"Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards." Søren Kierkegaard
♡ My name is Cassie/Cherry any pronouns
♡ Interests: SHAWN HATOSY, The Pitt, Animal Kingdom, Ready or Not 2, Criminal Minds, Life Series, Alienstage, tennis, Apothecary Diaries, bluelock, tbhk, SVU, Taylor Swift
♡ Kins: Dennis Whitaker, Trinity Santos, Frank Langdon Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia, c!Scott, Luka, Sousuke Mitsuba, Hyoma Chigiri, Casey Novak
♡ OCs: Enola Lovett (The Pitt), Casey Wilson (CM), Reo Vargas (COD), Akira Itoshi (BL), Emerald (Sk8), Kaho Ito (BSD)
♡ Yume: Spencer Reid, Jack Abbot, Titus Danforth, John Price, Oliver Aiku
Christopher Marlow wrote, “It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate.”
Summary: Dana has a dirty dream for the first time in a long time. Dana and Mel get a call requesting help.
Ship: McEvans - Dana Evans / Cassie McKay
Friendship: Dana Evans & Melissa Schemmenti
A/N: SORRY THIS ONE TOOK ME EIGHT LONG YEARS.
LINK TO AO3
That night Dana has a dirty dream.
She hasn’t had that many in her life, considering how much life she’s had. Her marriage had been a sort of busy wasteland of desire, in which she could barely fit her own needs. So much of her time had been for everything else - work, looking after the kids’ schedules and care, moving around Benji’s negligence with their home and their lives together which always left the slack on her end. The weight of all that resentment, all that disregard had made her once considerable sex drive dreadfully low. Sex happened when it was deemed necessary, perfunctory: Valentines Day, anniversaries, sometimes birthdays (though for her own, her preferred way to spend it was alone in a hotel room with her own hand and no husband around at all). Sex had stopped being something she looked forward to a long, long time ago and became just one more item in a list of her duties of care.
But since the divorce, longing and desire have started to trickle back into her system. The slow drip of possibility settling into her, finding her body’s needs again.
And now that Cassie is a part of that possibility, that desire, her body and brain are obviously responding.
Dana wakes in her bed feeling flushed and tense. She had been getting worked up in her dream, desperately trying to reach the pinnacle of pleasure but missing out on its peak. When she shoves her hand between her legs she feels a bloom of heat and wetness there that she hasn’t experienced in a long time. She rolls over onto her stomach and chases the tail of the dream behind her eyelids - Cassie’s lips on hers, the taste of her tongue, her mouth between Dana’s legs devouring her. Their forms pressed desperately against each other. Dana muffles her face into her pillow as she moans, so her house guest cannot hear her from the next room.
Dana’s bones relax as her body slumps back into the mattress. She feels satisfied… mostly. She pictures her bed less empty. A warm form with long hair and soft skin curled into her own. A face smiling up at her with dimples and bangs and big blue eyes.
She rolls back over, stares up at the ceiling and sighs.
Melissa clocks it immediately.
“You look different.”
“No I don’t.” Dana answers too quickly. She practically tiptoes into the kitchen as she avoids Melissa’s gaze. As if by moving quietly, she can outwit a hunter.
“Yeah you do. Your skin looks… well I dunno but you’re walkin’ funny.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Melissa narrows her eyes and pauses on her pour of a second coffee. She finishes the pour, then grabs a mug for Dana and pours again. Then she holds out the mug towards her and waits like she’s baiting a trap. Daring Dana close enough to allow a proper assessment.
Dana sheepishly takes it from her hand, still avoiding her eyes, says a quiet thanks. She can feel a blush creeping up her chest, probably still partially present from her little escapade.
It’s then that Melissa gasps. Her eyes light up.
“You masturbated!” Now she's grinning like a maniac.
“Jesus H. Actual Christ, Schemmenti.” Dana speeds out of the kitchen. If she wasn’t red before, she’s tomato-toned now. She plops down on the couch with more force than necessary, spilling a little coffee on herself which she angrily (leaping right over her own embarrassment) wipes away.
Melissa rounds the corner like a shark - or one of the Three Stooges. “Were ya thinkin’ about yer little redheaded doctor?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?” Dana hisses. She hasn’t felt this uncomfortable in her own home since she watched that documentary with the sea cucumbers.
“Jesus, Evans. Never thought you were this much of a prude. What’s the problem? We’ve talked about your sex life before.” Mel drops onto the couch next to her, nearly upsetting Dana’s mug again, which earns her a trademark Charge Nurse glare.
“We’ve talked about my lacking sex life before. Very different,” Dana says tersely.
Melissa rolls her eyes. “Oh come on, this should be easier then! This is the good stuff! Come on. What’d you imagine? A little public display of indecency?” Melissa’s eyebrows waggle. Dana thinks if she wasn’t holding a coffee mug, she would be rubbing her hands together like a cartoon villain.
“Lord! No. Nothin’ that… scintillatin’,” she huffs. When she realizes Melissa is absolutely not going to let this go, she sighs and relents: “I just woke up from a dream and felt a little… unsatisfied.”
“Oooo, love a horny dream. What happened in it? She throw you onto a gurney and have her way with you?”
“At the hospital?!” Dana balks at that.
“What? It happens on Grey’s Anatomy all the time. Why d’you think they call it that?”
“For your information I would never and have never had sex in the hospital. It’s full of piss, blood, feces and vomit no matter how much we clean and disinfect. It’s the last place anyone should be tryin’ to get up to somethin’ like that.”
“You’re tellin’ me no doctors have ever boned in an on-call room?”
Dana shakes her head. “There are too many damn people everywhere! It’s not like we ever get any privacy, at least not in our department.”
“Fine, fine, be boring as hell, ruin my fantasies. So what was the dream about?”
Dana tries not to think about it at first, but she finds her mind drifting back anyway.
It had included some of the usual mysterious nonsense of any other dream - some combination of old houses Dana used to live in, morphing in and out of one another. And the events occurring were a mash-up of traumatic emergency cases and extravagant children’s birthdays for some reason, go figure.
Until finally the dream had shifted into a little city park, a bench where she’d been sitting and pulling out a cigarette and realized she’d had nothing to light it with and Cassie had sat down beside her and simply lit the cigarette. Harmless. Chaste, even.
But it wasn’t chaste for long. The next thing she recalled was being in a shower at home and without turning around, feeling sure that someone was entering the shower behind her. It wasn’t until she felt hands at her naked hips and watched the fingers slide across her wet stomach and then down, that she realized it was Cassie’s body pressed up against her back. Cassie’s fingers sliding down her slick centre and then deep inside. She’d been in and out of sleep then, and chasing the dream hadn’t exactly worked. So she’d done what she’d done to alleviate the tension.
