking goes off again.
“Oh my God,” he breathes out, entire body stilling with disbelief. “Can someone please answer that?”
There’s a small shuffling as Ellis obeys his command, maneuvering around the occupants of the room towards the small metal tray. Tugging off one red-streaked glove, she shimmies the small phone out of his back pocket and swipes across the screen, unlocking it.
It presses against Jack’s ear.
Silence bleeds through from the other side, softly broken by the static of a breath.
“Hey, Jack.” You voice drifts out, half-articulate, and followed by a soft smack like you were mid-snack and had a prophetic vision of him at the most inopportune moment and decided to blow up his phone. “What’s up?”
Jack blinks down at his blood-soaked gloves—at the fucking cavern his hand disappears into.
What’s up?
“Nothing crazy,” he replies mildly. Catching someone’s eye, he nods down where his hands disappear, demanding more suction. “Are you dying?”
“Only to talk to you.”
Jack sighs, wedging the device harder between his shoulder and cheek.
“Honey, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back.”
“No, you won’t—you always say that. There’ll be some emergency you have to tend to.”
“An emergency in the emergency room?” he asks dryly. “Imagine that.”
The doctor hears you snort, the microphone picking up the soft sound of your socks scuffling across the porcelain-disguised-as-wood floor before you grunt.
Hopping onto the counter in the kitchen, Jack assumes.
He shifts his weight, the blue fabric of his gown crinkling as he carefully pinches the artery between his fingers to further constrict blood flow.
Glancing up, he meets Ellis’ eyes and mouths, where the fuck is surgery?
Two minutes, she mouths back.
Jack huffs a breath that fogs up his glasses for a split second.
“Jack? You still there?”
“No, actually—”
“Alright, obviously you are. Anyway,” the doctor groans, but you continue as if he didn’t even have vocal chords with which to make the noise. “Medical opinion. Skipping backstory because someone is feeling bitchy today. Do penguins have depression?
Jack’s brain short-circuits.
Shaking his head minutely trying to generate any energy that would restart any mental faculty, a disbelieving laugh—more of a hwa, really—escapes him.
“What?”
“They can’t fly. Are they, like, sad because of that? I think I would be.”
He cannot fucking do this right now.
His leg is starting to ache, and his shoulder is starting to cramp from the awkward fucking position he finds himself in trying to stabilize this patient long enough to get him to surgery, and he has to subtly shift his weight in a futile attempt to relieve any of that tension—though, if he’s honest, most of that tension is coming from you—and his shoes make a sickening shweck sound when the soles of his boots slide across the blood-slicked ground. And through it all—the faint pulsing of the blood through the vein in his hand and the scent of iron wafting through the air, stealing all breath from his lungs—you’re on the other side of the phone, miles away, chirruping about the presumed mental state of Antarctic birds.
Jack’s eyes slide closed for a beat, and he takes a deep, should-be calming breath.
And then he cuts you right the fuck off.
“Sweetheart, I’m chest deep in someone who tried to merge with a semi-truck,” he bites out. “I have the only thing keeping his blood pressure in the double digits in my hand. My resident looks like she’s about cut my arm off and use it as a puppet, and I’m almost positive I just heard you lick a spoon.”
Jack takes another deep breath.
“And you called me,” he confirms slowly, the syllables taut with barely-there restraint, in an attempt to find the fucking sense in them, “to ask me if I think penguins get sad because they can’t fly?”
Someone stifles a snort across the room.
The tendon in his jaw flexes as he attempts to rein in his annoyance.
Someone's heart is literally in his hands. You’re calling inquiring about the possible chemical imbalances that may afflict flightless avians. And now there is laughter in his trauma room.
Jack makes a note for later—clean-up detail, entirely comprised of that one fucking guy. Why shouldn’t the janitor get a nice hour off?
“Yeah," you say simply. "Do they?”
“Honey. Sweetheart. Light of my life. I’m mid-vascular anastomosis,” He tilts his head, carefully balancing his phone between his cheek and his shoulder. Like a switch is flipped, his voice becomes laden with frustration. “I cannot stand here and opine on the emotional state of penguins,” Jack snaps.
The line goes silent. Jack almost feels bad.
Almost.
Then your voice—your once again snack-addled voice, thick with peanut butter or something, Jack guesses—cuts back in.
“Jack, it’s a simple yes or no,” you sigh.
Like he’s the crazy one for not wanting to have this conversation right now.
“I’m hanging up,” he decides.
“Okay, rude ass—”
“Kid, I love you,” he cuts in, catching Ellis’ eyes and shrugging the shoulder with his phone on it. “But I’m hanging up.”
Ellis grabs the phone from him, an extremely amused smile on her face.
Leaning over to him, she whispers, “I’ll make sure to chart that call as ‘urgent,’ Abbot.”
The moment Jack opens your door, he’s ready to fight.
He spent the entire drive rehearsing what he was going to say, so he could at least try to make it hard for you to twist his words and win an argument.
Jack would bring up the fact that the phone call was completely irresponsible. He would concede that, yes, you’re right, he could have hung up at any moment. He would also assert that you knew he was on-shift and that, barring any injury, major or minor, or you winning the lottery, communication should be confined to text.
He had it all planned out.
He, of course, forgot to account for the fact that your front door seems to squeak when it opens no matter how many cans of WD-40 he puts on it—he suspects that he’s keeping Home Depot in business from that alone—and the entryway looks directly into your kitchen.
His foot hovers over the threshold to your apartment, and Jack sees you freeze, half-eaten bagel hovering in the air, one of his old hoodies draped over your body barely covering your shorts, and one sock scrunched down by your ankle while the other remains glued mid-calf.
You don’t even turn toward him, but he sees your wide eyes locked on his figure from your periphery.
Without removing his eyes from you, the doctor hangs his backpack on the little hook he installed for himself.
His right foot brings him one step closer.
Then his left.
And then he starts stalking toward you.
Slowly, as casually as possible with no sudden movements, you toss your bagel down to the plate with a ping from the hard bread meeting ceramic. To your right, your arm slides across the kitchen island, your body turning toward him as it melts into the granite while your feet slink in the opposite direction.
