summary: when an abandoned baby takes the e.r by storm, and seems to only be comforted by you, jack takes a keen interest in the maternal streak he didn't know you had. (5k)
characters: jack abbot / wife!reader, dana evans, emma nolan, michael robinavitch, whitaker and his ducklings (joy and ogilvie), baby jane doe!!!
contents: grumpy!reader, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, humor, not proofread cw for mentions of child abuse (r had a bad upbringing), smut 18+ ft. breeding kink!!
FIC #3 / 20 FOR 20
The smell of fresh coffee clings to the stale air of the empty break room, mixing with the stubborn scent of antiseptic that always seems to follow you and the ghost of Shen’s egg salad that he just had to pack for lunch. You sit slouched in a plastic chair at the round table, with one leg hooked over the spare one at your side, and a clipboard resting on the thigh of the other.
You hope to spend the next hour or so of your shift right here, pretending to stay busy flipping through MRI results and procedure notes until it’s time to go.
“I won’t tell anyone you’re camping out here if you promise to do the bulk of the driving to the cabin tonight,” Jack had told you when you found him in the break room, passing you the mug of steaming coffee he’d made for himself without a second thought.
The caffeine is the only thing keeping you going this far into your shift; along with the fact that you’ll be spending the rest of your Fourth of July with him in his countryside cabin — the furthest from the PTMC either of you has been since you got married.
“How about you don’t tell anyone, and you do the driving?” you propositioned, flashing the man a faux-innocent look from over the top of the rim as you brought the cup to your mouth. The fresh brew singed the tip of your tongue a bit, just enough to jerk your exhausted mind awake.
“Fine…” Jack caved with a slow huff; his first good breath all day. His following words came out slightly muffled as he leaned forward to press a fleeting kiss to your temple before walking on by you. “How much we got left on our sentence, huh? An hour? Two?”
“Sixty-four minutes, but… Who’s counting?”
“Well, that’s plenty of time for something fun to happen.” Jack turned in the doorway to flash you a knowing grin that you met with a tired scowl.
“Don’t jinx it,” you called to his retreating figure.
You’ve given enough of yourself for one night, you think; and after a rather urgent thoracotomy that nearly killed both the patient and you (though mostly in the metaphorical sense), you feel like you’re owed the small break. Now that the day shift is trickling slowly in, you’ve decided to stay hidden until somebody absolutely needs you.
You sink deeper and deeper into the plastic chair, willing yourself into invisibility, until a baby’s cry shatters the sacred quiet.
The high-pitched whine cuts through everything — your heavy exhaustion, your simmering headache, and the steady hum of the emergency department you’ve learned to tune out over the years. You drag yourself from your seat with a distant groan in the pit of your throat, ‘cause you know you won’t be able to relax until you know someone else has got it handled.
You trudge to the door and take a peek down the hallway, if only to say that you did, and find the long corridor bustling with an energy much livelier than you are. When the crowd parts, you spot Dana walking your way with something tiny swaddled in her arms — much too small to be as loud as it is now.
Her eyes light up at the sight of you.
“Dr. Abbot— Just the person I was looking for!” the older woman croons in her usual gritty monotone, with a knowing smile sitting crooked on her mouth. “We got a baby Jane Doe, ditched in the bathroom.”
Your features crumple under the weight of your exhaustion. Your head tips back to groan a long and theatrical, “No…” though your sneakers scuff the floor as you trudge her way despite yourself. “I only have one hour left on my shift— Please don’t make me do anything else.”
“Well, I also got a central line placement in Central 13,” Dana deadpans. “You know, if you’d rather not waste time takin’ care of this perfectly nice baby.”
The swaddled thing fusses when it’s shifted in her hold. Your eyes flit from its scrunched face, round and wet with tears, to the wise look in Dana’s eyes. She grins at your obvious hesitation.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
You sigh and step forward, like a martyr to the gallows. You trade the clipboard in your hand for the baby in Dana’s. She sets the thing gingerly in your hold — a warm and delicate weight between your arms, fitting just perfectly against your chest.
You had done a rotation in pediatrics before you settled on emergency medicine some years back. You know what it means to take care of a baby in the most technical sense, though none of it ever seemed to come totally naturally to you.
You move like a robot accordingly, all tense and methodical. The whining baby settles into your hold with a gentle coo anyway, like a switch suddenly flipped.
“Well, look at that,” Dana hums with an arched brow of amusement. “You’re a natural.”
“You’re evil,” you deadpan.
“So they say,” the woman quips drily, patting you on the shoulder with a warm hand. “C’mon. Show my shadow how to do a proper pedes check-up— Dr. Abbot’s not as mean as she looks, Miss Emma, I promise.”
You flash the young, fresh-faced nurse a polite smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes before leading her towards the pediatric unit across the way. She’s made of bright smiles, braided chestnut curls, and sunshine incarnate as she scurries just behind you. She’s got a sparkling look in her dark eyes that you’re pretty sure you lost somewhere around your first week of residency.
You pass the workstation with a sort of tunnel vision zeroed in on the vibrantly painted pedes room. You nearly miss Jack standing there, leaning over the desk with his arms folded and his biceps straining against his scrub sleeves.
The silver-haired man briefs a newly arrived Robby on the morning cases and pauses at the sight of you — his whole entire life, cradling a much smaller one in her arms, with an exhausted frown on your face that you don’t bother trying to hide.
Robby traces the man’s suddenly distracted gaze over his shoulder. His brown eyes follow your form, lighting up at the sight of you the same way Jack’s do.
“Well…” the older man croons. “Would you look at that—”
“Don’t,” you cut in sharply, and don’t bother slowing your stride as you pass them.
Jack’s quiet laughter follows you across the room. His eyes do, too, as he drinks up every ounce of you and the tiny thing swaddled in your arms. He finds himself getting drunk on a craving he didn’t know he had until that very moment.
Robby’s dark eyes squint. “Why do I have a feeling that you’re mentally siphoning through a bunch of baby names right now?”
“I always liked the name Milo for a boy. And Iris for a girl— but the missus is pretty allergic to pollen, so I’m not sure she’d go for that,” Jack answers without missing a beat, as though the thought had haunted his head at least once before. He only turns to face Robby again once you’re out of view. “What do you think?”
Robby just scoffs out a laugh. “I think you’re screwed, brother.”
Baby Jane Doe is mostly stable, all things considered.
Physically, she’s perfect. She had obviously spent the bulk of her little life being properly cared for. And, if you had to guess, she spent most of the time being held — if her immediate protest at being left in the warmer had anything to say about it. Her breathy whines fill the otherwise silent room as you perform a routine evaluation with practiced hands. You pay little attention to her annoyed cries and slip into teaching mode despite your palpable fatigue.
Emma hovers just behind you, with empathy glittering in her dark doe eyes. “Gosh,” she sighs. “How sad…”
“Eh,” you hum with a lazy shrug. Your gloved fingers lift the hem of her tiny white t-shirt to check for any bruising on her soft, pale skin, or for any other markers that might indicate signs of infection. You ramble on, half-distracted, “If you think about it, this baby got pretty lucky— If it really was abandoned, I mean. Better to be left here than with a family that can’t love it properly, right?”
Emma’s eyes widen at your cynicism. She can’t shake the feeling that you’re speaking from experience as she swallows hard and nods once in response. “Right…”
The door swings open across the room. The noise of the E.D. swells for a brief moment, before muffling when it clicks shut again a second later. Robby steps in first, with Jack following close behind. The former stands on the opposite side of the warmer and keeps his suddenly softened gaze on the cooing baby before him.
Jack migrates to your side the same way he always does — never as close as he’d like to be while on the clock, but never more than a few inches away from you when he can be.
“What are we thinkin’ here, Doc?” he asks.
“Normal pulse. Normal BP,” you rattle off with an air of indifference. “She’s well-hydrated, too. No visible sign of infection, either — though I guess we can’t rule out a benign virus just yet.”
“Do you think she qualifies for Safe Haven?” Emma wonders from Robby’s side.
You shake your head, lips softly jutted. “No. Either this baby is gigantic, or it’s well past the twenty-eight-day mark for Safe Haven. Worse-case scenario at this point is obviously abandonment. She’ll likely be put in foster care after a full evaluation.”
The young girl’s face falls slightly.
You soften despite yourself.
“But,” you add, if only to make her feel a bit better. “Past experience tells me that her parents might’ve just needed a break. Maybe they— I don’t know— stepped out for a cigarette or something. God knows, I’d need one if I had to take care of an alarm clock twenty-four-seven.”
Robby scoffs a weak laugh and shakes his head. “I’ll get Lupe to make an announcement in Chairs. See if anyone’s looking for her— If you’ll excuse me,” he nods with a polite smile down at the squirming baby below before sauntering out of the room.
The baby jerks when the noise of the crowded E.R fills the room again, startled by Dana’s yelling, who seems to be telling off a rowdy patient down the way. Her wet eyes squeeze shut as her gummy mouth opens to bellow a tiny wail. You reach out to comfort the baby, if only to hear less of the thing, with a methodical palm placed against its frail chest.
It whines for a moment before softening with a contented sigh.
“Look at that… You’re good with her,” Jack mumbles, taking a step closer to peer over your shoulder — until you can smell the coffee on his breath and the musky cologne lingering on his skin. A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth as he watches you with glittering eyes. “Told ya you should’ve gone into pedes.”
You flash him an emotionless scowl. “Don’t patronize me,” you scold.
“Have you guys ever thought about having kids?” Emma wonders with a kind smile, having assumed your marital status from your matching last names and golden wedding bands. She cowers instinctively when your eyes turn to her in sync, fearful she might’ve said the wrong thing. “Or is that super rude to ask? I’m sorry—”
“No, it’s not rude at all,” Jack assures her, reaching to wrap his hands around either end of the stethoscope around his neck. It makes his freckled biceps strain against the black sleeves of his scrubs as his silver head swivels slowly to look at you. Something mischievous swims in his blue-green eyes as he lilts, “We’re just… going with the flow. Right, Dr. Abbot?”
You meet his tightlipped grin with a deadpanned look. The two of you agreed long ago that, while neither of you is totally opposed to having children, you’d also be perfectly happy living a completely childfree life.
But instead of getting into all of that with less than an hour left on your grueling shift — in front of the newest addition to the nursing team, no less — you just nod with an artificial smile.
“Right. Yeah,” you say, already inching back towards the door. The baby starts to cry again a second later, in a series of revving whines that lead to a sharp shriek. You flash an apologetic grimace over your shoulder from your place in the doorway. “You guys have fun with… all that.”
You spend the next half hour finishing up your already-completed charting. You reword, backspace, and click occasionally at your mouse — pretending to work to keep from being bothered, though it isn’t quite as foolproof as you would’ve liked. Whitaker rushes your way with one of his interns in tow, sporting a worried sort of glint in his wide puppy dog eyes that he only gets when something’s going wrong.
“Hey… Dr. Abbot. Are you— Are you busy at the moment?”
“Nope,” you answer in a monotone, without looking up from the bright-white computer screen ahead of you. “And I’d very much like to keep it that way.”
“Well, uh…” Whitaker falters, shifting awkwardly on the other side of the desk. “We— We kinda need you. In pedes.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Baby Jane Doe hasn’t stopped crying since you left,” the woman behind him says, standing several inches shorter than the boy and sporting a heavy pair of glasses and a glittering silver septum in her nose.
Your eyes dart toward the stranger — Joy Kwon, MS3, the badge on her chest reads.
“That was, like, twenty minutes ago,” you say with an incredulous twist to your features.
“Exactly,” she deadpans.
You huff and lead the duo the short distance back to the pediatric unit. The crying hits you before you’ve even crossed the threshold — a sharp, unrelenting wail that adds to the headache you’ve been nursing all day.
You find a lanky, blonde-haired man who eerily resembles Whitaker in the vibrantly painted room, though his badge reads James Ogilvie, MS4. The young med student flashes you a wide-eyed look of horror, holding the writhing baby in a visibly awkward hold.
“Please help me,” he pleads.
You don’t bother trying to hide your apathy as you trudge across the room to close the distance between you. You slip the tiny baby back into your hold, where it settles almost instantly, heavying against your chest with another breathy whine. You rock it gingerly in your arms the way you were taught to. Its wet eyes flutter slowly shut as fat tear drops trail down its reddened cheeks.
Whitaker gestures with a dazed smile. “See? Knew it. Total natural.”
You flash the boy a deadpanned look over your shoulder. “Because I’m a woman? That means I’m automatically a natural-born caretaker?”
His light eyes widen with an immediate panic. Joy tries and fails to hide her amused smile as she purses her lips to the side of her mouth. Whitaker, meanwhile, stumbles over himself to get the words out.
“W-What? No! No, not at all! I just—”
“She’s just messing with you, kid.”
Jack’s voice drifts in as he steps through the door, saving the boy from his own stuttered-out apology. He’s perhaps the only one in Pittsburgh who can decipher your usual monotone from your humorous one, which he was only able to master after years of loving you.
“Oh…” Whitaker says, deflating with a relieved sigh, though his pink cheeks are slow to lose their newfound color.
“Go check on Mr. Alvarez for me, will ya?” you tell him, jutting your chin back towards the door. “You know, since I have to take care of… this thing.”
Whitaker leaves and takes his interns with him, who trail after him in line like ducklings. They pass by Jack in the doorway, who peers at you over their heads with a pair of wide eyes.
“This thing?” he scoffs.
You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I’m not getting attached to it.”
“It?!”
You huff and adjust the baby in your arms, with one hand resting on its diapered bottom and your other rubbing gently over its tiny back. You sway gently back and forth, far too sweetly for the following words out of your mouth.
“The entire reason I got into emergency medicine was so I could help people without having to deal with all the— baggage that comes with him.”
“Well, babies don’t have baggage, honey,” Jack laughs as he strolls slowly towards you. “They’re brand new— that’s literally their whole thing.”
“Yeah. That’s because the parents give it to ‘em through… years of psychological torment.”
Jack studies you for a long moment with a pair of squinted eyes. “I think you might be projecting a little bit here…”
“I know I am,” you scoff. “Which is why I’d be a horrible mother. ‘Cause I’d just be a mirror of my mom, and our kid would just be a mirror of me, and it’ll just be a whole cycle of… emotionless, unaffectionate women...”
You trail off with a heavy sigh, lifting your gaze from the calming baby to the man towering over you. You find him wearing a much softer gaze than you expect him to. He tilts his silver head to his shoulder, eyes narrowing and lips curling slowly.
“Our kid?”
Your eyes flick away and back again. “…What?”
“You said our kid,” Jack clarifies with a wider grin.
You roll your eyes at him despite the way your cheeks blaze beneath his unwavering stare. “Well, we are married, you know? Who the hell else would I be having kids with— Robby?”
“God, I hope not— Poor kid,” Jack quips drily before leaning in to press a soft, fleeting kiss to your temple. His silver scruff brushes our delicate skin when he pulls away, far sooner than you would’ve liked. “And, just for the record, I think you’d be an amazing mom.”
Something warm flickers in your chest at his words, like embers stoked suddenly to flame. You recoil physically from the foreign feeling, with a grimace twisting your features.
“Eugh…”
“What?”
You shake your head in response, parting from him to set the now-slumbering baby into the warmer at your side. You lay it gingerly onto the blankets before stepping away with your hands splayed out, as if it had burnt you in some way.
“It got too real for a second there,” you mutter with a look of disgust on your face. “I started feeling all… warm and… and fuzzy— I didn’t like it…”
Jack laughs.
“Yeah, that’s what they call happiness, Dr. Abbot,” he jokes in a gritty deadpan. “And I’m glad you’re finally getting to experience it after three whole years of marriage.”
Jack can’t get the sight of it out of his head. You, in the rocking chair in the corner, with the pedes room dimmed to a dull lamplight, cradling a sleeping baby to your chest and looking half-asleep yourself.
“Thought you weren’t getting attached?” he whispered into the serene silence from his place in the doorway.
“’M not,” you mumbled back, head lolled to your shoulder, eyes half-closed. “‘M just using this as an excuse to shut my eyes for a second.”
Something about it all catches him off guard. Not the baby, exactly — he’s seen a thousand babies before — held them, handed them off, charted them like any other patient in a sea of a hundred different patients. They were always temporary things to him, always someone else’s.
But then he sees you — his future, his eternity — with someone else’s baby tucked to your chest as if it had always been there. You had one hand instinctively supporting the weight of her head while your other smoothed up and down her back. And your voice, often edged with sarcasm dry enough to sand wood, had softened into something warm and low and honeyed. And the seemingly orphaned baby, who could cry loud enough to rattle glass, goes instantly still in your arms like it finds sanctuary in you alone.
It does nothing more than pique his curiosity at first — the idea of having kids with you, of how great a mom you would be — which isn’t a completely rare thought, but one that is typically fleeting. But then the thought lingers. Festers. Settles somewhere in the pit of his chest until he can’t breathe without thinking about it.
By the time you’ve settled in the empty cabin, six hours away from the PTMC, the desire has rooted itself somewhere far deeper than he’d like to admit.
Jack, freshly showered, reclines on the clean sheets of the familiar bed, smelling of detergent and time gone by. The bedroom settles slowly into a lamplit darkness in time with the late night. Fireworks crackle faintly in the distance, in mere echoes rolling across the midnight-colored lake outside. The quiet feels borderline suffocating compared to the never-ending chaos of the E.D.
You move through the space as if you had always been there. Jack watches you from his spot on the bed, which gives him a perfect view of you in the adjacent bathroom.
Your hair is still slightly damp from the shared shower, dripping onto the t-shirt swallowing your body whole. Your bare feet pad softly along the tile as you complete the last steps of your skincare routine; your attention flitting between your reflection in the mirror and the video playing on your phone.
It strikes him somewhere deep — swells from his stomach, to his chest, to his throat, until he gets the very sudden urge to cry.
“Should we have a kid, you think?” Jack blurts, as if the question were as simple as asking you if you wanted pizza for dinner.
You still in place in the golden-lit bathroom. Your fingers freeze on your cheeks, mid-swipe of moisturizer, as you flash him a deadpanned glare from the doorway.
“…Do you hear that?” you wonder in a monotone.
“The sound of my sperm dying?” Jack jokes
“The sound of quiet,” you correct before turning away to continue your work in the mirror. “Which doesn’t exist when you have kids. I mean, think about it— We wouldn’t have even been able to come here today if we had a kid. We wouldn’t be able to do anything.”
“Well, that’s just not true,” Jack scoffs, folding his arms behind his silver curls until his biceps strain beneath the sleeves of his black undershirt; the hem rises just enough to reveal the tuft of light brown-blonde hair trailing down into his sweatpants.
His silver scruff brushes his freckled skin when he turns his head. “Parents take their kids places all the time— or alarm clocks, as you so lovingly called them.”
“Yeah, well, not mine,” you murmur distantly as you chuck your crumpled cotton pads into the bin beside the sink. “They always told me that I was the reason we couldn’t afford to do anything. ‘Cause apparently feed and clothing me was such a burden to them— as if I asked to be here.”
“Your parents were just assholes, babe.”
“The crazy thing is, they were actually pretty nice…” you sigh, bare feet padding softly across the floor as you trudge to bed, plugging your phone into its charger on the nightstand. “Just not to me. Like I ruined them or something.”
Jack’s chest flares with a white-hot warmth that makes his eyes sting. “You know that’s not your fault, right?”
You don’t answer him with words. You just bounce your brows and tilt your head, though he struggles to tell if it’s an agreement or not. He shifts on the mattress when you pull the fluffy comforter down to slide into bed beside him, brows lowered as he keeps his unwavering stare locked on your face.
“Is that why you don’t want kids?” he wonders gently. “Because you think you’ll end up like your parents?”
You scoff, kneeling on the mattress until you settle into place next to his reclined form. “Isn’t everyone terrified of ending up like their parents?”
“Sure, but… You’re nothing like them. I mean, I saw you with that Jane Doe today— You were perfect.”
“Well, you have to say that.”
“No, I don’t,” Jack scoffs. “If I thought any differently, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. But I know you’d be a great mom because I saw that today— Saw the rest of my whole goddamn life in that place…”
He trails off with a faraway look in his eyes.
You watch him with a suspicious glint in yours.
“…You really mean that?” you murmur, halfway shy, picking at pills of cotton on the blanket thrown over your legs. “The part about me… You know, being a good mom, I mean?”
“Of course I do,” Jack laughs like it’s obvious, eyes glittering as he peers up at you. “And it’s not like I expect you to change your mind right now— or ever, if that’s what you want. It’s just… Something to think about, you know?”
“Well…” you tilt your head and trail off with a mischievous sort of lilt in your voice. “They do say the best part of having kids is trying for one.”
Jack grins up at you, brows raised to his hairline. “Do they?” he hums lowly.
“Mhm,” you nod.
“Should we test that theory out, you think?” he teases, all giddy like a teenage boy.
You shrug lazily, t-shirt sleeping off your shoulder, pretending to remain uninterested despite the excitement flaring red-hot in your chest. “Well, what the hell else are we gonna do?”
Something about your indifference makes Jack ravenous. It always has. It makes him feel like he’s got something to prove. And there’s nothing he loves more than watching your mask slip, than watching all your attempts to tease him fade into moans you couldn’t hold back if you tried.
You melt for him first, when his long fingers slide your pretty panties to the side, dragging an orgasm from you with an expert hand — and then further when he presses his mouth to the wet spot in the thin cotton, drinking the honey you leak from him until he licks another twitching orgasm from your buzzing body.
Jack’s wearing your slick down to the silver scruff on his chin when he crawls back up your trembling form, massaging his stiff cock through his boxers. “You’re not too sensitive, are you?” he wonders gently despite the proud smile sitting crooked on his face and the honey still coating his tongue.
Your hips buck on their own accord, chasing a pleasure you’re not entirely sure you can take.
“Fuck a baby into me,” you plead in a half-drunken slurs, etching scratch marks long his back in an attempt to ground yourself. “Wanna make you a daddy, Jack— Want feel you leakin’ outta me…”
“Jesus Christ,” Jack huffs, like you’ve just punched all the air out of his lungs. “You can’t talk like that, baby— I’ll cum before we’ve even started.”
He knows it’s just the previous two orgasms talking, ‘cause you’re still on the pill after all — having a baby now is pretty much out of the equation even if you really wanted to. But Jack isn’t in the business of depriving you of what you want. So he gives you all he has for the time being.
He folds your knees to your chest with a pair of wide, calloused hands, keeping your drooling pussy spread for him as he pierces you slow. The head of his cock, glowing red with need, disappears inside your pulsing confines. His throaty groan entwines with your quiet whimpers as your cunt suckles him further in. Once he’s sheathed fully inside, he stills just against you, with the greying thatch of coarse hair above his cock nestled against your sensitive clit.
“Yeah, you feel that?” Jack croons with a breathy laugh, which turns into a moan when your nails rake down his muscular chest. “You’re so full of me, aren’t you, baby?”
Your heavy head nods lazily against the pillow, eyes bleary and wet with desire. They squeeze shut a second later, when Jack’s hips drag back, until only the head of his cock is left inside you. Then he slides back into you, slow enough that you feel every ridge and vein of his cock, and smiles when your back arches off the mattress.
“I’ll give you a baby one day, honey, I promise,” the man babbles, choppy between his measured thrusts. “Fill you up so much it’ll be leakin’ outta you for days—”
You whine, hips bucking into and away from his cock all at once.
“Yeah, that’s it… I’ll get you all round and full… ’Til you’re walking around the E.D… Showin’ everyone what I did to you— how good I make you feel…”
“Please,” you whine.
“Yeah?” Jack coos sympathetically, beneath the wet schlick, schlick, schlick sound of his thrusts inside you. “That what you want?”
You nod, head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut, though the pathetic “please, please, please”’s continue spilling from your kissed mouth.
“Take it then, baby— Take it.”
He buckles down over you, punching into you with shallow thrusts that slowly start to lose their rhythm. He talks you through every inch of your orgasm, which hits you so hard it makes tears swell in the corners of your eyes.
“That’s it, honey. Let me have it,” he murmurs in your ear as your body starts to twitch beneath his muscular one. “Give me all of it, baby. That’s it.”
Your stomach pools with heat a second later when Jack tenses on top of you, burying his groans in his neck as his jerking cock spits thick ropes of warm cum inside of your pulsing confines. He deflates on top of you when he’s finally spent, sticky body melting with yours, until both of you are melting into the tousled sheets below.
“You okay?” Jack asks through panted breaths, muffled into your sweat-slick neck.
You nod wordlessly, swallowing hard as the high fades, and shoving lazily at his bare shoulder. “Get off— I gotta go to the bathroom,” you huff.
Jack slides off your body and falls heavily onto the other side of the mattress. He watches with lidded eyes as you hurry to the bathroom with your thighs clenched together. You clean yourself up inside and return some minutes later to Jack having wiped himself off and tucking his soft cock back into his grey boxers.
“Do you wanna… talk about all that?” he asks with a knowing squint in his eyes.
“Remind me tomorrow,” you sigh, feet heavy as you trudge back into bed.
Jack scoffs a laugh, knowing you’ll likely tell him the same exact thing tomorrow, and flips off the lamp on the nightstand. The golden bedroom delves into a midnight-blue darkness.
His limbs entwine with yours on nothing short of muscle memory when he slides back into bed with you. His long legs slot with yours beneath the covers as he throws a heavy arm over your stomach, folding his free one beneath his head.
Quiet settles over the dark bedroom like a blanket.
“Actually,” you blurt into the silence, catching Jack right before he falls asleep.
“Yeah?” he mumbles, warm breath fanning over your shoulder.
“It’ll probably take about— I don’t know, three or so days for all the results to come back. You know, for Baby Jane Doe’s workup,” you murmur, half-shy. “And we’ll be back to work by then, so… I was thinking maybe we could… Never mind, it’s stupid.”
Jack lifts his head before you can shrink back into yourself, eyes flitting across your shadowed profile. “No, what is it?”
You roll onto your back to meet his darkened gaze with a far more sheepish one. “Maybe we could take her, you know? Just foster her on an emergency basis until we can find her family. Or someone who can foster her long-term. Like a…”
“A trial run?” Jack finishes for you with an audible grin. “Yeah, that’s definitely one way to pitch it, honey.”
You grimace, hiding your burning face behind your hands. “I told you, it’s stupid,” you whine, muffled behind your palms.
“It’s not stupid,” Jack assures you with a quiet laugh. He pries your hands from your face with gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist. “I think it’s a great idea. We can, you know, taste the waters about the whole baby thing and help a kid in need at the same. Sounds like a win-win to me.”
“Yeah?” you hum with a soft wince.
“Yeah,” he nods. “We can look into it when we get back.”
Your chest swells with a sunshine sort of warmth when he settles back into bed beside you, tossing a muscular arm over you to tuck you back into his bare chest. It’s a pure, unadulterated feeling of overwhelming happiness that weirdly makes you feel like crying. ‘Cause only Jack would agree to foster an abandoned baby you found at work not even a day ago; only Jack would see all of you and still love you completely, for a reason you still can’t name.
“I hate when you’re supportive,” you grouse on instinct as you bury your head back into the pillow, even though you mean the exact opposite.
Jack knows this, too, so he just grins into your hair and jokes, “Yeah, I know. It’s definitely my worst quality.”
how many babies can i give robby before he hits 55 challenge 🥴
Anon stopppp ittttt (actually you should keep going, this is genius)
Word count: 0.7k
mdni
Can you imagine already having like three kids with Robby. The first one is a little three year old girl and she’s turning into such a big girl so fast. The second pregnancy you end up having twins just by pure luck.
As soon as that three month window ends after giving birth you’re climbing into bed right next to Robby. He’s reading a book with this glasses on and you’re settling on his lap.
He looks up, old enough to be your dad yet you’re giving him baby after baby. “Robby…”
You whisper softy and lower his book for him. He already has his eyebrows raised looking at you questioningly. He knows you just when to put down your two twins, he can tell by the drop of spit up on your shirt and the milk stain near your breast.
Hell your body’s not even fully recovered yet from the last two kids. Still having that pregnancy fat around your stomach and getting into a routine of taking care of three kids while Robby’s gone.
“Our babies…”
You almost whimper. But Robby knows enough to understand you’re playing up the puppy dog eyes. He sets his book on the nightstand and grabs at your hips to pull you closer. He loves you like this. Still emotional and dependent on him.
“Yeah…? What about our babies.”
“They’re legs.”
Robby runs his hand up and down your arm because it looks like you might cry.
“Yeah I know. They’re getting bigger, they have chubby little legs. Is that what got you like this?”
“No their—“ you sigh loudly for dramatics. “They’re losing their scrunch.”
“Ahh…” Robby hums and pulls you in tighter, he thinks he knows what you mean but he’s not going to double check incase your emotions switch up on him and you get upset.
“They’re loosing their scrunch?”
“Yes. They used to be so tiny and swaddling them used to be so easy. But now they both kick their legs around so much, especially Ellie, it’s like she wants to crawl so early.”
Robby doesn’t mind. He likes putting toys in front of your two twins and watching them grab at it. Flexing their tiny fingers and eventually watching them give up. Robby gives in and hands them the toys anyway. They’re just so stinkin’ cute.
“I want another one.”
“What?”
You paw at Robby’s chest. It would be easy to convince him if you slip a hand under his shirt, but you need him to want it too.
“I want another baby. Your window is closing.”
“My window is not closing.”
“Honey please.”
Robby sighs— annoyance mixed with disbelief. Three months. That’s how long it took for you to forget about all the pain you went through in the birthing room to wanting to do it all over again. Robby puts his reader glasses on top of his head so he can rub his eyes.
“Can we talk about this next year?”
“Next year? Do you hate me? I want one now.”
“We cannot have another baby right now. You’re still postpartum. Still breastfeeding, we don’t have another bedroom and—“
Robby knows you’re devious, but he didn’t think you’d be so wicked and cruel as to start kissing his neck while trying to talk to you about how bad an idea this is.
A shiver runs all the way down his back, shooting straight to his dick. When you place sloppy wet kisses into his neck it’s like he melts. You’re his one weakness.
“Baby please.” You spoke desperately. Jutting your hips forwards for some friction. Exactly on the day your doctor cleared you for having sex again too. “You said you wanted our kids to be close together in age”
“Yeah but—“ he groans. Annoyed because he’s losing, so easily swayed by you. “Not so close they’re doomed to share birthday parties for the rest of their lives.”
“Can we just start trying now?” You bargain. This time your hands really do go under his shirt. “Will just practice. It will probably take a few times anyway.”
“I feel like that’s an insult.”
“No—“ you breathe and now Robby’s hands are going under your shirt, bringing it all the way up and over your head to look at your breasts that have been practically taunting him with how your shirt stains with milk.
“It just means I really wanna have sex with you right now.”
Quite An Impression - jack abbot x marine biologist!reader
Pairings: jack abbot x marine biologist!reader
Summary: when a jellyfish sting at work leads you to the ED, an unsuspecting Jack finds himself more and more interested in the pretty marine biologist that invites him for a tour of the aquarium she works at.
Warnings: minor injuries, talks of ER/ED, explicit language, injured animals (it all ends good), age-gap, slow burn, pinning, mentions of widower jack, yearning/longing, probably some scientific & medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 5k+
Author’s Note: part 1 is FINALLY here !! i’m so excited to get this out to you all, it’s been a long time coming !! i hope it lives up to expectations !! (am i gonna use sabrina references for each title ?? it’s possible…) bonus: uncle!jack content !! <3
“Jack”, Robby popped his head into the break room; “Come here, you’re gonna wanna see this, brother.”
Jack was bent halfway at his knees, inches from finally, finally, sitting down for the first time in hours and letting the weight off his prosthetic when Robby interrupted him. He didn’t even bother to suppress the groan that left his mouth as he pushed himself back to his full height.
He’d feel the soft couch cushions under him after this, he promised himself that much.
Jack followed Robby out, swinging his stethoscope back around his neck and holding both end of it in his hands.
“What do we got?”, Jack asked, inhaling the same way he always did during a long shift; the kind that made his back arch a little and his chest puff out.
“Female, late twenties to early thirties, jellyfish sting on the left arm and hand”, Robby read out the chart in his hands.
Jack almost stopped walking, a surprised look on his face that turned almost into a smirk.
“You serious?”
Robby laughed; “Hell yeah, figured you’d want in on it.”
Jack scoffed in the way he did when he found something funny; “Hell yeah I want in on it”
He grabs the chart from Robby’s hands flicking through the pages as he reads; “Haven’t seen anything like that since med school.”
“You and me both, brother.”
Robby turned and pushed open the exam room door with his back, sliding on a pair of gloves as he wheeled over on the swivel chair.
You looked up from the bed, eyes bright and not at all like you were in pain. Jack stopped in his tracks at the sight of you.
He realized then he wasn’t expecting someone so…pretty.
So lively and bright.
“Hi i’m Doctor Robbinavitch, this is my fellow attending Doctor Abbot, we’re gonna check you out today”, Robby says, offering a small and professional smile.
“At least buy me dinner first”, You jut back with a laugh.
Oh. Jack wanted to make that laugh leave your lips over and over again.
