summary: you had always adored damian… till you overheard his complaints to his brothers on your clinginess. so why was it that when you decide to give him what he desires, he is the one trying to close the gap he desperately wanted?
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: hurt-comfort, angst+fluff, hea, grovelling+yearning, desperate damian who bites his own words that make him go through it, reader with boundaries
“She’s clingy.”
Damian’s voice is unmistakable. Cut-throat, swift in its delivering blow. Even with his back turned to you, you could recognise it in a heartbeat.
“C'mon, Dames.” Dick teases. “You enjoy her company.”
A cold, scathing scoff echoes. “Her smothering can barely be considered company. Consuming my entire week—then coming along to the gala just to torment me further? You're mistaken.”
Pressing the gap of the door shut, your numb fingers dig into the wood. His bitter admission parted from his lips so easily. His harshly thrown words didn’t just shatter your heart physically into pieces—no, there isn't a harsher tidal wave crashing over you than the realisation that whatever bond you shared with Damian was a complete, utter lie.
Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.
When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.
When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.
When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.
Was it all a ruse?
The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.
If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.
You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.
“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."
I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.
“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”
His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.
His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”
“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.
His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.
“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”
It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.
His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.
You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.
Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.
His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.
He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.
He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.
"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."
He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.
Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.
You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.
All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.
This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.
You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.
Only for you to walk right past him.
He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.
You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.
“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”
Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”
“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."
“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.
Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.
“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."
Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?
“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.
Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.
“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”
“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”
You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”
Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?
"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.
You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.
There was something, very obviously wrong.
You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.
It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.
He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.
He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.
To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?
That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.
Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.
When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.
Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.
His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.
Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.
What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.
It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.
But—what does she mean to you, Dames?
What would your life look like without her?
In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.
It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.
He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.
He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.
He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.
He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.
Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.
He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.
He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.
He misses you... terribly.
It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.
Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.
"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.
"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.
His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.
A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.
He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.
You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."
His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.
“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”
Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.
It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.
Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.
That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.
“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”
“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”
You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”
He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?
He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.
Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.
At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.
Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."
A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.
Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.
You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.
“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”
He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”
It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.
“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”
“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.
His brow creases. “When have I ever—”
His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”
The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.
He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.
You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.
“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.
It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.
"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."
The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.
No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.
“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”
Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.
He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.
Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.
“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"
“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”
Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.
“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."
"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."
“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”
“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."
“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”
“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."
"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"
"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."
Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.
"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."
His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.
"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."
You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.
"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."
"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."
"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."
He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.
"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."
He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.
"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.
From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.
"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."
He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.
"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.
"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."
"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.
"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."
Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.
"I'd like to see that."
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The Pitt x Reader x Batfam, Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader
This is my Masterlist for my crossover series between the Pitt and the Batfamily (and by extension a few other DC superheroes and villains) - it's a little bit of a slow burn romance
The reader is the sister of Bruce Wayne, she works in the ER, wading through the slough of patients. But maybe she finds a little bit of balance in the form of her attending. The catch is, no one at the Pitt knows who she really is or who she was? How long will that last?
Chapter 1: Day In , Day Out
Chapter 2: Just One of Those Days
Chapter 3: The Day It All Started (for him)
Chapter 4: The Day It All Started (for her)
Chapter 5: Days of the Past
Chapter 6: The Day That Just Won't End
Chapter 7: Just A Few Days
Chapter 8: When the Days Just Feels that Bit Heavier
Mini Chapter 8.5: Shark Has A Heart
Chapter 9: Going to Remember This Day ♥️
Chapter 10: Days of Newfound Bliss
Chapter 11: Crash My Day
Chapter 12: What A Day
Mini Chapter 12.5: The Daily Scoop from Supes
Chapter 13: A Day Without You Feels Like Forever
Chapter 14: Days Apart
Chapter 15: Take a Day Off, They Said, It'll Be Fun, They Said.
Chapter 16: Today of All Days
Chapter 17: When the Day Bleeds into the Night
Chapter 18: Training Day
Chapter 19: Do You Ever Regret That Day?
Chapter 20: Please, Not Now, Not Today 💔
Chapter 21: This Day Was Bound to Happen
Chapter 22: Hollowness of the Day
Chapter 23: The Early Light of Day
Chapter 24:Let Me Spend My Days With You ❤️🩹
Chapter 25: Discharge Day
Chapter 26: Days Spent With You
Chapter 27: First Day Back On Shift
Chapter 28: You Learn Something New Everyday
Mini Chapter 28.5: Shut Up and Breathe
Chapter 29: Days In The Manor
Chapter 30: Made My Day
Chapter 31: Tomorrow is Another Day
Mini Chapter 31.5: Don't Worry Hun
Chapter 32: That'll Be The Day
Mini Chapter 32.5: I Had A Little Help
Chapter 33: For The Rest Of My Days 💖
Chapter 34: The Start Of A Beautiful Day
Chapter 35: Day Of Surprises
Chapter 36: Day After Day
Chapter 37: The Day I Found Home 💍
Chapter 38: Dreaming of Sunnier Days
Chapter 39: One Day At A Time
Chapter 40: Days Wrapped Up In Your Embrace...
Below are a few chapters following their lives after Chapter 40, exploring little snippets of their family life! 💖 (I just couldn't resist!)
Mini Chapter: Bring Your Daughter(s) To Work Day
Mini Chapter: Gentle Mornings
Some Mini Chapters Still Incoming.
But Overall the Story is Complete!! 💖
THANK YOU TO EVERYONE FOR ENJOYING MY STORY!
Find my Main Masterlist Here
*I’ve left the reader’s age as vague, but as she is Bruce’s younger sister I’ve sort of written it in mind of being about early to mid 40s around about. While it is an x reader, using the last name Austen as a cover. (I promise there is a good reason for this) You can imagine her appearance however you wish, as an adopted or blood sister of Bruce. I’ve tried to keep any description as open for interpretation.
*I’m not basing the batfam off of one strict thing (but am using a fair few images from WFA just cause I like the consistency and their visual portrayal) 🤷♀️
(I've also posted this onto my ao3 under RedSakura101)
Likes, Comments and Reblogs are always welcomed and appreciated ♥️ and thank you to those enjoying my little fic! I am lowkey freaking out at how many people are reading and liking this 🥹
Feel free to let me know if you’d like to be tagged 😊
summary: by accident, you help clark slip on his old class ring– and slip into the skin of a man you’ve never met… but don’t hate.
word count: 6.1k
contains: fluff, angst & smut. redk!clark & farmboy clark, banter, drinking, nightclubbing. jealousy. reader gets groped by stranger, clark gets angry and mean because his baby feelings are hurt. *unprotected piv, slight exhibitionism, dirty talk (& use of slut as a petname), rough but consensual (bruising, drooling, etc). remorse & makeup. *no use of y/n
a/n: oh my god
————————————͙͘͡★———————————
You knew the ring was a bad idea because it was ugly, but you didn’t think it would crack tile or leave bruises. It was all an accident, really. A… very big accident.
It all started when you were going through Clark’s old boxes in the Kent Farm attic.
Clark was trying to speed up the move into your freshly rented apartment in Metropolis, but you insisted on poking through all the souvenirs of his childhood that his mother kept. Some of which were mortifying, because Clark did not have the hallmark tokens of a normal childhood. Instead of a first loose tooth, Martha had kept the first metal pipe Clark had ever broken with his bare hands. It was just a bunch of junk that tracked his progression of strength, but it clearly tickled you. You had been giggling all morning as he packed. It was only when you reached the high school box that you found the real treasures– his varsity jacket from the one and only year he was on the football team, pictures from proms come and gone, cassettes full of his moody music. And lying at the bottom of the box in a little lead container… a ring.
“Hey, what’s this?” You called out to the shuffling sounds just beneath you. Clark was in his old room, trying to box up his books.
“What’s what?” He shouted.
“This ring!”
A slight brush of wind rustled the hair against your neck, and the piney scent of Clark lingered at your side. You peeked at his profile, his furrowed brows, and you knew it meant confusion.
“A ring? What ri–”
You grinned and grabbed his palm, slipping the ring on his finger. You saw the knuckle twitch as if he was going to pull it away, but you were quicker. You tucked it snuggly to his digit and admired how the ruby stone seemed to glow against the tan of his farm hands. A class ring, you figured, and a gaudy one at that. “I never took you for a sentimental guy. I thought you hated high school.”
Clark felt a rush of something familiar; something that made his stomach initially curl with sickness, but was then replaced with a low buzz; a thrumming through his veins that felt like a shot of energy. If you were looking in his eyes, you might've caught the red blaze that illuminated them, but your attention was on the ring. Clark rolled his shoulders back and smirked down at you, the soft scent of your perfume clogging his nose.
“I did,” he purred, taking the bejeweled palm and sliding it under your chin, tilting you up for a kiss.
You let out a surprised little huff as he tilted your head back too far, and lifted it up so high, he actually hoisted you off the ground by about an inch. It didn’t hurt, but you felt your weight suspending. His lips sealed over yours sloppily– Clark usually never kissed you without care– and you grabbed at his arms to try and leverage some of your own weight. Against his mouth, you mumbled, “Mm- Clark, put me down- what are you doing?”
He laughed softly and let you plop right back down on your tailbone, and you grunted. He reached out to ruffle your hair, and he watched the strands brush over the beaming stone. “Kissing you.”
You looked up at him with rosy cheeks, narrowing your gaze. He looked… weird. His smile was crooked, not that full-toothed picture you were used to. And his eyes were big. Wide open. Like something spooked him. “Are you alright?”
“When am I not alright?” Clark grinned, hooking his hands under your armpits and yanking you to your feet.
“Woah–”
“You smell good,” Clark grunted and backed you up against one of the beams in the attic, hard enough you heard it creak. His lips attached to your neck like a leech, and you let out a little whimper.
“Hey– ow, Clark, you’re smushing me too hard!”
Clark’s big palms let up on pressing and instead slid down your back, until they curved over the swell of your soft tush and found purchase. He chuckled at the hysterical pitch of your yelp.
“Clark!” You pushed him off with some effort, staring up at him in shock. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” he lied, “Just excited to move in with you. Live our lives together. Give you little babies to run around with.”
“Babies– what?” You flushed profusely. “You’re– are you sure you’re okay?”
Clark rolled his eyes, almost like his long thread of patience had suddenly been snipped. “I said I’m fine.” But his tone softened again– however soft he was capable of being with the rush of his boiling blood– and he coaxed your jaw back, pressing you into another kiss that quickly shut you up. Between stealing the breath from your throat, he whispered, “Let’s go out.”
“Out where?” You panted.
“Dancing. Drinking, I don’t know. Somewhere you can look pretty for me.”
Your flush spread down your neck like a rosy infection. “You’re being very spontaneous.”
“Take it or leave it,”
You laughed at his sudden suaveness, and you kissed him again. “I’ll take it.”
