Instead, her new neighbour tells her to turn her music down.
Jack Abbott is grumpy, silver-haired, impossible to read, and seems to think smiling is optional. She's a writer with too many houseplants, an overactive imagination, and a habit of talking to the moon.
They get off on the wrong foot.
Actually...
Several wrong feet.
But between sarcastic banter, awkward encounters, and two hearts carrying more than either is willing to admit, they discover that some of life's greatest surprises arrive when you least expect them.
Turn It Down is a heartwarming grumpy-sunshine romance filled with humour, hope, unforgettable characters, and the quiet moments that stay with you long after the last page.
Chapter One
Her back hit the wall. His pupils dilated as soon as he nipped at her jaw. Her moans grew louder as her fingers grew bolder on his chiseled torso. He let out a deep growl, his lips finding the column of her throat. She threw her head back, giving him full access.
He didn't waste a single second. Sucking at the skin on her collarbone, he licked it softly to soothe the sting before his lips traveled lower and lower, toward the sweet valley of her br—
BANG! BANG!
She furrowed her brows as she stood up from her chair.
What in the living daylights?
Glancing around her apartment, she took in the half-empty boxes scattered everywhere. Finally, her eyes landed on the upside-down clock lying on the sofa—the one she'd wanted to hang on the wall before inspiration had struck.
BANG! BANG!
She hollered over the blues rock blasting from the speaker.
"Yeah! Yeah! Keep your whiskers on, I'm coming!"
She opened the door, confusion written all over her face. Messy strands of hair stuck out in every direction. She was still wearing those hand-me-down sweatpants and a T-shirt that had seen better days.
Only to be met by a man who was nearly six feet tall. Maybe a little shorter, but nonetheless much taller than she was. Deep brown eyes stared back at her, eyes that had clearly seen some things. Grey curls sat messily on his head. Definitely no smile. And he sure as hell didn't look polite.
His voice broke her analysis.
"Turn it down."
She gestured with her hands.
"What? What?"
Grabbing her phone, she pressed pause on the music.
"Sorry, I couldn't hear you. What were you saying?"
He nearly growled in frustration.
"I said turn it down. It's nine o'clock in the morning, and your crappy music is blasting so loud I can't even—"
She pointed a scrawny finger in his face.
"Well, excuse me. My music isn't crappy."
He looked like a bull about to blow steam from his nostrils.
"Just turn it down. Some of us are trying to sleep."
She smiled.
"Oh, I like sleeping in too, but it's a Wednesday morning. Maybe you should be getting ready for work?"
He rubbed a hand over his face.
"Oh my Goodness..."
Then he sighed.
"Just stop being so loud and be a little more thoughtful."
His eyes drifted inside her apartment.
"Moving out?"
He almost sounded hopeful.
She crossed her arms.
"No."
She huffed.
"Moving in, actually. Arrived last night at ten."
His gaze landed on the coffee stain on her sleeve.
"Haven't slept?"
She nodded.
"How'd you guess?"
Looking completely unbothered, he motioned toward her.
"It's obvious."
Moving his hands in a circle, he added,
"This."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Excuse me?"
He immediately stepped back.
"Never mind. Just try not to wake the whole neighborhood."
As he turned toward his door, she called after him.
"Maybe turn down your hearing aid, old man."
He stopped dead in his tracks.
"Excuse me? I'm not that old. I'm only in my fifties."
She giggled.
"I rest my case. More like the dino era."
He frowned.
"Dino?"
She gasped dramatically.
"Dino. As in dinosaur."
He puffed out his chest.
"I'm not—"
He stopped himself.
"You know what? Never mind. Just stay out of my way."
He walked off with a clearly wounded ego.
As for her, she slipped back into her apartment, closing the door with a loud bang.
Her eyes found the open laptop on the coffee table. Beside it sat a now-cold mug with the words:
Future New York Times Best Seller.
Flopping onto the couch, she groaned.
"Yeah..."
She stared at the blinking cursor on the screen.
"Like that'll happen at this rate."
When she woke up, the sun threw an orange-pink hue against the bleak apartment walls.
With a heavy sigh, she threw her arms into the air.
"Okay, now I've gotta get up... sort out my life, be productive, be..." She stared at a crack in the ceiling. "Be what again?"
Nearly falling off the couch, she crawled across the floor on all fours toward a box marked Art Supplies, complete with a little smiley face that looked like it had been drawn by a two-year-old.
Which, in all honesty, it had.
Her sister's son.
The little guy with the big smile and wide blue eyes. Red hair. Freckles. A tiny heartbreaker.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"I miss my family."
The words echoed through the empty apartment, spoken to nobody at all.
Blinking away the tears, she groaned.
"What? Why did I come here again?"
She flopped onto her back, the hardwood floor cool and oddly comforting beneath her tired body.
Opening her eyes, she spotted the crack in the ceiling again.
Then suddenly—
She perked up.
Sitting upright, she pulled open the box and dug through it until she found her sketchpad.
Flipping through page after page, some finished, some abandoned halfway through, she finally found the drawing she'd been working on.
Her eyes darted back to the ceiling.
The crack.
That was it.
That was exactly what she'd needed to finish the sketch.
The ticking of the clock on the wall struck four.
The grumbling of her stomach informed her that she probably hadn't eaten in far too long.
Fine.
Most likely since yesterday morning.
She'd always had a problem with time tracking.
Getting up from the couch, she wandered toward the fridge only to find...
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Staring into the empty shelves, she sighed.
"Coffee it is."
Walking toward the kettle, she froze.
Then gasped dramatically.
"No."
She checked again.
Still no coffee.
Like...
Nothing.
"Great. The world is coming to an end."
Slipping on her fluffy slippers, she zipped up her hoodie.
She still looked homeless, but at this moment she didn't care.
She needed coffee.
Or food.
Or both.
Opening the apartment door, she headed downstairs.
When she'd moved in yesterday, she'd noticed a little coffee shop on the corner.
Nobody knew her here.
She could make this quick.
Coffee.
Maybe a muffin.
That was the plan.
Twenty minutes later, she stood inside the elevator holding a steaming FOMO coffee and a half-eaten chocolate chip muffin.
Life was worth living again.
She hummed a bluesy tune under her breath as the elevator climbed.
Ping.
Her floor.
Stepping out, she immediately caught her slipper in a crack between the elevator and the floor.
"Oh, fudgesticks up a fudge tree!"
She stumbled forward.
Quickly setting her coffee and muffin inside the elevator, she balanced on one foot and yanked at the trapped slipper.
Nothing.
She pulled harder.
Still nothing.
"Come on."
Another tug.
Another.
Another.
At this point she felt like she was wrestling an alligator.
Then suddenly—
The slipper came free.
Unfortunately, so did all her balance.
With a startled squeak, she flew backward and landed directly on her ass.
THUMP.
For a moment she just sat there.
Stunned.
Victorious.
Barefoot.
PING.
The elevator doors began to close.
Her eyes widened.
"Nooooooo!"
The doors slid shut.
Taking her coffee.
And her muffin.
She sat there in silence, looking utterly devastated.
That was exactly when he appeared.
Walking toward the elevator, early as always for his shift.
At first he thought she might be hurt.
Why else would a grown woman be sitting barefoot on the floor looking like she'd lost a custody battle?
Picking up his pace, he frowned.
"You okay?"
She looked up at him.
Pouting.
"No."
His brow furrowed.
"What happened?"
She waved a hand dramatically.
"It's gone forever."
"What?"
"You wouldn't understand."
He stared at her.
Then nodded once.
"Okay."
She gasped.
"Oh, gee, thanks. I'm dying. Okay, maybe not. But you don't know that."
He rolled his eyes.
Without another word, he pressed the elevator button.
One could practically see the annoyance written across his face.
PING.
The elevator doors opened.
There, sitting on the floor exactly where she'd left them, were her coffee and muffin.
She shrieked.
"Eeeeeeeeeek!"
Diving forward, she scooped them up.
"You made it back to me!"
Cradling them dramatically against her chest, she looked up at the greying man.
"Hope you have a good night. Bye!"
And just like that, she disappeared into her apartment.
Leaving him standing there.
Wondering what the hell had just happened.
The moment he walked through the automated doors, you'd think he would've forgotten all about the very dramatic woman who'd been sitting on the floor outside the elevator with those wide, tearful eyes.
(Damn... those eyes.)
He rubbed a hand over the scruff that had claimed his jaw over the past few days.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He growled under his breath.
Right.
Her music was crappy.
She'd shrieked when she'd been reunited with her stupid muffin.
And she'd called him a dinosaur.
She was going to be a pain.
His shift had barely started...
...and he was already growling.
The shift was grueling, like always, but that's why he chose the night shift. His therapist says it's his way of working through the war, losing his leg... losing his wife.
The city lights always looked like stars from the rooftop. Strange that the one place he felt free was right here, looking down into the darkness.
His pager went off, and he walked with a limp down the stairs. It was only a few hours into his shift, and the prosthetic already hurt. But one thing he'd learned was how to push through.
The ER was bustling, like always. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. This was where he felt the most useful. Almost hopeful... or joyful?
Okay, fine.
Maybe it was just because silence was louder than any emergency chaos.
The YouTube ad—because obviously she wasn't paying for something she could watch for free, and she wouldn't tell anyone this, but she actually liked watching the ads—made her open her eyes.
Exhaling, she glanced at the clock.
03:00.
"Yay me."
She muttered it to no one because there wasn't anyone.
Well...
Except the characters waiting inside those unwritten pages where the cursor kept blinking.
Blinking.
Blinking.
Getting up, she wandered to the kitchen sink and poured herself a glass of water. As she took a sip, she stared out into the night sky.
"Hey, Mr. Moon."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Also lonely tonight, are we? No stars... sorry, buddy. But at least you're shining. Proud of you."
Making her way back toward the living room, it was either fate or her little toe had decided to become best friends with one of the moving boxes.
Much like all her past relationships...
It ended badly.
She yelped, hopping around on one foot while cussing out the innocent cardboard box before collapsing onto the fluffy, dusty-pink, heart-shaped rug.
"Fudgesticks."
Biting her lower lip, she cradled her throbbing foot.
"It really is unfair how a toe and a box can perfectly represent my love life."
Lying on her back, she carefully inspected her toe.
"Nope... okay."
She gave it a gentle pat.
"All good. You'll make it, buddy."
Her leg flopped back onto the carpet as her eyes drifted toward the ceiling once again.
The words replayed in her mind.
New beginning.
Or rather...
Fresh start.
That's what she'd excitedly told her parents.
Her sister.
Everyone.
But the truth?
She couldn't stay in the same town she'd grown up in.
Not when every street seemed to hold another memory.
Every café.
Every park.
Every corner.
And every one of her heartbreaks was now walking around with their forever.
And she?
Well...
Honestly...
At this point, she'd practically given up.
It wasn't that being single bothered her all that much.
Most days, she was perfectly happy with her own company.
What she hated were the family gatherings.
Because if one more aunt leaned over with that sympathetic smile and asked,
"So, sweetie... found someone special yet?"
She was going to scream.
The last time she'd found someone special...
...it was the barista who made that delicious vanilla latte.
It was official.
She couldn't fall back asleep.
So she started unpacking, box by box. Her whole life packed away inside cardboard.
As she placed a little photo frame on an empty shelf next to the television, she noticed the first rays of sunlight creeping through the curtains.
Smiling, she opened the balcony doors and stepped into the crisp morning air. Her bare feet met the cold concrete, that bruised toe long forgotten.
She inhaled deeply.
"Ahhh."
A small smile spread across her lips.
Glancing to her left, she spotted the greying curls of her neighbour on the balcony next door.
Walking a little closer to the railing, she froze.
Then gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth.
He was...
Doing yoga.
Downward Dog, to be exact.
She'd know.
She did yoga too.
Just...
Not naked.
Her eyes grew as wide as saucers.
His bottom was on full display, looking remarkably like a peeled peach.
Then he flowed into another pose.
It was like watching a car crash happen right in front of her.
She knew she should look away.
She simply...
Couldn't.
A moment later, he stood upright as casually as if he were watering plants.
Without the slightest hint of embarrassment, he wrapped a towel low around his hips.
Her cheeks flushed bright red.
"Morning," he said matter-of-factly.
She immediately looked anywhere except at him.
"Morning? Are you crazy? There are people! This is a public place! What about kids? Older people? Somebody!"
He wandered a little closer to the dividing wall.
"I always do yoga after my shift."
He shrugged.
"Helps me sleep better."
She narrowed her eyes.
"But... does it have to be naked?"
He looked down at her.
"I didn't say you should keep looking."
"I... uh... I..."
She could barely get a single word out.
Finally, she huffed.
"Fudgesticks!"
Then disappeared back inside her apartment, slamming the balcony door behind her.
He tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"'Fudgesticks?'"
The word was barely audible.
"...She's as innocent as she looks."
With that, he wandered back into his apartment to finally get some shut-eye.
After her shower, she threw on a pair of jeans and a flattering top.
Not too revealing.
Because she wasn't easy.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and let out a delighted shriek.
"Cutie patootie!"
Grabbing her purse, she grinned.
It was official.
Today was food shopping day.
Around midday, she returned carrying one too many grocery bags while somehow balancing an iced matcha latte in one hand.
Muttering to herself, she walked past man after man who could've helped a damsel in distress.
Okay...
Maybe not distress.
But still.
Stopping outside her apartment, she blinked at the door like a confused toddler.
The keys.
Still buried somewhere inside her jeans pocket.
With both hands occupied, she simply sighed and took another sip of her creamy green drink.
"Fine."
She looked down at the cup.
"I'll just stand out here until I finish you."
Another sip.
She felt him before she heard him.