Robby got to work, carefully inspecting your sting, gloves fingers pressing gently into the raised red skin.
“So jellyfish sting, huh?”, Robby asks, motioning to Jack for a syringe off the tray next to him.
Jack hesitates for a moment, but his brain eventually follows, letting his eyes wander away from you for a moment.
Your hair was clipped back in a claw similar to Dana’s, a few strands falling loosely around your face and ears. A pair of black leggings and a Pittsburg Aquarium shirt. Even in the simplicity of it all, you looked so pretty. Jack swallowed hard.
“Yeah, comes with the job”, You say with an easy shrug, like it’s nothing new.
Robby pauses; “Oh yeah?”
“Yup. Marine Biologist at the aquarium. Little guy snuck up on me today.”
Robby chuckles; “Happen often?”
“More than you think. Not my first sting, won’t be my last.”
Your eyes wander over Jack, who’s still standing slightly off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. You lean a little closer to Robby.
“He always hover like that?”, You ask.
The noise that leaves Robby’s nose makes you laugh.
“Only when he’s working.”
You nod, eying Jack up and down. His silver curls and broad shoulders. The stubble that decorated his jawline. His dark hazel eyes that seem to get darker each time his eyes land on you.
“So often then?”
Robby looks up and tilts his head; “How’d you know?”
“I read people”, You shrug; “He seems like the type.”
Robby bites his cheek from saying something that’ll have Jack kicking him later, shooting him a look. You’re so accurate at reading him, it makes Robby gloat.
“Hey Doctor Abbot”, You nod your chin at him; “You ever sleep or blink or do you just…hover?”
Jack’s eyes flick back to you, the tiniest twitch of a curve at the corner of his lips as he adjusts his weight, shifting on his feet; “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
You snort, covering your mouth.
Oh you’re adorable, Jack thinks.
Robby’s still examining your sting, taking pictures on his phone cause who knows when he’ll ever see one again.
“Been meaning to visit the aquarium”, Robby says, not looking up, “My daughter likes fish.”
You light up instantly, eyes flicking between the two men, clocking Jack’s jaw twitching like he’s fighting internally on whether or not he wants to say what’s on the tip of his tongue. He eventually decides against it.
“How old is she?”, You ask.
Robby’s smile softens; “Almost two.”
You hum in response; “Fun age, usually very curious.”
Robby laughs like he couldn’t contain it; “Oh she’s very curious.”
You turn back to Jack, just as Dana pops her head into the room.
“Robby, when you’re done pawning over the jellyfish sting—trauma one needs you”, She says it with a smirk, a witty sarcastic tone with no heat behind it. Just enough to agitate him.
“Cmon Dana, this is so cool.”
Dana rolls her eyes, pointing two fingers at him; “Trauma one, now.”
She’s gone as quickly as she appeared, a sigh leaving Robby as he bows his head with a laugh, snapping his gloves off.
“That’s my cue”, He says, wheeling back in the chair and standing; “Doctor Abbot here will finish up. Get you some topical steroids and something for the pain and you’ll be good as new.”
You don’t see the wink Robby sends Jack’s way as he leaves the room, following the same path Dana had just taken.
Jack pushes off the wall, pulling a pair of gloves out and setting up everything he’ll need on the steel tray in front of him.
“I’m going to deactivate the area with some acetic acid, it’ll stop the stinging”, He begins, pulling on his gloves with a quiet smack.
“Acid?”, You ask, furrowing your brows.
Jack hums with a nod; “Don’t worry, it’s basically just vinegar. Shouldn’t hurt too much.”
You watch as he dumps the liquid carefully over your arm and hand, whatever stinging was there slowly began to dissipate, leaving behind a dull ache and general soreness.
“I’m gonna check to see if there’s any tentacles that need removed. Then we’ll get you all set up with some antihistamines and a topical corticosteroid”, He explains each step as he’s preparing it—whether it’s to ease the nerves he can sense off of you or to reassure himself—you find yourself appreciating it.
You can’t help swinging your legs a little as you watch him slide a pair of glasses onto his nose, a new pair of gloves on his hands as he grabs a pair of tweezers.
“Let me know if anything hurts”, He says.
But you’re too busy watching him.
The way he leans in close, the overhead lamp he brought over casting a slight golden hue to his curls, making them shine like silver. His features look more prominent this close up—aged in a rugged and handsome way that shows he has years of experience and stories behind him. Steady hands that hover. Sharp eyes that train on whatever he’s looking at. His brows furrow a little as he concentrates, his lips parted just slightly as he works.
“So you always pick fights with jellyfish or do you rotate through sea creatures?”, Jack asks, eyes flicking up to your face for a brief moment before returning to your arm.
You try to suppress a laugh—it doesn’t work.
“Nah, new animal each week. They’re usually pretty nice though…think that jellyfish had it out for me.”
Jack’s lip quirks at the corner of his mouth.
“What’d you do to it?”
“God nothing, they don’t have brains to know if I even did.”
Jack hums softly in response, letting you talk as he works. Committing everything you’re telling him to memory.
He lets a beat or two pass before speaking again; “Which one’s your favorite?”
You tilt your head; “My favorite what?”
“Animal, sea creature, whatever you call it.”
You can’t help the smile creeping onto your lips; “Beluga whale…name’s Arlo. He was brought in as a baby with an injured flipper about a year into me working there. I’ve pretty much helped raise him.”
Jack’s chest softens.
“He ok now?”
“Oh yeah!”, You say waving with your other hand, “He’s doing amazing! Just safer to keep him than set him out into the wild. I honestly don’t know how well he’d do with his flipper being permanently damaged.”
Jack finds himself nodding along as you talk, not realizing how long it’s been until he’s almost done tending to your arm. But he doesn’t really want to stop, or for this to end. He could listen to you talk all day.
So he lets you.
He listens intently as you talk about your job; which animals are your favorite, which ones are learning new commands and tricks, what shows you get to put on for guests. The conservation jobs you’ve been on. He watches your free hand move about as you talk—the many faces you make when—each full of passion. He finds himself enthralled by all of it.
“We also do two tours a day for guests to take them around some behind the scenes stuff, meet some of the animals”, You explain.
Jack lifts his head up, eyebrows raised at that; “Yeah? That sounds kind of interesting.”
Without a beat, you respond;
“Yeah? You should come. I’ve got tickets for this weekend you can have.”
Jack falters for a moment, forcing his brain to slow down and his breathing to continue.
“Oh that’s really thoughtful, but I’d hate to just take them, let me do something in return-“
“You’re patching me up, I think that’s enough.”
He stares at you, really stares. The unwavering look of certainty on your face, that small, smug smile at the corner of your mouth that was already doing things to him.
Then finally, he lets his shoulders drop with a sigh; “Ok.”
You perk back up instantly; “Yeah? Great!”
Jack smirks to himself as he pulls off his gloves, wheeling over to the computer stand and tossing the blue latex out. You find yourself staring a moment too long at the way his biceps flex under his scrub top—black material pulled taught against his skin and across his chest—littered with freckles; each different and unique in their own way. You’d be perfectly content counting and tracing each one.
“Think I’ll live, doc?”, You ask.
Jack’s lips twitch again; “Keep your arms away from jellyfish and I think your chances are pretty high.”
You let yourself smile, not caring how ridiculous and enthralled in him it makes you look. He was interesting.
You listen as Jack explains your discharge instructions, hands you a paper with them on it and a number to call if you need it.
“Come back if it gets really painful or infected. Keep using the topical cream I gave you and it should heal up good in no time.”
“Thank you, Doctor Abbot”, You say softly, sliding off the exam bed and letting him guide you out the door.
You don’t miss the way his hand hovers at your lower back, not quite touching, but the ghost of his warmth is there.
He nods once, head jutting towards the exit doors; “Know your way out from here?”
Like he’s offering to walk you.
“Yeah, thanks”, You smile; “Well hey, hope we can talk again sometime.”
His lips quirk; “Hopefully on better terms than this.”
“That’d be nice”, You say, knowing full well it won’t be the last time you walk through those hospital doors; “Maybe this weekend?”
Jack stills for a moment, the wheels in his brain turning before he offers a movement that’s almost a nod.
“Yeah”, He says it like he’s thinking, “Yeah, we’ll see.”
With that you’re heading towards the door with a thanking squeeze to his bicep that makes him feel like he’s a teenager again, watching as you stop and turn back towards him again.
“See you around, Doctor Abbot.”
Jesus, he was in fucking trouble.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Jack finds Robby in the break room later, hovering over a pot of hospital coffee.
“You free this weekend?”, Jack asks.
Robby quirks a brow; “What’re you asking me out?”
Jack bites his tongue, his eyes squeezing shut to compose himself; “No, I was gonna offer you these tickets I got.”
“What tickets?”
Jack sits down at the small round table with Robby in tow, passing him a steaming cup as he does.
“Remember the patient with the jellyfish sting from earlier?”, Jack asks.
Robby’s already smirking; “You mean the one that was flirting with you?”
“She wasn’t flirting-“
“Jack”, Robby chuckles; “You’re geriatric not stupid.”
“You’re geriatric and still older than me.”
Robby can feel the glare Jack shoots his way burning into the side of his head.
“What about her?”, Robby asks.
Jack sighs into his coffee; “She offered me tickets for some tour of the aquarium this weekend…they’re already in my inbox. Figured maybe you and Noelle would wanna take Nora.”
Robby shakes his head; “Nah she offered them to you man, you take them.”
“And do what? Stand around like a creep?”
“I don’t know…go?”, Robby says it like it’s obvious; “She offered you these tickets. Not me. You have to go.”
Jack doesn’t answer, just sipping on his coffee that’s starting to taste more and more like dirt with each passing day.
“She obviously likes you brother, or she wouldn’t have said anything”, Robby says.
Damn it, Jack really hated when Robby was right.
The older man sits up in his seat.
“Listen, Noelle’s out of town this weekend so it’s just me and Nora. Why don’t we go with you?”, Robby offers.
For some reason, that makes Jack relax a little.
“Careful”, Jack says with an arched brow, already clocking Robby’s enthusiasm; “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you actually like me, brother”,
“God don’t make me regret this”, Robby says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What else am I here to do?”
Jack stands to lean against the counter, stirring his coffee and tracing the rim of the cup.
“You’d seriously go?”, He finally asks, shoulders closing in a little.
“Yeah, why not?”, Robby shrugs; “Nora loves seeing the fish and for some reason you. Plus I can play matchmaker if i’m there.”
Jack groans; “And there it is.”
“What?”
“Your ulterior motive.”
“Gotta entertain myself somehow, brother”, Robby says, smacking a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
It takes everything in him not to smack Robby right then and there.
“I hate you.”
Secretly though? Jack’s grateful and almost relieved at Robby’s offer. But he’d never live down the day he tells him that.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
“Unca ‘Ack! Unca ‘Ack! Phish!”, Nora’s little voice shrieks as she bounces it Jack’s arms, pointing to the floor to ceiling cylindrical fish tank.
They’d made it exactly five steps in from the front entrance, and Nora was already amazed. Her wide brown eyes stared at the fluorescent colors—her tiny hand pressed up against the glass—the tank lights reflecting off her face.
“Papa! Phish!”, She called out for Robby, turning her entire body abruptly in Jack’s arms, making him readjust his grip.
“Careful, Peanut”, Jack warned softly, his own eyes wide as he watched her, willing his hold on her to keep up.
“I see the fish, Munchkin”, Robby says, stepping in next to them and smiling up at the fish that swim by.
The sound of people bustles around them, other families being drug along by their own toddlers seeing something across the room. A group of teenagers off in the distance.
It smells like seawater—not in the gross dead fish way, but salty and soft—wafting through the air. It’s slightly cool inside, overhead fans and misters in certain spots with signs that say ‘Feel the Ocean!’
Jack has no doubt that kids would be absolutely sucked in by all of it.
“What time is it?”, Robby asks, eyeing his watch.
Jack beats him to it; “10:30, tour starts at noon.”
He’d looked at the schedule, of course he had.
Robby smirks knowingly; “What should we go see first?”
They find themselves in the underwater viewing tunnels—polar bears and elephant seals swimming overhead—light reflecting off the water.
Nora’s eyes are wide, pointing at each animal that swims by. Making sure Robby sees, and then Jack.
The ‘Dory tank’ quickly becomes her favorite, running as fast as her small and chubby legs will carry her almost two year old body—pulling Jack by wrapping her entire hand around two of his fingers.
He grunts in surprise, struggling to catch up for a moment before he’s laughing; “Peanut you’re gonna take me out.”
Robby claps him on the shoulder, quickly adjusting the backpack slung over his shoulders; “Don’t worry, I know CPR.”
Jack shoots him a glare; “You’re so lucky the kid’s here.”
Nora’s hands are pressed up against the glass, face as close as she can get it without actually touching it—Robby and Jack had both scolded her twice already about the germs—her small mouth falling open with a grin as big as her face.
By the time 11:30 rolled around, Jack was leading the way towards the Penguin exhibit where the tour would start. Nora was now in Robby’s arms, giving Jack’s back a break. She weighed almost nothing to him, but the constant pulling on his neck and shoulders each time she bounced or lean towards something made him a little sore.
Robby set Nora down, letting her walk over to the giant tank in front of her, Penguins swimming around at her height as they dove in and out of the water.
“Nora, smile for mommy!”, Robby called out, kneeling down.
Nora grinned as wide as she could, a penguin swimming past her just as Robby captured the photo.
“I see?”, Nora asked, already climbing into Robby’s lap where he was crouched down.
“See? Very cute, huh?”
Nora giggled, eyes on Robby’s phone before she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Mommy see?”, Nora asked.
Robby nodded; “Mommy will love it, it’s a keeper. Think it should go on the fridge when we get home?”
Nora clapped happily at the idea of that.
Meanwhile, Jack noticed the employees starting to make their way out onto the landing from the doorway to the side. Then his world froze when his eyes landed on you.
Clad in your wetsuit, a ponytail braid down your back that swished back and forth as you walked. Clinging to you perfectly. Water shoes squeaking faintly, clearly slightly wet. His heart hammered against his rib cage. He didn’t notice Robby slide in beside him, Nora still in his arms.
It didn’t take long for you to find him, and once your eyes settled on his frame, your cheeks turned pink.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Starting a tour was absolutely second nature to you now. But you’d had nerves all day. Hell, you’d had nerves since earlier in the week when you met Jack. He’d been rattling around your brain ever since like he lived there.
When you followed your coworkers out onto the Penguin landing exhibit, you couldn’t help but let your eyes scan the group of people waiting. As soon as your eyes met his, you felt the blush creeping up your neck. Seeing the way he reacted the same, eyes unwavering and hovering over you—looking you up and down—had you biting your bottom lip in a last ditch effort to suppress a smile.
It didn’t quite work.
You offered him a wave that came off slightly shyer than you would’ve liked; but he didn’t seem to notice, and offered a wave back.
You could see the man you remembered as Robby nudging him with his elbow, eyes now trained on you as well—the little girl in his arms bouncing as she watched the Penguins.
After a quick introduction, it was your turn to talk, forcing you to finally pull your attention away and stand closer to the front.
You introduced yourself to the crowd; “But you can call me Skipper, I’ll be leading you on your tour today. Are you ready to see some animals?”
The response from families and kids around you was instant, but all you could see was Jack from the corner of your eyes; expression soft and gaze determined not to miss a thing. So the staring was an outside of work thing too, huh?
You didn’t mind. His eyes were soft in the way they were when he’d tended to your wound—like he was taking in every word you said and cataloging it for later—the same way he did with a patient’s information or a SWAT mission log.
God, you were screwed.
The tour went on smoothly, and as you talked, Jack found himself sinking deeper and deeper; like the ocean had opened up and swallowed him whole in the most peaceful and sunlit way.
He committed each fact you said to memory like his life depended on it; Octopuses have three hearts, the ocean produces 50% of earth’s oxygen, Angelfish choose one partner for life, a Blue Whale’s tongue is heavier than an entire Elephant, Dolphins are sleepwalkers, 50-80% of all life on earth is found under the ocean’s surface—he desperately wanted to seem like he knew something about your work.
You showed off starfish, turtles, dolphins. Jack watched with a childlike awe as you used simple hand signals for the dolphin, who happily obliged and did tricks for fish. He had no idea so much went into all of it.
His favorite though? Was finally getting to see Arlo the Beluga you talked so fondly about. He was huge to say the least. A permanent smile almost etched on his face.
Nora laughed when a spray of water from Arlo’s blow hole misted her face, clapping and bouncing where she was perched on Robby’s shoulder’s.
“‘Gain! ‘Gain!”
Jack—who was normally so enthused with his niece, only spared a quick smile at her before he was drawn back to you.
You with your bright smile and eyes to match as you held out different shells and artifacts. You who knew quick facts and talked so passionately about your work, you who kept glancing at him each time your eyes swept over the group of visitors in front of you.
Your heart stuttered in your chest each time you looked up to find his eyes already on you, like they never left in the first place.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
By the time the tour ended in the stingray room, you were a little smug to say the least. Eyes flicking to where Jack stood each chance you got as you spoke with other guests. Taking in how he stood carefully behind Nora who was pressed up against the glass again, watching stingray’s swim by. Protective and oh so gentle.
Jack’s hand was carefully on the tot’s back as he crouched down next to her, dipping his face close to talk softly in her ear. Like he was making sure she knew all his attention was on her.
Eventually most of the guests cleared out, only a few staggering behind to check out other animals in the room. You quickly made your way over to the two doctor’s at the big tank—Jack already rising to his feet as he saw you approaching, taking Nora’s tiny hand in his.
“Well look who came”, You breathe out, smile engulfing your cheeks.
“Wouldn’t miss it”, Jack spoke.
His voice was softer than it had been in the ED, more relaxed and mellow. Like he belonged here standing with you.
“I hope it lived up to its expectations.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Jack’s smile didn’t waver, a comfortable silence drifting over the room as you both looked each other over. You in your wetsuit, Jack looking so mundane and domestic out of scrubs it hurt. His hair a little more messy than usual, no doubt from Nora playing with it.
Robby cleared his throat.
“Papa! Up!”
The small voice and noise beside you snapped you both out of your gaze, eyes flicking to the brunette man as he lifted Nora up into his arms.
“Nice to see you again, Robby”, You say, offering a small nod; “Who’s this lil girly?”
“This is Nora”, Robby beams, tucking his head more to her level; “Nor, can you say hi?”
Nora offers you a small wave, hiding her face in the crook of Robby’s neck.
“Hi Nora, I heard you like fish?”
She perks up a bit at that; “Phish?”
“Mhm”, You nod, “Wanna meet one of my friends?”
Nora’s already nodding enthusiastically as you lead them back to Arlo’s tank. He’s already hovering close to the edge, head peeking out and still smiling.
“It’s almost Arlo’s feeding time, he’ll be so happy to see us”, You speak out loud, not really sure if it’s more towards Nora or yourself.
You climb onto the landing at the edge of the tank, pulling a bucket of fish over with you, snapping a pair of gloves on.
“These are his favorite.”
Almost on cue, Arlo’s halfway out of the water, looking almost like he could clap as he opens his mouth for the fish you throw him. The water splashes, Nora giggles in Robby’s arms.
“Do ‘gain!”, She shrieks.
All three of you laugh as you happily toss another fish Arlo’s way before turning back to Nora; “Wanna pet him?”
Nora’s eyes grow so wide there’s almost no iris left, looking up to Robby like she’s asking for permission.
“Cmere, I’ll show you how”, You explain how to be gentle, guiding Robby over so they’re both close enough.
You take Nora’s tiny hand and press it flat against Arlo’s nose, letting her pat it gently. Another squeal from her tiny body, now almost vibrating with excitement.
“He’s a little slimy, isn’t he?”, You beam, nose slightly crinkled as you look between the two.
Then you look up at Jack, who’s standing with his legs wide and arms folded across his chest, so similar to the way he had been when you first met him. A small twitch at the corner of his mouth. But his eyes gave him away. His love for Nora and seeing you with her practically pouring out onto the landing, and a hint of something else entirely that you couldn’t quite place as he looked back at you.
“Mommy, ‘icture?”, Nora asks.
“Sounds like a good idea to me”, Robby says, “Do you mind?”
He’s holding his phone out to you.
“Not at all.”
You switch spots with him, letting them stand against the tank in front of Arlo, raising the phone to take the picture when Robby cuts in again.
“Jack, get in here brother.”
He hesitates for a moment, before ultimately standing on the other side of him, squishing Nora comfortably between them. Both of her arms wrap around the back of their necks as he smiles crookedly, her few tiny teeth poking out.
“Smile!”
You take a few, pausing at the one where Jack and Nora are looking at each other—bright goofy smiles that make your heart ache. You wanted to burn it into your memory. Instead you hand Robby his phone back, watching as he walks off with Nora as his phone begins to ring, leaving you alone with Jack.
He’s rocking on his feet, back on his heels as he shoves his hands in his pockets.
“So Skipper, huh?”, He’s right back to teasing.
You groan; “Coworkers gave it to me when I started, not my first choice.”
Jack shrugs; “It’s on theme. Better than fruitcake.”
You quirk a brow; “Fruitcake?”
“One of our frequent fliers gave that one to Robby.”
Jack’s small smile turns a little mischievous.
“Oh i’m never forgetting that”, You laugh.
Jack laughs too, like the whole thing is so easy.
A beat of comfortable silence passes before he speaks again;
“Thank you for inviting us, really”, He says, rubbing the back of his neck; “Nora loved it.”
You don’t hesitate; “And you?”
Jack’s mouth parts at your forwardness, that stupid little smirk twitching again.
“I thought it was…nice.”
“Nice?”
“What? Nice is good!”
“Nice is what you say when something is boring but you don’t want to say it.”
“Trust me, I wasn’t bored.”
“Could’ve fooled me, Mr. ‘it was nice’.”
Jack sighs, shaking his head as he smiles at his shoes, rocking on his heels again.
“Fine. It was really interesting. I had a good time”, He sighs, but there’s no real heat behind it, rather amusement.
“See? Was that so hard?”
“You’re trouble”, He juts, eyebrows almost in his hairline.
You bite your lip, watching as he traces your face with his eyes, his own demeanor suddenly falling serious again.
“But seriously”, He says, “Thank you for having us. I really did enjoy it.”
You nod in return; “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.”
Jack looks over to where Robby’s standing with Nora, talking away on the phone with Noelle; a softness taking over his features again.
“You really love her, don’t you?”, You ask, following his gaze.
“Yeah”, He says; “I’d do anything for her. She’s good for him too.”
He lets a beat pass.
“Don’t tell Robby that, I’ll be out a pony.”
“A pony, huh?”
“Secret side business.”
You snort at that, desperately trying to cover your mouth but the noise had already slipped out. You except him to cringe, but instead he looks, amused? Content? Happy?
Reveling in the fact that he finally got to hear it again.
Inside Jack’s heart did a flip at the noise. Wondering how many things he could say to make you laugh like that again.
“How’s your arm?”, He asks.
You flick your gaze down to your bandage.
“Pretty good. Doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Jack nods; “That’s good. I’d hate to see you still hurt.”
Your heart stutters.
“How can I repay you…for all this?”, He asks, gesturing around.
You wave him off.
“Again, patching me up was plenty. Thank you, Doctor Abbot.”
“Jack”, He says once, “You can call me Jack.”
“Ok, Jack.”
You test it out, tongue tingling at the shape of his name. Already liking the way it sounded. Yeah, that seemed perfect. Jack.
“There’s gotta be someway I can repay you. This couldn’t have been easy to set up.”
“Really it’s fine, Jack. My treat-“
“How about dinner?”
You freeze, mouth still parted and eyes wide as he continues with a smirk;
“My treat.”
You need an excuse, something believable, because if you’re honest with yourself—you’re already falling for him; and that seems dangerous.
But you don’t find one. Secretly? You’re relieved you don’t.
“Dinner sounds perfect”, You say, and then; “Just no seafood places. Too close to work.”
“Noted”, Jack smiles, nodding gently; “How’s next Friday?”
“Friday’s perfect.”
Suddenly you’re exchanging numbers with him, watching as he saves his name in your phone and you do the same to his. Then he’s saying goodbye all too soon, walking off to join Robby and Nora again; leaving the air around you too cold and lingering of his warmth and cologne.
You wave to them as they go, smiling down at your phone, breathing hitching as the new contact name staring back up at you.
Pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader
Category: fluff, grumpy x sunshine
Summary: A trail of love notes on Valentine's Day leaves Robby both frustrated and intrigued.
Warnings: implied age gap (reader is 20s, Robby is 50s), power imbalance, medical inaccuracies, harassment from an aggressive patient, Robby is sad and lonely, Robby yearns (though he doesn't realise it), kissing, pet name (sweet girl), reader is shorter than Robby, fluff, reader is a sunshine lover girl, Robby is a total grump, Robby's POV, let me know if I missed anything
Word count: 6.2k
A/N: The sad, middle-aged, greying, brown-eyed doctor has captivated my soul.
Holidays were always bad in the ED. Most of them usually reserved their worst cases for the night shift though, much to Robby's delight. Halloween nights were always particularly crazy, according to Abbot. The Fourth of July tended to get pretty wild once the fireworks started too. Luckily for Robby, he got to avoid most of it. But one day a year was always unhinged from the moment he set foot in the building.
Valentine's Day.
He dreaded it every year, knowing how long and hard his shift would be and anticipating that he'd have to work overtime. Something about the romantic holiday really set people off. It tempted those who were alone and single to start drinking early - usually setting off a chain of alcohol poisoning cases. Those in happy relationships used it as an opportunity to explore new sides of their physical relationships - he had seen many embarrassing cases of people hurting themselves in the middle of sex. Groups of friends would take part in rituals to banish their bad luck when it came to their love lives - he couldn't even count how many singed-off eyebrows he'd seen after people had decided to burn old reminders of exes.
So, yeah. Dr. Michael Robinavitch hated Valentine's Day. And that definitely had nothing to do with the fact that he always seemed to find himself single around the holiday.
Dana was already waiting for him behind her desk when he walked into the ED that morning. She looked at him over the top of her glasses, already sensing his foul mood.
"Lighten up. It's not even seven yet." She chuckled, shaking her head in amusement.
Robby exhaled roughly, dropping his bag. "You know what day it is, correct?"
"Oh, I'm aware." Dana kicked his bag softly under the desk, out of the way so people didn't trip on it. Forever the considerate mother hen of the Pitt. "We manage every year. We'll do it again today."
He didn't know what to say to that. She was right, as she often was. So how was he supposed to argue? He reached for the pump of hand sanitiser that sat in its usual spot on the desk. But froze when he saw a yellow post-it stuck to the front.
Our love is like hand hygiene - 100% essential.
Robby ripped it from the bottle and waved it at Dana. "What the hell is this?"
The charge nurse squinted at the piece of paper, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "Looks like a love note to me."
He huffed, about to scrunch it up before she stopped him.
"Hey, wait. Leave it. We could all do with some cheering up today, I'm sure." She pried it from his fingers and carefully stuck it back to the bottle of hand sanitiser. "Just because you're the Grinch of Valentine's, doesn't mean other people can't enjoy it."
Really, he knew his frustration at the note wasn't rational. But he also found himself already done with his day, and it hadn't even started yet. "Where's Abbot?"
"Roof, I think."
Before Robby could say anymore, Dana was swept away into a conversation with one of the nurses from night shift asking about handover. He took that as his cue to leave, striding towards the doors to the stairwell that would take him up to the roof. But before he could get there, he found another one of those sticky notes plastered to the double doors to the stairs.
Are you tachycardia? Because you make my heart race.
He frowned at the sight of it but left it there, pushing through the doors and racing up the stairs. Well, as much as he could race at his age. His knees didn't quite have it in them to go too quickly anymore.
The door to the roof creaked on its hinges as he emerged into the crisp morning air, slamming shut behind him again. It didn't take more than a second before his gaze landed on Abbot standing by the railing opposite him. The noise of the door and a few heavy footsteps clued the night shift doctor in on his friend approaching him.
Abbot turned, leaning back against the railing. "Happy Valentine's Day, dear."
Robby snorted, already so tired of the holiday. "You know anything about those notes floating around my ED?"
"You mean those cute, little love notes designed to make people smile?" Abbot stifled his own smile, tucking his hands into the pockets of his scrubs. "No, not a thing."
"Liar."
Abbot shrugged. "Perhaps. Does it make a difference?"
"I'd like to know who's responsible for being so immature." He huffed and planted his forearms on the railing, looking out over the sunrise.
"I forgot how grumpy you get on Valentine's Day."
"I'm not grumpy." But could he really deny that? Dana had already called him the Grinch of Valentine's Day. There was some truth to it, he supposed. "I just know what today is going to be like. And I don't need to be distracted by some stupid puns."
"If you get distracted by a medical pun scribbled on a post-it note then I think that's more on you than the pun." Abbot slapped him gently on the shoulder. "Let it go, brother. Those love notes might be the difference between someone having a terrible day and an okay day today."
Robby hated to admit that his friend was probably right. He knew nobody in the ED today would want to be there. It was either a reminder that you weren't with your significant other or a reminder that you didn't have a significant other. He could only imagine the amount of sappy couples he was going to have to talk to today.
So he nodded and stood up straight again, gesturing for him and Abbot to head back downstairs. "Well, I'm going to need a cup of coffee before I can bear to read one of those notes again."
"That's the spirit." Abbot teased softly, following close behind.
Only Robby wasn't so lucky. He found himself staring at one of the notes in the break room before he could even reach for a cup. Right there on the coffee pot. Another one.
You must be serotonin because you make me so happy.
"For fuck's sake." He grumbled, snatching the pot out of its spot and pouring himself a generous cup. It was okay. It really was. Only another twelve hours before his shift was over. Only another twelve hours before he got to go home to his empty house. Only another twelve hours until he got to wallow in how lonely he was.
"Good morning, Dr. Robby!"
The upbeat chime of your voice knocked him out of his miserable daydream. He turned quickly to look at you, almost slopping his freshly poured coffee everywhere. "Shit."
"Oh, sorry." Your shoulders hunched to your ears. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"It's fine." He snapped, watching as you turned away from him and buried your head in the refrigerator to avoid eye contact with him. He'd made you feel bad. Nice work, Robinavitch.
"So..." You trailed off, softly closing the refrigerator door and sending him a glance that showed you were cautious about being on the receiving end of his wrath. "Wanna place a bet on how many sildenafil related issues we're going to see today?"
Robby took a slow sip of his coffee, ignoring how it scorched his throat. "At least a dozen."
You nodded, agreeing. He couldn't tell whether you actually agreed or whether you were too nervous now to argue. That didn't sit right with him, a frown creasing his brows.
"I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm sorry." He mumbled, hoping that would clear the air. He wasn't really in the mood to apologise much more. But that wasn't your fault. "You just... startled me."
It didn't help that he couldn't quite understand how you could possibly be so chipper on a morning like this. This wasn't your first Valentine's Day as a resident in the Pitt. You knew what it had in store.
"Sorry about that." You scratched nervously at your arm, a trait Robby had gotten to know too well over the course of your residency. Only he hadn't been the one to make you do it since your first ever shift. He'd made you nervous your first day, he knew that, but he also knew you'd grown to realise that he wasn't actually all that bad by the end of it.
"It's okay. No harm done." That was true. How could he actually be mad when nothing had really happened? You'd made him jump with your greeting, he'd almost spilled his coffee, he'd almost burned himself. But that was more on him not being aware of his surroundings. It was the break room. Of course other people would be coming and going. Maybe Dana really was right about his status as the Grinch of Valentine's Day.
"Uh, somebody left pastries for us." You pointed at a box on the table in the corner of the room, trying to change topics. "I think it's supposed to make us feel better about having to work Valentine's Day. I'd get in there before they're all gone if I were you. I've already eaten two croissants."
Robby's head tilted to the side. He'd assumed you'd only just arrived, heading straight to the break room after dumping your stuff in your locker. But you'd already been here long enough to know about the pity pastries and eat two croissants. "When did you get in?"
"Oh." Your eyes widened, like you'd been caught doing something you weren't supposed to. "A little while ago. I figured some of the night shift team would like to get home as soon as possible to see their loved ones today."
How fucking considerate of you, he thought bitterly. God, he really was a grouch. "That's a nice thing for you to do."
You shrugged, easing up at his careful tone. "It's not like I've got anyone at home who's going to miss me today."
Robby watched as you processed what had just come out of your mouth, appreciated the way your face screwed up.
"Too much information." You huffed, shoulders slumping. "I'll- I'll go see if anyone needs me."
And then you zoomed out of the break room, as fast as your legs would carry you without actually running. He quietly exhaled something of a laugh to himself. At least he had you to amuse him today, your positive attitude and general nervousness around him made you entertaining at times. Always so eager to please.
The box of pastries called to Robby. Well, the rumble of his stomach did. So he allowed himself to take a peek at them, see what was on offer. What he found was another one of those damn notes.
Call me glucose because I can't help being sweet on you.
At least this one made sense being stuck to the pastry box. He snatched a chocolate éclair and bolted from the room.
