when your suitcase gets lost on the way to greece, jack abbot lends you clothes to get by. between nosy coworkers, spilled wine, and jack's teasing, the situation becomes much harder to survive than it should be.
šĀ°āā.ą³ąæ*:ļ½„ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted
PAIRING: jack abbot x reader
WARNINGS: fluffity fluff, borrowed clothes, coworkers to something, public embarrassment, flustered reader, teasing, mild jealousy implications, suggestive dialogue, sexual rumors / assumptions, wine spilling, santos being ur number 1 opp and number 1 supporter at the same time, flirting!!! lots and lots of flirting
PROMPT: here!
WC: 1.8k
There are, you feel, worse fates than ending up marooned in Santorini wearing Jack Abbotās clothes.
A plague of locusts, for one. Stepping on a lego barefoot perhaps. Or, in what may in fact be the cellar floor of human suffering, finally getting your suitcase back only to unzip it and find nothing inside but hideous hospital scrubs and lonely, misshapen shocks instead of your cute little outfits and your even cuter, very tiny bikinis you were supposed to be wearing on this trip.
And honestly thatās not entirely outside of the realm of possibility.
You packed at two in the morning with the executive function of a feral raccoon rifling through a gas station dumpster, so really the universe would be well within its rights to punish you.
This, then, was fine. More than fine. A salvageable situation. A win, even, if you angled your head and refused to inspect it too closely.
Except for the microscopic issue that his clothes smell like him.
Which you understood in a distant, theoretical way you know rain is wet or fire is hot or menās clothes tend to smell like the men wearing them.Ā
But now you understand it in that immediate, full-body way of a person trapped inside the atmosphere of a man she is trying, with only moderate success, not to be weird about.
Tobacco. Leather. Something dry and woodsy underneath, oak maybe, something warm and stern and impossible to separate from him now that youāve noticed it.
It smells like competence. Like an almost-choice. Like the split second before you do something you already know youāll have to lie about later.
And now itās all over you. In the collar. In the cuffs. In every breath you take like your lungs have joined the opposition.Ā
You huff it in like an addict and make your way into the living room.Ā
Rain taps steadily at the tall glass windows, turning the whole house dim and silver at the edges.
Most of the group has collapsed into the couch in various stages of damp-haired, wine-soft sprawl, limbs overlapping without much regard for ownership, all of them fixed on some black-and-white film flickering across the tv screen.Ā
The kitchen counter is crowded with wine glasses in varying stages of neglect, some nearly full, some reduced to lipstick ghosts and shallow red smears at the bottom, and you decide this is as good a moment as any to acquire one of your own.
You deserve it, after all.
You grab an unused glass and pour a generous amount.
From the end of the couch nearest to the kitchen, Victoria looks up from her phone, takes one look at you, and arches a brow.Ā
āNice sweatshirt,ā she remarks. āShould we be thanking you for your service?ā
Your eyes drop to the enormous ARMY stamped across your chest, which, in hindsight, does feel a touch less subtle than you might have hoped. Not understated, exactly. More like a public service announcement.
āLost suitcase,ā you say, heat climbing to your face as you fuss with a sleeve that falls halfway over your hand. āJack let me borrow something, soā¦ blame the airline.ā
Santos lets out a sharp little laugh from beside her, all pleased with herself before sheās even opened her mouth. Never a promising sign.
āThatās a new one. Usually people skip straight to admitting theyāre sleeping with him.ā
You sputter around a mouthful of wine, swallowing too fast, too badly, eyes watering as you whip around to glare at her over the rim of your glass.
āTrinity,ā you stage-whisper, eyes huge. āJesus Christ.ā
āWhoās sleeping with who?ā
Jackās voice lands from somewhere directly behind you.Ā
You turn and there he is.
Grey sweatpants riding low on his hips, black t-shirt skimming a chest and shoulders broad enough to make the whole rest of the room look underbuilt, all of him calm and self-contained in a way that makes you feel, by contrast, like a person assembled in a rush from spare parts.
You force your eyes upward with considerable effort and bite your tongue hard enough to keep from openly staring.Ā
Santos is dead. Santos is dead and, before she dies, you are taking every single one of her beach towels. Let her drip-dry for the rest of the trip. Let her know hardship.
āNobody,ā you say quickly, then quicker, before somehow the first version had not been convincing enough. āNo one is sleeping with anybody. Thereās no sleeping happening. That is not a thing that is, um, happening.ā
Jack gives you a quizzical look at that. You imagine he might be considering have you checked out.
Then his mouth tips at one corner. āShame. For a second there it sounded interesting.ā
Before you can scrape together anything remotely usable in reply, Jack is already moving past you, one hand catching lightly at your waist as he goes, casual, thoughtless, the absent sort of touch that means nothing to him and enough to shave several fiscal years off your life.
He heads straight for the couch, dropping into it.
Santos leans toward Victoria and mutters, in a voice carrying all the discretion of a car alarm, āYeah. Real shame.ā
You choose, with great maturity, not to acknowledge her. Which is easier to commit to in theory than in practice, especially when you turn toward the choice and realize your choices have narrowed to two.
One, the far corner, between Robby and the intern under a blanket that is doing a pathetic job of concealing whatever the hell is going on beneath it.
Or two, the open seat beside Jack.
You cross the room and lower yourself into the space next to him, careful to leave what you hope reads as a normal, socially unremarkable amount of distance between you.
He doesnāt look away from the movie.
āNo need to get that defensive about your love life, kid,ā he murmurs. āWeāre all adults here.ā
āI was not defensive,ā you whisper back, which, admittedly, sounds suspiciously like the sort of thing a defensive person would say. You take a sip of wine. āIt was a misunderstanding. Thatās all.ā
At that, Jack finally turns his head and looks at you properly. āSo you are sleeping with someone?ā
Danaās eyes flick up from the movie, sharp and curious for exactly one second too long.
āWill you keep your voice down?ā you hiss, then immediately drop yours lower still, because apparently hypocrisy is one more thing youāll be sampling tonight. āNo. I am not sleeping with anyone. And even if I were, that would be none of your business.ā
He lifts both hands in surrender.
āFair enough. Not my business,ā he agrees. You exhale, which turns out to be premature, because then, after a beat, he adds, āCouldāve fooled the room. They seem to think everyone about you is my business.ā
Your fingers twitch, and the wine makes its move, sloshing clean over the rim and splattering across the front of your ā his sweatshirt in one dark, awful splash.
āShit,ā you blurt, already half setting the glass down, reaching for the hem in a burst of useless panic, like maybe if you rub at it fast enough you can bully time into reversing itself. āJack, Iām so sorry. I didnāt mean to, I just, you said that and Iā¦ā
āHey,ā he says, catching at your wrist before you can make the stain worse. āItās fine.ā
āNo, itās not,ā you say, mortified. āI just spilled red wine all over your sweatshirt.ā
āYou spilled red wine on an old sweatshirt,ā he corrects.
Before you can launch into a fresh round of apology, he leans in and lays a hand flat over the stained part of the sweatshirt like heās assessing damage. Entirely practical. Entirely innocent. A normal thing to do when something has been spilled on his clothes.
Your body reacts like it has never encountered human contact before, going warm and taut all at once, every nerve abruptly standing at attention.
You become excruciatingly aware of the space between you, which is to say there almost isnāt any.
āItāll wash out,ā he concludes, drawing his hand away.
You swallow, still staring at the stain because the stain is safer to look at than his face. āI feel awful.ā
āYou look awful.āĀ
Your head flies up so fast your neck nearly protests. He catches the horror on your face and, finally, there it is, the quick flicker of amusement.
āUpset, I mean. More upset than I am.ā
āOf course Iām upset. You were nice enough to let me borrow your clothes and within, what, an hour, Iāve turned one of them into a crime scene.ā
āThatās dramatic.ā
āItās merlot on gray cotton. I ruined it.ā
āItās not ruined,ā he says, easy as anything. āAnd even if it was, Iāve got more.ā His eyes flick briefly to the sweatshirt. āI was going to let you keep it anyway.ā
Your brain, already functioning at reduced capacity, latches onto I was going to let you keep it anyway and immediately begins behaving like it has never encountered a normal sentence before. Which is ridiculous. It is a sweatshirt. People loan each other sweatshirts all the time. Probably. In very casual, emotionally neutral circumstances. None of which feel remotely relevant here.
āThis is exactly the kind of thing that happens,ā you murmur, āwhen the airline loses your entire life. Murphyās law ans all that.ā
He laughs softly through his nose.
āWhat all was in the suitcase?ā
āEverything,ā you say. āClothes, makeup, skincare, my will to live.ā Then, because apparently embarrassment has made you reckless, you add, āMy bikinis too, which was kind of the point of coming to Santorini in the first place.ā
He is quiet for a second.
āToo bad,ā he says. āWouldāve liked to see those.ā
Santos lifts her head from the couch like a shark catching blood in the water.
āGross,ā she says. āCan you two either make out or shut up? Some of us are trying to watch sad people chain-smoke in peace.ā
A quiet laugh ripples through the room. Dana hides hers behind her wineglass. Victoria doesnāt look up from her phone, but the corner of her mouth gives her away.
You lock your eyes on the television with the rigid focus of a person trying not to burst into flame in public.
Your face is hot enough to qualify as an environmental hazard. A flare-up risk. One loose spark away from requiring intervention.
Beside you, Jack shifts back into the couch, looking unbothered.Ā
āGood movie,ā he murmurs.
You take a long sip of wine and decide, not for the first time, that the airline owes you financial compensation, emotional damages, and possibly a public apology.
this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini
šĀ°āā.ą³ąæ*:ļ½„ to learn more, click here!
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: in which you get drunk, and jack abbot takes it upon himself to take care of you.
content warnings: implied age gap, sort of a size difference?, reader's drunk so she's veryyyy dizzy, they are kind of aware of the fact that they like each other but also they're doing nothing about it, i think that's it? lmk if i missed something
a/n: hii!! this is my first jack fic ever, so i'm quite nervous!! but i hope you like this <3
The bar was loud enough to be comfortable, quiet enough to pretend you were having actual conversations. You'd stopped trying to follow conversations along about an hour ago.
Your finger traced the condensation on your glass.Under the table, your foot found Jack's. You'd started this maybe thirty minutes ago, toying with his foot idly while he talked to Robby about whatever. You weren't listening anymore.
Jack let you.
He didn't pause his conversation or acknowledge it at all, except he also didn't move his foot away. So you kept going, brushing against him, hooking your foot around his, pulling back, finding him again. A lazy game only you were playing.
After a while, your foot got tired. You stopped toying and just settled your foot over his, letting it rest there and he held it.
You'd been careful, obviously. You knew which leg was his prosthetic. But honestly? You were pretty sure he'd have let you do it anyway. Jack was like that with you. Let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try.
Jack kept talking and holding your foot. But when you stopped moving, he turned.
You were slumped slightly in your seat, one hand against your cheek, finger still tracing the glass mindlessly. The position made your lips pucker slightly, your focus entirely on the nothing you were drawing on the condensation. Bored. Tired. Drunk enough that you'd forgotten to pretend otherwise.
Jack had to suppress a smile at that. He lifted your foot gently, then set it back down and slowly untangled his from yours.
"You okay?" he mumbled, low enough that Robby wouldn't hear over the bar noise.
"Yeah." You kept tracing the glass.
Jack turned his body fully toward you now. His hand came up, barely touching, just fingertips as he brushed your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear from the side he was seeing.
"I'm not sure you are, sweetheart."
He let his hand drop from your hair, and for the first time all night, got a proper look at your side profile.
You finally lifted your head off your hand and turned to him. "No, I am. I promise." You rubbed your eye softly.
Jack shot you a look, that look, the one that said he didn't believe you but wasn't going to argue.
He turned back to Robby, to whatever conversation they'd been having. But he stayed close. And as he did, his hands found the scarf you'd been wearing all night. He started to work it loose, realizing exactly how overheated you must have been.
You let him.