Looking up, she found the grumpy dino standing there.
Looking... annoyed.
Then again, maybe that was just his permanent facial setting.
"What?"
His voice was as gruff as ever.
"I'm just trying to figure out why you're standing outside your apartment."
He nodded toward the door.
"Lose your key?"
She narrowed her eyes.
"No."
A beat.
"I just like standing outside my apartment."
He gave her a look.
She sighed.
"Fine. The keys are in my jeans pocket, and my hands are full."
He stepped closer.
His scent drifted toward her.
His warm breath brushed against her ear... then her neck.
She froze.
His hand moved toward her pocket.
Her heart skipped.
Then...
He reached past her and took the grocery bags instead.
"Oh."
She blinked.
"Thanks."
With her hands finally free, she fished out the keys and unlocked the door.
She walked inside, setting her matcha on the counter.
He followed, placing the grocery bags on the kitchen floor before turning to leave.
Then his eyes landed on the bright green drink.
"I think there's something wrong with your coffee."
She burst into giggles.
"It's matcha, silly."
He nodded once.
"Oh."
His face, however, was saying,
I have absolutely no idea what language you just spoke.
She laughed even harder.
"Yep."
She pointed at him.
"Dino."
He made that familiar growl-huff combination before turning toward the door.
"Wait."
He paused.
"Please."
She bit her lip.
"...Sorry."
He growled.
Then she smiled.
"C-Can you help me?"
He froze.
"With?"
She suddenly looked shy.
"I have a few more things in the car and..."
She hesitated.
"Never mind."
She gestured toward him.
"You're busy being..."
Her hands waved around vaguely.
"You."
"This."
He turned toward the apartment door.
She sighed dramatically.
"Typical."
Then he growled again.
"You coming?"
She blinked.
"Huh?"
"I need your car keys."
Her eyes grew wide.
"Wait... what? You'll help?"
He stared at her.
"Okay, don't make it a thing."
The walk to the car was anything but quiet.
She talked his ear off.
About the things she'd seen in the shops.
The clouds that looked like fluffy marshmallows.
The little bug someone had almost stepped on.
The lady who'd accidentally bought cat food instead of dog food.
With every passing sentence, his expression grew more and more irritable.
Finally, they reached her car.
It was old.
Rusty in places.
The paint had seen better days.
Something in his chest did... something.
He couldn't quite put a name to it.
She unlocked the driver's door.
The moment she opened it...
A potted plant attacked her.
She stumbled backward.
"Oh!"
Instead of reacting like any normal person, she caught the pot before it hit the ground.
"Oh my goodness."
She gently steadied it.
"I'm so sorry."
She stroked one of its leaves.
"I nearly dropped you."
Setting it carefully on the ground, she turned toward him with her hands planted firmly on her hips.
Full, perfect hips.
He blinked.
Shook his head.
And waited.
"Before I give you my babies..."
She pointed at him.
"I need to know two things."
One of his eyebrows twitched.
"Hmm?"
"First..."
She pointed again.
"Your name."
He answered almost reluctantly.
"Jack."
A pause.
"Jack Abbott."
She smiled brightly.
"Well, nice to meet you, Dino."
She giggled.
"And second..."
She nodded toward the plants.
"Will you take care of my babies while you carry them?"
He frowned.
"The plants?"
She huffed.
"Forget it."
"I'll do it myself."
She picked up two small pots and proudly marched toward the apartment.
His eyes immediately drifted to her swaying hips.
Again.
He sighed.
"You're going to carry all ten plants yourself?"
She looked genuinely offended.
"Ten?"
She gasped.
"There's thirty-two."
"And yes."
"They were on special."
"They needed me."
A dry, humorless laugh escaped him as he peered into the car.
"No wonder they were on special."
He reached toward a wilted fern.
"Half of them are dying."
She gasped.
Her eyes instantly filled with tears.
Something twisted uncomfortably in his gut.
When she spoke, her voice was so small.
So hopeful.
"They're just a little sick."
She smiled softly at the plants.
"I'll help them."
"They'll be okay."
Without another word, he reached into the car and picked up several pots.
He didn't make another comment.
What could he possibly say?
She talked to plants.
She apologized to them.
She believed they deserved another chance.
She was...
Different.
So soft.
Far too kind.
Time seemed to disappear as they carried plant after plant into her apartment.
By the end of it, all he could see was that short, strange, far-too-kind-for-the-world woman standing in the middle of a little jungle.
She spun around, arms stretched wide.
Plants everywhere.
A grin lit up her face.
"Perfect!"
Her voice came out high-pitched with excitement.
He simply watched her.
Then, without warning...
She sprinted toward him.
Before he had a chance to react, she threw her arms around him.
"Thank you."
For a second, he completely froze.
Is she... hugging me?
Why?
It's been a while.
Slowly, almost cautiously, his arms wrapped around her.
She melted against him.
A quiet, relieved sigh escaped her lips.
Something inside his chest tightened.
Looking down, he noticed her cheek squished against his shirt.
Her big, beautiful eyes were closed.
She looked...
Peaceful.
Without thinking, his fingers gently brushed over her hair.
A few seconds passed before she seemed to realise she was still hugging him.
"Oh!"
She stepped back so quickly she nearly tripped over one of her plants.
Her cheeks turned bright pink.
"Uhm..."
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her own ear, suddenly finding the floor very interesting.
"Sorry."
He couldn't help the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"It's okay."
The words came out softer than he'd intended.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
For just a moment...
Neither of them moved.
Almost without thinking, Jack reached up and gently brushed another loose strand of hair away from her face.
His fingers lingered against her cheek for the briefest second.
She smiled.
Then her hand lifted, instinctively covering his.
Her fingers brushed against something cold.
Metal.
Her smile vanished.
Her eyes slowly dropped to his left hand.
The wedding band.
The colour drained from her face.
"...You're married?"
The words came out barely above a whisper.
Jack's heart sank.
"No..."
He swallowed.
"I mean... yes."
He rubbed a hand over his face.
"It's not what you think."
She quickly stepped back.
A smile appeared on her face.
Too quick.
Too fake.
"Thanks, Jack."
Her voice was suddenly overly cheerful.
"I'll... I'll come right now."
He frowned.
Confused.
"...Okay."
He nodded once.
"I'll see you around."
Turning, he quietly let himself out of her apartment.
♡ synopsis: when a med student accidentally sticks you with an anesthetic intended for a patient, jack sits with you until its effects wear off to ensure you don't have an allergic reaction. while under the effects of the drug, you make many confessions which he finds to be both entertaining and endearing.
♡ content: pining!robby, medical inaccuracies, reader being under the influence of anesthetics, jack gets handsy on the roof, ogilvie is on night shift for this one bc i say so
♡ a/n: based on this request by @styx03, ty!
Allowing a med student to sedate a patient was clearly not the right course of action. You're not even sure who gave them the order to, or if they just heard a command for an anesthetic to be administered and chose to take it upon theirself to be the one for the job, but either way... You've now become the patient because of their eagerness to impress.
Stumbling back on your feet, your vision swims and the room tilts while raised voices yell. You think one is Jack's. You want to tell Ogilvie that it's okay, because accidents happen and you're sure you'll be fine. Hopefully. Instead, however, your attempted words slur into something incomprehensible while your eyes cross. Just as you descend toward the floor, a strong pair of arms catch you.
Jack most assuredly ripped Ogilvie a new one. He's never been so enraged here at work, since he's a man who prides himself on the trained ability to keep his cool under duress. After all, if he could bark orders while bullets rained down on his unit overseas, then an ED would and has been a cakewalk in comparison.
Until you came along, apple of his eye.
You'd been so shy initially—presumedly because you felt intimidated—but intent on seeking you out, Jack refused to let you slip from his grasp. So he tutored you in field medicine (maybe to show his skills off, even a little), gifted you a beautiful hardback copy of Gray's Anatomy, a fancy carrying case for your stethoscope, and this year for your birthday, a $200 prepaid Visa gift card to spend as you pleased. A present you'd been insistent on giving back, until he threatened to up the amount to $300 if you didn't accept it.
The more you bonded, the more the scales tipped from teacher and student to something else that he didn't really have the words for. What is it the kids call it nowadays? He heard it from one of the residents before... Situationship. Obnoxious, but he supposes appropriate.
What else is he meant to call it when he barely even calls you by your name anymore—instead opting for sweetheart, darlin', honey, baby doll, pumpkin; any and all pet names that he can come up with which earn him a sweet, bashful smile in return?
When the two of you are on a case together, he's always at your back or side to supervise your actions and decision making while showering you in quiet praise all the while. And anytime you have a particularly hard day? Jack gathers you in his arms and holds you suffocatingly close while insisting on taking you to a quiet dinner after... Or breakfast. Whatever you wish is his command.
But it's not all heaviness and burnout. It's also joking around by snapping rubber bands at your ass and tickling you until you're begging for a reprieve—lest you wet yourself—because your smile is his favorite sight, and your musical laugh or joyous cackle his favorite sounds.
He's waiting for the day HR comes down on his head like a hammer, but he's also aware that PTMC can't exactly afford to lose his expertise, so he feels pretty comfortable in toeing the line here and there.
So when your body went stumbling back because of Ogilvie acting first and hardly thinking at all, he hit the roof.
A gurney was unnecessary when he cradled you against his chest and carried you into a private room before lying you back on a hospital bed so he could wait at your side for the medication to wear off.
He continually took your vitals every handful of minutes, afraid the substance would wreak havoc on your system. With him being unaware of any possible allergies you may or may not have, sitting idly by while watching the clock simply wasn't an option. He needed to make himself of use somehow.
While running a soothing hand over your forehead is when you finally stir and blink up at Jack from beneath drooping lids.
Loosing a long, ragged breath of relief, the tightness in Jack's chest dissipates. "Hey, sweetheart," he coos quietly. "How you feelin'?"
Your tautly drawn features quickly morph into that of a scrunched nose and a toothy grin. "You're s'handsome," you slur while lifting a wobbly hand toward his cheek.
Practically slapping it against the stubbled skin, you giggle, which is then followed by your eyes suddenly widening to the size of saucers while your lips form a perfect O. "Are you my husband?" you inquire breathlessly.
Are you taking the piss or is the injection still wearing off?
"Honey—"
You toss your head back. "Jus' kidding," you drawl. "Never be that lucky," you mumble with a pout.
Waving your hand floppily that he should lean in closer, he does so with an amused smirk.
"I think 'm in love with you," you murmur while fisting the neck of his shirt and tugging him toward you.
Suddenly pulled out of his seat, Jack stumbles forward and barely manages to catch himself by planting a hand on your hip before you guide his lips down to your own.
Thank God he pulled the curtain around to give you a bit of privacy, because if anybody caught him in such a compromising position?
He jolts when you slip your tongue in his mouth and moan lustfully while exploring the warm, wet lay of it. Not a man to take advantage, though, especially of you, Jack breaks away reluctantly. A gesture which is met with a long, drawn out No from you.
Seating himself again, he tries literally to wipe the smirk from his face by scrubbing a hand from his cheekbones to jawline, but it does him little good.
"You're s'posed to say it baaack," you whine between chattering teeth.
With a sigh, Abbot shakes his head, then reaches over you to grab the remote for the electric blanket he draped over you just incase, until you lift your head and chomp down on his forearm.
Your lips recede into a smile while you nibble on the skin between your teeth.
He barks a laugh, then slips the limb from your mouth while turning the blanket to high heat. "You're somethin' else," he commentates while tucking the edges securely around your shivering form.
"But you love me," you whisper before your eyes flutter closed.
Cupping your cheek in his hand, he smiles softly. "If only you knew how much."
When you come-to, you feel groggy and ran through. Your memory pretty well begins and ends with you passing out just after being injected with something you shouldn't have been.
You've seen the videos—funny little snippets where people divulge hilarious admittances and embarrassing secrets while under the influence—so you of course begin to panic a little when your eyes slowly draw open. What if you said or did something? Maybe you were left alone to recuperate on your own?
When your head lulls to the side, that hope is quickly shot dead at the sight of Robby leaned back in a chair with an iPad held at a bit of a distance.
"Got my test results on there?" you ask quietly.
Lowering the device, the daytime attending studies you from over the rim of his glasses. Robby sets the tablet aside, then leans forward and caresses your cheek with a smile. "How you feeling?"
You blink sleepy eyes. "Tired. Which I shouldn't be if I slept long enough for you to get here."
He snorts quietly. "Being under anesthesia is hardly the same as sleeping. You know that."
You roll your eyes. "It's called sarcasm," you groan while sitting up.
"Easy," Robby mutters while settlings his hands over the crowns of your shoulders to keep you steady.
Hanging your head in exhaustion, you sigh. "Was anybody in here when you clocked in?"
"Abbot."
You wince. "Did I...do or say anything?"
His lips twitch into a smile. "If you did, he didn't tell me as much. Just asked me to sit with you so he could get back to it before his shift ended."
You lift your head. "You don't have to waste your time in here—"
He clicks his tongue while giving your chin a gentle, affectionate tap. "I'd never call it that." Robby slides a hand down the back of your head after standing. "Watching you sleep was the most peace I've gotten in..." he shakes his head while turning and pulling the curtain aside. "Too long," he mutters.
"Could have that all the time if I could only get you to come onto the dayshift with me," Robby states while turning around with hands on his hips. "Might do you some good to see a bit of daylight every once in awhile."
You grin while swinging your feet. "Are you trying to poach me from Abbot's team?"
He meets your smile. "Always." Robby walks over and grabs the iPad again. "It'd give me a reason to look forward to coming in here again every day at least."
Robby offers you a hand, which you take. Once you're standing on two feet again, you take a moment to catch your bearings.