Finally, your body reaches maximum stretch, and Jack rounds the island to rest opposite of you.
The island of burnt bagels and granite.
His new battleground.
You throw him a lopsided grin.
“Heyyyyyyyyy, Jack,” you nervously laugh out. “Looking goo—”
And suddenly, he’s angry.
Very angry.
He's angry that you can look so cute and be so nonchalant when you’ve caused him major turmoil in the past four hours. Not to mention teasing from Shen.
“Four in the morning,” he barks out.
Your shoulders hike up to your ears, smile melting down and baring your teeth in a distinct haha, you got me expression.
“You called me at four in the morning,” Abbot reiterates, “to ask me if I thought that penguins get sad because they can’t fly.”
He sticks a finger in your face. “Four in the morning.”
“Okay, well, do you—?”
“Four.”
“Established! But,” your finger lazily draws a circle on the counter, “you’re still not answering.”
Your name vibrates out of his chest in a groan. “You of all people should know the legal ramifications of stopping an emergency procedure for a phone call.”
He pauses.
Then, “Especially ones that are penguin based.”
“I don’t…” your eyes dart to the side before snapping back to him.
You squint, weaponizing confusion. “Jack, I’m not sure why you think the law explicitly prohibits penguin discussions amid emergency operations.”
“That’s not— my point is—”
“Give me one statute,” you demand.
“What?” he flounders, caught off guard.
“One. Statute.” You raise your eyebrows and shrug. “I’ll wait.”
1. Bring up the fact that the phone call was completely irrespons–
“That’s your job—” he hears himself saying instead.
What the fuck is happening right now? Where did his bullet-points go?
“Oh, alright,” you laugh out, crossing your arms over your chest. “So, you admit you came into the operating room with zero legal grounding.”
“What? No—”
“So you knowingly performed a high-stakes medical procedure without ensuring full compliance with potential,” your voice hesitates, the last syllable wavering as you battle amusement, “penguin-related clauses in state and federal code. That’s…” You push yourself clear off the island and wave two disbelieving hands in a what the fuck gesture. “Well, that’s bordering on gross negligence, Jack.”
“I didn’t— there are no penguin clauses—”
“Oh, okay.” You nod slowly. “So now you’re just assuming legal precedent, then. On what basis? Gut feeling? Ornithological jurisprudence?”
“You’re making things up,” he snaps.
“I’m doing my job.”
“What job? It’s eight in the morning on a Saturday and you—” he hisses out, jabbing a finger in your direction, “—you’re in Whataburger boxers and mismatched socks.”
“Typical Sunday best,” you dismiss with a shrug.
Stand your ground, Jack.
“It’s Saturday, not Sunday,” he grinds out.
“Saturdays are Sundays of the weekend, everyone knows that.”
And what the fuck does that mean?
Jack groans, rubbing his temples like that’ll somehow buffer him from your logic.
“You know what?” he snaps. “I hope penguins are sad. Deeply, irreparably sad. Because if I have to suffer, they do too.”
“Wow.” You blink, head slinking back in astonishment. “Bold stance for someone claiming to be pro-bird.”
“I never claimed that!” he insists, the tendon in his neck flexing, almost to the point of pain, while he fights for his life in a court of bird law that doesn’t even fucking exist.
And, if it does, it sure as fuck isn’t taught in medical school.
“Oh, so you’re anti-bird now?”
“No! I just— God, what is happening right now?” he explodes, gesturing wildly. “You called while I had my fingers in someone’s heart to debate whether Emperor penguins have some sort of evolutionary seasonal affective disorder—”
“Well, do they?”
He closes his eyes.
Breathes in.
Out.
You lean forward, elbows on the counter in full cross-examination intensity.
“You said—and I quote—‘You of all people should know the legal ramifications.’ So, I asked you a legal question. And now,” your hand comes to rest on your heart, “I’m the bad guy?”
“I said that because you were going to kill that guy.”
“I was going to do no such thing,” you say mildly. “Because I. Respect. The law.”
The older man stares at you, jaw working, a silent plea to whatever higher power might be listening for the patience to survive this conversation.
A strange sense of calm washes over him—one that accompanies your specific brand of arguing technique.
He thinks maybe you have a point with all that amen, brother shit you throw around half-seriously.
“You know what I meant,” he says, each word a slow, deliberate exercise in self-restraint. “You can’t just twist my words because you’re bored and running on two hours of sleep and orange juice.”
You don’t bother to hide your smirk.
“I’m not twisting your words. I’m clarifying the record for the court. You know, in case this comes up during your deposition.” The sentence cuts off abruptly as you blink, holding a finger up while a thought belatedly comes in on the fax machine in your brain. “Also. I cannot drink orange juice. It interacts with my Focalin.”
“I’m not on trial.”
When he says it, he really, really tries to keep his tone resolute—clinical and I’m Mister Doctor who does doctor things.
You prod a finger at the air between you.
“Not yet. But the jury,” you gesture to the half-eaten bagel on the counter, “isn’t looking great for you, doctor.”
But, unfortunately, he's not doing doctor things. He's off the clock.
Jack stares at you for a long beat—at your wild hair that kind of resembles a lion’s mane right now, and at the amusement simmering in your eyes.
The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of this entire conversation hits him full force, all at once. Five hours ago, he was in the emergency department actually saving lives; now, he’s standing in your kitchen, tired and resigned and helpless to you, standing there wearing Whataburger boxers and arguing avian psychology with the composure of a Supreme Court justice.
A slow, helpless twitch tugs at the corner of his mouth. He tries to swallow it, but it’s too late. His shoulders betray him with a single shake, a breathless puff of hair escaping him as his head drops forward.
You pivot on your back foot, twisting your body to put distance between the two of you, in confusion.
But when Jack looks back up, whatever annoyance—anger, whatever—that was there is completely gone. The wrinkles by his eyes deepen with an amount of affection that is, frankly, a little embarrassing.
“You’re a nightmare,” he laughs, but the bite is entirely replaced by a soft, thread of fondness, wrapping around each word. He begins a leisurely walk towards where you’re standing, before he reaches out and catches the side of your jaw. “A literal, legal nightmare.”