Because it's Jack. And Jack takes care of you. Always has. Always will.
Even Robby didn't budge, kept talking like nothing was happening, because honestly? This was just how Jack was with you. How he'd always been and Robby had stopped mentioning it months ago.
At some point, Jack finished with the scarf and spoke without looking at you. "You should stop wearing that so much." He folded it carefully. "It's May."
You were slumped against the back of your seat now, warm and loose and not really tracking much. "It's really pretty, though." You sounded like a child. But that was a given. You were drunk off your ass.
"Yeah. It is." Jack glanced at you and shook his head fondly.
While you slouched and let the bar noise wash over you, he reached for your bag and opened it. He carefully tucked the folded scarf inside, then set your purse back down within your reach.
Usually you'd hang out with Trinity at the bar, but she'd gone God knows where with Victoria at some point, leaving you stranded at the table with Jack and Robby and their never ending medical talk. Not that you minded, necessarily. Jack was here.
Plus you were tired. You hadn't slept well, hadn't slept well in days, honestly, though you'd never admit it. So you had no idea why you'd even come in the first place. Maybe it was because this was the first day off you'd had in ages. And sitting at home alone, watching baking competitions while you ate chocolate straight from the wrapper, had sounded kind of sad. So you'd come out.
Maybe it was also your chance to see Jack in outside clothes. Not that you didn't enjoy seeing him in his scrubs, you did, obviously, you weren't blind, but there was something about him in regular clothes that hit different. The way his jeans fit. The shirt heād worn tonight was dark grey, the sleeves tight against his biceps.
Too bad you were too drunk to really appreciate it tonight.
The bar seemed louder now. You weren't sure if that was your drunkenness perceiving it that way or if the crowd had actually picked up. Either way, the noise was starting to press against your skull in a way that wasn't entirely pleasant.
You noticed a little drip of beer left in your glass, just a swallow, really, and you picked it up and drank it, plopping the glass back down satisfied that the little yellow was fully gone now.
Your not quite existent thoughts were interrupted by Jackās hand brushing up and down your back. "How are you feeling?" He leaned in closer, mouth near your ear.
Ah. The bar had gotten louder. You weren't imagining it.
You turned your head, slightly caught off guard by how close he was, close enough to count his eyelashes, but you didn't pull back.
"Okay." You mumbled it, then turned your head away again, facing forward. Jack stared at you anyway. You could feel it.
"Jack."
"Hm?"
"Stop staring. I'm fine."
He chuckled, a sound you felt more than heard. "You're not fine."
His hand stopped moving, resting flat against the middle of your back. "Come on. I'm taking you home." His thumb started moving again, just brushing back and forth.
You sighed loudly, turning your head back to him. "Will you carry me home?" You were joking. Obviously. Being ridiculous. Drunk and warm and not wanting to move.
"Sure." Jack said it like it was nothing. Like carrying you home was the most natural thing in the world. He was already scooting off his seat.
"Jack!" You smiled despite yourself, rubbing your eyes tiredly again.
He smiled back, softly. And you knew, even drunk, even with your head spinning slightly, that he would have carried you either way. Joking or not.
That was just Jack.
The bar swayed slightly as you scooted out of the booth. Or maybe that was just you. Hard to tell at this point.
Jack was already standing, waiting at the edge of the seat with his hands.
You stared at his hands. Not on purpose.
Okay, maybe a little on purpose. But in your defense, they were right there, in front of you, and you were drunk enough that staring felt justified. His fingers, the way his knuckles looked, the silver band on his ring finger.
You stared anyway. Your drunk brain had apparently decided this was fine. Normal and acceptable behavior.
Luckily for you, Jack was good at reading the room. Or, more accurately, good at pretending he hadn't noticed whatever embarrassing thing you were currently doing. He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes. "Come on, sweetheart."
You finally glanced up, shaking whatever expression was on your face into something less obvious, and took his hands. He pulled you gently off the seat, and then the world decided to keep moving even though you'd stopped.
You stood there for a moment. Then another moment. Then a moment too long. Your eyes squeezed shut as you gripped his hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Jack didn't move, instead he stood there, watching you with something soft in his expression that you couldn't see because your eyes were still closed.
After a beat too long, he got worried. "Hey." His voice was quiet. "Don't sleep on me." He let go of one of your hands and touched your cheek. Barely.
Your eyes opened immediately. "'M not asleep." The words came out mushier than you intended. "Just dizzy. Really dizzy." You blinked at him, trying to focus. "Please don't let go."
"I won't." He dropped his hand from your cheek but kept the other one firmly wrapped around yours. "You okay with me just holding your hand, or do you need more support?"
"Waist." You didn't even hesitate. Didn't even have it in you to be embarrassed about how quickly that came out.
Jack smiled. "Okay."
He didn't say anything about how that was exactly what he'd been hoping for. Didn't let on that his heart did something dumb when you said it. Just gently grabbed your arm, draped it over his shoulder, and slid his own arm around your waist. "You good?" He turned his head to look at you, close enough that you could see how hazel his eyes were.
"Good." You smiled up at him.
The walk to his car was long. Way too long, honestly. Jack had parked outside and every step felt like three. You stumbled twice. He just tightened his arm around your waist and kept going.
At some point you realized you hadn't said goodbye to Trinity or Victoria. You mumbled something about it, half panicked and Jack just shook his head. "It's okay. Robby will let them know."
Eventually, finally, you reached his car. And then he had to let go of you to get the door open. You groaned loudly. The kind of groan that belonged in a teenager having a tantrum, except you were a grown adult who was simply too drunk and too tired to care about dignity.
Jack started chuckling.
"You find all of this too funny." You leaned heavily against his car, glaring at him with zero actual heat. "I don't like it." He was still chuckling as he opened the door. Soft chuckles that made him shake his head slightly. "Stop making fun of me." You tried to sound stern. It came out sleepy.
"I'm not." He was smiling. "I promise." His hand found your waist again and you felt yourself relax into the touch before you could stop it. "Watch your head."
He guided you down into the seat carefully, one hand on your waist, the other hovering near the top of the door frame like he'd catch you if you forgot to duck. Which, honestly? You might have. The night was fuzzy.
You plopped down into the seat, your head lulling against the headrest like it was too heavy to hold up on its own. The leather was cool against your warm cheek. Nice. You might just stay here forever.
"There you go." He said it quietly.
Jack pushed the door wider, so he could bend down to your level. The interior light spilled over both of you as he leaned in, reaching across you for the seatbelt.
"You smell nice," you mumbled.
He clicked the belt into place. "I smell like a bar."
"You smell nice." You said it again, correcting him.
Jack paused, looking at you properly now. The kind of look that missed nothing. He realized then that you were much drunker than he'd thought.
He smiled anyway, shook his head slightly. He reached up and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear like it was muscle memory now, so you could see him better.
Not that you were looking. Your eyes were closed again.
But then his fingers brushed your skin, and your eyes fluttered open, startled by the closeness. He didn't mention your staring, didn't comment on how your breath caught slightly. Just held your gaze for a moment, before speaking quietly.
"You want to go to your place or mine?"
Your eyes went wide. Wide enough that if you'd been sober, you'd have been mortified. "Is your place an option?" The excitement in your voice was impossible to miss.
Jack's eyebrows lifted slightly and he pulled back a fraction. His hand rested on the side of the door, steadying himself.
"Yeah." His voice was measured. "I'm concerned about you. You've had way too much alcohol. I'd rather not have you out of my sight."
You tilted your head, processing this. "I can take care of myself."
His arm traveled up to the top of the door frame now, leaning in slightly as he looked down at you. The position made him seem bigger somehow. "I know you can." He reached down, catching your hand just as you were about to rub your eyes again. His fingers wrapped around yours gently, stopping you. "But I'd still like to help."
You stared at him. Then your eyes dropped to his hand holding yours. "Okay." It came out small. Nothing like your usual self.
Jack smiled. Then he let go and straightened up, pulling the door closed.
You watched him through the window as he walked around the front of the car, the night dark behind him. He opened his door, slid into the driver's seat, and glanced over at you. "Doing okay?"
"Yeah."
He nodded back, satisfied with that, and started the engine.
The ride was quiet. Your eyes were closed, just letting the movement of the car rock you gently while the warmth from the seat seeped into your tired body.
"I can't wait to see your home." The words came out before you fully realized you'd spoken them.
Jack glanced at you briefly, then back at the road. A red light was coming up, and he slowed the car to a stop. "Why's that?"
You tilted your head against the seat, turning to look at him properly. The streetlight above cast warm orange light through the windshield, catching the lines of his face.
"'Cause I just wanna know more about you." The words hung in the air between you, and you watched the slight shift in his eyes, the way he held your gaze a moment longer than necessary.
Then he nodded. "Guess you will in a couple of minutes."
You smiled. "Do you have a cat?"
"No, I don't have a cat." He paused, glancing at you again as the light turned green and he started moving. "You think I'm capable of taking care of a cat?"
You raised your eyebrow at him, still smiling. "You're doing a great job with me right now." He'd been taking care of you all night. All the time, really, if you thought about it. Which you tried not to. Usually.
Jack turned his head toward you for a second, but long enough for you to catch the look on his face. He was surprised, maybe, like he hadn't expected you to say that. "You're comparing yourself to a cat?"
You shrugged. "Cats are nice. I'm nice."
He smiled. "Yeah. You are nice."
You felt your face warm, shy in a way you hadn't been a moment ago. "Yeah?" you asked, voice smaller now.
"Very nice." He said it like he meant it.
You made a happy sound. The kind of sound you couldn't have stopped if you tried, because Jack Abbot just called you very nice, and he was your boss, and also your crush, and also currently driving you to his apartment, and none of that made sense but all of it felt right.
"You're nice too," you said softly.
Jack didn't respond. Just kept driving, eyes on the road, but you caught the barely there smile at that.
You stared out the window for a while, watching streetlights blur past. But your brain was still turning, still willing to say things you'd never say sober. "Ellis said you're nicer to me than to everyone else."
There. You'd said it. Put it out in the world.
Jack's hands tightened on the wheel. Ah. He got it now. Drunk you was honest. Vulnerable. The kind of vulnerable that usually hid behind jokes and deflection and pretending not to care.
"Would that be a problem?" he asked, testing the ground.
You shook your head, still looking out the window. "No." you paused. "I just wonder why."
The car slowed. You heard the engine cut out, felt the sudden stillness settle around you. You glanced outside but you didn't really look. Pretended to, though.
"Seriously?" he asked.
You met his eyes. And suddenly you weren't just drunk anymore, you were aware of how the car felt smaller now.
"You're asking too many questions tonight, Jack." You grumbled it, but it came out nervous. The kind of nervous you get when you ask something you weren't sure you wanted the answer to. "Just answer the question."
He chuckled. Almost nervous, if Jack Abbot even got nervous. And you realized, dimly, that you'd never heard him nervous before.
"I'm not answering this one." Your heart dropped, but he kept going. "Because you know the answer already."
He was staring at you and you stared back, frozen, because yes. Yes, you did know. You'd known for a while, probably. Known in the way he looked at you, the way he found you in a crowded room, the way he let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try. Known in the foot under the table, the scarf folded into your bag, known in the way he was driving you to his place.
But hearing it straight up like this while drunk off your mind was something you hadn't expected.
You looked away first. Your heart was too loud, your face too warm, your brain too fuzzy to process the weight of what just happened.
The silence stretched.
Then, softly Jack spoke again. "Come on. Let's get you inside."
You bit your lip, watching as Jack got out of the car. The door closed with a solid thunk, and then he was walking around the front, headlights catching him briefly before he disappeared into shadow, then reappearing at your door. He opened it softly, the night air rushing in cool against your warm skin, and leaned down to undo your seatbelt.
"Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He said quietly. "I'm sorry."
You shook your head immediately. "Not uncomfortable." You reached for his hands without thinking. "Justā¦" You searched for the word. It floated somewhere in your fuzzy brain, just out of reach. "Shy?" You smiled up at him, hoping that was the right one.