Sliding an arm around your shoulders, Robby slowly leads you toward the door. "You're not just Abbot's favorite, you know?"
You glance up to him. "Oh?"
He presses a kiss to your brow before swinging open the door and holding it for you. "Just something for you to consider. Incase the nights ever get too long."
With your shift at an end, you decide to head in the direction of your locker to gather your things before heading home. A long soak in the tub, followed by plenty of rest sounds pretty nice. Maybe some Chinese takeout while you're at it. Or Thai.
"Robby tells me that you seem to be feeling better."
Clicking your locker shut, you turn and smile at the sight of Jack standing just a few feet away with an easy grin playing on his lips, matched by hands stuck in his pockets.
"Think so," you reply with a quiet, casual shrug.
"You heading home?" he asks while ambling closer.
"Planning on it."
Slipping your bag from your shoulder, he hefts it onto his instead. "How about," Jack begins while leading you in the direction of the elevators with your hand held in his, "You come up on the roof with me now that you're awake and let me watch you for a bit to make sure there's no residual effects."
You huff dramatically. "Jack, I really do feel fine."
Pressing the button that'll lead the two of you up, he cups the crown of your shoulder in his hand and brings you in close. "That is to still be determined."
The elevator dings and steel doors slide apart, inviting the two of you into an empty chamber.
"By me," he concludes while ushering you inside with an encouraging push.
With one arm wrapped around yourself, you settle the other over your mouth to suppress a laugh of disbelief. "Of course you and Robby have folding chairs up here," you remark with a giggle.
Popping one open, Jack nods to it, indicating it as your designated seat. "Could always look into a tent," he states while settling the other beside it. "If it meant getting you snuggled up next to me in a sleeping bag."
Plopping down in the offered chair, you rest an elbow on the fabric arm and your chin in your palm.
Jack tugs off his prosthetic, then leans back with a sigh. "That feels better."
"Maybe we get an extra big one. Or a blow-up mattress," you quip happily.
Jack clasps his hands over his belly. "Why's that, pumpkin?"
You flash a grin. "Maybe Robby can join us."
Hanging his head back, he shakes it from side to side. "Don't tell me he was making moves on my girl while I was busy saving lives this morning."
You shrug while wiggling your brows playfully.
"So..." You begin while picking nervously at your nails. "Did I say anything?"
"To me or Robby?" Jack asks while massaging his leg.
You roll your eyes. "Apart from me asking Robby to take his shirt off," you remark sarcastically.
Jack snickers and his mouth curves into a lopsided grin. "Without me there to see it?"
You remain silent as you wait for him to fess up.
"You, uh..." he trails off, then barks a laugh.
Oh no...
Jack glances at you. "You might've bit me," he says while cringing mischievously in an attempt to downplay things.
"I what?!" you cry while leaning toward him in shock.
Jack throws himself back against the chair and lies his arms palm face up. "Well, after you got done harping on my good looks, you got cold, so I went to switch on the heated blanket that I put you under and you just chomped down," he explains whole gesturing toward his right forearm with his hand drawn into the shape of a claw. "It was more like a nibble, though." He shrugs and bestows a reassuring smile. "You didn't break skin, so don't worry about it."
Burying your face in your hands, you shake your head. "Oh, this is mortifying." Dropping them into your lap, you stare at the skyline. "I'm so sorry."
Studying him from beneath your lashes, you nervously chew your lip. "Anything else?"
Please say no, please say no.
He smiles warmly—almost bashfully, in fact. "Asked if I was your husband. Then you broke character, and let me know you were just kidding."
It can't get any worse, surely.
Doubling over, you rest your elbows on your knees, then press your forehead against the heels of your palms. "Please tell me that's it."
He should let it go—leave things as they are. But Jack can't help it: wanting to hear that it wasn't just because you were high as a kite.
That feelings are mutual, and always have been.
When the sound of silence descends, you raise your head. "Jack?"
He sighs. "I just want you to know that I know it was strictly because you were out of it." Jack turns fully toward you. "That you didn't mean it."
"The more you talk, the more worried I'm getting," you reply with searching eyes.
Clasping his hands together, Jack leans forward slightly. "You..." he sighs. "You told me that you were in love with me."
His eyes flit to yours—attempting to gauge from expression alone whether it was a true utterance, or mere sarcasm. "And then you kissed me."
Your eyes pop wide open. "I—" You clam up.
Is this it? The defining moment that either makes or breaks your and Jack's...situation?
"You know how they say drunk words are sober thoughts?" you ask quietly and with a pattering heart that leaves you short of breath.
Jack's chin wobbles, but only slightly. "Yeah?"
You nod, and a sob breaks last your watery smile.
"C'mere, honey," he commands with a wave of his hand.
Rising from your seat, Jack guides your hips until you're seated on his generous lap. "Can you say it again?" he asks quietly while smoothing a hand across your brow.
You press your forehead to his and hum from the feeling of the rising sun warming your back. "I love you," you whisper while winding soft, gentle hands around his neck. "Jack."
Cupping his own around the curve of your neck, he guides your lips down to his this time. "'Bout damn time we got that outta the way," he murmurs before kissing you the way he's meant to so many times.
Jack teases your tongue with a wet, pointed tip which he slides along the underside of your own.
"How about," he pants. "I take you home just to be safe." A calloused palm scratches its way along the polyester that covers your inner thigh.
"Y-Yours or mine?" you whimper.
Squeezing your hip temptingly, he nips at your chin. "Better take you to mine to keep an eye on you. Help you in the shower," he drawls with a bored shrug. "I have a chair in there. It'll make things more comfortable when I help. Then I can fix you dinner before we go to bed. Together."
Carefully, he prods at the heat which radiates from between your thighs. "Would you like that, sweetpea?"
"Pretty dizzy all of a sudden," you sigh.
"Let me get my leg back on and I'll take you home, baby."
Rising from his lap, you stand to the side and wait for him to store he and Robby's chairs back away before following excitedly along so he can take you home for further eventful flirtations.
This is my first one-shot for Jack Abbott (The Pitt) — not my first time writing (been doing that for a while now), but definitely my first time diving into this man and this show… and yeah, I’m completely addicted at this point, no shame 🤷♀️
⚠️ Warnings:
Emotional angst
Patient death / overdose
Hospital/medical trauma themes
Age gap
Attending x doctor dynamic
Kissing / tension / questionable decisions 👀
⚠️ Important:
This is my original work. Please do not copy, repost, translate, or claim it as your own anywhere. Respect writers.
This is a raw, emotional one-shot—kinda messy in the best way, a little chaotic, very feelings-heavy… basically me putting my heart on paper and hoping it hits someone the same way it hit me while writing it.
I would love to hear what you think—seriously. Comments, reactions, screaming, crying, all of it. Tell me your favourite part, tell me if it hurt, tell me if you’re mad at me for the ending 😅
And if you want more of this universe… just say the word 👀
Yet another night, yet another 12—maybe 15—hour shift. Verdict’s still out, we’ll see. Coffee in hand, smile on my face as I walk into the Pitt. Night shift is a whole other beast—one that doesn’t like to be tamed, but runs wild into the open, breathing down every doctor’s and nurse’s neck. And don’t even get me started if it’s a full moon—it’s like the crazies are even crazier. But hey, I live for the adrenaline.
Heading to the nurse’s station, I catch a glimpse of him—the man I have the biggest crush on… Okay, fine, maybe it’s more than a crush… but I ain’t acting on it. He’s my attending, and nearly fifteen years older than me. So I keep my distance. Don’t wanna cosy up to the Bossman.
I take another sip of my steaming hot vanilla latte, my tongue darting out to catch a drop sliding down the lid.
He nods curtly. No smile, but no annoyance either—just courtesy. “Doctor.”
I nearly choke. “Dr. Abbott—hi. You doing good? Are you? What are you up to? Having a good shift?”
Can I please just stop rambling?
He squints his light eyes. “How much caffeine have you had already?” Then adds, “Try to breathe between words.”
I can feel my cheeks burning. “Uhm… yeah, too many.” I shake my head. “Excuse me—patients and all that.”
I walk briskly into an emergency room where an older man scolds me. “Can’t a man get some sleep?”
I mumble an apology and step back out, feeling his eyes burn a hole through me. Goodness, I hope he can’t read minds—because if he could… yeah, I’d be in serious trouble for having fantasies and feelings about Jack Abbott.
I sigh as I disappear around the corner, closing my eyes for a second. I’ve always been horrible at this—romantic feelings, all of it. And the worst part? I sabotage myself. Always falling for the emotionally unavailable, stoic, brooding types—the ones still hung up on an ex, carrying baggage bigger than an airport line, or with an age gap wide enough to make people assume I’ve got daddy issues… or that grey is my favourite colour. And don’t even get me started on the fact that age lines (aka wrinkles)? Yeah… kind of a turn-on.
I rub my temples, which does nothing to fix the frayed, messy strands of my hair.
Mumbling under my breath, I mutter, “Falling for him… that’s the easy part.”
I straighten up.
This is gonna be a long shift.
I’ve been running—from the feelings, from myself, from him… from something, nothing, everything. Hell if I know.
The only time I’m okay is when I’m focused on a patient. And we’ve had some crazy calls tonight—drunk college students who thought they were Superman, Spider-Man… heck, whatever superhero is cool. Is “cool” even still a cool word? Hell if I know. Shows you how life passes you by—one second you’re young, the next you’re in your thirties getting excited about an early night in, binge-watching a series with a tub of ice cream.
A sudden shiver runs down my spine as his breath brushes over my ear.
“Doctor… are you just gonna stand there, or finish your chart?”
I glance down. “Jack—I mean, Dr. Abbott.”
A knowing smirk crosses his face. “Yeah, last time I checked, that’s my name.”
My cheeks flare pink. “S-sorry… I’m just a little tired.”
He studies my face. “Yeah? I can tell.”
He lifts his hand toward my arm—not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin all the way up to my shoulder.
I—
Is he going to—
My heartbeat spikes—honestly, probably illegal at this point.
His hand moves past me. He grabs a pen.
“Damn pens nowadays,” he mutters, already scribbling on the chart.
And just like that… gone.
Everything after that is a blur. I think I said something like, “Yeah… darn pens,” before walking away—
Okay, fine.
Nearly running.
From him.
A patient comes in—late teens. Drug overdose.
Damn it.
He starts coding, and I’m on him instantly, chest compressions, counting under my breath like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered. I keep going. Longer than I should. Longer than anyone should.
This one hits harder than most—maybe it’s his age, maybe it’s the parents watching, maybe it’s the way his mom keeps whispering his name like he can still hear her.
I keep going.
Trying.
Begging.
His voice cuts through everything. “Doctor, stop compressions. It’s been too long.”
The mother screams, collapsing to the floor.
I try to stop. I do.
But I can’t.
It’s like my arms don’t belong to me anymore.
His hands—rough, steady—close over mine. Grounding me. Forcing me to stop.
Silence crashes in.
I stare at the clock on the wall. “T-time of death… 02:46.”
The parents are crying. Broken.
I strip off my gloves, toss them in the bin, and walk out before the tears spilling over can catch up with me.
I think I’m moving fast—faster than anyone could follow.
But he still catches up.
His voice is low. Controlled. “What was that?”
I turn, looking up at him. “Sorry, Dr. Abbott. Not all of us can be so… so…” I swallow hard. “Hardass about death like you are.”
He squints, those light eyes sharp. “Clearly you’re emotional, because that’s no way to speak to your attending.”
I let out a humourless laugh. “Excuse me? Emotional—what, because I’m a woman? Or because I actually dare to feel something?”
His throat bobs. “Doctor, you’re out of line. Take a break and come back when you’re a little more stable.”
My chest heaves. “Y-you—”
The wetness on my cheeks stops me cold.
Great.
Crying. In front of him.
I turn on my heel and storm off toward the roof—the one place where I can actually breathe. I try to control my breathing as I stare out over the city lights. After a second, I give up and sit down, knees pulled to my chest, chin resting there. Tears soak into my scrubs while the cool breeze does nothing but make everything worse.
I barely hear the rooftop door open—
but I feel him.
I always do.
His voice is low. Softer than I’ve ever heard it. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just know how to control it. You do this job long enough… you learn. Because if you don’t, it’ll break your heart until there’s nothing left.”
I glance up at him, standing over me. “I really don’t need a lecture… or a pity talk… or whatever. I need to be alone.”
He nods once. “Fine. We don’t have to talk.”
I squint as he lowers himself down beside me, groaning slightly, rubbing his knee—his prosthetic—like it’s acting up again.
I turn my face away. Not looking at him. Not giving him that.
But of course, he doesn’t let it go.
“You know… you did everything you could. Fentanyl’s no joke. The chances of survival are almost none.”
I let out a shaky breath, tears slipping free again. “Just stop, Jack. I really don’t need this right now.”
His hand comes up, fingers brushing under my chin, turning my face toward him before I can stop him.
“Then what do you need, huh?”
I search his eyes, my voice barely there. “I need every patient to be okay… for children to go home to their parents… for parents to live as long as their children…”
My voice falters.
“…for everything to be okay.”
He smiles—sad, quiet. “You chose the wrong job then, sweetheart.”
I sniff, letting out a weak, humourless huff. “Wow. Gee. Thanks. You’re great at this.”
That actually earns a small laugh from him. “I work night shift for a reason. The fewer conversations I have with people, the better.”
I shake my head, turning my face away from him. “Whatever.”
He sighs, rubbing his forehead.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Then his arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug.
I gasp, startled. “W-what?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His voice, when it comes, is softer than before. “I can’t make things okay for you… but I can be there for you.”
A fresh wave of tears hits, and his arm tightens slightly, pulling me closer. My head drops to his shoulder, tears soaking into his scrubs now.
