Tags/TW: jack as a lost puppy, reader has internal thoughts/dark humour, swear words as always, a somewhat open ending but not a sad one
Word count: 4.5k
@livloos @neverendingdreamers @grveyardbabyy
so sorry if your name is Julie!!!
honestly, i struggled with this one and idk why. I might as well have painted a pair of bollocks and i'm not even a painter 🙃
--
You lean against the counter, staring at the piece of paperwork in-front of you, tapping the pen on the counter. You read it, re-read it, and none of it makes sense because your mind was elsewhere.
“I need help”
“Finally!” You sigh in relief as you put the paper away, “the long-awaited distraction”. You turn to face him, “What can I do for you, Abbot?”
“Julie’s birthday coming up and I need to buy her a present”
A textbook on how to be nice.
A tranquilliser.
A one-way ticket to Mars.
“Sorry, can’t think of any at the moment”
“Oh cmon you’re always good at this stuff!” Jack exclaims, “Please? Just this one time?”
You could never resist those eyes. “Fine. What does she like?” Thorns? Taxidermy? Hell?
“She likes everything pink”
You sigh loudly then widen your eyes in horror. Did you just do that out loud?
“Does she have a Stanley cup?”
“What’s that?”
“You point at one in the distance”
“That’s a cup? That’s a water tank”
“But girls love it” maybe she trips and fall on it. “You should get her one.”
“What else?”
You push away from the counter and walk away. Abbot follows you. It’s a good thing he couldn’t see you roll your eyes at him. “Does she like jewellery?”
“Dunno”
“Buy her a bracelet, if she doesn’t like it she can regift it”
“What else?”
You stop and turn to face him, “You’ve been dating her for three months, I think it’s more than enough”
“Hmm” Jack hums, “you don’t like her”
“Who? Me?” Sounding surprised definitely did not work.
Jack finally breaks in a smile, “What don’t you like about her?”
“What do you mean!” You exclaim, as you walk over to the coffee station, “I love her, more than you do”
“I don’t love her”
Thank the heavens for that. You pour a coffee and listen to Abbot ramble on about what he has planned for her.
“I do see a future with her”
You choke on your coffee, spitting it out everywhere. He taps on your back. You mumble as you wipe your mouth, “That’s… very good”
The intercom blasts interrupting your moment and you, once again, sigh in relief. “Bye Abbot!”
Time passes, and you try not to think of Jack or Julie, or the romantic weekend he has planned for her. You internally gagged at the thought of being in a cabin with her.
Did you like her? You didn’t. No one did.
She was a bitch.
She mispronounces everyone's name on purpose. She calls John: Jen.
She pets service animals after being told numerous times that you cannot do that. “But they’re so cute!” she said.
She clicked her fingers at the waitress once. That’s all that’s needed to be said. That's when you decided she was on your hate list.
There were so many other reasons, and your crush on Abbot has nothing to do with it. Or so you tried to convince yourself.
Jack had liked you too; you were certain of it. All the teasing and flirting over the years — that should have counted for something? But then he goes and does this. Dates women who don’t deserve him.
By the time the shift ends, you meet with Ellis and Shen outside a diner for breakfast, then Jack pulls up. You initially smile at the surprise, but then Julie steps out of the car.
You whisper to Parker, “Are you kidding me!!”
“Gosh, what a way to ruin a beautiful morning” Shen says. Shen never hates on anyone, eveerrrr.
Breakfast was awkward. Julie was loud. She talked, laughed, and whined. For someone so little, she sure did have a lot of energy.
You don’t engage in conversation, because why would you? None of it interests you. Everyone lost their appetite listening to her talk. Including Jack, who had a look of fear in his eyes, knowing he is taking someone home who had made multiple inappropriate comments at breakfast, including clicking her fingers, yet again, at the waitress.
By the time shift starts that night, you walk in and see Jack already standing by the hub. Your attempt to hide from him fails as he rushes over to you.
“No, no, no!” You point a finger at him, “I don’t want to speak to you, see you or just— get away”
“Hear me out”
“Hear you out?” You hiss, as you brush past him to where Parker and everyone else stood, “I heard enough this morning. Parker help he’s following me”
“I’m gonna dump her” Jack spits out, “STAT”
“Oh no?” You say as you see Parker smile. She mouths 'hallelujah"
“Fuck off” Jack teases, “I can see you fighting a smile.”
“I’m gonna text her”
Everyone around the hub, listening to the conversation, collectively yells “Noooo”
“Call?”
“No, you’ll have to do it face to face”
“Absolutely not!” Jack chokes out as he follows you towards the lockers, “because if she cries she’ll get all…. whiney and then her cheeks go all red and…”
“Oh” you say quietly as you stop.
“Oh what?”
“Her crying turns you on?” You spit out
“I didn’t say that” Jack gets defensive, “definitely didn’t say that”
“You said that with zero sympathy… but rather… interest”
“We’re going off topic here” Jack said, “how about you help me write a speech?”
“A-a speech??” You pull a face at him, “This isn’t a TED talk!”
“Please” he begs with those green fucking eyes that you can’t resist.
“She might be horrible, but no one deserves to be broken up with over text. Or call. Or be given a speech! You should see her, and be honest,” you smile. You want Abbot to be tortured. Want him to sit there and listen to her whine. He deserves this after not listening to everyone who told him she was a walking red flag.
“I’m gonna text”
“No Jack! Think with your mind, not your cock!”