He smiled back. "Shy is good."
You smiled back, warmth spreading through your chest. Then he was helping you out of the car, guiding you up and out until you were standing, leaning against the doorframe for balance. He shut your door and the car beeped twice as it locked.
You stayed leaned against the car for a moment, looking at him. He stood in front of you now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you.
"I know your answer." You said softly, barely meeting his eyes. "You know. Before. I know it."
He uncrossed his arms, let them hang at his sides. "Good."
You smiled at him and he smiled right back. "I hope you say it properly one day."
"I plan to, sweetheart." He promised. "Trust me."
You watched him for a long moment. "Soon?"
The word came out smaller than you meant it to. You reached for his hand, not as dizzy anymore or maybe just not noticing it, and he took it immediately. His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
"Soon." He smiled softly.
You smiled back, heart full to bursting, before finally letting him guide you away from the car. He kept looking at you as you walked, making sure you weren't about to fall. You weren't. You were mostly dizzy on love, if that made any sense at all. It probably didn't. You didn't care.
He helped you up the steps to his building, one hand firm on your waist, the other ready to catch you if you stumbled. You managed just fine, though, even found yourself grinning at the ordinary miracle of walking and of his hand warm through your shirt.
At his door, he fumbled with keys for a second before finding the right one. The lock clicked open.
"You're rich," you mumbled as you stepped inside.
He chuckled behind you. "Well, I'd hope so after twenty years of being a doctor."
You giggled at that and you heard him smile even before you turned to see it. He pushed the door open wider, and you managed to walk in on your own, looking around as the space opened up in front of you.
"Woah." yeah, he was most definitely rich.
Jack locked the door behind you, and then he stepped closer, hands coming up to brush softly at your waist, steadying you as you took it all in.
"You like it?" His breath warm against the back of your neck as he helped you out of your jacket.
"You're not messy!" you said, maybe too loudly. "Everything's organized."
You pulled off your shoes and tried your best to put them away neatly by the door. They ended up slightly crooked but together, which felt like a win.
Jack sighed behind you, worried more than anything. You heard him hang your jacket and bag up.
When you turned around, he was watching you with that look. The one that probably meant that he was calculating your blood alcohol content, probably whether you needed water or food or just to be sat down before you fell over.
"You're worrying," you said.
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm always worrying."
"About me?"
He held your gaze for a long moment. "Yeah. About you."
You smiled and then you stepped further into the apartment, still taking everything in, when Jack glanced down at your feet. His eyes caught on two different socks and he grinned to himself.
"Jack, you have a really nice house," you mumbled, wandering toward a shelf against the wall. It was covered in random things. A dusty trophy from some old sports thing. A couple of framed photos, faces you didn't recognize. Some diplomas. A stack of books with worn spines.
"Thanks, sweetheart." His voice came from somewhere behind you. "But we should really get you to sober up."
You turned your head toward him. He was standing there watching you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a small smile playing at his mouth.
"Am I sleeping here?" You weren't on your tiptoes anymore, trying to see the top shelf. Instead you turned to him, meeting his eyes.
"Would you like to sleep here?" He asked it gently, giiving you the choice.
"Would you like me to sleep here?"
He didn't hesitate. "Of course I do."
"Okay." You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly shy again. "If I'm not a bother, I'd like to stay."
He crossed the distance between you, hand finding your lower back as he led you down a short hallway. "You're never a bother."
He stopped at a door, pushed it open, and flicked on the light. His bathroom was clean, just like the rest of his place. He motioned you inside. "Wait here."
He pulled the toilet seat down and you plopped down gratefully, suddenly aware of how tired you actually were.
Jack disappeared. You heard him in the kitchen, water running, a cabinet opening and closing. You let your head rest against the wall behind you and your eyes drifted to his shower.
There was a small collection of bottles lined up along the ledge. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Nothing fancy. Just regular guy stuff. But you found yourself staring anyway, head tilted, squinting slightly as you tried to read the labels. Trying to figure out what kind of shampoo Jack Abbot used.
You were still squinting when he appeared in front of you, holding a glass of water. You startled just slightly.
"Drink up." He held the cup out, waiting. You mumbled a small "thank you" before reaching for it, but your hands were less coordinated than you'd realized, and instead of taking it properly you just covered his hand with yours.
He let you. His other hand came up to brush your hair gently away from your face. You felt his fingers graze your temple, your cheek, tucking strands behind your ear the way he always did.
When you lowered the glass, he caught the corner of your mouth with his thumb, brushing away a stray drop of water.
You sighed, content and suddenly so much less thirsty. "Thank you."
Jack took the glass from your hands and set it on the counter, out of the way. Then he crouched down in front of you. "How you feeling, sweetheart?"
You considered the question. Actually considered it, instead of just saying fine like you always did. "Tired," you admitted. "But good. Really good."
He nodded slowly. "Dizzy? Nauseous?"
You shook your head. "Just tired. And warm. And happy." The last part slipped out before you could stop it. You felt your cheeks warm, but you didn't take it back.
He smiled. "Happy's good."
He reached up to softly remove the hair clip from your hair. You felt the tension release as your hair fell loose around your shoulders.
"I look like a mess. I'm sorry." You mumbled it, eyes dropping to your lap. "I got all dressed up for you, and now I'm drunk sitting on your toilet, and I'm going to regret this so terribly tomorrow."
Something flickered in Jack's eyes. Something that he didn't let himself say out loud, like how at least you'd wake up in his bed, at least he'd be there when you did. He stopped himself. But he couldn't help latching onto the other part.
"You got dressed up for me?"
His voice was soft as he reached up again, finding another clip, then another. Little ones now scattered on his sink. He sank back to his knees in front of you, winced slightly, because kneeling on a prosthetic leg wasn't comfortable. But he stayed there anyway. His hands found your knees as he brushed back and forth slowly.
"Yeah. I wanted to look pretty for you."
The words landed somewhere in his chest. He smiled gently, thumb tracing a small circle on your knee. "You always look pretty."
You shook your head immediately, already sighing. "No I don't. Not right now."
Jack shook his head right back at you. "Yeah you do."
You opened your mouth to argue and he just shook his head again. You stopped immediately.
"Uh uh. Enough of that." He shook his head again. "I'm your boss. I'm the one who has the last word here."
You stared at him for a second, then you grinned. "Okay."
He smiled back and started to push himself up. You caugh his reaction this time, the slight grimace, the way he braced himself on the sink, the small groan he tried to hide.
"Are you okay?" you asked concerned.
He waved it off. "Fine. Old man stuff." He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, then looked down at you. "You want to sleep in these clothes?"
You considered it, chewing on your lip for a second. Then you shrugged. "Actually, I wanna wear your clothes."
That stopped him cold. He halted mid step, turning to look back at you. You were smiling up at him with that huge grin. You knew exactly what you were doing. You were aware, on some level, what those words did something to him.
"You're terrible, you know that?" he mumbled, but there was no heat in it. He reached for your hand, pulling you gently up from the toilet seat.
You took his hand, steadying yourself against him, and grinned even wider. "You like me. That means I can't be that terrible."
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. He led you out of the bathroom and down the hall.
His bedroom was nice. A dresser with a few things on top. A lamp on the nightstand. A window with the blinds half drawn, letting in slivers of streetlight
"Nice bed," you mumbled softly, taking in the way he'd properly made it, sheets tucked in, pillows fluffed, a blanket folded at the foot.
"It's good enough," he replied, already moving toward his closet.
You stood there watching him, not even trying to hide it. He was choosing something for you and your drunk brain found that unbearably sweet.
He turned around holding sweatpants and a t-shirt and tilted his head slightly. A question. Okay?
You nodded, reaching out to take them from his hands. The fabric was warm and you hugged them without thinking.
"I'll be in the bathroom. Just call for me when you're done."
You nodded again, suddenly more tired now that you were in his room with his lamp casting warm light and his bed right there looking so comfortable. He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.
In the bathroom, Jack leaned against the sink for a moment. He turned on the cold water, splashed some on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. You were here. In his home. Sleepy and honest and practically admitting you liked him. Dressed up for him. He pressed his palms against the counter and exhaled slowly, aware of his heart beating faster than it had any right to.
He changed quickly. Sweatpants, a clean shirt. Brushed his teeth. Tried to look normal, tried to calm down, tried to remember how to be just Jack instead of Jack who had you in his bedroom wearing his clothes.
Then you called his name.
He opened the door and walked down the hall. And yeah, the sight didn't help his heart at all.
You were standing by his bed, well, standing was generous. More like swaying gently, having clearly tried to fold your clothes and put them on the chair in the corner. The folding hadn't gone well. Your shirt was half draped over the chair back, your jeans in a heap on the floor next to it. But you were wearing his clothes. His shirt swallowed you whole, the hem falling to your thighs. His sweatpants were rolled at the waist and still too big, pooling slightly at your feet.
He smiled to himself, trying to get his heart to calm down as he reached for the bed, pushing back the sheets, getting it ready for you.
The silence behind him lasted just a little too long.
Ah. You wanted a compliment. "You look as pretty as ever." he said over his shoulder, smiling at you.
"I like your clothes," you giggled, happy over receiving the compliment you'd been waiting for. You shuffled closer until you were standing next to him.
He turned to look at you fondly. "Like them on you, too."
His hand gently found your waist and he guided you backward, lowering you onto the bed until you were sitting, then lying down, your head meeting the pillow he'd just fluffed. You went easily. He thought about how different this was from your usual shyness, how you'd normally get flustered and look away if he got too close. But here, now, you were more than happy to jump into his bed.
But, who was he to judge? He loved having you here.
"God, I'm so tired." You mumbled it, hand coming up to rub your eyes again. "And drunk. So drunk."
Jack still stood above you, watching. He loved the way you curled slightly toward the warmth of his pillow and the way you looked so perfect in his bed.
"I know, sweetheart." He said softly "Just rest now." He reached down and pulled the blanket up over you.
He, then, reached for your shoulder and turned you onto your side. "That's better," he mumbled softly, fingers brushing your hair away from your face. His hand lingered for just a second on the curve of your cheek.
"Sleep well," he whispered. "I'll get you some ibuprofen for your headache and some water tomorrow, yeah?" He gestured vaguely toward the nightstand, even though you couldn't see it. "They'll be right here. On the night table."
You just hummed in response, already slipping under, already gone. You burrowed deeper into his pillow.
He started to pull away, to move toward the door, when your hand shot out. "Don't leave." He looked down at you, at your hand wrapped around his wrist. "What do I get out of being in your bed if you're not here?" you murmured, turning onto your back to look up at him properly.
His heart stopped. He was sure he didn't hear you right.
"Please?" you added, softer now.
"Yeah. Okay." he replied quietly as he rounded the bed slowly, walked to the other side, and laid down at a distance. So much distance you could have fit another person between you. He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach.
You propped yourself on your forearms behind you, head tilted, staring at him with an open mouth. And then you started giggling.
"Jack Abbot." His name in your mouth was so wonderful, he wanted to close his eyes for a second to cherish it. "Are you nervous? Do I make you nervous?" You seemed genuinely delighted by this discovery. Thrilled, even.
He shot you a look. And yeah. Okay. He was laying very far away from you. The kind of distance a teenager would put between themselves and a date on the first night. He was old enough to not be nervous about this.
But here, now, with you in his bed wearing his clothes and looking at him like that? Of course he was nervous.
"Sweetheart." His voice came out quieter than he meant. "You're in my bed. What do you expect?" Honesty. He'd decided on honesty. "Of course I'm nervous."
You tilted your head, and then you were moving closer, until you were leaning on one elbow, looking down at him from above. Your hair fell forward, brushing against his shoulder. You'd brushed your teeth earlier, used his toothpaste, and you smelled like mint and him. It did something to him. "That's cute."
He huffed out a laugh, reacting the only way he knew when feeling this seen. "Sure."
You giggled again, that wonderful sound that seemed to live somewhere in his chest now, and then your hand found its way up to his chest. And that's when his heart stopped.