As predicted, it didn't take long for the craziness to set in. Before nine, Robby had seen three sets of singed eyebrows, two Viagra problems, and one guy who had cut off circulation to his penis by wrapping a ribbon around it too tightly. The latter's girlfriend had not been impressed by what was, apparently, her only Valentine's gift from him.
The only thing stopping him from going insane was your bright presence. Every time he felt like he was about to lose it, and go and have a breakdown in the bathroom, you would appear at his side. Whether it was to present a case, offer your assistance with something, or just to quip something clever in his ear. You were always there. Like you could sense how far he was teetering on the edge. It was somewhat welcome. On the one hand, he appreciated your ability to talk him down. But he also wondered if you actually knew what you were doing, if it was obvious on his face how depressed the whole romantic holiday made him. He'd only found one more of the love notes in the first two hours of his shift.
I have a concussion from falling head over heels for you.
He had found it on the bottom of his shoe. How it got there, he wasn't entirely sure. The assumption was that it had been stuck to something else but had gotten knocked to the floor and then he'd just walked over it. The inconvenience of it being stuck to his shoe had bothered him. But the actual note itself hadn't set off that flare of irritation that the previous ones had. Was he getting used to them? Was he softening a little as the day wore on? That was an analysis of himself that he didn't have time to make.
An itch of curiosity scratched at the back of his brain, a part of him wanting to know who was the culprit writing them all. He debated asking someone else what they thought of it all. But he'd already caught a couple of nurses positively beaming when they'd read the note that was stuck to the hand sanitiser. So he decided to leave it. If it was making people in his ED happy, then why would he poke at the situation. Ugh, he was going soft.
Before he could dwell on that too much, you appeared at his side again.
"Hi, Dr. Robby." You rolled your shoulders back as you prepared to say something.
"Spit it out." He sighed, glancing down at you.
Your lips puffed out as you exhaled an annoyed breath. "I've got a patient that's being a little aggressive."
"Then take Whitaker for backup. I saw him wandering around a minute ago."
You swallowed a giggle. "No disrespect to Whitaker but I don't think he's all that intimidating. I think my patient would be better behaved with you in the room. Because you're, y'know, tall and in charge."
"Tall and in charge." Robby repeated, eyebrows raising.
"Authority figure vibe. Because you are. An authority figure, I mean. Put a white coat on and you'd be prime for the Milgram Experiment." You winced at yourself. "Anyway, I'd appreciate your help. Only if you're free though. Obviously. If not, I'll try with Ahmad first. But I don't think my patient is going to listen to what I have to say. If you don't support me at least."
"Alright, what's the diagnosis?"
"He crushed up a bunch of Viagra and snorted it." You chirped, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"Jesus."
"Yeah. Only he didn't crush it all that well. Little shards of it have torn up his sinuses so he's essentially choking on a mixture of blood and Viagra." You watched as Robby's face crumpled. "Only he's denying that it's the Viagra and that there must be another problem."
"Did he admit to the Viagra snorting?"
"Not at first. But when I pointed out the blue dust all over him, he stopped arguing."
"Okay, I'll be there in a minute."
"Thank you." Your voice was grateful, tone light with the promise of his backup in your mind, and you practically skipped your way back to the patient.
True to his word, Robby took only a minute to compose himself before he made his way over to the examination room you were in. There, it only took a few seconds for Robby to understand why this particular patient had made you feel uncomfortable.
"Brought Daddy with you this time? Aw, was the little girl too scared to deal with me by herself?"
Daddy?
Any other time Robby might have been insulted at the implication that he was old enough to be your father, the fact that he was in fact old enough to be your father was besides the point, but mostly he was just focused on the predatory look that the guy laid out on the bed was giving you. It was enough to make even his skin crawl.
"I'm Dr. Robinavitch." He rubbed hand sanitiser into his hands vigorously, not bothering to offer up his nickname. "I'm the attending physician here today. Can you tell me what the problem is?"
The guy's eyes didn't leave you as he talked Robby through his symptoms. They even stayed trained on you as Robby examined him and as Robby gave a diagnosis. The same diagnosis that you had given. When he told him that, he finally managed to gain the patient's attention. Only for a brief moment though before he was looking back at you again, sat in the corner.
"Hey, you're talking to me." Robby snapped, careful to try and keep himself together. This was not the day for him to be dealing with difficult patients. He knew how close he was to completely breaking and taking it out on someone. An aggressive patient with an unhealthy fixation on you would be an easy target for him. He turned to look at you, to find you already looking at him. "Could you go get Dr. Langdon for me please?"
There was a flicker of admiration in your eyes as you dipped your head once to agree. "Of course, Dr. Robinavitch."
And then you were gone. Robby looked back at the patient in the bed. He was flopped against the bed with a smug smile on his face. Like he'd won. Robby watched him for a moment, mentally debating the pros and cons of saying something. He knew if he got started then he probably wouldn't be able to stop. He also knew that he was too tired to be getting into something like this. Before he could make a decision of his own, Langdon did it for him by appearing in the doorway.
"You called for me?"
Robby gave the senior resident a brief rundown of the situation, explaining what he wanted him to do, and then left him to treat the patient before snapping the gloves off of his hands and disappearing into the bathroom to cool off.
The hours dragged by at a glacial pace and Robby stopped finding those post-it notes everywhere. He figured they must have only been a few dotted about the place and he'd managed to come across them all. He couldn't help but realise that he could probably do with finding another one. At least it would momentarily distract him from the snail speed that the day was going. He wasn't bored by any means, as usual Valentine's Day had him hopping from room to room with the most bizarre of cases, but he did find himself coming face to face with too many happy couples. It was an odd concept to him how so many people could find themselves so happy despite being in the emergency room. Love was a curious thing. Maybe seeing you would also cheer him up.
It didn't help that he was hungry. The only thing he had eaten that day had been the chocolate éclair that morning. The protein bars he usually kept in his pockets for spare moments had been forgotten that morning in his sad haze to get to work before the sorrowful emptiness of his apartment managed to lodge itself in his brain. His stomach growled at him for food. So loud that he'd risked looking for Dana's secret stash in the break room, to no avail.
But then a moment of hunger-induced clarity hit him.
There was a protein bar in his locker. He was sure of it. It was months old, and probably crushed right at the bottom, but at least it would be something. He made sure that nobody needed him in that immediate moment before rushing off to the lockers. But he was barely around the corner before he stopped dead in his tracks. Even from a short distance he could see it. On his locker. Another yellow sticky note.
Robby took slow steps towards it, unsure whether he was bothered or not by the sight of it. He squinted at it as he got closer, trying to read it from a safe distance without his glasses.
You must be hypoglycemia because you make me weak in the knees.
A soft breath, not quite a laugh, escaped him. Whoever was behind all of this, had to be given credit for their dedication to romantic medical puns. He wondered if they had been coming up with them all themselves or had taken inspiration from elsewhere. He shook himself out of the thought and went back to his original mission of searching for the protein bar. It was old and crumbled just like he predicted. He didn't let himself think about it too hard when he peeled the sticky note from the front of his locker and tucked it inside with the rest of his belongings.
Making his way back to the central hub, munching on the ancient protein bar, he found you talking to an elderly woman with a paper pharmacy bag clutched in her hands. He rounded the desk and took a seat a few feet away from you, noting how Dana was listening intently to the conversation, and pretended to occupy himself with something on the computer in front of him.
"It's all written down in the bag, Mrs. Cody. Step by step instructions that you can refer to if you need." You nodded reassuringly at the woman, voice slow and collected like you had already explained this a couple of times before. "And if the problem persists then just come back and we'll have another look, okay?"
"Okay, dear. You've been so helpful." Mrs. Cody reached out and gently tapped you on the shoulder. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." You smiled at her, like it was your pleasure to be helping her with whatever the problem was.
"I'm sorry for ruining your Valentine's Day."
"You have nothing to apologise for, Mrs. Cody. This is exactly what we're here for."
She didn't look too convinced. "Do you have any plans for tonight at least? Like a date with a nice man, perhaps?"
Robby found himself straining to listen closer, not letting himself acknowledge why.
You laughed softly and shook your head. "No, I'm going home to spend the evening with a tub of ice cream and a horror movie."
The elderly patient appeared confused. "But you're such a pretty, young thing."
Robby couldn't help but agree.
"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Cody." You smiled at her, like you genuinely appreciated her words.
Mrs. Cody looked briefly sad for you, before a light bulb seemed to turn on in her head and a sly smirk overtook her weathered features. "Well, my gardener is a very sweet man. And single. Maybe I could set the two of you up."
Oh, god. This was why Robby shouldn't have been listening in. Because suddenly his stomach felt tight, like it was twisting up, and he found himself hoping that you would say no. Please, say no.
A slightly uneasy giggle escaped your lips. "Once again, very kind of you. But I'm not looking to meet anyone new at the moment."
A wave of relief rushed over Robby. He was such a selfish man. Just because he was sad and alone didn't mean that everybody around him had to be as well. He should be happy that the people he worked with had happy lives outside of the Pitt. And he was. To an extent. He liked knowing that McKay managed to find time to spend with her son doing fun activities. He liked that Santos and Whitaker lived together and had clearly become good friends while being roommates. He liked that Javadi had found a hobby in being a content creator, although he didn't actually fully understand what that meant. He had been so delighted for Donnie when he became a father.
But he also found comfort in knowing that there were people like him, people like you, who didn't actually seem to have anybody outside of work. What an asshole he was.
Snapping back into listening in on the conversation between you and Mrs. Cody, he found that the older woman was finally leaving and you were turning to Dana with an amused look on your face. At least you seemed unaware that he had been listening in on your entire conversation.
"Get used to it. You'll get a lot of ladies trying to set you up with their sons, grandsons, nephews, neighbours..." Dana waved her hand around as she trailed off. "Especially on days like today."
"She kept mentioning her gardener when I was examining her. 'Oh, he's such a handsome boy.' 'He's so attentive with my flowers.' I thought she liked him. I didn't realise she was trying to set me up on a blind date." You groaned and buried your face in your hands. "And I kept asking questions about him to keep her at ease with conversation."
"Hey, maybe you should've taken her up on the offer. Then he could have been attentive with your flower." Dana glanced at you over the top of her glasses, one eyebrow arching.
You snorted into the palm of your hand and Robby felt the urge to crawl into a hole and die.
"Let's keep the chatter work appropriate." He said gruffly, trying not to act like he was hooked.
"Sorry, Dr. Robby." You mumbled, eyes widening in embarrassment as you realised he'd been listening. "I'll, uh, I'll get back to my patients."
"Yeah, you do that." He huffed, massaging his temple with two fingers.
You shot Dana a look of pure mortification before scurrying off.
The charge nurse turned to him, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Let the girl have some fun. It's Valentine's Day."
"That doesn't change the fact that she's on the clock and we have patients in need." Though he did feel bad about how much he revelled in the notion that he wasn't the only one suffering on the romantic holiday. He was at ease knowing that you were going home to an empty apartment just like he was. He was a horrible person.
"There's an hour left before the night shift gets here." Dana said, calmly. "She's been on top of it all day. Probably only got some charting to do before she can leave at seven. Pronto."
"Not the point." He replied, gruffly.
"Jeez, and I thought all those love notes would've warmed you up." She mumbled, walking off to where a group of nurses were hovering to break them up before he could even question what she'd meant by that.
The time seemed to tick by quickly after that and, before he knew it, Abbot was strolling through the doors for the night shift. He took one look at Robby before a knowing smile tugged at his mouth. "Tough day, huh?"
"You don't even know the half of it." He groaned, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I'm sure you're in for something special tonight."
"I'm sure." Abbot continued to smile at his friend before turning in the direction of the lockers and walking off.
Robby sighed to himself, glancing around the room to see that it had calmed down a little. He knew that it wouldn't last long before the nightly rush started. He had to make sure he was out of there before it began. Reaching down to where his bag had been tucked under the desk by Dana at the beginning of his shift, he thought about how he would spend the evening. He could get drunk. But then that would mean being hungover for his shift the next day. He could follow your idea and eat ice cream and watch a movie. Not a terrible plan.
Halfway through another thought, he was distracted by the sight of his bag as his picked it up. It was half unzipped. Robby never left his bag open. Never. Cautiously, he opened it all the way and peered inside. He didn't exactly know what he expected to find in there but a pink envelope wasn't even on the list of possibilities. He slowly eased it out of his bag, somewhat surprised to find his name written on the front.
Dr. Robby.
Huh.
With a gentle finger, he eased the envelope open and pulled out a card. A Valentine's card with a cartoon heart on the front. The cartoon heart was drawn with a big smiley face in the middle. It was kind of ugly.
Robby scanned his surrounding area to see if anyone was watching him, nobody was, before he opened the card.
Dr. Robby,
You've given me the love bug. The only antidote is your smile. Will you cure me today?
And a little heart was drawn at the bottom beneath the message.
It was the same handwriting as all of the other notes. Only this one was written in an actual card, addressed to him specifically. Was this all connected? A plan to wish him a Happy Valentine's Day? But who would do that? And why?
His musings were interrupted by Abbot's reappearance. "Figure out who wrote those love notes yet?"
Robby shoved the card back into his bag rapidly, hoping Abbot didn't notice. "No. Why? Do you know?"
"Nothing happens during the night shift that I don't know about."
Robby wished he could say the same thing about the day shift. "So it was someone on the night shift."
Abbot smirked. "No. I just said it happened during the night shift."
A frustrated chuckle tumbled from Robby. "You're not going to tell me?"
"Now, where's the fun in that?" And then Abbot was gone, pulled into the nightly routine of handover.
Robby finished up his work, filling in charts and typing up emails, and said goodbye to nurses and other staff members as they walked by him to leave for the evening. He could see the joy on so many of their faces as they left to go join loved ones for a romantic night. The ache of jealousy settled deep in his bones. He could feel Dana sending him pitying looks every now and again, but he just ignored her. He didn't need to have that conversation with her.
The last dash of joy he was potentially able to drain from the day appeared when you collapsed onto the desk in front of him and Dana. Your elbows propped on the surface and your face buried against your arms.
"I've dealt with enough sildenafil to last me a lifetime." You groaned lowly, glancing up to find Robby side-eyeing you. You immediately straightened up. "Of course, nothing wrong with it. Perfectly normal thing for men to use."
He continued to stare at you for a moment before a smile cracked across his face, softening his features. It was so easy to make you nervous. "Relax."
You grinned back at him. "Wow, there's that smile. It's been absent all day and I was wondering when it would turn up for its shift."
Something snapped tight in Robby's chest. But before he could say anything you were spinning on your heel and heading toward the exit.
"Patients dealt with. Charts done. I am off home to nobody." Your voice was mock-excited as you punched a fist in the air. "See you tomorrow, love bugs."
Robby floundered around with a lack of words to say as he watched you leave. He looked around him to see if he was the only one suddenly having an epiphany, only to find Dana looking at him like he was an idiot. Which wasn't completely unusual for her.
"D'ya finally figure it out?" She huffed, shaking her head. "And I thought doctors were supposed to be intelligent."
"The notes? Her?" He pointed vaguely in the direction you'd left in. He didn't know why that prospect seemed so unbelievable to him. You were totally sweet enough to do something like leave love notes lying around for people to find to cheer them up. But you also didn't quite seem confident enough to do something so bold.
Dana looked over the top of her glasses at him. "Chase her, Robinavitch. While the night is still young. I've got everything handled here."
"Why would I-?" He cut himself off. Surely Dana didn't know about the card addressed to him.
"You think it's just a coincidence that all the notes were placed around to follow your routine. Hand sanitiser, door to the stairs, coffee pot?"
Holy shit. She was right. And the card was just the cherry on top of it all.
Robby shot out of the chair, knocking it back so it drifted away on its wheels. "You're sure you've got everything covered here?"
"Not my first rodeo." The nurse sighed, practically shooing him away. "See you in the morning."
He didn't dare question her further, just grabbed his bag and his jacket before practically running for the exit. Running after you.
By the time he managed to track you down, you were halfway across the park. His old knees just didn't let him keep up so well anymore. He called your name a few times, noting the headphones over your ears that were blocking him out. But one yell of your name seemed loud enough as suddenly you were tugging the headphones from your head and turning around to look at him.
"Dr. Robby?" You looked perplexed. "Is everything okay? Did something happen?"
"No." He wheezed, stopping a few feet in front of you to catch his breath. Sometimes he missed his youth.
"Oh. Did I forget something?" You glanced down at his hands as if he might suddenly hand something over to you but found them empty.
"No." He repeated, pulling in deep inhales.
"Then what?" You looked nervously over his shoulder at the dark park behind him.
"I know it was you."
Your jaw snapped shut. "Know what was me?"
Oh, you were going to play innocent? Funny.
"The love notes everywhere. The card."
You lit up in two ways. One in absolute panic that he had managed to figure it out and was calling you out on it. And the other that you were proud of your work and happy that he was acknowledging it.
"Oh. That." You traced a line on the path beneath you with the toe of your shoe, hands clasped behind you. "Yeah."
"I'm not mad." He clarified. "In fact, I'm sorry it's taken me all day to realise it was you. I might've been in a better mood if I'd known sooner."
You frowned up at him. "You didn't like them?"
Robby couldn't lie to you. "I've been told I'm a grumpy bastard on Valentine's Day."
You snorted a laugh but said nothing.
"Can I ask why?"
"Why I wrote them?" You asked and he nodded. "You've seemed so sad recently. And I thought maybe it would make you feel better."
Oh. That pang of disappoint in his chest was unmistakable.
But then you carried on. "I mean, doesn't everybody like to know that they're loved?"
Oh?
"Loved?" He repeated, staring down at you intensely.
"Did- did I say that?" You pointed at yourself, avoiding eye contact with him. You swallowed thickly and let your eyes land on him again, defeated. "Yeah, I guess."
"You guess?" He laughed, hard. "You guess you love me. So romantic."
You shrugged. "I wrote you love notes and came up with puns. I think that's the most romantic I've ever been in my life."
He shook his head in disbelief. Suddenly he was striding toward you, closing the few feet of distance with large steps. A hand landed on either side of your face, big palms spanning the expanse of your cheeks. He used the positioning of his hands as leverage to hoist you up to meet his lips halfway. A low, breathless mumble ghosted over your mouth. "Oh, sweet girl."
And then Robby was kissing you.
A surprised squeak escaped you, you hadn't been quite prepared for that. But once it seemed to register in your mind what exactly was happening, your eyes fluttered closed and you relaxed. Your hands curled in the fabric of his jacket, fingers appreciating the feel of the fleecy material.
His mouth devoured yours, hungry for everything you could give him. Robby pressed himself as close to you as possible, tongue pushing at the seam of your lips as soon as he felt you reciprocating the kiss. He sighed into your mouth as soon as it opened and his tongue met yours. This was what had been missing, this was the thing that had been making him so sad. Kissing you. Specifically you. How he hadn't seen it sooner, he didn't really know. He was an idiot, he knew that now. But he also knew he'd never let himself be an idiot again.
When you both broke away for air, he was surprised to hear you laugh.
"What's funny?" He asked, nudging his nose against yours. He liked the little sound you made in the back of your throat as he did. He made a note of that.
"Thinking that maybe I should have written you some terrible puns sooner if this was going to be the outcome."
You gazed up at him with such warmth in your eyes that Robby considered the possibility of a heart attack at the mere sight.
"I think the puns were great. Very creative." He tilted your head to the side so he could plant an open mouthed kiss on your neck.
"Robby, we're in public." You whined, despite how you pulled him closer to you. "Also, don't lie to me. Dana told me you hated them this morning."
"I was stupid this morning." He liked the way you shivered as his teeth grazed your skin. "My sweet, sweet girl."
You hummed lowly. "Wanna come home with me and eat ice cream?"
He pulled back from you, already missing the feel of you on his lips, surprised by the offer. He wasn't sure why. You were already making out in the middle of the park. Going home with you wasn't exactly a much bigger step. In fact, it was a pretty natural progression. So, of course, his answer was simple. "I couldn't think of anything better."
With the way you grabbed his hand and started dragging him behind you, Robby couldn't remember how he had ever started the day so miserable. Look at the way it was ending. Maybe Valentine's Day wasn't so bad after all.
A/N: Ooh, my first attempt at diving into The Pitt fanfic... I hope you enjoyed.
content: reader is Robby's niece, cursing, age gap (reader is mid-late 20s, jack is late 40s/early 50s), she/her reader, pet names (sweetheart, sweetie, bug, kid), reader is down bad (and very horny), jack is also down bad, probably inaccurate medical talk, canon-typical talk of injuries, no use of y/n, probably an overuse of italics, six-year-old you is her own character and i love her ngl, Jack Abbot drives a Bronco agenda pt ii, jackie nickname supremecy
word count: 12.5 k (new. longest. fic. im exhausted)
summary: when you move in with your Uncle Mike in Pittsburgh, you don't expect to fall for his best friend.
notes: i am giving these men more and more reasons to live 🙏
line divider by @chrisssiren
You’ve met your uncle before. Your mother claims that the first time he met you was when you were born. The first time you remember meeting him was on your sixth birthday. He hung around in the hall while the rest of the adults conversed casually in the kitchen. Robby had always been awkward around his sister and her late husband’s family. You had watched him as he held a beer with loose fingers, looking almost small. Approachable. Maybe that was why you had grabbed his large hand and dragged him into the living room. Your presents were still scattered across the carpeted floor, torn wrapping paper piled up in the corner.
“Mama says you’re a doctor. Show me how to use these.” You had lifted the play doctor doctor kit from one of your cousins. Then, you paused, your mother’s voice echoing in your head. “Please, Uncle Mikey.”
And Robby couldn’t say no. Not when you had apparently learned to weaponize your shining eyes since he last saw you. Eyes that looked like your mothers. Like his.
That was how your mother found the two of you. She teased her brother as he carefully explained how each little plastic tool worked. They were dwarfed in his hands and you listened with rapt attention. Your mother took a picture, printing it out the next day and hanging it on the fridge. It’s still there, held in place by a magnet in the shape of the Pittsburgh Penguins logo. A gift from Robby when he finished his residency, because he was the kind of person to give gifts when celebrating rather than receive them.
Robby still visits, but his drives to Philadelphia were reserved for holidays and birthdays. A few select days of the year that he deigned take off of work. It’s a recent thing, you think. Robby has always been hesitant around your family. Your family, because all Robby had left was you and your mom. His sister and niece. Your grandparents died before you were born. Before your mom could remember. Your great-grandma died when you were three, taking on the responsibility of raising her two grandkids all alone. You can only remember her through stories and pictures that seem like dreams to you.
(You do remember one thing about her. The home your mom and Robby had sent her to, near the end, had birds in the lobby. Little things that chirped happily and flew around in blurs of vibrant color. There were pictures of her, old ones, with a bird perched on her thin finger. You had asked for a pet bird when you first saw the picture. When your mother said no, you cried all through the night.)
But that was twenty years ago. You’ve graduated college and found a job. A real adult, ready to take on the world. The only kink in this plan is that your amazing new job is in Pittsburgh. A breezy seven hour drive from your home where you still live with your mother in Philadelphia. You don’t love the idea of that commute and neither had your mom when you announced that you had been hired. Which is how you find yourself standing outside of Michael Robinavitch’s apartment, waiting for your uncle to open the fucking door already.
“Hey, you must be the niece Robby told me so much about.” An unfamiliar voice calls from the end of the hall. You turn to find the source of the voice, only to see a man you don’t recognize. He’s not as tall as your uncle, but he’s built. Freckles across his nose and what you can see of his forearms. You have no idea who this man is, but you kind of want to.
“Robby?” You tilt your head instead of climbing this man like a tree and hike your duffel up higher on your shoulder. The man’s smile shifts to something confused and you glance down at the post-it in your hand. Apt 3A, in your mother’s looped handwriting. You look at the door again. 3A. Huh.
The man studies your face a moment longer before his eyes widen just slightly in realization. He scratches at the scruff on his chin, shining silver under the warm hallway light. “Right. Michael? Everyone calls him Robby at the hospital. It's a habit, I guess.”
“You work with Uncle Mikey?” The question slips out before you can stop it. You’ve called him that since you could first pronounce the words with clumsy lips. The man (whose name you really need to learn) looks amused at the name as he nods slowly. You make quick work of introducing yourself. It’s his turn to tilt his head as he hears your last name.
“Not Robinavitch?”
“My mom took my dad’s name. He…he died before I was born.” Your voice softens toward the end and you have no idea why you’re telling this to a stranger. You half expect the usual litany of apologies and my condolences, but the man just nods again. Maybe you should change the subject. “I never got your name.”
“Abbot. Uh, Jack…Abbot.” His voice is nervous, a contrast to his solid exterior. It’s…cute? The thought is shaken from your mind as the man—Jack, your mind supplies helpfully—holds out his hand. You shake it quickly, trying not to focus on the way his calloused hand feels against yours. You cannot do this right now.
“Who are you? James Bond?” You tease, shoving down the flush threatening to rise on your chest. But you can’t bring yourself to look away from the pink heating the tips of Jack’s ears at your words. He laughs anyway and you think you want to hear that sound again. And again. And god, you can see his teeth and they’re just a little crooked. You wonder idly if he ever had braces. If he was one of those kids who refused to wear a retainer after.
“Not quite, sweetheart.” And he’s still grinning. You like the way he says the nickname. Or maybe you just like the sound of his voice. You’re quickly realizing you like a lot of things about Jack Abbot.
You’ve always been like this. Falling faster than you can catch yourself. Your friends have always teased you but you can’t help it. You always loved the story of how your parents met. Like a fairy tale with a tragic ending. The way your mom tells it, she knew the first time their eyes met that she would marry your father. You’ve always wanted that. Not that it can happen with this man. Your uncle’s coworker? Friend? The duffel slips down your shoulder and you hike it back up again and glance at the door.
“Oh! Right,” Jack pats at his pockets before pulling out a key. It’s bright pink. Your favorite color…when you were six. But you know Robby must have gotten it with you in mind and that alone makes you smile softly. “Robby got caught up at work. Asked me to drop this off for you.”
The key is warm against your palm and you shove it into the lock. The door clicks open and you turn to lift your suitcase. You have more boxes at home, but you’re only staying with your uncle until you can find an apartment of your own. Except, your suitcase isn’t on the ground. Jack is holding it in his hands. Big, strong hands connected to big, strong arms that you—no. You turn toward the entry and step inside. Jack follows and doesn’t put down the suitcase until you tell him where to put it.
“Did Uncle Mike tell you how long he’d be?” You ask, studying the apartment around you in lieu of watching Jack move toward the fridge and pull out a beer. He looks so comfortable in the house and you wonder how often he’s stayed over. How often he’s slept in the guest bedroom. Your bedroom, now.
“It was just one patient that came in as he was finishing up, so he probably won’t be too long.” Jack shrugs, taking a sip from the glass bottle. You watch his throat bob as he swallows and you turn back to the apartment. It’s warm and soft. The kind of place that makes it easy to call home. You’re snapped out of your thoughts as Jack speaks again. “I can stay, though. If you want.”
You don’t catch the hesitancy in his voice. The way he watches you move around the space. You’re very busy not looking at him, actually.
“You don’t have to.” Jack just grins as you try to brush him off. The way things are going, you’re afraid you might jump him if he stays.
“I’m offering, sweetheart.” And there it is again. That name in that voice. Those arms. That grin. Freckles. Why does he have to be hot and funny and sweet? And completely off-limits.
“I’ll be fine. Thanks, Jack.” You say quickly, pointedly glaring down at the floor as you force down a flush.
“If you say so.” Jack shrugs, running a hand through his curls. That’s when you see the black band wrapped around his ring finger. Shit. No. Not only is he twenty years too old for you. Not only is he your uncle’s friend. He’s married. A shock of anxiety runs hot through your veins and you take a step back. As if the physical distance will obscure how much you want this man. “Here.”
Jack steps through the kitchen, taking his time to grab a notepad and pen. He scribbles something on the paper, pressing it into your hand with a smile. You can’t bring yourself to look at it until the front door of Robby’s apartment clicks shut. Scrawled across the small sheet is a phone number. A fucking phone number. And words written under it in tall, sharp handwriting that you can barely read.
Just in case.
That’s it. That’s all it says. You tuck the paper into your palm, holding yourself back from adding the number to your contacts. You can’t. Not when you know yourself well enough to know it won’t end well. It will end with you texting a married man.
“He’s married.” You mutter to yourself aloud, like it will stop you from imagining Jack’s face before you go to sleep tonight. The paper crinkles in your grip and you consider burning it for a single second. Just keeping it should be fine, right?
Nah, you’re fucked.
Living with Robby is strange. Different from what you’re used to. They were raised together, but your mother and your uncle are very different people. You’re used to helping her cook and hanging up your jackets when you get home. You’re used to open blinds and music on the turntable. It’s not that Robby is a shut-in or a slob. He’s just tired. But, after a week of watching Robby only eat takeout, takeout leftovers, and granola bars, you decide that if you want him to live long enough to walk you down the aisle (a promise he made to you in a split second when you asked almost twenty years ago, a promise you still plan to hold him to) you’re gonna need to put the work in. And, really, it’s the least you can do with him letting you take over his home.
So you cook dinner and make sure to keep some warm until Robby gets back from work. You hang up jackets that Robby leaves over the back of the couch. You force Robby to actually leave the house on his days off. Little things that will never be able to repay everything you owe your uncle. Even if he insists that you don’t have to. You don’t notice the change until Robby has guests over.
Jack and Dana insist on coming over. At least, that’s what Robby says when the three of them stumble through the door. However, considering the late hour and the smell of alcohol wafting off of the three, you think Robby just didn’t want to deal with getting his friends to their separate homes.
“Sorry, bug.” Robby murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. He hasn’t called you that since you were twelve and you begged him to stop. You don’t mind it so much right now. “Should’a let you know they were comin’.”
You wave him off with a soft smile. Robby usually isn’t so sappy, even with you. “Don’t worry about it, Uncle Mikey.”
Just behind Robby, you can see Jack and Dana huddled close over a phone. You wonder if it’s Jack’s, leaning forward to glance down at the screen. They’re ordering food? Okay, now you know where your uncle got all his bad habits from. Definitely not bubbe. He’s surrounded by bad influences. You huff just slightly before gesturing toward the kitchen behind you.
“I made dinner. There’s leftovers staying warm in the oven. Should be enough for all of you.” You offer before Jack and Dana can start arguing about whose turn it is to pay. Robby pulls you into a quick side hug, used to coming home to a homemade dinner by now. He was hesitant about letting you cook for him at first. About depending on you like that. He came around pretty quick when you threatened to call his favorite Chinese place and have them block his number.
“You cook?” Jack’s voice is soft and full of something close to wonder. Your cheeks heat and you look anywhere but at Jack. His ring glints in the low light, making something curl angrily in your chest. “That’s…hot.”
Your cheeks must be on fire by now. Robby speaks behind you, the oven whining as he pulls the door open. “Jack.” Just his name. In a voice that sounds both sharp and amused. Not something you often hear from your uncle. Jack just grins.
“Just telling the truth, Rob. She’s a grown woman.” You ignore the way Jack’s words make your skin shiver. The way he looks at you when he says it. Robby grumbles something under his breath and rolls his eyes before turning back to the oven. Jack leans in close before you can make your brain work again. “Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”
“Jack, you’re scarin’ the poor girl.” Another voice says. Dana, now known as your savior. You haven’t met her before, but you’ve seen pictures. Pinned on the fridge next to a drawing you made when you were little, too young to remember. Three wobbly figures holding hands. The only family you’ve ever known.
“You must be Dana. Robby’s told me a lot about you.” Snatching the chance to focus on anything but Jack, you introduce yourself to Dana. She doesn’t take the hand you offer, instead pulling you into a tight hug instead. It reminds you of your mother. You think you might already love Dana. She smells like whiskey and citrus.
Dana just laughs, patting your shoulder as she leans away. “Only bad things, I’m sure.” Then, she turns to Jack, her eyes something between amused and stern. Eerily similar to the tone of Robby’s voice earlier. Like they know something you don’t. “Apologize, Abbot. Or me and Robby aren’t sharing dinner.”
And Jack looks personally offended by that. Dana just brushes past him with a grin. When he turns to face you again, he does look apologetic. But you’re not sure if that’s because of you or the threat of losing his dinner. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
The sentence feels clipped. Not in the uncomfortable, please-stop-talking-to-me way, but like he’s forcing himself to stop talking. To not say something. You wonder if he was going to call you sweetheart again. If you want him to.
“You didn’t.” It’s barely a murmur, closer to a whisper than anything else. You wish you could meet his eyes but your gaze is glued to the dark metal wrapped around Jack’s finger. He leans toward you slightly and you catch a glance of his irises. Bright and sharp. Green and grey with flecks of blue and honest-to-god shining gold.
“That’s good.” Jack’s voice loses its hesitance and he lifts his left hand to his hip, cocking it out. The movement makes you lock your knees. Especially with the gravel in his throat that you want to feel against your skin. But you can’t, goddamnit. You can’t because he’s taken. Some smart lady already snatched Jack Abbot up before you could.