“I’m trying to!” He says, “but the—“
“But what.”
“The sex was good.”
“Ew!” You smack his arm, “ew ew ew no!”
Julie is a lucky bitch.
You breathe out, “Fine. i’ll help. And we are never speaking of her again.”
Your stomach is in a twist all night as Jack follows you into every room, reading snipets of this speech. You sigh every time you see him approach. It hurts you, having to be there for him as a friend, seeing him fall in love with someone who does not deserve him, all while you were crushing on him. It wasn’t even a crush at this point. It was more than that, but you were too silly to see it until Parker pointed it out. You protested it of course, at the time, told her ‘there is no way’, but there definitely was a way. You knew Jack better than anyone, and he did too.
Jack comes over one afternoon to ‘practice’ his breakup speech.
“You’re overthinking this!” he definitely was. “Just tell her you don’t see a future with her!”
He keeps talking as he paces around the lounge.
“Okay what do you think of this sentence —“
“Abbotttt!” you yell his name, “stop!” Then you start crying, ugly crying.
“Wow,” he says, approaching you slowly, “did I upset you, I’m really sorry I—“
“It’s not you” you sniff “everything’s just too much”
He sits on the couch next to you, takes you in for a hug, “Did someone upset you? Did something happen?”
You feel lonely. You’ve always felt lonely and Jack being here, ranting on another woman, was not helping your case. Him hugging you was not helping either.
“No, I’m just hormonal and sad” you choke out as you wipe your tears. “I just can’t do this now I’m sorry”
“Would it help if you were there when I break up with Julie?” He giggles, “so you can watch me break her heart?”
“Don’t be mean” you’d love to be there. “She’s still a person” a bitchy person. “But yes, I’ll come in disguise”
“What will I ever do without you?” Jack stares at your red and teary eyes, but he was too stupid to approach what was right in front of him. “How about we put on a sad movie, stay in for the rest of the night, and I promise I won’t mention her name?”
“Sounds like a plan, Abbot” you say softly.
Few days later, you’re sat in a cafe, in a disguise that Jack picked, as you watched Jack nervously try to remember the speech he prepared. He of course, fumbles it, says a mix of words that make no sense then Julie cuts in, whines and cries when she suspects he’s breaking up with her. It was comedic, really; a scene out of a movie. You just wished she’d throw water in his face to complete the scene. Although he didn’t do anything wrong, it would have been funny as hell.
Jack was a different man after the break-up, he was mopey and sad all the goddman time.
“Is this what happens when people don’t get laid?” Parker asked as you two watched Jack scroll through his phone.
“I don’t get laid often and I’m not that miserable” you say, reality sinking in on how sad you were “he just misses her, I think. He misses being with someone”
“Ugh,” Shen now joins, “is he still miserable?”
“I’ll speak to him” you breathe out and then mumble, “wish me luck!”
You pull up a chair and sit next to Jack, smiling awkwardly. “Hello, Dr Abbot”
He frowns, “What’s with the formality?”
“You need to get laid” you spit out “or date someone new”
“Oh, I’m good”
You lean in and quietly say, “Jack you’re miserable as fuck”
“I can’t help that she keeps posting all these pictures in bikinis, then she texts me saying she misses me, and I really really miss her too,” he makes a sad face
“Yep you definitely need to get laid” you exhale, “i’ll help you find someone” off the streets.
“How about I pretend to date someone to get her off my back? And maybe it’ll help me… practice”
You give him two thumbs up, “Good idea”
“Will you help me?”
“I just said that” You give a tired sigh, “Are you forgetting again? is it the age—“
He cuts in “No… pretend date me”
Your lips curl into an O, your eyebrows are raised in surprise, and your hands hover in the air. For a moment, you try to walk, but then your body does not move.
You choke out, “no”
“Pleaseee” Jack follows you as your legs decide to move again, “I’ll do anything you want”
A car and a cliff so I can drive off it. “No!”
Pretending to date Jack would absolutely destroy you. You were just about managing to get over your crush/love, and now this?
He grabs your arm, and you stop. His touch was warm, his fingers were soft, and you hated him so much.
“Sweetheart, please”
You let out an internal whimper.
“I can’t go back to dating her, please!”
“Okay, but you need to leave me alone for the next eight hours, Capiche?”
Jack breaks into a smile as you walk away from him, “Thank you!”
But did Jack leave you alone for the next eight hours? Certainly not.
You were one of Jack’s favourite people. He loved that you always gave him great advice, he loved your dark sense of humour, and the faces you pull when he says something completely ridiculous. Jack talked himself out of dating you for one reason only: he would not let his miserable and sad ass get in the middle of you finishing your residency.
He should have communicated that with you, of course he should have. But he tried to occupy himself with many, many women and it was all the same repetitive cycle. He likes them too much too quickly, but few months into the relationship he realises that he has nothing in comon with them, and he found himself wishing they were someone like you.
So how would pretend dating Jack help either of you?
It wouldn’t help you of course, because you were madly in love with him. Yes Parker finally convinced you that you were and she was right.
On the other hand, did it really benefit Jack? It certainly did not. He wanted to make Julie jealous, of coure, but he also was desperate to spend more time with you.
—
“First on the list” you say to Jack, “We need to work on your Instagram”
He rolls his eyes, “What’s wrong with it?”
“If you’re going to be miserable i’m not helping”
He moves closer to you and grins awkwardly.