Looking down, he sees your cloth-enclosed toes shuffle forward until they bump his shoes. His eyes make the ascent, trailing across your socks, and your fuckass shorts, and his hoodie, until they lock onto your own.
The apartment is silent as your soft breaths mingle with his.
Jack’s thumb traces down the line of your jaw, hooking on your chin before it smooths down to rest right above your collarbone.
Slowly, he tilts your head up.
Even more slowly, because proximity to you is now just downright Pavlovian, his eyes slide shut.
Distance between the two of you becomes non-existent, the bridge of his nose gently nudging your forehead.
He’s not thinking about the semi-truck or the first-year resident he’s definitely going to be overworking tomorrow or your extremely frustrating way of doubling down even when you know you’re wrong.
He’s thinking about how your forehead feels against his and how, despite his best efforts to be a serious professional, his heart is currently doing an extremely unprofessional skip.
“I’m going to lose my license because of you, you know that?” he whispers.
Against his throat, he feels your low, vibrating hum of surrender, lips grazing the sensitive skin.
“Not even because of that stupid fucking phone call,” he says. “But because I’m currently standing in the kitchen after my shift arguing about the legality of penguins with my extremely stubborn girlfriend instead of sleeping.”
A small puff of laughter dances across his skin, goosebumps following in its wake. “Girlfriend, huh?”
Jack hums.
And then lets out a long, very self-suffering sigh as the mockery of adrenaline evaporates from his system, leaving only the comfortable weight of being home. Carefully, his body sinks into yours, nudging one foot between yours and anchoring himself to you.
“For the record,” he whispers, lips brushing your skin with every word, “your little jury is biased. I would like to request a mistrial.”
Your arms snake around his waist, hooking together and find a home on his spine.
Jack abruptly pulls back and you whine, a pathetic where are you going whine that tugs at his heart.
“And I want a bite of that bagel as a peace offering,” he demands.
Small arms—deceptively strong small arms—pull him back to you.
You shake your head like your trying to burrow in.
“That’s literally your bagel,” you say, words muffled from where your face presses into his chest. "I made it for you."
Jack blinks.
“You were just eating it.” He turns his head and looks at what’s left of the offending breakfast item. “I watched you eat it. It’s literally half-eaten.”
“Ohhhh my god, you are bitchy today.”
"Kid, that's not even a bagel anymore. It's a piece of cardboard."
Hello, everyone!! I am back from the dead. Not to worry, I have been lurking on here, absolutely devouring all the Pitt fics I can find. I make this post because I am curious if I should get back into writing fics. I find a lot of my inspiration to write from songs (I am in no way a writer, this is just for fun and honestly I don’t know that my works are any good), and I don’t know how many people actually enjoy that. Long story short, I am here asking if my writing is any good and if anyone enjoys it enough for me to get back into it 🫠😅
Here’s a cute little Jack Abbot drabble for you all inspired by my doomscrolling
Jack says you spend way too much time on Tik Tok. He’s not wrong. In fact, Tik Tok is where you got the idea on how to further terrorize your husband.
Walking into the kitchen, you try to put on your best acting face. The urge to laugh rises up, but you tramp it down as you face Jack’s back, his hands busy with making your breakfast.
“Hey babe,” you put your best sheepish voice and wait for his grunt of acknowledgement before continuing, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to pay the mortgage this month.”
Silence fills the kitchen for a couple of seconds, Jack staring down at the pan before exhaling a “what?”
“I’m not going to be able to pay the mortgage this month,” you repeat, trying your best not to break. At that, he halfway turns to stare at you, his signature stare boring into your eyes.
“What are you talking about?” He asks incredulously. You feel the corners of your mouth begin to turn up, and do your best to keep a straight face with your husband staring at you as though you’ve grown two heads.
“The mortgage,” you say, “I’m not going to be able to pay it,” at that, he begins shaking his head.
“I heard what you said,” he exclaims, the pan on the stove now abandoned, turning to fully face you.
“Okay, well” you say after a second of silence, “can you get it for me this month? I’ll pay you back.”
“Baby,” he exhales once more, “when have you ever payed the mortgage?” At that, you burst out laughing, the confusion on his face becoming more cemented at your reaction. “I don’t get it,” he says, hands coming up to scrub at his face.
“It’s a prank,” your statement does nothing to ease his concern, no doubt running through concussion protocols in his mind. “I saw it on Tik Tok.” Once those words slipped your mouth, he mumbled some curses, turning back around to tend to the pan on the stove. Your laughter didn’t cease. “Oh my God, you should’ve seen your face,” you kept on going.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips.
Summary: Dr. Jack Abbot meets someone unexpected at the library.
Warnings: cursing, minimal use of Y/N, female vet school reader, age-gap implied, fluffy meet-cute, made up textbook written by sir Jack Abbot, Abbot is nicer than one would expect, not proof-read
WC: 1.0k
A/N: I hope you guys like this one, it’s shorter but I had so much fun writing it!
The library was close to empty, most of the Pittsburgh residents were already at work that fine Tuesday morning. Y/N roaming through the rows and rows of books. She came with one goal in mind: to find useful medical books for school. She wasn’t in med school, no, she was in vet school, but one of her professors had advised her to look into a couple of human medicine textbooks, apparently containing useful information in the large animal veterinary field.
And so, she walked aimlessly through the medicine book section, having zero clue what she was looking for. As she came up to the aisle titled ‘Medicine books A-Ca,’ one book caught her eye. The book itself wasn’t much to look at, it was the title that caught her attention: ‘Emergency Medicine 101’ by Dr. Jack Abbot. Now, emergency medicine is very different to large animal emergency medicine, yes. But her increased interest in emergency medicine immediately drew her towards the textbook, her hands grabbing and flipping through it.
What she didn’t know was that, towards the end of the aisle, none other than Dr. Jack Abbot, the very author of the book occupying her hands, stood transfixed by her. He didn’t know what happened. One minute he was looking for newly published medical research, the next his breath was caught at the sight of the pretty girl looking at his book like she just hit gold. She was young, yes, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t intimidated by it. I mean, for all he knows, he could be this girl’s father, and it takes him a couple minutes of building up the courage to approach her, which is surprising because the army vet finds few things intimidating or nerve-wracking.