Not really. Obviously not really. But it felt like it stopped. Felt like everything stopped.
Your fingers traced patterns on his chest, circles, lines, nothing recognizable. Then they drifted lower, tracing random shapes on his stomach through the fabric of his shirt.
"I am really drunk," you murmured, "but I still know that I'm going to regret this tomorrow." You were watching your hand. "But being drunk also gives me an excuse to touch you. So I'm using it."
"You don't need an excuse to touch me." He watched you, enjoying the view of seeing your pretty face so close. "I promise you, sweetheart."
You tilted your head, looking at him, processing his words slowly, the way drunk people do.
"I'll take you up on that." You said softly. "A lot."
Jack Abbot had never ever felt more thrilled. "You do that, baby."
His hand found the back of your shoulder, gently guiding you down until your head was resting fully on his chest, right over his heart, letting you feel what you did to him.
His hand came up to the back of your head. His big hand engulfed it completely, fingers spreading through your hair, brushing through it slowly. His thumb moved gently against your scalp.
He felt you startle slightly at first and then relax. Your hand finally stopped moving on his stomach. He reached down with his other hand, grabbed the sheets, and pulled them up over you both.
Then he felt your ankle hooking gently over his, just like at the bar. And he smiled to himself in the dark.
He kept brushing through your hair. He remembered watching you once. You'd been stressed about something, pacing the break room, and you'd done this thing where you ran your own fingers through your hair, over and over, until you calmed down.
He hoped this helped.
He could feel it in the way you relaxed further, the way your breathing evened out, the way your body went heavy against his.
You were quiet for a long moment, so long he thought you'd fallen asleep, but then you spoke quietly. "I hope I remember this tomorrow."
He smiled before whispering, āIāll make sure you do.ā
Plot: The Pitt needs Jack but he's asleep. Accidental cuddling when you go wake him up. No established relationship. This is the Oh moment. 1.6 K of fluff.
A/N: I decided it was only fair do a Jack Abbot version of the sleepy on-call room trope I did for Robby in A Match Being Struck. John Shen whump if you squint.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
You didnāt see Shen and Parker playing Rock Paper Scissors down the hall as they each hoped to avoid being the one to wake Abbot.Ā You missed Parkerās arms go up in victory, followed by her peace sign as she walked off with a smug smile.Ā All you saw was Shen leaning over the counter, drink in hand, as he said,
āCan you go grab Abbot for me?Ā Heās asleep and I canāt have a repeat of last time.āĀ He shuddered at the mention of it. Ā
āJust put your drink down before you wake him,ā you said.Ā He curled the cup closer to his chest at the mere suggestion he separate from it.Ā
āI canāt risk it.Ā That was a dark day.āĀ He was looking past you, lost in thought reliving the last time heād woken the sleeping attending.Ā Abbot, the former soldier who understandably had seen some scary things that often led to PTSD.Ā Abbot, the part-time SWAT medic, who might not react well to being startled awake by a coworker and might knock said coworkerās favourite Dunkinā drink from his hand.Ā Shen had been devastated, low on caffeine, and the least chill youād ever seen him.Ā It would have been funny if the rest of his shift hadnāt been so rough because of the spill.Ā āPlease, dude,ā he begged.Ā You sighed and agreed to get Jack. Ā
The room wasnāt as dark or as quiet as it should be for sleep but soldiers and nightshift workers could sleep anywhere and anytime.Ā Jack was laying on his stomach on a couch in the staff lounge.Ā His prothetic leg was within reach, leaning against the arm of the couch.Ā You considered calling his name loudly, startling him awake from a safe distance but that felt mean.Ā As soon as he was awake, it would be nothing but noise and chaos until his shift ended.Ā He looked so peaceful, you really didnāt know how things went so south with Shen. Ā
You made your way closer, opting for a soft approach.Ā Sitting down gently on the edge of the couch by his ribs, you said his name and waited for movement from him. You tried again, nothing.Ā You eyed his back a moment, making sure it moved with breathing.Ā You put a hand on his shoulder, and slowly slid it across his back, smiling when he started to stir. Ā See Shen?Ā This was how you carefully woke a sound sleeper.Ā You dragged your hand back across the same simple path of his shoulders, smug that your soothing gesture had solved everything when Jack mumbled,Ā
āHey, sweetheart.āĀ What?!Ā No.Ā That was not the desired effect, especially not when hearing that term of endearment in his sleepy voice seemed to short-circuit a very important part of your brain.Ā In his stirring, his forehead came to rest against your thigh.Ā He sighed like a weary sailor finding land after seasons at sea.Ā You squirmed slightly at the heat his heavy exhale brushed against the seam of your pants.Ā He started move more purposefully, and you thought he was waking up.Ā Instead, his arm reached for more contact and you froze when it snaked slowly around your thigh, his hand tucking underneath your leg, and successfully stopping you from pulling in your next breath.Ā
It was the second time today youād seen a man hug something protectively to his chest but you were having a very different reaction to this one.Ā You managed a shaky breath, but Jack Abbot wasnāt done.Ā On another sleepy exhale, his hand skimmed up the underside of your leg, sparking sweet sensations as it slid until his palm was nestled in the nook of your knee.Ā That alone might have been survivable but the placement of his hand meant that his forearm laid along your inner thigh and his elbow was cushioned in the most uncoworkerly corner of your body: your crotch. Ā
You made a sound.Ā One youād definitely never made at the hospital.Ā One Jack Abbot definitely heard, because he tightened his hold on you and said,
āLay down with me, honey.āĀ The sudden surge of temptation to accept his invitation was so strong, it constricted your chest.Ā Your heart twisted at how sweet heād sounded.Ā Heād said it so lovingly, like you were together, like you wereā¦Ā Oh.Ā Oh no.Ā Was he thinking about his dead wife?!Ā āNeed you,ā he said softly and it was a knife through your heart. Ā
āDr. Abbot,ā you said as professionally as possible but not being able to breathe properly really took the power out of your voice.Ā Overwhelmed by the delicious feelings flooding from all points of contact with him and horrified at yourself for the lust flowing through you while he was wholesomely just deeply in love with his late wife, you reached out for something to help steady you.Ā Aiming for the couch, but being off-kilter because of the cuddly boa constrictor of a coworker currently coiled around your leg, your hand landed left of where youād planned, right onto his head where it sunk into a soft sea of salt and pepper curls.Ā You made another noise in frustration, torn between needing this to end and never wanting it to.Ā Letting your hand slide off him turned into more of a caress, and his eye cracked open. Ā
He stared up at you sleepily, almost suspiciously, but maintained his strong grasp.Ā For a second there was a flicker not unlike the look in Shenās eyes as he had cradled the iced coffee to his chest.Ā Or the look in a dogās eye when theyāve got something they know youāre going to try to take away and they plan to fight you for it.Ā Ā Ā Ā
āHi,ā you said, more than a little breathless.Ā āShen needs you.ā
He woke up quickly then, jerking his head and hands away from you, turning one way then another before he was sitting alert and army-trained on the couch. Ā
āFuck, sorry, I thought I was dreaming.ā
āAbout your wife,ā you added on, needing to acknowledge it.Ā
āWhat?ā He asked, his face twisting at the out of the blue mention of her.Ā
āWhat?ā You echoed, wondering why he seemed confused.Ā He tilted his head at you, quietly considering.
āI wasnāt dreaming about my wife.āĀ The statement came lightly but it made the air in the room incredibly heavy.Ā It felt like he was actually admitting something else.Ā Something potentially life-changing. Ā
You sprang from the couch, set on a quick escape, only to hear a clatter as his prosthesis was knocked from its resting place.Ā Mortified at not only putting hands on an attending and stirring up memories of his late wife, now you could add destruction of property or hate crime against the disabled by throwing around his much-needed leg.Ā You crouched to reach for it, desperate to right the wrong.Ā Jack had the same instinct about saving his leg, only faster.Ā This meant you sort of collided, landing with your arm outstretched along his and your chin on his shoulder.Ā
He looked down, at where you had not managed to grasp his prothesis, but instead had your hand wrapped around his.Ā Thankfully you werenāt attached to a heart rate monitor when he turned his head to look at you, because all sorts of alarms would be going off and a whole team would be running in to save you when his nose bumped yours.Ā Marvelling at his face just a breath away, you didnāt know how you were going to recover from this. Ā
āWanna know who I was dreaming about?ā He teased, tempting you with the idea of you two. Ā
āI think I understand now why Shen dropped his drink,ā You whispered. Ā
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a hint of a laugh, and the corner of his mouth started to lift in a smirk before he pulled his mouth to the side to hide it.Ā Jack shook his head at you, and it took him out of your space enough that you could think clearly again.Ā You stood on shaky legs and backed away towards the door as he accused,
āHey, you started it.āĀ You stayed quiet, unable to defend yourself, because you had, in fact, started it with the shoulder slide.Ā At the door, you paused as he started adjusting his prosthesis,
āIs your leg alright?ā You asked, hoping you hadnāt damaged it.Ā Jack peered up at you, amusement brightening his eyes.Ā
āIs yours?āĀ He asked, gesturing to where your skin was still suffering from aftershocks. Ā
āMy leg is,ā you looked down at the limb in question, āfine,ā you lied, trying to downplay your reaction to him.Ā But did that sound too nonchalant or even ungrateful to say about your perfectly fine leg to someone holding a prosthesis?Ā āItās great,ā you overcompensated, mildly concerned that might be bragging.Ā He nodded,
āYeah, it felt great.āĀ You laughed at his unexpected feedback.Ā Ā
āYou did not just say that.Ā Is that your medical opinion?āĀ He smiled at you, all too pleased with himself and your heart skipped a beat.Ā It was a toss up whether having him alert and flirty or semi-conscious and cuddly was more hazardous to your cardiac health.Ā From the gleam in his eye, you knew he was about to deliver some devastatingly flirtatious line.Ā You needed to get out while you still could.Ā āGo find Shen,ā you ordered, fleeing the room. Ā
You sped-walked down the hall, leg still tingling while you wondered if this was a newfound version of phantom limb, and how long the symptoms would last.Ā Peeking over your shoulder to see if Jack had come out yet, you rounded the corner quickly and crashed into someone in scrubs.Ā Beyond the contact, there was the sound of plastic hitting the floor and liquid splashing. Ā
āNoooo!ā John Shen cried.Ā āNot againnnnn.ā
Summary: You always ask Jack to stay and forget about his SWAT shifts and quit putting himself in danger. When a code silver happens at the hospital, he finally has to confront how you feel every time he leaves. As you recover from a life altering injury, you both learn what it means to stay.
Warnings: Depictions of Gun Violence, Active Shooter, Injury, Hurt Comfort, PTSD, Chronic Pain, Violence, Character Death
Notes: Hi!! Please be sure to look at the warnings and make sure this is a fic youāre up to. There are depictions of gun violence and rehabilitation after an injury. Thank you so much for reading and take care of yourselves! ā”
āāāāāāāāāāā.ā ..āā®
You could feel your pulse in your ears as you bit your tongue. Jack was going out again for another SWAT shift. Every time he picked up, an argument ensued. He always came up with excuses. The team needed him. He had years of combat medic experience. He was rarely in the thick of it. The job wasnāt even that dangerous.
You always rebutted. The team did just fine without him every other day. His previous experience didnāt mean he was required to continue working in that environment now. If he wasnāt in danger, why did he have to have full combat protective gear on? And of course, the job was dangerousāthatās what drew him in!
You thought after your engagement that maybe Jack could be convinced. Not to settle down necessarily, just to re-evaluate the undue stress he caused every time he locked the door behind him and walked into the flames of chaos.
āWhatever, Iām going to be late. Donāt bother staying up for me, I have a shift tonight, so I wonāt be coming back home.ā He snaps.
You hate it when you and Jack fight. You hate that he has the ability to get you so riled up. And you hate even more that he seems to be so obtuse to the fact that watching him leave eats you alive. Every. Single. Time.
āIām done having this conversation! We argue every single time! Iām going!ā He yells.