“Okay wow, creepy” you take his phone off him, scroll through his pictures until you find some nice selfies. “Perfect” and you meant it, “let’s get them added to your grid.”
“My grid?”
You whsiper under your breath, “Jesus christ”.
“Okay how quickly do you want her to believe that you moved on?”
“Now.”
“Okay we need a picture, but you can’t show my face” you say casually, “it’ll keep the suspense alive.”
Jack sits there clueless and you realise that the journey ahead will be long, and painful. “Take a selfie, i’ll just hide my face somewhere”
Jack shifts next to you, puts one arm around you and pulls you in. Your breath catches as you lean into him, suddenly hyperaware of his touch on you. “What now?" you ask, trying not to stare at his lips.
Jack holds your gaze for a moment. He's too close to you and is trying his best not to mess it up. He brushes his fingers through your hair and pulls your face into the crook of his neck as he takes the selfie. His arms get covered in goosebumps as he feels your warm breath on his neck.
He whispers, “done”
You pull away, fixing your hair as you shift away from him. “Next?”
“A date.” He smiles, and you nod nervously.
—
You answer the door to Jack's loud knocks. You tried to ignore the butterflies all day, desperate to convince yourself that this was indeed a fake date.
Your pep talk immediately diminishes as you see him standing there with flowers. “It’s a fake date. What are the flowers for?”
“For you, of course”, he kisses you on the cheek as he walks in, and you feel yourself flush, “ready to go?”
“Just need to put on my heels and zip up my dress”
He gestures for you to turn around. He puts his hand on your waist as he stadies you while he zips it up. “You look beautiful”
Your breath tightens in your chest with nerves, “Thanks, Abbot”
Jack couldn’t take his eyes of you as you put your heels on, suddenly making you look perfect. The dress you put on hugged your figure perfectly, the heels made your ass pop out, and the hair flowed on your shoulders.
Dinner involved lots of pictures for Jack’s stories. Julie, of course, saw every single one of them, within seconds of them getting posted.
You insisted you’d go over to a bar after dinner so you can find him a woman ‘in the wild’.
“You should talk to that one” you point, “she’s been eyeing you up for a while”
“Do women really look at someone else’s man?” he leaned in closer to you, “surely if i’m here with someone… they shouldn’t be looking?”
“People love competition,” you say over the music, “and you need to move away from me if you want to have sex with her tonight.”
“What shall i say to her?” he says as he moves away, despite not wanting to. He enjoyed his fake date with you, more than any other real date he has been on.
“Ask her if she would like a drink. If she says no, then leave her alone. If she says yes, invite her over to the bar, tell her she looks beautiful, and the conversation should just flow.”
“I don’t want to leave you here” he protests.
“This is why I am doing this” you exclaim, ”go!”
You watch him walk away and do exactly as you asked of him. Once he’s sat at the bar, not even ten minutes later, the woman leans over and puts a hand on his shoulder as she laughs. A classic tactic. Your job was completed, so you grabbed your bag and left the bar.
But your job was nowhere near completed because Jack tells you the next day that the woman gave him a fake number.
“That’s a shame” you say flatly as you type on the computer, “was she at least good?”
“She was nice” Jack says, “but we didn’t do it if that’s what you were asking?”
You whisper to yourself, “I don’t know why I did, to be honest.”
You turn to face him, “Is Julie still texting you?”
“Every day”
“Okay well, she needs to see us together”
Fast forward to few days later, Jack meets you at the cafe where Julie goes to after her ‘hot yoga class’. You rolled your eyes at the thought of being in a class with her, all hot and sweaty.
“Keep rolling your eyes and one day they’re gonna get stuck” Jack says. He still wasn’t sure if you disliked Julie, or you liked him.
“I’ll have the iced vanilla latte, please, with cinnamon” you ask the barista. “Jack?”
He clears his throat. “Whatever she said”
As you bend down to look at the pastries, you feel Jack’s hand slowly sit on your lower back, too close to your ass.
You look up at him, horrified, then notice Julie walking towards you. You stand up straight, and Jack immediately pulls you towards him. You stumble, then stand up straight, “Julie! Hi!”
“Hi Jack” she ignores you. Bitch.
“How was hot yoga?” Jack asks nervously as his eyes trail down to her breasts.
“Hot, and sweaty” was her voice always this squeaky?
Jack was staring so you say, “hun? Our drinks are ready”
He clears his throat, manages a ‘yeah okay’ and follows you to the counter.
“I don’t think we should sit in” you whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t form a sentence! and keep staring at her breasts!” you hiss, “and you’re meant to be on a date with me!”
“Shit, okay, yeah.” He grabs your hand and leads the way out of the cafe, waving a quick goodbye to Julie.
“That was an utter fail” you say as you step away from eyesight. Jack still held your hand, not wanting to let go yet. "Can I have my hand back?"
Jack gives you a small smile before letting go.
"Next on the list?" You ask him but he looked down at his phone. "Jack?"
"She sent me a picture" he stutters, "a... naked picture"
"A nude?" you look at his phone, taking a quick look, "hot damn, okay, that's fair enough, I can see what you see now" Maybe you should start attending hot yoga.
"Okay I know what we need to do next"
Your eyes widen in horror, "no!" You point one finger at him, "no, no! I will not be getting naked for you"
Although that would be hot as shit, you would not do him that big of a favour.
"I was not going to suggest that..." Jack smirks, although not completely hating the idea. "I was thinking we could go swimming; maybe post a picture of me... shirtless."