Back in the middle of the aisle, the young student flips through the pages of the book, her eyes alight at the information she was reading. She had a deep love and appreciation for emergency medicine, and she hoped to one day be a mixed animal emergency veterinarian. They made serious bank, yes, but really, she loves the idea of helping animals in need. And, besides, the world needs more emergency veterinarians.
She is pulled out of her thoughts by a deep voice asking, “enjoying the book?” She looks up to find the most handsome man she’s ever seen smiling sheepishly at her. Her friends teased her often for her taste in men twenty years older than her, but she didn’t care. Call her shameless but she was severely attracted to the idea of an older guy, one who didn’t care about social media and was nothing like the businessmen she came across. No, she wanted an older, experienced man who would make her feel safe and wanted. She thought of herself as a delusional romantic, and she knew this probably meant nothing, but she couldn’t help but hope her prayers were finally answered and this older man was flirting with her.
She realized she had spent more than was socially acceptable drooling over the salt-and-pepper haired man standing in front of her, so she quickly scrambled to say “yes! I am, it’s quite interesting.” Seriously, she mentally face-palmed herself, that’s the best you could do?
The man laughed, and she swore she felt the butterflies in her tummy come alive at the sound. “I’m glad. Are you in med school, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Not at all!” She smiled, “and, no, I’m not. I’m in vet school, but I want to do my residency in mixed animal emergency medicine, and I was speaking to one of my professors and he said I should look into some human emergency medicine textbooks because they might have some useful things in them, so here I am,” she laughed awkwardly. Her friends were right; she has zero game.
Thankfully, he smiled at her word vomit, looking endeared rather than weirded out. “Your professor is giving you good advice. It’s always useful to look at other aspects of medicine.”
“Yeah,” she smiled and looked down, “that’s what he said.” She realized she was enjoying the conversation, even if she thought she was being incredibly awkward, so she kept it going by asking “Are you in emergency medicine?”
“I am,” the man took a step closer, “I’m an emergency physician over at the PTMC. My name’s Jack, Jack Abbot.” He held his hand out, and watched her brows furrow as she shook his hand.
“Y/N.” She looked back down at her book once he released her hand, her eyes widening when she read the author’s name. Written by Dr. Jack Abbot. “Holy shit,” she couldn’t help but exclaim. He laughed at her reaction, her face full of shock. “You wrote this,” she exclaimed.
“Yes, I did,” he smiled at her. His heart fluttered, he couldn’t help it. She just looked so impressed by him; it made his chest swell with pride.
“Holy shit, wow. It’s great to meet you,” she smiled up at him. She couldn’t believe it. A hot, older doctor who also wrote a textbook was talking to her.
“Thank you,” he laughed. They stood staring at each other, smiling like two idiots who had just fallen in love. After a solid minute of them gawking shamelessly, he cleared his throat and bared his soul. “If you’d like, we could go grab a coffee and I can talk to you some more about emergency medicine. I know it’s not the same as animal medicine, but maybe you find some things useful.” Holy shit, she thought, someone pinch me.
“I would love that!” She exclaimed, sounding a little too eager to pass as nonchalant.
He laughed, once again, and she swore she wanted to die to the sound. “Great, and ah, don’t worry about renting the book, I have extra copies at home.” As they walked out of the library together on what she prayed was a date to get some coffee, she quickly took her phone out of her pocket and texted her best friend: ‘girl, I have so much to tell you when you come over.’
Summary: After months of being heartbroken, nurse!reader encounters Dr. Abbot again.
WC: 2.1k
Warnings: Cursing, no use of Y/N, jealousy, mentions of death and grief, usual Pitt contents, angst with somewhat happy ending.
A/N: this feels like a load of word vomit but I hope it is somewhat cohesive and makes some sense. This is also the longest thing I've ever written so yay.
Part 1
Months passed. Shifts had flown by. Patient after patient, case after case, trauma after trauma. It had been exactly three months and thirteen days since the break room incident. But who's counting? She certainly wasn't.
She had asked to be switched to the dayshift exactly forty minutes after her and Abbot's conversation. Yes, she had feelings for him. Yes, he rejected her and broke her heart. Yes, she could be professional. But she would rather see him two minutes a day instead of working a whole shift alongside him. So, when Dana agreed and moved her to the dayshift after giving some bullshit excuse about wanting to be more present in her niece's life (spoiler: she doesn't have a niece) she was relieved. She thought that maybe, just maybe, she would be lucky for once and putting space between her and Abbot would help her get over him faster.
Unfortunately, her luck ran out. She supposed it was only a matter of time before she was called to work three nightshifts to cover for one of the nightshift nurses. It's okay, she told herself, it's going to be okay. It's not like the second she sees him all her feelings are going to come rushing back and slam into her with a force so strong it makes her forget how to breathe. No, that's not what's going to happen.
What she did not know, however, is that Abbot was just as nervous as she was. He hated to admit it but, ever since that night, he was riddled with guilt. He liked her, had more feelings for her than he would care to admit. He thought shutting whatever happened between them down would help turn those feelings off. But when he heard of her transfer request from the nightshift, he couldn't help but feel... sad. Sad for her. Sad for himself. He hurt her, he knew that much. And he hated himself for it. So, when he saw her name back on the nightshift schedule for three shifts, his heart sank. It was easy when he only saw her during the shift transitions. It was easy when she did everything possible to not acknowledge his existence. But now, he's going to have to pull himself together for those three nights; he had to put his head down, push his guilt and any lingering feelings aside and save some lives. He could do it... right?
The dreaded day of the first nightshift came. She was a wreck. She barely slept, couldn't eat. She was giving him too much importance, at least that's what her therapist said. But she couldn't help it. She hated how much she cared about Dr. Jack Abbot. And her resentment for her feelings only grew the second she walked through the ER doors. She was met with a sight of chaos. Patients in wheelchairs and beds riddled the hallways. Nurses ran back and forth. But no sign of Abbot. Good, she thought, this is good. The familiarity of it all, of the usual chaos in the Pitt helped soothe her nerves. She was good at her job. She was good at focusing on what mattered. She could keep her head down and work. But that resolve only lasted for so long.