You stiffen and swallow, refusing to let yourself cry in front of him. You stay quiet, knowing that your voice will betray you.
Jack huffs and shakes his head, grabbing his backpack and closing the door with careful precision. Even in moments of anger, youāre always amazed at how immense his restraint can be.
You immediately head for the shower, needing a physical reset from the fight. And like always, you end up feeling better. Thereās something like a remedy hidden in the tendrils of steam that encase you. And along with feeling better, you start to feel guilty. You understand where Jack is coming from, and thatās almost worse than full-heartedly being blinded by your own thoughts and opinions. Understanding him means thereās always an opportunity for forgiveness and compromise, despite wanting absolutely no compromise in this situation.
You change into your pajamas and decide to take a nap. You picked up a call shift this evening, even though it wasnāt your holiday to work. Nothing beats call, holiday, and shift differential all lining up like the perfect eclipse. Your sleep is restless; however, you canāt stop worrying about Jack. Wondering if heās alright, worrying that if something bad did happen, the last memory you would have of each other is a stupid fight about stupid anxieties.
At first, you arenāt sure of how long youāve slept, but your pager starts to alarm. You sit up and grab the small device from the bedside table, and look at it with bleary eyes.
INCOMING TRAUMA: LEVEL 1, UNIDENTIFIED 48Y/O MALE, MVC HEAD ON COLLISION, GCS 7, HYPOTENSIVE, TACHYCARDIC, INTUBATED ON SCENE, ARRIVAL BY AMBULANCE, ETA 15 MINUTES
Immediately, youāre rolling out of bed to pull scrubs on and rush to the hospital. Itās already 10 PM, which means Jack should be at work and done with his SWAT shift. But with your luck, there will be no time to see him before prepping the OR and starting to work on the incoming trauma patient. You sigh and grab your keys, making your way toward the chaos.
. Żā ā¹ . Ż ā” Ż . ā¹ ā Ż.
You are currently trying to work with the doctor on call tonight to repair the trauma patientās liver. The laceration is substantial, but you know itās treatable. Youāve assisted on cases like these a hundred times before since you graduated from PA school, and you know youāll get to do a hundred more like it in years to come.
āSo, howās wedding planning coming along?ā Dr. Murphy asks as she works.
You hum with a small smile, āYou know, things get pushed to the back burner when you both work the strangest shifts. I feel like Jack and I have barely any time together, and usually he ends up picking up a shift to help with the SWAT unit when heās free anyway.ā
Dr. Murphy laughs. Youāve always loved to witness just how much she loves her job; it reminds you of yourself, it reminds you of Jack. The sheer passion to excel at saving people.
āOh, trust me, everything will settle into place. You both need to take each otherās advice sometimes. Slow down. Breathe.ā
A chuckle escapes your lips as the door to the OR opens. Maybe itās because the skeleton crew are the only staff here at this hour. Or perhaps itās because everyone on this side of the wing wears the light blue surgical scrubs. Or maybe itās just instinct that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand, but you turn around and see him.
Heās middle-aged, handsome, with green eyes that are bloodshot, and dark hair that curls at the nape of his neck. For a moment, all he does is stare at your patient. The nurse anesthetist looks up with confusion. She stands up and starts walking toward him.
āSir, this is a sterile-ā
A shot rings out and silences everyone. The only noise is from the monitors that are keeping track of the patientās vitals, and the ventilator that is helping him breathe. You falter for a moment, but you know that stopping the procedure now would result in your patient dying, so you continue operating.
You canāt see the nurse, Janie. The equipment she uses typically blocks her from view anyway, but you start to see the pool of blood on the floor near the suction cart. Thereās a lump in your throat that canāt seem to be swallowed.
You glance up at the scrub tech. Sheās new, itās her first week. You think her name is Lorelei, but youāre having trouble remembering right now. She looks terrified. You see her hands shake as she preps the table with all of the tools needed for the procedure, stealing glances at the man with the gun. You try to do a head count of everyone who wouldāve been in the OR. All you can come up with are you, Dr. Murphy, Janie, and Lorelei. Everyone else helped to get the patient stable and left to help elsewhere. Just the four of you.
āThis is him?ā The man grunts, āThe drunk driver?ā
Dr. Murphy is cool as she responds, āSir, what do you want?ā
The man lets out a guttural wail, āI want my daughter! He killed my daughter!ā
Your heart skips a beat, and despite the rules and codes of ethics youāve spent years studying and following, you understand and empathize with the father. You see the hopelessness in his face and hear the grief in his voice. And you know that you disagree entirely with his actions, but you still understand how he got here.
āSir, my name is Dr. Abigail Murphy. I am a trauma surgeon at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. My patient is currently being operated on. Hurting our staff or our patients will do nothing to bring your daughter back. We can call for someone who can come in and help you; you just have to drop the gun.ā
His quiet sobs are silenced, and he looks straight at Dr. Murphy, āYou just want them to take me? You want them to take me as I die while thatā¦that monster lives?ā
You donāt realize whatās happening even after Dr. Murphy disappears from your line of sight. The tinnitus swells, and all you can hear aside from the ringing in your ears is the blood thatās rushing through your veins. And finally, your hands begin to shake when you notice youāre the only one keeping your patient above ground.
Lorelei crouches on the ground, covering her head with her hands, and guiltily, you wish you didnāt have the responsibility, so you could do the same.
āHey!ā The father yells, and his voice finally breaks through your stupor, āI said stop saving him!ā
You look up with tears in your eyes and hope it doesnāt show on your face when you see the campus police looking in the window of the door behind the father, assessing the situation, and wondering when theyāll enter.
āWhatās your name?ā You blurt out, not knowing what to say that will stall him.
He falters, āW-what?ā
āYour name, I want to know your name.ā You say before telling him your own.
āJacob Haas,ā He says.
āHi Jacob,ā You whimper, āI went to school for six years to get here. Got my masterās and everything. And one of the first things you learn is the Hippocratic Oath. Itās about likeā¦confidentiality and non-maleficence and shit. Basically just: do no harm. So I understand where youāre coming from, and I am really, really sorry about your daughter. Iām sure she wasā¦Iām sure she was amazing. But how is hurting hospital staff going to help her? We canāt judge our patients by their acts or their morals. Weāre not God. But we do have a code, and I promised to do no harm, but youāre asking me to go against that, and Iām sorry, but I canāt.ā
You know youāve lost his attention before you feel the pain. You can see the moment he decides as you glance up from your patient to look at him. Itās something you learned in a de-escalation class once; humanize them, empathy is your friend. It always seemed silly in books or movies when a traumatic moment would happen in slow motion. You realize now just how silly it is because the pain is instantaneous. Everything is loud and overwhelming, and you may not know what is happening, but you know the police are involved now because thereās yelling. Thereās so much yelling.
For a moment, you think you can close your eyes to escape from this frame of time, but that is rudely interrupted when someone puts pressure on your shoulder, where you now realize youāve been shot. You donāt know if itās you who screams or someone else.
Lots of people come into view, most of them look like theyāre saying something. You know you should recognize them. These are your coworkers, but nothing seems to stick. You see someone draw medication in a syringe, is there a prick when it enters? All of the pain youāve ever felt has been bottled up just so you could relive it in this moment. And then, just as suddenly as the chaos began, it fades away as you fall asleep.
. Żā ā¹ . Ż ā” Ż . ā¹ ā Ż.
Jack had just finished stabilizing a patient with an anastomotic leak and sent him up to the OR when he heard it. He knew immediately that it wasnāt just something that had fallen or crashed. He remembered the sound of gunfire like a song you always know the words to, even years after not hearing it. Then there were three more shots.
It was an agonizing six minutes until the intercom confirmed what he already knew, āCode Silver OR 4, Code Silver OR 4, Code Silver OR 4.ā
He felt the flood of hormones rush through his system like a tsunami. Itās the same feeling he gets whenever someone on his SWAT team gets critically injured, or any time thereās a code blue in the Pitt. The same feeling he gets every time he leaves you after a fight, he always ends up starting before he realizes it.
His shoulders drop once he realizes the threat isnāt anywhere in the vicinity of the ER. Instinctively, he turns to see where you are and realizes youāre not supposed to be at work tonight. Then, Jack stiffens when he remembers the conversation you had a week ago. You told him you were going to pick up a call shift for the OR since he was already on schedule.
His hands move before he has the time to tell them what to do. Jack pulls out his phone and opens the app to see the locations you shared. For a moment, his brain tries to convince itself that youāre at home. Home, where you should be, fast asleep, or at least relaxing with a book or a movie. But his vision tunnels when he sees the icon with the photo of you, youāre at the hospital.
Jackās mind goes into overdrive. He recalls the MVC that came in earlier, how the trauma team had called in OR staff to prep for surgery. He curses himself for not immediately remembering that you were on call tonight.
Itās procedural the way he begins moving. Telling Shen to hold down the fort while he checks in with the campus police to see if they need help. His steps up the stairs are calculated. Theyāve always had to be since he lost his leg. He sees a sheet draped over someone in the hallway near the entrance to the operating wing. Thereās commotion happening deeper in the hallway as he makes his way toward OR 4.
Campus PD has a man in custody. He is sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. Someone yells for supplies deeper in the room, something about needing to stop the bleeding. He hears a monitor start to flatline.
Jack doesnāt care. He runs.
. Żā ā¹ . Ż ā” Ż . ā¹ ā Ż.
Your shoulder doesnāt feel right. The pain you felt earlier lingers. And thereās an incessant beeping noise that threatens to drive you crazy. But then you feel it, the weight. The warmth. Someoneās hand tethered to your own.
You whimper and try to shift in the bed to get comfortable, and the hand is suddenly gone. Replaced by the sound of someone calling your name. The voice is familiar, and through the sedation, it takes a minute to catch up with what your heart has already discovered. Jack.
āJack?ā You whisper, squinting.
You watch him sigh. His shoulders drop, and with it, the tightness in your chest eases. Even if youāre still dazed and confused, your body knows that if Jack feels safe, so do you.
āOh, baby,ā He whispers, bringing a hand to your jaw.
You cough, suddenly acutely aware of the dryness in your throat. Instantly, straw is at your lips, ready to deliver the remedy of water. You take a few small sips and lick your lips, head falling back on the pillow. Exhausted.
āIs he okay?ā You ask, each moment feels more aware than the one before it.
The room is silent, aside from the monitors keeping track of your vitals. Jack glances down at the floor and gently takes your hand again.
āThere was a code silver.ā He starts, clearing his throat.
You interrupt, āI know there was. I was there. Did my patient die?ā
You see him swallow and look at you. Jack was never one to shy away from the truth. He was always there to tell families the worst news they had to receive, with empathy and a deeper understanding. But for some reason, when it comes to you, heās stuck. Itās different seeing you in pain. It was his job to try to mitigate that every single time. And here, there was no avoiding it. The damage has already been done.
āYes,ā He says hoarsely, āHe died. But you were- ā
āWhat about Janie? Dr. Murphy? Lorelei?ā You urge.
A pained look takes over. Youāve seen Jack cry before. Despite everything heās been through and all of the things he might need to work on, overall, heās more emotionally regulated than one might expect. He runs a hand down his face, āJanie didnāt make it, Dr. Murphyā¦has a long road of recovery ahead of her, Loreleiās just shaken up, but- ā
āFuck.ā You whisper, pulling your hand away. You look down at both of them and are acutely aware of the brace that your right arm is in. It completely immobilizes your entire upper arm, but doesnāt stop the throbbing that threatens to overstimulate you.
āYou had to have surgery,ā Jack starts, āThe bullet completely shattered your humeral head, they couldnāt save it. They decided to do a reverse arthroplasty. There was a lot of vascular and nerve damage. Itāll take a lot of rehab...ā
You look away from him and bite your lip, trying to will yourself not to cry. Jackās hand reaches out again, and as much as you want to pull away, you let him.
āHoney, youāre gonna get through this. Weāre gonna get through this.ā He whispers. And you almost believe it.