——͙͘͡★——
The next thing which should have persuaded you that something was wrong was when Clark insisted upon going to a nightclub in Metropolis, of all places. He hated going there for work, let alone pleasure. But he was in this ridiculous bout and you couldn’t help but bend to his will– he could be so persuasive when he just kissed you into agreeing…
He put on a leather jacket, something you did not even know he had. And he looked killer in it. It had a collar like a cloak, sharp and on the same incline of his jawline, almost as if he’d had it custom-made. Maybe he did, because you’d never known a shirt to do him poor favors, but this jacket… phew. Tight. Promising to distract. It was like he knew you were into the mood swing in some twisted way, and wanted to toy with you. You were undeniably worked up. Who wouldn’t be? He was surprising you, asserting himself in a way you’d never seen. You adored his meagerness, you’d never wish for it to change; but what’s the harm in a little play now and then, when all he does is work? Clark dedicated his life to saving people, enduring torture and meeting it with kindness and unyielding hope. You were surprised he didn’t act reckless all the time with all that power coursing through him.
Of course, you might not have thought so if you knew about the red Kryptonite. In fact, you didn’t know there was any other color than green. He hadn’t seen it, touched it, since high school, and you were a token of his time in Metropolis. Post-farm, post-Smallville meteor freaks. When he chose to tell you the truth of his biology, you had been so gentle, so receptive, and when he told you about the kryptonite, you panicked. You were afraid you wouldn’t recognize it if you saw it, and you might be the very one to hurt him. He had never seen such fear in you, and like an idiot, it had blindly persuaded him to keep a few other dangers a secret, so as not to terrify you any further. He was not yet at the stage of understanding that all secrets are a dangerous affair. He was still at the stage of hoping that he could protect people by keeping some things hidden. That would not last after tonight.
Clark had plopped you unceremoniously on a street corner downtown, seemingly not even looking to catch any bystanders, which made your stomach flip with thrill. He was being careless, and paired with his sharp smile, you didn’t mind for now. You squeaked as he yanked you up the blocks into the inner hub of nightlife, your black dress squeezing your curves and coat catching the brick corners of buildings.
“Maybe after we can go get ice cream or something,” you suggested, clinging to Clark’s arm.
“Ice cream?” He snickered low, peeking down at you, as if the wholesome idea was utterly stupid. “Bunny, you’re lucky if I don’t drag you to my bed after this.”
You flushed all down the valley of your neck and shoulders in the cold wind, and felt the growing thumping of bass beneath your heels as Clark ushered you down a main street lit by neon signs of clubs and bars. This was a seedy part of town, and it made your embarrassment flourish. “Jeez, Clark, if that’s what you really wanted, you know you could’ve just asked. We could’ve stayed home.”
“I didn’t want to fuck you at home. Well, at least not yet.”
Your cheeks burned deep as he tussled you in front of a line full of waiting patrons to a place near the corner. You remembered vaguely one night he’d had you beneath him in his childhood bedroom, taking his sweet time, and you asked him to talk a little dirty; he had said, “Baby, I don’t even like that sort of thing. You aren’t something I use, you’re someone I’m lucky to even touch. I’ll try it if you want…” That had made you infinitely more horny than any sleazy phrase or nickname ever could. There was no kink stronger than being the object of Clark’s honest affection.
You couldn’t even see the sign, only a velvet rope that held people off from a descending staircase into some club that was surely wall-to-wall with people. Clubgoers drunkenly protested as he strongarmed his way in front, and he slipped a few bills which you couldn’t make out to the bouncer, who begrudgingly let you both down the steps. You raised an eyebrow at him, but all he did was lick his lips and nudge you down.
The music was so loud it hurt to even come close to. You wandered down the staircase, which took a sharp left at the bottom towards a dingy glass door. When he opened it, a thick wave of recycled air smacked you in the face, like walking into a bathroom while someone was showering. Your coat stuck to you as you slipped down a brick hallway lit purple and blue by pulsing lights, and you felt Clark’s possessive grip on your hips like handles, pushing you forth into the crowd as it opened up before you. A sea of dancers and drunks swayed, bobbed, leaped above your head, on the ground floor, over the balcony, on poles, in cages like birds. You thought these sort of clubs could only be found in Gotham, all their debauchery included, but clearly Metropolis had its own seedy underbelly.
Goosebumps rose as Clark peeled your slick coat from your skin and tossed it at a coat check woman, who (you were sorry to say) seemed untrustworthy with it. “Come on,” he purred in your ear, “I want to dance with you.”
You stowed your concerns about the place and people for a moment, because there was no such thing as danger when Clark was around. You trusted him with everything in you.
Clark swept you through the crowd of sweaty skin to the center, under a glimmering chandelier. The strobe lights flickered and painted the club with rainbows as he drew you in close, hands curling in your hair and down your spine, swaying you into something resembling a beat as this hard, heavy music battered your head. You smiled when you saw him gazing down at you, tucking your hair back from your warm face, hungry as a dog.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” you shouted over the crowd, “but I don’t hate it!”
“Shut up and dance,” he called back, and he nosed his way into the crook of your neck, sinking his teeth into the offering of your skin. You slithered your arms around his neck and let your eyes flutter shut, surrendering to the swooping feeling in your gut.
It was good for a while. He spun you around, smushed you to his chest, danced you into a place where you felt like drinking. Got three drinks in you, your magic number, and then three more, and feasted on the margarita-syrup on your lips. Soon enough you were the one swaying him, dropping lower, shaking the parts of you which giggled, which begged to be kneaded. It was in the middle of a particularly dirty song, one that had him spinning and squishing you, that a rough body slipped behind you and smoothed its palms up the backs of your thighs. Your fuzzy brain scrambled to make your sluggish body turn around and catch the culprit.
“Heey,” you slurred, blinking hard and trying to whip around. The hands reached your ass before you got there, and you yipped, swatting at them. It was a man– just some unmemorable, drunken man– but it didn’t matter now. He would be lucky if he was a man at all in the next five seconds.
Clark noticed your alarm and snapped out of the haze that was touching you, and his eyes were engulfed in flame. His hand snatched out and twisted the guy’s arm in a horribly unnatural position. The music smothered his cry of pain.
“How would you like to have no hands to touch my girlfriend with, motherfucker?”
You flushed nervously and clawed at Clark’s arm. “Hey! You’re hurting him!”
Clark glared down at you, at your gorgeous cheeks, the sympathy in your eyes. Sympathy for a pervert. Sympathy for a man that wasn’t him. He shoved the drunken nobody back, casting him into a sea of girls who squealed and swallowed him whole, and a jealous rage infiltrated his body. Clark seized your wrists hard enough to hurt, and you whimpered, drunken eyes fluttering.
“Ow! Clarkieee…”
“Quiet,” he barked, and before you had time to see what was happening, he hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of meal and shoved through the floor toward the bathrooms.
You felt sick to your stomach as the club blurred around you. You couldn’t focus on any one thing, and so the reprieve of a shutting door helped to ground your churning stomach. A bit of shock rippled up your knees as he set you roughly against a tile wall, grime clinging to your dress, cold seeping into your feverish skin.
“What was that?” he snipped.
You blinked and flushed deeper, furrowing your brow in confusion. “What was what?”
“You defended that asshole. He fucking groped you.”
You couldn’t control the heat of your skin. “You were… hurting him,” you swallowed, words thick with tequila.
“He shoved his hands up your dress, and you blushed like you liked it.”
“What?” you hiccuped, “I didn’t–”
“What, am I not enough for you or something? Huh? Don’t I do it for you?”
You grunted as he pressed you harder into the wall. You could’ve sworn his eyes were glowing, but everything felt like it was flashing from the illusion of the strobe lights imprinted in your vision. He was constricting your lungs with the weight of his body, and his paw hooked under your knee, hitching you around him.
“Don’t be stupid–”
“Stupid? You liked getting groped in front of your own boyfriend,” he growled, squeezing the flesh of your thigh hard enough to leave spotted bruises. “Like some kind of slut.”
You swallowed thickly, head spinning and heart pounding. He was being extraordinarily rough, behaving so unlike himself. But something in you liked it. Craved it, even. How many times had you wished he would just hold you down and take what he wanted? You were always won over by his entreaties of gentle touches, slow thrusts, soft words spoken into your neck. You loved being cherished. But every now and again, when he got eager, he’d just apply a little pressure, and you were a slave to that feeling. He was a superhero, for Christ sake, and he refused to use his strength. That wasn’t crazy to want… was it?
Well, it didn’t matter now. You were getting what you’d secretly wanted. And you were getting it right now.
“Somebody’s gotta teach you how to behave,” he grunted, dropping your leg and twisting you around, pressing your soft tummy against the wall. The sinks were adjacent, along with their mirrors. Your glazed-over eyes peeked at the reflection of Clark’s body, hard lines and tall stature, imprisoning you against the tile, hiking your dress over your hips. You whined softly.
“You like this, don’t you?” he panted, unhooking his pants with precision, not wasting a second. “You like being trapped. Getting what you deserve.”
“Clarkie,”
“What was that? Huh?” he whispered warmly, pressing the heat of his withholding erection between your thighs, lifting you a probable inch off the floor with his barehanded hold. You moaned at the show of strength, and his eyes narrowed with a possessive pleasure. “Jesus. You’re drooling.”
You licked your lips, feeling a wetness on your tongue. You didn’t mean to, but your brain was throbbing inside your skull. You were drunk and he was grinding into the notch between your legs. You flushed deeper, which only seemed to anger him more.
“Bad bunny,” he snarled, slipping his thumb under the bridge of your panties and tugging them aside. You felt the warmth of his familiar skin pressing against your slit, and your surprised eyes fluttered shut, body heating to a boiling point. “Showing yourself off to all those guys back there. Making them want you, liking when they touch you, doing it in front of me.” You whimpered as he dragged the head of his cock back and forth over your slick folds, teasing you cruelly. “Such a little slut, bunny. I thought you were mine.”
You groaned as he suddenly sunk into your pulsing heat, face twisting against the tile, now warm from your body heat. Clark usually spent as long as he could, stretching you on his fingers, tyring to draw orgasms out of you with his tongue before fucking you, because he never could last very long. He could go a few rounds with all that alien stamina, but he just couldn’t hold himself back, and he wanted you to last as long as possible to make up for his prematurity. It seemed you just made it too hard to pace himself. But he did not show you that care this time. He jammed himself deep, deep enough you wondered if he was prodding your small intestine as he knocked you into the wall.
“Ah! Clark,” you mewled.