A noise sounds from the kitchen and you turn to see Dana quickly turning away, trying to hide a grin. Her shoulders bounce with silent laughter and your cheeks burn. Suddenly, you feel like a kid. A child surrounded by adults. Like every move you make is wrong and you’re just a fucking kid. It fucking sucks.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot—”
“Jack.” He interrupts, smirk spreading across his lips. You take a sharp breath and force yourself to stand up straight.
“Dr. Abbot,” The name is hard and sharp, a futile attempt to put distance between the two of you. “I can’t do this. Whatever this is. Not when you’re…” Your voice trails off and you gesture vaguely toward his ring as if that explains it. Because, really, it should.
And Jack’s brows do this really cute thing where they furrow together. Something between frustration and confusion. You almost want to smooth the wrinkle it creates with your finger. You don’t. He opens his mouth to speak, but you spin around and step into the kitchen before he can. You wave at Robby and nod toward the hallway.
“I’m going to bed. Love you, Uncle Mike.” His cheeks heat and he smiles at you with a nod, shoving another bite of food into his mouth. You turn to Dana, desperately ignoring the knowing grin on her face. “It was nice to finally meet you, Dana.”
She doesn’t answer, just grins and lifts her half-eaten plate in a mock salute. You return the gesture and turn toward your room, brushing past Jack. He tries to speak again, but you’re shutting your door with a final click before you can hear it.
Going out with your coworkers had been a terrible idea in hindsight. Not that hindsight will actually kick in until you’re terribly hungover tomorrow morning. For now, the alcohol running through your veins is the only thing keeping you from crying because your fucking leg is broken. Probably. Most likely. At least, your coworkers are panicking and called an ambulance. But maybe we should start from the beginning.
You love your job. The work, the people. It’s what you’ve always wanted. And your coworkers are great. It’s just…you’re the youngest person there and they all treat you like it. Not in a disrespectful way, but like you’re some kid they need to watch out for. So maybe you agreed to go out with them. And maybe you had a few too many shots in a misguided attempt to show them that you’re a goddamn adult. So, yeah. Tomorrow, you’re definitely going to regret the decisions you’ve made tonight. But right now you feel like a warrior who just won the war.
“Please stop trying to sit up.” The paramedic in the back of the ambulance sounds almost pitiful as he pushes you back down onto the gurney. You huff, glancing over at where one of your coworkers is sitting, swaying slightly as she looks at your leg. “We’re almost to the hospital, just a few minutes.”
“Which hospital?” You murmur. Under the oxygen mask (which you’re sure you don’t need since you can breathe perfectly fine) it sounds more like wih ospil but you can’t bring yourself to care. The paramedic seems to understand at least, checking your vitals one more time before looking back at you.
“Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.” The name is awkward on his tongue and you wonder if he’s used to saying the whole name. You remember your coworker saying something about how you’ve only been in the city for a while. He probably thinks you don’t know it. You giggle, the alcohol making everything seem silly and inconsequential.
You would probably be worried if this had happened during the day. Showing up in the emergency room, drunk as hell, to your already stressed uncle? Not a good idea. But Robby is safely tucked away in bed at home. You checked before leaving. So you have nothing to worry about. Well, maybe whatever the fuck is wrong with your leg, but that’s probably nothing. You feel fine, after all. Dandy, even. Then the ambulance slows to a stop and you’re being jostled as people surround you.
“Drunk versus tabletop. Possible broken tibia, sprained wrist,” You glance down at the wrist you used to catch yourself earlier. It’s swollen and gross-looking and you turn your head away. The rest of the paramedic’s words float over your head. Fuck, okay maybe you’re sobering up now because your leg decidedly does hurt. Like, a lot. Maybe it did break. Maybe trying to climb onto a bar top table hadn’t been your best idea. Maybe this whole night was a bad idea. Ugh, now your head hurts.
“Hurts.” You mutter through the oxygen mask (that they still have yet to remove even though you’re sure you still don’t need it). You decide to tug it off yourself with your good hand. The doctor at the end of your bed furrows her brow at the action. That’s when you realize the paramedics are gone. Your coworker sits across the room, slumped in a plastic chair. You’re on a hospital cot, in a hospital room. When did that happen?
“I’m Dr. Ellis.” The woman steps toward you, pulling away the mask as she can see you breathing perfectly fine. “Heard you fell from a table? Did you hit your head?”
You groan but shake your head. You caught yourself and you’ve got the swollen wrist to show for it. Although, you remember a girl in college telling you that falling head-first and trying to catch yourself with your hands can cause a shoulder dislocation. You shrug your shoulders experimentally. At least they feel normal. “What’s the damage, doc?” You ask with a slow grin.
“You’ve got a displaced oblique fracture on your right tibia and your right wrist is sprained. A few other bruises, but your leg is what I’m most worried about.” Dr. Ellis steps away from you, toward a computer. She rolls it toward the bed, scanning her badge and pulling up a picture. Or, more accurately, an x-ray. A dark, diagonal line cuts across the thick bone of your tibia. The top and bottom pieces don’t quite line up, one shifted slightly to the right. You wince.
“Surgery?” You ask before she can speak. Ellis nods, pointing at the obvious break. She opens her mouth to say something when the door clicks open.
Jack Abbot stands in the doorway, looking like he just ran a marathon. You can’t look away from the flushed skin of his cheeks. You definitely can’t help imagining those cheeks flushed for a different reason. His voice is hard when he speaks, a tone you haven’t heard from him yet. “Ellis, go take care of the lac in North 7. I’ll take care of this one.”
“But—”
“Go.” His voice leaves no room for argument. You’d never admit it out loud, but if your leg wasn’t currently screaming at you for your stupid decisions, you would probably make another one right about now.
“Jack.” Oh no. Is that longing in your voice? This is terrible. Absolutely horrible. Not good at all. Not that any of those tiny details stop you from reaching out to run your fingers across his arm. You trace the freckles there, creating imaginary constellations on his skin.
“I thought I was Dr. Abbot.” He pulls his hand away and you whine. You actually fucking whine. Okay, you need this man away from you right now. Five minutes ago would have been preferable, but you’ll take what you can get. It’s made worse by the teasing in Jack’s voice. The amusement dripping from his smile. You glance over at your coworker. She’s still sleeping. Thank god. You could not take an audience to this humiliation. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll get you fixed up. But you’re gonna need surgery to move the bone back in place. And you’ll need to keep weight off the leg for at least a month. Preferably two.”
You’re not sure you heard anything past sweetheart but you nod along anyway. They don’t have you on painkillers, right? This is just your natural reaction to this man. Maybe you should just crawl to the roof and throw yourself off.
“You listening?” He leans over the cot, over your legs, so he can meet your gaze. It burns. He’s careful not to touch your leg. He’s careful in general, you’ve noticed. Careful with his things, careful with his work. Not in a way that speaks of hesitance. It reminds you of the fact that careful begins with care. Reminds you that even rough hands like Jack’s can be soft when they want to be. Hands with a wedding band—
“Where’s your ring?” His left hand is bare. There’s a ring around his fourth finger where the skin isn’t quite as tanned. You can’t help staring at it. Why would he take off his ring? What could have possibly happened to make a woman leave Jack? “Oh god, did you—? Did I—?”
“Hey, calm down. Listen to me, okay?” You can hear the rapid beeping of the heart monitor as panic fills your chest, hot and sharp. Jack’s voice is soft and smooth. Steady. You grab onto it, an anchor in the roaring ocean around you. “That’s it. Good. Just breathe, sweetheart.”
And his hand is on yours. Warm and rough but so gentle. His thumb traces over your knuckles and you want to lean into the sensation. You wonder how his fingertips would feel on the rest of your skin. Your shoulders, arms. Your legs.
“You can’t tell Uncle Mike.” A new panic floods through you, desperate to change the subject Jack winces slightly as you flip your hand to grip his.
“Kid, I think he’s gonna find out whether I tell him or not.” Jack’s voice has a certain teasing quality to it but he doesn’t move to tug his hand out of your hold. He just lets you squeeze his bones together. “Would you rather he wakes up to an empty apartment and panics? Look at me, please.”
You do. Because how could you possibly deny him when he asks like that? His eyes are just as beautiful as you remember them, warm and bright and just a little teasing.
“My ring is right here.” Jack tugs on a chain around his neck. A familiar dark ring of metal slides down the chain and your cheeks go hot. When you try to look away, he moves to stay in your gaze. You can see the light glint off of the ring, an inscription on the inside, S&J. “I take it off at work when I can.”
“What’s her name?” You really do look away this time. To the other side of the thin cot, at your swollen wrist. It’s easier to look at than Jack. His hand moves to your chin, gently guiding you to face him. It suddenly feels about ten degrees warmer in the room.
“Sarah. Her name was Sarah.”
The door slams open before you can respond to that and the both of you turn to see Robby standing in the doorway. He’s breathing heavy and still wearing his plaid flannel pants. His t-shirt is wrinkled to hell and his hair is sticking up in the back in that way that you always smooth down for him before he leaves the apartment.
“Fuck, bug, what happened?” Robby rushes to your side, leaning over the cot to check you over. You can see the way his eyes scan across your body, cataloguing every injury. The panic in his eyes dims just slightly as he finally sets his eyes on you. You’re sure he was overworried about you, worst cases running through his head on the drive over. You just huff, glaring at Jack as he steps back from the bed.
“I had Shen call him.” Jack says simply, grinning. His biceps bulge as he crosses his arms across his chest. You turn your gaze desperately back to your uncle.
“Fell off a table at a bar. I’m fine.”
Robby raises one brow and immediately pokes your wrist. You hiss, smacking his hand away. “Yeah. Fine. This’ll take at least six months to heal.”
“I guess this means I won’t be moving out any time soon.” You groan. It’s not that you’re rushing to move out. You just…feel bad. Invading Robby’s home longer than you’d promised. An awful feeling bubbles in your stomach and you disregard it as nausea from the alcohol. “‘M sorry, Uncle Mikey.”
“Don’t apologize, bug. You’re welcome to say as long as you want.” Warm lips press against your forehead and any nausea melts away. You suddenly feel like you’re home, wrapped in your mother’s arms. Warm and safe from everything. Maybe Robby is more similar to your mom than you thought. You glance toward the door when you hear it squeak, only to see Jack’s broad shoulders as he slips out. He waves. You smile.
Was. He said was. It’s been two weeks since you saw Jack, drunk as hell with a swollen wrist and an even more swollen leg, and all you can think about was how he said was. It makes something fester inside of you. An ugly knot of emotions that you refuse to spend time untangling. Jack Abbot may be single, but he’s still your uncle’s friend. He’s still twenty years too old. He’s still unattainable. You hate the spark of something horrifically close to hope that refuses to be snuffed out in your chest.
(He’s also a widower. Because you don’t say was unless that person has passed. You don’t know how long they were married or how long Sarah has been dead. You do wonder what she was like. If the two of you would have gotten along. If she was anything like you.)
Not that it matters. You have much more pressing issues. Like your broken leg, wrapped in a thick cast. There are four pins screwed into your bone. Pins that, apparently, are supposed to stay there, as Robby had informed you. He had also let you know that the pins were not big enough to set off most metal detectors. You had asked if it would set off the ones at the airport. The last time you got on a plane, you were twelve.
Oh, and your wrist. Sprained, with an ugly brace that clashed terribly with your bright pink cast. When the doctor had asked what color you wanted for the cast, you immediately thought of the key to Robby’s apartment. Something about the color felt like healing. Or maybe you just think your six-year-old self would approve of the decision. Her judgement always seemed sound.
Robby mutters quietly as he gently rotates your wrist. You wince at the movement and he gently velcros the brace back onto your wrist. The pressure actually feels kind of nice. Especially cool fabric pressing against your hot skin. “Yeah, that’s gonna need at least another week.”
Of course. You truly regret going out that night. For the past two weeks you’ve been mostly sequestered to Robby’s apartment. The first few days were the worst, in and out of sleep as you curl up in your bed. Moving hurt like hell and the pain medication made you sleepy. Robby had taken care of you a lot on those days. He still does, making you lunches the night before and calling you from work when he can to check up. It’s strange, the routine you had established with Robby flipped entirely on its head.
“When does the cast come off again?” You whine, leaning back into the plush cushion of the couch. You have decided to spend as little time in your room as possible after being stuck in there for most of a week.
“Well, considering you just got it on yesterday I’d say about six weeks.” The lines around Robby’s eyes crinkle as he grins. It reminds you of your mother. The longer you spend with your uncle, the more similarities you see between the two. Like one of those pictures where new details pop out the longer you stare. It’s fun to watch the tapestry of Michael Robinavitch slowly unfurl in front of you. But all you do in the moment is groan.
The splint had been bad enough. But the fucking cast. It restricts the movement of your entire foot and most of your right leg. Movement was difficult even with the stupid crutches that Robby had given you. Much less trying to get around without some kind of aid. And it’s all more frustrating than anything else. Oh, and completely your fault. You can’t blame someone else for your stupid decisions. So you live with it.
For the next week, Robby drives you to work. He drops you off at the door, making sure you have your lunch and your crutches. You feel like a kid all over again. You realize that Robby seems to bring that feeling out in you. But it’s not bad. You like the color of the cast. You like the way people compliment it. You like depending on someone else again. Your mom never told you how exhausting it can be. To be the one someone relies on. Rewarding but tiring in a way that sneaks up on you.
This part, though, is definitely embarrassing. In your attempt to show your coworkers that you’re not a kid, you got way too drunk and broke your leg. And you’re being dropped off at work by your uncle. The last time you got dropped off at work, you were fourteen. Needless to say, you’re counting the days until your cast comes off.
“What’re you doing here?” Jack’s voice calls out as you lean against the nurse’s station. You whip around to face him, cheeks hot. You hope the heat doesn’t show on your cheeks. Jack’s lips tick up into a tiny grin and all hope leaves you. Your ears burn. “No new injuries, right?”
“Just getting my cast checked out before work.” You hate how soft your voice is. No sharp edges or harsh tones. You want to be angry. At yourself, for being an idiot. At Jack, for being so hot. But you honestly don’t have the energy to be angry at anything right now. Crutches, you have decided, are bullshit. That’s why you’re leaning against the hub, exhausted and too lazy to attempt to balance on one leg. The aforementioned crutches are leaned against the countertop next to you, laughing at your misery.
Jack laughs. The kind that makes his head fall back just enough to expose his throat. The kind that makes you fight to keep yourself from smiling. You think infectious is a great way to describe this man. And you’re the stupid host who decided the bacteria was cute enough to keep around. You really need to start charging this man rent.
“What’s the verdict?” His voice has that teasing lilt that makes you want to feel how it vibrates against your skin. Your mind goes blank for a second, staring at Jack as if he will physically put your train of thought back on track. He just grins and taps his foot against your cast.
“Oh!” Right. The cast. The reason you’re in this godforsaken hospital in the first place. The infection has long since spread to your brain, slowly eating away at the muscle there. “Uh, at least another month? Then physical therapy to strengthen the leg again.” You parrot what the doctor told you. Robby had been the one to take the pamphlets and further care instructions, shoving them into his jacket pocket before you could argue. Once, years ago, your mother told you that sometimes you just have to let Robby take care of you. Even before he became a doctor. Like it had always been in his blood to help. You try to remember that now, as you wait in the ED for Robby to pull the car around into the ambulance bay. Because, apparently, you can’t even make the walk to your uncle’s reserved Chief Attending spot in the second row of the parking lot.
“Hey, kid.” Dana’s voice comes from the other side of the counter. You turn to face her, glad to have an excuse not to look at Jack anymore. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward the large sliding doors. “Robby’s pullin’ into the ambulance bay.”
You nod, sharing goodbye’s with the charge nurse before turning toward the cursed crutches. Displeasure must show on your face because Jack laughs behind you, just over your shoulder.
“Want me to carry you?”
And that makes you spin around so fast you’re almost dizzy. God, your cheeks burn and you can practically feel the way your pupils grow at the idea, subconscious taking in every detail of this man. Even the mental image makes your one good leg feel weak. Jack’s thick arms wrapped around you while his heart beats right against your ear. His lips twitch and you realize you haven’t answered. Your still-mush brain seems incapable of forming sentences. So you stick with one word. “What?”
“You’re glaring at those crutches like you want to burn them, sweetheart.” Jack leans in closer and you grip at the crutches in your hand. His grin is sharp, like he knows what he’s doing. “Just offering to help.”
His voice does not sound helpful in the slightest. It sounds like velvet wrapped in something simmering hot that you do not have the bandwidth to study right now. You wish the stupid crutches weren’t so smooth. You need something digging into the skin of your palm. Something to ground yourself, to keep you from combusting on the spot.
“Kid, you comin’?” You hear Robby’s voice and turn away from Jack. Your uncle stands in to the side of the ambulance doors, dramatically tapping his watch when he sees you looking. Maybe there is a god, after all. You hurriedly shove the crutches beneath your arms and begin your pathetic limp toward where Robby is waiting. Jack easily keeps pace behind you.
As you scramble into the car, Jack hovers close behind. When your foot slips on the runners, he’s right there, hand solid and warm against your back. Not too low. A respectful touch that still makes you shiver. By the time you settle into the passenger seat, his hands are shoved so deep in his pocket you half-believe that the touch was a figment of your imagination. But you can still feel the outline of his broad palm pressed to your shirt. You really need to get out of here before you do something stupid in front of your uncle.
“See you, sweetheart.” It’s a promise. You can tell from the curve of his lips and the shadowed glimmer in his eye. You can only blink. He gently pushes the door shut and leans through the open window. “Have a good day at work.”
And, oh god. He winks. He winks at you while saying those painfully domestic words. It makes something in your stomach revolt. You force a tight smile and turn pointedly through the front windshield, thighs pressed tight together. His smile doesn’t falter as he leans back, away from the car. Jack and Robby exchange a casual greeting before your uncle is pulling away. Jack stays in your rearview mirror for two blocks before Robby turns.
“You and Jack seem close.” It’s an innocuous question. Innocent enough if you don’t know about the storm of emotions spinning inside of you right now. And Robby’s voice is the kind you’ve been dreading for weeks. The kind that does know. Knows too much. But you’re stuck. In a moving car. Even if Robby got stuck at a light, you can barely walk. So, yes, you’re trapped. A kid in a safety seat.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry.” Jeez, your voice practically drips with something between loss and resentment. Like a death you could have saved, if things had been different. If you weren’t Robby’s niece. Maybe—But you would give the world for your uncle. Anything for the man who made sacrifices for your mother. For you. You wouldn’t betray your uncle like that. Not for anything. Especially not for a man. Even a man like Jack.
It must show on your face, the conflict between someone and the one thing they absolutely cannot have. Robby doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. The quiet is cut through by the sounds of the city. Cars honking and people yelling. All underpinned by the light songs of morning birds. You lean out the passenger window, wishing the breeze could blow away every issue you’ve ever had. But the world doesn’t work that way. The wind stops as Robby puts the car in park and you sigh, gathering your bag and crutches.
Robby speaks before you can push the door open. “I won’t stop you. Jack is a good guy.” His voice is awkward and you almost smile as he pats your shoulder exactly twice. It’s probably supposed to be soothing or reassuring. It just feels surreal. Fake. “He—you both deserve something good.”
Something cracks inside you and the world seems to shift beneath the car. Just a slight tilt to the left. For the past few months in Pittsburgh, you’ve been having a continuous, low-level panic attack. One that reared its ugly head every time Jack Abbot came within ten feet of you. Because you can’t have him. Because he’s married. Because that would be wrong. Because you can’t do that to your uncle. But, apparently, it was all for nothing. Weeks upon weeks of second-guessing and biting your tongue. All because Robby is trying to set you up with his best friend? It’s all a bit much at the moment. Your brain feels like it got dropped in the middle of the desert, unsure of what’s real and what’s just a mirage.
“I have to go.” You spit out. You really do. You need to get out of this goddamn car and sit at your desk and pretend the last few weeks never happened. The scramble out of the passenger seat is just as pitiful as the one into the car, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You wave at Robby before disappearing into the building without another word. You’re not exactly sure what you would say right now if you had it in yourself to speak.
Sometimes, you just need to call your mom. General life advice, honestly. Good stuff. About ninety percent of the supposedly impossible problems you’ve had in your life have been solved after a conversation with your mother. This one seems especially impossible, but you know she’ll at least have something to say about it.
“That’s…a lot, honey.” Her voice is hesitant and a little tinny through the phone. You can picture her now, standing at the landline in the kitchen, twirling the cord around her finger. You think she might be the last person in Philadelphia who actually uses a home phone. Let alone a landline. The sound is comforting, though. You’re used to the way it shifts her voice.
“I know. Trust me. It’s just…I don’t know what to do, Mom.” The words shake on your tongue. It takes physical effort not to call her momma. The way you used to. It’s always been a warm blanket around your shoulders, a motherly hug. But you’re an adult, no matter how much of a child you’ve felt like these past few weeks.
“You know what I’ll say, hon. Just be honest.” She says softly. It’s a familiar phrase. Everything in life can be solved by being honest. At least, that’s what your mother told you as you grew up. Especially when it comes to people you love. She’s right. You knew it was coming. That doesn’t mean it’s not relieving to hear. Something steady in the ever-changing life you’ve started. “Be honest with yourself and what you want. Be honest with your uncle. Be honest with the hot doctor you have a crush on.”
“Mom!”
“What?” She sounds genuinely confused and you can’t help laughing just slightly. Your cheeks burn red hot and you grumble something into the phone. You’re not exactly sure what you say, but it must translate to something, because she acquiesces. You can hear laughter through the speaker and think that maybe she knows exactly how embarrassing her words are. For about three seconds, you consider hanging up without another word. “Okay, okay. How is work?”
The conversation moves on to more innocent topics after that. Asking after Robby and his health. How he’s eating. Telling her about your job and your coworkers. She shares the latest drama about the neighbors who always yelled loud enough to be heard through the walls. It’s not that you haven’t called her since the move, but it always feels like a relief when the two of you talk. You just wish you could have her warm arms wrapped around you, soothing the simmering panic. But it’s okay. Her voice will smooth over the wrinkle between your brow. Enough to get through this.
“Mom, I love you.” You’ve said it before. You say it every time you hang up and every time you say goodbye. Habit by this point. But you mean it every single time.
“I love you, too, hon. Say hi to Mike for me.”
The call ends with a click, the line going dead. You listen to the dial tone for a moment, lost in the relaxing drone. It drowns out the thoughts in your head and you feel like you can finally think. Just be honest. Okay, maybe you don’t need to think. What would six-year-old-you do? Probably ask your mom. Check. What next? Follow her advice. Damn.
You’re not used to flirting back with men. Not really used to them flirting with you in the first place. At least, not noticing the flirting. Jack Abbot must be going out of his way if even you have caught on. Or, maybe it’s because you always notice Jack. The guys throwing shitty pickup lines at you in a dark bar aren’t exactly the kind of guys you want to notice. But Jack makes you glad to notice him. Rewards your eye contact with a grin and listens when you talk. He draws light toward him like a black hole. His broad shoulders and shiny curls. Those eyes that crinkle just perfect when he laughs. You want to feel his laughter against your skin. You want to bite into those shoulders, see how much give they might have.
And it’s so annoying because he’s not just hot. He’s brilliant. Whip smart with great instincts. Jack Abbot is smooth confidence wrapped in muscle and tight t-shirts. You can still remember how he leaned over you, so gentle. So kind. You know what those hands can do. You’ve heard plenty of stories from Robby about resetting bones and tearing open chests. But you personally know that those hands will be gentle with you. Maybe the knowledge makes you feel special. Maybe it just reassures you, relieving some deep-buried fear. What you do know is that you’ve been resisting the gravitational pull of Jack Abbot and once you let go, there will be no going back.
It’s fucking terrifying. Because this isn’t just your life. It’s Jack’s and Robby’s and everyone they work with. Because if this goes wrong, it either changes Robby’s relationship with you or it changes his relationship with Jack. Because if this all implodes and falls apart, you have to move back to Philadelphia. Maybe change your name. Just to make sure.
You know Jack wouldn’t be weird about it. He’d probably take whatever blame and distance himself. Even if you fucked up. Because he’s so good. So kind and selfless and you’re afraid that losing Robby would kill him. (You don’t know how he’d react to losing you. If he’d be sad, even if you weren’t Robby’s niece.)
“What’s got you thinking so hard, kid?” Dana’s voice asks. You’re back in the ED again. It’s becoming somewhat of a habit, but you’re sure none of the other doctors or nurses mind so long as they don’t have to treat you for anything. And, this time, your leg is free. No longer trapped in its Barbie-pink cage. You can’t even be excited about it because your brain is so preoccupied by a certain five-foot-nine situation.
“Nothing. Just bored.” Not a lie. Not technically. You are bored. A coworker dropped you off earlier for your appointment to have the cast removed. So, now you’re stuck in the staff lounge, waiting (im)patiently for your uncle’s shift to end so he can drive you home. You would walk…if you could. Just because the cast is off doesn’t mean you’re suddenly healed. After almost two months without use, your leg is just about as useful now as it had been in the cast. Except now you’re supposed to start putting weight on it when you can, to strengthen the muscles again. That’s how you find yourself leaning back against the counter, occasionally shifting from one foot to another.
Dana raises a single brow that says I-don’t-believe-you-at-all as she lifts a mug to her lips. The steam from the coffee fogs up her reading glasses and she pushes them up absentmindedly. “Uh-huh.” Her voice echoes in the ceramic, making your cheeks heat. The cup clacks against the counter when Dana sets it down. “Wanna be honest with me?”
Damn. Clocked. Genuinely, you feel like someone just punched you. Shock from the impact and lingering embarrassment at not being able to dodge the hit. You know you’re still young. A twenty-something with her entire life ahead of herself. Robby and Jack and Dana are older than your mom. Definitely old enough to be your parents. It makes sense that there will be times where you feel like a kid around them. That doesn’t change the way your entire body feels like it’s being pricked with exactly one million needles. Your eyes almost hurt from the effort it’s taking to not look away. Dana Evans would get along with your mother, you think. Maybe that’s why Robby seems to gravitate toward her.
“I like Dr. Abbot.” You force the words out, around the lump quickly forming in your throat. “And I think he likes me back. But I don’t want to make things weird between him and Uncle Mike if it doesn’t work out.” Oh god, you’re rambling now.
“Kid, listen to me.” Dana’s hands are warm on your shoulders. You wonder if she’s always like that or if it’s from the hot coffee mug she was holding just a moment ago. “Jack and Robby’s relationship is not your problem. And if Jack fucks up with you, he deserves whatever Robby throws at him.”
And that feeling? The one where you’re small and scared? It starts to feel more like arms around your shoulders. Like your mother scolding you. Like you know she’s right but you’re too stubborn to admit it. It feels a little like coming home.
“Dana, how many times have your daughters been through this?” Your voice is way too vulnerable to joke, but Dana rolls her eyes and laughs anyway. “You’re way too good at this.”
“My kids don’t have any uncles to crush on their best friend.” You glare at her, but even you can tell it’s weak. She just grins and lifts a hand to pat your cheek. “I manage an emergency department populated by emotionally repressed old men. That’s pretty much the same thing as a teenage girl, sweetie.”
“I am not a teenager!”
Dana slings an arm around your shoulders, grinning something suspicious. “Everyone goes through this, kid. Well, maybe not the whole uncle’s-best-friend thing. But the not-knowing-how-to-deal-with-a-crush part is pretty universal. A right of passage, kiddo. You’re just…a little late.”
You take it all back. You can handle being treated like a kid. What you absolutely cannot accept is that this pain is a part of growing up. An inevitability. Did your mom feel like this? Like her heart was breaking before she could even act on the feeling there? Did your dad?
Not for the first time, you wish you could speak to him. It was an angry feeling at first. Teenage hormones making the entire world your enemy. Why did it have to be you? Why couldn’t your dad have pushed through? Survived, for you? Now, it’s grown into a dull thud that occasionally vibrates your brain. An ache for someone you never even got to meet. Maybe that’s why you like Jack. Deep-seated daddy issues that bubble to the surface every time his eyes meet yours. But it doesn’t matter because Jack is good and kind and hot and you have a debilitating crush on him. And maybe it’s time to be honest.
“Hey, so I like you.” Lame. Holy shit, so lame. The reflection of your face in the mirror is nothing short of panicked. You literally know for a fact that Jack Abbot likes you back. He’s been more than obvious enough with his flirting. It’s not an issue of reciprocation. It’s an issue of making it real. Existing in the nebulous space between nothing and something is easier than picking one over the other. You know which one you would pick, if it were your choice. Because it doesn’t matter that Jack likes you if he’s not ready for…whatever could happen between the two of you.
You want it to mean something. It feels selfish, to want this man the way you do. The thing suspiciously close to guilt in your gut doesn’t change that feeling, though. You want to know that he feels the same. That he thinks about you so often, you invade his dreams. You want Jack Abbot to practice how he’ll confess to you in his bathroom mirror. You want him to daydream about having your last name. Something which you’ve only done once. Still, one too many times for an adult woman with (most of) her shit together, despite what recent evidence may show.
“Hey, bug. You okay in there?” Robby’s voice calls through the door, muffled by the thick wood. The sound makes you jump and bodily pulls you from your thoughts. Before he can speak again, you yank the door open. You’re sure Robby can see the manic look you try to school from your face.
“Fine. Great.” Yes, totally believable.Not at all excuse-sounding. Totally legit. But Robby doesn’t question it. Just shrugs with a little shake of his head. Probably not worth the effort of asking. Or maybe he already knows why you’re currently panicking. He’s the one that started all of this with his…blessing?
You kind of hate how you need permission to ask out Jack. Permission from a man. It’s first grade again and the teacher is asking for a couple of strong boys to carry something for her. You never offered your hand. Because you weren’t the one she asked. Because you don’t have the arbitrary permission. It never stopped the other girls. And now, as a grown adult, you still need to be told you’re allowed. You hate that you can’t make yourself break the rules. Even the ones that only exist in your head. What you hate even more is that you’re too much of a coward to even ask for permission.
“Okay…” Robby steps out of the doorway, but his eyes are trained on your face. You step out, letting Robby into the bathroom. He watches your movement carefully, but doesn’t say anything more.
“Hey, Uncle Mikey?” No. This is a terrible idea. You should not do this. Not with your uncle of all people. Emotionally stunted, allergic to talking, Michael Robinavitch. So, yeah. Bad idea. “Does…I mean, does Jack ever talk about me?”
Something flashes across Roby’s face and you can see the split second that he considers simply walking away from the conversation. Instead, he breathes in and lets it out in a long, measured breath. His hand scrubs over his beard. You can see the gears turning in his head. You wonder if he’s trying to remember a time or if he’s trying to pick one.
“I—yeah.” He sighs. You can’t help grinning at the exasperation painted across his face. If he didn’t want this, he shouldn’t have encouraged you in the first place. When you open your mouth to ask more, Robby holds up a hand. “And that’s all I’m saying. I am not going to—this is not happening.”
A laugh bubbles up and out of your throat. You just can’t help it. Robby’s cheeks are stained red and he looks like he just swallowed a sour grape. But when he hears your laughter, Robby laughs too. This is not the end of the world. It’s a crush that you hope can become something more. If it doesn’t, you’ll be okay. Probably cry in your bed for a week straight, but you’ll get over it. Eventually. The realization alone takes an invisible weight off your chest and you can breathe deeper than you have since you arrived in Pittsburgh.
“Uncle Mike? Thank you.” Your arms loop around him in a tight hug. He responds in kind, more out of instinct than purposeful action. Robby pats your back awkwardly as you refuse to let go. Eventually, he shoves gently at your shoulders. You relent easily. It’s a familiar pattern to the both of you, practiced over decades.
“Not sure what I did, but I’m glad to help.” Robby’s smile is soft. The kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. You know that most people have never seen it before. You’re glad you get to.
The phone screen seems overly bright in the dimming room. It’s barely 6:30 and the sun is already halfway past the horizon. Robby won’t be home for at least an hour and you’re too lazy to flick on the lightswitch across the room. So, you lay back on the couch and stare at the little blinking line above your keyboard. The top of the phone screen says Jack in tiny letters. No contact picture yet, but no texts either.
You had found the crinkled paper in the bottom of your bag after an hour of frantic searching. The idea of asking your uncle for Jack’s number wasn’t even something you entertained. You’d rather wait until the two of your paths meet again. But now you stare at your too-bright screen, trying to come up with some kind of opening line.
You’ve been on the apps before, written plenty of these. This time is different. You care. All those people online were ideas. Not real human beings out in the world. Jack is, well, he’s way more than a person. He’s someone you can picture a life with. If it doesn’t work out, you’ll be fine. Survive. You desperately want it to work out. Which is why you’ve been staring at your goddamn screen for almost an hour. At this point, you almost want to wait until seven. Until Jack’s shift starts and he won’t look at his phone for a solid twelve hours. But the idea of waiting that long for a response makes your gut wrench painfully.
Ugh. Fine, whatever. Fuck it.