We don’t speak.
Not at first.
Somewhere between the distant city noise and the steady rhythm of our breathing, my tears slow. My heart doesn’t race as hard.
I find something I didn’t expect—comfort.
In his arms.
In this moment.
In him.
He glances down at me. “There we go… see? All better now.”
I nod slowly, looking up at him through damp lashes. “Thank you… I needed that.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “Could’ve sworn I’m a doctor.”
I let out a soft giggle, lightly slapping his arm. “Ugh, you’re so full of yourself.”
He smiles—really smiles this time—and holds my gaze.
His hand lifts, brushing gently against my cheek, his thumb wiping away the last traces of tears.
My eyes drop to his lips.
Dangerous mistake.
His voice is barely a whisper. “Beautiful.”
He leans in.
I gasp softly as his lips meet mine.
The kiss is slow at first—careful, testing—like he’s giving me time to pull away.
I don’t.
Instead, I melt into him.
And then it shifts.
Deeper. Warmer.
His hands come up, holding my face, pulling me closer as the kiss turns more intense, more certain. My hands press against his chest, grounding myself as everything else starts to blur.
For a second—just one—I let myself get lost in it.
In him.
Then reality crashes back in.
What the hell am I doing?
I pull back suddenly, breath unsteady, lips tingling. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t.”
His expression shifts—surprise, something darker flickering behind those light eyes.
I don’t wait.
I get up and run—straight for the door.
I don’t look back.
I don’t want to see his face.
And I know…
He won’t be right behind me. Not immediately.
In mere seconds, another emergency comes in. And another. And another.
Before I know it, morning creeps in and day shift starts filtering through the doors.
Not once do I look at Jack.
As a matter of fact… I avoid him. Completely.
I head into the locker room, exhaustion finally catching up with me. I just want to go home—no, need my bed.
I close my locker and turn around—
—and there he is.
Leaning against the lockers, irritation written all over his face… along with something else I can’t quite name.
His voice is low. “You’re just gonna leave after what happened?”
I look anywhere but at him. “It was a mistake. A—”
“A mistake?” he cuts in. “Really? Is that how it felt?”
I glance up at him. “I… uhm—”
He steps closer. “You’re gonna lie to my face? Really?”
I shake my head. “J-Jack… you’re my attending.”
He nods once. “Yeah. So?”
I blink, confused. “So? It’s wrong. You’re my boss… you’re older—”
He huffs. “Oh, so it’s my age now?” He steps even closer. “Because I guarantee you—I can make you feel things no guy your age ever could.”
I suck in a breath. “N-no… don’t…”
His hand plants against the locker behind me, trapping me in. “Don’t what?”
I force myself to hold my ground. “Don’t act like you like me.”
He goes still. Then his eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t like you.”
My stomach drops. “W-what?”
He leans in, his breath brushing my ear.
“I’ve fallen for you… since your first week.”
My breath catches. “I… I’ve been here for two years…”
“You think I don’t know that?” he murmurs. “It’s been torture. Not knowing if you felt the same. Wondering every damn day.”
I shake my head, heart pounding. “W-we can’t do this.”
His hand comes up, thumb brushing my lower lip, tilting my head back so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Tell me right now you don’t feel anything for me,” he says, voice low, rough in a way I’ve never heard before, “and I’ll walk away. I’ll stop.”
My breath stutters.
“Y-you know I do…”
That’s all it takes.
His lips crash against mine—desperate, consuming, like he’s been holding back for far too long. My fingers tangle in his hair as I kiss him back just as fiercely, everything else fading away for a second.
His voice brushes against my lips, breathless. “I could get used to this…”
His mouth trails along my jaw, down my neck, and my head falls back before I can stop it—
Footsteps. Voices.
Reality.
“Stop—” I whisper.
He pulls back instantly, searching my face.
“I… I can’t.”
And this time, I don’t hesitate.
I walk out—fast, before I can change my mind.
Before I can fall any harder.
Tears blur my vision as I push through the doors.
Because falling for him?
That’s the easy part.
Knowing he feels the same…
That’s the part that ruins you.
I can’t let this happen. Real love doesn’t happen to someone like me.
No.
As I step out into the early morning light, the sun just beginning to rise, I make a decision.
Last night… was my last night shift.
Because I can’t keep working with a man I love.
Better to break my own heart now… than give him the power to do it later.
This is my first one-shot for Jack Abbott (The Pitt) — not my first time writing (been doing that for a while now), but definitely my first time diving into this man and this show… and yeah, I’m completely addicted at this point, no shame 🤷♀️
⚠️ Warnings:
Emotional angst
Patient death / overdose
Hospital/medical trauma themes
Age gap
Attending x doctor dynamic
Kissing / tension / questionable decisions 👀
⚠️ Important:
This is my original work. Please do not copy, repost, translate, or claim it as your own anywhere. Respect writers.
This is a raw, emotional one-shot—kinda messy in the best way, a little chaotic, very feelings-heavy… basically me putting my heart on paper and hoping it hits someone the same way it hit me while writing it.
I would love to hear what you think—seriously. Comments, reactions, screaming, crying, all of it. Tell me your favourite part, tell me if it hurt, tell me if you’re mad at me for the ending 😅
And if you want more of this universe… just say the word 👀
Yet another night, yet another 12—maybe 15—hour shift. Verdict’s still out, we’ll see. Coffee in hand, smile on my face as I walk into the Pitt. Night shift is a whole other beast—one that doesn’t like to be tamed, but runs wild into the open, breathing down every doctor’s and nurse’s neck. And don’t even get me started if it’s a full moon—it’s like the crazies are even crazier. But hey, I live for the adrenaline.
Heading to the nurse’s station, I catch a glimpse of him—the man I have the biggest crush on… Okay, fine, maybe it’s more than a crush… but I ain’t acting on it. He’s my attending, and nearly fifteen years older than me. So I keep my distance. Don’t wanna cosy up to the Bossman.
I take another sip of my steaming hot vanilla latte, my tongue darting out to catch a drop sliding down the lid.
He nods curtly. No smile, but no annoyance either—just courtesy. “Doctor.”
I nearly choke. “Dr. Abbott—hi. You doing good? Are you? What are you up to? Having a good shift?”
Can I please just stop rambling?
He squints his light eyes. “How much caffeine have you had already?” Then adds, “Try to breathe between words.”
I can feel my cheeks burning. “Uhm… yeah, too many.” I shake my head. “Excuse me—patients and all that.”
I walk briskly into an emergency room where an older man scolds me. “Can’t a man get some sleep?”
I mumble an apology and step back out, feeling his eyes burn a hole through me. Goodness, I hope he can’t read minds—because if he could… yeah, I’d be in serious trouble for having fantasies and feelings about Jack Abbott.
I sigh as I disappear around the corner, closing my eyes for a second. I’ve always been horrible at this—romantic feelings, all of it. And the worst part? I sabotage myself. Always falling for the emotionally unavailable, stoic, brooding types—the ones still hung up on an ex, carrying baggage bigger than an airport line, or with an age gap wide enough to make people assume I’ve got daddy issues… or that grey is my favourite colour. And don’t even get me started on the fact that age lines (aka wrinkles)? Yeah… kind of a turn-on.
I rub my temples, which does nothing to fix the frayed, messy strands of my hair.
Mumbling under my breath, I mutter, “Falling for him… that’s the easy part.”
I straighten up.
This is gonna be a long shift.
I’ve been running—from the feelings, from myself, from him… from something, nothing, everything. Hell if I know.
The only time I’m okay is when I’m focused on a patient. And we’ve had some crazy calls tonight—drunk college students who thought they were Superman, Spider-Man… heck, whatever superhero is cool. Is “cool” even still a cool word? Hell if I know. Shows you how life passes you by—one second you’re young, the next you’re in your thirties getting excited about an early night in, binge-watching a series with a tub of ice cream.
A sudden shiver runs down my spine as his breath brushes over my ear.
“Doctor… are you just gonna stand there, or finish your chart?”
I glance down. “Jack—I mean, Dr. Abbott.”
A knowing smirk crosses his face. “Yeah, last time I checked, that’s my name.”
My cheeks flare pink. “S-sorry… I’m just a little tired.”
He studies my face. “Yeah? I can tell.”
He lifts his hand toward my arm—not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin all the way up to my shoulder.
I—
Is he going to—
My heartbeat spikes—honestly, probably illegal at this point.
His hand moves past me. He grabs a pen.
“Damn pens nowadays,” he mutters, already scribbling on the chart.
And just like that… gone.
Everything after that is a blur. I think I said something like, “Yeah… darn pens,” before walking away—
Okay, fine.
Nearly running.
From him.
A patient comes in—late teens. Drug overdose.
Damn it.
He starts coding, and I’m on him instantly, chest compressions, counting under my breath like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered. I keep going. Longer than I should. Longer than anyone should.
This one hits harder than most—maybe it’s his age, maybe it’s the parents watching, maybe it’s the way his mom keeps whispering his name like he can still hear her.
I keep going.
Trying.
Begging.
His voice cuts through everything. “Doctor, stop compressions. It’s been too long.”
The mother screams, collapsing to the floor.
I try to stop. I do.
But I can’t.
It’s like my arms don’t belong to me anymore.
His hands—rough, steady—close over mine. Grounding me. Forcing me to stop.
Silence crashes in.
I stare at the clock on the wall. “T-time of death… 02:46.”
The parents are crying. Broken.
I strip off my gloves, toss them in the bin, and walk out before the tears spilling over can catch up with me.
I think I’m moving fast—faster than anyone could follow.
But he still catches up.
His voice is low. Controlled. “What was that?”
I turn, looking up at him. “Sorry, Dr. Abbott. Not all of us can be so… so…” I swallow hard. “Hardass about death like you are.”
He squints, those light eyes sharp. “Clearly you’re emotional, because that’s no way to speak to your attending.”
I let out a humourless laugh. “Excuse me? Emotional—what, because I’m a woman? Or because I actually dare to feel something?”
His throat bobs. “Doctor, you’re out of line. Take a break and come back when you’re a little more stable.”
My chest heaves. “Y-you—”
The wetness on my cheeks stops me cold.
Great.
Crying. In front of him.
I turn on my heel and storm off toward the roof—the one place where I can actually breathe. I try to control my breathing as I stare out over the city lights. After a second, I give up and sit down, knees pulled to my chest, chin resting there. Tears soak into my scrubs while the cool breeze does nothing but make everything worse.
I barely hear the rooftop door open—
but I feel him.
I always do.
His voice is low. Softer than I’ve ever heard it. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just know how to control it. You do this job long enough… you learn. Because if you don’t, it’ll break your heart until there’s nothing left.”
I glance up at him, standing over me. “I really don’t need a lecture… or a pity talk… or whatever. I need to be alone.”
He nods once. “Fine. We don’t have to talk.”
I squint as he lowers himself down beside me, groaning slightly, rubbing his knee—his prosthetic—like it’s acting up again.
I turn my face away. Not looking at him. Not giving him that.
But of course, he doesn’t let it go.
“You know… you did everything you could. Fentanyl’s no joke. The chances of survival are almost none.”
I let out a shaky breath, tears slipping free again. “Just stop, Jack. I really don’t need this right now.”
His hand comes up, fingers brushing under my chin, turning my face toward him before I can stop him.
“Then what do you need, huh?”
I search his eyes, my voice barely there. “I need every patient to be okay… for children to go home to their parents… for parents to live as long as their children…”
My voice falters.
“…for everything to be okay.”
He smiles—sad, quiet. “You chose the wrong job then, sweetheart.”
I sniff, letting out a weak, humourless huff. “Wow. Gee. Thanks. You’re great at this.”
That actually earns a small laugh from him. “I work night shift for a reason. The fewer conversations I have with people, the better.”
I shake my head, turning my face away from him. “Whatever.”
He sighs, rubbing his forehead.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Then his arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug.
I gasp, startled. “W-what?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His voice, when it comes, is softer than before. “I can’t make things okay for you… but I can be there for you.”
A fresh wave of tears hits, and his arm tightens slightly, pulling me closer. My head drops to his shoulder, tears soaking into his scrubs now.
We don’t speak.
Not at first.
Somewhere between the distant city noise and the steady rhythm of our breathing, my tears slow. My heart doesn’t race as hard.
I find something I didn’t expect—comfort.
In his arms.
In this moment.
In him.
He glances down at me. “There we go… see? All better now.”
I nod slowly, looking up at him through damp lashes. “Thank you… I needed that.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “Could’ve sworn I’m a doctor.”
I let out a soft giggle, lightly slapping his arm. “Ugh, you’re so full of yourself.”
He smiles—really smiles this time—and holds my gaze.
His hand lifts, brushing gently against my cheek, his thumb wiping away the last traces of tears.
My eyes drop to his lips.
Dangerous mistake.
His voice is barely a whisper. “Beautiful.”
He leans in.
I gasp softly as his lips meet mine.
The kiss is slow at first—careful, testing—like he’s giving me time to pull away.
I don’t.
Instead, I melt into him.
And then it shifts.
Deeper. Warmer.
His hands come up, holding my face, pulling me closer as the kiss turns more intense, more certain. My hands press against his chest, grounding myself as everything else starts to blur.
For a second—just one—I let myself get lost in it.
In him.
Then reality crashes back in.
What the hell am I doing?
I pull back suddenly, breath unsteady, lips tingling. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t.”
His expression shifts—surprise, something darker flickering behind those light eyes.
I don’t wait.
I get up and run—straight for the door.
I don’t look back.
I don’t want to see his face.
And I know…
He won’t be right behind me. Not immediately.
In mere seconds, another emergency comes in. And another. And another.