“This is what you wanted, yeah? Wanted me to get rough? Wanted me to throw you around, take what I wanted? You’ve wanted it, baby, but I never gave it to you. You’re always such a good girl. But look at you now, bunny. Throwing yourself at people just to get what you want,” he grunted, hips pistoning behind you, bones bucking into the curve of your ass. His hands slipped under your dress, palms pressing the plush pudge of your tummy, pressing down over your womb, over where he was. “Didn’t know you had it in you…”
You drooled against the tile, moaning helplessly, nails clawing behind you to try and feel him there, to make a connection. But he wasn’t making love to you– he was drilling you, like you’d asked. He was just choosing the time and place to award you with your wish. He harshly took your wrists and pinned them behind your back, using it as equal leverage to keep you up against the wall. He let out a guttural gnarl beside your ear, feeling the way you clenched around him, practically gushing.
“God, if I knew you liked it like this, I never would’ve been so gentle. Fuck, bunny…”
You had never felt anything like this in your life. The almost rancid sweetness of liquor burning in your throat, coating the tile with your breath’s condensation. The force of his rippling muscle kept you trapped, using you hungrily, wanting you desperately, needing the warmth of your body to pay for your unintentional crime. You just moaned and moaned, fingers flexing under his grip, nails every now and then catching the soft flesh of his belly button when he thrusted deep, leaving moons behind. He could be as rough as he wanted, but he was still yours. He knew that even in the midst of the high coursing through his veins.
Deep, deep down, Clark knew he should take the ring off. There was a tiny percentage of his consciousness that could fight off the power of the poisonous ruby around his ring finger and apologize for manhandling you, for calling you such a dirty name, for punishing you in this dirty place. He wanted to pull out of you and turn you around, kiss you softer, promise he would never hurt you. But he wasn’t hurting you– not for real. Any inkling of pain under his hands was converted to pleasure on your skin. Your heat swallowed his cock like a sword’s sheath, your eyes rolled around in their sockets as if in a dream, and his name spilled from your lips, smelling like sugar. The sober piece of him had never seen you so turned on, and it was that part, the dutiful part, that allowed the red kryptonite to propel him forward. Hard enough, hand against the wall, that he cracked the tile. Your eyes widened for a moment, in awe of the strength, before fluttering again as his force lurched your insides.
Clark took his big palm and pressed your womb harder, and the other dropped their hold on your wrists to press your cheek against the wall, halfway to squeezing you like a grape. The tresses of your hair wrapped around his forceful fingers as he drove harder, never warning you that he was going to spill over, not allowing you the courtesy of a warning. You would know when the mess painted the inside of your thighs, and you would drool and beg for more. He saw you staring at the silhouette of your movements in the mirror, a little exhibitionist under his reign. He’d give you a show.
“Clarkieee!”
He watched your face twist, your throat tighten, your nails scraping against the tile for purchase. Your heat twitched and fluttered, constricting around him, and the shudder which ripped through your body sucked the feeling right out of him. He growled into your shoulder blades, bucking uncontrollably as thick ropes of warmth whitewashed you, bubbling and settling like a familiar blanket. You whimpered and trembled against the wall, legs weak, overstimulation ruling your flesh.
His blood thrummed loud in his ears, and he felt the urge to keep thrusting, to make you take him again, but he wanted to look in your eyes this time. He wanted to watch you beg for more. So he made no effort to save your legs the shock of hitting the ground again, sliding out of you. He pulled his hand from the base of your cranium, but the strands had entangled him. He grumbled softly as he tugged it free, but there was a problem.
One stubborn strand, and it all rushed away.
One stubborn strand, hooked under the ring, slipped it over his knuckle and off. It hit the porcelain floor loudly, clinking, hitting a corner of the stone on bad luck and shattering it. The heat in his body drained fast, and instant color flooded his face. Shame, embarrassment, regret, all in one wave.
Clark rushed to lift you back up, still hard but softening by the second. You looked like a wreck. Your face was beet red from being pressed to the wall, and your legs shook like a baby calf’s. Your hair stuck to your wet mouth, eyes blissfully unfocused. God, you were completely out of it, and he’d taken advantage of you when you were like that…
“Oh my god, oh my god… baby, bunny, are you alright?”
You blinked lethargically, feeling his cradling you against his chest. You heard the stuffing of cotton, the clicking of metal fasteners. You felt something warm and tight covering you again. You pressed sloppy kisses to his jaw. “M’fine… so good…”
Clark’s breath came short and tears pricked his eyes. He held you against him like a ragdoll, hugging you, smoothing your hair back, trying to gauge your level of intoxication. “Oh, honey, my bunny, I’m so sorry… I was so rough with you, sweetheart, did I hurt you?”
“Nooo,”
“Are you sure?” He lamented, fussing over your dress. There were purple spots on your thighs, around your wrists.
“M’fiiine!” You whined, wriggling.
“We’re going home,” he whispered.
“No–”
“Baby, we’re going home.”
A ghost of that forceful past Clark shut you up and you grinned. He only frowned.
He made sure your dress covered your hips and thighs before slipping out of the bathroom. He shoved his way through the crowd and haggled the coat check girl for your jacket, and when he climbed the stairs to the street, you were resting your pounding head on his chest and gazing up at him like a stupid little thing. There was still the imprinted pattern of fingertips on your cheek. He had never felt worse about anything.
Clark whisked you back to the farm, the cold wind against your hot skin welcome. It was only seconds aloft, and your stomach leapt when he landed gently in his bedroom, the curtains fluttering. You whined as he set you on the bed and hurried to the bathroom. He wet a washcloth and brought it back, and he gently wiped down your arms and legs and face, so concerned about the germs and grime he must have rubbed you into. You shivered at the water.
“Said m’fiiine.”
“You are not fine. I could’ve seriously hurt you.”
“You jus’ got rough… felt so good… c’mere, d’it again…”
His heart seemed to simultaneously flutter and sink at how your hand reached for him, ruffling his hair. He crawled over you and traced the shape of your nose, frowning deeply. He would have to tell you about the red kryptonite, about what it did to him. All this time, he had hoped to keep you safe by hiding it, but he could’ve broken your cheekbone, cracked your hip, anything. That was the complete opposite of the intention.
“Bunny?”
“Mm?”
Your pupils were so wide, so trusting, and so drunk. You didn’t seem to be listening at all. You offered him a slow grin, your lipstick all smudged, and he just didn’t have the heart.
“You need to sleep those drinks off.”
“Noo,” you pouted.
“I’m going to get you some water.”
“Don’t!” you whined, and you grabbed at him in frustration. “Jus’ want you one more time… please, Clarkie…”
He’d had you drunk, but not like this. You were begging. You didn’t know how sensitive you were. He lifted your dress a bit to peek, and he knew he couldn’t. You were all puffy, too used, it would probably only make you cry. If you weren’t so drunk, he might have, but now he couldn’t manage it.
“No, baby. You need to sleep.”
“Don’ you want me?” You frowned deeply, lost eyes shining.
Clark sighed softly, brushing your sweaty hair away from your eyes. “Of course I do, bunny. I’m just going to give you a break, okay? If you nap, I’ll wake you up and we can go again. Okay, honey? Can you do that for me?”
The prospect of more sex seemed to work, and he huffed with relief as you carelessly rolled over, hair spilling across his pillow. You were too inebriated to know he was lying. He would lie there and watch you knock yourself out, and he would chew his lip until the morning when he would tell you about the kryptonite, and hope to God he wasn’t so rough that you couldn't forgive him.
——͙͘͡★——
In the morning, you awoke only to lurch over the side of the bed. There was a trash can there, credit to your loving boyfriend, which caught your sick. You slumped there, eyes sticky and body sore, and you groaned weakly.
Clark appeared instantly in the doorway, dirt smudged above his brow and white tee dinged from farm work. He must have been bailing hay. He only did that when he was upset, so he could toss something painless around. The sun was high– you knew because it seemed to burn your hungover eyes– and you heaved a bit, pale in the cheeks.
“Oh, honey,’ he cooed softly, helping you sit up, putting the can in your lap. He gathered your hair back and handed you a glass of water, something he’d left on the nightstand.
“God, how much did I drink?” you complained, rubbing your temples.
“Six margaritas,” he mumbled, taking the can back when your constitution seemed stable enough. “Should’ve stopped you at lucky three.”
You sighed sleepily and worked consciously to stay upright on the bed, closing your eyes. Flashes of the night came back– the coat checker, your panties down in a bathroom, the vision of Clark pinning you like a butterfly in a box– and you flushed profusely. Clark panicked and lifted the trash can again, worried the color indicated another wave of nausea; you only chuckled hoarsely and nudged it away. “No, no… m’okay.”
Clark gazed at you like a scolded puppy, and he kissed your cheek. He scooted closer, close enough to hug you, and you chuckled again. “What is it?”
“I’m so sorry, baby.”
“Why? What happened?” you furrowed your brow, stroking his hair. He smelled like hay.
“I… it…”
You watched him peel away from you as if he was disgusted with himself. You saw his hands wringing, his eyes avoiding yours, and you reached out to cup his cheek. “Hey…”
“Last night,” he murmured, words low with guilt. “The way I behaved, it… it wasn’t me.”
“You’re telling me,” you smirked a bit sheepishly.
“No- no, bunny, it’s not funny. I could’ve seriously injured you. Are you in pain anywhere?” His hands came up to turn your jaw, inspecting the berry shades of his hand on your cheeks, the shadow of his rough touch along your wrists.
You laughed softly as he began to prod you. “No! No, I’m fine. Clark, baby, you look sicker than me… just tell me what’s up.”
He ran a hand over his face. “I haven’t been honest with you.”
You felt his soberness as you replied, “Okay.”
A moment passed before he continued. “That… that old class ring you put on me?”
“The red one?”
“It was a kind of kryptonite,” he admitted, peering at you with fear. It was only then that you noticed his bottom lip was a raw pink. “It… it was red kryptonite. I haven’t come in contact with it in years.”
You blinked slowly. Kryptonite… your brain was sluggish, so it took you a moment. Oh, the green stuff. “Right… um, so… so what about it?”
Clark sighed softly, “Well, the green stuff makes me sick, and the red stuff… it’s hard to explain. It’s like it releases all my inhibitions. It makes me crazy, like I’m high on drugs. I used the ring a lot when I was younger, when things were bad… I got into serious trouble, I robbed people, I hurt them. It– it makes me act on impulse, do things I’d never normally do. It makes me… rough. Mean. Taking what I want, when I want it, not caring how.”
You stared at him for a moment, trying to process it. So he wasn’t entirely himself. He was high when he took you out, swept you off your feet, screwed you in a place you would have never imagined being with him in. That was that look in his eye– a force beyond him. And you liked it. Fed into it. For a second, you wondered if there was a part of him last night that felt afraid of himself, and it made you want to puke all over again. You felt horrible.
“So… you didn’t want to be doing anything we did?”