"You want to strip down for social media content?" You ask.
Jack nods nervously.
You break into a smile, "Niceee, let's show them abs to the world, Abbot"
--
You packed your swim bag and went over to Abbot's to work on his 'photoshoot' in the pool he had at his complex.
"Okay, just act natural" you try to direct him as he swam in the pool. "Maybe come closer, otherwise you're just a floating head."
He swims closer to you, "this good?"
"Still a floating head" you usher for him to come closer, "put your hands on the edge and pull yourself up"
He did as you asked him, and you took a perfect photo of him as he got out of the water. Curls wet, looking darker than usual, swimsuit hugging his waist, outlining too much and his arms... "it looks okay!"
"Just okay?" he sits on the edge as you show him the photo, "I look amazing!"
You roll your eyes at him again. He looks fucking incredible.
"How about a picture of you and me?" he gets back in the water, "she needs to know we're serious"
"How about a video..." you say, quickly regretting it but Jack excitedly agrees to it.
He sets up the camera, "okay just act normal"
You protest, "I am... normal! i'm swimming."
He swims up to you, "okay just get closer"
"I am close" you mumble, "very close"
Jack pulls you towards him, hands finding your hips as he lifts you up so you can wrap your legs around him, "I meant this close"
Your lips were too close to his, as you let out a shaky nod. You hoped that he couldn't hear the loud thumping of your heart.
"Please tell me you pressed record?" you whisper against his lips, not entirely certain why you were suddenly quiet.
"I don't think so?" Jack jokes. "Shall I go and check?"
He didn't want to let you go anywhere; he was ecstatic having you in his arms like this. To his relief, you shook your head.
"What are we doing next?" you spoke softly, after being in his arms for longer than necessary.
"Uhhh" Jack couldn't focus because all the blood had drained from his head, down to one location. "Let's uh... see how she reacts to this."
Reality sinks in once more on why you were doing any of this, so you let go of him and swim away.
For the next twenty-four hours, you spend it in silence and alone after coming up with an excuse for why you couldn't stay with Jack. You regret agreeing to any of this. You cared too much about him and not enough about yourself in the process.
Jack watched the video of the two of you on repeat as he sat alone and in silence at his apartment. He saw the moment reality sank in for you; the moment you moved away from him. He also realised that throughout this agreement, you not once had viewed, liked or interacted with anything he posted. Jack realised how selfish he had been this whole time and before he could text you, another text comes through from Julie.
Let's go to dinner.
Jack gives you a call, "she wants to go to dinner with me"
"Okay" you say quietly, "tell her no and block her number?"
"I- is that an option??"
"Yes Jack" you say weakly, "it is an option. Always has been"
Jack goes quiet for a moment, "are you crying?"
"No, it's just allergies" you lie. You had come down with the flu since being at the pool yesterday, and you were too ill to care about anyone, including yourself.
"Anything I can do to help?"
You ignore his question. Instead, you say, "Jack what is it you want? truly? do you want to be with Julie?"
"I like the idea of having someone like Julie in my life" he says, "but maybe not her"
He couldn't even admit to you who he wants to be with.
"Okay, well, maybe you need closure. Go see Julie, tell her, honestly, how you feel, maybe then she'll leave you alone."
"Is that what you think is best?"
You almost choke on your words, "Yes"
What was best was him blocking her the moment she knew he had a (fake) girlfriend, but texted him anyway.
Jack finally hangs up, and you go back to your sad movie, your tissues, the loud cough that echoed in your apartment, and your high fever.
--
You don't bother texting Jack asking how the date is going because one thing was made clear after your swim date: you physically couldn't move away from him because your attraction to him was like a magnet. And here you were, all alone and ill, and he was yet again chasing the wrong woman.
A text comes through from Jack. How's your night going?"
Fine. Yours?
We're just out for dinner. Going for Mexican food.
You let out a small sob and yell despite the hoarseness of your voice, "I love Mexican food! Lucky bitch."
You text back, enjoy.
Jack's finger hovers over his phone as he waits for the food at the restaurant, but he decides not to text.
Thank you. How are the allergies?
I have the flu.
Jack doesn't respond, and you let out another sob. "Asshole"
As you start to drift off, you hear a loud knock on the door. You mumble as you turn over, putting one pillow over your head. The knock wasn't in your dream, it was someone outside your door.
You drag yourself off the couch and stumble over to the door. You open it to Jack standing, holding a takeout bag, with an awfully big smile on his face. "Hi"
You give him a small, confused wave. "Shouldn't you be having sex right now?"
He shakes his head. "Didn't even go on the date."
"But you had Mexican food?"
He pulls the bags higher. "I lied. I wanted to surprise you so I got us food"
You were too feverish and too delirious for this conversation. "I don't understand, but also I am too ill to want to understand"
He puts the food on the counter, puts the back of his hand on your forehead, "you're burning up."
"Congratulations, you're officially a doctor" you say before coughing loudly. "You might want to leave otherwise you're gonna catch this."
"C'mon, on the couch"
You don't protest as he guides you back, lays you down and pulls a blanket over you.
"I'll make you soup"
"And I will vomit it" You shivered so hard your teeth rattled, "and I'm too tired to move"
"Can I take care of you tonight?" Jack wished you'd let him take care of you every night.