A knock at the door draws your attention. You see a doctor at the door. Heās not in scrubs, though, which tells you he must not be so clinical that he deals with patients who are physically ill. It finally clicks that he must be a psychologist or psychiatrist.
Jack sits a little straighter in his chair, but his hand doesnāt leave yours, and you donāt try to pull away again. The doctor introduces himself, and sure enough, he is from the psychiatric department and came to offer support and condolences.
āThe hospital is going to require that you complete six weeks of therapy before returning to work. I know your rehab will take longer than that, and I urge you to continue after the minimum, but I wanted to introduce myself so you could start. Whenever youāre ready.ā He says kindly.
You agree, hesitantly, and Jack helps you set up an initial appointment. The rest of the day goes similarly. Jack helps you try to piece together everything that happened. Different people from your care team come in to introduce themselves and set up a plan of care for you once youāre discharged. By lunch, youāre practically unwilling to talk to anyone else but Jack.
āI want to go home,ā You say finally.
Jackās brow furrows in concern and quiet recognition, āBaby, they just wanna stay on top of your pain and make sure everything is healing properly.ā
āI know that,ā You whine, āCanāt they make an exception? Iām a PA. I know how to take care of myself. I even have my own doctor to check in on me at home.ā
He chuckles and brushes a strand of hair away from your face, āGet through tonight, and weāll see about going home in the morning? Okay?ā
. Żā ā¹ . Ż ā” Ż . ā¹ ā Ż.
Jack was right. You do get to go home in the morning, and it was good to stay overnight to keep on top of your pain. You hate that heās right.
The drive back to your house is filled with jazz music and soft morning light. Itās the playlist Jack likes to put on whenever youāre stressed or overstimulated. You can tell heās nervous because he keeps trying to subtly steal glances at you the entire fifteen minutes.
āCan I take a shower? Please?ā You ask once you get parked.
He gives you a knowing smile, āThatās why I made them put on the waterproof bandage before we left.ā
You make your way in and go straight to the bathroom. Jack helps you undress and remove your brace. Youāre always shocked when you visit the ER and hear the way people talk about him. They rarely say anything bad, but itās always about the cold, clinical precision he carries. You never feel that at home. Itās all warm and tender.
The water feels like relief as it rolls down your back. You gently try to wash yourself, and Jack lets you. He understands how important reclaiming your independence is after such a traumatic experience. But heās never far, always ready to step in when you need it.
And you hate to admit that you do. But he sees it, the small huff of frustration as you try to open the bottle of shampoo youāre holding between your knees with your left hand. The accessible shower is something youāre grateful for now. You silently thank the accessibility it provides you to do more than you otherwise could right now. But when Jack sees the look of helplessness on your face as you try to process how to wash your hair single-handedly, he quietly steps in.
āWhat do you want me to do, baby?ā He asks, still leaving the ball in your court.
You huff, āI canāt open this stupid bottle, and even if I could, I donāt know how I am supposed to wash my hair like this.ā
āOkay,ā He says, thinking, āI could open the bottle and put the shampoo on your hair, if you still want to try to wash it yourself, or I can do it all for you, baby. You did so good with everything else.ā
You let out a restrained sob, āCan you please do it?ā
He had gotten prepared as you were washing the rest of your body, removing his prosthetic, and getting his crutches nearby. He got towels ready for both of you, made sure the no-slip mat was secure, and grabbed a change of clothes for when you were done. He opens the shower door more than it had been and turns the showerhead so the water is spraying away from you both.
Once he steps in, leaving his crutches at the door, and taking a seat next to you on the bench, he grabs the showerhead and hands it to you.
āHere, hold on to this,ā He mumbles, grabbing the shampoo, balancing between your knees. His hands work the shampoo into your scalp like they have hundreds of times before in moments of a different sort of intimacy. You sigh in relief. The feeling is almost better than the pain medication they discharged you with. Medication canāt bring the closeness you feel with Jack.
Once you are both clean, Jack turns the water off and grabs a towel for you. You start to pat yourself dry as he dries himself off and starts getting your clothes. You see his exhaustion too, the way he leans into his crutches more than usual.
āJack, baby,ā You interrupt.
He pauses, looking at you with worry, āEverything okay? Whatās wrong?ā
āSit down.ā You say.
He looks confused, āYouāre in pain, and tired. Sit down. I can hand you your clothes. Iāll need help with my shirt and brace, but we can do that sitting.ā
Thereās something unreadable in his expression, but he gives in, sitting back down on the bench with his towel around his waist. You stand up, slowly, still feeling a little weak. You fully open the shower doors and grab Jackās boxers and shorts and hand them to him. You see, heās laid out a pair of underwear and one of his sweats for you with a button-up pajama top. Always thoughtful, like he knew a regular shirt would be more trouble than itās worth, trying to manipulate your arm through a sleeve.
Once Jack has his pants on, he turns to you, helping you get each foot through your underwear, and then the pantsā legs. Youāre happy to forget about the option to wear a bra right now. You whimper when Jack helps you extend your arm through the sleeve of your shirt, but he quietly shushes you and places a kiss on your temple when youāre finished. You both sit and breathe for a moment. Taking in the feeling of being clean. The exhaustion it cost to get there.
He takes in a deep breath and blows it out through his mouth, grounding, āReady for your brace?ā He asks.
You nod your head and grab it from the toilet seat, turning your torso so he can help you put it back on. It feels unnatural, the position your arm has to be in, but you know wearing the brace will help you recover with the best possible outcome, so you tolerate it.
When youāre both finished, you get set up in the living room. Jack told HR he needed to take FMLA while you were home recovering. Gloria tried to put up a fight, arguing that leaving Shen to fend for himself would leave the night shift in shambles. He told her to find another attending to cover for him.
Even though PT wonāt start for another week or so, you were given instructions for small movements that would help to preserve your range of motion. Jack talks you through them, even when you yell at him to shut up or leave you alone. He stays. He knows how important it was to have someone push him after his amputation. So, even though his heart breaks every time he sees you so hopeless, he pushes you farther.
. Żā ā¹ . Ż ā” Ż . ā¹ ā Ż.
Recovery is far from linear. There are weeks you are proud of your improvements, and others where everything seems insurmountable. Jack is there every step of the way. A steady assurance that youāre here. Youāre trying.
āUgh! I canāt keep fucking doing this!ā You yell after your sixth time trying to hold a spoon.
Jack looks up from across the room. He sees you stand up from your chair by the occupational therapist and start to walk out the door as they call after you. Heās immediately up and following you outside.
āHey, hey, hey,ā He says, carefully placing a hand on your waist to stop you, āWhere are you at? What do you need?ā
You can feel the tears in your eyes, and you wipe them away as they fall, but itās no use.
āI canāt do this, Jack! This is impossible! Iām never going to be able to do my job again, thatās like the one thing that matters to me.ā You cry.
Jack stays calm. And you hate it. After months of healing and crying and helplessness, he still stays supportive and understanding, and part of you just wishes he could show an ounce of anger because maybe that would give you a wake up call to just move forward.
But if thereās one thing Jack is, itās honest. Not once throughout this process has he pitied you or lied to you. Heās never given you false promises about your recovery or the future.
āYou might not be able to go to surgery.ā He admits, āBut that doesnāt mean youāre worthless or not competent! At least youāre alive!ā He finally raises his voice.
You inhale sharply and purse your lips to keep them from wobbling. And you let yourself grieve. You grieve the person you were before all of this, and the person youāll never become because of it. You grieve your career, and a life without pain, and a life without anxiety at every sudden sound.
You sob and hide into Jacks chest. He wraps his arms around you as you hang onto him like a lifeline.
āIām so tired of feeling like I canāt do anything, and like Iām burdening you, Jack I donāt know how you learned to adapt; this is so hard.ā You cry.
He puts hand at the nape of your neck and shushes you. You stay like that until you feel like air is something real again. Itās not until Jack feels you physically calm down that he speaks again.
With both hands on either side of your face he makes sure youāre looking at him fully before continuing, āBaby, you have never been a burden. Ever.ā
He wipes a few tears from your cheek, āI have been trying so hard to be the person I wish I had in my life after I lost my leg. And I know even that will never be enough to make things better. Youāre allowed to be angry because youāre right. You might never get enough strength or dexterity back to work in the OR again. You deserve to grieve that.ā
Jack swallows hard like heās bargaining with someone, and heās not confident theyāll agree with him, āBut that doesnāt mean you canāt transition into a different position. We could use another PA in the ER, you could go into any specialty. Hell, you could start teaching if you wanted. None of this makes you less competent or brilliant.ā
He rests his forehead against yours, āI am so sorry you are experiencing this. I love you so much.ā
. Żā ā¹ . Ż ā” Ż . ā¹ ā Ż.
Recovery wasnāt just something you went through. Everything that happened changed Jack too. After an argument one night he decided to quit volunteering for the SWAT team.
You never realized how much guilt Jack carried over the past eight months about the argument that day. But he admitted it to you one night while you both laid in bed after a long day.
āI feel like itās my fault,ā He whispered, āYou getting hurt.ā
Your heart skipped a beat, āWhat? Why would any of that be your fault?ā
āYou picked up that call shift because you knew I was working with the SWAT team that day. There was no reason for you to be there. If I had just listened to you and pulled my head out of my assā¦.ā
He exhaled shakily, āMaybe youād still be in the OR and not cardiology.ā
You turned to look at him, like what heās said was so absurd that you couldnāt understand why he would say such a thing, āJack. None of this was your fault. I never blamed you.ā
A pause, āAnd I actually really like cardiology.ā
Jack doesnāt smile, you see the maelstrom of emotion behind his eyes. A tear falls down the side of his face.
His resolve cracks, āI couldnāt protect you.ā
You frown and curl into his side, wincing as your shoulder catches and tingles with pain, āBaby,ā you start, softer this time, āYou canāt keep replaying that night in your head trying to search for a different outcome.ā
He clenches his jaw and stares at the ceiling, but you feel the trail of his thumb at your waistband.
āI was supposed to protect you.ā
āYou did,ā you say instantly, āYou stayed.ā
He lets out a choked sound.
āI love you,ā he says, voice wrecked.
Your hand twirls one of the curls at the nape of his neck and you press a kiss to his collarbone. And for the first time since that night, Jack closes his eyes. And lets himself grieve instead of feeling guilty.
summary: Jack doesn't feel "jealous" after watching you complain about another first date gone wrong.
pairings: younger resident!reader x jack abbot
contains: jealous, possessive and borderline toxic jack (if you squint?), fluff, medical inaccuracies, lots of flirting + romantic/sexual tension, dennis catching strays (im sorry king i had to sacrifice you as a plot device)Ā
word count: 2.5k
notes: JEALOUS AND POSSESSIVE JACK ABBOT RAHHHHHHH!!!!! not the best thing ive ever written but idgaf . also a little Yes, Chef easter egg towards the end :3
Jack Abbot is many things. a military veteran turned swat physician and an adrenaline junkie to name a few things. another thing about Jack Abbot is that he is not a possessive, jealous man. at least that's what he tries to convince himself when he sees you come into work early with a full face of makeup, a short skirt and a pretty blouse,
āWoah! Whereād you come from?ā Lena exclaims. you walk over and throw your arms over the desk, leaning down till your forehead hits the surface,
āI just came back from the worst fucking date of my life, like I genuinely think Iām done with boys and dating.ā you lift yourself back up to face Lena. you donāt notice Jack standing nearby looking up at the board, pretending to look for a patient,
āAnd get this, Lena, not only is he late, but all he did was talk about himself. Like I actually donāt think I said anything about myself until the bill came.āĀ
āDid he at least pay?ā Lena asks. you groan and put your head back onto the desk. āAnd you didnāt walk out?ā you shake your head, still face down on the surface,
āNo! Please remind me to never waste my time on a stupid date before my shift.ā
Jack raises his eyebrows in curiosity as he eavesdrops in on the conversation. Lena turns her head towards Jack, finally noticing that heās been lingering around for longer than he should,Ā
āDoctor Abbot, did you need something?āĀ
āNope. All good.ā Jack walks away once heās been caught.Ā
Jack doesnā t get jealous, especially not over his younger residentās dating life. he thinks you could do much better though, rather than wasting your time over stupid, immature boys. if it were him, he would be sure to pick you up a few minutes early with a bouquet of your favourite flowers, wine and dine you at some expensive spot, then if everything goes right, heād kiss you sweetly as he dropped you home. itās not something he thinks about often though, except maybe on his drive home after seeing you for over 12 hours and sometimes right before he falls asleep. there was also that time he thought about it when he saw a bouquet of pink flowers at the grocery store; he knew youād love them. other than that though, heās never really thought about it,
āYou good?ā Doctor Ellis snaps Jack out of his daydream.Ā
āYeah, go ahead and page the OR again and letās move her up as soon as a bed opens.ā Jack says. the night shift has barely started and Ellis can tell heās off his game tonight. she doesnāt try to pry and lets Jack excuse himself from the conversation. he takes a deep breath as he pulls the rubber gloves off, throwing them out. Jack enters the break room to grab another coffee when he suddenly hears,
āSeriously? I love that movie!ā you say excitedly nearby in north one.