Hey Jack! Okay, no exclamation mark. Hey Jack. Much better. It’s me you type out your name and consider tacking on Robby’s niece. But you don’t want that to be how Jack sees you. Why is this so hard? Alright. Greeting? Check. Introduction? Check. Now the hard part. Asking Jack on an actual date. Nothing too serious, but nothing vague either. Casual and cool. Because that’s definitely how people describe you. I think you’re hot. Wanna get breakfast after your shift? Hmm. Not quite the casual-cool-girl you were going for. You make me panic. Want to kiss? Arguably worse. Third time’s the charm (as in, you are sending this text no matter what, before you can talk yourself out of it).
>> I like you. You live in my head and I’d like to know more about you. Breakfast at Carla’s near the hospital? I’ll be there at 7:30
Horrid, but your will is waning by the second and if you don’t send it now, you never will. So you press your thumb against the little send button and stare at the screen for exactly one second before jettisoning your phone across the room. The next few minutes pass by as an eternity. So slow, you check the wall clock four times in a single minute. But you can’t bring yourself to crawl across the couch and grab your phone until the clock hits seven. When the screen lights up, you can see the text notification. You click on it.
<< See you then, sweetheart ;)
And, oh. Fucking god damnit. Is that little winky-face? You suddenly can’t breathe. Something to do with an image of Jack winking flooding your mind. Winking at you during breakfast. Winking at you somewhere…less public. Alright, down girl.
>> Can’t wait!
Is it too eager? Do you care? Does Jack care? Probably not. He seems like the kind of guy to denounce modern dating culture. People trying to seem too cool to care about anyone else. He’ll probably hold open a door for you or something. He’s probably a gentleman.
The phone buzzes in your hand, another text. A thumbs up. God, he’s so old. A fucking thumbs up? You hate how endearing it is. How the smile forms on your face without permission. You glance at the clock. 7:01.
>> Shouldn’t you be working?
<< A pretty girl just asked me on a date. I can’t just ignore her.
Your cheeks burn, hot enough to make your vision fuzz for a fraction of a second. Because you’re that pretty girl. Jack just called you pretty. Jack Abbot. Definition of pretty. Yeah, he’s a fucking gentleman.
The diner isn’t as bustling as you’ve seen it before. The streets are busy, overrun with commuters trying to get to work on time. You can hear the birds chirping in the park across the street and the sound of the bell on the door as you step inside. You’ve been here before, once. A few years ago when you came to visit your uncle. He brought you here after his shift. So the warm scent of breakfast is familiar as it hits you. It’s always breakfast time at Carla’s, even at nine o’clock at night when Robby brought you before.
Today, however, sun fogs through the windows, still hidden behind the Pittsburgh skyline. Well, that and Jack Abbot sits in a corner booth, tugging at the sleeves of his scrub top. You know, logistically, that he must have just gotten off work. The badge still hangs from his cargo pants and his hair has suffered the strong winds blowing through the city streets. It is not fair to look that good. Not right after a twelve hour ED shift. Especially as the light shifts, setting Jack in his own personal sun beam. A spotlight on his angelic beauty.
Jeez, you need to calm down. Because that’s when he sees you, staring like a loon while the hostess awkwardly waits for an answer to a question you never heard. Too busy staring at Jack Abbot. Honestly, you’re a little surprised he’s already here. Robby almost always stays an hour past his shift, pulled between handing off a million different tasks. You had expected to wait at least fifteen minutes. Needed it. To rehearse what the hell you’re going to say, because the mirror had not been enough. You consider turning around and leaving, but Jack is already standing. So you politely wave off the hostess and head toward the booth.
“Hi.” Oh, god. You just squeaked. Like, actually squeaked. Yeah, you’re gonna kill yourself. But Jack just smiles like you made a joke instead of being one.
“Hey,” He replies, standing as you approach the booth. You can see the way his face twitches as he puts weight on his right leg. The one you know is half metal and plastic. “You look good.”
You’re glad he thinks so. It took you over an hour to pick out this outfit. Trying to find clothes that are nice, but not too nice. Because you want to make a good impression on Jack, even if his first impression of you was in sweats and a too-old college tshirt. Comfy travel clothing that he must have found at least somewhat endearing if he agreed to this date.
“Thanks. You do too.” You both slide into opposite sides of the booth. The tall back of the bench seats creates an intimate bubble for just the two of you. The sound of the diner around you quiets just a bit.
“No need for flattery, sweetheart.” Jack laughs. Like he thinks you’re lying. Like he doesn’t know that every detail of his fucking face is a distraction. It’s a little rude, considering you’ve been thinking about him for almost two months straight. So you let out a huff. An actual huff, because you already squeaked so you may as well do whatever you want now.
“It wasn’t flattery, Jack. Just the truth.” And maybe you sound a little too earnest. A little too demanding, as if you can make it true simply by saying it, putting the words out into the world. You’re not going to apologize because there’s really nothing to apologize for, but you are about to make up some excuse about how Jack Abbot being pretty is a universal law of some kind. That’s when you see the gentle flush spreading across his cheeks. It makes his freckles stand out even more and you want to trace them, looking for constellations both real and made up. You smile something warm and soft. “What? Can’t take a compliment?”
“Only when they come from pretty girls.” His grin is sharp, but you’re too distracted by the pink on the tips of his ears.
“You already used that line.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
Banter flows easily between the two of you, words falling out before you can process them. It feels natural to be around Jack like this. Relaxed and smiling. The sun steadily rises in the sky, illuminating Jack in a way that you want desperately to look away from, but you simply cannot bring yourself to lose a moment of this man. You want to inject yourself into his veins and pump directly through his heart. You think, maybe then you could have all you need from Jack.
“Let me give you a ride home.” Jack says as you both climb out of the booth. He says it like it’s simple. Like you haven’t been afraid to call Robby’s apartment your home. Yes, you want to move out at some point, maybe find a place of your own. But to call Robby’s home yours as well, seems like too much. Going too far. Claiming something that isn’t quite yours.
And then you remember how your uncle reacted when you apologized for overstaying your welcome. Part of him had been amused. He thought the very idea of overstaying was silly. You’re his niece. Part of the only family he has left. So, yeah, he thought you were joking at first. Then, slowly, you saw something between sorrow and determination cross Robby’s face. He had grabbed you, gently and awkwardly, and said you were welcome to stay as long as you need. And then as long as you want after that.
The thought, memory really, makes you smile. A soft thing that reaches your eyes. “I’d like that.”
Jack’s hand settles on your lower back, high enough to be respectable but low enough for you to note. As if you don’t have an entire rolodex in your head of every single time Jack Abbot has so much as brushed against you. When you both reach the door, Jack does a little shuffle to step ahead of you. Because he’s a gentleman who gets the door for you not only at the diner, but circles around his car to hold open the passenger door of his old Bronco. You have to draw the line as he reaches to buckle your seatbelt. Even the image of him leaned over you in your mind makes your cheeks warm. And your face is plenty warm already, thank you very much. So you swat his hand away, buckling your seatbelt yourself. Jack doesn’t close the passenger door until he hears the click of the buckle in place.
“I may be a bit younger than you, but I can, in fact, buckle myself in.” You chuckle as he slides into the driver’s seat.
“A bit.” Is all he says in response, more of a hum than actual words. You try to study the side of his face you can see as he starts the car. The sun streams through the windows and you can suddenly see every freckle on his face. His curls are tinted auburn underneath the silver-grey. He looks hand-painted by a master, with care and attention paid to every beautiful detail. What you do notice is the way his face tightens just slightly, despite how he tries to hide it. You know what he’s thinking. It was the same thing you were thinking restlessly about for the past forever. That you’re still thinking about and trying desperately to ignore.
“If you’re worried I haven’t thought this through, don’t.” You say firmly, crossing your arms over your chest. Jack doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but you can feel the weight of his attention on you. “I’ve been thinking about this since you introduced yourself in that hallway. I am an adult, Jack.”
You’re careful to keep your tone casual. No accusation. No sharpness. Because if he’s thinking like you were (still are), Jack knows that this will either be the best or worst decision of his life. You wonder which one he’s leaning more towards right now.
“You’re sure?” He’s about to say more, you can tell. The way he sucks in a breath like he has to warn you about himself before it’s too late. You interrupt him before he can.
“I’m sure.”
The rest of the ride is quiet, with only the hum of the engine on busy Pittsburgh streets and the steady feeling of Jack’s hand on yours. The warmth of his palm only leaves occasionally to change gears, because obviously Jack drives a manual. You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at how much sense that makes.
Jack rolls to a gentle stop outside of Robby’s apartment building and you wonder if he’s the kind of guy to kiss a girl after the first date. Or if he’s so old-fashioned that he waits until the second or third. You laugh softly and Jack tilts his head at you.
“Sorry, sorry, just…wondering if you’re going to kiss me.”
His cheeks turn pink again and you’re starting to realize how much you like being the cause of that. Jack doesn’t answer. He just slips out of the car and rounds the front to pull your door open for you. He even holds your hand as you step out. “I am not kissing you in the car, sweetheart. I still have to walk you to your door.”
“Do you walk Uncle Mike to his door every time you drop him off?” You ask, raising a brow. Jack simply guides you into the tall building, holding open every door like it’s his job instead of saving lives.
“Only when he’s so drunk he can’t stand.” Jack laughs, hitting the third floor button in the elevator. He turns to you as the doors close and his smile is the sharpest you’ve seen it since that night. When he was drunk and lost his filter and called you hot in front of your uncle. His coworker. (And Dana, but you’re almost positive that she has seen more embarrassing). “He’s not quite as charming as you, though.”
You disagree. You’re just as awkward as your uncle when it comes to other people. As evidenced by you floundering in a silly crush while everyone around you rolled their eyes. Every time you’ve seen Jack in the past two months, you’ve embarrassed yourself. But he holds a hand in front of the elevator doors as you step out and walks you to apartment 3A. It’s strange. You’ve been here before. Standing outside of Robby’s apartment (your home) with Jack Abbot. Except, this time you know his name. You know that the ring on his finger is for a woman he is still mourning. You know that he likes you, at least enough to think about how and when and where he wants to kiss you. You know you like him more than that. You hope he does, too.
“Time for that kiss yet?” You ask. Or, you were about to ask. Before Jack’s lips are on yours and his hands are on your cheeks, holding you close. It feels like burning. Hot and hot and hot and oh so bright. Not fireworks, but a burning fire deep in your stomach. When he pulls back, satisfied grin on his face, you try to follow. Try to capture his kiss once more.
Jack presses a finger to your lips. You feel like a kid again, except this time it’s the joy and color that comes with youth. The way everything seems to soften at the edges and colors seem to shine brighter around every corner. And Jack Abbot’s smile is so soft and so bright that you can’t bring yourself to be mad. Annoyed? Yes, very much so. “If you want another kiss, you have to promise me another date, sweetheart.”
You nod. It seems like a more than fair deal. More Jack. So you smile and press a kiss to his fingertip and pull back. “Whatever you say, Jackie.” You have the rest of your life with this man. You can wait a little longer.
contents: smut! twitter was asking for an erectile dysfunction fic so i started drafting and well, this might have been my calling. ED, a little blue pill, drug talk (jack’s on depression meds), some wine consumption, a whole host of second-hand embarrassment for jack, world’s best wife in the reader, and of course ED wasn’t enough… loosely inspired by 02x02.
[jack abbot x fem!reader. wc: 7.2k ]
masterlist | other jack abbot fics
He was a doctor—of course he read the side effects of his pills. Right?
Right?
God. Jack could barely think for himself let alone think what the fuck was on the prescription label. He especially couldn’t think straight when you were on top of him, fingers carding through his curls, and your chest pressed against his own.
Everything would be fine. Everything is fine.
It wasn’t fine. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him and when Jack Abbot’s internal alarm bells went off, anyone in a ten mile radius could hear them. All it took was one look, a not fully present kiss, and you knew something was amiss.
“Jack?” You murmured softly in his ear. He loved the feel of your breath; the warmth your body brought to his.
He swallowed hard. His jaw tensed as his chest shuddered in immediate nerves and your hands moved to cradle his face instead. Jack’s eyes avoided you like the plague, sticking to a spot over your shoulder in the direction of the tv.
“Yeah?” He barely whispered.
“Are you okay?”
Oh, goddamnit. Shit.
Everything was really not fucking fine.
Jack hated when his shifts never lined up with your schedule. Summer’s were easier, so were those few breaks you’d get during the year, but most weeks it felt like you were ships passing in the night.
You were his wife, not a “sometimes companion” depending on the day. So, when he had off, there was nothing he loved more than being at your side. Watching mindless television, going to the grocery store, listening to you complain about your job, and everything in between. He loved it. Jack never thought that chance would come again and when it did, he promised himself that the time he gave to you would be nothing short of devotion.
And, when the time to “love” became a little more intimate, Jack gave you everything you could ask for. You’d never had a more generous lover, in all sense of the word.
He cared so deeply about you that he was too easily forgetful about his own needs. Jack never liked when you tried to make it all about him—he’d had enough attention in the last twenty years to last him a lifetime in solitude. In return, Jack’s altar was beside you, on top of you, under you, and anywhere near you.
Therefore, when he sacrificed his time away from you to save the lives of strangers, it was only right for him to recompense through the most natural form of intimacy.
But it had been five days. Five days of back to back night shifts where he left you sleeping in bed and you left him walking out the door with your work bag in hand. There had been a light in the distance, Saturday, when his schedule finally broke and you were both off to enjoy each other’s company.
He cooked, you cleaned, and then you’d both retired to the sofa where your feet landed in his lap and a movie you’d seen a thousand times played quietly as days-long lodged conversations started to flow.
Then, you shuffled into his lap and Jack knew something was wrong before even started.
His lips met yours and you melted. You’d been so quick to fall into him, wrapping your arms around him, and pressing down into his lap that it felt needy. Tilting his head back, your fingers pulled at his curls to open him up to you. His kiss deepened and you couldn’t fight the smile on your face.
You laughed, breaking apart.
“What?” Jack asked incredulously. His eyes darted between yours as your hand brushed back his hair.
“Nothing.” You shook your head. “I just love you.”
Jack’s hands ran up and down your sides gently. “Well now it’s cheesy if I say it back.”
“No.” Your nose bumped into his. “You could never make it cheesy.”
“I’m pretty sure I could,” Jack admitted with a peck. He let his hands wander down your sides, feeling the skin of your ass before smoothing down your legs and holding them down on himself. “I love you.”
“How much?”
“Eh. ” He shrugged causing you leaned back and swat at his chest immediately before pressing into his pecs with your palms.
“Cruel,” you gasped. “You’re just evil.”
“I don’t know about that.” He removed his hands from you and placed his on top of yours. “But I don’t think a measurement exists for how much I really do.”
Not cruel. Just utterly adoring beyond comprehension.
You leaned in, kissing him again and again and each one ended longer than the last. He brought your hands back to his hair and encouraged a rougher grip. Jack’s tongue was the first to ask for silent permission to which you welcomed it with your own.
You couldn’t remember the last time you made out like teenagers on the couch.
And for ten minutes, you did only that.
Lips swollen and blood rushing in your body, there was something exhilarating about having waited so long to have sex this week. Five days wasn’t a world record for either of you but it felt like a necessary end to it.
Only you were expecting to feel something after ten minutes.
One of your hands slipped from his shoulders and entered the few inches of space between your bodies to grope him above his sweats. You had felt that simply being on top wasn’t enough—you would have felt his erection if you did—but this was the second time in three weeks that grinding on him didn’t work in getting him aroused.
Jack’s attention broke away from your lips and to your neck. His stubble grazed your skin with a roughness you’d only accept from his face. He lathered and sucked, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you feel his desire through his lips.
As you met his groin, you felt the outline of his cock still limp between his spread legs. Gently trailing to the head, you molded your hand around it and rubbed to the base. Jack’s forehead fell to your shoulder and you couldn’t help but be satisfied, leaning your own into him.
Jack. Your Jack.
Your hand never stopped going. Slowly, you felt the minutes pass and you put more pressure in your grip and the air around Jack began to change. His kisses stopped, your fingers intertwined with his curls at the base of his head weren’t met with the same sighs, and his own hands loosened their grasp.
On the inside, Jack was having an existential crisis.
He knew it was going to happen.
It was the same goddamn thing from three weeks ago and he’d wrote it off as some kind of fluke. He was tired. He’d worn himself thin from a bad night and three weeks ago, sex wasn’t in the cards he’d been dealt. But now? Again?
Jack dug his forehead further into your shoulder to think—which was practically impossible for him to do in this state. Yet he tried. He thought back on any changes to his body and any signs he might have missed but the only possibilities he could think about were his age and his meds.
If it was his age, he was just about ready to croak off now. 50. Jack was only 50 fucking years old and he never imagined what the hell life would be like with erectile dysfunction at this age. He’d take it to his grave, he swore to God, but there was one other problem that he just couldn’t shake.
Those meds.
A switch from his therapist a few appointments ago to Zoloft, which was what he was supposed to be taking for years. But just like good medicine, sometimes finding the right balance was hard and it took time.
His therapist had warned him, right?
He was a doctor—of course he read the side effects of his pills. Right?
Right?
God. Jack could barely think for himself let alone think what the fuck was on the prescription label. He especially couldn’t think straight when you were on top of him, fingers carding through his curls and your chest pressed against his own.
Everything would be fine. Everything is fine.
It wasn’t fine. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him and when Jack Abbot’s internal alarm bells went off, anyone in a ten mile radius could hear them. All it took was one look, a not fully present kiss, and you knew something was amiss.
“Jack?” You murmured softly in his ear. He loved the feel of your breath; the warmth your body brought to his.
He swallowed hard. His jaw tensed as his chest shuddered in immediate nerves and your hands moved to cradle his face instead. Jack’s eyes avoided you like the plague, sticking to a spot over your shoulder in the direction of the tv.
“Yeah?” He barely whispered.
“Are you okay?”
Oh, goddamnit. Shit.
Everything was really not fucking fine.
He was falling apart. Jack couldn’t even look you in the eye because now he couldn’t have sex with his beautiful fucking wife and the world was basically ending.
“Yeah,” he barely squeaked out.
You saw through him and he could feel the pity in the way your thumbs rubbed softly on his cheeks.
“I think I need to use the bathroom,” he blurted out and discarded you to the side of the couch.
In his first attempt to stand, Jack struggled to gain momentum off the couch and the redness of embarrassment from another one of his problems inched up the back of his neck like a rash.
Holy shit, he thought. This is the worst day of my life.
He tried harder the second time to avoid your helping hands and rushed off to the bedroom, shutting the door so hard it reverberated throughout the house. Beelining for the sink, Jack’s hands strained the edges of it until his knuckles were white.
“What the fuck!” He scolded himself in a brash whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”
This wasn’t happening to him. This was all a dream. A really, god awful, terrible, no good dream that would be over in a matter of minutes. He’d wake up, sun shining, and never deal with this again.
He slapped a hand across his face. It was not a fucking dream.
“Holy shit,” Jack’s words were now nothing but saddened, pathetic whimpering. “This is not fucking happening to me right now.”
From outside the door, you leaned against the frame and let him wallow. Those little blue pills in the back of the cabinet had been pushed away out of spite and this time, you knew he just needed to face the reality of his situation. But that reality was hard to fathom after a lifetime of one activity never having been a problem. He couldn’t have just this one thing?
Jack opened the cabinet and pulled out his Zoloft bottle. Unraveling the prescription label, his eyes raced down to side effects and right there “Erectile Dysfunction” laughed at him. He tossed the bottle in the sink.
“Jack?” You knuckles rapped against the door. “Are you alright in there?”
“Fine!” He replied too quickly.
“Can I come in?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’d rather you not.”
“You’re not gonna dump your meds are you?”
“No,” his tone was still sad. “That’s probably a bad idea.”
Jack could hear your hum. He imagined the look on your face and how you’d probably kick him to the curb now that he was completely defective.
“Jack, I think you need to talk to me about this.”
“No,” he drug out the word. “I don’t think so.”
“Honey.”
He said your name firmly in return.
“I’m coming in.” You didn’t give him any time because as soon as he got a syllable out, the door was open.
Jack’s eyes caught yours in the mirror.
“It’s okay, Jack.”
He shook his head. “It’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well that’s easy for you to say,” he couldn’t help the attitude that slipped out. “You don’t have a broken fucking dick.”
“I don’t have a dick but I do have a libido.”
“It’s not that, baby,” Jack sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want to have sex. I do. Very badly, might I add. But it’s like this—” he pointed to his brain “—just doesn’t want to work and tell the other parts of my body to do their jobs.”
Your brows furrowed in concern. “Is it the nightmares again?”
“No.” He shook his head and realized that you didn’t fully grasp it because of two things: you weren’t in healthcare and you didn’t have PTSD like he did. “They’re fine. They’ve been fine.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me, Jack.”
You approached him, settling for resting your hand along his back and feeling his tense muscles underneath the fabric of his tee.
“A side effect of the meds,” he gestured weakly to the bottle in the sink. “I can’t get it up.”
“That’s one way to put it,” you mumbled and picked up the bottle.
“My doctor gave me—“ Jack didn’t want the words to form.
Your rubbed soothingly on his back. He loved you so much.
“What did he give you?”
Jack reopened the cabinet and shuffled items to the side before landing on a small white bottle with VIAGRA plastered in blue on the front. His stomach lurched at the thought of needing to take one. Jack held it tightly in his fist in a refusal to show you.
You saw the bottle immediately when he brought it home. Jack was never as sly as he thought he was. He tried hiding your engagement ring for six weeks before proposing but you found it the day after the purchase because he stuffed it the garage where he kept all the spare keys.
He just hadn’t thought that maybe you’d lock your keys inside of the house one day.
Still, he clutched onto the white bottle as though if he dropped it, his problem wasn’t real. He could keep trying. Maybe it would just take a little bit longer than normal but eventually, he’d get hard and you could sail smoothly into the night.
“Are you gonna show me?” You asked patiently.
“I don’t really want to.”
“I’m not embarrassed if you need to use one, you know?”
His eyes pinched closed. “I feel like a fucking failure.”
You exhaled deeply, placing your hand over his fist, and dipping your head to better look at him.
“Look at me, Jack.”
He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
“Jack,” you pressed once more. “Look at me.”
“This has never been a problem,” he said lowly. Jack’s tone lingered on disappointment but aired a frustration that sounded sexier than he meant it. “I don’t know why I can’t be normal in this one fucking way but of course not! Of course not. No… the goddamn leg just wasn’t enough. The stupid fucking depression and the nightmares and my joint pain isn’t enough!”
Jack rarely yelled. He bottled everything inside until it was ready to explode and it was just leaking out of him like a dam bursting.
“None of that is your fault,” you assured.
“What does it matter if it was?” He loosened the grip on the bottle and it rolled into the sink beside the Zoloft.
“Jack. I don’t care if we have sex tonight, okay? It’s not the end of the world for me.”
“It sure fucking feels like it for me.”
“I know it does,” you empathized. “But if you’re not ready to try the pills, then we don’t have to do anything. I can wait for you.”
“I don’t deserve you,” Jack whispered. “This is so inconvenient.”
“What would life be without them?”
He breathed in as your hand continued to rub his back and calm him down. Jack glanced down at the bottle, cursing the elephant in the room. He mumbled underneath his breath and even though you were standing beside him, you didn’t catch it.
“What?”
“It takes…” his words were muffled again.
“Are you having a stroke?” You asked honestly.
“No,” he heaved. “If I take one… it would take around an hour to work.”
“Okay,” you replied cautiously. It was his choice, you made that clear.
“And it’s not like… magical. Plus we had a whole bottle of wine with dinner and that might make it worse.”
“Trying to get hard or the erection?”
“Both?” He said like it was a question. He’s the doctor. He should know.
“If you wanted to try it, and it doesn’t work out, then you never have to use one again.”
Jack hummed. “I might have to eat you out for awhile.”
“Jesus,” you laughed. “Don’t try to be sly about it.”
His lips quirked into a small smile, one you’d missed seeing in his despair. Jack picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap.
“I swear to God that if anything goes wrong, I will jump off the fucking roof.”
“You can’t say that,” you lamented. “You’re literally the last person who should joke about that.”
“I’m kidding.” He popped a pill into his mouth. “I can’t let you fall in love with someone else.”
“How kind of you to think about me.”
Jack flipped on the sink, cupped his hands under the faucet, and swallowed the pill in one gulp. There was no turning back now.
“Well?” You asked him as he wiped his mouth dry.
“Well what?”
“You want to finish what you started?”
He locked eyes with you in the mirror and opened his mouth to object to the statement. You climbed into his lap. You kissed him first. But he saw a glimmer of hope that maybe the little blue pill would be a good thing for the both of you tonight and forgot about it. Jack nodded instead.
“Get on the bed.”
Whatever the little blue pill did, it gave Jack an ounce of courage back and fuck, could you feel it.
Jack had been on you from the moment you laid down on the bed. In silence, he stripped off your clothes one by one and settled between your thighs ready to give. And for the past thirty minutes, you’d been close twice before he drew back and smiled at you as his cheek rested against your leg.
Every time he did, you had to look away.
He was so sweet. Jack, the man who does anything for anyone, looked at you like you held the moon.
You fought a grin by biting down on your lip and had your arm flying over your eyes to shield his own impenetrable stare from reaching you. And then his mouth was on you again, tongue lightly flicking your clit as he slipped two fingers inside.
You writhed, body shaking lightly in pleasure as his hands grew more firm around your thighs and minimized any distance between you. Jack figured if he could lay atop the mattress and grind into it that it would replace the need for you to jerk him off for five minutes, and he was right.
The combination of periodically rutting against the mattress, listening to your sweet sounds, and feeling you squeeze his fingers was sheer poison.
He curled his fingers up inside of you, sliding them in and out in the same direction until your moans turned into a whine that spelled out his name.
“Jack,” you breathed in heavily.
Your hand fell from your eyes and trailed over one of your breasts, squeezing it, pinching the nipple just hard enough before fanning out on the comforter. Jack removed his fingers to let his tongue sink lower, pushing into you softer and wetter than before. His mouth devoured you; a sickening slurp of his saliva and your wetness had your mouth falling open, silent in disbelief that not an hour ago, you didn’t think this was going to happen.
“S-shit, Jack.”
He slowed down, sparing a glance at your face before deciding to back off. His pointer finger replaced where his nose was grazing your clit. Jack pressed down there, moving in small circles as your hips moved with him.
“That feel good?” He asked softly.
“I think that fucking pill gave you superpowers,” you spat out fast. “Holy shit.”
“Magical” his ass. It was certifiably otherworldly.
“Might just have been a long time since we’ve done this.”
You agreed, moaning a “yeah” in reply.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said like a question. “I hate to do this to you…”
“What?” You sat up so quickly that you got a little dizzy. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Jack couldn’t hide his blush. There was no easy way to say “I’m hard now, let me fuck you” after having a meltdown.
His throat bobbed and you caught it.
“You ready?”
Jack nodded and you retuned it with a nod of your own. “Okay, yeah. Alright—”
“Why does this feel like I’m losing my virginity again?” He joked. His laugh barely sounded like one because the second he sat up on his knees, his erection was all he could look at.
Jack had never been embarrassed by his cock before.
“If this is how you lost your virginity, I’d be a little nervous,” you scoffed. “Sit back against the headboard.”
He didn’t argue with you which was a rarity it terms of control. Nothing was really in his control right now and it was making his anxiety shoot through the roof.
Jack shuffled back to the headboard and slipped off his shirt. He helped you pull down his sweats carefully and even though he didn’t feel like you had to be, he was grateful for your gentleness. At the sight of his prosthetic, you tipped your head knowingly at him.
“Why didn’t you take this off yet?”
“I forgot,” he feigned innocence.
“Mhm,” you judged and took it off for him. “Sure you did.”
With his prosthetic resting on the floor against the bedside table, you resumed your position in his lap and wrapped an arm around his shoulder while your free hand wrapped around him. You’d never been with someone who needed to take a Viagra before. Jack felt different and you knew how he felt in your hands.
His dick felt firmer—less like his own and more like one that was being controlled.
Your hand went from tip to base and back and he jolted.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s like my nerves are on fire.”
“Does it feel bad?”
His nose brushed yours as he shook his head. Jack didn’t tell you to stop so you kept pumping him mildly.
“It feels really fucking good, actually.”
“Yeah?” You smiled.
“Yeah.”
Jack kissed you with everything he could muster. He gripped your bare hips tightly, sinking his fingers into your skin until he felt like you weren’t going to disappear. You put more tension in your fist and he groaned, precum escaping him and making your job easier.
“Do you feel like you’re ready?” You kissed him lazily, pulling on his bottom lip enough for it to bounce back.
He chased your lips. “What if—”
“Honey,” you soothed. “We’ll get there, okay?”
“Okay,” he accepted. He nodded, looking you in the eye and giving you the reassurance he also needed.
Lifting up in his lap, you guided him to your entrance and sunk down slowly. The feeling was overwhelming and you both needed time to adjust. Jack’s head fell back against the bed frame as far as he could go, clenching his jaw enough where the muscles strained on his face.
“You’re fine, Jack,” you cooed in his ear. Soft pants met his cheek as his hardness was unlike anything you’d experienced. “Breathe, baby.”
Your nails raked the base of his skull.
“Keep going,” he bit out. “You’re squeezing me so tight.”
“I guess we’ve both been ‘rejuvenated,’ huh?”
Jack wasn’t overly appreciative of your humor but you moved anyway, testing the waters of your bounces and grinds before settling into a rhythm that suited you. His cock stretched you wide and every time you sank back down, it was as though he never filled you in the first place. A spark of exhilaration bloomed. This was so different, so minutely different, that it felt new.
Jack’s hands groped your ass to help ease the strain on your thighs the longer you went. His lips swapped duties between connecting with yours and finding the skin of your neck, collarbone, and chest peppered with affection. Jack listened to your soft mewls. He soaked in the whispers of sweet nothings and the shaky gasps you couldn’t help.
He wanted you close.
Jack needed you to mold into him like he was showered in rain. He pulled you close; arms wrapped up around you so tight there was no escaping his embrace.
He nipped at your chin. Low and rough, Jack spoke to you. “I love you so much.”
Jack’s nose trailed up your cheek, bumping into yours and seeking your lips again.
“You have no idea how much I love you.”
“Jack,” you whined with a grin. A shake in your legs had him running his hands over your back, soothing you now instead.
“I know you’re ready, baby.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “I’m close.”
“What do you need from me?” He asked willingly.
You shook your head. “I-fuck, nothing. I just—”
Jack bent his knees the best he could and the angle his cock was hitting changed on a thrust. Deep and unforgiving, your fingernails dug into his skin hard. Jack murmured appreciation, egging you on to the finish line and neglecting himself.
You were too wrapped up in the feeling. The building of a week, the racing of your heart, to think for a second that he was nowhere near close to his orgasm.
“Come on, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
He felt the falter in your hips.
Your orgasm shook you from Heaven to Hell and back—even if believing it was hard to fathom. Jack’s hand flew to the back of your head, holding you into him as the aftershocks of muscle spasms lingered seconds after your breathing began to settle. You returned his kisses with your own against his neck and shoulder. The freckles on his body were reminders of all the places he had ever been kissed and you were adding to that—on top of ones that already existed, beside them, and in the spaces that laid empty of any.
He wouldn’t remember them in every lifetime but you liked to imagine that all of his freckles were kisses from you.
As your brain recovered from the fuzzy glow and you realized that Jack was still rock hard inside of you.
“Do you want me to—”
“No,” Jack cut you off. “No, it’s fine. It’s just… I think it takes time.”
“But now you haven’t even…” you trailed your response with a flick of your eyes downwards. “I can’t leave you like that.”
“Baby, it could take an hour.”
You glanced at the alarm clock on his side of the bed. The time read 11:47.
“We’ve got time.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m not gonna let you give me a handy for an hour.”
“Hey,” you tugged on his earlobe lightly. “I’ve got a mouth too.”
“It’s fine,” he reassured but you weren’t buying it. His mouth quirked to the side in thought. “Would you hate me if I asked you to clean up alone?”
You ran your thumb along his jawline.
“I could never hate you, Jack. I’ve lived this long, I think I can handle one less aftercare shower.”
“It makes me feel like an asshole.”
“You’re not. I promise you.”
Carefully, you lifted up from his lap and let him slip out. You avoided looking at him so he didn’t find another reason to be embarrassed about something that impacted millions of men—especially those who were on medication for concerns far more important than simply erectile dysfunction.
He watched you disappear into the bathroom and shut the door with a click before he put his pillow to his face and yelled into it.
The prescription tag read as follows:
Prolonged erection greater than 4 hours and priapism (painful erections greater than 6 hours in duration) have been reported infrequently since market approval of VIAGRA. In the event of an erection that persists longer than 4 hours, the patient should seek immediate medical assistance. If priapism is not treated immediately, penile tissue damage and permanent loss of potency could result.
Jack had to put his readers on to even see the label.
“… if priapism is not treated immediately, penile tissue damage and permanent loss…” he repeated the label back to himself to make sure he read it correctly.
His eyes flitted to his phone, touching the screen to light up a big 7:30 AM and a picture of both of your smiling faces beaming back at him.
This might not have been the actual worst day of his life but it was second.
His crutches clicked against the floor as he approached your side of the bed. He hated waking you up when you were clearly dead to the world. Laid face first into your pillow, he rested a hand on your back and shook you gently.