“No, no, that’s not it. I did. I did want to take you out, to- to sleep with you… it’s just– my anger, it flies off the handle when I’m on red K. My behavior is irrational, I don’t think before I act. And I was so careless, honey. Anybody could’ve seen us. I locked you in that bathroom like an animal, and look at you, love, you’re all bruised–”
“But I’m okay! I’m really okay.”
Clark glanced at you with the softness you had undoubtedly missed in his fervor last night. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, baby,” you sighed, scooting closer to smooth the skin between his concerned eyebrows. “You were a little wild, but you didn’t hurt me. I feel fine. And… I mean, I can't remember much, but I clearly liked it, from what I do remember…”
Clark flushed beet red, and he ducked his head to your shoulder. “I feel horrible. I should’ve told you about the kryptonite.”
“I can see why you didn’t,” you assured him, “it’s embarrassing for you, I get it. It was an accident, I would've never put that ring on you if I knew.”
“This is not your fault. It’s entirely mine. God, I think I should take you to the doctor–”
You laughed softly and brushed his fretting palm away. “I swear, Clark, I’m fine.”
“I just didn’t want you to worry. That’s why I didn’t tell you. You worry enough looking for the regular kind. But there’s so much more, so many types of kryptonite out there… red, gold, blue, black–”
“Wait, what?”
Clark winced with regret. “There’s just other kinds, they all have different effects.”
If you weren’t so hungover, you might be mad. But your head throbbed and he was just… too sweet to be angry with.
“Oh, Clark…”
He rubbed his eyes so the pricking would slow. “I feel so guilty.”
“You couldn't help it, Clarkie,” you cooed, tugging his lip free from its sharp prison. “And even if you could, it’s okay. You didn’t hurt me. You were rough, but I liked it. I’ll say it until you believe me.”
“Are you sure?” he repeated himself.
“So sure,” you promised, kissing his shoulder. “I like when I see new sides of you. They make the regular you that much more beautiful to me.”
Clark felt like melting at your feet. He drew you into his arms, barely squeezing, back to cradling you like porcelain. He’d get over it in a few hours. He always revisited the initial fear of his strength when he got out of line– it was what made him a worthwhile hero.
“You know, it was actually really hot,” you mumbled into his chest.
Clark allowed himself to chuckle. “Yeah, well, I was high and you were drunk. I think we would’ve enjoyed anything.”
You grinned and tipped your head back. “Is there, like, super-weed we can smoke or something to get you like that again?”
Clark didn’t have to allow a laugh this time– it came freely. “I think you need to eat some breakfast before you make any rash decisions, bunny.”
“Kidding, kidding…”
Clark grinned and hoisted you off the bed, happy to carry you downstairs and pamper you after a night full of surprises. “No you’re not.”
“Hey– I didn’t get my morning kiss.”
Clark smirked at you as you wrapped your legs around his hips. “I’ll cut you a deal. If you brush your puke teeth, I’ll kiss you, and then I’ll see just how I can make last night up to you, yeah?”
You saw his eyes flicker. For a moment, you could’ve sworn they had glowed red. Or maybe it was just his fire coming back in a small dose, just for you. There was no vice in the world that could make you or him forget just how much you liked each other as you were in that bathroom; and there was a large part of you that was curious about trying it again. Just maybe without the uncontrollable parts.
“Put me down,” you brushed your nose against his cheek. When Clark quirked a playful brow, your stomach flipped. A glimpse of a man who could punish, if need be. “...Please.”
And with a knowing smile, he whispered, “Good bunny."
Summary: In The Pitt, an ER admin worker becomes the only person unafraid to banter with the intimidating Dr. Jack Abbot. While the residents fear him, the reader treats him like a normal person — forcing him to eat, teasing him constantly, and becoming the quiet place he keeps returning to after brutal shifts.
Wc: 1.4k
Gender neutral, fluff, angst
⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹
The emergency department never really slept.
It only changed moods.
At three in the morning, the bright fluorescent lights of The Pitt’s ER took on a strange, exhausted haze — quieter than daytime chaos but somehow more unhinged. The waiting room television murmured lowly to itself. Someone was crying behind curtain seven. A monitor shrieked briefly before being silenced.
And at the admin desk, you were fighting for your life against the printer jam from hell.
“You hit it yet?”
Without looking up, you answered flatly, “Three times.”
“Try four.”
You finally looked over.
Dr. Jack Abbot stood on the opposite side of the desk with two residents trailing behind him like nervous ducklings. His scrub cap was shoved into one pocket, dark curls flattened from hours of wear. He looked exhausted enough to legally qualify as deceased.
“You know,” you said, “I usually charge for IT support.”
One resident looked horrified.
Jack looked vaguely amused.
“That explains why hospital administration never answers my emails.”
“That explains why nobody likes you.”
The younger resident made a tiny choking sound.
You ignored him and slammed the side of the printer again. It whirred violently back to life.
“There,” you announced. “Fixed.”
Jack stared at the machine.
“You literally assaulted it.”
“And yet unlike you, it responded well to constructive criticism.”
The resident beside him physically turned away to hide a smile.
Jack sighed through his nose, but you caught it — the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Progress.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
“Oh, deeply.”
“Good to know my suffering improves morale.”
“You being miserable is the closest thing this floor has to entertainment.”
One of the med students nearby dropped a clipboard.
Everyone looked at him.
“Sorry,” he squeaked.
Jack rubbed a hand down his face. “Can I get the trauma intake forms?”
“Can you say please?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
The silence that followed was catastrophic.
A nurse walking past slowed down.
The med student looked ready to witness your execution.
Jack stared at you for a long moment, visibly calculating whether homicide paperwork was worth the effort.
Then:
“…Please.”
You grinned triumphantly and handed him the forms.
⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹
The thing nobody understood about Jack Abbot was that he wasn’t actually intimidating all the time.
Only most of the time.
Yes, he barked orders during traumas. Yes, he could reduce residents to ash with one disappointed look. Yes, med students visibly scattered when he walked too fast down the hallway.
But underneath all that, there was just a man held together by caffeine, adrenaline, and spite.
You figured that out months ago.
Probably because you were one of the only people in the department who didn’t need anything from him.
You weren’t trying to impress him.
You weren’t terrified of him.
And unlike everyone else on the floor, your job did not depend on surviving his moods.
Which meant you treated him normally.
Or, as the residents called it: suicidally.
“You cannot keep calling him by his name,” one of them whispered to you later that week.
You blinked. “Why?”
“He’s an attending.”
“And?”
“And he’s—” the resident lowered her voice further, “—Dr. Abbot.”
You looked over at him across the ER.
Jack was currently arguing with radiology over the phone while drinking terrible coffee and glaring at a computer like it had insulted his family.
“He’s literally just some guy.”
The resident looked scandalized.
Unfortunately for her, Jack chose that exact moment to walk up behind you.
“Who’s just some guy?”
“You,” you answered immediately.
The resident nearly passed away on the spot.
Jack looked tired enough that he didn’t even react properly.
“Fantastic,” he deadpanned. “Years of medical training for that title.”
“I can make your badge say ‘some guy’ if you want.”
“I’d rather you fixed scheduling.”
“Let’s not ask for miracles.”
He leaned one forearm against the admin counter while you typed.
That had become another thing the staff noticed.
Hovering.
Jack Abbot hovered around your desk constantly now.
Not obviously.
Never enough to comment on.
But somehow he always ended up there between patients.
Leaning against the counter while reviewing charts.
Drinking coffee nearby.
Pretending to check emails while listening to your conversations with nurses.
Like the admin desk had become the only place in the ER where he could unclench for thirty seconds.
“You missed lunch again,” you said without looking up.
“I had trauma cases.”
“You’ve had trauma cases for nine hours.”
“That’s generally how emergency medicine works.”
You slid a granola bar across the desk.
He stared at it.
Then at you.
“You carry emergency snacks now?”
“You’re welcome.”
“You think I’m incapable of feeding myself?”
“I think if left unattended you’d dissolve into caffeine and resentment.”
A nurse snorted nearby.
Jack picked up the granola bar anyway.
Victory.
⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹
The bad night happened in late October.
Everyone remembered that shift afterward.
Multi-car pileup.
Three critical patients arriving simultaneously.
Not enough beds.
Not enough hands.
Not enough time.
The ER became chaos within minutes.
Phones rang endlessly.
Residents sprinted between rooms.
Blood streaked across tile floors.
Somebody yelled for respiratory.
And Jack—
Jack transformed.
Sharp.
Precise.
Terrifying.
He moved through the department like controlled destruction, issuing orders faster than anyone could process them.
“Get me another line in room four.”
“No, don’t wait on labs.”
“Page neuro again.”
“Move.”
Nobody hesitated.
Not even once.
You watched the entire thing from the admin desk while trying to keep incoming transfers organized and terrified family members from flooding the floor.
The atmosphere was brutal.
Tight.
Frantic.
One wrong move from collapse.
Then, somewhere around hour three, Jack snapped at a resident hard enough to make her eyes water.
“Think,” he barked. “I need you to think before you act.”
She swallowed hard and nodded quickly.
You saw the exact moment guilt hit him afterward.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
But there.
By the end of the shift, everyone looked wrecked.
One patient coded.
Another crashed in CT.
A kid came in crying for his mother.
And when the adrenaline finally wore off sometime after two in the morning, the entire ER sagged under the weight of surviving it.
Jack disappeared into the staff hallway without a word.
You found him ten minutes later sitting alone on a supply room floor.
Not injured.
Not crying.
Just…empty.
His head rested against the wall, eyes closed, scrub top stained with someone else’s blood.
For a second, you considered leaving.
Then:
“You missed dinner too,” you said softly.
One eye opened.
“You tracking my meals now?”
“Somebody has to.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You say that like you don’t voluntarily stand at my desk for half your shift.”
His mouth twitched faintly.
You sat beside him on the floor.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The muffled sounds of the ER carried through the walls — distant monitors, rolling carts, overhead pages.
Finally, Jack exhaled slowly.
“I hate nights like this.”
It was the first honest thing he’d ever said to you without sarcasm wrapped around it.
“You still saved people.”
“Not all of them.”
You looked at him then.
Really looked.
At the exhaustion carved into his face.
At the dark circles under his eyes.
At the weight he carried every single shift whether anyone noticed or not.
“You know,” you said quietly, “the residents are terrified of you.”
“That’s healthy.”
“But they also trust you.”
He didn’t answer.
“You make impossible decisions all night long,” you continued. “You hold this entire place together with caffeine and anger issues.”
“I don’t have anger issues.”
You gave him a look.
“…Severe anger issues,” he corrected.
“There it is.”
That earned a tired laugh.
You felt strangely proud of it.
Jack turned his head slightly toward you.
“You’re not scared of me at all, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
You shrugged.
“Because somebody around here has to remind you you’re human.”
Something in his expression shifted then.
The kind of look that suddenly made the tiny supply closet feel too small.
Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly hard.
Jack noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He was an ER doctor.