āYeah? Here lemme show you.ā a male voice replies. Jack puts his mug down and decides to stroll past to check on you. he was overdue for a quick check up on all his residents anyways. he walks over to north one to see you leaning over to look at the phone of your patient. youāre practically cheek to cheek with him, smiling in awe of whatever heās showing you. Jack lets out a fake cough, breaking up the moment.
āDoctor Abbot, sorry. This is Joshua Harris, heās got a left fibula fracture, currently waiting on x-rays to come back,ā Jack nods, waiting for a further explanation on what he walked in on. āJoshua works in the film industry and was just showing me a picture of him and Harrison Ford!ā your patient turns his phone to show Jack.Ā
āWowā¦ā Jack tries to come off as interested but anyone can tell he really couldnāt care less, āYou mind if I steal her for a minute?ā you stand up to follow your attending out but Joshua is quick to intervene,
āMaybe, we could see that new Harrison Ford movie sometime? Iāll have a lot of time now that Iāve got this thing on.ā he says gesturing to the boot you put on his leg. you exchange a glance with Jack and awkwardly laugh, āOh sorry, I didnāt realize you guys wereā¦ā Josh waits for one of you to complete his sentence. neither you or Jack say anything. you stare at each other waiting for the other to define what this is. he could easily shut down the accusation by saying that he was your attending, but Jack lets the idea of you two dating linger in the air,
āSorry, I legally canāt accept since youāre my patient. Plus Iām just not really looking for anything anyways.ā your words come out in an awkward tone, desperate for the conversation to end.
you consider Jack as your coworker, your boss practically, but you always fantasized that there could be something more between the two of you. there was no denying that he is incredibly handsome and that youāve always had a little crush on him, but who didnāt? Jack puts his hand on the small of your back as he guides you out of the room and back into the break room,
āEverything okay? Is this about my GSW victim in South 18?ā Jack picks up his previously discarded coffee mug and takes a casual sip,
āSheās fine, she just went up to surgery. You just didnāt need that conversation.ā Jack says nonchalantly as if heās not boiling with jealousy. your eyebrows raise,Ā
āIām perfectly capable of handling my patients if thatās what youāre implying.ā Jack takes a small step forward. itās small but enough to make your breath shallow, enough to make you avoid eye contact with him.Ā
āI know youāre capable. More than anything, anyone here.ā Jack says lowly, āI just think if youāre gonna go out with someone that it should be with someone who isnāt gonna waste your time.ā your eyes finally look up to his, realizing that he overheard your conversation with Lena.Ā
āDo private conversations not exist in this hospital?ā you say as your heartbeat quickens. You swear Jack can hear it as it thumps hard against your chest.Ā
āNot when they involve my favourite resident.ā Jack is quick to answer.Ā
āOh, so Iām your favourite?ā the sudden praise brings back a bit of confidence in you. āSo, if Iām your favourite then youād know whatās best for me right?ā Jack tilts his head up slightly, smirk slowly growing on his face. Doctor Shen casually walks into the break room, stopping in his tracks when he sees you both,
āAm I interrupting something?ā
āNope. Was just grabbing a coffee.ā you say taking Jackās coffee mug from his hands. you take a small sip of his coffee, keeping eye contact with him.Ā
āAlrightā¦ā Shen says throwing his Dunkinā cup in the garbage. he leaves quickly hearing his name come from a nearby room. you put the mug back on the counter,
āWell, if youāll excuse me Doctor Abbot, I have a patient with a broken leg waiting on me to push some painkillers.ā you say walking back out towards north one.Ā
Jack walks around the ER with pride after his encounter with you. damn right he knows whatās best for you. itās selfish of him to be greedy with your attention, but he didnāt care. he felt like you were his, even if it wasnāt explicitly said yet. youāre charting your latest patientās info when Doctor Ellis rolls her chair next to you,
āHey, so whatās up with you and Abbot?ā your eyes keep focused on the screen ahead,
āWhat do you mean?ā
āI mean like, why is he being soā¦.ā Parker canāt find the words to describe whatever the hell has been going on tonight. you look over at her as she tilts her head quickly, pointing towards Jackās direction. you follow Parkerās tiling head to see Jack already staring right at you. he smiles at you before continuing his conversation with one of the nurses.heat floods your cheeks suddenly as you look back down at your screen quickly.Ā
āShen thinks you guys are fucking.ā
āWhat!ā you say louder than expected, grabbing the attention of Jack and surrounding patients. you dip your head back down making yourself small, āWe are notā¦ fucking.ā you whisper.Ā
āMight as well be with the way heās been looking at you. Seriously, he looks like he wants to eat you alive.ā she stands up, grabbing a tablet and walks away to her next patient.Ā
he looks like he wants to eat you alive replays in your head a few times. you gnaw on your lip at the thought, oblivious to the sight of Jack approaching behind you. he bends down and looks over your shoulder reading your charts,
ā31-year old male complaining of lower right abdominal pain, diagnosis appendicitis, patient admitted to surgery,ā Jack mumbles close to your ear.Ā
āVery good.ā Jack stands back up straight as you spin your chair around to face him,
āYouāve been very distracting tonight.ā you say pointing at him.Ā
āJust doing my job.ā your eyes widen in disbelief at his response. despite being annoyed at him, he thinks he might die if he looks at your big, doe eyes for any longer.
āIf doing your job includes being on my ass tonight, Abbot, I would say youāre doing great at it.ā you say spinning back around to face the screen. Jack pulls up a chair sitting close to you.Ā
āDidnāt I tell you that you were my favourite earlier?ā he says.
āIf being your favourite means youāre looking over my shoulder for every patient and chart, I donāt wanna be.ā you say with your focus still locked on your charts.Ā
āWay too late for that.ā Jack mumbles. you stop typing to meet his satisfied smile.
āIncoming trauma, cardiac arrest, 5 minutes out!ā Lena calls from the desk. Jack stands up and heads towards the ambulance bay.
šą§
youāre dragging your feet when the morning shift starts to roll in. the regret of getting up early for that date yesterday is really taking a toll on your body and youāre ready to head home,
āFor someone who just worked 12 hours, you look great!ā Doctor Whittaker starts as you walk together to your patient.Ā
āReally? Thanks, I had an awful date right before my shift. Never doing that again.ā Dennis lets out a small empathetic laugh.
āDating or getting up early before your shift?ā he asks.Ā
āBoth.ā Dennis laughs a bit harder at your response.Ā
āIf you ever wanna talk about it, we could get coffee? Bond over bad first dates or something.ā
from a distance, Jack watches your face change from casual into a surprised expression at Whittaker. he turns to Santos whoās also observing,
āWhatās going on over there?āĀ
āHuckleberryās asking her out. I think heās had a little crush on her for a while since Amy dumped his ass.ā Santos replies amused at the sight. youāve gotta be kidding me Jack thinks.Ā
āDo you think sheās gonna say yes?ā he asks. Santos shrugs,
āWhatās it to you anyways, Abbot?ā he rolls his eyes at the comment. to Trinity, itās just Jack trying to pry and gossip, when in reality, heās spent all night showing you that you deserve better and Jack was better. sure, maybe Dennis was closer in age to you, but Jack knows he canāt take care of you the way he can. before he can think, his legs start walking towards you and Dennis. heās so blinded by jealously that he doesnāt even realize his body is in autopilot,
āDennis, I think youāre great, but I don't think-ā Dennis jumps as a pair of hands grab his shoulders,
āWhittaker! I've got a special patient to introduce you to. You're with me.ā Jack's grip tightens on Dennis and pulls him away from you. you stare and watch as Jack takes him away towards the ambulance bay. your eyes lock with Trinityās from afar, staring at each other in confusion. Trinity shrugs and carries on with her rounds.Ā
slowly, youāre starting to puzzle the pieces together. all the sudden flirting, fleeting touches, always showing up right in the middle of an awkward disaster, Jack was jealous. he wanted your attention all to himself and you liked it. you enjoyed watching him have his way and not letting anyone stop him. doubt crosses your mind for a split second, there's also a possibility you could be wrong about all of this. surely heās just been looking out for you tonight and all the alleged flirting was you mistaking it for something more than just kindness.Ā
whatever, youād have to deal with it tomorrow night.
Jack is finally free from the last handoff of the night. his leg is sore, head pounding, and all he wants is to see you one last time before he heads out for the day. he circles the ER one last time and doesnāt see you anywhere. Jack swears he just saw you at the workstation desk a second ago, did you leave without saying bye?
āShe left a few minutes ago.ā Santos says as she passes by with an amused expression. Jack glares at her, too exhausted to ask why she knew who he was looking for. Jack knows that heāll see you tomorrow night but he was hoping to see you before you left so he could savor the way you looked at him for a bit longer.Ā
the elevator dings to the top floor of the parking lot. the sun is just about fully risen and the soft sunrays peek through the clouds. as Jack walks down the lot, he sees you putting your bags in the trunk of your car, letting out a deep sigh as you shut it,
āWas looking for you.ā you spin around hearing his familiar voice.
āYou were?ā Jack nods in response. he doesnāt want to leave. heās exactly where he wants to be, even after being in the ER for twelve hours. you give Jack a tired smile as you both stand silently, lingering in each other's presence,
āIām gonna head home in a minute, but here's what I think should happen,ā Jack starts. thereās a bit of raspiness to his voice that catches your attention.
āOn Friday, Iām gonna pick you up a little before seven and Iām taking you to North and Vine.ā you tilt your head, brows furrowing in confusion,
āIām working Friday.ā
āYouāre not anymore, and neither am I. Iāll take care of it.ā Jack is quick to respond, like he was expecting your reaction. a smile slowly forms on your face,
āWas a little jealousy all it took for you to ask me out?ā you say with aching cheeks.Ā
āI donāt get jealous.ā Jack replies with an unamused expression. your smile still big, finally proving your jealousy theory,
āRightā¦ Iāll see you Friday night, Jack.ā you lean up to press your lips to his cheek lightly, finally breaking his straight face.Ā
summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
The lamplit room is filled with Jackās exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. Youāre still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. Heād slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom ā where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
āDo you wanna order food?ā you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
āWhat?!ā Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
āI said, do youāā You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans heād arrived in. Heās shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again ā then heās painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, āI asked if you wanted to order food. āCause I donāt really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ācause Love Island doesnāt come on for another hour, andāā
Jackās scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. Thereās a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like youāre a quick fuck that doesnāt know when to stop talking, like heās waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
āI think Iām gonna head out now, actually,ā he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
āOhā¦ā you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesnāt tear your chest in two. āAre youā¦ Are you okayā?ā
āYeah,ā he shrugs and rises from the mattress. āIām fine. I justā Need to get home.ā
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. āWell, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? āCause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morningāā
āGo ahead,ā Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesnāt reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. āI think Iāll survive a week without it.ā
Your frown deepens at his joke.