She does not tell all this to Melissa. To Melissa, she just says, “We were in the shower. Together. And I am not illuminating anythin’ beyond that, thank you very much.”
Melissa just bites her lip.
“And don’t look at me like that! You’re makin’ it weird!”
“Am not! I’m just thinkin’ about taking a shower myself now…” Melissa says with a chuckle.
Dana gasps and smacks her in the arm.
“What?! Don’t judge me! I haven’t had sex in almost a week,” Melissa adds.
“Oh shit, hon. How long has it been?” Melissa asks.
“Definitely more than a week. Months. Or more…” Dana has to halt her brain from counting and making her more depressed about it than she already is. The truth is, it’s been nearly a year since the last sad, gasp of intimacy with her ex-husband, and that hadn’t exactly been anything to write home about.
“Well then I’m glad you’re at least masturbating!”
Dana smacks her again a little harder this time.
“Ow! Jesus, okay I get it. You’re repressed and you don’t like the word ‘masturbating.’” Melissa says with a little twinkle in her eye and adds emphasis. This time when Dana reaches to hit her, she dodges and stands, laughing. “Nice try, I’ve got moves. I’m gonna go hit the shower for real, though. I’m ripe.” She sniffs herself dramatically.
“You do whatever you want,” Dana says and stands. “I’m gonna make breakfast. And whatever you do in there will you please just keep it on the quiet side?”
“No promises,” Mel says with a tortuous wink.
As Dana is finishing cooking off the scrambled eggs and transferring them to the microwave to keep warm, she hears her phone ringing from the other room. She smacks the microwave door closed and rushes to grab it, not looking at who’s calling.
“Dana speaking,” she says quickly.
“Dana! Thank god. I’m so sorry to call like this,” Cassie’s voice sounds panicked and Dana’s hackles are immediately up.
“Cassie? What’s going on, you okay?” She feels ready to burn something down and thinks distantly about what she remembers Melissa saying about the best place to hide a body.
“Yes I am totally fine except I am just starting my shift and Harrison is supposed to be with Chad till I’m off but now he’s saying that it’s a half day at school and it’s my responsibility to go get him but my parents are out of town in Harrisville and everyone else I would usually ask from work is literally on shift with me and–”
“Cass!” Dana interrupts the stream of anxious consciousness. “Slow down. It sounds like you need a sitter?”
“Yes,” Cassie says finally, a little breathlessly. “I know it’s a huge imposition, but Harrison is going to be done in like three hours and I’m going to be stuck at work till at least 7. I know you have Melissa there, but is there any way he could hang with you guys? I am SO sorry.”
Dana just smiles. It’s nice to be asked a favour like this, actually. Cassie’s kid is a hoot and a sweetheart, just like his mom, and if it means she gets to see Cassie later today, well, that’s an added bonus too.
“Of course - send me his school address.”
“Oh my god, thank you. I owe you a hundred massages.”
Dana chuckles darkly and feels her throat go a little dry at that image. Still, she adds a little more confidence to her reply: “Well I’ll settle for one of those, hon. But you’d better deliver.”
She can almost hear Cassie’s sly smile on the other end. “Deal.”
Dana feels that tension between her legs again.
But it’s cut off by the sound of Robby yelling in the background: “McKay! Off the phone, NOW!”
“Shit, Dane, I have to go. I’ll text you the place and pickup time, and Harrison’s number. He has one of those dumb phones that doesn’t have internet but he can get texts.”
“MCKAY!” Robby’s voice booms so close and then the call hangs up, so Dana assumes he’s intervened directly. She rolls her eyes. She’s glad to be off this week, but feels bad for McKay that she’s got Robby’s disdain to wear all week without Dana as a buffer. She feels bad for them all, of course, but Cassie especially.
Cassie who should have earned through turning her life around (the equivalent of righting a sunk ship) what should be a life of peace, but instead continues to be relegated to a fraught existence. So it goes for them all. Especially when they choose the path of ‘healing’ which brings altogether more pain than almost anything else.
But then, Dana thinks, maybe if that path brings them each other - the little family they’ve built in the department, the kind you fight with and drive insane and love in equal amounts - maybe that is the inherent value. Helping patients is a kind of constancy that has value too, of course. But those people come and go and disappear. Meanwhile, the ones who stand shoulder to shoulder with her are there every day. She thinks maybe it’s those lives that she likes seeing change and grow the most.
It’s while she’s waxing poetic in her own head that she burns the bacon to a crisp.
When Melissa is finally out of the shower - Dana does not ask, as she usually might, what goddamn took her so long - she learns of their newly amended plan for the day.
“No problem. I can entertain a 12-year-old. I do that 30 times a day,” Melissa says with ease. Dana breathes a sigh of relief. She wasn’t really worried about Mel’s ability to pivot, but she knows her friend’s time visiting always feels too short and she’s grateful at how game she is to give up one of their precious afternoons. Especially for a pursuit that to Dana, feels a little more selfish than selfless considering whose kid he is.
She texts Harrison - she realizes she already has his number before Cassie sends it. She had texted him last year on his birthday and once when McKay had misplaced her phone. She lets him know the new plan, which he’s already heard from his mom but is happy to have confirmed.
She guesses he must feel more than a little passed around these days and that he’s used to it. But it’s always good in those situations to have more than one source of reassurance that he hasn’t been forgotten. She’s seen kids in situations like that without the same benefit and the effects can be devastating.
When they pick him up from school, Harrison is in remarkably good spirits. But then, Dana is used to seeing him on weird in-between days when he’s been forced to hang out in the break room at work. Those days he’s not in such a gleeful mood.
“How you doin’, hon?” Dana says, looking at him in the rearview mirror as he shuffles into the backseat with his backpack.
“Good!” Harrison says with a shy smile that reminds her so much of Cassie her heart hurts. His eyes flick over to Melissa curiously.
She turns around in the passenger seat and extends her hand for a shake. “Melissa Schemmenti,” she says, matter-of-factly. Same way she would introduce herself to an adult.
Harrison blinks for a second and then shakes her hand firmly. “Harrison Ashcroft-McKay.”
Dana’s eyebrows raise a little at that. Up until now she’s only heard him referred to under his father’s name. But it makes her heart warm at the sound of him saying Cassie’s last name too.
“Melissa is my friend from - well a long time ago. Almost when we were your age,” Dana adds as explanation.
Harrison’s eyes go wide but he must realize he should be polite and knows better than to say anything about how long they must have been friends for. “Cool!” He says instead. “What are we gonna do?”
Melissa and Dana exchange a knowing look.
The afternoon is spent mostly in a local arcade Melissa had looked up in the car ride over. Dana spends most of the time teaching Harrison how to throw the perfect skeeball.
“It’s as much about the release point as anything else,” Dana says, demonstrating. Harrison watches studiously as she sinks the 50 bucket three times in rapid succession. “You go.”