"Jack" you say weakly, "I have to-"
"Let's not, not now, okay?" He had a feeling you were about to break your agreement with him, and he didn't want you to. He had blocked Julie the moment she texted him about dinner. But breaking the agreement meant that Jack would go back to just being your friend. He spent the entire afternoon thinking of what he could say to you. And now he's here, the cat has finally got his tongue.
He shifts closer to you, and you let him under the blanket. He pulls you against his chest, and you appreciate the warmth of his body on yours.
"I didn’t go on the date," he murmured eventually, lips brushing the top of your head. "Because I don't want to just date anyone."
You stayed quiet, too sick and too overwhelmed to respond. You don't want him dating just anyone, either.
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.
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 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 Abbot’s 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 that’s 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 men’s clothes tend to smell like the men wearing them.
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 you’ve noticed it.
It smells like competence. Like an almost-choice. Like the split second before you do something you already know you’ll have to lie about later.
And now it’s all over you. In the collar. In the cuffs. In every breath you take like your lungs have joined the opposition.
You huff it in like an addict and make your way into the living room.
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.
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.
“Nice sweatshirt,” she remarks. “Should we be thanking you for your service?”
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.
“Lost suitcase,” you say, heat climbing to your face as you fuss with a sleeve that falls halfway over your hand. “Jack let me borrow something, so… blame the airline.”
Santos lets out a sharp little laugh from beside her, all pleased with herself before she’s even opened her mouth. Never a promising sign.
“That’s a new one. Usually people skip straight to admitting they’re sleeping with him.”
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.
“Trinity,” you stage-whisper, eyes huge. “Jesus Christ.”
“Who’s sleeping with who?”
Jack’s voice lands from somewhere directly behind you.
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.
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.
“Nobody,” you say quickly, then quicker, before somehow the first version had not been convincing enough. “No one is sleeping with anybody. There’s no sleeping happening. That is not a thing that is, um, happening.”
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. “Shame. For a second there it sounded interesting.”
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, “Yeah. Real shame.”
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 doesn’t look away from the movie.
“No need to get that defensive about your love life, kid,” he murmurs. “We’re all adults here.”
“I was not defensive,” you whisper back, which, admittedly, sounds suspiciously like the sort of thing a defensive person would say. You take a sip of wine. “It was a misunderstanding. That’s all.”
At that, Jack finally turns his head and looks at you properly. “So you are sleeping with someone?”
Dana’s eyes flick up from the movie, sharp and curious for exactly one second too long.
“Will you keep your voice down?” you hiss, then immediately drop yours lower still, because apparently hypocrisy is one more thing you’ll be sampling tonight. “No. I am not sleeping with anyone. And even if I were, that would be none of your business.”
He lifts both hands in surrender.
“Fair enough. Not my business,” he agrees. You exhale, which turns out to be premature, because then, after a beat, he adds, “Could’ve fooled the room. They seem to think everyone about you is my business.”
Your fingers twitch, and the wine makes its move, sloshing clean over the rim and splattering across the front of your — his sweatshirt in one dark, awful splash.
“Shit,” 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. “Jack, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I just, you said that and I…”
“Hey,” he says, catching at your wrist before you can make the stain worse. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” you say, mortified. “I just spilled red wine all over your sweatshirt.”
“You spilled red wine on an old sweatshirt,” 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 he’s 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 isn’t any.
“It’ll wash out,” he concludes, drawing his hand away.
You swallow, still staring at the stain because the stain is safer to look at than his face. “I feel awful.”
“You look awful.”
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.
“Upset, I mean. More upset than I am.”
“Of course I’m upset. You were nice enough to let me borrow your clothes and within, what, an hour, I’ve turned one of them into a crime scene.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s merlot on gray cotton. I ruined it.”
“It’s not ruined,” he says, easy as anything. “And even if it was, I’ve got more.” His eyes flick briefly to the sweatshirt. “I was going to let you keep it anyway.”
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.
“This is exactly the kind of thing that happens,” you murmur, “when the airline loses your entire life. Murphy’s law ans all that.”
He laughs softly through his nose.
“What all was in the suitcase?”
“Everything,” you say. “Clothes, makeup, skincare, my will to live.” Then, because apparently embarrassment has made you reckless, you add, “My bikinis too, which was kind of the point of coming to Santorini in the first place.”
He is quiet for a second.
“Too bad,” he says. “Would’ve liked to see those.”
Santos lifts her head from the couch like a shark catching blood in the water.
“Gross,” she says. “Can you two either make out or shut up? Some of us are trying to watch sad people chain-smoke in peace.”
A quiet laugh ripples through the room. Dana hides hers behind her wineglass. Victoria doesn’t 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.
“Good movie,” 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
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 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 he’d 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 Jack’s 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. "Just…" 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, “I’ll make sure you do.”
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.
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You didn’t see Shen and Parker playing Rock Paper Scissors down the hall as they each hoped to avoid being the one to wake Abbot. You missed Parker’s arms go up in victory, followed by her peace sign as she walked off with a smug smile. All you saw was Shen leaning over the counter, drink in hand, as he said,
“Can you go grab Abbot for me? He’s asleep and I can’t have a repeat of last time.” He shuddered at the mention of it.
“Just put your drink down before you wake him,” you said. He curled the cup closer to his chest at the mere suggestion he separate from it.