“You should go home,” he said quietly.
“Probably.”
Neither of you moved.
Then overhead paging shattered the moment.
“Dr. Abbot to trauma two. Dr. Abbot to trauma two.”
He closed his eyes briefly like the universe specifically hated him.
“Duty calls, some guy,” you murmured.
That got another laugh out of him.
Jack pushed himself to his feet, offering you a hand automatically.
You took it.
His grip was warm and steady despite the exhaustion.
For one second neither of you let go.
Then someone shouted his name again from down the hallway.
And just like that, the spell broke.
But as Jack turned to leave, he glanced back once.
“You know,” he said, “you’re the only person here who talks to me like this.”
You smiled lazily.
“Yeah. That’s why you keep coming back.”
⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹
An: Having glass of wine smiling stupidly while writing this. Hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading.
pairing: dr jack abbot x plus-size! santos' sister! reader
summary: pt 2 of don't ever let abbot think he's cool. the highly anticipated date <3
word count: 11 k ⚕♡
warning: SMUT-also a good amount of fluff but-SMUT. 18 + only, minors do not interact
a/n: guysss it's here!!! thank you all so much for the likes and the lovely comments and reblogs for pt 1, it means the world to me knowing y'all enjoyed it
At this rate, you would be going on your date in a robe with a towel on your head. Stubbornly, you were so sure that if you just stared at your closet for a bit longer, the answer would magically appear.
“You’re seriously overthinking this right now,” Trinity remarked from behind you. She had been lounging sideways on your bed for the last hour, silently judging. Well, not exactly silent, she’s taken to likening you to an anxious tornado bouncing back and forth between the closet and dresser, leaving destruction in your wake. If she had known you’d be panicking this much, she would have never ‘nudged’ Abbot yesterday.
“Hey, Dr Abbot, can I talk to you for a sec?” He was meandering around the nurses' station, finishing up a discussion with Shen and Walsh. She figured now would be the best time to hash it out with him before something came bursting through their doors.
Abbot always made time for his residents, even if he was dreading the topic of conversation. Trinity sure as hell didn’t appreciate the look that was passed between the three stooges, but she was on a mission now. He led them to the staff lounge, which was relatively empty since the shift change.
“Can I talk to you like you’re not my attending right now?” She was posted up against the counter, a pot of burnt coffee was still dripping behind her. Her arms were crossed like she was the PTMC bouncer, and Abbot was sure she believed herself to be the picture of intimidation.
He let out a tired sigh. It was–what–8:38, way too early in the shift to deal with this. “I’m assuming this is about your sister?”
Santos gave him an exasperated look, as if she would have pulled him aside like this for anything else. “Either you need to buck up and ask her out or leave her alone, okay. My sister doesn’t need some dinasour stringing her along–”
She was expecting her bluntness to rattle him, but he’s not one to stir easily. The dinosaur comment didn’t even phase him. “You know it’s funny that you mention it, since that’s actually what I was in the middle of before we were so rudely interrupted.” Trinity took that with a grain of salt, a whole month, and suddenly she’s the reason Abbot couldn’t get his head out of his ass. Sure.
“Then why does she think you’re not interested?”
The look on Abbot’s face was almost enough to make up for all the doubles she’s worked this past month. “She thinks I’m not–what?” He sort of reminded her of a sad puppy, or one of those weepy life insurance commercials.
God, men can be so fucking stupid, she thought. “Look, my sister, she’s weird okay,” only she’s allowed to say that about her though. “She’s never gonna think you like her unless you say it straight to her face. So be blunt, be bold, and don’t be a coward.” She should not be having to help an old man with dating advice, but this is her life now apparently.
He seemed to finally snap back to attention. “Well, since we’re speaking so freely, your conversation with her in here the other day was completely inappropriate.”
Trinity’s eyes rolled so far to the back of her head before rolling back to him. “Oh my god I’ve already gotten third degree from Robby–”
“It was inappropriate, spiteful, and cruel Trinity.” She wondered if it stung because she actually respected Abbot or if it stung because she knew it was true. She knew exactly what she wanted to say, she knew it would hurt, and she had said it anyway.
More than anything, it made her angry. “You don’t know a thing about me and my sister alright, you’ve known her for a month–”
“And I’m actively trying to get to know her better–”
Trinity would do chairs for a straight week if it meant she could get out of the conversation she started. This is what she gets for trying to play cupid. “Jesuuuus, listen, she’s bringing food by in a couple hours, make a move or stay lonely, I don’t care.” She did care, she cared about her sister. More than she could ever say. She also really cared about the hundred bucks that were on the line too.
Her hand was on the door when Abbot spoke up again. “I can’t tell if you’re giving me your ‘blessing’ or actively telling me to stay away.”
She didn’t have the time to give him the peace of mind either, lives to save and all that. “Better hurry up and figure it out then.”
Good thing Abbot’s not as big a coward as she thought. Now she’s a hundred dollars richer.
“And you’re underthinking, okay, this is my–this is my first date in a really long time. Fuck, I feel like I’m gonna have a panic attack. Is that a bad sign? Should I just cancel?” Yeah, go ahead and cancel on the insanely hot doctor, like you’ll be able to do any better. Your mind had been unnecessarily steamy and spiteful today.
You could hear her flop back on the bed. “Why don’t you just borrow something from my closet?” How the times have changed. You remembered her sneaking into your room, stealing your t-shirts and flannels. But God forbid if you asked to borrow something of hers, even though it was never clothing, most of the time it was something simple like a hair tie.
She didn’t mean it in a malicious way, but the offer still irritated you when you were already stressed enough as is. “Trinity that’s very sweet of you, but nothing in your closet would fit me.” It came out through clenched teeth as you violently swiped through the hangers.
There was a loud groan before Trinity shot off the bed and practically shoved you out of the way. “Jesus, move over.” Her fingers were quick and precise, like she knew exactly what she was looking for. “Here, wear this.” She tossed a black turtleneck and a pair of loose-fitting tweed pants over her shoulder, casual and classy, perfect. “And these,” you barely had time to catch the shoes that were being thrown at you.
“Ooo, okay yeah, yeah this is nice, thanks Trin.”
“Yup…” you thought that she would have left as soon as she was done. “You uh, you want me to do your hair?”
There was a pause where you both just looked at each other like the answer would pop into existence itself if no one spoke. After a beat, you bobbed your head up and down, not trusting yourself to answer without crying. God, when was the last time she had done that? You remember the last time you styled hers, it was for her graduation. But back when she was younger, she would beg you to play hair salon with her, every day ‘sissy can I braid your hair.’ There were always more knots than when she started, but you never complained.
She directed you to sit at the vanity in the corner and made quick work, steady, but quick. “So, uh, I was probably gonna go out for drinks with a couple of people Friday, would you wanna come with?” There wasn’t a moment of eye contact during that question, and you had to tease her for it.
You leaned your head back against her stomach so you were looking up at her. “Are you asking your big sister to hang out with youuuu?”
There was a short playful tug on the section she held in her hand as she pushed you back up. “Shut up, are you in or not?”
“Yeah, not like I’ve got anything better to do.” You shrugged your shoulders like it was no big deal, but it was, probably more than Trinity realized in that moment.
Now it was her turn to tease you. “I think you mean you didn’t have anyone better to do, but I’m sure that’ll change after tonight.” Your elbow reached back trying to catch her ribs, but she quickly side-stepped it. “You’ll let me know if there’s weird shit at his place, right? Or like a cliche kinky dungeon, I mean obviously I don’t want details but–
This time, your elbow did hit its mark. “Shut the fuck up Trinity.”
The next hour was a mess. Trinity had taken to going through each bottle of perfume you owned to determine the right one for you to use. You could have sworn you saw her pocket a tester that held her interest, but you’d let that slide tonight. She also rifled through your closet again after you got dressed, occasionally asking if she could ‘borrow’ a few pieces. It was nice to know that some things still stay the same.
Eventually, the two of you migrated to the living room. Trinity offered a shot for your nerves, but you reminded her that you were too old to be pregaming for a date. Still, you did take a sip of her tequila, which was apparently going to be her company for the night while you were gone.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, and even you could admit you were too eager with how fast you picked it up.
I’m downstairs, but don’t feel like you have to rush. He was early, that shouldn’t be hot to you, but it was. You were always the first one to show up for a date, always the one to have to wait.
Okay! Be down in just a sec!
Trinity looked playfully disturbed at how giddy her sister was. “Alright, he’s here. I’m gonna head out.”
She stopped you at the door, “Oh wait, here,” she reached into the pocket of her sweats and handed you a few condoms. “Swiped these from the hospital just in case. You can never trust men to have one, and if they don’t, they’re not even worth it.”
Was she just keeping those in her pocket the entire time? Probably best not to ask that question. You put your hand out to decline, but she shot you a look that told you it would be better to just take the damn condoms. “Thanks, Trin.”
You slipped them into your purse and couldn’t help but think about the possibility that you might end up using them tonight. “Hey, just–have fun, and be careful, I know nothing will–just be careful.”
It always tugged at your heartstrings when your sister became protective of you. Still, this was kind of painful to watch. You’d hug her if you were one hundred percent sure it wouldn’t break her out in hives. “I promise I’ll text you.”
“You better.”
“Love you sissy.” You dragged out the declaration, voice syrupy sweet.
She rolled her eyes and turned you around before practically kicking you out the door. “Jeez get the fuck out of here and get laid.”
You were halfway down the stairs when Trinity burst out the door, “Hey, did you forget something?” She held out the pan of lemon squares you had made yesterday. There was one missing, no doubt she grabbed it before bringing it out to you. Climbing back up the stairs, you thanked her for being a lifesaver, but she said, “Something tells me he wouldn’t have minded if you forgot about them.” You would have minded though, if you say you’re bringing dessert, you’re bringing dessert, inuendos be damned.
He was standing outside his truck, leaning against the door. A man his age should not have this much charisma; it’s just a dangerous combination. Still, you could see that his thumb tapped against his thigh near his pocket; maybe he was just as nervous as you. He was dressed in a dark blue henley and jeans that were on the lighter side. It was different from what you normally saw him in at the veterans center, but it felt like a treat seeing him out of his scrubs.
As soon as you stepped out of the door that led to the back parking lot, he was making his way towards you. His eyes unabashedly tracing over every inch of you this time, no nosy nurses around to catch him. You’re glad that Trinity had pushed you to forgo blush because you could already feel heat rising to your cheeks.
“You look gorgeous.”
“You look pretty handsome yourself…” You trailed off as he leaned in to kiss your cheek, which you were worried might have scorched his lips from the heat. He smelled so good, so many notes on top of tobacco and clove, it was mouthwatering.
Of course, you thought that he would move back after the kiss, but no, he lingered, and he–did he just sniff you? Oh fuck, “Hmm,” Jack Abbot just practically moaned into your neck, and now you feel lightheaded. “You smell good,” now he finally took a step back, oh yeah, this fucker knew exactly what he was doing; it lit a sort of fire in you.