He tries and gets frustrated, but Dana takes her time teaching him and after a few rounds, he’s catching on. Dana recalls teaching her own kids the same skills what feels like a hundred years ago and it’s nice to feel like she’s still got it.
Then Melissa insists she show Harrison the skill of beating the claw machine, which is a combination of actual skill and then when she’s jostled the plush prizes around a little, getting Harrison to play lookout while she swipes a few whole-cloth from the return chamber. Harrison laughs while he looks out for her like a co-criminal until Dana finds them and yanks Melissa’s arm out of the machine. “What you teachin’ him shit like that for?” She hisses.
“Hey, you taught him a skill. So am I!” Mel says, chuckling and stretching her arm back out. “Besides, I got you your favourite.” Mel produces a large Garfield plush and hands it to her.
“Jesus, how old are these things? Do you even recognize this guy, Harrison?” Dana asks.
“Oh yeah, I know Garfield. I saw the movie a couple years ago.”
“Yikes, well, sorry you had to see that,” Dana mutters. She catches the eye of a wary security guard headed their way.
“Say, maybe we hightail it out of here before this red rocket gets us in trouble, huh kid?” Dana says, her hand on his back.
He follows her eyes. “Good idea.”
Melissa is still looking at her “hard-won” prizes when Dana drags her by the collar unsuspectingly towards the door.
At Dana’s house, Melissa warms up risotto for the three of them and makes garlic bread to go with it. The whole house is warm and full of energy stirred up from running around the arcade like children. They skip the wine tonight in favour of a litre of soda they split with the kid and when they sit down to eat dinner they decide to put a movie on.
“You like horror movies, kid?” Melissa asks him with her mouth full.
Harrison’s eyes light up. “Yeah! I love them, but mom only lets me watch them when she’s around. Dad and Chloe won’t watch them. Do you, Dana?”
Dana smirks. “I like ‘em when I have people to watch ‘em with. I don’t do it alone.”
“So you get scared?”
“Maybe a little.”
“I think you’d like watching with us then,” Harrison says. “Mom’s really brave.”
Dana smiles wide at the thought. “Oh I’m aware. Your mum’s one of the bravest women I know.”
Melissa picks out a movie she deems “not too scary” for the 12-year-old and the accompanying, slightly scaredy-cat 56-year-old.
Dana vaguely remembers the one she picks, but she insists that if anything really scary happens Mel give them a heads-up.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine!”
23 minutes later Melissa says, “Oh shoot, okay this part’s a little scary.”
Dana puts her hands over her eyes and watches through her fingers and Harrison laughs at her, then does the same when a man gets sucked into the sandy desert floor. Both of them jump when the station wagon gets pulled in next. Melissa just cackles at the them and when the scene ends, she says, “Okay, okay it’s over ya chickens.”
An hour later, the movie’s done and they’re playing an ancient (1991) version of the game of Life and as Dana moves her little green station wagon around the board, she quickly loses track of time.
Part of this is because she and Melissa get deeply competitive at anything where they’re head-to-head and it gets loud and heated.
“I saw you take an extra 10k on that last turn, ya gagootz.” Melissa mutters under her breath.
“Oh yah, Schemmenti? Well I know you swapped out the Split Level for the Tudor when you picked houses! This is why I never let you shuffle your own cards.”
Harrison watches the two of them like they’re in a tennis match, trying to contain his giggles.
“Whatever, Evans. You’ve been acting really holier than thou since you put your little wife in the car.” Melissa says, spinning the wheel on the board.
Dana blinks. “My what?”
Melissa points at Dana’s little green station wagon play piece as evidence. The one they fill as they add family members moving around the board. Because it’s from the 90s, it’s pretty basic in terms of its gender representation: pink person pegs for women and blue for men, as if nothing more complex than that exists (it desperately needs an update, she’s pretty sure the new edition has the same problem).
In any case, Dana hadn’t been paying much attention when she added her “spouse” peg because she’d been arguing with Melissa. But as she looks in her car, there it is: two pink pegs. Her original player peg and her “spouse” peg. She gets an odd little curl in her stomach. It’s pretty silly. Since she’s owned this game, she’s always put the little blue peg in anytime she “gets married” without thinking about it. But not this time.
“Hello? Earth to Dana,” Harrison says, giving her little nudge, smirking.
“What, hon?” Dana blinks again.
“It’s your turn!”
She’s missed a whole round just looking at her own play piece.
“Right.”
She spins the wheel and moves her vehicle around the board again when the doorbell rings.
Melissa snorts. “Saved by the bell, D. Now you don’t have to watch me beat ya.”
“Oh shut it, Melissa,” Dana says with a laugh, reaching out to smack her in the arm as she gets up to get the door.
And there on her doorstep is Cassie, looking a little like she’s tumbled through a hedge ass-backwards. Dana can see what a hard day she’s had just by looking at her face and her fucked-up bangs.
“Oh, hon.” Dana reaches out to squeeze Cassie’s arm and gets a sad smile in return. “Bad one, huh?”
“Not great,” Cassie admits with a dark laugh. “Thanks, again. You’re a life saver.”
“Was our pleasure. You’ve got a pretty cool kid.”
Dana desperately wants to pull her in for a hug but she hesitates and before she can make up her mind, Harrison rounds the hallway to the front door with his bag.
“Hey mom,” he says easily and joins her side with a little half hug.
“Hey, kiddo. Have a good time?”
“Mmhmm Dana and Melissa are the best. We watched Tremors!” Harrison smiles at Dana fondly.
Cassie ruffles his hair as long as he can stand it without moving his head out of the way. “Great pick - you can tell me all about it on the way home. What do you say to Nurse Evans?”
“Thanks for hanging out with me, Dana.” He leans into the doorway a little and calls out, “Thanks, Melissa!”
Mel’s voice carries around the corner, “No problem, kid. Happy to school you in board games anytime.”
He seems like he’s about to leave her side for the car, then doubles back. “Mom, can I hang at Dana’s tomorrow night too?”
Cassie pales. She looks uncomfortably between her son and Dana.
“Buddy, Samira is watching you at ours tomorrow, remember?”
Dana doesn’t catch on to where Cassie’s discomfort is coming from - maybe she thinks Harrison is being presumptuous, taking up Melissa’s time and her own. So she tries to assuage that fear.
“We don’t mind, Cass. We’d be happy to have him if Samira wants a night off.”
“No, no. It’s all set up already. You two have so little time together as it is, right?” Cassie says quickly. “Go wait in the car, bud,” she adds to Harrison.
“Night, Dana,” he says before running to do as he’s told.
“Night, hon.” She doesn’t even know if he hears her because he takes off so fast.
She turns her focus back to Cassie who is avoiding her eyes on top of looking sheet white.