“I can’t risk it. That was a dark day.” He was looking past you, lost in thought reliving the last time he’d woken the sleeping attending. Abbot, the former soldier who understandably had seen some scary things that often led to PTSD. Abbot, the part-time SWAT medic, who might not react well to being startled awake by a coworker and might knock said coworker’s favourite Dunkin’ drink from his hand. Shen had been devastated, low on caffeine, and the least chill you’d ever seen him. It would have been funny if the rest of his shift hadn’t been so rough because of the spill. “Please, dude,” he begged. You sighed and agreed to get Jack.
The room wasn’t as dark or as quiet as it should be for sleep but soldiers and nightshift workers could sleep anywhere and anytime. Jack was laying on his stomach on a couch in the staff lounge. His prothetic leg was within reach, leaning against the arm of the couch. You considered calling his name loudly, startling him awake from a safe distance but that felt mean. As soon as he was awake, it would be nothing but noise and chaos until his shift ended. He looked so peaceful, you really didn’t know how things went so south with Shen.
You made your way closer, opting for a soft approach. 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. You eyed his back a moment, making sure it moved with breathing. You put a hand on his shoulder, and slowly slid it across his back, smiling when he started to stir. See Shen? This was how you carefully woke a sound sleeper. You dragged your hand back across the same simple path of his shoulders, smug that your soothing gesture had solved everything when Jack mumbled,
“Hey, sweetheart.” What?! No. 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. In his stirring, his forehead came to rest against your thigh. He sighed like a weary sailor finding land after seasons at sea. You squirmed slightly at the heat his heavy exhale brushed against the seam of your pants. He started move more purposefully, and you thought he was waking up. 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.
It was the second time today you’d seen a man hug something protectively to his chest but you were having a very different reaction to this one. You managed a shaky breath, but Jack Abbot wasn’t done. 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. 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.
You made a sound. One you’d definitely never made at the hospital. One Jack Abbot definitely heard, because he tightened his hold on you and said,
“Lay down with me, honey.” The sudden surge of temptation to accept his invitation was so strong, it constricted your chest. Your heart twisted at how sweet he’d sounded. He’d said it so lovingly, like you were together, like you were… Oh. Oh no. Was he thinking about his dead wife?! “Need you,” he said softly and it was a knife through your heart.
“Dr. Abbot,” you said as professionally as possible but not being able to breathe properly really took the power out of your voice. 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. 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 you’d planned, right onto his head where it sunk into a soft sea of salt and pepper curls. You made another noise in frustration, torn between needing this to end and never wanting it to. Letting your hand slide off him turned into more of a caress, and his eye cracked open.
He stared up at you sleepily, almost suspiciously, but maintained his strong grasp. For a second there was a flicker not unlike the look in Shen’s eyes as he had cradled the iced coffee to his chest. Or the look in a dog’s eye when they’ve got something they know you’re going to try to take away and they plan to fight you for it.
“Hi,” you said, more than a little breathless. “Shen needs you.”
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.
“Fuck, sorry, I thought I was dreaming.”
“About your wife,” you added on, needing to acknowledge it.
“What?” He asked, his face twisting at the out of the blue mention of her.
“What?” You echoed, wondering why he seemed confused. He tilted his head at you, quietly considering.
“I wasn’t dreaming about my wife.” The statement came lightly but it made the air in the room incredibly heavy. It felt like he was actually admitting something else. Something potentially life-changing.
You sprang from the couch, set on a quick escape, only to hear a clatter as his prosthesis was knocked from its resting place. 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. You crouched to reach for it, desperate to right the wrong. Jack had the same instinct about saving his leg, only faster. This meant you sort of collided, landing with your arm outstretched along his and your chin on his shoulder.
He looked down, at where you had not managed to grasp his prothesis, but instead had your hand wrapped around his. Thankfully you weren’t 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. Marvelling at his face just a breath away, you didn’t know how you were going to recover from this.
“Wanna know who I was dreaming about?” He teased, tempting you with the idea of you two.
“I think I understand now why Shen dropped his drink,” You whispered.
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. Jack shook his head at you, and it took him out of your space enough that you could think clearly again. You stood on shaky legs and backed away towards the door as he accused,
“Hey, you started it.” You stayed quiet, unable to defend yourself, because you had, in fact, started it with the shoulder slide. At the door, you paused as he started adjusting his prosthesis,
“Is your leg alright?” You asked, hoping you hadn’t damaged it. Jack peered up at you, amusement brightening his eyes.
“Is yours?” He asked, gesturing to where your skin was still suffering from aftershocks.
“My leg is,” you looked down at the limb in question, “fine,” you lied, trying to downplay your reaction to him. But did that sound too nonchalant or even ungrateful to say about your perfectly fine leg to someone holding a prosthesis? “It’s great,” you overcompensated, mildly concerned that might be bragging. He nodded,
“Yeah, it felt great.” You laughed at his unexpected feedback.
“You did not just say that. Is that your medical opinion?” He smiled at you, all too pleased with himself and your heart skipped a beat. It was a toss up whether having him alert and flirty or semi-conscious and cuddly was more hazardous to your cardiac health. From the gleam in his eye, you knew he was about to deliver some devastatingly flirtatious line. You needed to get out while you still could. “Go find Shen,” you ordered, fleeing the room.
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. Peeking over your shoulder to see if Jack had come out yet, you rounded the corner quickly and crashed into someone in scrubs. Beyond the contact, there was the sound of plastic hitting the floor and liquid splashing.
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 you’re up to. There are depictions of gun violence and rehabilitation after an injury. Thank you so much for reading and take care of yourselves! ♡
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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 wasn’t even that dangerous.