Making her way towards the nurse's station, she said hi to Dana, not surprised to find the older nurse in another one of her random night shifts tossed into her mostly dayshift schedule. "Hey, sweetheart," Dana smiled, "glad to have you back."
She snorted, "You saw me two days ago, Dana." She moved to look at the tv screens, all the cases they had littering the monitors.
"I know, but I missed you on the nightshift. It's where you belong," the conversation ended at that, her heart clenching at Dana's comment. A lot of the nightshift staff questioned her on why she changed her schedule. On what happened between her and Abbot. It was obvious something changed. They went from working together perfectly to avoiding each other like the plague. Of course, the whole staff noticed. Hell, some of the male nurses had a bet going to see when the two would get together. To say they were all concerned about the sudden change was a sever understatement. Even Robby kept asking if she was okay. She would always answer the same: yes, I'm okay; no, nothing happened; I just want to spend more time with my family. Did anyone believe her? Nope. But her rehearsed responses were easier than saying well, I'm madly in love with Jack Abbot and we slept together, but then he said he didn't feel the same for me which hurt like a bitch.
Her small conversation with Dana chipped at her facade. And then Dr. Abbot stepped out of trauma one, Dr. Mohan behind him, the pair smiling and high fiving at their work. The chip turned into a full-on break. He used to smile at her like that. She forced her eyes down to the clipboard occupying her hands, "Hey, Dana. I might do triage with McKay. You okay with that?" She saw Abbot and Mohan moving closer to the nurse's station out the corner of her eye.
Dana's brows furrowed, "you don't wanna work trauma?" Now, the two doctors stood three feet from her.
She cleared her throat, "not today, no." She waited as Dana stared at her, concern littering her features. It was no secret that the girl loved working traumas, so, to Dana, her sudden interest in triage was concerning. It wasn't until her eyes shifted to Abbot and Mohan that she understood.
"Okay," Dana finally said. She let out a sigh of relief, feeling a certain pair of eyes burning holes into her.
"It's good to see you back doing night," Mohan spoke before she could run away. She forced herself to smile, not letting her sight stray to the man next to the female doctor. She liked Mohan. Truly, she did. Mohan was beautiful and so smart. She understood why Abbot mentored her the way he did. She couldn't blame her for her own heartbreak and jealousy.
So, "thank you" was all she said as she turned and made her way to McKay. Behind her, Abbot watched her leave, face not revealing anything going on in his head. But Dana being Dana, she saw what nobody else did.
"You wanna tell me what you did to that poor girl?" Dana asked once Mohan went to do rounds on her patients.
Abbot sighed, he knew he couldn't bullshit Dana, even if he tried. "It's complicated," was all he said before slipping gloves back on and continuing his work. Dana shook her head as he went, for sure calling him an idiot in her head.
The first night shift went by without incident. She stuck by Dr. McKay the whole night, never having to work with Abbot. A success, she thought as she got into her car and drove home. Just two more.
The next night passed similarly to the prior shift. She worked triage with McKay, taking care of the lesser emergencies with her. Abbot and her barely crossed paths, the only words exchanged between the two being "excuse me" when he bumped into her whilst traveling the crowded halls. She felt okay. Did she get jealous every time she saw Abbot and Mohan interact? Yes. But she didn't let it get to her. So, yeah, she felt good.
It wasn't until the third and final nightshift that it all went to shit. As soon as she walked into the ER a pedestrian who was hit by a car rolled in. She heard her name called out and rushed to help. As the EMT's spat out the person's history and condition, she felt a presence next to her, looking up and locking eyes with him. She turned her attention back to the patient, helping to get him stabilized. She listened as Abbot yelled out instructions. Once the patient was stabilized, she let out a breath. Her heart stopped as he called her name. She turned to look at him. He hesitated. "Nice job." She nodded, turned, and walked away.
Thirty minutes went by. Another emergency rushed in. Her and Abbot worked alongside each other, falling back into their old yet familiar routine. The whole night was full of emergencies and death; one she didn't want to repeat anytime soon. By the end of the shift, she was exhausted, tears pooling her eyes from the stress of it all. She didn't want to go home. Not yet. She didn't want to lie in bed, recounting every interaction between her and Jack- no, Abbot. She refused to call him Jack. It was too personal, too deep, too much. He wasn't hers to call Jack, a detail she wasn't forgetting anytime soon.
Before she knew it, she was on the stairwell leading to the roof of the hospital. She needed air, she felt like she was choking with all the trauma from the night. Head in the clouds, she walked towards the edge, sitting down and letting her legs hang down. She sniffled. It was all too much, all catching up to her. All the grief, the heartbreak, the stress. And she broke. She cried and cried, so much so that she didn't hear the door to the roof open. Didn't hear the heavy but cautious steps making their way towards her. She startled when the person settled down next to her, eyes wide, staring into Abbot's.
He stared down at her, brows furrowed, eyes creased. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Her mind took her back to the last time he said that to her, only making the tears fall faster from her eyes.
"About what?" she asked, voice hushed, thinking if she spoke too loudly, the fantasy would dissipate, leaving her sitting on the roof alone.
"Everything. Tonight. The past couple of months. I'm sorry for all of it." His response broke her even more.
She stayed silent, and he took it as his chance to come clean.
"I lied to you. When I told you I didn't have feelings for you, I lied." Her head snapped up at that, shock and confusion clouding her face. "I lied because I didn't know how to deal with all of this. Shit, I'm almost 50, I'm a widower, a traumatized war vet that's missing a leg, and you... you have your whole life ahead of you." His eyes bore into her red and glassy ones.
"What about Mohan?" It was now his turn to be confused.
"What about Mohan?"
"Well, you seem to be getting pretty cozy with her. You know, like you were with me." She tried not to let her anger and frustration show, but then he laughed. The bastard actually laughed.
"Sweetheart, there is nothing going on between me and Dr. Mohan. I'm her attending."
"That's funny, cause the excuse you gave me was that I’m your subordinate." She wiped at her wet cheeks, embarrassed for how much she was crying in front of him.