“S-so do you.” Too bad your mouth couldn’t catch up with your brain around this man.
His barely there smile spoke volumes, no doubt he knew the effect he had on you. Like it hadn’t been completely obvious this past month. “Come on sweetheart, I promised you dinner.” His palm was pressed lightly against your back as he led you to his truck. You wanted his hand around your waist, his fingers gripping you tightly to him, but for now, you’ll take what you can get without scaring him off.
“Good to know you’re a man of your word.”
He looked down at the tray in your hand. “Could say the same about you. Guess you weren’t kidding about dessert, huh?”
“Oh, I never joke when it comes to dessert.” Jack opened the door for you, offered his hand and everything. To so many people, it would be such a small thing. Something to be expected or glossed over, but to you it’s a sort of wake-up call. Why should you have ever been expected to accept anything less when it’s so simple?
You allowed yourself a brief moment of panic in the time that he closed the door and made his way to the opposite side. Deep breath, deep breath.
“You warm enough?” The space felt so much smaller all of a sudden. Yes, ridiculously enough, and it’s not from the heat circulating in this truck. You told him that you were fine, that you tended to run hot anyway.
The fact that you almost swooned when he backed out of the parking space is just dismal. But he did the thing, you know, the thing where the guy puts his hand on the back of your headrest and backs out without a care in the world with one hand. You were certain that he intentionally flexed the arm right next to your head as well. How are you supposed to survive this night?
Your heart finally calmed down when he dropped his arm and turned left out of the parking lot. Angling your body towards him, you said, “I got so used to seeing you in scrubs, was starting to think you only existed in the ER.” He hadn’t had a chance to visit the center either, what with the hospital being short-staffed this past month.
“Yeah, there’s a whole underground basement system where they like to store us. Luckily, they let me out tonight for good behaviour.” Jack Abbot was a very safe driver; you figured most of the ER staff would be (Trinity excluded), considering the stuff they see on a daily basis. He didn’t go more than ten over the speed limit, always checked his blind spots, and not once did you hear the god-awful revving that you associated with trucks.
“Definitely not beating the night shift are vampires allegation are you?”
He chanced a quick look at you. “Promise I don’t bite.”
Your arm came up to rest on the center console, leaning in even closer. “Damn, I was really hoping you did.”
His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel, and his shoulders briefly shook with restrained laughter. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
There’s the side of you that can flirt, but it’s always been hesitant. Around Jack though, that side has never known anything but confidence. Except when he occasionally manages to short-circuit your brain. “Only the best kind, promise.” You’ve never felt this secure so early on a first date; they’ve always been awkward and stiff, but it just feels easy right now.
You were surprised to find out that he only lived ten minutes away from your apartment when he pulled into his driveway. He hadn’t mentioned anything when you texted him your address at the hospital. Makes things a bit easier, your brain supplied. His place was a beautiful, dark, two-story townhouse; you’re sure that you’ve passed by it before and admired it. Small world.
He helped you down from the truck and led you up the steps to the front door. The pressure of his palm on your back was firmer than before. One of the first things you noticed about his home was that it’s calm. It didn’t necessarily feel lived in because he was hardly ever here, but it also invited you in. It said come in and rest your head before you have to leave again, and it made you want to stay.
His hand gently grabbed the strap of your purse, and it startled you for a second before you let it fall off your arm. He hung it up on one of the available hooks and grabbed the tray out of your hand, setting it next to the bowl that held his keys. Both hands hovered above your shoulders, a silent question of may I? So you dropped your arms to let him. How was he giving you so many firsts tonight, and it hasn’t even been–what–thirty minutes? “Alright, I’ve got steaks marinating in the fridge–”
“Oh, so you do know what you’re doing.” He hung up his own coat and took off his shoes. You followed suit, and then he was leading you towards the kitchen with your dessert. It was barebones but clean, sleek and modern, fancy appliances, but nothing extra littered the counters besides a coffee pot and a container for cooking utensils. It made sense for Jack. The rest of his place had much more character. Comfort definitely took priority when it came to the furniture.
“I’ve got a beautiful lady to impress, and I have no intention of disappointing. Can I get you anything to drink?” You asked for a water, he grabbed a bottle from the fridge before pouring it into a glass for you.
“So how was your day?” That actually stumped you for a second. You were so used to asking Trinity that question, listening to the highlights for thirty minutes, or sometimes getting nothing at all and then having to wait for her to ask the same. For anyone to ask the same.
“Not bad actually, I spent most of it with Trinity, which was actually kind of fun. Even though she was being a pain in my ass for most of it.”
“So things are all right between you two?”
“Yeah, Trinity is…Trinity,” he chuckled at that. “I think it helps that we live together out here. Makes it harder for her to stay mad at me. Plus, I’ve been supplying her with a steady stream of food. It’s the best medicine after all.”
He gave a comical questioning look. “Now, I thought that was laughter?”
“I supply both in large quantities.”
The distance lessened with a step, “I believe it.”
You took a step in kind, “And how was your day Jack?”
“Well, I woke up knowing I didn’t have to work and that I had a date with an amazing woman waiting for me. First time I’ve woken up with a smile on my face in a while.”
“I like your smile,” it just slipped out without a thought.
Now you were blushing, and his grin was turning into a full-blown smile. “I like yours too. It was the first thing I noticed about you.” He'd better be careful, or you might start to believe him.
You tried to fight down the rising heat in your face by changing the subject. “So what’s on the menu tonight, Dr. Abbot?”
His shoulders stiffened, and he shook his head, “Steaks obviously since I’ve got something to prove now, and we’ve got potatoes, zucchini, and squash. Sound good to you?”
“Sounds amazing.”
“Good. I’m gonna step outside real quick and get the grill started. Go ahead and make yourself at home.” He traced his hand along your waist as he scooted past you towards the sliding glass door that led to his patio.
Of course, you had to take the opportunity to look around–not snooping–just assessing. Apparently, Jack wasn’t the type to hang pictures or art on the wall. Instead, he liked to keep his memories on bookshelves. There was a burial flag shadow box with a few small framed photos beside it and a dusty shot glass. Dozens of medical journals and textbooks with multicolored tabs sticking out of them.
Eventually, you stopped at a photo of a younger Jack, and who you can only assume was his wife if the short wedding dress was anything to go by. They were in front of a courthouse, Jack had his arms wrapped around her waist as they smiled at the camera, petals falling from her bouquet. She looked like someone who could have been the people's princess, just a classic elegance. Nothing like you, your brain hissed at you.
Your disparaging thoughts screeched to a halt at the sound of the door sliding open again. Jack looked up and saw which bookcase you were standing in front of. You pointed at the photo in front of you, desperate to fill the silence right now. “Was this Lilly?”
“Yeah…” Jack had told you the bare minimum of his history with her. Actually, he only told you that he was widowed; you had to be the one to ask him her name. You figured if he wanted to tell you more about her than he would.
He looked far away, and you regretted ever opening your mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–
Jack was quick to cut off your apology. “No, no sorry, you weren’t–I didn’t even think about the pictures.”
“Jack, please don’t apologize for having pictures of someone you love up in your home.”
His eyes darted between the different pictures of them on the shelf. One of them where they were together at a graduation of Jack’s, another of them in front of beautiful mountains that they had just finished hiking. “I just…I don’t talk about her much anymore, at least not to anyone other than my therapist.”
How do you tell him that you’re here, that you want to know everything about someone who was so important to him? That it doesn’t hurt you that he loved only that he lost. “I would love to learn more if you ever want to talk about her.”
“I’m not sure how to sometimes.” That you understood all too well.
Your arms crossed across your middle, a bit of comfort offered to yourself. “My lola, she passed away a couple of years after Trinity was born. She practically raised me, but I just felt like I couldn’t talk about her after she died. I felt like I would start crying and never be able to stop. But you know, Trinity was a baby, and eventually she had questions, so I just started telling her stories, and eventually–it stopped hurting. I think it’s because someone else was able to know her like I did, like I wasn’t carrying her memory alone anymore.” You knew that you were trying to make him feel better, but you also knew that it wasn’t the same, and you wanted to apologize for even trying to compare before you looked over at him.
There was a hint of red in his eyes. “That’s–that’s really beautiful.” He shut his eyes tightly, slightly turning away from you, pinching the bridge of his nose like it would keep him from crying. “Sorry, not how I was expecting the night to go.”
You lightly nudged him. “Really? I was expecting us to unveil every bit of trauma to each other. Now I’m just disappointed.” That made him laugh, it was a bit choked back, but you count it as a win.
He nudged you back, but the touch lingered. “Can we at least save that for the second date?”
“Well, if you’re promising a second date, then I can work with that.” You’re glad that you can tease him like this. That a heavy moment can be just that, a moment.
“I can go ahead and promise you a third one while we’re at it if you like.” He offered while leading you towards the kitchen and taking out a cutting board from a cabinet along the way.
“Woah buddy, now you’re just getting ahead of yourself,” you teased, leaning against the counter.
He was quick and efficient in the kitchen, very entertaining to watch as he would dart from the fridge to the sink until he’d be back in front of you. “Right, should probably finish our first date anyway, it’s just good manners.”
You nodded your head in agreement. “Exactly, also I’m not used to being idle in the kitchen, so you need to let me help out.”
“And if I told you to sit down and relax?” He was already halfway through slicing a zucchini.
“Never gonna happen.” As if he knew what it was to actually relax anyway.
He laughed under his breath, relented, and asked you to grab the green onion out of the fridge for him. You walked behind him, hand casually dragging along his upper back, it thrilled you to watch him practically freeze in place. Only resuming his action when your hand fell away to open the door.
“You trying to send me back to work for stitches?” The night shift would have a field day with that, you’re sure.
The green onions were rinsed off before being placed next to him. You settled in beside him, hip resting against the counter. “Thought you knew how to handle a knife.”
He set aside the sliced zucchini and squash into a bowl before seasoning the vegetables. “Knife and a scalpel are two very different things sweetheart.”
“Noooo, and here I was thinking they were the same.”
His hands gripped the counter, leaning into you, voice husky and low. “You’re a bit of a smartass, you know that?”
“You work with my sister, is that really so surprising?”
It took about thirty minutes for everything to be finished and for the table to be set. You had followed him outside to watch him grill the steaks. He looked like he was in his element, beer in hand, his only concern making sure nothing was overcooked. He joked that your ‘supervising’ felt a lot like hovering, and you playfully threatened to go back inside. There would be none of that since he took a page out of your book earlier and dragged his hand along your back, landing on your hip, pulling you impossibly close to him, a not-so-subtle kiss against the top of your head. Jack claimed you could supervise a lot better from there, but you were actually disappointed when the steaks were done.