āDid I do something?ā you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
āNo,ā he scoffs. āOf course not. Why would you ask that?ā
āI donāt knowā¦ā you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. āYou never leave right after we have sex, so Iā I didnāt know if, maybeā¦ It wasnāt good for your something, or if I said somethingāā
āNo, it was greatāā Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldnāt.
The word āhoneyā was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when heās talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still canāt name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
āI just gotta go now. Okay?ā
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. āSureā¦ā
Jack leaves with a polite nod ā like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction heās thanking you for and not something youāve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesnāt speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesnāt look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You canāt quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen thatāll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. Youāre stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you ā because youāre the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person youāll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than itās obviously already going.
You donāt move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
āWhat is going on over here?ā Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. āChartingā¦ā you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
āLooks like it,ā Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. āCāmon. Walk with me.ā
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, āWhatās going on with you today, kid?ā
āItās nothing,ā you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the manās side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, itās very clearly not nothing.
āIām not asking to be polite, kid,ā the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. āI can tell somethingās wrong, and itās affecting your work, soā Just tell me.ā
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the manās gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
āItās about your friendā¦ā you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
āJack?ā he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day youāre having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him ā ācause he canāt have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. āHeās justā¦ been offāā
āHeās always off,ā Robby scoffs.
āWell, not with me,ā you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. āAnd now heās not talking to me, and I have no idea what I didā¦ā
āWell, knowing Jack, you probably didnāt do a damn thing,ā Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. āJust give him some time, alright? Heāll come around. He always does. For now, youāve got a patient in 8 thatās asking for youāā
Before you can make a guess on who it is ā though you think you already know the answer ā a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The manās fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. Heās tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry heās red in the face.
āI have been waiting out thereā¦ā the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. āā¦For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?ā
āHow did you get back here?ā is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the manās brutal touch is gone.
āWeāre seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you arenāt back here,ā Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. āBut touch anybody in here like that again, and you wonāt be seen at all. Got it?ā
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. āI was just asking a question, manā¦ā
āIāll handle it, boss,ā Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
āDonāt touch me,ā you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
āTrust me, man,ā Ahmad quips. āI donāt want to.ā
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time youāve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. āYou alright, kid? Did he get you?ā
āIām fine,ā you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesnāt quite meet your eyes. āIāve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.ā
āWell, yeah,ā the man scoffs playfully. āYouāre with Abbotā Iām sure youāre an expert at dealing with assholes by nowā¦ā
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didnāt really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you ā even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush ā even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now ā even when you know thereās nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the manās chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. Youāve lost feeling in your arms now ā theyāve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb ā but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window ā as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jackās presence.
Youāve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until youāve helped the person in front of you first ā which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, youāll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
āThree minutes since the epi,ā you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
āHold compressions,ā Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
āGive me another amp of epiā and more suction,ā you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older manās sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. āWhat do we do? Should weā Should we give PCC?ā
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. āNo, itās too late for thatā¦ā he hums sympathetically. āAnd heās not an ECMO candidate, soāā
āWell, can you tell me something that we can do?ā you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, āThereās nothing else we can do for him, kidā¦ā
āRobby,ā you whimper, flinching like heās hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. āCāmon. Please, we canā We can think of somethingā We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe itāllāā
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
ā12:07,ā you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlahās soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
āCāmon. Iāll clean up,ā the woman tells you, sniffling. āYou take a second.ā
āIām fine,ā you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
āYouāre not,ā Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. āAnd thatās okay. Just take a second.ā
You remind yourself to breathe ā in for seven beats and out for eight ā as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
āWhoaā¦ you okay?ā you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
āFine,ā you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
āOh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,ā Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
āDo you ever think before you speak?ā Santos quips. āOr is the stupidity genetic?ā
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room ā Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if youād just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like youāve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now ā because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here ā with Samira, perhaps ā and if thatās why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldnāt have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he wouldāve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
āSorry,ā you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jackās scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
āWhat happened?ā he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jackās broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasnāt let you give him in some time.
āAre you okay?ā she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
āYeah, Iām fine,ā you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. āIām not, actuallyā I donāt know why I said thatā Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didnāt mean toā¦ to interruptā¦ā
āYou didnāt,ā Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. āI-Iāll see myself out,ā you stammer hopelessly. āSorryā¦ā
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heartās telling you that youāre having an embolism and youāre about to keel over at this very moment; your brainās telling you that youāre just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
āHey,ā a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find heās wearing a smile on his bearded face when heās close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
āYouāre the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, arenāt you?ā he asks.
You donāt have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
āIām sorry, sirā¦ā you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. āItās justā¦ Itās been a long day, okay? I didnāt mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, thatās all. Iāmāā
You turn to face him again when heās standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdonās, though youāre not quite sure how long itās been since your eyes have closed ā a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. Youāre still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frankās gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
āThere you areā¦ā the man coos. āWhat happened to you out here?ā
You hardly hear him, like heās speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
āIsā¦ Is it bad?ā you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupidās bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. āOwā¦ā
āWhoa, careful thereā¦ā Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. āDid you fall on your back?ā
āDid somebody hit you?ā Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
āWowā¦ā you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. āSo many questionsā¦ā
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you donāt see.
āYeah, cāmon. Letās go,ā the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. āCome with meā¦ā
āI can walk,ā you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupidās bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. āJustā¦ Be normal, alright?ā
āRightā¦ā Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh ā because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if youāve just been rescued from a bar fight. Thereās hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyoneās too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. Youāre five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robbyās eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
āJesus fucking Christā¦ā the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
āIām okay,ā you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
āWhat the hell happened to you?ā he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
āWe found her like this,ā Frank shrugs.
āI told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.ā
āHa-ha,ā you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. āOwā¦ā
āWho did this, huh?ā Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. āIt wasnāt that asshole from before, was it?ā
āI didnāt see him,ā you lie through your teeth.
āAny trouble seeing? Any double vision?ā
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
āDid you fall on your back?ā he asks you then.
You nod once.
āWhat about a headache?ā
āI always have a headache,ā you answer. āIām fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned upāā
āLook at youā Youāre not fine,ā the man snaps. āNow, cāmon. Youāre coming with me.ā
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Melās voice, which comes from behind you.
āShould I find Dr. Abbot?ā she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
āAbsolutely do not do that,ā you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
āO-kayā¦ā she stammers and trails off.
āIn here,ā Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. āFind Abbot,ā he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking ā āNothing that mother nature canāt fix,ā he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
āThese beds are so hard,ā you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. āWe should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?ā
āYeah, Iāll go tell Gloria,ā Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. āIām sure sheāll get right on thatā¦ā
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You donāt even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
āCan I ask you a stupid question?ā
āBetter than anyone I know, Dr. Robbyā¦ā
āHa-ha,ā he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. Itās freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. āWhy didnāt you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?ā
āBecause he doesnāt careā¦ā you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
āOh, cāmon,ā Robby scoffs. āEven you donāt believe that.ā
You donāt. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because itās in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just arenāt sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did ā in the way you wanted him to ā and youāre not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
āHeās busy right now,ā you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. āToo busy for me, and I donāt wanna bother him, soā¦ Just drop it.ā
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you donāt see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. āI know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.ā
āYouāre right,ā you mumble. āHe doesnāt act like itāā
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. āWhat the hellās going on in here?ā he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. āI hate you.ā
āYeah, I knowā¦ā the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
āWhat happened?ā Jack presses, more firmly this time.
āNothing,ā you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. āItās not the first time someoneās swung at meāā
āYeah, but itās the first time itās been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,ā Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. āWho the hell did this?ā
āSome guy from Chairs, I think,ā Robby shrugs. āNameās Driscoll. Ahmadās already handling it. Heāll deal with the police.ā
āGood,ā Jack nods, firm in a way youāve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. āāCause weāre pressing charges on this asshole, alright?ā
āHonestly, Jack, I donāt care what you doā¦ā you sigh. āBut my head is really starting to hurt, and I really donāt feel like handling this right now.ā
āOn it,ā Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
āHere. Cāmon,ā the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. āMake room for me.ā
āWhat?ā you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. āScooch,ā is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
āThanksā¦ā you mumble, half-shy.
āDonāt mention it,ā he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
āIām sorry about, Louieāā
āYou donāt have to do thisāā you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
āDo what?ā he asks.
āI didnāt mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?ā you confess quietly, ācause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. āI wasnātā¦ I didnāt mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you donāt have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think Iām upset, ācause Iām not.ā
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
āOkay. I hear you,ā Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. āBut Iām still not sure what Mohan has to do with thisāā
Honey, he wants to say, but doesnāt allow himself.
āIf you want to be with her, thatās okayā Or if itās just because you donāt wanna be with me, thatās okay, too,ā you explain in a strangely even voice. āBut I wish you wouldāve just told me, instead of bailing on me last nightāā
āI didnāt bail on youāā
āāSo then I wouldnāt have to catch you and Samira doingā¦ā you trail off, face screwed. āWhatever the hell you were doing back there.ā
āCatching us?ā Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. āThat would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, thatās all.ā
āYeah, wellā¦ā you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. āIt seemed pretty intimateā¦ā
āIt wasnāt.ā
āMore intimate than youāve been with me,ā you argue sheepishly.
āWell, not to be crude here, butā¦ā Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. āWe literally had sex last night.ā
āYeah, and you left,ā you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. āAnd I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didnāt get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means Iām running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.ā
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesnāt deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know theyāll have a real impact on him before he responds.
āYouāre right,ā he sighs after a few long moments. āIām sorryāā
āDonāt be sorry,ā you shake your head at his apologetic tone. āJust donātā¦ Donāt be so mean, you know? If you donāt wanna be with me anymore, why canāt you just say?ā
āBecause I do want to be with you,ā he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. āHow would you ask me that?ā
āBecause you arenāt acting like itāā
āBecause I almost told you that I loved you,ā Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. āLast night, I mean, when weā¦ I almost said itā¦ Because I felt it, but then Iā¦ I realized I hadnāt said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.ā
āButā¦ā you start in a broken whisper. āWhy does that have to be such a bad thing?ā
āāCause it makes me feel guilty,ā Jack answers. āThe way I love you makes me feel guilty, like Iām abandoning her. And Iā¦ I donāt know what to do with all thatā¦ grief.ā
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jackās right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants ā made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
āWhy donāt you just give it to me?ā you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. āYour grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you donāt have to carry it all on your own.ā
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jackās lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. āJesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, arenāt we, honey?ā he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. āThatās the first time you called me that in two daysā¦ā you observe distantly.
āWhat?ā
āHoney.ā
āYeah,ā he sighs. āIām sorry for that, tooā¦ā
āDonāt be sorry,ā you repeat, this time with a smile. āJustā kiss me or somethināā¦ā
āGladly,ā Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
āOw,ā you whimper.
āOuch,ā Jack winces. āShit, honeyā Sorry.ā
āAre you okay?ā you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. āI havenāt checked in on you yet, I know youāre hurtāā
āIām fine,ā he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. āI got a little banged up, butā¦ Iām good now.ā
āPromise?ā you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
āI promise. I'll tell you about later,ā he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness youāve been craving all day. āWhat about you, honeyā Are you okay?ā
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
āI will be,ā you answer honestly for the first time all day.
thinking noah wyle is hot is the most embarrassing reputation ruining annoying thing I could have done tbh like ohhh my god really? tall broad daddy with a beard and brown eyes kind man is hot? god fucking really. are you fucking stupid I hate myself. oh you think dr robby is hot? fucking dr robby? groundbreaking type shit going on here oh my god heās tall should we tell everyone heās tall and his age line are nice wow she thinks the attractive silverfox is attractive. you and everyone else. is pizza your favorite food too. fuck you. everyone look at her she thinks DR ROBBY is hot boundaries are really being pushed over here should we get her a medal because she thinks Dr Bear is easy on the eyes. āhear me outā and itās a fucking marching band. should we call people magazine. vanilla. I DISGUST myself. summer blockbuster. I should be killed
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