“So where will you be tomorrow night?” Dana asks. “Hot date?” She says it as a joke, tries to add a flirty tone as she rests against the open door.
Cassie hesitates before saying, “Blind date. Samira set it up, that’s why she offered to watch Harrison. And I felt like I couldn’t say no because it was already done. And I sort of told her I want to get back out there. But anyway...”
Dana mostly doesn’t hear the words after “date” because she feels like she’s been punched in the gut. She has no right to feel so blindsided. She flirts a little with everyone, how is Cassie supposed to know she wants her that way? And of course it’s all Dana’s fault for waiting so long to say something.
She realizes she’s not said anything out loud for too long and clears her throat.
“Oh,” she finally says. “That’s. That’s good! Back in the datin’ pool!” She adds an enthusiasm she really doesn’t feel.
Cassie shrugs awkwardly as if to say, not my choice.
But she didn’t say ‘no’, Dana’s brain pouts.
“Well I can’t wait to hear all about it.” Dana says. Because I’m a fucking masochist.
“Sure. Goodnight, Dana.”
“Night.”
She closes the door and locks it and then presses her forehead to the cool wood for a moment, as if she can turn into the grain herself if she just waits long enough.
It’s not until she hears Melissa’s footsteps and voice - “where’d ya go?” - that she slowly turns to face back inside the house.
Like usual, Melissa can tell something is wrong right away. Her shoulders drop.
CONTENTS: farmer! jack abbot x age gap! f! reader au, cowboy! jack abbot au, future child mentions, fluff, unprotected p in v, daddy kink, breeding, hand job, oral (f! receiving)
Word Count: 2.4k+
SUMMARY: instead of jack abbot joining the military swat as a medic, he opts for taking care of a farm instead! (ofc he can't put himself at risk when he has you in his life)
a/n: inspired by concepts of farmer! pope cody by @dirtygir1 (which i just plugged in jack abbot instead!)
You were cuddled into Jack's side, your legs draped across his thigh. His fingers tickled and trailed down the length of your quads, one hand on you and one hand on the steering wheel. The truck's engine hummed, creating the perfect white noise for you to focus on your book.
Fields and silos passed along the horizon, you occasionally sticking pointing at the cows grazing in the distance.
"Look, Jackie!" you squealed. "Cows!"
"Yeah, honey," he chuckled, his chest rumbling. "They're here every time we come by."
"That's not the point, Jackie," you pouted. "They're so cute!"
It all started shortly after his wife passed away, his therapist griping about how he needed a new hobby. He had tried everything, writing, painting, going to some lame ass book club. It settled on him buying an old farm from one of his uncles, reminiscent on the days he spent out here growing up.
"Yup," his uncle said as he admired the property. "Just gettin' too old to run this place. You remember how to even take care of this place?"
"For the most part," he sighed. "Yeah, I got it."
This led to now, his pretty girl sat next to him on the bench seat of his truck. You both spending every other weekend out here, away from the bustling city.
Jack had inherited the farmhands as well, paying them generously and always making sure they had everything they needed. Most weekends you'd spend most of the time baking and cooking for them, home cooked meals stuffing their bellies.
The large white farmhouse rested on top of the hill, the bench swing slightly swaying in the breeze as the truck bounced along the dirt road. You were locked in to your romance novel when Jack put the truck in park.
"Sweetheart, we're here," he mumbled, patting your thigh.
You climbed out of the truck, your cute little cowgirl boots that Jack bought you kicking up the dust as they hit the ground. Jack grabbed the luggage from the backseat, duffel bags nestled in both of his palms. He followed behind you as you practically skipped to the house.
The minute you entered the threshold you drew open the windows, the soft breeze billowing into the rooms. Jack made his way to the bedroom, unpacking the clothes and filling the drawers. You padded into the master bedroom, your arms encircling his strong middle and your head resting on his back. This was common, you just clinging to him while he worked on any task.
Once everything was in its place, he'd turn around and resting his hands on your cheeks, placing a kiss on the crown of your head.
"M'gonna go check on the farmhands, okay, baby?" he mumbled into your hair, his hands on your hips now.
"Can I come with you? I wanna check on my babies."
After you came into Jack's life, the cattle farm grew into a complete zoo. Chickens, ducks, sheep, goats, yeah, safe to say it was insane. There was even the one time you begged Jack to buy you an alpaca.
"Sweetheart, I am not buying an animal that is going to spit on me."
"Please, Jackie!"
"I promise this is the only time I'll tell you no."
You trailed behind Jack as he limped towards the stables. You gushed at the new little foal in the neighboring stall as Jack slid the gate open. Grabbing the lead and guiding the mare out to the front of the stable. He drew the bridle across the nose, patting the mare's cheek. Heaving when he hoisted the saddle across the horse's back, rubbing the haunch.
"Good girl," he rasped.
He tugged himself onto the mare, gathering the reins in his hands. He adjusted his cowboy hat while he stared at you as you gripped the bars, admiring the little foal. Constant coos falling from your lips.
"Baby," Jack called to you, still standing there talking to the animal. "Baby, hey."
Your head finally turned, seeing Jack holding his hand out to you. You put your hand in his as he helped you up, your arms lacing around his middle.
Your head rested against his back, slightly bobbing with the steady gait. Jack would sneak his hand behind him, rubbing and rubbed at your thigh.
You both made your way to the chicken coop, practically leaping off of the horse and sprinting to the coop. You greeted all the hens, griping at them as they pecked your ankles. You took the little basket hanging on the side of the coop, peaking into each cubby and collecting the eggs. Jack chuckled as he watched you bounced around the coop. You jogging towards him with your full basket like a little girl on Easter. You fastened the basket of eggs to the saddle.
"Jack!" you exclaimed. "I got breakfast for tomorrow!"
"You sure do, sweetheart."
This led to the sheep pen, the babbling creatures racing around. The sheep were your favorite, always loving how they'd respond to your little 'bah'. Jack would find you so cute when you would be around the sheep. Always scratching at their fluffy coats, a smile everlasting on your face as you greeted every one.
Then your eyes would land on the little lamb in front of you, briefly making eyes with Jack before returning to the little baby before you.
"Jack! You didn't tell me we had a new baby on the farm!"
"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack smirked. "Wanted to surprise you."
You sat there, continuously gushing over the little guy. Jack, growing inpatient, drew himself off of the horse and made his way over.
"Jackie, can you lift it?" you asked kindly. "Need to see if its a girl or boy!"
Jack would follow through, lifting the lamb to where its pink belly was exposed.
"Aw, it's a boy!" you cheered while the sheep bleated in Jack's grasp. "Did you know Jack and I are your mommy and daddy?"
"Honey," Jack gritted out. "You know no one can call me daddy besides you and our child, right?"