“Baby?”
You barely bristled. He repeated the action, calling out your name louder.
“Hm?” You grumbled in slight annoyance.
Jack shifted uncomfortably on the bed, wincing as he turned wrong and made his sweatpants tighter than they already were.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he started and realized how quickly those were the wrong words. You sat up abruptly, face twisted in concern as he tried not to cry from the pain his fucking dick won’t stop causing.
“What!?” You searched his face for an answer. “What happened!?”
“You gotta calm down.” Jack moved his arm to block your view.
“About what? What’s wrong?”
“I seem to be having a little… complication.”
Your brows furrowed. “A complication?”
Jack clicked his tongue with a nod. Your eyes darted down too obviously to his pants and back to his face. His erection was blatant. It practically waved at you from behind his arm.
“Does it have anything to do with that?” You said above a whisper. “Why do you have such bad morning wood?”
Jack groaned, again, completely at odds with himself.
“Remember when we had that bottle of red with dinner?” You nodded. “Well it turns out that sometimes while meds can cause the problem, mixing alcohol with the little blue pill causes… other problems.”
“And this can’t be solved with an orgasm?”
“Not after more than six hours.”
Your eyes bugged out of your head. “Six hours!? Jack, what the fuck!”
“I thought it was going to go away!”
You swiftly moved out of bed and shrugged on a sweatshirt. Jack watched you pilfer the room for socks and shoes and leggings and just sat there helplessly on the edge of the bed with his crutches one inch from sliding off of it. You didn’t say anything and that made it worse for him.
“I’m sorry,” Jack spoke up.
“What are you sorry for?” You opened his drawer and pulled out a fresh tee. “It’s not your fault.”
“It feels like it is.”
“Well it’s not, Jack. So stop apologizing and get your leg on.”
“I can’t bend over.”
You tossed the shirt to him. “We’re going in.”
“Where?”
“The ED.”
“No,” he said with a nervous laugh. “No the fuck we are not.”
“You say that like you have a choice, Mr. Abbot.” Oh. He didn’t like that. “Turns out that doctors are truly the worst patients. Your night shift is gone, Robby’s gotta be—”
“I am not letting Robby see me like this.” The thought repulsed him so badly that it made his skin crawl.
“Then someone else will help us,” you clarified. “The longer we wait the worse I’ll assume it will be for you. I’m not driving you to Presby or Mercy when I know the ones that can help you the best.”
“I’ll never live this down.” His eyes filled with ashamed tears and every now and then, you’d seen Jack down on his luck.
A terrible shift, a long week, anniversaries he’d rather not have… but he stared at you from the bed and he looked so small. His salt and pepper hair was flat from restless sleep and the scruff on his face couldn’t hide the jumble of thoughts pouring out of him. You moved to stand in front of him, grasping his face between two hands, and forcing him to look you in the eye.
“You are the strongest, most resilient man I have ever met. You’ve taken care of me more times than I can count and now, it’s my turn to help you the best way I know how. This is bad now, yeah… it is,” you nodded in agreement, “but it’s not forever. After this, you’ll call your therapist and tell him what happened and we will try again when things are better.”
A tear steamed down his cheek and you wiped it away with your finger.
“It’s okay to be embarrassed, honey.”
“I’m gonna make this up to you,” Jack settled. “I promise.”
“Okay.” You didn’t need him to. However, if it made him feel better, sure. Your hands tapped his face twice before letting go. “Let’s go, Soldier.”
The PTMC Emergency Room wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, but it wasn’t one you frequented.
It bustled with far too much chaos and while your own career had its fair share, there was something about Jack’s place of work that made you feel ill just looking at it. Death, hurt, pain, and suffering wrapped up in four walls, some windows, and doors.
And now Jack sat outside of it in a wheelchair because he refused to go in on his crutches.
“Just go in and tell Dana I’m out here.”
“Someone is going to have to come and get you anyway, so just come with me.”
Jack begged, “please.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Luckily, Dana was talking with a young nurse at the hub when the ambulance bay doors opened wide. You kept in a straight line to her, not distracted by the sounds and the yelling coming from one of the many rooms. Dana was halfway through a sentence when she glanced over her shoulder and did a double take.
“Hey stranger,” she beamed. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
The young nurse beside her, Emma, smiled at you in the awkward way you did when you didn’t know someone’s friend.
“Hi Dana,” you greeted.
“Jack’s not here,” her eyes questioned you. Jack had been scheduled off for the next couple days so there was no telling where he’d be other than at his house.
“Well,” you let out a loose, barely amused chuckle, “funny you should say that.”
“Is he okay?”
“Not really… I just—we just—need this on the down low, alright? He really doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here.”
She nodded understandingly and grabbed an iPad from the counter. “Where is he?”
“Out in the ambulance bay. I put him in a wheelchair.”
“Should I get Robb—”
“No!” You said loudly and shook your head. “God, no. Sorry.”
Emma jumped at the sound and her eyes darted to the bay. “Can I help?”
Your face scrunched. Jack would rather not traumatize a new nurse so early in the shift.
“Is Donnie around? Or Dr. Al-Hashimi?”
“Yeah.” Dana patted Emma on the shoulder. “Go get ‘em and we’ll put Dr. Abbot in Room 7.”
Dana rounded the hub and put a hand on your shoulder. As she stepped further away, she pressed about the situation.
“You know, you two aren’t getting any younger. You can’t go at it like rabbits.”
“Dana,” you scolded with a smile. “That’s—that’s not it.”
“What happened?”
All that was needed to be said were three little words:
“Little blue pill.”
Jack heard the hiss of the ambulance bay open and Dana walked up to him with a laugh buried in her throat. Jack was wearing a hat and glasses like a superhero in disguise and his backpack flipped over so no one could see the name angled in his lap.
“Don’t fucking say it, Evans. Don’t.”
“I’m not!” She held up her hands in defense.
“Dana said she’s gonna help. No one needs to know.”
You grabbed his crutches off the wall and followed closely as Dana wheeled him into Room 7 and pulled the curtains. She left still fighting amusement as Donnie entered with Baran.
“Dr. Abbot,” she said fondly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
“I think we both had different ideas about how today would go.”
Jack took off his glasses and hat, passing them off to you. The bag stayed lumped in his lap.
“So, what brings you in today?”
There was a second of silence and then:
“I seem to have a bit of a… priapism problem.”
Baran’s eyes widened and Donnie hesitated putting on his second glove.
“And how long has the erection lasted?” Jack hated how she pronounced the word loud and clear. He looked at you, shrugging for a loose approximation of time.
“Maybe around… since 11 or so?” You informed.
“So somewhere around 8 hours?” She asked and motioned for Donnie to put the bed rails down. “Does that seem accurate?”
You both nodded. Donnie wheeled Jack over to the bed and he hesitated, looking at you to help him instead. You handed Jack his crutches and as he stood, both Donnie and Baran tried to be respectful and looked away from Jack’s body.
“Dr. Abbot, I’m going to have to ask you some questions about your medical history, medications, and so forth. Is that okay with you?”
“I think you can just call me Jack now,” he grunted as he shuffled onto the bed.
“Can you tell me what medications you take?”
“I-uh, take um, 100 mg of Zofolt, 3 mg of Prazosin for sleeping, and Cyclobenzaprine as needed, 5 mg three times a day, but I haven’t needed it lately.”
“And for the priapism problem?” She slipped on her own gloves.
“I took one Viagra.”
“Have you taken one before?”
“No,” Jack admitted. “My therapist changed one of my medications to Zoloft two months ago and ordered it as a precaution.”
Baran nodded in understanding and as she sat down on a stool and rolled closer, Jack’s hand shot out to yours and squeezed tightly.
“Did he explain the side effects of taking those medications together?”
“Yes,” Jack recalled. “But we must have had… three glasses of wine last night and I’m pretty certain that’s the reason it won’t go away. A reaction, if you will.”
“You’re not wrong.” She smiled at him kindly, then to you.
“How long have you been married? I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
“Six years,” you told her. “And it seems we’re always finding something new to experience together.”
“It’s a good thing,” Baran assured. “Imagine living a life where it’s normal and boring all the time. At least you’ll be able to laugh about it later.”
Her eyes found Jack’s and he knew she needed to look at him more closely.
“What happens in this room, Dr. Abbot, stays in this room. Got it?”
He nodded and focused on a spot across the wall as Donnie hovered behind Baran. Your hand covered his, rubbing gentle circles to ease the discomfort.
“Was this a special occasion or something?” Donnie asked Jack. “Or just a regular Saturday night for you two?”
“Just a Saturday night,” he said shyly. Jack, being bashful? You relished it.
“I gotta say Doc, your wife’s a lucky woman. Who knew Dr. Abbot hit the genetic lottery.”
The blush that overtook his body was a deeper red than his penis. Your hand flew to your mouth, covering the choked laugh before it could escape but Donnie was grinning like the Cheshire Cat and keeping it in was practically impossible. Baran bit down on her tongue.
But Jack knew how to bite back too. “If your idea of the genetic lottery is a guy with 1.75 legs, then sure. Whatever floats your boat.”
“Okay.” Baran finished her inspection.
“I have a feeling this isn’t a cold compress kind of procedure,” Jack wished.
Baran shook her head.
“We’re going to need to aspirate.”
Jack was back on his crutches after an hour with a soreness that would last hours.
“I don’t think I need to tell you what you can and cannot do in the next 24 hours,” Baran opened up the curtain and immediately Jack locked eyes with Dana.
“No, you don’t.”
“Maybe also speak to your therapist about the prescription the next time you go?”
Jack gave you a closed mouth smile. “I already heard that from this one.”
“She knows what she’s talking about it seems,” Baran nodded in approval.
The door opened up and Donnie held it for Jack to escape from. The RN held out his fist, asking Jack wordlessly to bump it.
Jack obliged.
“My man,” Donnie grinned. He slapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder before walking to a computer.
“I’m never filling in for day shift again, ever,” Jack told you over his shoulder.
“All good, Jack?” Dana asked from the hub as you both passed by.
“Never better.” Jack kept going towards the door.
“Thanks Dana for your help,” you said appreciatively. “If he never tells you, he’s thankful too. And I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
The doors to Trauma Bay 2 opened with a whoosh. Jack, still on the slow run on his crutches out of the ED never looked back, but Robby caught sight of him as he sanitized his hands.
“Woah!” He exaggerated. “What’s Jack doing here?”
“He’s going home,” Dana informed and you gave a small wave to Jack’s work wife. He hated when you called Robby that but it didn’t make it any less true.
“Just a little accident.”
“Jack!” Robby called after him but Jack didn’t care.
“Adios! Goodbye!” He said your name loudly followed by a “hurry up!”
You tapped the counter. “Sorry. The princess needs a ride home.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to call him that,” Robby laughed.
“It’s the least of his problems right now.”
They watched you trail behind your husband who, once through the second door, turned and waited for you patiently. You kissed him gently before walking out of view and inside of the PTMC, the world continued to turn.
Robby looked at Dana with a question and Baran walked away before he could ask her anything remotely related to Jack. But Donnie… Donnie just can’t keep anything to himself.
He turned to Robby in his swivel chair.
“Did you know Abbot’s packin’ heat down there?”
A/N: i wrote this straight over three days after not writing for about a year. crazy how that works, huh?
i hope the twitter divas find this.
comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated! it keeps us writing!
Summary: your boyfriend gets a little jealous when a past situationship with a certain ortho god comes to light in front of everyone in the trauma room.
AN: Allusions to sex and cursing. Sorry I’m so Pitt focused right now babes! I just can’t get enough!
You were listening to Whitaker explain the findings on the xray when the doors to the trauma room opened up.
After all, this was a teaching hospital, and Ogilvie was listening as Whitaker spoke and you chimed in when needed.
Robby stood on the other side managing the patients pain and vitals.
You knew Park was upstairs but you really hoped he would send anyone else down.
“Is this a favorable amputation,” he said, cutting Dennis off and demanding the attention from the room.
You squeezed your eyes shut. You had successfully avoided having a conversation with Brendan Park for the better part of two years while working under the same roof.
Robby rolled his eyes, as he always did when surgery came down and demanded attention, “Park, always a pleasure.”
“Pretty clean cut, sliced through like a guillotine,” Garcia said calmly.
Then his eyes met yours across the room and he said your name, it was by no means soft. In fact, there wasn’t a soft thing about him.
But it wasn’t cold either, which was the only persona he ever presented, especially towards people he felt were below him.
You gave him a nod as acknowledgement. His eyes left yours and he went back to barking orders at everyone around him, Garcia taking notes from his side.
You could feel Robby’s gaze basically burning a hole into the side of your head at the small interaction. Everyone was a little confused by it, but it wasn’t uncommon for men in this hospital to have a crush on you.
You were beautiful and smart, and more than competent.
As Park finished giving instructions and being rude to Whitaker he moved across the room to stand by you.
Everyone went back to what they were doing, except for Robby, who was now watching you interact with Park.
“I haven’t heard from you in a while,” he said quietly enough that you hoped only you could hear.
You scoffed, “really? Didn’t think you would notice, Brendan.”
“I was wondering if I could take you out again?” He said confidently, grinning.
You couldn’t have rolled your eyes further enough into the back of your head, “and why would I let you do that?”
You could feel everyone trying not to obviously listen to the conversation, grasping at any gossip they could.
“I figured maybe we could try again. Third time’s the charm and all that,” he said, still grinning. It was a smile he rarely wore at work, especially in the ER.
“Are you considering whatever those were to be two attempts?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest and raising your brow.
“Exactly. So the third would be the charm,” he smirked.
“You’re persistent. I’ll give you that,” you said, keeping your tone neutral in attempt to sound casual to those around you.
You hated the way you wanted to smile, god damn his surgeon charm. “That’s great for the OR. Less charming in a trauma room while you ask me out.”
“Ouch. Is that a hard no?” He said, feigning offense.
“It’s a polite no.”
“Did I do something wrong? I thought the dates went pretty well,” he said with a shrug.
“You spent forty minutes telling the waiter about how your ACL repair technique is the fastest in the state, even though I’m pretty sure there’s no evidence to support that.”
“It was relevant to the story.”
“There was no story. It was like I was forced to attend your TED talk.”
“Okay… fair. But I was nervous,” he lowered his voice at the last part of the sentence, like he was trying to be vulnerable.
“You didn’t seem nervous. You seemed impressed with yourself,” you swore you heard Robby choke back a laugh, but you didn’t spare a look at him,
“That’s my baseline personality,” he was still fucking smirking.
“Yes, I noticed,” was all you could manage in response.
“Look, I know I can come off… intense. But I did enjoy spending time with you. And plus you love teasing me,” he said reaching out to squeeze your side, a move that made you freeze, far too intimate for your liking.
“Mmhmm, but I can tease you right here in the trauma room without having to get dressed up. And it’s free,” you quipped.
“That’s harsh. But wouldn’t it be more fun to tease me over wine? And who said anything about you paying.”
You smiled a little, only humming in response.
“What if I promised to ask at least three questions about you this time?” He raised his eyebrows at his own suggestion.
“I feel like that’s something we shouldn’t have to preface, it should just be a given.”
“I’m serious. And technically I haven’t heard you say no yet.”
You nearly choked, “I think you’re delusional. I guess you’ll just have to do better than groveling with me in a trauma room full of my peers.”
“Alright. I can respect that,” he said with a small smile.
“Now, excuse me Dr. Park, I have to irrigate this severed leg with… what is it again… oh right… saline!” You patted his bicep before turning back to the patient.
He walked around you and back to the doors, his tense posture returning almost immediately, “page me once you have consent.” And he was gone.
You finally felt like you could exhale.
The nonessential people left the room. Whitaker took Ogilvie to find saline. Leaving only you and Robby, and your patient.
“So…” Robby broke the silence, “Park the Shark…. And you?”
You rolled your eyes immediately, “it was years ago, Michael.”
He hummed in response.
“You know I’m kind of taking a three month vacation with you starting tonight, right?” You said without looking up from the chart in your hands, “I also believe there’s a nice script M on the gold chain I’m wearing.”
“Yeah, well you seemed to have forgotten to mention your boyfriend to Park,” he said coldly.
“Oh my god. Michael, are you jealous?” You looked up at him, his eyes still on the monitor in front of him, “… of Park the freaking Shark?”
He scoffed, “no, not jealous.” You walked around the patient to exit the trauma room.
“Well, Mr. Not Jealous, I’ll leave you to your irrigation.” You said, pushing the door open with your back and leaving the room while snapping your gloves off.
You reentered the chaos of the ER and couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Part of you loved seeing Robby a little jealous, you had been together for a few years, and it made you feel a little fire inside of you. Call it toxic, or trauma, or whatever you wanted. It excited you.
You weaved through all the people until you reached the small break room, hoping for a cup of shitty coffee and a moment of reprieve.
You didn’t even hear Robby slip in behind you until you heard a lock click.
“I didn’t even know the door in here locked,” you said leaning against the counter and sipping your coffee.
He walked over to you, ignoring your words. He took the coffee cup out of your hand, placing it behind you. He placed a hand on each side of you on the counter, caging you in. His face only inches from yours.
“Do I need to remind Dr. Park upstairs what’s mine?” He said quietly, his breath ticking your cheek.
“What’s yours?” You said teasingly, but your voice was shaking.
He smiled a little, liking the effect he was having on you. He nodded slowly, “what’s mine.”
You were blushing under his gaze, “no need to make a scene, I know who I belong to.” 
He nearly grunted at your statement.
“And I can spend the next three months showing you,” you added, barely above a whisper.
He chuckled, his shoulders shaking, his eyes didn’t leave yours, “I’m looking forward to our little trip then.”
The door knob jiggled, someone trying to get in to the break room. You looked at the door but Robby’s eyes stayed on you.
“Can’t wait to run out of here with you at seven,” you said, flicking your eyes to the clock before back to him, “only three more hours.”
He leaned down and kissed you slowly, much more passionately than you he usually would at work.
“We might have to make a pit stop at home, I don’t know if I can wait.” He said honestly as he pulled away from the kiss.
You laughed against his lips, “patience is a virtue, Michael.”
He laughed.
Now there was banging on the door. Robby groaned, pecking your lips before moving to unlock the door, revealing Dana.
“Oh, the lovebirds, should’ve guessed. I didn’t even know the break room locked.” She said with a smirk.
“Well I’m going back to work,” you grabbed your coffee cup, “see you at seven Dr. Robinavitch.” You said before slipping out the door and back into the sea of chaos.
You smiled into your cup as you were bombarded by residents needing approvals and opinion.
But all you could think about is how there was only three more hours until you and Robby were completely and utterly alone for three whole months.
summary: valarr cannot give you children, and watching it slowly take him apart is worse than the grief itself. you tell yourself you are doing this for him, and so you turn to his father. (10k)
pairing: baelor targaryen x f!reader / sides of valarr targaryen x f!reader
content: canon divergent, forbidden relationship, infertility themes, angst with a bittersweet ending, hurt/comfort, guilt, arranged marriage, age gap, infidelity. cw mentions of not being able to have kids, emotional withdrawal, self reproach, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI), taboo relationship ig, not proofread don’t come for me lolz.
The candle has burned down to a stub and Valarr still hasn't come to bed.
You stopped making it obvious that you were waiting weeks ago. You used to sit up when he came in late, and the look on his face when he found you watching the door was enough to teach you not to do it again, so now you just lie there in the dark and listen to him stand at the window like he's done every night since the maester said what he said.
You have gotten very familiar with the sound of him not sleeping, the way he shifts his weight after a while, the way he exhales slowly like a man trying to talk himself into or out of something.
Fourteen days ago you had sat beside your husband in a small, warm room and listened to a maester tell you, carefully, that you were healthy. That there was no reason, from your side of things, that children should not come. Then the maester had looked at Valarr, and something in the room had shifted, and Valarr had gone very still in the chair beside you in the way he does when something has hit him that he isn't ready to show yet. He had folded his hands in his lap and looked at the table and nodded once, slowly, like a man receiving a verdict he had already suspected.
He had not spoken on the walk back to your chambers. Not at dinner that evening, not the morning after, not the one after that, and by the third day you understood that this was not him taking time to grieve and come back to you. This was him going somewhere you couldn't follow, locking the door behind him, and you had been standing on the other side of it ever since.
"Mayhaps we pray to the gods this evening," you say, because the silence has pressed on you long enough and the candle is almost gone and you cannot lie here staring at the ceiling for another hour. "For mercy on us. To grant us babes, Valarr."
He doesn't turn from the window. Outside the city is still going, indifferent to the two of you, and his reflection in the dark glass looks like a man who hasn't slept properly in a fortnight, because he hasn't. "We always pray. It's got nothing to do with the gods."
"Then what has it got to do with."
"Me." He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world, like he's been sitting with it so long it doesn't even hurt to say anymore, even though you know it does. "I am the problem. You heard the maester same as I did."
"That is not what he said."
"It is what he meant." He turns around then, and you go quiet because the look on his face is not the quick anger you know from him, the kind that flares bright and burns itself out fast. This is something heavier, and you can see in the set of his jaw and the tiredness around his eyes that he has been carrying it for two weeks and it has not gotten any lighter. "He chose his words carefully, he was being a good maester about it, but I understood him well enough. I'm not stupid."
"I know you're not stupid."
"Then stop looking at me like that."
You don't ask him what he means because you know what he means. "Come to bed, Valarr."
"I'm not tired."
"I didn't say you were tired." You push the covers back and get out of bed, the floor cold under your feet, and you cross the room toward him. He watches you come with his hands at his sides and doesn't move away, which is more than he's managed most evenings this past week. "You should eat something too. You barely touched your plate at supper."
"You should have a husband who can give you children," he says.
You knew it was coming. You have watched it building in him for days, in the way he looks at you across the dinner table and then quickly looks somewhere else, in the way he holds himself at a distance even when you're standing right beside him, like he's been trying to apologize for something without yet finding the words for it. Now he has found them, and he looks almost relieved, which makes something in you go tight.
"That is not something I'm willing to discuss," you say.
"I'm not asking you to discuss it. I'm telling you something true."
"It isn't true."
"You are a Tully." His voice has gone flat. "Your father gave twenty years of his life to this court, to this family, and he gave you to us expecting something reasonable in return, and I cannot." His jaw tightens. "I cannot give you what was agreed. You know that as well as I do."
You stop in front of him, close enough to see how tired his eyes are, close enough that he has to look at you properly. "My father wanted an alliance. He got one. I didn't marry you for children, Valarr."
"Then what did you marry me for," he says, and the way he says it tells you he genuinely wants to know, that somewhere in fourteen days of standing at that window he has talked himself into forgetting the answer.
"Because I have been in love with you since I was ten years old and my father first brought me to this court." You watch his face when you say it and you see something move through it that he doesn't manage to get a hold of in time. "I didn't know anyone here, not a single person, and on my second day you found me lost in the corridor near the east wing and walked me all the way to the great hall yourself. You talked the whole way there, about the yard, about something that had happened that morning that had made you laugh, I can't even remember what it was now, but I remember standing there thinking that you were a prince and you didn't have to do any of it and you did it anyway." You look at him steadily. "When my father told me I was going to marry you I had to excuse myself from the room so he wouldn't see how relieved I was. So don't stand there and tell me what I deserve as though you know better than I do what I signed up for. I chose you. I would choose you again."
Something in his face shifts, and underneath all of it is something much worse than anger. It's a man who wants badly to believe what you're saying and is afraid to let himself. He looks away first, which he almost never does.
"I had it all fixed in my head," he says, quieter now, his grip on the back of the chair behind him loosening slightly. "What our life was going to look like. You, children, all of it. I've had that picture for years and now I look at it and I just." He stops and swallows, as if the words hurt to say aloud. "I don't know who I am if I can't give you that. Every time I look at you I feel like I've already failed you and you haven't even asked me for anything, and I don't know how to be in the same room as you and hold that at the same time."
"I'm asking you to come to bed," you say softly. "That's all I'm asking."
"In ten years," he says, like he hasn't heard you, like he's been saving this part too. "In twenty, when there are still no children and you're—"
"In twenty years I'll still be your wife and I'll still be telling you that you're wrong." You reach up and put your hand against his jaw, and he goes still under it but he doesn't step back, which is more than he's given you in two weeks. "Look at me, Valarr."
He does, and his eyes in the low light are doing something he would hate you to name, so you don't. You just hold his gaze and keep your hand where it is. "I have loved you for more than half my life. I am not going to stop because of this."
For a long moment he just looks at you, and then something in him gives way, not all at once but enough, and his forehead comes down to rest against yours and you feel the breath go out of him slowly, like he's been holding it since the maester's chambers.
"I can't look at you," he says, barely above a whisper, and there's something in it that makes your chest ache. "I love you and I can't look at you because every time I do all I can think is that I'm letting you down, and I don't know how to make that stop."
You keep your hand where it is and you don't say anything, because you have tried saying things and it hasn't helped, and sometimes all there is left to do is stay. After a while he lifts his hand and covers yours, pressing it a little more firmly against his cheek, and you feel him breathe out again, slower this time, and the candle dies on its own on the bedside table and the room goes dark around you both.
"We can try," he murmurs after a while, mostly to himself, as if he were reminding himself. "No matter how long it may take."
Three months pass and nothing comes of them.
You don't speak about it the way you did in those first weeks. You and Valarr have settled into something quieter than grief, something more like routine. You try, you wait, and when the waiting ends the same way it always does you don't sit with it for too long because sitting with it has never helped either of you. You have gotten good at moving through it. You have gotten good at a lot of things you never wanted to be good at.
It had been a bright morning in early spring when you find yourself standing at the far end of the courtyard with Elena, watching Valarr across the yard without meaning to.
He is crouched down in the way tall men have to crouch to be level with small children, one knee nearly to the ground, talking to the little boy belonging to one of the lesser lords who has been at court this past fortnight. The child can't be more than three or four, round faced and very serious, and he is showing Valarr something held in his cupped hands with all the gravity that small children bring to small things. Valarr is looking at whatever it is like it is the most interesting thing he has seen in his life. He says something. The boy laughs, sudden and bright, and Valarr laughs with him, and the sound of it carries all the way across the courtyard and lands somewhere in your chest that you weren't prepared for.
You have not heard him laugh like that in months.
"—and I told her that the blue would suit her far better than the green, but she never listens, she never has, princess are you listening to me?"
You pull your eyes away. "Forgive me. What were you saying."
Elena follows your gaze across the courtyard and back again with the discretion of a woman who has been doing this job long enough to know what she is and isn't supposed to notice. "I was saying that your new gown has arrived from the seamstress. The blue one."
"Right," you say. "Good."
"Are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine." You look back across the yard before you can stop yourself and that is when Valarr glances up, most likely feeling your eyes on him, and for a moment he just looks at you with the smile still sitting on his face. Then he sees yours, and the smile doesn't leave exactly, but something behind it changes, and you understand too late that you haven't managed to arrange yourself into anything useful, that whatever was sitting on your face when he looked up is still sitting there now.
You watch him say something brief to the boy, ruffling his hair gently before he straightens to his full height and starts across the yard toward you.
"Should I—" Elena begins.
"Stay," you say, because you do not trust yourself to have this conversation without someone else present.
Valarr reaches you and his eyes move briefly to Elena and back to you. He has the grace not to send her away. "Walk with me," he says, and it isn't quite a question, and you fall into step beside him along the edge of the yard while Elena follows at a suitable distance behind.
"I'm sorry," he says, when you are far enough from anyone else.
"Valarr, don't—"
"I saw your face." He keeps his eyes ahead, jaw set. "When you were watching me with the boy. I saw what was on it and I've been standing there trying to unknow it ever since."
You don't say anything.
"I've been handling this badly," he says. "I know I have. I've been so far inside my own head that I stopped thinking about what it was doing to you, and that isn't—" He stops walking, turns to look at you properly. "That isn't the husband I mean to be."
"You don't need to apologise to me."
"I do, actually."
"You don't. You are grieving the same as I am, you are allowed to grieve it—"
"I'm not grieving the same as you," he says. "You've been grieving it and holding me up at the same time and pretending you weren't and I let you do that for three months." Something in his face is very open in a way he doesn't usually allow himself outside of your chambers. "I'm sorry. I mean it."
You look at him, at the exhaustion in his face, at the way he is looking at you like he is afraid of what he'll find there, and something in you goes very soft despite itself.
"Stop apologising," you say quietly. "I don't want an apology. I just want you to stop disappearing."
Something in his expression loosens. "I'm trying," he says. "I am genuinely trying."
"I know you are."
He reaches out and takes your hand, briefly, squeezes it once in the way he has done since you were both young, and then releases it and presses a kiss to your temple that stays a beat longer than it needs to before he straightens.
"I'll see you at supper," he says.
"Yes."
He goes, back across the courtyard the way he came, and you stand there and watch him and think that you love him, that you have always loved him, that none of this has changed a single thing about that.
Elena appears at your side. "The blue gown," she says, after a moment. "Shall I have it laid out for supper this evening?"
"Yes, please."
"And the Westerlands lord with the eyebrows sent another note this morning. He is very persistent."
"Tell him I'm otherwise engaged," you say. "Indefinitely."
"With pleasure." She folds her hands in front of her and stands beside you in the warm morning air, and you are grateful for her, for the fact that she knows when to talk and when to simply be present. After a moment she says, "You know it will come right in the end, princess. These things take time, that is all."
You open your mouth to answer her and then stop, because something at the far end of the courtyard has caught your eye and whatever you were going to say leaves you entirely.
Baelor Targaryen is standing there.
He has simply appeared the way he tends to appear places, unhurried, a document held at his side that he is no longer reading. He is looking across the courtyard. He is looking at you.
You have known him almost as long as you have known his son. He was the first member of this family your father properly introduced you to when you came to court at ten years old, and you had carried a small and very private feeling for him through your girlhood that you had put down sensibly when you were old enough to understand what it was, because you loved Valarr, because it was Valarr you were going to marry, because some things you simply set aside and do not go back to.
He is still looking at you.
You hold his gaze a moment longer than you mean to, just long enough to be certain you are reading it correctly, and something moves through you that you do not entirely have a name for. Then, beneath it, quiet and uninvited, a thought takes shape. That if Valarr cannot give you a child, his father's blood is the same blood, that a child gotten from Baelor would be Targaryen all the same, that no one would ever have to know the difference, and for just one unguarded moment you let yourself think it fully and clearly before the horror of it catches up with you.
You cringe. Visibly, helplessly, your face doing something entirely beyond your control.
"Did you hear me?" Elena's voice cuts through it. A pause. "Are you quite all right? Your face just did something."
You tear your gaze from across the courtyard. "I'm fine," you say, too quickly.
Elena is looking at you with an expression that is equal parts concern and curiosity, which is not a combination you enjoy being on the receiving end of. "Are you certain? You look as though something disagreed with you."
"I'm perfectly fine," you say, smoothing your expression into something more convincing. "Just a passing thought. It was nothing."
You do not look back across the courtyard. You look at your hands and you breathe and you tell yourself very firmly that you are not the kind of woman who thinks things like that, and that you will not be thinking it again.
Your face still burns regardless of what you tell yourself.
You had told yourself you would not give in to it. You had told yourself it was nothing more than a passing thought, something shameful that would fade if you refused to look at it too closely.
It had not faded whatsoever. It had followed you into the sept.
You sat before the candles with your head bowed, hands loosely clasped in your lap, and tried to pray. You tried to focus on the words, on the quiet, on the steady rhythm of breath in and out, but the moment you closed your eyes it was there again, waiting patiently. It came like something already decided.
Because all you could think about was how easy it would be.
Valarr and his father shared the same blood, the same dark hair, the same blue-brown eyes that caught light differently depending on the hour. A child between you and Baelor would look no different from a child between you and Valarr. No one would question it. No one would dare look at a Targaryen heir and find reason to doubt. It would save your marriage and your husband's pride and the succession all at once, and no one would ever have to carry the weight of knowing except you.
The thought did not leave. It only deepened.
Because it was not only the child now. It was him. Baelor.
You found yourself thinking, with a kind of horrified clarity, of what it would actually mean to go to him. You thought about the way he would look at you when you said the words, that steadiness of his that never quite left his face. Until the courtyard. Until the way he had been looking at you across the yard with something in his expression that you had not been able to name and had not been able to stop thinking about since.
You thought of his hands. The kind that did not hesitate once they had decided on something. You wondered, before you could stop yourself, how they might feel. Whether he would be gentle the way a careful man is gentle, or whether there would be something firmer beneath it.
You imagined his voice lowered, not for council chambers, not for duty, but for you alone. You thought about what it would be to hear him say your name like that, in the dark, just for you. You thought about the grey at his temples and the short dark beard and those eyes, one brown and one blue, and what it would be to have both of them looking at you and nothing else.
The heat that rose to your face was not entirely shame.
You opened your eyes abruptly, breath unsteady, and fixed your gaze on the candle flame in front of you. The sept was quiet around you, the smell of incense thick in the air, and none of it helped.
Forgive me, you thought, though you were not entirely sure which part you were asking forgiveness for. The thought itself. The fact that some traitorous part of you had not turned away from it fast enough. Or the fact that even now, kneeling before the gods with every intention of being a good and faithful wife, some small and quiet part of you was not entirely sorry.