You always rebutted. The team did just fine without him every other day. His previous experience didn’t mean he was required to continue working in that environment now. If he wasn’t in danger, why did he have to have full combat protective gear on? And of course, the job was dangerous—that’s 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.
“Whatever, I’m going to be late. Don’t bother staying up for me, I have a shift tonight, so I won’t be coming back home.” He snaps.
“Jack! You can’t keep doing this! What are you avoiding by just jumping headfirst into a pit of lions every week? Why can’t you just spend the holiday with your fiancée before working tonight?” You counter.
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.
“I’m done having this conversation! We argue every single time! I’m going!” 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, you’re 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. There’s 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 that’s almost worse than full-heartedly being blinded by your own thoughts and opinions. Understanding him means there’s 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 wasn’t your holiday to work. Nothing beats call, holiday, and shift differential all lining up like the perfect eclipse. Your sleep is restless; however, you can’t stop worrying about Jack. Wondering if he’s 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 aren’t sure of how long you’ve 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, you’re rolling out of bed to pull scrubs on and rush to the hospital. It’s 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.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
You are currently trying to work with the doctor on call tonight to repair the trauma patient’s liver. The laceration is substantial, but you know it’s treatable. You’ve assisted on cases like these a hundred times before since you graduated from PA school, and you know you’ll get to do a hundred more like it in years to come.
“So, how’s wedding planning coming along?” Dr. Murphy asks as she works.
You hum with a small smile, “You 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 he’s free anyway.”
Dr. Murphy laughs. You’ve 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.
“Oh, trust me, everything will settle into place. You both need to take each other’s advice sometimes. Slow down. Breathe.”
A chuckle escapes your lips as the door to the OR opens. Maybe it’s because the skeleton crew are the only staff here at this hour. Or perhaps it’s because everyone on this side of the wing wears the light blue surgical scrubs. Or maybe it’s just instinct that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand, but you turn around and see him.
He’s 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.
“Sir, this is a sterile-“
A shot rings out and silences everyone. The only noise is from the monitors that are keeping track of the patient’s 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 can’t 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. There’s a lump in your throat that can’t seem to be swallowed.
You glance up at the scrub tech. She’s new, it’s her first week. You think her name is Lorelei, but you’re 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 would’ve 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.
“This is him?” The man grunts, “The drunk driver?”
Dr. Murphy is cool as she responds, “Sir, what do you want?”
The man lets out a guttural wail, “I want my daughter! He killed my daughter!”
Your heart skips a beat, and despite the rules and codes of ethics you’ve 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.
“Sir, 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.”
His quiet sobs are silenced, and he looks straight at Dr. Murphy, “You just want them to take me? You want them to take me as I die while that…that monster lives?”
You don’t realize what’s 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 that’s rushing through your veins. And finally, your hands begin to shake when you notice you’re the only one keeping your patient above ground.
Lorelei crouches on the ground, covering her head with her hands, and guiltily, you wish you didn’t have the responsibility, so you could do the same.
“Hey!” The father yells, and his voice finally breaks through your stupor, “I said stop saving him!”
You look up with tears in your eyes and hope it doesn’t 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 they’ll enter.
“What’s your name?” You blurt out, not knowing what to say that will stall him.
He falters, “W-what?”
“Your name, I want to know your name.” You say before telling him your own.
“Jacob Haas,” He says.
“Hi Jacob,” You whimper, “I went to school for six years to get here. Got my master’s and everything. And one of the first things you learn is the Hippocratic Oath. It’s about like…confidentiality and non-maleficence and shit. Basically just: do no harm. So I understand where you’re coming from, and I am really, really sorry about your daughter. I’m sure she was…I’m sure she was amazing. But how is hurting hospital staff going to help her? We can’t judge our patients by their acts or their morals. We’re not God. But we do have a code, and I promised to do no harm, but you’re asking me to go against that, and I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
You know you’ve 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. It’s 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 there’s yelling. There’s 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 you’ve been shot. You don’t know if it’s you who screams or someone else.
Lots of people come into view, most of them look like they’re 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 you’ve 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.
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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 wasn’t 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, “Code Silver OR 4, Code Silver OR 4, Code Silver OR 4.”
He felt the flood of hormones rush through his system like a tsunami. It’s the same feeling he gets whenever someone on his SWAT team gets critically injured, or any time there’s 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 isn’t anywhere in the vicinity of the ER. Instinctively, he turns to see where you are and realizes you’re 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 you’re 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, you’re at the hospital.
Jack’s 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.
It’s 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. They’ve 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. There’s 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 doesn’t care. He runs.
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Your shoulder doesn’t feel right. The pain you felt earlier lingers. And there’s an incessant beeping noise that threatens to drive you crazy. But then you feel it, the weight. The warmth. Someone’s 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.
“Jack?” You whisper, squinting.
You watch him sigh. His shoulders drop, and with it, the tightness in your chest eases. Even if you’re still dazed and confused, your body knows that if Jack feels safe, so do you.
“Oh, baby,” 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.
“Is he okay?” 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.
“There was a code silver.” He starts, clearing his throat.
You interrupt, “I know there was. I was there. Did my patient die?”
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, he’s stuck. It’s 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.
“Yes,” He says hoarsely, “He died. But you were- “
“What about Janie? Dr. Murphy? Lorelei?” You urge.