Oh.
You stared at the lamb while Jack slugged his way back to the horse, you slowly following once you made your goodbyes.
That night, you made dinner for all of the farmhands. Them rubbing their full tummies while you placed a fresh apple pie in front of them. A smile curved across Jack's lips as he stared at you in your frilly little apron.
"Ugh, I can't eat anymore," one of the farmhands mentioned. "Always good to have you here."
"It's always my pleasure."
The farmhands would start to leave one by one, their call time always at sunrise. Jack would bring the remaining dishes to you, him tugging off his cowboy hat and his hands finding your hips. His lips tickling across your skin while you scrubbed at the dishes.
"Jackie! Tickles!" you squealed.
"Can't help it, sweetheart," he chuckled against your skin. "You just look so pretty like this, cooking for our crew, cooking in our kitchen. It's so domestic, only other thing I need is a little toddler running around here."
Jacks hands rubbed around your childless womb, picturing how swollen and ripe you would be with his kin. It led to him starting to nip at your earlobe. Slickness pooled in your underwear, leaning back into his chest at his touch. His hands trailed down to the bow that sat on the middle of your back, holding your apron in place. He unfastened the bow and shed you of the garment. Then he was turning you around and backing you into the counter. He gripped the back of your thighs and hoisted you up to where your ass was placed on top of the cabinets.
Jack placed himself between your thighs, his fingers slowly making their way up the length of your quads. Your arms were draped across his shoulders, one hand scratching at the silver hairs on the nape of his neck. You sighed the minute his tongue swept across yours, his hands digging into the flesh of your hips at the contact. You fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, quick to expose his muscular chest. Jack snaked his fingers to your clothed center, you riding his fingers slightly, feeling the rough denim against your clit.
"J-Jack-" you stuttered out. "I need more."
"You'll get more, doll. No need to beg me."
Jack got down to on his good knee, shrugging off you boots and socks. Your blown pupils met his as he placed adorning kisses to the inside of your ankles. It made the wet spot in your underwear grow even more. His arm wrapped around your middle, helping you down. He placed a sharp slap to your denim clothed ass.
"Get that ass to the bedroom," he demanded, smirking at how the curve of your ass jiggled and bounced.
The minute you entered the bedroom, his lips were back on yours. Him disregarding his flannel, and you stepping out of your tiny ass shorts. This would lead to your hand unbuttoning his jeans, sliding your hands beneath the denim and palming at this half hard cock.
"Ah-, sweetheart," Jack hissed against your mouth. "Slow down. Fuck-, I can't keep up with your young pretty ass."
You giggled against his lips, lacing your fingers along his sides, slightly guiding him to the edge of the bed. You shoved him back, to the point where he was sitting on the mattress. With his jeans already halfway down, you stripped the fabric off.
Jack always grew embarrassed and insecure during this part of the foreplay, the minute his prosthetic would be exposed to you. However, you didn't mind. Always kissing his thigh while you released the metal free. Placing kisses on his knee of his residual limb.
You'd be between Jack's legs, finally kissing him once he was free of his constant burden. Only wanting him to focus on you and only you. Your legs would draw across his lap, straddling his solid length. Your hips slowly grind down on him, both of you moaning at the meeting. His hands slipped you out of your tank top, casting the clothing aside.
He squeezed the bare flesh of your breast, fidgeting with your nipple. The touch making you gasp against his mouth. He moaned when your mouth trailed down the expanse of his neck, suckling along the freckled skin. His hands seek the hem of your underwear, drawing the fabric down the curve of your ass. You stood up briefly to step out of your panties, then having him lift his hips to bare his hard cock.
You returned to his lips before he patted your thigh, getting your attention.
"Sweetheart," he rasped. "Sit on my face. I need to taste you."
"Jack, no I stink."
"Don't care," he whispered, already guiding your hips towards his mouth. "Need to taste my pretty girl."
At first he teased you, feather light kisses sprinkled across the fat of your thighs. Then leading to slow kitten licks along your clit while his fingers undulated in and out of you. Your hips slightly grinding to where his nose was pressed against the hairs that decorated your center, him taking a deep inhale at your musk. His tongue entered your hole, reaching as deep as he could before repeating the motion.
"Oh— Jack," you whimpered while he fucked you with his tongue. "God—, fuck, that feels so good."
He slapped your ass, a harsh red welt peaking along the cheek. This hushed you up real quick, Jack wanting to focus on the little sounds that were pouring from your lips. His nails dug and clenched at the warm fat of your ass. Your hips started to buck and ride his mouth, his scruff scratching against your soft pussy.
"Cum for me, sweetheart," Jack demanded. "Need to taste your release. Fuck—, been desperate for you all day."
He continued to lap and suck around your needy bud. Your constant groans and squeals filling his ears. You shivered and convulsed around him while your orgasm rolled through you, your release slipping across his tongue.
"Mm, that's it, sweetheart."
You panted on top of him, desperately trying to catch your breath. Your chest heaving while Jack peered up at you. His gentle palm met your cheek, his thumb slightly stroking your hot flesh.
"You okay, doll?"
You nodded, your mouth agape while you looked at him. Swollen lips, lustful eyes, all of it.
Cum dribbled and bubbled from the flush head of his cock. His cock starting to ache at how hard he was for you. Once you finally felt yourself starting to meet with reality, you slid your figure to where you rested on his thighs, toying and stroking his rigid member. The slight slick coating his length and allowing for quicker movements.
"Ah—, baby," Jack's back slightly bowed against the sheets at your touch. "That's it, stroke daddy's cock. God—."
You slightly smirked at how his body bent and his hips bucked beneath your touch. Fisting his cock to the point where he couldn't take it any longer. He tugged your hips to where they rested above his cock.
"Ride it for me, cowgirl," he gritted out. "Ride this bull till you can't anymore."
It took you no time at all to sit on top of him, the inches grazing into your plush walls. Your hands placed on his chest for stability, crying at how good he filled you up. You were completely made for him. Little squelches filled the room while you dove your hips on top of him, your boobs bouncing above him.
He adjusted to where his frame was propped up on the pillows, enough reach for him to tug your nipple into his mouth, swirling and flicking his tongue around it while you bobbed on his dick. It made you whimper and squirm even more.
"Oh—, Jackie!" you cried. "I want you to fill me up, want you to give me that baby we always dreamed of."
"Oh, yeah, sweetheart?"
"Y-Yeah," you mewled. "Yeah, fuck yes, daddy."
You continued to grind and wobble on top of him, his thumb meeting your clit and absolutely driving you over the edge. Your raspy little whimpers filling the room while you continued to squeeze and hug around his cock. Sweet sloppy sounds coming the from his consistent thrusts that met your movements.
"That's it, good girl," he cooed. "Cum on daddy's cock, you can do that for me, yeah?"