The man wasn’t lying when he said he could cook; it just might have been the best thing someone had ever made for you since you were a kid. Of course, you were a bit biased since he had been the one to make it. Soaking up every bit of praise you threw his way but still claiming it had nothing on your cooking. You did, however, fail to notice the way his hand clenched against his thigh when he heard you moan at the first bite. The slight flush on his face didn’t hide where his thoughts had gone though.
You traded stories, and some vulnerable part of you was worried that you’d bore him. Jack was someone who saw the impossible on a daily basis. How could your story of Trinity’s dumb friend shooting fireworks from the top of a tree and nearly breaking every bone on the way down compare? But he didn’t judge or dismiss; he laughed, and oh, his laugh was something else. It made you want to hear it again and again. He countered with a firework story of his own, non-ER related. He told you about the time he and a few of his high school friends were shooting fireworks over the house, and one landed perfectly in a beer can on the opposite side. They were young and ecstatic and knew that no one would ever believe them, but you told him that you would if it would make him feel better.
There were moments where you held back a tale. Mostly the ones involving your sister, considering she would murder you if she ever found out you told her attending something he could use for ammunition later. He teasingly egged you on for more stories, said he’d promise to keep it a secret. You told him that he was really trying to get you banned from the hospital. Jack assured you that the ban would be lifted if you were coming to visit him.
After dinner, you were leaning towards each other on his couch, knees brushing and faces flushed from smooth conversation.
“Okay, can I ask you something?” Jack was reclined against the couch, his temple resting against his closed fist, arm bent along the back. “If it’s too much, you can tell me to fuck off.”
He shook his head, “Well one, I would never tell you that, and two, you can ask me anything.”
“Have you done much dating since Lilly?”
There was a deep inhale from him. You worried you might have overstepped, but he quickly replied, “No, it was never–it wasn’t something I would have even considered the first couple of years. I was in a bad way, threw myself into work just so I wouldn’t have to go home. Eventually, I switched therapists and actually committed to it, and things got…better. I don’t want to lie to you, I am very much still a work in progress.”
Jack had been through a lot, most of which you’ve only started to scratch the surface of. He never told you about his leg, not that you expected him to. One day, you were both in the break room sharing the meal you had brought. It was a surprisingly slow night, though neither of you commented on it, and you had just finished reviewing program forms. There was no fanfare about it; he just lifted his pant leg and removed the prosthetic so he could massage the area, and that was that. It didn’t surprise you; it was a common sight at the veterans center, but it did make you admire him even more.
You shrugged your shoulders, “That’s okay, my therapist would say the same about me. I think that’s just called living, but you know I don’t have the fancy degree to prove it.”
He playfully waved it off. “Eh, mine came out of a Cracker Jack box, what do I know?”
His joke caused you to let out a deep laugh. “My grandma used to say that’s where everyone got their driver's license.”
He was laughing too now, much more subdued than yours had been, but no less warm. “Smart woman…now can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, of course, pretty sure that’s how conversations go.”
“Smartass…so Meals on Wheels. Did you always want to do something in that ballpark?”
“No,” his brow raised questioningly at the quick response. “I actually used to be in school for nursing, if you can believe it.” He was quick to say that he could, which felt like a compliment coming from him. “Yeah, it was uh–not my calling apparently. I was really struggling in all my classes, anatomy especially,” you giggled at the grimace he gave. “Uh, but then mom passed away, so I had to drop out and take care of Trinity, which actually felt like a bit of a relief in this really horrible way. So then it was just me and Trin and I was working two jobs, one with Meals, and I kind of ended up growing with them. It’s just–it was really nice to do some good when everything else was a lot, so I wanted to keep doing that.”
“You’re an incredible woman.” He didn’t say those words lightly, he said them like fact, like nothing could disprove it. You tried to brush it off, head turning away from him to fight the rising emotions. “I mean that…” in no world would he have you doubt him. It just made your eyes well up even more, and Jack saw that you weren’t just playfully brushing him off. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry.”
“No–no, you did nothing wrong, no one's ever–it was just really sweet, that’s all.” Jesus, get a fucking grip. Are you seriously crying over a compliment? The spiral stopped in its tracks as his hand reached up, gently holding your cheek, thumb catching a stray tear. He leaned forward, and for a terrifying moment, you were worried he was going to kiss you. You had been dying for him to kiss you all night, all month actually, but gosh, not like this. Jack surprised you once more; it was a kiss, but on your opposite cheek. It was beautiful and soft and grounding. He placed two more in quick succession before leaning back and dropping his hand to rest on your knee.
His smile could easily become a comfort. “I have a lot more compliments to give, please tell me you’re not gonna cry at them all.” Honestly, you weren’t sure you’d survive his praise, not when he made you believe in impossible things.
You playfully swatted at his chest but leaned in closer still. “I’m terrible with compliments.”
His thumb circled your knee, tracing as much of the area as he could with where his hand was placed. “That’s alright, just means I’ll have to get you used to them.”
“Something tells me that you have a hard time accepting them too.” Your hand landed next to his arm, just a graze of your fingertips.
“Well, we’re not talking about me now.”
You wondered what it would take to get him flustered. “Hmm, so what if I told you that I find you extraordinary? That every time you would get pulled away from our conversations, you somehow got even sexier, no matter how disappointed I was.” You could feel gooseflesh along his forearm that you had been idly tracing. He was turning so red. “Jack Abbot, are you blushing?”
He cleared his throat and stood up, “Think those lemon squares are calling my name.”
You were in a fit of laughter on the couch as you watched him devour one in two bites. “Oh, well let me know how they are then.” Part of you was worried he might choke on the dessert.
“Fucking menace,” he mumbled through the mouthful. You asked him if they were good, his only response was, “Delicious.”
It was getting lonely on the couch now. “I promise I won’t tease you if you come back.”
He brushed away any leftover crumbs before settling in next to you again, much closer than before. “Uh-huh, I highly doubt that.” His hand came up, brushed away a flyaway from your temple, and then his touch stayed there. A steady movement while his eyes traced over every inch of your face, he wanted this image of you printed and hung up in his mind. The way you looked right now, cheeks flushed, relaxed on his couch, in his home. You’re so beautiful to him.
“You gonna kiss me Jack?”
“Only if you’ll let me–” you couldn’t wait any longer. There was zero shame in the way you threw yourself at him. The fabric of his shirt clenched in your fist to drag him closer. Your lips collided together, and it felt–quiet–like your brain could finally shut away every insecurity and doubt in this moment as long as you could still feel his lips against yours.
Sugar and lemon had never tasted so sweet.
He wasted no time in planting his hands on your waist; they were desperate in the way they traced along your curves like he was finally getting his fill. Fingers guided a path up your spine until they found the back of your head
His other hand drifted up to cup your cheek, thumb softly pressing against your jaw to open you up for him. His tongue tracing your lips before meeting your own. “I wanted to do that the second you walked out of your apartment.”
Your laugh was breathless and a little high-pitched. “Honestly, I would have let you…”
He nuzzled into your cheek, pressing a multitude of kisses there and against the space below your ear, nipping at the soft curve of your jaw. “Well, I was determined to treat you right, would’ve never left that parking lot otherwise.” It felt vitalizing, knowing that this man wanted you, even if it was just want for now. Now he gripped the collar of your turtleneck, stretching it down so he could get his lips on you there too.
The feeling of him pulling the sensitive skin of your neck between his lips, his teeth, it had you curling your fingers in his hair, pulling him even closer. You raised yourself up, knees digging into the couch, leaning over him, above him. A tug at his curls had him pulling away from his task, hooded eyes gazing up at you, making him ask what was wrong. “Just know that if you leave a hickey, I’m leaving one right back. And I will not be subtle about where it goes.” You knew exactly where you would put it too. Right where his neck meets his shoulder, that way it could peek out from his collar every time the muscles tensed.
His smirk was satisfied and lazy, leaning forward, short, quick pecks against your lips. “Noted.” He kept creeping forward until you found yourself falling backwards onto the cushion behind you, but he slowed the descent. Then he was the one above you, and the whole thing just made you giggle. Jack brushed his nose against yours, your smile kissing his lips. “You’re so beautiful,” you felt like it in this moment, not even a hint of desire to argue.
You don’t know how much time passed while he kissed you. And that was all he did, which, to be fair, he’s very good at it. But he didn’t try to push anything further; it made you feel like a wild animal with the way you were clawing at his back, his sides, his stomach. Anywhere you could reach, just to get a hint of the warmth he’s hiding from you.
“I uh–I brought condoms, I mean technically Trinity brought them from the hospital–” God, you were rambling, why the hell would you bring up your sister right now?
He lifted his head away from your neck, “Wait…Trinity gave you stolen condoms from the hospital?”
“Is it technically stealing if they’re free?”
“Technically they’re for patients.” Jack briefly slipped into teacher mode, you’ve had the privilege of seeing that switch multiple times over the last month.
You tried to brush off the potential theft by bringing him closer, “Okay then, please ignore everything I just said.” You doubt your sister would be in trouble for swiping condoms, but it’s kind of funny considering her choice of partner.
He looked affronted, “Frankly, I’m just disappointed you didn’t think I’d have better ones.”
“That’s what you’re focused on?” It felt nice to be able to laugh with someone like this, even in intimate moments.
He nuzzled into your neck, softly biting down on every inch of skin he could reach. “You should know I’d never make you buy them, it’s not your job. But I do admire you for being prepared.” All you wanted to focus on was the promise of future meetings like this, but he found a particularly sensitive spot that made you sigh beneath him. His smile extended across your neck before whispering in your ear, “And uh, just to be clear, we’re not having sex tonight sweetheart.”
“Oh..” you’d never felt your body sour with disappointment so quickly before.
“But I would very much like to take care of you if you’ll let me.” He responded before that disappointment could fester, before it settled on your features and made your brain come up with a thousand questions. None of your previous partners had ever wanted to work up to something, they never even bothered to just talk about it.
“Oh…” God if that didn’t make you want him even more now.
There was a need to put distance, not too much of course, but just enough to stress that he was serious. “I need you to know that this–this isn’t all I want from you. I want to know you, and I want you to know me. Fuck, I haven’t wanted that in a long time.”
“I want that too Jack.” His lips were quick to find yours again, messy and desperate, knowing neither of you were going anywhere for a good while. “So when you say ‘take care of me’...”
You could feel the vibration of his laughter as you led him with the question. “I mean, I’d like to make you come,” he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “with my fingers,” the other side, “my mouth,” your lips, “only if you’d like that as well?”
Your head was bobbing up and down before he could even finish. Both of you laughing before coming together again for a quick kiss. “I’d like that a lot actually.”
His hands were bolder now, tracing along your waist until they settled against your back. It’s like his hand had found a perfect resting place there. “Can I take this off?” He asked, tugging at the material of your shirt.