You loved your husband. You had always loved him, and that had never changed. Not through the grief of the last months, not through the silence and the distance. You loved Valarr and you were sitting in a sept thinking about his father and you could not make yourself stop.
You stared at the candle until your eyes watered.
The thought had not repulsed you the way it should have. That was what you could not forgive yourself for. Not the thought itself, which had arrived uninvited and could be blamed on grief and desperation. But the fact that when it had taken shape in your mind, fully and clearly, some part of you had looked at it and not flinched. Some part of you had looked at it and felt, beneath the horror, something uncomfortably close to relief.
You looked up at the statue of the Mother above the altar, serene and entirely unhelpful.
"I know," you said quietly, to no one, or perhaps to her. "I know."
You do not know what possessed you to act upon it.
Three days had passed since the sept. Three days of telling yourself it was over, that you had sat before the Mother and acknowledged the thought for what it was and left it there on the stone floor when you walked out, that you were not the kind of woman who took something like that and carried it home and turned it over in the dark. Three days of being a good wife, of sitting across from Valarr at supper and talking about ordinary things, of lying beside him at night and breathing slowly and thinking about nothing.
Three days, and then it was the fourth evening, and you were standing in front of Baelor’s study door in a corridor that was empty in both directions, and you had absolutely no idea what you were going to say.
You stared at the door like it had done something to you personally. You had walked here with a kind of purposeful blankness in your head, not thinking too far ahead, telling yourself you were simply going for an evening walk, that your feet had simply brought you here by coincidence, that you could turn around at any moment and go back to your chambers and none of this would have happened. You could still do that. You were still doing nothing wrong. You were simply standing in a corridor.
You breathed out slowly, shakily, and knocked before you could finish the thought.
The knock came out quieter than you intended. You waited, and the corridor was very still around you, and you were just raising your hand to knock again when the door opened.
Baelor filled the frame of it. He was still dressed in his council clothes, a quill held loosely in one hand that told you he had been working. His eyes found you immediately, and if he was surprised to find you standing at his door at this hour he gave no sign of it whatsoever. He simply looked at you, and then the corner of his mouth moved into a small smile, if you could call it that, and he stepped back from the doorway to let you in.
"Princess," he said lowly.
You looked past him into the room, the desk scattered with papers, the candles burned partway down, the familiar smell of parchment and something warmer underneath it, and then back at him, and then, because your mind had apparently stopped working entirely, you said, "Can I come in?"
He looked at you for just a moment, something shifting briefly at the corner of his eyes that might have been amusement, because he had already moved aside to let you in, because the door was open and his arm was extended and the answer was self-evident, and you had asked anyway.
"Of course," he said, and there was nothing in his voice that made you feel foolish for it, which was somehow worse than if there had been.
You stepped inside and heard the door close softly behind you.
His study was warmer than the corridor, the fire having been kept up, and you stood just inside the door for a moment longer than was natural before you made yourself move toward the chair he gestured to across from his desk. You sat. He set his quill down and moved around to his own chair and settled into it with ease.
He looked at you across the scattered papers between you and said nothing for a moment, which was very like him. Baelor had never been the kind of man who filled silence just to fill it.
"How have you been keeping," he said finally.
"Well," you said, and then, because he was still looking at you, "reasonably well."
He accepted that with a slight nod. "And Valarr."
Something moved in your chest at the name but you kept your face even. "He is well. Better, I think, than he was. He has been trying."
"He is a good man," Baelor said. "He takes things hard when he takes them at all, always has, but he comes through it." A pause. "You both will."
You nodded and looked down at your hands in your lap and said nothing.
Baelor reached for the goblet on the corner of his desk and held it toward you in offering. You shook your head. He set it back down and leaned into his chair, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read, which was nothing new. You had never been very good at reading Baelor Targaryen.
"The court is quieter now that the lord from the Westerlands has taken his leave," he said, and there was something faintly dry in it. "I imagine that's a relief."
Despite everything you almost smiled. "Elena was very pleased about it."
"I noticed she looked considerably less tense at supper last night."
"She has strong opinions about eyebrows."
"A worthy thing to have strong opinions about," he said, and the warmth in it was so ordinary, so completely like every conversation you had ever had with this man over the years, that for a moment you forgot entirely why you were here and simply sat in it.
Then you remembered, and your stomach turned over.
You looked back down at your hands. You had been clasping and unclasping them without realizing it and you made yourself stop. The fire crackled in the grate. Outside the window the city was a distant murmur.
"Is there something on your mind," Baelor said. Not a push. Just an opening, left there quietly for you to take or leave.
"No," you said, and then immediately, "Yes. I don't–I'm not sure how to–" You stopped. Pressed your lips together. Tried again. "I came here because I wanted to speak with you about something and now that I'm here I find I don't quite know how to begin."
He said nothing. He simply waited, which was worse than if he had prompted you, because it meant the next words were entirely yours.
You looked up at him. He was watching you steadily from across the desk, the candlelight catching the grey at his temples, and the combination of the look on his face and the fact that you were about to say what you were about to say made your heart rate do something entirely unhelpful.
"I want you to know first," you said, "that I have thought about this a great deal. I have not come here lightly. I have been–I have been trying very hard not to come here at all, actually, and I–" Your voice came out thinner than you wanted it to. You swallowed. "This is not something I would ask under any other circumstance. I need you to know that."
Baelor's expression had not changed but he had gone very still in his chair. "Go on," he said quietly.
"It's Valarr," you said, and your voice caught slightly on his name in a way you hadn't anticipated. You pushed through it. "You know–you know what the maester said. You know what it has done to him. You have seen it, I think, better than most because you know him, you know how he carries things, and what this has done to him is–" You stopped. Pressed your hands flat against your thighs. "It is killing him. Slowly and quietly it is killing him and there is nothing I can do about it. I cannot fix it. I cannot give him what he needs and I cannot take the pain of it away from him and I have watched him for months now and I–"
You were not going to cry. You were absolutely not going to cry in Baelor Targaryen's study at this hour.
"I love him," you said, and you meant it the way you always meant it, simply and completely. "I love him and I would do anything to take this from him. I would do anything to give him back that version of himself that existed before the maester said what he said, before he stopped laughing, before he started looking at me like he has already failed me even though he hasn't, he hasn't failed me at all, but I cannot make him believe that no matter how many times I say it and I—"
You stopped, closing your eyes for a moment, then opening them back, suddenly feeling the urge to get up and leave the room.
"I need your help," you said. The words came out barely above a whisper and once they were out there was no taking them back. "I know what I'm asking. I know exactly what I'm asking and I know that it is wrong and I know that you will likely tell me to leave, but I have run out of every other option and I am desperate enough to be sitting in this chair saying this to you, which should tell you how desperate I truly am." You met his eyes and held them even though every instinct told you to look away. "A child from you would be Targaryen blood all the same. Valarr would have his heir. No one would ever have to know. No one would ever question it." Your voice dropped further. "And I would never ask anything of you again for as long as I lived. I swear it."
The silence that followed was the longest of your life.
Baelor looked at you. His face was unreadable in the way it went unreadable when something had hit him that he was not yet ready to show, and you sat there and bore the weight of his gaze and waited and tried to remember how to breathe.
"I'm doing this for him," you said, into the quiet, because you needed him to know it, because it was true and because saying it out loud was the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely. "Only for him. I want you to know that."
Baelor was quiet for another long moment. When he finally spoke his voice was very low.
"I know," he said. "I believe you."
He stood then, slowly, and moved around the desk, and you watched him come and made yourself stay very still. He stopped a few feet from you and looked down at you in the chair with an expression that was not pity, which you were grateful for, and not judgment, which you were even more grateful for. It was something else. Something you did not have a name for.
"What you have told me tonight," he said, "I will forget. For Valarr's sake and for yours."
"Please," you said, and you hated how your voice came out, thin and rushed and nothing like you intended. You got to your feet because you couldn't bear to have him standing over you while you said it.
"Please, I need you to understand that I am not– I am not a woman who does things like this. I am not someone who would come here for any other reason than– Valarr is so good. He is so good and he gives everything he has to everyone around him and he has spent his whole life trying to make his father proud, trying to make this realm proud, and the one thing he cannot do, the one thing that was supposed to be simple, is–" Your voice broke on it, just slightly, and you pressed on. "He deserves to be a father. He would be so good at it. And I cannot give that to him and it is the one thing I want more than anything and I thought– I only thought that if there were a way to–"
"Enough." His voice was quiet but it stopped you completely. Not unkind. Just final.
You closed your mouth.
He looked at you for a moment, and something moved through his expression that he didn't quite manage to keep back, something that was there and gone before you could name it. "You are tired," he said. "You have been carrying this for a long time and it has gotten to your head. That is all this is."
“Your Grace–”
"I will not speak of it again," he said. "Not tonight, not after tonight. What was said in this room stays in this room, do you understand me." It was not quite a question.
You swallowed. "Yes."
"Good." He held your gaze a moment longer, steady and unreadable as ever, and then he looked toward the door in a way that was not unkind but was very clear.
"I'm sorry," you said, because you couldn't leave without saying it. "I'm sorry, I should not have come, I don't know what I was—" You stopped. Shook your head. "Forgive me."
He said nothing to that. He simply looked at you with that same expression you couldn't read, and you took it as the grace it was and turned and crossed the room and let yourself out.
The corridor was very cold after the warmth of the study.
You pulled the door shut behind you and stood there for just a moment with your hand still flat against the wood, eyes closed, listening to the quiet of the empty hallway. Then the full weight of what you had just done settled over you all at once, and it was considerably heavier than you had anticipated.
You walked.
You did not walk quickly, because walking quickly would have felt like running, and you were not going to run. You kept your chin level and your steps even and you moved through the corridors of the Red Keep like a woman who had simply been for an evening walk and was now returning to her chambers, and you did not let yourself think about what you had said until you were far enough away that the study door was no longer visible behind you.
Then you thought about it, and your stomach turned over so completely that you had to stop walking for a moment and press your hand to the wall.
You had gone to your father in law's study. You had sat in the chair across from his desk and looked him in the eye and asked him to bed you so that your husband would have an heir.
You pressed the back of your other hand against your mouth.
Your father had raised you with care and intention and had given twenty years of his life to this court and had placed you here in good faith, and this was what you had done with it. You had sat in that chair and said those words to that man and then apologized and fled like a child who had knocked something off a shelf and hoped no one had noticed, except that it was not a shelf, it was Baelor Targaryen, and he had noticed, and he would remember no matter what he said about forgetting because a man like that forgot nothing.
You started walking again because standing still was worse.
You felt guilt for going there.
Guilt for the thoughts that had driven you there, for the three days you had spent turning them over in the dark instead of putting them down where they belonged. Guilt for using Valarr as the reason, for saying his name in that room, for bringing his goodness and his pain into something like this as though it absolved you of any part in it. Valarr did not know you had gone there. Valarr did not know what you had been thinking since the courtyard, since the sept, since long before either of those things if you were being honest with yourself, which tonight it seemed you were finally being forced to be.
You loved your husband. You loved him and you had just sat in his father's study and asked for something that would have broken him if he ever found out, and you had told yourself it was for him, and maybe some of it was, maybe most of it was, but underneath that, underneath the grief and the desperation and the very real and very genuine love you had for Valarr, there was a part of you that you were not proud of, a part that had looked at Baelor Targaryen across a courtyard three days ago and felt something that had nothing to do with heirs or bloodlines at all.
That was the part you could not forgive yourself for.
You reached your chambers. You pushed the door open and went inside and sat on the edge of the bed in the dark and put your face in your hands, and you stayed like that for a long time.
You could not look at Valarr properly for the days that followed.
You understood now, in a way you hadn't quite before, what it had been like for him in those weeks after the maester's chambers. The way he had gone somewhere unreachable, how he turned his back to you and been incapable of closing the distance no matter how much some part of him wanted to. You had watched him do it, and always thought how you would never do such a thing, and now here you were, doing the exact same thing, for reasons that were so much worse than his that the comparison made you feel sick.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. He had always been good at reading you, better than most people realized because he wore his own feelings so visibly that people tended to assume he was not watching theirs. But he watched yours. He had been watching yours for years.
You ate very little and said even less and went to bed early and lay there in the dark listening to Valarr move around the room when he came in later, thinking about how much you loved him and how badly you had betrayed that love even in thought alone.
Baelor said nothing.
He was honourable, as he had always been described, as you had always known him to be, and he did not say a word. Not at council, not at supper where you were conspicuously absent, not in the brief moments when your paths crossed in the corridors and he looked at you with that same steady expression and simply inclined his head the way he always had, as though nothing had changed and nothing had been said and no one had sat in his study and asked him for something unforgivable.
It should have given you solace. Instead it deepened the guilt.
Because he was keeping it. He was carrying the weight of what you had said and keeping it from your husband, from his own son, with more dignity than you deserved, and every time you thought about it the shame rose up fresh. You had put something unforgivable in his hands and left him holding it, and the fact that he held it so gracefully only made you feel worse.
You were still thinking about it when you pushed open the door to your chambers and found Valarr sitting on the edge of the bed.
He had his elbows to his knees and his hands loosely clasped between them, and he looked up at you when you came in with the expression of a man who had been sitting there for a while, thinking, waiting.
You stopped just inside the doorway.
"Why are you avoiding me," he said.
You let out a slow breath and moved into the room, setting your prayer book down on the table by the door, buying yourself a moment. "I'm not avoiding you."
"You haven't come to supper in four days."
"I haven't been hungry."
"You haven't been sleeping either." He watched you cross the room, tracked you the way he always did when he knew something was wrong and was trying to work out the shape of it. "You come back from the sept and you go quiet and you look at me like—" He stopped. His jaw worked slightly. "Like you've done something you feel guilty about."
Your heart stopped.
You turned to look at him and kept your face very still. "I don't know what you mean."
"You do," he said quietly. "You're doing it right now."
"I've just been tired," you said. "And sad, I think. About all of it. It catches up with you sometimes and I didn't want to bring it to supper and sit there in front of everyone with it sitting on my face."
He was quiet for a moment. You could not tell if he believed you.
"Come here," he said finally.
You went to him. You sat beside him on the edge of the bed and he reached over and took your hand without looking at it, the way people do when the reaching is automatic, when it has been done so many times it no longer requires thought. His thumb moved once across your knuckles.
"You don't have to protect me from it," he said. "Whatever you're feeling. You don't have to take yourself off to the sept with it and carry it alone."
"I know," you said.
"I mean it. I spent months making you carry things alone and I told you I was done doing that and I meant it." He looked at you then, properly, and the look on his face was so open and so earnest that the guilt rose up in your throat like something physical. "You can tell me when you're struggling. I want you to."
"I know," you said again, because it was all you had.
He looked at you a moment longer, then lifted your joined hands and pressed his mouth to the back of yours, and you sat there and let him and stared at the middle distance and told yourself you were fine, that this was fine, that you loved this man and this was where you belonged.
"Come to supper tomorrow," he said against your hand.
"Yes," you said.
"Promise me."
"I promise."
You had been sitting with your book for the better part of an hour without reading a single page of it when the knock came at the door.
You looked up. Elena was already moving to answer it, and you watched her open the door and step aside, and the knight who filled the frame was one of Baelor's, which you knew by the sigil, and the sight of it made something drop in your stomach before he had said a single word.
"His Grace requests you to his study, Princess," he said.
You looked at him for a long moment. "The hour is quite late."
"I know, Princess. He requests you all the same."
You glanced at the window. The city outside was dark, the evening had tipped well into night, and Valarr had not yet returned from his duties.
Your mind went immediately to the worst of it.
He had told Valarr. He had kept it for as long as he could and the weight of it had become too much and he had gone to his son and now you were being summoned not to a conversation but to a reckoning, and by morning your things would be packed and you would be on a horse back to Riverrun in disgrace and Valarr would never look at you again—
"Princess."
You realized you had not moved. The knight was still standing in the doorway with the patience of a man who had been given a task and intended to see it through.
You closed the book. Set it on the table beside you. Stood.
"I'll come," you said.
Elena appeared at your elbow with your shawl before you had taken two steps, draping it over your shoulders without a word, and you caught her eye briefly and she gave you nothing back except a small steady look, and you were grateful for it because any expression of concern from her right now would have undone you.
You followed the knight out into the corridor.
The walk to Baelor's study had never felt long before. Tonight it felt like someone else's castle entirely. You kept your hands still at your sides and your chin level and you breathed slowly and told yourself it could be anything, something to do with your father, something to do with the small council, something entirely unrelated to a night you had spent weeks trying to put behind you.
You did not believe any of it, but you told yourself anyway.
The knight stopped outside the study door. Knocked once and opened it without waiting for an answer. He stepped aside.
The room was warm, the fire well kept, and Baelor was standing beside the window. Not behind the desk. Beside the window, turned toward the door, like a man who had been waiting and had not wanted to be caught sitting.
You stepped inside. The door closed behind you.
He looked at you across the room and said nothing for a moment, and you stood very still just inside the door and told yourself to breathe.
"You came," he said finally. Quietly.
"You summoned me," you said, which was not quite an answer but was all you had.
The corner of his mouth moved, just barely. He looked at you for another moment, then moved away from the window toward you, unhurried, and stopped a few feet away, close enough that you had to look up at him slightly.
"I owe you an explanation," he said, "for why I asked you here."
"You don't owe me anything," you said.
"Perhaps not." His eyes moved over your face, reading something there you weren't sure you wanted read. "But I find I wanted to see you all the same."
"What—" You began, the confusion coming out before you could stop it.
He raised his hand slightly, just enough to stop you, and you closed your mouth.
"I have thought about what you said," he began, his voice low and even. "I have thought about it a great deal more than I intended to. And I have watched my son these past weeks, the toll it has taken on him." He paused. "But the thing I have noticed most is not Valarr."
You said nothing.
"It is you," he said. "The way you move through this castle now. The way you have been avoiding me as though I am something to be afraid of, as though you did something unforgivable and I am waiting to punish you for it." Something shifted in his expression. "I told you I would not speak of it again. I told you I would forget it."
"I know you did," you said quietly. "I am sorry, I did not mean to make you feel as though—"
"I lied," he said.
The word landed in the room and stayed there.
You looked at him.
"I have not forgotten it," he said, his voice stayed neutral, but there was something underneath it now that had not been there the last time you stood in this room. "I have not forgotten a single word of it. And I have been sitting with it long enough now to come to a realisation." He looked at you steadily, both eyes holding yours, one brown and one blue. "Mayhaps you were not so wrong in what you said. Who would know." He let that sit for a moment, let the weight of it settle between you. "Hm?"
Your breath came out slowly.
You stared at him and you thought about Valarr, about the sept, about every morning you had spent on your knees in front of those candles asking for forgiveness for a thought you had never even acted on, and now Baelor Targaryen was standing in front of you saying what he was saying with that look on his face and you could not find a single word.
"You said yourself," he continued, quieter now, "that no one would question it. That it would be Targaryen blood all the same." His eyes had not moved from yours. "You were right about that."
For a moment neither of you spoke, and the quiet stretched thin enough to break.
"That is not—" you began, and stopped, because you did not know how to finish it without undoing something you had only just managed to hold together. "That is not why I came to you."
"No," Baelor said quietly. "It is not."
He took a step closer.
It was not a large movement, not enough to startle, but you felt it all the same, felt the space between you shift into something that had not been there a moment ago, something that made it difficult to think clearly.
"And yet it is what you said," he continued, his voice low and even in that way that made it worse, that made you wish he would raise it so you had something to push against. "And I have found no fault in the truth of it."
"This is not something to be considered," you said, and you were glad your voice came out as steady as it did. "It was a mistake. I told you as much when I left. I should not have come to you that night and I will not make that mistake again."
Baelor looked at you while you said it. He did not interrupt. He simply watched, and when you finished he said, "And yet you have not forgotten it."
You did not answer.
You could not, because the honest answer was standing in this room at this hour and he already knew it.
"This is wrong," you said instead.
"I know," he said.
He did not move away. That was the problem. He stood exactly where he was and looked at you and made no move to close the distance or increase it, and somehow that was worse than either would have been. Without thinking you took a step back, and your back met the edge of the desk, the solid wood of it pressing into you, and the small shock of it made you go still.
For a moment you just stood there.
Baelor in front of you. The desk behind you. The fire somewhere to your left, and the city beyond the window carrying on without either of you.
"You should not stand so near," you said.
"Then step away."
You didn't move. Your hand came up between you, uncertain, some half-formed instinct at keeping the distance in place, and Baelor's gaze dropped to it. Then, slowly, he reached out and took hold of your wrist, not tightly, just enough, his fingers wrapping around it and stopping there.
The contact went through you in a way you were not prepared for.
"You came to me," he said quietly. "You asked this of me."
"I told you I was wrong to."
"And if I had said yes." He was watching your face when he said it. "Would you have turned away."
You swallowed. You looked up at him and you wished you hadn't, wished you had found somewhere else to look, because his eyes were on yours and there was nothing in them that gave you anywhere to hide.
You didn't answer, because you didn't know how to, or because you did know and could not bring yourself to say it out loud in this room with his hand around your wrist.
His thumb moved, just slightly, against the inside of your wrist, barely anything, and the smallness of it made it so much worse than if it had been something larger.
"You have been thinking about it," he said. Not a question.
You shook your head.
"Yes," he said, quieter. "You have."
You had. You had been thinking about it in the sept and in your chambers and lying beside your husband in the dark, and Baelor knew it, had probably known it since the courtyard, and there was nothing left to say that would convince either of you otherwise.
Your breath was uneven despite every effort to keep it steady. You were aware of him in a way that felt almost unbearable, the way he was looking at you, not the way he looked at you across a dinner table or in a corridor, not the way a man looks at his son's wife, but like this, direct and certain and close enough that you could see the candlelight caught in the one blue eye and the one brown.
"This should not happen," you said.
"No," he agreed.
He did not let go of your wrist.
Your free hand pressed flat against the desk behind you and you held onto the solid feel of it and tried to think clearly and found you could not, not with him this close, not with his thumb still resting against your pulse point.
"If you walk out of this room," Baelor said, very quietly, "it ends here. I will not speak of it. Things will be as they were."
You looked at him.
"And if I don't," you said.
He didn't answer immediately. He looked at your face, moving between your eyes slowly, and you understood that he was giving you time, that he would take whatever you gave him and not try to change it.
"That," he said at last, "is your choice."
The fire. The candle burning low on the desk beside you. The distant sound of the city, indifferent as always.
You could feel your own heartbeat.
You didn't move.
Baelor's hand shifted, sliding from your wrist to your hand, slower now, more deliberate, and you felt his fingers settle against yours and you thought about Valarr, about the sept, about every candle you had lit asking for forgiveness for a thought you had never acted on, and you thought that you were a terrible woman, that you had always thought yourself better than this and you were not, you were not at all.
You did not pull away.
His fingers closed around yours, gently, and that was enough, that was the thing, the small and quiet and irreversible thing, and the room was very still around you both.
He kissed you first.
You had half expected it and were still not prepared for it, for the way he moved, unhurried and certain, one hand coming up to your jaw and tilting your face toward his like he had decided and was not second-guessing the decision. His mouth found yours and stayed there, and you stood with your back against the desk for one suspended moment before something in you gave way entirely and you kissed him back.
He made a low sound against your mouth that undid something in you completely.
His hand slid from your jaw into your hair, not roughly but with a sureness that made it clear he knew what he wanted, and you reached up and gripped the front of his shirt because you needed something to hold onto. He kissed you slowly, deliberately, like a man with no intention of rushing, and it was so different from what you had braced yourself for that it took you a moment to catch up to it.
You had thought it would feel like a transaction. Something practical and terrible that you would endure and carry the guilt of after. You had not thought it would feel like this. Like something you had been moving toward for a very long time without knowing it.
That thought frightened you enough that you pulled back.
You were both breathing unevenly. His hand was still in your hair, your fist still twisted in the front of his shirt, and you looked at each other in the low candlelight and neither of you spoke.
"We should stop," you said. You did not let go of his shirt.
"Yes," he said. He did not move his hand from your hair.
Another moment passed.
He kissed you again, slower this time, and you let him, and the hand that was not in your hair found your waist and drew you closer and you went without resistance because there was no resistance left in you, you had used all of it up in the weeks between the courtyard and this room and there was simply nothing remaining to fight with.
His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, and you tipped your head back and stared at the ceiling of his study and thought, distantly, that you were going to have to live with this for the rest of your life.
Then he said your name, low and quiet, just your name, close enough that you felt it more than heard it, and the thought dissolved entirely.
What followed was nothing like a transaction.
He was careful with you in a way you had not expected, unhurried in the way that only a man who was certain of himself could afford to be, and you understood somewhere in the middle of it that this was simply how he was, that the steadiness you had watched from a distance all these years was not something he set aside in private. It was just him. All the way through, it was just him, and you were not prepared for that either, for how much worse it made everything and how completely you stopped caring.
You did not think about Valarr. You hated yourself for that afterward, deeply and genuinely, but in the room, in those hours, you did not think about him once.
Not with the way Baelor had you gasping for air, saying his name as if it were a prayer.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
summary: valarr cannot give you children, and watching it slowly take him apart is worse than the grief itself. you tell yourself you are doing this for him, and so you turn to his father. (10k)
pairing: baelor targaryen x f!reader / sides of valarr targaryen x f!reader
content: canon divergent, forbidden relationship, infertility themes, angst with a bittersweet ending, hurt/comfort, guilt, arranged marriage, age gap, infidelity. cw mentions of not being able to have kids, emotional withdrawal, self reproach, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI), taboo relationship ig, not proofread don’t come for me lolz.
The candle has burned down to a stub and Valarr still hasn't come to bed.
You stopped making it obvious that you were waiting weeks ago. You used to sit up when he came in late, and the look on his face when he found you watching the door was enough to teach you not to do it again, so now you just lie there in the dark and listen to him stand at the window like he's done every night since the maester said what he said.
You have gotten very familiar with the sound of him not sleeping, the way he shifts his weight after a while, the way he exhales slowly like a man trying to talk himself into or out of something.
Fourteen days ago you had sat beside your husband in a small, warm room and listened to a maester tell you, carefully, that you were healthy. That there was no reason, from your side of things, that children should not come. Then the maester had looked at Valarr, and something in the room had shifted, and Valarr had gone very still in the chair beside you in the way he does when something has hit him that he isn't ready to show yet. He had folded his hands in his lap and looked at the table and nodded once, slowly, like a man receiving a verdict he had already suspected.
He had not spoken on the walk back to your chambers. Not at dinner that evening, not the morning after, not the one after that, and by the third day you understood that this was not him taking time to grieve and come back to you. This was him going somewhere you couldn't follow, locking the door behind him, and you had been standing on the other side of it ever since.
"Mayhaps we pray to the gods this evening," you say, because the silence has pressed on you long enough and the candle is almost gone and you cannot lie here staring at the ceiling for another hour. "For mercy on us. To grant us babes, Valarr."
He doesn't turn from the window. Outside the city is still going, indifferent to the two of you, and his reflection in the dark glass looks like a man who hasn't slept properly in a fortnight, because he hasn't. "We always pray. It's got nothing to do with the gods."
"Then what has it got to do with."
"Me." He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world, like he's been sitting with it so long it doesn't even hurt to say anymore, even though you know it does. "I am the problem. You heard the maester same as I did."
"That is not what he said."
"It is what he meant." He turns around then, and you go quiet because the look on his face is not the quick anger you know from him, the kind that flares bright and burns itself out fast. This is something heavier, and you can see in the set of his jaw and the tiredness around his eyes that he has been carrying it for two weeks and it has not gotten any lighter. "He chose his words carefully, he was being a good maester about it, but I understood him well enough. I'm not stupid."
"I know you're not stupid."
"Then stop looking at me like that."
You don't ask him what he means because you know what he means. "Come to bed, Valarr."
"I'm not tired."
"I didn't say you were tired." You push the covers back and get out of bed, the floor cold under your feet, and you cross the room toward him. He watches you come with his hands at his sides and doesn't move away, which is more than he's managed most evenings this past week. "You should eat something too. You barely touched your plate at supper."
"You should have a husband who can give you children," he says.
You knew it was coming. You have watched it building in him for days, in the way he looks at you across the dinner table and then quickly looks somewhere else, in the way he holds himself at a distance even when you're standing right beside him, like he's been trying to apologize for something without yet finding the words for it. Now he has found them, and he looks almost relieved, which makes something in you go tight.
"That is not something I'm willing to discuss," you say.
"I'm not asking you to discuss it. I'm telling you something true."
"It isn't true."
"You are a Tully." His voice has gone flat. "Your father gave twenty years of his life to this court, to this family, and he gave you to us expecting something reasonable in return, and I cannot." His jaw tightens. "I cannot give you what was agreed. You know that as well as I do."
You stop in front of him, close enough to see how tired his eyes are, close enough that he has to look at you properly. "My father wanted an alliance. He got one. I didn't marry you for children, Valarr."
"Then what did you marry me for," he says, and the way he says it tells you he genuinely wants to know, that somewhere in fourteen days of standing at that window he has talked himself into forgetting the answer.
"Because I have been in love with you since I was ten years old and my father first brought me to this court." You watch his face when you say it and you see something move through it that he doesn't manage to get a hold of in time. "I didn't know anyone here, not a single person, and on my second day you found me lost in the corridor near the east wing and walked me all the way to the great hall yourself. You talked the whole way there, about the yard, about something that had happened that morning that had made you laugh, I can't even remember what it was now, but I remember standing there thinking that you were a prince and you didn't have to do any of it and you did it anyway." You look at him steadily. "When my father told me I was going to marry you I had to excuse myself from the room so he wouldn't see how relieved I was. So don't stand there and tell me what I deserve as though you know better than I do what I signed up for. I chose you. I would choose you again."
Something in his face shifts, and underneath all of it is something much worse than anger. It's a man who wants badly to believe what you're saying and is afraid to let himself. He looks away first, which he almost never does.
"I had it all fixed in my head," he says, quieter now, his grip on the back of the chair behind him loosening slightly. "What our life was going to look like. You, children, all of it. I've had that picture for years and now I look at it and I just." He stops and swallows, as if the words hurt to say aloud. "I don't know who I am if I can't give you that. Every time I look at you I feel like I've already failed you and you haven't even asked me for anything, and I don't know how to be in the same room as you and hold that at the same time."
"I'm asking you to come to bed," you say softly. "That's all I'm asking."
"In ten years," he says, like he hasn't heard you, like he's been saving this part too. "In twenty, when there are still no children and you're—"
"In twenty years I'll still be your wife and I'll still be telling you that you're wrong." You reach up and put your hand against his jaw, and he goes still under it but he doesn't step back, which is more than he's given you in two weeks. "Look at me, Valarr."
He does, and his eyes in the low light are doing something he would hate you to name, so you don't. You just hold his gaze and keep your hand where it is. "I have loved you for more than half my life. I am not going to stop because of this."
For a long moment he just looks at you, and then something in him gives way, not all at once but enough, and his forehead comes down to rest against yours and you feel the breath go out of him slowly, like he's been holding it since the maester's chambers.
"I can't look at you," he says, barely above a whisper, and there's something in it that makes your chest ache. "I love you and I can't look at you because every time I do all I can think is that I'm letting you down, and I don't know how to make that stop."
You keep your hand where it is and you don't say anything, because you have tried saying things and it hasn't helped, and sometimes all there is left to do is stay. After a while he lifts his hand and covers yours, pressing it a little more firmly against his cheek, and you feel him breathe out again, slower this time, and the candle dies on its own on the bedside table and the room goes dark around you both.
"We can try," he murmurs after a while, mostly to himself, as if he were reminding himself. "No matter how long it may take."
Three months pass and nothing comes of them.
You don't speak about it the way you did in those first weeks. You and Valarr have settled into something quieter than grief, something more like routine. You try, you wait, and when the waiting ends the same way it always does you don't sit with it for too long because sitting with it has never helped either of you. You have gotten good at moving through it. You have gotten good at a lot of things you never wanted to be good at.
It had been a bright morning in early spring when you find yourself standing at the far end of the courtyard with Elena, watching Valarr across the yard without meaning to.
He is crouched down in the way tall men have to crouch to be level with small children, one knee nearly to the ground, talking to the little boy belonging to one of the lesser lords who has been at court this past fortnight. The child can't be more than three or four, round faced and very serious, and he is showing Valarr something held in his cupped hands with all the gravity that small children bring to small things. Valarr is looking at whatever it is like it is the most interesting thing he has seen in his life. He says something. The boy laughs, sudden and bright, and Valarr laughs with him, and the sound of it carries all the way across the courtyard and lands somewhere in your chest that you weren't prepared for.
You have not heard him laugh like that in months.
"—and I told her that the blue would suit her far better than the green, but she never listens, she never has, princess are you listening to me?"
You pull your eyes away. "Forgive me. What were you saying."
Elena follows your gaze across the courtyard and back again with the discretion of a woman who has been doing this job long enough to know what she is and isn't supposed to notice. "I was saying that your new gown has arrived from the seamstress. The blue one."