With that, he felt your walls constrict around him, hugging him so tight that it felt like a vice grip. Jack slowly continued to rut into your hips, eventually meeting his own orgasm. Thick hot ropes of his cum filling your empty womb.
CONTENTS: farmer! jack abbot x age gap! f! reader au, cowboy! jack abbot au, future child mentions, fluff, unprotected p in v, daddy kink, breeding, hand job, oral (f! receiving)
Word Count: 2.4k+
SUMMARY: instead of jack abbot joining the military swat as a medic, he opts for taking care of a farm instead! (ofc he can't put himself at risk when he has you in his life)
a/n: inspired by concepts of farmer! pope cody by @dirtygir1 (which i just plugged in jack abbot instead!)
You were cuddled into Jack's side, your legs draped across his thigh. His fingers tickled and trailed down the length of your quads, one hand on you and one hand on the steering wheel. The truck's engine hummed, creating the perfect white noise for you to focus on your book.
Fields and silos passed along the horizon, you occasionally sticking pointing at the cows grazing in the distance.
"Look, Jackie!" you squealed. "Cows!"
"Yeah, honey," he chuckled, his chest rumbling. "They're here every time we come by."
"That's not the point, Jackie," you pouted. "They're so cute!"
It all started shortly after his wife passed away, his therapist griping about how he needed a new hobby. He had tried everything, writing, painting, going to some lame ass book club. It settled on him buying an old farm from one of his uncles, reminiscent on the days he spent out here growing up.
"Yup," his uncle said as he admired the property. "Just gettin' too old to run this place. You remember how to even take care of this place?"
"For the most part," he sighed. "Yeah, I got it."
This led to now, his pretty girl sat next to him on the bench seat of his truck. You both spending every other weekend out here, away from the bustling city.
Jack had inherited the farmhands as well, paying them generously and always making sure they had everything they needed. Most weekends you'd spend most of the time baking and cooking for them, home cooked meals stuffing their bellies.
The large white farmhouse rested on top of the hill, the bench swing slightly swaying in the breeze as the truck bounced along the dirt road. You were locked in to your romance novel when Jack put the truck in park.
"Sweetheart, we're here," he mumbled, patting your thigh.
You climbed out of the truck, your cute little cowgirl boots that Jack bought you kicking up the dust as they hit the ground. Jack grabbed the luggage from the backseat, duffel bags nestled in both of his palms. He followed behind you as you practically skipped to the house.
The minute you entered the threshold you drew open the windows, the soft breeze billowing into the rooms. Jack made his way to the bedroom, unpacking the clothes and filling the drawers. You padded into the master bedroom, your arms encircling his strong middle and your head resting on his back. This was common, you just clinging to him while he worked on any task.
Once everything was in its place, he'd turn around and resting his hands on your cheeks, placing a kiss on the crown of your head.
"M'gonna go check on the farmhands, okay, baby?" he mumbled into your hair, his hands on your hips now.
"Can I come with you? I wanna check on my babies."
After you came into Jack's life, the cattle farm grew into a complete zoo. Chickens, ducks, sheep, goats, yeah, safe to say it was insane. There was even the one time you begged Jack to buy you an alpaca.
"Sweetheart, I am not buying an animal that is going to spit on me."
"Please, Jackie!"
"I promise this is the only time I'll tell you no."
You trailed behind Jack as he limped towards the stables. You gushed at the new little foal in the neighboring stall as Jack slid the gate open. Grabbing the lead and guiding the mare out to the front of the stable. He drew the bridle across the nose, patting the mare's cheek. Heaving when he hoisted the saddle across the horse's back, rubbing the haunch.
"Good girl," he rasped.
He tugged himself onto the mare, gathering the reins in his hands. He adjusted his cowboy hat while he stared at you as you gripped the bars, admiring the little foal. Constant coos falling from your lips.
"Baby," Jack called to you, still standing there talking to the animal. "Baby, hey."
Your head finally turned, seeing Jack holding his hand out to you. You put your hand in his as he helped you up, your arms lacing around his middle.
Your head rested against his back, slightly bobbing with the steady gait. Jack would sneak his hand behind him, rubbing and rubbed at your thigh.
You both made your way to the chicken coop, practically leaping off of the horse and sprinting to the coop. You greeted all the hens, griping at them as they pecked your ankles. You took the little basket hanging on the side of the coop, peaking into each cubby and collecting the eggs. Jack chuckled as he watched you bounced around the coop. You jogging towards him with your full basket like a little girl on Easter. You fastened the basket of eggs to the saddle.
"Jack!" you exclaimed. "I got breakfast for tomorrow!"
"You sure do, sweetheart."
This led to the sheep pen, the babbling creatures racing around. The sheep were your favorite, always loving how they'd respond to your little 'bah'. Jack would find you so cute when you would be around the sheep. Always scratching at their fluffy coats, a smile everlasting on your face as you greeted every one.
Then your eyes would land on the little lamb in front of you, briefly making eyes with Jack before returning to the little baby before you.
"Jack! You didn't tell me we had a new baby on the farm!"
"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack smirked. "Wanted to surprise you."
You sat there, continuously gushing over the little guy. Jack, growing inpatient, drew himself off of the horse and made his way over.
"Jackie, can you lift it?" you asked kindly. "Need to see if its a girl or boy!"
Jack would follow through, lifting the lamb to where its pink belly was exposed.
"Aw, it's a boy!" you cheered while the sheep bleated in Jack's grasp. "Did you know Jack and I are your mommy and daddy?"
"Honey," Jack gritted out. "You know no one can call me daddy besides you and our child, right?"
Oh.
You stared at the lamb while Jack slugged his way back to the horse, you slowly following once you made your goodbyes.
That night, you made dinner for all of the farmhands. Them rubbing their full tummies while you placed a fresh apple pie in front of them. A smile curved across Jack's lips as he stared at you in your frilly little apron.
"Ugh, I can't eat anymore," one of the farmhands mentioned. "Always good to have you here."
"It's always my pleasure."
The farmhands would start to leave one by one, their call time always at sunrise. Jack would bring the remaining dishes to you, him tugging off his cowboy hat and his hands finding your hips. His lips tickling across your skin while you scrubbed at the dishes.
"Jackie! Tickles!" you squealed.
"Can't help it, sweetheart," he chuckled against your skin. "You just look so pretty like this, cooking for our crew, cooking in our kitchen. It's so domestic, only other thing I need is a little toddler running around here."
Jacks hands rubbed around your childless womb, picturing how swollen and ripe you would be with his kin. It led to him starting to nip at your earlobe. Slickness pooled in your underwear, leaning back into his chest at his touch. His hands trailed down to the bow that sat on the middle of your back, holding your apron in place. He unfastened the bow and shed you of the garment. Then he was turning you around and backing you into the counter. He gripped the back of your thighs and hoisted you up to where your ass was placed on top of the cabinets.