"I told you; I lied. That was the only excuse I could come up with." He saw her eyes getting glassy again, and his heart clenched for the 800th time that night. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you."
"No, you shouldn't have." After a minute of silence, she continued. "I don't care that you're old, Jack." He scoffed. "I don't care about your past, or whatever you may think is wrong with you. I just... I just wished you had told me. I wish you had let me make the decision for myself. The last couple of months," her voice broke, "have been the shittiest I have had in a while. I thought you only used me for a good time. I mean, I was good enough to sleep with but not date."
He shook his head, "that's not at all what happened. You're enough, more than enough." He paused, his head swimming with things unsaid, but he's a simple man of little words. "I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you."
She fiddled with her hands, her eyes looking back up to his, "let me decide that for myself." He looked down, no doubt ashamed for what he put her through. "Please." It came out broken and raw, but he heard it. He heard the pain in it, the sadness in it, the love in it.
He nodded, his hand reaching for hers. His fingers encapsulated hers, and he felt like he could breathe for the first time in months. His eyes wandered back to hers, an unspoken understanding passing between the pair. I don't deserve you, his eyes spoke for him, but fuck, I need you.
I know, hers spoke back. And so, they sat in silence, watching the sun rise, bringing along with it new beginnings.
Summary: After a night of romance with Dr. Abbot, a harsh conversation ensues.
Warnings: No use of Y/N, angst, age gap, reader is a nurse, suggestive content
WC: 1.0k
A/N: I'm trying a new formatting out, let's see if it works. This fic is based on we can't be friends by miss ari. This is my first time writing for The Pitt, let me know what you guys think. TBH idk how to feel about this, I feel like it's all over the place but wtv. And requests are open :)
Part 2
It was a mistake. What happened between her and Dr. Abbot was a huge mistake. She knew it. He knew it. But it was only a matter of time. Their chemistry was undeniable, all the nightshift saw it. The force that seemingly drew them to each other. It was palpable in the way he would always call her when he needed a nurse, in the way her eyes always searched for him when she walked into a room. Hell, even Dana noticed, throwing sly glances at the younger nurse's way when she noticed the way the doctor stared at his subordinate. Still, no one said anything.
And they weren't saying anything now, the whole of the nightshift noticing the tension between the two. Not the tension that was there before, no. This was new. Tension between two people avoiding each other, dancing around the subject of what might've been, what might've occurred.
It's a Thursday night, the Pitt overcrowded and understaffed as usual. The air felt charged, tense. The usual easiness and communication between the staff in the Pitt now nowhere to be found. What was left were hushed conversations, pinched brows, stressed sighs. It was just one of those days. And she felt it. She felt it as she went patient to patient, she felt it as she walked past Dr. Jack Abbot without so much as a second glance. In the past, she would have given him a smile, maybe a wave. She would've lingered around him until he called her for aid with a patient. She would've cracked jokes that would make him huff out a laugh, pride swelling in her chest for making the usually annoyed veteran laugh. But not today.
See, three nights ago, her life changed. The nightshift met up at a bar to loosen up, the weight of their jobs getting to them all. She drank a little too much. He offered to take her home. He ended up in her bed. They hadn't spoken since.
Which is why her heart began pounding when she went to the break room for a coffee only to find Dr. Abbot and Dr. King already in there, the pair discussing a case about a six-year-old boy who came in for a severe asthma attack.
"Sorry," she whispered once the pair looked up at her, turning around to leave when his voice stopped her.
"No," he called out her name, "I have to talk to you." Her heart sped up even more. Flashbacks of their night together hit her like a train. She would be lying if she said she didn't enjoy it. Her crush on the older man had been fairly obvious since she started her job at the Pitt, and he was a true gentleman. But their shared night did nothing to lessen her crush on the man. In fact, it only made her feelings for him stronger, and that was a problem. Not only is it a walking HR violation, but she also has a feeling that he may not feel the same for her. Who was she kidding, he's a veteran in his mid-forties, why would he ever want to be with a barely 23-year-old nurse. Yet, she couldn't help the hope that fluttered at her belly. Maybe he would say they should do it again. Maybe he would ask her out.
Dr. King promptly excused herself from the break room, rattling off some excuse about needing to consult with Dr. Langden about something. Melissa leaving did nothing to ease the tension.
After about a minute of awkward silence, she gained the courage to speak up. "What did you need to talk to me about?"
She watched as his hand reached up to swipe at his face, stress taking over his handsome features.
"The other night," he began, "well... What happened the other night can't happen again." Her heart dropped to her stomach. He watched as the hurt trickled its way into her expression, his heart constricting at the sight. "You're my subordinate. It's inappropriate."
She racked her brain for the right words, the weight of rejection fogging her. "I understand," she whispered. No, she didn't understand. She didn't understand how he could let himself sleep with her only to then say it can never happen again. "Just... Why did you do it? If you thought it shouldn't have happened in the first place, why" she trailed off, blinking back the tears pooling in her eyes.
He sighed, pity flooding his gaze. "I don't know." After a minute, he continued, "I won't lie to you, I think you're the best nurse here and I admire your dedication and passion. What happened that night was a mistake on my part. I should've known better, and I am sorry for not putting a stop to it."
She couldn't believe it. She felt as though he had ripped her heart out of her chest and stomped on it over and over and over again. "I don't think what happened was a mistake," her voice faltered, and Jack swore he could hear her heart breaking. "Can you honestly say that you feel nothing for me? That I'm imagining this thing between us?"
No, he wanted to say, you're not imagining it. "I'm sorry." His eyes trailed the tear that escaped her eye and wandered down her face. He was lying. Of course he was lying. He felt for her something he hadn't felt for anyone in a long time. But he couldn't tell her that. They could lose their jobs, plus, she doesn't need a man twice her age holding her back. So, he was letting her go. He was letting go of the way his heart skipped a beat when he looked up at her only to find her eyes already on him. He was letting go of the way his hands would linger on her waist when he brushed past her. He was letting go of the intense feelings he felt that night with her under him, giving himself over to her completely.