"Right," you say. "Good."
"Are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine." You look back across the yard before you can stop yourself and that is when Valarr glances up, most likely feeling your eyes on him, and for a moment he just looks at you with the smile still sitting on his face. Then he sees yours, and the smile doesn't leave exactly, but something behind it changes, and you understand too late that you haven't managed to arrange yourself into anything useful, that whatever was sitting on your face when he looked up is still sitting there now.
You watch him say something brief to the boy, ruffling his hair gently before he straightens to his full height and starts across the yard toward you.
"Should I—" Elena begins.
"Stay," you say, because you do not trust yourself to have this conversation without someone else present.
Valarr reaches you and his eyes move briefly to Elena and back to you. He has the grace not to send her away. "Walk with me," he says, and it isn't quite a question, and you fall into step beside him along the edge of the yard while Elena follows at a suitable distance behind.
"I'm sorry," he says, when you are far enough from anyone else.
"Valarr, don't—"
"I saw your face." He keeps his eyes ahead, jaw set. "When you were watching me with the boy. I saw what was on it and I've been standing there trying to unknow it ever since."
You don't say anything.
"I've been handling this badly," he says. "I know I have. I've been so far inside my own head that I stopped thinking about what it was doing to you, and that isn't—" He stops walking, turns to look at you properly. "That isn't the husband I mean to be."
"You don't need to apologise to me."
"I do, actually."
"You don't. You are grieving the same as I am, you are allowed to grieve it—"
"I'm not grieving the same as you," he says. "You've been grieving it and holding me up at the same time and pretending you weren't and I let you do that for three months." Something in his face is very open in a way he doesn't usually allow himself outside of your chambers. "I'm sorry. I mean it."
You look at him, at the exhaustion in his face, at the way he is looking at you like he is afraid of what he'll find there, and something in you goes very soft despite itself.
"Stop apologising," you say quietly. "I don't want an apology. I just want you to stop disappearing."
Something in his expression loosens. "I'm trying," he says. "I am genuinely trying."
"I know you are."
He reaches out and takes your hand, briefly, squeezes it once in the way he has done since you were both young, and then releases it and presses a kiss to your temple that stays a beat longer than it needs to before he straightens.
"I'll see you at supper," he says.
"Yes."
He goes, back across the courtyard the way he came, and you stand there and watch him and think that you love him, that you have always loved him, that none of this has changed a single thing about that.
Elena appears at your side. "The blue gown," she says, after a moment. "Shall I have it laid out for supper this evening?"
"Yes, please."
"And the Westerlands lord with the eyebrows sent another note this morning. He is very persistent."
"Tell him I'm otherwise engaged," you say. "Indefinitely."
"With pleasure." She folds her hands in front of her and stands beside you in the warm morning air, and you are grateful for her, for the fact that she knows when to talk and when to simply be present. After a moment she says, "You know it will come right in the end, princess. These things take time, that is all."
You open your mouth to answer her and then stop, because something at the far end of the courtyard has caught your eye and whatever you were going to say leaves you entirely.
Baelor Targaryen is standing there.
He has simply appeared the way he tends to appear places, unhurried, a document held at his side that he is no longer reading. He is looking across the courtyard. He is looking at you.
You have known him almost as long as you have known his son. He was the first member of this family your father properly introduced you to when you came to court at ten years old, and you had carried a small and very private feeling for him through your girlhood that you had put down sensibly when you were old enough to understand what it was, because you loved Valarr, because it was Valarr you were going to marry, because some things you simply set aside and do not go back to.
He is still looking at you.
You hold his gaze a moment longer than you mean to, just long enough to be certain you are reading it correctly, and something moves through you that you do not entirely have a name for. Then, beneath it, quiet and uninvited, a thought takes shape. That if Valarr cannot give you a child, his father's blood is the same blood, that a child gotten from Baelor would be Targaryen all the same, that no one would ever have to know the difference, and for just one unguarded moment you let yourself think it fully and clearly before the horror of it catches up with you.
You cringe. Visibly, helplessly, your face doing something entirely beyond your control.
"Did you hear me?" Elena's voice cuts through it. A pause. "Are you quite all right? Your face just did something."
You tear your gaze from across the courtyard. "I'm fine," you say, too quickly.
Elena is looking at you with an expression that is equal parts concern and curiosity, which is not a combination you enjoy being on the receiving end of. "Are you certain? You look as though something disagreed with you."
"I'm perfectly fine," you say, smoothing your expression into something more convincing. "Just a passing thought. It was nothing."
You do not look back across the courtyard. You look at your hands and you breathe and you tell yourself very firmly that you are not the kind of woman who thinks things like that, and that you will not be thinking it again.
Your face still burns regardless of what you tell yourself.
You had told yourself you would not give in to it. You had told yourself it was nothing more than a passing thought, something shameful that would fade if you refused to look at it too closely.
It had not faded whatsoever. It had followed you into the sept.
You sat before the candles with your head bowed, hands loosely clasped in your lap, and tried to pray. You tried to focus on the words, on the quiet, on the steady rhythm of breath in and out, but the moment you closed your eyes it was there again, waiting patiently. It came like something already decided.
Because all you could think about was how easy it would be.
Valarr and his father shared the same blood, the same dark hair, the same blue-brown eyes that caught light differently depending on the hour. A child between you and Baelor would look no different from a child between you and Valarr. No one would question it. No one would dare look at a Targaryen heir and find reason to doubt. It would save your marriage and your husband's pride and the succession all at once, and no one would ever have to carry the weight of knowing except you.
The thought did not leave. It only deepened.
Because it was not only the child now. It was him. Baelor.
You found yourself thinking, with a kind of horrified clarity, of what it would actually mean to go to him. You thought about the way he would look at you when you said the words, that steadiness of his that never quite left his face. Until the courtyard. Until the way he had been looking at you across the yard with something in his expression that you had not been able to name and had not been able to stop thinking about since.
You thought of his hands. The kind that did not hesitate once they had decided on something. You wondered, before you could stop yourself, how they might feel. Whether he would be gentle the way a careful man is gentle, or whether there would be something firmer beneath it.
You imagined his voice lowered, not for council chambers, not for duty, but for you alone. You thought about what it would be to hear him say your name like that, in the dark, just for you. You thought about the grey at his temples and the short dark beard and those eyes, one brown and one blue, and what it would be to have both of them looking at you and nothing else.
The heat that rose to your face was not entirely shame.
You opened your eyes abruptly, breath unsteady, and fixed your gaze on the candle flame in front of you. The sept was quiet around you, the smell of incense thick in the air, and none of it helped.
Forgive me, you thought, though you were not entirely sure which part you were asking forgiveness for. The thought itself. The fact that some traitorous part of you had not turned away from it fast enough. Or the fact that even now, kneeling before the gods with every intention of being a good and faithful wife, some small and quiet part of you was not entirely sorry.
You loved your husband. You had always loved him, and that had never changed. Not through the grief of the last months, not through the silence and the distance. You loved Valarr and you were sitting in a sept thinking about his father and you could not make yourself stop.
You stared at the candle until your eyes watered.
The thought had not repulsed you the way it should have. That was what you could not forgive yourself for. Not the thought itself, which had arrived uninvited and could be blamed on grief and desperation. But the fact that when it had taken shape in your mind, fully and clearly, some part of you had looked at it and not flinched. Some part of you had looked at it and felt, beneath the horror, something uncomfortably close to relief.
You looked up at the statue of the Mother above the altar, serene and entirely unhelpful.
"I know," you said quietly, to no one, or perhaps to her. "I know."
You do not know what possessed you to act upon it.
Three days had passed since the sept. Three days of telling yourself it was over, that you had sat before the Mother and acknowledged the thought for what it was and left it there on the stone floor when you walked out, that you were not the kind of woman who took something like that and carried it home and turned it over in the dark. Three days of being a good wife, of sitting across from Valarr at supper and talking about ordinary things, of lying beside him at night and breathing slowly and thinking about nothing.
Three days, and then it was the fourth evening, and you were standing in front of Baelor’s study door in a corridor that was empty in both directions, and you had absolutely no idea what you were going to say.
You stared at the door like it had done something to you personally. You had walked here with a kind of purposeful blankness in your head, not thinking too far ahead, telling yourself you were simply going for an evening walk, that your feet had simply brought you here by coincidence, that you could turn around at any moment and go back to your chambers and none of this would have happened. You could still do that. You were still doing nothing wrong. You were simply standing in a corridor.
You breathed out slowly, shakily, and knocked before you could finish the thought.
The knock came out quieter than you intended. You waited, and the corridor was very still around you, and you were just raising your hand to knock again when the door opened.
Baelor filled the frame of it. He was still dressed in his council clothes, a quill held loosely in one hand that told you he had been working. His eyes found you immediately, and if he was surprised to find you standing at his door at this hour he gave no sign of it whatsoever. He simply looked at you, and then the corner of his mouth moved into a small smile, if you could call it that, and he stepped back from the doorway to let you in.
"Princess," he said lowly.
You looked past him into the room, the desk scattered with papers, the candles burned partway down, the familiar smell of parchment and something warmer underneath it, and then back at him, and then, because your mind had apparently stopped working entirely, you said, "Can I come in?"
He looked at you for just a moment, something shifting briefly at the corner of his eyes that might have been amusement, because he had already moved aside to let you in, because the door was open and his arm was extended and the answer was self-evident, and you had asked anyway.
"Of course," he said, and there was nothing in his voice that made you feel foolish for it, which was somehow worse than if there had been.
You stepped inside and heard the door close softly behind you.
His study was warmer than the corridor, the fire having been kept up, and you stood just inside the door for a moment longer than was natural before you made yourself move toward the chair he gestured to across from his desk. You sat. He set his quill down and moved around to his own chair and settled into it with ease.
He looked at you across the scattered papers between you and said nothing for a moment, which was very like him. Baelor had never been the kind of man who filled silence just to fill it.
"How have you been keeping," he said finally.
"Well," you said, and then, because he was still looking at you, "reasonably well."
He accepted that with a slight nod. "And Valarr."
Something moved in your chest at the name but you kept your face even. "He is well. Better, I think, than he was. He has been trying."
"He is a good man," Baelor said. "He takes things hard when he takes them at all, always has, but he comes through it." A pause. "You both will."
You nodded and looked down at your hands in your lap and said nothing.
Baelor reached for the goblet on the corner of his desk and held it toward you in offering. You shook your head. He set it back down and leaned into his chair, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read, which was nothing new. You had never been very good at reading Baelor Targaryen.
"The court is quieter now that the lord from the Westerlands has taken his leave," he said, and there was something faintly dry in it. "I imagine that's a relief."
Despite everything you almost smiled. "Elena was very pleased about it."
"I noticed she looked considerably less tense at supper last night."
"She has strong opinions about eyebrows."
"A worthy thing to have strong opinions about," he said, and the warmth in it was so ordinary, so completely like every conversation you had ever had with this man over the years, that for a moment you forgot entirely why you were here and simply sat in it.
Then you remembered, and your stomach turned over.
You looked back down at your hands. You had been clasping and unclasping them without realizing it and you made yourself stop. The fire crackled in the grate. Outside the window the city was a distant murmur.
"Is there something on your mind," Baelor said. Not a push. Just an opening, left there quietly for you to take or leave.
"No," you said, and then immediately, "Yes. I don't–I'm not sure how to–" You stopped. Pressed your lips together. Tried again. "I came here because I wanted to speak with you about something and now that I'm here I find I don't quite know how to begin."
He said nothing. He simply waited, which was worse than if he had prompted you, because it meant the next words were entirely yours.
You looked up at him. He was watching you steadily from across the desk, the candlelight catching the grey at his temples, and the combination of the look on his face and the fact that you were about to say what you were about to say made your heart rate do something entirely unhelpful.
"I want you to know first," you said, "that I have thought about this a great deal. I have not come here lightly. I have been–I have been trying very hard not to come here at all, actually, and I–" Your voice came out thinner than you wanted it to. You swallowed. "This is not something I would ask under any other circumstance. I need you to know that."
Baelor's expression had not changed but he had gone very still in his chair. "Go on," he said quietly.
"It's Valarr," you said, and your voice caught slightly on his name in a way you hadn't anticipated. You pushed through it. "You know–you know what the maester said. You know what it has done to him. You have seen it, I think, better than most because you know him, you know how he carries things, and what this has done to him is–" You stopped. Pressed your hands flat against your thighs. "It is killing him. Slowly and quietly it is killing him and there is nothing I can do about it. I cannot fix it. I cannot give him what he needs and I cannot take the pain of it away from him and I have watched him for months now and I–"
You were not going to cry. You were absolutely not going to cry in Baelor Targaryen's study at this hour.
"I love him," you said, and you meant it the way you always meant it, simply and completely. "I love him and I would do anything to take this from him. I would do anything to give him back that version of himself that existed before the maester said what he said, before he stopped laughing, before he started looking at me like he has already failed me even though he hasn't, he hasn't failed me at all, but I cannot make him believe that no matter how many times I say it and I—"
You stopped, closing your eyes for a moment, then opening them back, suddenly feeling the urge to get up and leave the room.
"I need your help," you said. The words came out barely above a whisper and once they were out there was no taking them back. "I know what I'm asking. I know exactly what I'm asking and I know that it is wrong and I know that you will likely tell me to leave, but I have run out of every other option and I am desperate enough to be sitting in this chair saying this to you, which should tell you how desperate I truly am." You met his eyes and held them even though every instinct told you to look away. "A child from you would be Targaryen blood all the same. Valarr would have his heir. No one would ever have to know. No one would ever question it." Your voice dropped further. "And I would never ask anything of you again for as long as I lived. I swear it."
The silence that followed was the longest of your life.
Baelor looked at you. His face was unreadable in the way it went unreadable when something had hit him that he was not yet ready to show, and you sat there and bore the weight of his gaze and waited and tried to remember how to breathe.
"I'm doing this for him," you said, into the quiet, because you needed him to know it, because it was true and because saying it out loud was the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely. "Only for him. I want you to know that."
Baelor was quiet for another long moment. When he finally spoke his voice was very low.
"I know," he said. "I believe you."
He stood then, slowly, and moved around the desk, and you watched him come and made yourself stay very still. He stopped a few feet from you and looked down at you in the chair with an expression that was not pity, which you were grateful for, and not judgment, which you were even more grateful for. It was something else. Something you did not have a name for.
"What you have told me tonight," he said, "I will forget. For Valarr's sake and for yours."
"Please," you said, and you hated how your voice came out, thin and rushed and nothing like you intended. You got to your feet because you couldn't bear to have him standing over you while you said it.
"Please, I need you to understand that I am not– I am not a woman who does things like this. I am not someone who would come here for any other reason than– Valarr is so good. He is so good and he gives everything he has to everyone around him and he has spent his whole life trying to make his father proud, trying to make this realm proud, and the one thing he cannot do, the one thing that was supposed to be simple, is–" Your voice broke on it, just slightly, and you pressed on. "He deserves to be a father. He would be so good at it. And I cannot give that to him and it is the one thing I want more than anything and I thought– I only thought that if there were a way to–"
"Enough." His voice was quiet but it stopped you completely. Not unkind. Just final.
You closed your mouth.
He looked at you for a moment, and something moved through his expression that he didn't quite manage to keep back, something that was there and gone before you could name it. "You are tired," he said. "You have been carrying this for a long time and it has gotten to your head. That is all this is."
“Your Grace–”
"I will not speak of it again," he said. "Not tonight, not after tonight. What was said in this room stays in this room, do you understand me." It was not quite a question.
You swallowed. "Yes."
"Good." He held your gaze a moment longer, steady and unreadable as ever, and then he looked toward the door in a way that was not unkind but was very clear.
"I'm sorry," you said, because you couldn't leave without saying it. "I'm sorry, I should not have come, I don't know what I was—" You stopped. Shook your head. "Forgive me."
He said nothing to that. He simply looked at you with that same expression you couldn't read, and you took it as the grace it was and turned and crossed the room and let yourself out.
The corridor was very cold after the warmth of the study.
You pulled the door shut behind you and stood there for just a moment with your hand still flat against the wood, eyes closed, listening to the quiet of the empty hallway. Then the full weight of what you had just done settled over you all at once, and it was considerably heavier than you had anticipated.
You walked.
You did not walk quickly, because walking quickly would have felt like running, and you were not going to run. You kept your chin level and your steps even and you moved through the corridors of the Red Keep like a woman who had simply been for an evening walk and was now returning to her chambers, and you did not let yourself think about what you had said until you were far enough away that the study door was no longer visible behind you.
Then you thought about it, and your stomach turned over so completely that you had to stop walking for a moment and press your hand to the wall.
You had gone to your father in law's study. You had sat in the chair across from his desk and looked him in the eye and asked him to bed you so that your husband would have an heir.
You pressed the back of your other hand against your mouth.
Your father had raised you with care and intention and had given twenty years of his life to this court and had placed you here in good faith, and this was what you had done with it. You had sat in that chair and said those words to that man and then apologized and fled like a child who had knocked something off a shelf and hoped no one had noticed, except that it was not a shelf, it was Baelor Targaryen, and he had noticed, and he would remember no matter what he said about forgetting because a man like that forgot nothing.
You started walking again because standing still was worse.
You felt guilt for going there.
Guilt for the thoughts that had driven you there, for the three days you had spent turning them over in the dark instead of putting them down where they belonged. Guilt for using Valarr as the reason, for saying his name in that room, for bringing his goodness and his pain into something like this as though it absolved you of any part in it. Valarr did not know you had gone there. Valarr did not know what you had been thinking since the courtyard, since the sept, since long before either of those things if you were being honest with yourself, which tonight it seemed you were finally being forced to be.
You loved your husband. You loved him and you had just sat in his father's study and asked for something that would have broken him if he ever found out, and you had told yourself it was for him, and maybe some of it was, maybe most of it was, but underneath that, underneath the grief and the desperation and the very real and very genuine love you had for Valarr, there was a part of you that you were not proud of, a part that had looked at Baelor Targaryen across a courtyard three days ago and felt something that had nothing to do with heirs or bloodlines at all.
That was the part you could not forgive yourself for.
You reached your chambers. You pushed the door open and went inside and sat on the edge of the bed in the dark and put your face in your hands, and you stayed like that for a long time.
You could not look at Valarr properly for the days that followed.
You understood now, in a way you hadn't quite before, what it had been like for him in those weeks after the maester's chambers. The way he had gone somewhere unreachable, how he turned his back to you and been incapable of closing the distance no matter how much some part of him wanted to. You had watched him do it, and always thought how you would never do such a thing, and now here you were, doing the exact same thing, for reasons that were so much worse than his that the comparison made you feel sick.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. He had always been good at reading you, better than most people realized because he wore his own feelings so visibly that people tended to assume he was not watching theirs. But he watched yours. He had been watching yours for years.
You ate very little and said even less and went to bed early and lay there in the dark listening to Valarr move around the room when he came in later, thinking about how much you loved him and how badly you had betrayed that love even in thought alone.
Baelor said nothing.
He was honourable, as he had always been described, as you had always known him to be, and he did not say a word. Not at council, not at supper where you were conspicuously absent, not in the brief moments when your paths crossed in the corridors and he looked at you with that same steady expression and simply inclined his head the way he always had, as though nothing had changed and nothing had been said and no one had sat in his study and asked him for something unforgivable.
It should have given you solace. Instead it deepened the guilt.
Because he was keeping it. He was carrying the weight of what you had said and keeping it from your husband, from his own son, with more dignity than you deserved, and every time you thought about it the shame rose up fresh. You had put something unforgivable in his hands and left him holding it, and the fact that he held it so gracefully only made you feel worse.
You were still thinking about it when you pushed open the door to your chambers and found Valarr sitting on the edge of the bed.
He had his elbows to his knees and his hands loosely clasped between them, and he looked up at you when you came in with the expression of a man who had been sitting there for a while, thinking, waiting.
You stopped just inside the doorway.
"Why are you avoiding me," he said.
You let out a slow breath and moved into the room, setting your prayer book down on the table by the door, buying yourself a moment. "I'm not avoiding you."
"You haven't come to supper in four days."
"I haven't been hungry."
"You haven't been sleeping either." He watched you cross the room, tracked you the way he always did when he knew something was wrong and was trying to work out the shape of it. "You come back from the sept and you go quiet and you look at me like—" He stopped. His jaw worked slightly. "Like you've done something you feel guilty about."
Your heart stopped.
You turned to look at him and kept your face very still. "I don't know what you mean."
"You do," he said quietly. "You're doing it right now."
"I've just been tired," you said. "And sad, I think. About all of it. It catches up with you sometimes and I didn't want to bring it to supper and sit there in front of everyone with it sitting on my face."
He was quiet for a moment. You could not tell if he believed you.
"Come here," he said finally.
You went to him. You sat beside him on the edge of the bed and he reached over and took your hand without looking at it, the way people do when the reaching is automatic, when it has been done so many times it no longer requires thought. His thumb moved once across your knuckles.
"You don't have to protect me from it," he said. "Whatever you're feeling. You don't have to take yourself off to the sept with it and carry it alone."
"I know," you said.
"I mean it. I spent months making you carry things alone and I told you I was done doing that and I meant it." He looked at you then, properly, and the look on his face was so open and so earnest that the guilt rose up in your throat like something physical. "You can tell me when you're struggling. I want you to."
"I know," you said again, because it was all you had.
He looked at you a moment longer, then lifted your joined hands and pressed his mouth to the back of yours, and you sat there and let him and stared at the middle distance and told yourself you were fine, that this was fine, that you loved this man and this was where you belonged.
"Come to supper tomorrow," he said against your hand.
"Yes," you said.
"Promise me."
"I promise."
You had been sitting with your book for the better part of an hour without reading a single page of it when the knock came at the door.
You looked up. Elena was already moving to answer it, and you watched her open the door and step aside, and the knight who filled the frame was one of Baelor's, which you knew by the sigil, and the sight of it made something drop in your stomach before he had said a single word.
"His Grace requests you to his study, Princess," he said.
You looked at him for a long moment. "The hour is quite late."
"I know, Princess. He requests you all the same."
You glanced at the window. The city outside was dark, the evening had tipped well into night, and Valarr had not yet returned from his duties.
Your mind went immediately to the worst of it.
He had told Valarr. He had kept it for as long as he could and the weight of it had become too much and he had gone to his son and now you were being summoned not to a conversation but to a reckoning, and by morning your things would be packed and you would be on a horse back to Riverrun in disgrace and Valarr would never look at you again—
"Princess."
You realized you had not moved. The knight was still standing in the doorway with the patience of a man who had been given a task and intended to see it through.
You closed the book. Set it on the table beside you. Stood.
"I'll come," you said.
Elena appeared at your elbow with your shawl before you had taken two steps, draping it over your shoulders without a word, and you caught her eye briefly and she gave you nothing back except a small steady look, and you were grateful for it because any expression of concern from her right now would have undone you.
You followed the knight out into the corridor.
The walk to Baelor's study had never felt long before. Tonight it felt like someone else's castle entirely. You kept your hands still at your sides and your chin level and you breathed slowly and told yourself it could be anything, something to do with your father, something to do with the small council, something entirely unrelated to a night you had spent weeks trying to put behind you.
You did not believe any of it, but you told yourself anyway.
The knight stopped outside the study door. Knocked once and opened it without waiting for an answer. He stepped aside.
The room was warm, the fire well kept, and Baelor was standing beside the window. Not behind the desk. Beside the window, turned toward the door, like a man who had been waiting and had not wanted to be caught sitting.
You stepped inside. The door closed behind you.
He looked at you across the room and said nothing for a moment, and you stood very still just inside the door and told yourself to breathe.
"You came," he said finally. Quietly.
"You summoned me," you said, which was not quite an answer but was all you had.
The corner of his mouth moved, just barely. He looked at you for another moment, then moved away from the window toward you, unhurried, and stopped a few feet away, close enough that you had to look up at him slightly.
"I owe you an explanation," he said, "for why I asked you here."
"You don't owe me anything," you said.
"Perhaps not." His eyes moved over your face, reading something there you weren't sure you wanted read. "But I find I wanted to see you all the same."
"What—" You began, the confusion coming out before you could stop it.
He raised his hand slightly, just enough to stop you, and you closed your mouth.
"I have thought about what you said," he began, his voice low and even. "I have thought about it a great deal more than I intended to. And I have watched my son these past weeks, the toll it has taken on him." He paused. "But the thing I have noticed most is not Valarr."
You said nothing.
"It is you," he said. "The way you move through this castle now. The way you have been avoiding me as though I am something to be afraid of, as though you did something unforgivable and I am waiting to punish you for it." Something shifted in his expression. "I told you I would not speak of it again. I told you I would forget it."
"I know you did," you said quietly. "I am sorry, I did not mean to make you feel as though—"
"I lied," he said.
The word landed in the room and stayed there.
You looked at him.
"I have not forgotten it," he said, his voice stayed neutral, but there was something underneath it now that had not been there the last time you stood in this room. "I have not forgotten a single word of it. And I have been sitting with it long enough now to come to a realisation." He looked at you steadily, both eyes holding yours, one brown and one blue. "Mayhaps you were not so wrong in what you said. Who would know." He let that sit for a moment, let the weight of it settle between you. "Hm?"
Your breath came out slowly.
You stared at him and you thought about Valarr, about the sept, about every morning you had spent on your knees in front of those candles asking for forgiveness for a thought you had never even acted on, and now Baelor Targaryen was standing in front of you saying what he was saying with that look on his face and you could not find a single word.
"You said yourself," he continued, quieter now, "that no one would question it. That it would be Targaryen blood all the same." His eyes had not moved from yours. "You were right about that."
For a moment neither of you spoke, and the quiet stretched thin enough to break.
"That is not—" you began, and stopped, because you did not know how to finish it without undoing something you had only just managed to hold together. "That is not why I came to you."
"No," Baelor said quietly. "It is not."
He took a step closer.
It was not a large movement, not enough to startle, but you felt it all the same, felt the space between you shift into something that had not been there a moment ago, something that made it difficult to think clearly.
"And yet it is what you said," he continued, his voice low and even in that way that made it worse, that made you wish he would raise it so you had something to push against. "And I have found no fault in the truth of it."
"This is not something to be considered," you said, and you were glad your voice came out as steady as it did. "It was a mistake. I told you as much when I left. I should not have come to you that night and I will not make that mistake again."
Baelor looked at you while you said it. He did not interrupt. He simply watched, and when you finished he said, "And yet you have not forgotten it."
You did not answer.
You could not, because the honest answer was standing in this room at this hour and he already knew it.
"This is wrong," you said instead.
"I know," he said.
He did not move away. That was the problem. He stood exactly where he was and looked at you and made no move to close the distance or increase it, and somehow that was worse than either would have been. Without thinking you took a step back, and your back met the edge of the desk, the solid wood of it pressing into you, and the small shock of it made you go still.
For a moment you just stood there.
Baelor in front of you. The desk behind you. The fire somewhere to your left, and the city beyond the window carrying on without either of you.
"You should not stand so near," you said.
"Then step away."
You didn't move. Your hand came up between you, uncertain, some half-formed instinct at keeping the distance in place, and Baelor's gaze dropped to it. Then, slowly, he reached out and took hold of your wrist, not tightly, just enough, his fingers wrapping around it and stopping there.
The contact went through you in a way you were not prepared for.
"You came to me," he said quietly. "You asked this of me."
"I told you I was wrong to."
"And if I had said yes." He was watching your face when he said it. "Would you have turned away."
You swallowed. You looked up at him and you wished you hadn't, wished you had found somewhere else to look, because his eyes were on yours and there was nothing in them that gave you anywhere to hide.
You didn't answer, because you didn't know how to, or because you did know and could not bring yourself to say it out loud in this room with his hand around your wrist.
His thumb moved, just slightly, against the inside of your wrist, barely anything, and the smallness of it made it so much worse than if it had been something larger.
"You have been thinking about it," he said. Not a question.
You shook your head.
"Yes," he said, quieter. "You have."
You had. You had been thinking about it in the sept and in your chambers and lying beside your husband in the dark, and Baelor knew it, had probably known it since the courtyard, and there was nothing left to say that would convince either of you otherwise.
Your breath was uneven despite every effort to keep it steady. You were aware of him in a way that felt almost unbearable, the way he was looking at you, not the way he looked at you across a dinner table or in a corridor, not the way a man looks at his son's wife, but like this, direct and certain and close enough that you could see the candlelight caught in the one blue eye and the one brown.
"This should not happen," you said.
"No," he agreed.
He did not let go of your wrist.
Your free hand pressed flat against the desk behind you and you held onto the solid feel of it and tried to think clearly and found you could not, not with him this close, not with his thumb still resting against your pulse point.
"If you walk out of this room," Baelor said, very quietly, "it ends here. I will not speak of it. Things will be as they were."
You looked at him.
"And if I don't," you said.
He didn't answer immediately. He looked at your face, moving between your eyes slowly, and you understood that he was giving you time, that he would take whatever you gave him and not try to change it.
"That," he said at last, "is your choice."
The fire. The candle burning low on the desk beside you. The distant sound of the city, indifferent as always.
You could feel your own heartbeat.
You didn't move.
Baelor's hand shifted, sliding from your wrist to your hand, slower now, more deliberate, and you felt his fingers settle against yours and you thought about Valarr, about the sept, about every candle you had lit asking for forgiveness for a thought you had never acted on, and you thought that you were a terrible woman, that you had always thought yourself better than this and you were not, you were not at all.
You did not pull away.
His fingers closed around yours, gently, and that was enough, that was the thing, the small and quiet and irreversible thing, and the room was very still around you both.
He kissed you first.
You had half expected it and were still not prepared for it, for the way he moved, unhurried and certain, one hand coming up to your jaw and tilting your face toward his like he had decided and was not second-guessing the decision. His mouth found yours and stayed there, and you stood with your back against the desk for one suspended moment before something in you gave way entirely and you kissed him back.
He made a low sound against your mouth that undid something in you completely.
His hand slid from your jaw into your hair, not roughly but with a sureness that made it clear he knew what he wanted, and you reached up and gripped the front of his shirt because you needed something to hold onto. He kissed you slowly, deliberately, like a man with no intention of rushing, and it was so different from what you had braced yourself for that it took you a moment to catch up to it.
You had thought it would feel like a transaction. Something practical and terrible that you would endure and carry the guilt of after. You had not thought it would feel like this. Like something you had been moving toward for a very long time without knowing it.
That thought frightened you enough that you pulled back.
You were both breathing unevenly. His hand was still in your hair, your fist still twisted in the front of his shirt, and you looked at each other in the low candlelight and neither of you spoke.
"We should stop," you said. You did not let go of his shirt.
"Yes," he said. He did not move his hand from your hair.
Another moment passed.
He kissed you again, slower this time, and you let him, and the hand that was not in your hair found your waist and drew you closer and you went without resistance because there was no resistance left in you, you had used all of it up in the weeks between the courtyard and this room and there was simply nothing remaining to fight with.
His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, and you tipped your head back and stared at the ceiling of his study and thought, distantly, that you were going to have to live with this for the rest of your life.
Then he said your name, low and quiet, just your name, close enough that you felt it more than heard it, and the thought dissolved entirely.
What followed was nothing like a transaction.
He was careful with you in a way you had not expected, unhurried in the way that only a man who was certain of himself could afford to be, and you understood somewhere in the middle of it that this was simply how he was, that the steadiness you had watched from a distance all these years was not something he set aside in private. It was just him. All the way through, it was just him, and you were not prepared for that either, for how much worse it made everything and how completely you stopped caring.
You did not think about Valarr. You hated yourself for that afterward, deeply and genuinely, but in the room, in those hours, you did not think about him once.
Not with the way Baelor had you gasping for air, saying his name as if it were a prayer.
HEADLOCK: he knows you’re obsessed with his military and ER trained arms, so why not wrap one of them around your neck and choke you while he fucks you? You love it when you feel him soooo deep in you from behind, your back wet and sticky with sweat against his chest, one of his hands on your clit, rubbing dedicated circles and applying just enough pressure to make you go crazy. That with the way he has his big, buffed up arm wrapped around your neck, applying pressure to make you a bit dizzy, feeling everything 10x more intense. You hold and scratch his big muscles until you cum hard, soaking his cock with your juices.
COWGIRL: he loves seeing his girl bouncing up and down on his cock. When his leg hurts, you get to work. Getting on top of him, you center his hard cock to your entrance and push down painfully slow for both of you. You start bouncing faster and harder, holding onto his chest, squeezing his pecks. Meanwhile, he holds onto your ass and helps you bounce, flexing those hard arm muscles. Once in a while you stop with him still inside and grind your clit into his salt and pepper haired base, making you both moan. He loves it when you’ve already come once or twice and have no more energy to bounce, so you lay on his chest while he pounds into you from beneath while you drool on his chest and neck.
EATING YOU OUT: he’s just a starved man that loves to eat his girl out from behind, giving each hole a bit of love. He starts by licking from your clit to your ass hole a bunch of times, leaving you wetter than you were before. Then he continues by giving your clit and holes some love, sucking, biting, tongue fucking, spitting… name it and he’s probably done it to you.