Jack placed himself between your thighs, his fingers slowly making their way up the length of your quads. Your arms were draped across his shoulders, one hand scratching at the silver hairs on the nape of his neck. You sighed the minute his tongue swept across yours, his hands digging into the flesh of your hips at the contact. You fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, quick to expose his muscular chest. Jack snaked his fingers to your clothed center, you riding his fingers slightly, feeling the rough denim against your clit.
"J-Jack-" you stuttered out. "I need more."
"You'll get more, doll. No need to beg me."
Jack got down to on his good knee, shrugging off you boots and socks. Your blown pupils met his as he placed adorning kisses to the inside of your ankles. It made the wet spot in your underwear grow even more. His arm wrapped around your middle, helping you down. He placed a sharp slap to your denim clothed ass.
"Get that ass to the bedroom," he demanded, smirking at how the curve of your ass jiggled and bounced.
The minute you entered the bedroom, his lips were back on yours. Him disregarding his flannel, and you stepping out of your tiny ass shorts. This would lead to your hand unbuttoning his jeans, sliding your hands beneath the denim and palming at this half hard cock.
"Ah-, sweetheart," Jack hissed against your mouth. "Slow down. Fuck-, I can't keep up with your young pretty ass."
You giggled against his lips, lacing your fingers along his sides, slightly guiding him to the edge of the bed. You shoved him back, to the point where he was sitting on the mattress. With his jeans already halfway down, you stripped the fabric off.
Jack always grew embarrassed and insecure during this part of the foreplay, the minute his prosthetic would be exposed to you. However, you didn't mind. Always kissing his thigh while you released the metal free. Placing kisses on his knee of his residual limb.
You'd be between Jack's legs, finally kissing him once he was free of his constant burden. Only wanting him to focus on you and only you. Your legs would draw across his lap, straddling his solid length. Your hips slowly grind down on him, both of you moaning at the meeting. His hands slipped you out of your tank top, casting the clothing aside.
He squeezed the bare flesh of your breast, fidgeting with your nipple. The touch making you gasp against his mouth. He moaned when your mouth trailed down the expanse of his neck, suckling along the freckled skin. His hands seek the hem of your underwear, drawing the fabric down the curve of your ass. You stood up briefly to step out of your panties, then having him lift his hips to bare his hard cock.
You returned to his lips before he patted your thigh, getting your attention.
"Sweetheart," he rasped. "Sit on my face. I need to taste you."
"Jack, no I stink."
"Don't care," he whispered, already guiding your hips towards his mouth. "Need to taste my pretty girl."
At first he teased you, feather light kisses sprinkled across the fat of your thighs. Then leading to slow kitten licks along your clit while his fingers undulated in and out of you. Your hips slightly grinding to where his nose was pressed against the hairs that decorated your center, him taking a deep inhale at your musk. His tongue entered your hole, reaching as deep as he could before repeating the motion.
"Oh— Jack," you whimpered while he fucked you with his tongue. "God—, fuck, that feels so good."
He slapped your ass, a harsh red welt peaking along the cheek. This hushed you up real quick, Jack wanting to focus on the little sounds that were pouring from your lips. His nails dug and clenched at the warm fat of your ass. Your hips started to buck and ride his mouth, his scruff scratching against your soft pussy.
"Cum for me, sweetheart," Jack demanded. "Need to taste your release. Fuck—, been desperate for you all day."
He continued to lap and suck around your needy bud. Your constant groans and squeals filling his ears. You shivered and convulsed around him while your orgasm rolled through you, your release slipping across his tongue.
"Mm, that's it, sweetheart."
You panted on top of him, desperately trying to catch your breath. Your chest heaving while Jack peered up at you. His gentle palm met your cheek, his thumb slightly stroking your hot flesh.
"You okay, doll?"
You nodded, your mouth agape while you looked at him. Swollen lips, lustful eyes, all of it.
Cum dribbled and bubbled from the flush head of his cock. His cock starting to ache at how hard he was for you. Once you finally felt yourself starting to meet with reality, you slid your figure to where you rested on his thighs, toying and stroking his rigid member. The slight slick coating his length and allowing for quicker movements.
"Ah—, baby," Jack's back slightly bowed against the sheets at your touch. "That's it, stroke daddy's cock. God—."
You slightly smirked at how his body bent and his hips bucked beneath your touch. Fisting his cock to the point where he couldn't take it any longer. He tugged your hips to where they rested above his cock.
"Ride it for me, cowgirl," he gritted out. "Ride this bull till you can't anymore."
It took you no time at all to sit on top of him, the inches grazing into your plush walls. Your hands placed on his chest for stability, crying at how good he filled you up. You were completely made for him. Little squelches filled the room while you dove your hips on top of him, your boobs bouncing above him.
He adjusted to where his frame was propped up on the pillows, enough reach for him to tug your nipple into his mouth, swirling and flicking his tongue around it while you bobbed on his dick. It made you whimper and squirm even more.
"Oh—, Jackie!" you cried. "I want you to fill me up, want you to give me that baby we always dreamed of."
"Oh, yeah, sweetheart?"
"Y-Yeah," you mewled. "Yeah, fuck yes, daddy."
You continued to grind and wobble on top of him, his thumb meeting your clit and absolutely driving you over the edge. Your raspy little whimpers filling the room while you continued to squeeze and hug around his cock. Sweet sloppy sounds coming the from his consistent thrusts that met your movements.
"That's it, good girl," he cooed. "Cum on daddy's cock, you can do that for me, yeah?"
With that, he felt your walls constrict around him, hugging him so tight that it felt like a vice grip. Jack slowly continued to rut into your hips, eventually meeting his own orgasm. Thick hot ropes of his cum filling your empty womb.
Needy!Sammy who just bought a pint of his favourite ice cream as a treat for making it through the week.
Needy!Sammy who can’t find his ice cream bowl, the one you had made him on one of your first dates at a shape&paint pottery lesson.
Needy!Sammy who had decided that he’d just eat the creamy goodness from the tub even though he can already feel tears of frustration threaten to spill at having to change his usual routine.
Needy!Sammy who saw you laying under the sun, bikini and shades on as you sang along to the radio. His eyes following the lines of your perfect face, to your perfect neck, to your perfect collarbone, to your perfect perky breasts.
Needy!Sammy who remembers fucking your tits as you held them together, allowing his cock to nudge between the two peaks, rutting himself expertly between them until he came with a strangled cry, his cum coating your pretty lips.
Needy!Sammy who just got a brilliant idea.
That’s how you end up shivering under him though you weren’t exactly sure if it was from the way his tongue flicked on your nipple as he swallowed some of the sweetness he had spooned there, or if it’s from the coldness of the ice cream on your chest.