Before I know it, morning creeps in and day shift starts filtering through the doors.
Not once do I look at Jack.
As a matter of fact… I avoid him. Completely.
I head into the locker room, exhaustion finally catching up with me. I just want to go home—no, need my bed.
I close my locker and turn around—
—and there he is.
Leaning against the lockers, irritation written all over his face… along with something else I can’t quite name.
His voice is low. “You’re just gonna leave after what happened?”
I look anywhere but at him. “It was a mistake. A—”
“A mistake?” he cuts in. “Really? Is that how it felt?”
I glance up at him. “I… uhm—”
He steps closer. “You’re gonna lie to my face? Really?”
I shake my head. “J-Jack… you’re my attending.”
He nods once. “Yeah. So?”
I blink, confused. “So? It’s wrong. You’re my boss… you’re older—”
He huffs. “Oh, so it’s my age now?” He steps even closer. “Because I guarantee you—I can make you feel things no guy your age ever could.”
I suck in a breath. “N-no… don’t…”
His hand plants against the locker behind me, trapping me in. “Don’t what?”
I force myself to hold my ground. “Don’t act like you like me.”
He goes still. Then his eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t like you.”
My stomach drops. “W-what?”
He leans in, his breath brushing my ear.
“I’ve fallen for you… since your first week.”
My breath catches. “I… I’ve been here for two years…”
“You think I don’t know that?” he murmurs. “It’s been torture. Not knowing if you felt the same. Wondering every damn day.”
I shake my head, heart pounding. “W-we can’t do this.”
His hand comes up, thumb brushing my lower lip, tilting my head back so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Tell me right now you don’t feel anything for me,” he says, voice low, rough in a way I’ve never heard before, “and I’ll walk away. I’ll stop.”
My breath stutters.
“Y-you know I do…”
That’s all it takes.
His lips crash against mine—desperate, consuming, like he’s been holding back for far too long. My fingers tangle in his hair as I kiss him back just as fiercely, everything else fading away for a second.
His voice brushes against my lips, breathless. “I could get used to this…”
His mouth trails along my jaw, down my neck, and my head falls back before I can stop it—
Footsteps. Voices.
Reality.
“Stop—” I whisper.
He pulls back instantly, searching my face.
“I… I can’t.”
And this time, I don’t hesitate.
I walk out—fast, before I can change my mind.
Before I can fall any harder.
Tears blur my vision as I push through the doors.
Because falling for him?
That’s the easy part.
Knowing he feels the same…
That’s the part that ruins you.
I can’t let this happen. Real love doesn’t happen to someone like me.
No.
As I step out into the early morning light, the sun just beginning to rise, I make a decision.
Last night… was my last night shift.
Because I can’t keep working with a man I love.
Better to break my own heart now… than give him the power to do it later.
Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
summary: you like to give abbot an extra grey hair with your flirting and barely suppressed sex jokes, and he likes to put a little extra in your swear jar. it's a win-win shift.
warnings: grumpy!abbot x sunshine!reader, also lowkey sugar!daddy!abbot, suggestive jokes, tension, flirting, one swear word, abbot trying to pretend sooo hard he’s not in love w reader ᝰ.ᐟ
wc: 2.4k (alina finally learnt how to stfu!! yay!)
You’d have the absolute audacity—and likely the entirety of your medical license—smacked clean out of you if you ever said the next thought out loud, but…it’s 4 a.m., and the night shift has settled into something almost resembling quiet.
Well, as quiet as it can get between drunk driving accidents and chest pains that turn out to be something worse than indigestion. It's like the ER is easing up on you, just for a second. Which is exactly why your brain has decided to fixate on something entirely unhelpful.
Why has Abbot been in a grump.
He’s had that small scowl all night, not quite fully formed, like it’s still deciding where to land and how hard. You’ve been watching it develop with a level of focus you would absolutely deny under oath.
In fact…you kind of hope it lands on you.
Not for any good reason. Not even a logical one. Just the same instinct that makes people watch storms roll in from too close, curious about the exact moment it tips from interesting into dangerous.
“I’m telling you,” you murmur, not looking away from your screen as you type, “it’s going to be something stupid. Like the printer.”
Diaz glances over his shoulder, checking if the subject of discussion is still there, then turns back, scribbling something down. “Nah, too easy. He’d fix the printer before he’d let it piss him off that much.”
You hum, lips pursing as you click through another tab, the system lagging enough to irritate you. “Okay, fine. Then a person. But not a big thing. Something small.”
“You, then.”
“Uh—” You pause, looking up at him, mildly offended. “Rude. He’d never snap on me.”
“No, but he gets all stiff and weird whenever you flirt with him like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so it’s close enough.”
You cock your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “I do not flirt with him.”
Diaz just raises his brows.
You glance back at your screen, suddenly very interested in whatever half-finished note is sitting there. “I’m just…friendly.”
“Sure,” he drags out smugly.
“I am.”
“Right.” He nods, entirely unconvinced, tapping his pen against the paper. “That thing you did earlier? With the ‘thank you, doctor’ and the smile?”
You frown. “That was polite.”
“That was not polite.”
“It was,” you insist, even as your fingers hover uselessly over the keyboard again. “It’s called good bedside manner.”
“Yeah,” Diaz mutters, “for the patients.”
You open your mouth to argue—fully prepared, actually—but it dies halfway out when you catch sight of Abbot heading towards the nurses’ station.
The scowl is still there.
Diaz follows your line of sight, takes one look, and immediately exhales like he’s just remembered somewhere else he absolutely needs to be. He shakes his head, already gathering his things.
“You coward,” you scoff.
“I’m not doing this.” He holds his hands up, backing away like this is a hazardous situation.
“Huh. You would if Javadi was here,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, but when Diaz pauses, you can’t help the slick little grin that melts onto your face.
“What was that?”
You don’t look at him. Just mime zipping your mouth shut, tossing the invisible key over your shoulder.
“You’re annoying.”
“I’m not annoying,” you argue easily. “Right, Dr Abbot?” you add, just as Abbot comes to a stop at the counter in front of you, earning a very clear middle finger from Diaz on his way out.
You have to tilt your head up a little to see him properly, his scowl edging into view above your monitor.
“…Am I?” you press, because apparently self-preservation is optional, ignoring the small, bright fizz of something that bubbles up every time you decide to push him just to see where the line actually is.
“Annoying?” he repeats, flipping through paperwork in his hands.
You nod once. He glances at you long enough to catch it.
"Jury's still out,” he mumbles, turning the page.
“I know you don’t mean that,” you whisper, leaning in. “It’s okay, Mateo’s gone—you don’t have to hide that I’m your favourite nurse now. No witnesses, no morale casualties.” You wave a hand airily, then reach for your hand sanitiser, squeezing a few pumps.
“Morale casualties?”
“Yup,” you reply, tilting your head like you’re weighing the gravity of the situation. “Could bring the whole floor down if they found out I’m your favourite. Women swoon for you, Doctor.” You smear the sanitiser into your hands. “Men too, I’m sure.”
He snorts, shaking his head as he walks over to the printer, feeding the documents in. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But not annoying.” You point at him, arching a brow.
“How many times have you written the same sentence?” he asks, fussing with the printer, hands gripping the edges as he looks to one side of the machine then the other.
You roll your eyes and glance back at your screen, skimming your notes, only for your stomach to dip when you realise you have, in fact, written patient’s BP is normal three separate times.
“Okay, well, in my defense—”
“You don’t have one.”
“I was just making it very clear that the patient's BP was normal,” you shrug. “Robby likes details.”
Abbot gives the printer a light smack when the paper still doesn’t budge. “Robby’s not here, and I like legible charting.”
You blink up at him slowly. “So you’re saying I should put your preferences and needs over everyone else's?" You do your very best to lace the question with something sultry, though at four in the morning you’re fairly sure the effect is somewhat dampened by the fact your concealer has absolutely creased beneath your eyes and your hair could probably be redone. You commit anyway.
Abbot chooses to ignore your attempt, his hands hovering over the printer. “Do you know how to work this fucking thing?”
“Of course I know how to work a printer, Doctor. I’m not incompetent.” You swivel in your chair to face him fully, smile widening. “...Just admit I’m your favourite.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Well, in that case, I think my charting could do with a little improving,” you say, turning back to your computer, smacking your gum a little louder as your finger clicks on the mouse repeatedly. “Might rewrite that blood pressure note a fourth time. Maybe fifth. Really flesh it out.”
There’s a moment of silence behind you, followed by an exhale long enough to extinguish a line of candles.
“Okay. Fine.”
You freeze mid-click, slowly pivoting your chair back to him, the gum between your teeth suddenly tasting a little too sweet.
Abbot is staring at you with an exhausted expression. The one of a man who knows exactly how negotiations should go, having probably run more tense situations than you can imagine, but who also knows he’ll cave if it comes to the right thing. Maybe he’s just good at giving in when he wants to, like a soldier choosing his battles.
“Please. You little terrorist. You’re my favourite and I need these scanned to radiology. Now.”
You grin at him, pushing yourself up from your chair with a spring in your step as you approach the printer. “Fine, fine. Scanning, coming right up.”
He moves to the side, letting you take over.
“So all you have to do is give them a little push,” you murmur, dragging out the syllables, “just enough so they fit snug. And then you make sure the frames are squeezed tight…tight enough to keep everything in place, so nothing slips out.”
He clears his throat, eyes darting around like you’ve said something scandalous, and not just given him a briefing on how to use the scanning function of the printer.
“The paper, Doctor. Get your mind out of the gutter,” you chirp, nudging the papers in and watching the machine whirl to life.
“My mind’s not in the gutter.”
“No?” You glance up at him prettily. “Oh, then you must just be deeply impressed by my ability to handle old things with such ease and efficiency.”
He shakes his head, already looking tired of you in a way that suggests he is not nearly tired enough. “You are unbelievably committed to making HR a recurring issue for me.”
“Thank you for showing me how to use a simple piece of equipment is a sufficient enough reply.”
His mouth twitches before he reins it in. “Radiology. Now. You can shred the original once it’s saved on the system.” He taps the printer once before backing away.
“Aht, aht,” you call after him, snatching the documents and setting them on the counter before rounding it and dropping back into your chair. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you with immediate suspicion. “What now?”
You stare at him expectantly. He stares back. Then scoffs like he cannot believe he is indulging this.
“Thank you for showing me how to use a simple piece of equipment,” he repeats flatly.
“That’s very cute. I’m glad you can follow instructions. But—” You hold up one finger before bending beneath the desk and emerging with a very sparkly jar covered in rhinestones, the label aggressively pink and handwritten in looping glitter pen. “You need to pay for the f-bomb you dropped earlier.”
“We have a swear jar?”
“I have a swear jar,” you correct, giving it a proud little shake so the coins inside rattle merrily, loud and obnoxious, “and everyone in my presence has to contribute when they slip up.”
He scoffs again, folding his arms. “And who decided that?”
“Me, obviously.”
“Of course.” He nods once, like that answer somehow tells him everything he needs to know. “Lena know you’re scamming the entire ER?”
“She helped me decorate the jar,” you beam, unscrewing the cap. “Pay up, Doctor.”
He just stares at you. Then at the jar. Then back at you again like he is genuinely trying to work out whether sleep deprivation has finally pushed him into a hallucination.
“This is insane.”
“No,” you say sweetly, wiggling the jar in his direction, “this is discipline. We cannot have you running around the ER with a foul mouth, dropping f-bombs in front of vulnerable patients.” You lower your voice like you’re explaining something terribly serious to a child. “Honestly, I’m doing you a favour. Driving patient satisfaction rates up one dollar at a time.”
“Stop talking.”
“Well either pay up or give me something better to do with my mouth.”
The silence that follows is almost impressive.
Abbot looks like every thought in his head has cartoonishly slammed into the wall. His face doesn’t change, not really, but his whole body seems to lock for half a second like his brain is still trying to peel every single thought back off the surface where they’ve all just splattered at once.
You blink at him.
Then your own words catch up to you.
You like to flirt, yes—lightly, strategically, with plausible deniability. Not…whatever the hell that was. Not the sort of thing that sounds like you are actively trying to plant deeply inappropriate mental images in the mind of a man you have to see professionally every single day.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, eyes widening in horror. “I totally did not mean to say that out loud.”
His eyes are still on you, and your mouth has still not gotten the memo.
“Delete it. Delete the last ten seconds from your memory.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Well try harder. Please. I am literally begging.”
His mouth twitches. Not enough to count as a smile, but enough to let you know he is finding your humiliation far more entertaining than is medically ethical. “You’re assuming that I want to forget it.”
“Oh, that is not the correct thing to say to me right now.”
His jaw tightens imperceptibly, and it seems to hit him a fraction too late what exactly he has implied. “That came out wrong.”
“Did it?” you ask, already grinning despite your mortification, because embarrassment is temporary but the opportunity to harass him is forever. “Interesting. Because from where I’m sitting, it came out kind of perfect.”
“It didn’t.”
“It really did.” You stand back up and lean forward over the desk, placing the jar next to you. “So just to clarify, you’d actually like to keep thinking about my mouth?”
“You seem very committed,” he mutters, reaching into the pocket of his scrubs, “to seeing exactly how far you can push this before it becomes a problem for you.”
Oh.
Oh.
That shuts you up entirely.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound. Not one single clever thing. Your brain, usually so eager to produce nonsense at record speed, has apparently packed its bags and fled the premises.
He watches the whole thing happen with far too much satisfaction before pulling out his wallet and flipping it open. “There,” he says, smug enough to make your eye twitch. “Peace at last.” Then he pulls out two fifty-dollar bills, folds them, and places them into your jar.
You’re silenced once again as you try to process exactly what he’s done.