"Me too," she whispered, and he felt his heart turn to ash, the dust settling in his stomach masked as guilt. He watched as she turned her back and walked out the door, taking with her what could've been.
Summary : After not dating for a while, Clark’s heart is restarted by her electric touch
Based On : Electric Touch by Taylor Swift
A/N : I think this might be my longest work to date, and I’m excited! I don’t really know how much I like this but oh well.
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Clark didn’t date. At least, not after Lois. When Lois told him she was done, that she couldn’t take the stress of not just dating Clark, but dating Superman, he vowed not to date again. And he stuck to his vow. He drowned himself in his work, both at the Daily Planet and as the Earth’s protector. He kept himself busy, refusing any girl Jimmy tried setting him up with. Until her.
When Clark heard there would be a new intern in the Daily Planet, he thought nothing of it. But then, she walked in and it was as though his broken heart resurrected and glued itself back together, beating only for her.
She was kind and compassionate. She would take on any extra assignments given to her. She would bring the whole office coffee just because. She would volunteer to review people’s papers. She would give her lunch to the homeless in the streets, always saying that they needed it more than she did. And slowly, she won Clark’s heart.
The crush the two of them had on each other was obvious. It was obvious in the way he would linger around her desk, the way there was always a cup of coffee waiting for her at her desk, the way he would visibly perk up at the mention of her. It was obvious in the way she would always blush when he directed his word at her, the way she couldn’t meet his eye when he stared at her, the way she would laugh at his jokes, no matter how horrible they were.
And, finally, he gathered the courage to ask her on a date. It was a Tuesday, the Daily Planet buzzing with another front page Superman exclusive. Clark was early. A fact which surprised many of the Daily Planet staff. He walked in, two coffee cups in hand, beelining straight to her desk.
“Good morning,” she spoke once he reached her, red sneaking its way into her cheeks.
“Good morning,” he smiled as he handed her the coffee. “Latte with vanilla syrup,” her favorite coffee from her favorite coffee shop.
“Thank you, Clark.” Her eyes straying to his every three seconds. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to!” He spoke a little too quickly, “I mean, it’s really no problem.” What he failed to mention is that the cafe was five blocks out of his way to work.
They both sat in an awkward silence, her sipping from her coffee, him leaning against her desk.
“Uhm, I was thinking,” nervousness creeped its way into his tone, “if you weren’t busy, would you maybe want to go catch a movie with me this weekend?” She stared at him in surprise. He panicked. “I mean, of course, only if you’re free. And only if you want. You don’t have to say yes, I just thought may-”
“I would love to,” she cut him off, the smile he came to look forward to seeing making itself at home on her face.
“Great! Awesome, I’ll pick you up at seven this Saturday?”
“That works,” she couldn’t stop smiling.
“Awesome. It’s a date,” and with that, he made his way over to his desk, pretending to be nonchalant when he really wanted to celebrate her saying yes to a date with him.
And so, there he was, fixing the collar of his shirt, ready to go on his first date in two years. “Just breathe,” he kept reminding himself. “It’s gonna be ok, I mean, you’re Superman for gods sake.” His pep talk was not working, for his hands still shook with nervousness and anticipation.
He kept muttering words of encouragement under his breath all the way to her apartment. He didn’t stop until he stood in front of the door, hand hovering in the air, seconds before knocking. He took a deep breath as his hand knocked on her door.
The door swung open. There she was, standing in all her glory. Clark’s pep talk flew out the window as he took her in: her hair, her jacket and jeans, her smile, her smile. She looked equally as nervous and excited as he was.
“Hey,” he sounded breathless, “you look… you look very pretty,” he mentally slapped himself. Pretty? That’s it? But, could you blame him? After months of yearning for this girl, he was finally able to take her out. He even went so far as to reach out to the Justice Gang, asking them to take over for the night so he would have no interruptions.
She giggled, “thank you. You look very handsome.” The compliment made his cheeks redden, which made her smile grow even more.
“Ready to go?” She nodded, and the two left her apartment complex, making their way to the theater. As they walked, their hands brushed, making the pair blush even more.
The conversation flowed as they reached the theater, Clark, ever the gentleman, opening the door for her.
After insisting to pay for her snacks, they made their way to their seats. “So, what are watching?” She asked, her hand reaching into his popcorn and eating it gleefully. He smiled at her not-so-sneaky theft.
“Well, I remember you saying Pride and Prejudice was your favorite, so I pulled a couple strings and asked them to play it tonight.” He watched as she sat, a stunned look on her face. Her surprise made him nervous, maybe he did too much and he was scaring her away. But then, a smile slowly crept its way into her face. She looked at him as if she was really seeing him, as if she was seeing past the his pretend nonchalance and was seeing a man who truly cared for her.
“Thank you,” was all she said. After a few minutes, he pretended not to notice her hand sneaking his popcorn.
The movie began, and while he knew he should be paying attention to the movie, he couldn’t help but sneaking glances at her. He noticed everything. He noticed her mouth reciting the lines of the movie, clear evidence that she had seen the movie way too many times. He noticed the tears pooling at her eyes as Lizzie left Darcy after he professed his love for her. And he noticed how, as the minutes ticked by, she leaned closer and closer to him. Somehow, towards the middle of the film, her hand had made its way into his.
The movie ended and they left the theater, however, her hand never left his. His heart was beating a million miles an hour, being brought back to life by her. As they walked hand in hand, their conversation never stopped. It felt as though they were made for each other. And boy, he hoped they were. Because this girl was able to make him feel things he hadn’t felt, not even with Lois. He felt at peace, he felt as though finally, the world wasn’t resting at his shoulders. He wasn’t Superman, no, he was Clark. Just Clark.
Back at her apartment door, neither of them wanted the night to end. They stood facing each other, banter flowing easily between the both of them.
“I’m not that bad,” he exclaimed.
“Clark, everyday you’re like an hour late. That’s pretty bad,” she laughed.
“Well, if anything I’m late because I go out of my way to bring you coffee.”
“I don’t remember asking you to do that.”
“No, but, I want to. I like doing it,” his voice lowered.
“Why is that?” She looked at him with curiosity in her eyes.