Either way he was ravaging you, licking, sucking, biting as you whined, your hands tugging at his hair trying to ground yourself. After a particularly harsh nibble on the curve of your breast you couldn’t help but push his mouth away from overstimulation.
His hazel eyes stared right into yours, his eyebrows raising with surprise, as though he didn’t do anything that warranted your reaction, fat tears glistening in his eyes from the rejection.
« But sweetheart… please... How else 'm I supposed t-to eat my dessert ? »
You huffed harshly trying to catch your breath but he just went back to his task, fingers fumbling the flimsy textile of your bikini to the side as he plunged his ice cold digits into you. He even had the balls to giggle as your eyebrows furrowed, your mouth whining at the sensation, body contracting uncontrollably.
Sammy Bryant who lovesss when the two of you roleplay as cop and damsel in distress. You’ll park across the street from where he’s patrolling and run right up to his car, looking like a fucking dream in a tight little number that has your tits and legs on full display. When he looks through his window, he finds a pretty face with (fake) sad, pouty lips looking back at him.
“Can I help you, sweetheart?”
“H-hi Officer, I’m so sorry to bother you. B-but when I was leaving the bank just now, someone ran by and stole my new purse!!! And it had all my things in it. It had my car keys, my house keys…my new lip gloss.” The weepy sniffles you let out as you threw your face into your manicured hands is already giving him a chub.
“Aw, you poor baby. Why don’t you get up front with me here, and we’ll go down to the station to file a report,” he pats the passenger seat next to him. You nod and run around to the passenger side, climbing in with him. He takes off to a secluded (but safe) area, maybe somewhere off the highway. He puts the car in park and steps out, coming around to open your door. He looks around to make sure nobody’s coming, and orders you to step out.
You hop out of the car, faking confusion.
“Officer Bryant, I thought we were going to the police station?”
“Turn around, honey.” He motions for you to turn around with your back to him. “Bend over, ass up. Come on baby, gonna need you to cooperate. Don’t wanna have to cuff a sweet little thing like you.” He uses his right hand to press your upper body down closer to the seat. You can hear the jingling of his belt coming off, followed by the zipper of his uniform pants. He slides them down mid (deliciously meaty) thigh and reaches for the bottom of your dress. He slides the material up your silky legs and over the curve of your ass, bunching it around your waist - only to reveal you’re not wearing any panties. “Oh, fuck meee,” he groans. “Miss, are you aware that you’re not wearing any panties?” He grabs both of your ass cheeks in his large hands and spreads them to get a better look at you.
“It jus’ feels so much better without them on, sir,” you giggle. Sammy nearly fucking busts at this. When he’s inspecting your bare pussy, he leans forward and spits above your ass, eyes glazed over watching the way it drips from one tight hole down to the other. He spreads it over your pussy with his thick fingers, rubbing lazy circles just to get you nice and slick. He then inserts a finger, and then two, and pretty soon he’s pumping in and out of you, fucking you on his fingers somewhere on the side of the highway.
“But what about my stuff, sir?” you whimper.
“I’ll buy you all new stuff baby. Hell, I’ll take you this weekend to the outlets and we’ll get you a new purse. Then we’ll go replace your makeup, angel.” He leans forward, pressing your body even further into the seat and places sloppy, wet kisses to your back snd shoulders.
“And my cash? My credit cards???”
“I’ll take care of you, honey. Fuck - pull out cash for you right after this, give you my American Express. Don’t worry about a damn thing right now but taking my cock.”
He stands straight behind you and lines his cock up with you. He slides it in and immediately throws his head back at the way you grip him. It takes a moment for you to get used to the girth of him, but after a moment or two he’s picking up the pace and steadily thrusting in and out of you. You can feel his soft tummy you love so much hitting against your ass, heavy balls slapping against your pussy. He’s got both hands on your hips and is just fucking pounding into you. You’re crying out for him, head pressed to the seat, ass red and blotchy from the way Sammy is smacking and grabbing it, moaning as he watches the fat of it jiggle in his hands.
You both come together, a tangled mess of flush cheeks and sticky skin from the beating, California sun. Your legs are shaky, and when you stand up to pull your dress back down, Sammy puts a hand to your lower back to steady you. You smile as you turn to face him, standing on your tip toes to place a sweet kiss to his lips. He grabs a fluffy towel from the back to put on the passenger seat for you, since his cum is literally dripping down your thighs.
sammy bryant who is all too cheesy when it comes to sex!
MDNI - 18+
CONTENTS: sammy bryant x f! reader, smut, use of handcuffs, roleplay?, doggy, unprotected p in v
like he walks in, uniform and all. you’re in your cotton panties and one of his t-shirts, bending over while you scrub the counter.
he’s immediately removing the cuffs from his belt, his crotch meeting your ass once he makes his way over to you. his chest is pressed into your back, his hand wrapped tight around your wrist as he drags it back behind you.
“you’re under arrest, sweetheart,” he grits out.
you’d always give in to this shit, his stupid cheesy foreplay.
“oh! for what, officer?”
“for bending over and showing off your pussy like that. you want me to fuck you?”
you’d whimper in response as you felt the metal tighten around your wrist.
this would lead to him guiding you down the hall to the bedroom, one hand strong around your shoulder and the other holding your hands behind your back.
in no time at all, he’d be railing into you, gripping the chain of the cuffs while he rams his hips into you. your underwear at your knees and his shirt bunched up on your backside.
“yeah? like being a criminal, baby? you like teasing me like this after a long day?”
“sammy—“
“didn’t say you could answer me, sweetheart. you just focus on how big i am inside of you, yeah?”
you’d clench around him as your orgasm rippled through you. pretty moans seeping from your lips.
Needy!Sammy who can’t stop telling you that he loves you.
He said it first, barely a month after your first date. You were sure it had to be some type of love bombing because who says the three little words after only knowing each other for a few weeks?
But actually he never stopped saying it.
He’d whisper it on your forehead where he leaves his morning little kiss before heading to work.
He’d chant it to whatever melody was on the radio when he drove you to your favorite little restaurant for the usual weekly date night.
And he’s groan it into your mouth as he snapped his hips into yours, relishing in the way you tightened around him at his words.
He didn’t care when his colleagues would make fun of him whenever they’d hear him say it to you on your phone calls. He’d rather suffer under their laughter than you forget how much he loves you.
And really it's also selfish on his end. Sammy loves hearing you say it back. You once left a voicemail on his phone one day when he had worked a double shift and you'd miss him. You told him to stay safe, that you loved him, that you couldn't wait to see him soon, that you hoped he would come back to you. And you ended it by telling him that you love him, again.
That voicemail is his favorite thing in the whole wide world... after you of course.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist | ao3
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