“What the hell?” you blurt. “A hundred dollars? Really? Are you insane?”
His brow lifts. “You want more?”
“No. Absolutely not. I want less, actually.”
“Thank you for overpaying my swear jar after I’ve spent ten minutes sexually harassing you beside a printer is a sufficient enough answer,” he mocks dryly.
“I don’t see you complaining to HR. Matter of fact, this—“ you nod to the jar, “—looks a lot like you rewarding my behaviour.”
“Trust me, if I were rewarding your behaviour, you’d know.”
Your stomach does a humiliating somersault so violent it should probably be documented in your own chart.
He watches your face change and immediately looks far too pleased with himself. “That shut you up quicker than the money did.”
You scramble to recover, cocking your head to the side. “And what kind of behaviour would you lean towards rewarding? You know…for research purposes.”
“Getting those documents to radiology. Ensuring charting is done to the proper standard. No scheming during work hours.”
You roll your eyes and stick a finger in your mouth, mock-gagging. “Ugh, boring!”
“You asked.”
“True,” you concede, plopping back in your chair. “But I have a feeling there’s probably a much less professional answer rattling around in there that you’re not sharing.”
“I’m going to go now, okay?” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Enjoy your earnings.”
“Don’t act like you won’t be back later,” you call after him, twisting your lips as your eyes follow his retreating figure.
Of course you're not wrong, because he's back exactly thirty minutes later.
summary: jack learns to never keep secrets from his pregnant wife.
—
It’s supposed to be a quiet shift for you.
Paeds is calm, for once. You’re halfway through writing up notes when your pager goes.
ED consult.
Baby Jane Doe.
You sigh softly, pushing yourself up a little slower than usual. One hand comes to your stomach automatically.
“Alright, babygirl,” you murmur. “Let’s go see what the drama is.”
Down in the ED, it’s anything but calm.
There’s an edge to it. You feel it the second the doors open.
Too many people moving quickly. Too many hushed voices.
You frown slightly, instinct kicking in.
But you don’t stop.
Straight to where you’re needed.
The baby is small.
Too small.
You soften instantly, all your attention shifting.
“Hey sweetheart,” you murmur, gentle, steady, hands careful as you examine her.
You ask the right questions. Give the right instructions. Completely in your element.
Until you hear it.
Faint.
Around the corner.
A voice you know too well.
“…I’m fine, Mohan, it’s barely anything.”
You freeze.
Just for a second.
Because that’s Jack.
That tone is never good.
Samira’s voice follows, quieter but firm. “You were grazed by a bullet, Jack.”
Your stomach drops.
You don’t think.
You just move.
You round the corner and stop dead.
Jack is sitting on the bed.
Shirt partially open. Blood on his side. Not a lot, but enough.
Samira is in front of him, cleaning the wound carefully.
“…this stays between us,” Jack is saying. “I don’t need her worrying over nothing.”
Your ears ring.
Samira nods slightly. “Fine. Our secret.”
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
Both of their heads snap toward you.
You rest a hand on your stomach, voice loud, dripping with disbelief.
“You hear that, babygirl?” you say sweetly. “Your daddy’s a liar and a horrible secret keeper.”
Silence.
Jack’s face drains of colour.
“-shit.”
You don’t even look at him properly.
You just turn.
And start walking away.
Well. As much as you can “storm off” while heavily pregnant.
“Hey- hey, wait,” Jack calls, scrambling off the bed, ignoring Samira’s protest.
You keep going.
Slow, determined, one hand braced against your lower back.
“You are unbelievable,” you mutter.
“It’s nothing,” he says quickly, catching up to you. “It barely even broke skin.”
“Oh good,” you fire back, not stopping. “Just a casual bullet, no big deal.”
“Grazed,” he corrects.
You stop abruptly, turning to him with a look.
“A grazed bullet, Jack. Do you hear yourself?”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
You shake your head, starting to walk again.
“I told everyone not to tell you because I knew you’d react like this.”
You let out a disbelieving huff. “Like what? Concerned that my husband got shot?”
“I didn’t get shot.”
“You literally just said you got grazed by a bullet!”
“That’s not the same thing.”
You stop again, glaring at him.
“It is when you’re pregnant and hormonal and your husband thinks it’s acceptable to just casually hide it.”
Your voice cracks slightly on the last word.
“Hey,” he says, quieter now, stepping closer. “It wasn’t dangerous.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t,” you insist, your hand tightening against your bump. “Things happen, Jack. Things go wrong all the time, you know that better than anyone.”
He does.
“I didn’t want you stressed,” he says gently.
“Well, congratulations,” you snap, tears now threatening. “You’ve achieved the opposite.”
He reaches for you.
You step back.
Not far.
Just enough.
“It hurts,” you say, softer now. “You didn’t even think to tell me.”
“I did,” he says quickly. “I just-”
“Decided for me,” you finish.
Silence.
Because that’s exactly what he did.
You shake your head, turning slightly away from him.
“I’m your wife, Jack. I’m carrying your baby. And you were just going to… what? Go home later and act like nothing happened?”
He exhales slowly.
“I was going to tell you,” he says. “Just not like that.”
You laugh weakly. “Right. You were going to wait until I couldn’t see the blood.”
He doesn’t deny it.
You look back at him.
Really look at him.
At the small dressing on his side.
And despite everything, your chest tightens.
“Does it hurt?” you ask, quieter now.
He softens immediately. “No. It’s superficial, I promise.”
You hesitate.
Then step closer.
Careful.
Your hand hovers before gently pressing against his chest, just above the bandage.
“You’re an idiot,” you mumble.
“I know.”
“You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
You swallow hard, blinking quickly.
“You don’t get to keep things like that from me.”
“I won’t,” he says. “I swear.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “You already did.”
“Okay,” he concedes softly. “I won’t do it again.”
A beat.
Then, quieter, “I should’ve told you first.”
You nod.
Because that’s all you wanted.
Your hand lingers on him for a second longer before you pull back.
“And don’t think I’m not still mad at you,” you add.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
You sigh, shifting your weight slightly.
He notices immediately.
“Come sit,” he says, guiding you gently toward a chair before you can argue.
You let him.
Because you are tired.
And still a little shaky.
Jack crouches in front of you, one hand resting carefully on your knee, the other brushing lightly over your bump.
“Hi,” he murmurs softly.
You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch.
“Don’t try and charm your way out of this.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m apologising to both of you.”
You glance down at where his hand rests.
“Good,” you say quietly. “Because she heard everything.”
He huffs a soft breath, leaning his forehead briefly against your leg.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I figured.”
You run your fingers through his hair absentmindedly.
Still annoyed.
“Next time,” you say after a moment, “you tell me first.”
“I will.”
“No secrets.”
“No secrets.”
You nod once.
Satisfied.
Then after a beat, “Also you’re not going back out there tonight.”
He looks up at you.
You raise a brow.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He pauses.
Then nods.
“Okay.”
This is one argument he’s not even going to try and win.
Warnings - heavy angst, mentions of blood, injuries, death (incl mc death)
A/N: overall, it's a dark one shot that was sitting all forgotten in my WIP folder for over a year and now I finally got to finishing it after talking to lovely @nescavaneckdaily how to get back to writing that I had started to miss.(So I'd have someone to blame for the angst brewing in my head.😅 Honestly though, kidding, your advice helped me a lot!🦋🩷)Last year was hectic for me so I guess I could consider this little thing as a comeback? Sort of?
Anyways, if I missed any tagging warnings, please let me know and I'll fix the mistake! 😇
| My Masterlist |
I do hope you enjoy it!
Dean knew.
He realized as soon as he had said yes to Michael to take down Lucifer that Michael would not leave his consciousness voluntarily. As soon as he had accepted it, he knew that he would be too weak to force Michael out of his mind. He understood he had sealed his fate but he wasn't even thinking what it would mean to those he loves.
One by one he watched them go.
One by one, Michael hunted down each person Dean had ever loved. He made Dean watch as he ripped them apart, one after another. They weren't what one would call ‘mercy kills' either. He was aware of what Michael was doing. He knew the pain it would cause to each of them to see Dean being the one killing them. Even if it wasn't really him. But he needed Dean weak and broken.
Donna, Jody, Cas…and then Sam. Everyone he knew and loved, without hesitation. Leaving her to be the last. It was a well calculated choice from him. Even if their paths had parted, Michael still knew how much Dean loved her. She'd be the last one to break Dean so fully and completely that Michael would have no resistance from him. No strength to fight back. Only a fragile remnant of the man he used to be, rotting away in his own mind.
Michael taunted Dean day in, day out. Mocked him as he watched his whole being starting to crumble more and more with every soul he saw leaving the eyes of his loved ones. But Dean still had hoped that she would be the one to get away. That with some miracle she'd be able to hide from Michael so well he'd never find her. That hope was lost. So goddamn fast.
Dean tried to fight every step he felt Michael take towards her apartment. He still fought to kick Michael out. Attempted to take back control. Tried to make him not go after her. He pleaded. He had already lost so much in his life that he was begging him not to do it. She didn't deserve to pay for Dean's choices. None of them ever did.
He was frozen in his own mind as Michael knocked on her apartment door. He was left helpless as he watched her open the door with a smile on her face when she saw a familiar face. It had been a few years since they last saw each other. A few years since she had left the hunting life behind, hoping to get a chance at the peaceful life she had never known. But once you've started hunting, you can never really get out, so Dean was hardly surprised when a splash of holy water hit his face. Michael only flashed her a smile, wiping his face with the sleeve of Dean's flannel.
“You really think I would've been knocking if I had been a demon out to get you, sweetheart?”
“You can never be too careful, y'know?” She chuckled back as she stepped away from the door to let him enter her home. The sound of her laughter broke Dean's heart. He already knew it would be the last time he'd hear it. Last time to see her eyes lit up with a smile. Last time to see her because Dean had already accepted the fact that as long as Michael was still kicking around in his body, he too would be alive. Probably even longer than he should, so there would be no meeting her or Sam in heaven. Or it would be so far in the future that the faces of his loved ones would be something he'd not remember then. He'd be all alone. Dean wished he would've been able to warn her somehow, but all he could do was watch as the nightmare started to unfold.
She didn't even ask if he wanted a drink, but offered him one as soon as he was inside. She just knew him that well.
If only she knew she should have been running instead.
Two of them sat down on her couch, catching up on the old times, on their old love. They talked about past hunts they had together and all those shared secrets and dreams they trusted only to each other to keep. She knew Dean almost better than anybody. She knew he wouldn't break his promise to let her go just that easy. There was something off about him and she couldn't tell what.
And Michael was ready to give her a performance of a lifetime to try and erase any rising doubt from her mind. He knew each of Dean's thoughts. He'd seen every memory of her. He knew how to lie well enough about Sam and others that she'd believe every word out of his mouth. But Michael saw that despite welcoming him so warmly and openly, she was still somewhat guarded. Perhaps the girl was just smarter than he had thought?
“Dean…uh.. don't get me wrong, I am so happy to see you, but how did you find me?” She asked after a moment of silence. Michael had been expecting that question.
He looked down to the amber liquor he swirled around in the glass in his hands. Show time. “I..I used Bobby's spell to track you down…y'know…the one we used for Lilith? I didn't think it'd work but..” he shot her an awkward smile, shrugging as he tried to almost seem apologetic for barging in.
He saw visible confusion on her face. “But why..? I thought we agreed to —"
“I know…I know we agreed, I just…” Michael said quickly as he stood up from the couch, pacing around in her living room, pulling the act of nervousness off perfectly. “I just had to see you…I really had to see you.”
He walked off, finishing his drink in one go. After a moment standing dumbfounded in the middle of the room, she followed him into the kitchen.
“I don't understand why you're here after all those years…you promised to let me go, Dean…Why'd you come?” Michael could hear her asking again behind his back as he leaned into the kitchen counter. “Is Sam okay? Are you okay?”
The silence that laid between them after those questions was far too long for her liking.
He then turned back around, facing her as he took a few steps towards her. He reached up to brush a strand of her hair behind her ear, staring down into the worried look on her face. “No, Sam…Sam isn't okay, sadly…and neither is Dean..” He watched as the realization dawned on her face, a slow, cold smile creeping onto his lips as she tried to take small steps backwards away from him, but he couldn't let her get far away. “I warned him this would happen if he kept fighting back to me.”
Now she knew why she had doubted. It was Dean, but it wasn't. She only managed to shake her head in confusion and disbelief. “No! No, Dean, he…he wouldn't do it..he'd rather die before…” The words died on her lips as she choked up quickly. She had believed Dean wouldn't do it. How could she be so wrong about him?
Dean could already feel himself being unable to do anything. He wished more than anything that Michael would just force him back into some make believe dream, locking him away, but Dean knew himself better than that. He wouldn't give up fighting that easily. He knew he'd keep trying to break out.
“So if you have your…vessel already, what do you want from me?” She asked so quietly that her words came out almost without sound.
He closed the distance between them, reaching behind his back to pull out a knife, the blade flashing menacingly in the dim light falling from over the stove. She blinked away the tears that welled in her eyes. “No, I don't have it..not really. You see…Dean is…Dean is fighting. He’s fighting his fate and the only way to make him stop is to break him. Everyone he's ever loved…he's seen them die through a blade in his own hand. Everyone but you, but that's why I'm here…”
Michael reached up to wipe away a rogue tear running down her cheek, hushing her softly. The sound fell from his lips almost mockingly. He looked down at her sympathetically, though the feeling was nothing short of insincere. His hand slid down onto her arm as he held the knife against the soft skin on the inner side of it.
“Why don't you think of this way that I'm saving you so you wouldn't have to watch this earth burn? Isn't that a nicer thought?”