A pained look takes over. You’ve seen Jack cry before. Despite everything he’s been through and all of the things he might need to work on, overall, he’s more emotionally regulated than one might expect. He runs a hand down his face, “Janie didn’t make it, Dr. Murphy…has a long road of recovery ahead of her, Lorelei’s just shaken up, but- “
“Fuck.” 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 doesn’t stop the throbbing that threatens to overstimulate you.
“You had to have surgery,” Jack starts, “The bullet completely shattered your humeral head, they couldn’t save it. They decided to do a reverse arthroplasty. There was a lot of vascular and nerve damage. It’ll take a lot of rehab...”
You look away from him and bite your lip, trying to will yourself not to cry. Jack’s hand reaches out again, and as much as you want to pull away, you let him.
“Honey, you’re gonna get through this. We’re gonna get through this.” He whispers. And you almost believe it.
A knock at the door draws your attention. You see a doctor at the door. He’s 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 doesn’t leave yours, and you don’t 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.
“The 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 you’re ready.” 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 you’re discharged. By lunch, you’re practically unwilling to talk to anyone else but Jack.
“I want to go home,” You say finally.
Jack’s brow furrows in concern and quiet recognition, “Baby, they just wanna stay on top of your pain and make sure everything is healing properly.”
“I know that,” You whine, “Can’t they make an exception? I’m a PA. I know how to take care of myself. I even have my own doctor to check in on me at home.”
He chuckles and brushes a strand of hair away from your face, “Get through tonight, and we’ll see about going home in the morning? Okay?”
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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 he’s right.
The drive back to your house is filled with jazz music and soft morning light. It’s the playlist Jack likes to put on whenever you’re stressed or overstimulated. You can tell he’s nervous because he keeps trying to subtly steal glances at you the entire fifteen minutes.
“Can I take a shower? Please?” You ask once you get parked.
He gives you a knowing smile, “That’s why I made them put on the waterproof bandage before we left.”
You make your way in and go straight to the bathroom. Jack helps you undress and remove your brace. You’re always shocked when you visit the ER and hear the way people talk about him. They rarely say anything bad, but it’s always about the cold, clinical precision he carries. You never feel that at home. It’s 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 he’s 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 you’re holding between your knees with your left hand. The accessible shower is something you’re 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.
“What do you want me to do, baby?” He asks, still leaving the ball in your court.
You huff, “I can’t open this stupid bottle, and even if I could, I don’t know how I am supposed to wash my hair like this.”
“Okay,” He says, thinking, “I 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.”
You let out a restrained sob, “Can you please do it?”
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.
“Here, hold on to this,” 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 can’t 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.
“Jack, baby,” You interrupt.
He pauses, looking at you with worry, “Everything okay? What’s wrong?”
“Sit down.” You say.
He looks confused, “You’re in pain, and tired. Sit down. I can hand you your clothes. I’ll need help with my shirt and brace, but we can do that sitting.”
There’s 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 Jack’s boxers and shorts and hand them to him. You see, he’s 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 it’s 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 pants’ legs. You’re 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 you’re 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, “Ready for your brace?” 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 you’re 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 won’t 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.
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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 you’re here. You’re trying.
“Ugh! I can’t keep fucking doing this!” 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. He’s immediately up and following you outside.
“Hey, hey, hey,” He says, carefully placing a hand on your waist to stop you, “Where are you at? What do you need?”
You can feel the tears in your eyes, and you wipe them away as they fall, but it’s no use.
“I can’t do this, Jack! This is impossible! I’m never going to be able to do my job again, that’s like the one thing that matters to me.” 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 there’s one thing Jack is, it’s honest. Not once throughout this process has he pitied you or lied to you. He’s never given you false promises about your recovery or the future.
“You might not be able to go to surgery.” He admits, “But that doesn’t mean you’re worthless or not competent! At least you’re alive!” 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 you’ll 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.
“I’m so tired of feeling like I can’t do anything, and like I’m burdening you, Jack I don’t know how you learned to adapt; this is so hard.” 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. It’s not until Jack feels you physically calm down that he speaks again.
With both hands on either side of your face he makes sure you’re looking at him fully before continuing, “Baby, you have never been a burden. Ever.”
He wipes a few tears from your cheek, “I 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. You’re allowed to be angry because you’re right. You might never get enough strength or dexterity back to work in the OR again. You deserve to grieve that.”
Jack swallows hard like he’s bargaining with someone, and he’s not confident they’ll agree with him, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t 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.”
He rests his forehead against yours, “I am so sorry you are experiencing this. I love you so much.”
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Recovery wasn’t 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.
“I feel like it’s my fault,” He whispered, “You getting hurt.”
Your heart skipped a beat, “What? Why would any of that be your fault?”
“You 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 ass….”
He exhaled shakily, “Maybe you’d still be in the OR and not cardiology.”
You turned to look at him, like what he’s said was so absurd that you couldn’t understand why he would say such a thing, “Jack. None of this was your fault. I never blamed you.”
A pause, “And I actually really like cardiology.”
Jack doesn’t smile, you see the maelstrom of emotion behind his eyes. A tear falls down the side of his face.
His resolve cracks, “I couldn’t protect you.”
You frown and curl into his side, wincing as your shoulder catches and tingles with pain, “Baby,” you start, softer this time, “You can’t keep replaying that night in your head trying to search for a different outcome.”
He clenches his jaw and stares at the ceiling, but you feel the trail of his thumb at your waistband.
“I was supposed to protect you.”
“You did,” you say instantly, “You stayed.”
He lets out a choked sound.
“I love you,” 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.
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