“Because it gives me an excuse to talk to you,” his eyes looked anywhere but hers.
“Clark, you don’t need to use coffee as an excuse to talk to me. I don’t know if you noticed but I like talking to you.”
His eyes snapped to hers, “you do?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have said yes to tonight if I didn’t.” He laughed, making her smile.
“No, I suppose not. You know, Jimmy has mentioned you having a crush on me a couple of times.”
He watched in amusement as she groaned and threw her head back. “Ugh, he wasn’t supposed to say anything.”
“It’s ok,” he squeezed her hand, “cause I like you too.” They stared at each other, the air becoming charged with tension. He watched as she began to lean in, and, finally, her lips found their home in his. The kiss was gentle, slow, like they had all the time in the world. But it was also electric. It jumpstarted Clark’s heart, and he knew then, in the heat of her electric touch, that he finally got it right.
Warnings: Angst, established female reader, established relationship, not proofread, I don’t know that this makes sense but oh well
Genre: Angst, angst, and more angst
Summary: He stopped saying goodnight, and she let him
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good night
Delivered 9:45 PM
The message read as delivered. She sighed. She waited. 10 PM, nothing. 11 PM, nothing. 12 AM, nothing. She gave up waiting.
Dating Peter Parker, or, shall I say, Spiderman, was not an easy feat. But, lately, it felt as though they were only growing farther and farther apart.
In the beginning, he was sweet. There was not a day that went by where he didn’t try to spend time with her, even just sitting by her window, Spiderman suit on, in between saving the people of Queens. She never asked him for more. She understood his job, his need to protect, the heaviness that came with that responsibility. And she supported him through it. She supported him through all the late night appearances, bruises and cuts littering his body. She supported him through the hours spent waiting for him in a restaurant, cheeks flushed with embarrassment from the pitying looks of strangers around her, thinking her a girl being stood up on a first date. But she was growing tired. She stopped waiting by her window, ready to patch him up if needed. She stopped waiting for the apology text from another forgotten date. She stopped waiting for him. And he noticed.
Now, she saw all the signs. He was letting go. He didn’t see her the same as he had when they first began. When they were both two innocent high school kids, each one oblivious to the fact they wanted each other.
She heard tapping on her window. This was the routine. She left her warm bed, crossing her room to the window. A flash of red. There he was. She quietly let him in, watching as he climbed her window and sat on her bed.
Silence. Neither one said anything. Her eyes stayed glued to the floor. His to his hands. His hands. They were fidgeting anxiously. She noticed. Her eyes wandered up to his face, “are you ok?” She asked. She watched as emotions possessed and left his face, his eyes betraying him.
“Yeah,” it sounded weak, “yeah.” He lied. She knew it.
After minutes of silence, minutes that came and went like waves on the shore, there one minute, and gone the next. What gave her solace is that, just like the waves, minutes would always come back. Peter, however, would not.
They didn’t need to speak. The silence said everything they couldn’t. She watched as his eyes turned glassy, never once meeting hers. He was hiding something. What, she didn’t know. Maybe it was his feelings, or lack thereof. Maybe it was his growing disinterest for her.
Finality hit her like a truck. This felt like a goodbye. This felt like the sun was setting on what she once thought to be her paradise, never to return again.
He stood up abruptly. Paced the room. Hands in his hair, eyes downcast, feet in constant motion.
“I should go,” his eyes finally met hers. A tear fell down her eye. She understood what was happening. And she was not going to fight it. If she was being honest, she had no fight left in her. She was a weak soldier, battered from the frontlines of the war that was their relationship.
“Yeah, you should,” she whispered.
The girl stood by and watched as the hero put his mask back on, climbed out of her window, and disappeared into the night.
Warnings: Use of Y/N, Tom is not very movie accurate, not proofread
Genre: Fluff
Summary: Tom Riddle does not tutor. But when a certain girl asks for his help, he cannot say no.
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Tom Riddle didn’t tutor. He looked down on those who struggled with their academics, especially in subjects as simple as Astronomy. Except for when it came to Y/N.
The girl who Tom would love to resent, when, in reality, she had wormed her way into his heart and didn’t plan on leaving. Which is why she was now sitting across from the Slytherin prefect, head in her hands, frustration seeping out of every pore. No matter how much she tried, the girl could not wrap her head around Astronomy. It did not matter how many hours she spent buried in her textbook, how many tears she cried, how many friends she reached out to for help, she still could not grasp the concept of the stars and the planets.
The girl and Tom had an odd relationship. The boy would ignore and dismiss her, but she was relentless. She would always sit with him during class, would always bother him with her friendliness and optimism. The girl had no ulterior motive for pushing her friendliness onto Tom, only that she wanted to be everybody’s friend. And Tom tried to resist. Oh, how he tried. Yet, his tar black heart slowly changed color the more she was around.
“Ugh, Tom, I can’t do this,” the girl groaned. They had been sitting in the library for hours, curfew having long passed, the pair using Tom’s prefect status as an excuse to stay in the library after hours.
“Yes, you can,” the boy reassured.
“No, I can’t.”
Tom sighed, moving the books so they sat in front of him. “Come here,” he moved a seat next to his, beckoning the girl over.
Once she was secure in the seat, he began explaining for what felt like the 100th time. “It’s quite simple. Luminosity is the amount of energy radiated by the star per second. It is essentially a measure of its brightness. Parallax comes into play because when you take into consideration you…” Tom stopped talking the second he felt a weight on his shoulder. Looking down, he found her head resting on his shoulder, eyes closed and breath slow. Tom sighed. This was not what he expected to come from this night. Though, that did not stop him from gazing down at her as she slept peacefully. It did not stop the flutter in his stomach feeling her resting against him. It did not stop the feelings he tried so hard to keep buried from clawing their way to the surface.
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The next morning, she awoke in a bed that was not hers. Green was all she saw. She thought back to the night before. To her frustration, to Tom attempting to explain Astronomy to her, to… nothing. The realization that this was Tom’s room hit her like a truck. Yet, the boy was nowhere to be seen.
On his pillow, a note sat addressed to her:
‘We will try again tonight. I will not allow you to fail this subject. Also, you snore.
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