The cold blade cut her skin like it was butter, just a quick action that barely even made her react to the pain. It almost seemed like she had accepted what's about to happen. But the fighter hidden somewhere deep inside her forced her to stumble backwards, to try and find a way out. She had to at least try.
“You shouldn't run, sweetheart, you're only…tch...” He shook his head with a quiet scoff. What a foolish child she was. “You're getting blood all over the place,” he added as he watched her for a moment, seeing the trail of blood trickling onto the carpet, dying it crimson as she tried her best to get away from him.
He couldn't let that happen and went after her in two long strides, pulling her back against his chest, the tip of the knife placed right below her sternum. A warning. It was a hopeless situation she found herself in, with no way to escape, in the arms of a man she loves, knowing this would be the end.
“Dean never stopped thinking about you, you know that, right?” His voice was cruel in her ear. As if trying to make the end even more painful for her. “And I know he's thinking of you right now, too…he begged me, oh, how he begged me to spare you. It was almost pathetic, really. But you're a smart girl, aren't you? You surely know why I can't do that.”
“Please..” a single word fell from her, mixed with tears for herself and Dean. Even now she couldn't help but wonder -
Does he see her right now? Does he feel her body in his arms like in the old times?
The grief that took over her mind was nothing she had ever felt before. She had lost everyone in a matter of minutes.
And she'll lose him, too.
“There, there, sweetheart…your tears aren't going to help you…”
And then it came. That nauseating feeling of pain that would almost make her vomit when the blade sank into her abdomen. In a matter of seconds, she had lost her footing, keeling over onto the floor, the plush rug softening her fall.
“L-let me talk—”
“What - talk to him?” He didn't let her finish, cutting in coldly as he kneeled down beside her. “No, I can't let you do that, sweetheart…but just so you know, and Dean, too, for that matter - I wasn't trying to be the bad guy here but I got tired of a pathetic man trying to stop me and I did what Dean made me do.”
Michael stayed beside her as the light faded in her eyes and only got up after the last spark flickered out, cracking his neck with a wicked smirk.
He could feel himself getting stronger. It was an intoxicating feeling to realize that now he has everything he was destined to have. Dean had gone with her and now there was nothing standing between him and the new world that has no place left for men.
Feedback is appreciated! 🤍
Taglist (always open, lmk if you want to be added/removed):
♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
♡ synopsis: broken & hopeless, you let go of the prospect of living. but like so many others who made a heartbreaking decision in a moment of absolute darkness, your mind changes. when jack tries to save you...will he succeed?
♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, depression, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, accidental injury with a scalpel
♡ a/n: based off this request, ty! | i also listened to the song 222 by Vyva Melinkolya ft. Ethel Cain on repeat while writing this & i think it's kinda fitting & makes the work impossibly sadder lol
The at times calamitous ambience of the ED served strictly to unmoor and unsettle you during your first few weeks between its off-white walls. The patients flowed in like a raging river—never-ending, and never a trickle. Instead, a gush. All at once until you were drowning beneath it. When you looked around, however, you took comfort in your fellow fish; you weren't alone, not as long as they swam against the current alongside you.
It'd felt like another world upon a strange planet, in truth. One with much beeping, serving as signals both good and bad as people with do-good hearts raced to save patients from the malicious claws that meant to drag them away from this plane of existence. And there was the awful bright overhead lighting which casted the unthinkable in an eerie glow. Necessary for visibility, but unpleasing to the eye. Some places stock their troffers with bulbs meant to mimic the sun instead, you hear.
That had sounded like a nice idea to you, but something unlikely for PTMC to ever implement. They don't seem to much care for the happiness of their employees.
The thrill of the catch—having an epiphany during an odd case, and grabbing hold of a diagnosis others were so far from discovering, made you feel invincible, and all the trials and tribulations thus well worth it in the end, however. You were saving lives. How many others can say the same about their occupation? Most otherwise work in trade or retail or from cushy corner offices. Which isn't to say that they're not all vital bees in the buzzing hive which is the world, but they're no Michael Robinavitch or Dana Evans or Jack Abbot.
Local rockstars to you they are. Or...were.
That began before long, too: burnout. Your days turning into a monotonous, psychologically draining cycle. No more do you walk out the Pitt's doors and it feels like you're coming back through them again, greeted not by smiles and welcoming sentiments, but by screaming, ungrateful patients who just keep dying.
Covid leveled your world and ripped the rose-colored glasses from your eyes that you once wore so happily. It ingrained such trauma within you that you didn't know where to put it.
There was no time for therapy.
Not that you probably would've gone had there been—making such an appointment was like accepting defeat; admitting that something had gone wrong with you.
That your brain was sick.
You power through the nightmares; the fleeting reminders of things you'd rather forget when a machine beeps a certain way, or an item of PPE flashes in your peripheral as a co-worker pulls it on. It'll move through you eventually, you tell yourself; work its way out of your system just like a virus or a nasty cold.
It won't last forever.
Or...you'd thought as much, anyway.
Lately, for the last few months, things have gotten exceptionally hard. You're both sleeping and not. When you get home, it's all you really want to do. As of late, you forgo dinner in favor of it. The scale in your bathroom reflects this change.
Runway models should really invest in giving healthcare a go for awhile instead of diet pills, you think. It'd work faster.
When you do rest, however, it's fitfully. You toss and turn, toss and turn. No more does your head hit the pillow and it seems like your alarm is screaming at you to get out of bed to get back to it.
You're withdrawn at work. Talking expends energy. Effort, even. Not that you want to conserve it. You just don't much like people anymore.
They've changed. At once they were so friendly. Human beings you liked talking to. Now, you'd rather drink bleach than carry on any sort of conversation at length. The same kind of goes for patients. You've thus been faltering in your bedside manner, and little handout review sheets reflect it. Something new enacted by those at the top of the hospital.
There's no thanks for the good you do, only chastisement for the bad. Bad, bad, bad. That's what you are.
You think maybe others can see it: this grotesque thing that's broken inside of you. You can't fix it. Not when you're not wholly sure what it is. Just...a part that can't be reached, you suppose. It's okay, though, if people don't want you around. You've never been terribly good with them, you think. Always saying the wrong thing, or making the moment needlessly awkward by inserting yourself where you clearly were never wanted.
They're happier, it seems, with you removed from their everyday.
The thoughts begin as mere daydreams in time, since you find yourself with little else to do in the quieter moments: pills, razors, rope, a speedometer climbing well past ninety. You toy with them like a Rubik's Cube—turning them this way and that, figuring which best suits you.
It becomes sort of exhilarating, really—knowing that there's such an incredibly easy way out of it all. And that it's always there, awaiting you. Like a friend. Something you can both lean and rely on.
You like that fact.
That peaceful feeling becomes...very hard to escape once it's implanted itself within your mind like a hard to pull root from a noxious weed. As in, impossible.
It haunts your steps in the hall, sits with you in the staff lounge, visits with you at home... It even comes with you to the toilet, it's so prevalent.
You could always take a bottle of pills from work. Ones that would just let you drift off to sleep. Peaceful and painless. No better option, in your opinion.
You tuck the thought away for possible later use.
You throw yourself fully into your work and turn on blinders to anything outside of it. You let yourself become a machine—merely doing as you are bid without quarrel. It seems to please people when you go along with them; are at their beck and call and always of agreement with their opinions and assumptions. It's strange how different social hierarchy becomes when you've set aside any personality of your own.
But you're not perfect. Sometimes your mind becomes fuzzy. You think maybe it's atrophying. And that equates to the occasional mistake.
Abbot dislikes when you give a patient double the dosage of a medication of what he instructed you to. It made them a little sick—some vomiting and a seizure—but they survived. Meanwhile, he'd pulled you aside and you stared while occasionally blinking as he told you why what you did was so dangerous.
Bad, bad, bad.
At one time, he'd liked you. Gave you extra attention and often let his hands rest on your shoulders or lower back. One time he caressed your cheek, which had made it warm pleasantly in response. Now that you're no longer his shining star, though—having burnt out so long ago—you think he'd rather you weren't around.
You should do something about that fact.
"We cannot afford mistakes like that, Y/N. Do you have any idea what that opens us up to?" He questions. Pressing one finger to the other, he supplies you an answer so you don't have to come up with one. You're glad for that.
You don't think you could if you tried.
"Lawsuits, a revocation of your medical license, an inquiry by the Medical Board..." He trails off after counting off so many digits.
You nod. "I understand, Doctor Abbot," the girl devoid of light and life says. "It won't happen again. I promise."
He gives a smile and a nod, pats you on the shoulder—a gesture which you flinch away from since you really dislike being touched lately for some reason—and tells you that that's exactly what he wants to hear before walking away from you.
You should just kill yourself.
It's what you think anytime you screw up now. Drop and break a glass at home? Suicide. Get berated by a superior at work? Suicide. Take too long to go after a light has turned green and a driver behind you honks their horn? Suicide.
Such a burden you've become. Maybe you've always been? You're not sure. You hope not, but if so, you wouldn't be surprised.
You start making preparations before your big, metaphorical trip.
Typing away on a computer, you drown out the hubbub of your surroundings—choosing to instead focus solely on the digital chart before you. When your eyes begin to grow a bit blurry, however, you glance up and idly watch as individuals in blue and black and grey scrubs come and go.
You pick Doctor Robby to observe for a bit.
You'd adored him at one time. For awhile, actually. You liked how tall he was, and his neatly trimmed beard. His Carhart pants and how he commanded authority while still being gentle in instruction. The timbre of his voice reverberating through your ear canal when he stood close as you tended to patients sent chills up your spine. It was like finely ground coffee: dark, but nevertheless smooth and tempting.
When he started calling you by various pet names around the Pitt, you'd stupidly humored yourself by believing that perhaps he felt similarly—had a hidden crush, same as you. You'd become almost certain of it one night when he gave you a ride home because your car wouldn't turn over due to a corroded battery.
Your heart had rhythmically thumped away between your breasts as you watched his hands turn the steering wheel—half hoping he'd take you home with him like a stray.
He never did.
Now, he doesn't so much as give you a second glance.
Maybe it makes you a narcissist to have assumed there was a mutual attraction. Not everyone wants you. In fact, no one does. If only you'd figured it out sooner, you would've saved yourself so much trouble in chasing after those who only wanted to get far away from you.
You lower your head then turn to the left where Santos sits with a recorder, dictating her own patient's chart. You wait until there's a pause, then speak—take your first steps in making your plan a reality.
"Hey, Trinity?" You ask quietly.
Swiveling around in your direction from atop an office chair, she toys with her recorder. "Yeah?"
"Do you like records?"
Her brows furrow. "Yeeeah. Why?"
You shrug indifferently while typing a few more words. "I'm getting rid of my collection. I thought that maybe you'd like to have them."
Her brows raise in surprise. "I mean, how much are you asking?"
You shake your head while hitting the space bar. "No charge."
She scooches closer—sure that this is too good to be true. "Wait. Are you actually serious? I mean, vinyl is like stupid expensive right now. You wanna just give yours away? To me?"
You nod. "I don't listen to them anymore." Picking up your phone, you wave it haphazardly before tossing it down with a thud. "If I want to listen to music now, I just stream it."
You look at her over your shoulder. "They're just collecting dust. You can have them all. Do whatever you like with them. Keep them, sell them, gift them." You shrug. "Makes no difference to me."
She beams at the prospect of furthering her collection, and for entirely free, at that. "Yeah, hundred percent I want them."
You save the chart you've just completed. "They're in my trunk. I'll get them to you once our shift is through."
For the next two weeks, you continue on with offloading your life onto others. You give Samira your clothes in multiple garbage bags. Mel your books, McKay some decorative figures you kept on your bookshelves for her son, Javadi your jewelry and accessories, and the nurse's station your stationary in all its organized glory.
When Dana tries showing concern—asking as to why you're doing this, sarcastically asking if you're moving—you shrug it off and tell her it's just a bit of spring cleaning.
She frowns, knowing that it's the tail-end of summer.
Once your apartment is nearly devoid of any sign that you once lived in it, you cry from joy.
You're so close now. Just a few more loose ends, and you'll be ready to go.
Abbot is the first to go out of his way to speak to you. He deems it good—great, even—that you're in a better mood today. He's heard...troubling news. Spring cleaning, you'd called it to Dana. But sometimes people just choose to declutter their lives, right? Especially in this line of work, it's way too easy to let your living space become an absolute wreck because you can't be bothered to expend the energy to clean it up on a regular basis.
Makes it easier the less you've got to deal with. And when you practically live in scrubs... Well, who needs dress clothes, right?
Bumping his shoulder against yours, and sending your fingers flying across the keyboard you stand at, you begin backspacing to fix your typos.
He doesn't like those.
"You seem better today," he remarks. "That's good. Got some big plans after work or somethin'?" He asks curiously.
You smile with warmth. If you were the sun—which, here in the Pitt, at one time you were—he could stand within the light your rays provide for forever. "I do," you say quietly, with cheer.
He raises a brow and his lips tug into a smirk. "Oh yeah? What's that?"
You shrug. "It's a surprise."
He leans in close. "Not for me, is it?" He whispers.
You turn to him, and he nearly stumbles back. The tone of your voice and your general demeanor... They don't match the vacant look in your eyes whatsoever. They don't... They don't even look like they're yours.
"You're a good doctor, Jack," you say while gently resting a hand against his upper arm. "I don't think I've ever told you how grateful I am that I was given a chance to learn from you. PTMC is really lucky to have you here."
His brows furrow and the smile slips from his face. "Sweetheart, you're starting to freak me out here."
Couldn't even do that right, you think. Just further confirmation that you're indeed making the right choice. "I'm sorry," you say while stepping away. "It won't happen again. Have a nice evening, Dr. Abbot."
You give Mel an unexpected hug before she's due to head home for the day. She stumbles back, hesitates for a moment, then returns it with a feeble embrace. "Becca is really fortunate to have such a caring sister. It makes me happy you two have one another," you tell her with a squeeze.
She steps back while flushing and nervously adjusting her glasses. "Y-Yeah. Me too."
You part from her with a nod, and let her go on her way.
Later on, you catch Mohan at her locker and lean against your own. Yours, which can been completely cleaned out, minus your stethoscope. They'll open it eventually. You left a note to please give the item to someone who needs it. Or just...keep it in the inventory as an extra incase another's becomes faulty.
"I know Robby has been kind of hard on you lately," you say quietly.
She doesn't speak.
"But you have so much talent with patients. You take their feelings into consideration. A lot of providers let this job get the better of them and their care suffers for it." You gently grip her wrist. "Don't let him turn you into someone you're not."
Just as she turns to say something, you've gone.
Dennis has just slung his backpack over his shoulder when you jog to catch up to him by the ambulance bay's doors. "Hey," you say, settling a hand atop his shoulder.
He turns with a surprised look on his face.
"I wanted you to know that I think what you're doing for Amy and her baby is really...sweet. Commendable." You drop your hand and smile. "Are you happy?"
He grins and glances down to his shoes while nodding. "Yeah. I-I am. I think she is, too."
You turn your head to the right and watch as a truck pulls up outside. "Don't let her go, Dennis." You look back to him. "Family is important. Make sure you don't let this place become the only one you have."
He raises a brow and makes to step forward—to question what's going on—until you take a few steps back. "I gotta go, but you two drive safe. Okay?"
"I'll see ya tomorrow, kid," Dana calls from behind you.
Slowly turning round to face her, you look at Emma who's seated just to her side. "You've got a good teacher here," you say while nodding to the older blonde. "So you listen to her and soak up everything you can. Having Dana as your guide here in the Pitt is invaluable."
Emma nods with a toothy smile. "I will."
Your eyes flit back to Dana. "See you around," you whisper.
By the end of your shift, things feel different. For the first time in maybe years, you feel content. At peace. Could it mean that things are...worth a second try? You'd not even considered that such a thought would cross your mind.
But there it sits, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.
Exiting through the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, you step out from beneath the overhead coverage that extends outward and stare up at the stars. You'd meant to be dancing amongst them tonight, but...plans can always change.
You look to the right, and find Robby strapping a bag to the rear luggage wrack of his motorcycle. Maybe... Maybe he can help? He'll know what to do, because you know this moment won't last. You have to reach out and ask for him to hold your hand through this while you've still got the mental fortitude at your disposal to do so.
Crossing your arms, you walk over to him. "Hey, Robby?"
Tightening a bungee cord into place, he raises a brow. "Hm?"
"Could I talk to you about something? It's—"
He sighs with irritation and runs a tired hand down his face. "I was really hoping to get going. Guess I didn't move fast enough." He turns to you with crossed arms as well, matching your stance. "Can this not wait until morning?"
Your eyes flit between his.
So much happens in that moment.
Your resolve shatters into irreparable shards which slice through any hope you'd had but a moment ago, and a confirmation is granted to you. Confirmation that you chose right all along.
What's meant to be will be.
And with the small orange bottle in your pocket, you'll make it so.
It's okay now.
You force a reassuring smile and shake your head. "Sure. It wasn't important. It doesn't matter." You take a step back. "I'm sorry for bothering you. Have a nice night. And—and drive safe, ok?"
He barely pays you any mind as he mounts his motorcycle and drives away.
Waiting for your Uber to arrive, you continue studying the stars. They just...look like they'd take such good care of you, y'know? Never would they let you fall or falter. They act as one.
But, so, too, are they already dead.
You suppose that's rather fitting.
"You need a ride?"
Glancing to your left, you find Frank watching you with a curious look on his face.
You shake your head. "No, thank you, I have an Uber coming."
He nods. "Car in the shop?"
You shrug and look away. You donated it to a local charity yesterday, actually. You'd been rather surprised to find out such things existed. They repurpose them for homeless youth and single mothers and the like. It'll go to someone in need.
That makes you happy.
Your phone dings that your driver is 5 minutes away.
Standing, you pad over to Frank. "I'm really proud of you for going to rehab, Langdon."
He tucks his phone away into his pocket. "Yeah, well, Robby didn't exactly give me another choice."
You chew your lip. "It was the right thing. For you...and your children." Meeting his eyes, you crook your head to the side. "They need their dad. Your sobriety is a big deal. You should be proud of it, too."
His brows furrow.
"This hospital needs you here. I'm glad you came back."
Tires crunch against asphalt, and a white SUV pulls up.
When you start toward it, Frank takes a small step forward. "Are—are you okay?"
After popping open the back passenger door, you look at him over your shoulder. "I am. I know what I have to do now."
He thinks to reach out for you. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"
You swing a leg inside. "Goodbye, Frank."
With that, you shut the door behind you.
An empty plastic bottle crinkles quietly between your shaking hands.
On the floor, a pill bottle lies on its side. It's contents currently dissolving in your stomach acid.
Looking around the nearly empty space you occupy, you tell yourself that you can't go back. There's nothing left. Even out in the hall sits yet another box of odds and ends you didn't know what else to do with. So you merely drew on the front of it 'FREE' with a smiley face and sat it next to your apartment door.
Someone will rifle through it and take what they like; give the things inside a second home.
Leaning back against the headboard behind you, you swallow thickly as hot tears practically singe your cheeks. The truth you don't want to admit now is that you're scared. You don't want to die like this: alone, and in what has now become a strange place.
What if no one comes in the next few days? You don't want them to find your body bloated and rotting; infested with flies and maggots that crawl inside your mouth and ears.
Fighting against how your head swims when you turn it, you reach for your phone. You grip it as hard as you can and jerk your unsteady limb back to you. Plopping the device onto the mattress you're seated upon, it takes four tries before you manage to punch in the correct pin code.
You dial 3 numbers, then wait.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"Pleeease," you slur. "I changed my mind."
"—Female. Unconscious. Pulse is bradycardic and thready," the EMT informs Abbot and his team as he rounds the back of the van. "She told 911 about a half hour ago that she swallowed a bottle of Prozac."
Popping open the door, he turns back to Abbot and shoves the empty bottle into his hands. "She must've stole them, seeing as a man's name is on the bottle. We found it on the floor of her apartment. I figured you all would want it when you try to treat her."
Helping his partner get the gurney out of the van, the bottom wheels fall and clatter to the ground before locking into place.
"Oh my God," McKay exclaims before clamping both her hands over her mouth.
Having come back around to morning time, the rest of the day shift will soon be arriving.
Meanwhile, Abbot knows he can't leave now.
He'll work a 24 hour fucking shift if he has to.
When the other EMT exits the rig, he looks between the crowd of unmoving bodies. "You all know her or something?"
"She fucking works here," Toomarian replies before stumbling back.
Jack shakes his head, then begins firing on all cylinders as his body jumps into motion. "McKay, Shen, you two are with me. Henderson, get your ass inside and tell Handzo that I need a room cleared. We're going to intubate and then perform a gastric lavage."
He glances around. "I said now! Move your asses!" He shouts.
Standing outside, Robby watches as your body lifts off the hospital bed you've been transferred to. With numb, shaking fingers tangled painfully in his hair, he yanks tightly against the strands. Jack glances to the monitor, shakes his head, then commands McKay to try again.
"Please," he cries through clenched teeth. "Fuck," he curses. "It's all my fucking fault."
When he came in for his shift, your room was the first one he bothered peeking into, and it stopped him cold in his tracks before he barked at Whitaker to help him suit up so he could help.
A gesture which didn't last long when he backed into a tray of sterile instruments once inside, and thus sent them scattering across the floor. Panicking, he tried picking them up as a series of apologies spilled from his lips. Aimed toward you, Jack, or the team which was trying to save you, he's unsure. In the end, he sliced his hand open with a ten blade. As blood oozed from the wound, Jack shouted for him to get out. To have someone stitch him up while he otherwise kept his focus strictly on you.
"No, I-I have to s-stay. I can do it. We have to fucking save her, Jack."
Jack had leveled him with a glare. "I am going to do every goddamn thing I can to ensure that she doesn't slip away from us, but you have got to leave this room. You're breaking my concentration. It's already hard enough!"
Forcing her way inside, Dana shoved against his chest to guide him out of the room. Stumbling backward, Robby pointed at Jack. "You fucking bring her back. You bring her back to us or I'll never forgive you!"
Now, here he stands in the middle of a fast-moving ED with over a dozen stitches in a hand that's wrapped in gauze, praying to a God who stopped listening long ago to take him instead if it meant sparing you.
It's all his fault.
You had tried to talk to him. Had given living one last try. And he couldn't be bothered to spare five minutes.
The lump in his throat becomes too much to breathe or swallow over.
Robby starts choking on his own saliva.
His heart squeezes painfully in his chest and his knees buckle out from under him.
Falling to the floor, Dana runs to his side. "Hey, Rob, Robby, look at me. What's goin' on, big guy?"
He clutches at his chest. "MI," he pants.
"I need a gurney over here!"
A panic attack.
He'd hoped for worse, because then it would mean God had actually obliged his only request.
Sitting in a hospital bed with his head held hopelessly between his hands, he refuses to face the room that lies across the way. Peds.
So much horror its walls have bore witness to.
But also love and care.
Like the day of PittFest. Another moment which saw Robby at his lowest; collapsed in on himself like a dying star. You were the one who pulled him out of the darkness, though.
Caressing his face between careful hands, you swiped tears from his cheeks while telling him that you understood—had been where he sat so many times (why didn't he see it then?)—but still nevertheless needed him that day. That you both had essential work to do which you wanted him at your side for, and after is when he could break. In your arms, if that's what he required.
Did he kiss you then? Or was that an imagined dream he drew up in his muddled head?
Shoving off the bed he occupies with a huff, Robby does exactly that: gets to work. It's what you would want. And the only way he won't fall apart again. Because if he continues sitting there thinking up worst case scenarios, he'll never make it out of here alive.
The whole department has spent the day on-edge. Jack has assured them that the worst has passed, but until... Unless you woke up, you weren't totally out of the woods.
Practically everyone sticks around until well after their shifts are through—waiting with bated breath—to see if you'll open your eyes.
For what it's worth, piles of your things begin arriving in droves when people realize you hadn't just been cleaning out your apartment like you said.
You'd been preparing never to come back.
For the absolute worst of reasons.
They each take turns visiting with you. Apologizing. Or just telling stories.
Besides Robby and Abbot, Frank takes it the hardest. He was the last person you spoke to. He tells Jack over and over and over again that he should've stood in front of the fucking car if it meant making you stay. That he knew—he knew—in his gut what you had planned.
Mel has bumped into patients and coworkers alike so many times while passing by your room that 'sorry' has become her word of the day.
Dana stays quiet. She merely watches from beneath the board, awaiting the opening of your pretty eyes again.
Javadi quietly asks Jack when—not if—you wake up, he'll have you put on an involuntary psyche hold. He tells her that psyche will be called for a consult, but what happens from there will be out of his hands. All he knows is that he has to make sure this never happens again.
When his chin begins to wobble as he smooths hair from your brow is when she takes her leave.
When his shift nears 20 hours, Jack finally takes a seat at your bedside. Holding your limp hand between each of his, he presses it to his lips. "You have people waiting for you," he murmurs. "I am waiting for you. Robby is. Sweetheart," he cups your cheek and your head lulls to the side. "I love you."
He begins to cry. "Why the fuck I didn't say it sooner I—" He shakes his head. "I thought it'd be unprofessional. You were my subordinate." He lowers his head. "Goddamn coward." Lifting his head again, he kisses your fingertips. "I'm saying it now. I mean, how could I not fall for you?"
A knock sounds from the door.
Robby.
Pushing open the glass entrance, he steps inside. "Still nothing?" He asks quietly.
Jack shakes his head. "Not yet. But she'll wake up soon. She has to."
Seating himself on the side of your bed, Robby cups your cool cheek in his palm. "You came to me. You needed me and I wasn't there." He runs the pad of his thumb along the curve of your jaw. "But I am now. I will spend as much time as I have to fixing this; making it up to you."
Leaning down, he hesitates, then presses a soft kiss to your lips.
But that only works in the stories...
"Rest of my life if I have to."
Jack falls asleep slumped over in his chair—his head resting beside you and his fingers firmly intertwined between your own. Robby took up position at your side in bed. Holding you close to him with his hoody draped over your chest, he tucked you just beneath his chin before drifting off.
As long as your heart still beats, they've each something to hold onto.
Your awakening is sluggish; gradual. Pulling yourself from the primordial sludge which deigned to hold you meant fighting a battle you weren't sure you could win.
But when you stir quietly, and feel warm bodies on either side of you, accompanied by the sound of quiet snoring, you know you've come out the other side victorious.
"Welcome back," drawls a thickly accented, feminine voice from across the way. "Had a lot of people worried, kid."
The rumbling chest you're pressed against quiets, then shifts. Pressing your head back against the soft pillow beneath it, you stare up at Robby's tear-stricken face. He doesn't speak. He merely smiles before cupping your cheek in his palm and pressing his lips to yours.
You're far too exhausted to think on it.
You'd thought he didn't care. What else have you been wrong about as of late?
Your right hand suddenly released, Jack stands, then seats himself on your bedside. "We're going to take care of you. Alright? I promise."
Leaning down, he kisses you next.
Dana turns back to the nurse's station.
"You'll never be alone again," Robby whispers. "We weren't there for you then, but we're here now."