A tug against his, “Only if you’re taking yours off too.” He chuckled, and you could hear him say ‘fair enough’ under his breath. He leaned back and gathered the material of his henley behind his neck before practically ripping it off and throwing it behind him.
This man and his freckles should never be allowed to be covered by scrubs again; it’s a crime. “Jesus…” he looked at you questioningly before glancing down at his chest like there was something he wasn’t seeing. “You’re ridiculously fit Jack, how do you even find the time?”
He gave a small shrug of his shoulders that felt more like a personal show than anything. “It’s all about balance sweetheart.” The word balance was spoken like a new-age yoga instructor.
“Balance my ass.”
Lips brushed against your forehead since he was too busy laughing at the way you were ogling him. “Your turn, arms up.” Fuck, okay, here goes nothing, you thought, lifting your arms up as he instructed. He didn’t take it off all at once though, there were stages. The pants you wore sat high on your waist, so every time he lifted the shirt higher, he would explore the exposed skin of your stomach until it reached the lace of the black bralette you wore. This continued until the material was bunched above your breasts and didn’t fall back down on its own. Jack was a very patient man; you figured he had to be in his line of work, but now you were reaping the benefits of the years it took to build.
It turned you on even more to see him take the time to fold your shirt and place it on the coffee table instead of chucking it to the side like he did his own. When he turned back, he took a moment to just look at you. You knew he was admiring you, could feel it, but fuck, you needed him to say something because you were about two seconds away from covering yourself with the blanket along the couch.
“Fuck you’re gorgeous sweetheart.” His palm rested against your stomach, right above the button of your pants. You thought that’s where his fingers would be heading next, but instead they travelled upwards between your breasts, resting at the base of your throat. You knew he wouldn’t curl those fingers higher, not without your permission. He tilted your chin up, lips meeting yours in a soft, almost thankful kiss. It was like he was trying to make you cry again.
Your hands hadn’t moved away from his forearms, and you couldn’t understand why you were so hesitant to move them up. Especially when you had been thinking about getting your hands on him for a month now. As if he could sense your struggle, he said, “You can touch me baby, not like you ever had to find an excuse to before.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t act like you’re so innocent, always reaching out whenever you brush past me, excuse me Jack,” his voice was teasingly pitched up to mimic yours. You couldn’t help but laugh, still you tried to say he was wrong. “Or when I’d help you carry something, you’re so sweet Jack, making me lose my damn mind.”
You shook your head at his ridiculousness. “Never heard you complain.”
He inched closer until he was flush against you, the hair on his chest rubbing against lace, tickling your skin. “Now, why would I go and do something stupid like that?” There was no hesitation in your touch now, hands running along his biceps, his chest, like art that no longer had a do-not-touch sign on it. He was so warm you’d think he’d just come in from the sun, and so firm. You’d never been with someone who had such a soft strength to them. He shuddered when your nails lightly scratched along his shoulder to the back of his head. A soft choked groan told you that you might have found a weakness of his.
“And what about this?” He asked, finger lightly tracing over your nipple through the lace. You froze beneath him, it was involuntary, but your brain couldn’t help but stutter.
“Uh, leave it for now, it’s a pain to get back on.” You just needed a bit of coverage, just a bit, and you’d be fine.
He didn’t believe you, but if it made you comfortable, then that was that, “Okay, baby.” There wasn’t a moment to dwell on it, his tongue kept you occupied. His lips only left yours when you practically had to push him away for oxygen, even then, he just trailed his lips down your neck. Eager to explore the skin that had been hidden by the collar of your shirt.
“I thought you were so handsome the day I met you, I nearly dropped the food I was carrying. Wondered what I’d have to do to get these arms around me.” You don’t know what made you confess it, you just wanted him to know. He chuckled, head nuzzling into your cleavage, at least what little there was of it. You adored the way his stubble felt against your skin and wondered if it would feel just as good everywhere else.
His tongue reached out to swipe along the top of your breast. “There were so many times I saw you at the center, wanted to come up to you, knew all you had to do was say hi, and I’d be gone. Could kick myself for being such a coward.”
It was your turn to kiss his forehead, and the way he leaned into it made you smile. “That why you tried to get me a job there after knowing me all of five minutes?”
By the end of the night you were sure his smirk would be branded into your skin. “Guilty. Couldn’t help the fact that I wanted to see more of you. Still can’t help it.”
“Well, you did manage to get me for four more hours a week, actually less considering how often you get pulled away.” He nipped your skin at the reminder of his short time with you on the days that you come in for work.
“Don’t worry, I’m working on a way to sneak you into the room with me.”
You giggled at the idea. “Sure you are.” His fingers brushed the lace against the top of your breast, asking if he could tug it down, so you just did it for him. Eager to feel his fingers, too impatient to actually give him an answer. His hand was so large and warm, covering the expanse of your breast, tweaking your nipples to stiff peaks. “Wait, so does that mean you lied about not recognizing me at first?”
His lips wrapped around the taught flesh, taking his time before responding. “Oh yeah, I knew it was you the second you walked through the ambulance bay. Never would have guessed who you were related to though.”
“Yeah, let’s not bring up my sister right now. She’s already been brought up one too many times since things had gotten hot and heavy.
“Agreed.” Jack lavished the same attention on the other side, sadly leaving your skin to cool, his spit tattooing your skin.
“You can bite them, please.” It was a question, plea, and demand all in one. Your breasts weren’t really sensitive unless a bit of pressure was applied to them, and it’s like Jack knew that better than you did. He groaned against your chest, taking your nipple into his mouth with even pressure, more teeth.
The only thing you could do was card your fingers through his hair and hold him close to you. Unable to take his eyes meeting yours for a few moments at a time before it became too much, seeing the pure want in them. He was determined to leave your chest littered with his marks.
His thumb brushed against the metal button on your pants, slowly undoing them like he was still giving you the chance to change your mind. The zipper being dragged down felt almost too loud in the room, and he broke it up with short kisses to your chest, your neck, anywhere he could reach. Once your pants were opened, his hands were quick to dip beneath the fabric, but you halted them before they could move any farther down.
“Uhm, I haven’t–I don’t really shave down there…”
He shook his head in disbelief but still pressed a kiss against your temple. “Baby that doesn’t bother me one bit alright, it’s meant to be there. Only thing I want you focused on is feeling good okay?” Both of his hands reached to grip your ass over the fabric of your underwear, a low groan leaving the back of his throat as he pulled you closer. “Okay?” He waited for you to respond, a soft okay echoing his as you lifted up your hips to pull the fabric down.
Both socks were taken off by him as well, with a kiss placed on each knee before he moved back up to explore the new territory. They weren’t random kisses like you thought at first. He was tracing the pattern of your stretch marks, his nose following the lines with his lips not far behind. “M’not ashamed to admit that I got myself off dreaming about the day I’d be lucky enough to get my hands on you. Had me feeling like a horny teenager all over again.” His words were slightly muffled as they were spoken through kisses placed against your stomach.
You gently tilted his face up to look at you, “What does it mean if I thought about you then?”
He loomed over you, “Oh, you dirty fucking girl,” whispered against your lips. Your tongue darting out to catch a taste, and he offered even more. Hands tracing over your thighs, excited to have so much to explore, to hold, every curve and divot.
His palm reached down to cup your pussy over your panties, a deep ‘fuck’ moaned against your chin after your lips disconnected, head tilted back with a gasp. “You feel how wet you are for me?” All you could manage was a whimper as his touch grew firmer.
Teeth nipping at your jaw, “Talk to me baby, tell me how you play with this pretty pussy.”
The tip of his finger traced over your lips, pressing down onto your clit through the fabric. “Fuck Jack…”
Nails were digging into his shoulder. “Do you take your time? Build yourself up? Or are you desperate like me, huh? You want it to last, but you know how good it’ll feel…”
You wanted to answer, but he was making it increasingly difficult. Especially now that he was moving beneath the waistband of your underwear. “I–I never take my time, just–just figure what’s the point?”
He paused, and you cursed yourself, “What’s the point?”
Was that the wrong thing to say? “Y-yeah…”
Fuck, his fingers felt so much better like this, you thought. “Oh sweetheart, you should be taking time with yourself, should be feeling all of it. Especially if you’re thinking about me.” Clearly you weren’t as imaginative as you thought, since you would have never thought he’d be this talkative with you.
“You’re–fuck your fingers feel so good.” You nearly bucked away from him when he curled them so deeply inside you, it had you scrambling for the armrest. His smirk grew above you as he repeated the motion, forcing a whine from the back of your throat.
“Trust me, I can feel how much you like them.” Smug bastard.
There was no rush to get you off, no ridiculous slamming fingers or rough movements that you didn’t ask for. He was genuinely taking the time to understand your body, to find the right angle, the right pressure that would make you sing for him. Every sigh, moan, and whimper was another correct answer he was studying so hard for. “You getting close baby?”
“Yes, yes, please fuck, right there Jack.” The back of your head dug into the armrest, neck arching under his tongue, desperate for something that was so, so close.
His free hand reached up to hold your jaw, bringing you back to him. “Nuh-uh, don’t look away, I wanna watch you come apart on my fingers.” It was too much, he was too much, your eyes were fluttering shut again. “Keep those eyes open for me gorgeous.” You can do that, for him, you could.
He leaned back, adjusted his angle, and it had you releasing a sound you didn’t know you were capable of. “That’s it, that’s a good girl.” His fingers picked up the pace, keeping the same motion, and when his thumb brushed against your clit you held on to the arm that kept your gaze locked onto his. He kept taking you higher and higher until it felt like you were plummeting back onto the couch, back into your body. You don’t even remember what you said to him, it was so breathless and quick, an unintelligible stream of his name, curses, and begging.
The palm of his hand kept up a gentle caress along your cunt, until you were done shaking. Occasionally, his fingers would lightly dip back in to feel how wet you were after coming for him. His nose nuzzled into your cheek, short kisses trailing down to your mouth. “You alright?”
Your hand that had been gripping the back of his neck relaxed, gently massaging the tension beneath. A soft “Mhm,” was muffled against his kiss. “I didn’t think you’d be such a talker,” you said once he let you breathe again.
“Is that a bad thing?” The question made you want to roll your eyes. Obviously he knew it wasn’t, he could feel exactly what his words did to you.
Your head lazily shook back and forth, “Fuck no, not bad, not bad at all.”
“You look so beautiful when you come sweetheart.” Cheeks heating despite everything that just happened had you turning your face into his shoulder. “Uh-uh, don’t get shy on me now, we’re working on compliments, remember.”
“Oh fuck you,” you said through giggles as he licked a particularly ticklish spot on your neck.
His lips began a path down the curve of your stomach again. “Hmm, not tonight, but I’d love to eat you out if that’s on table?”
The question made you shiver, your pussy clenching down on nothing, wishing you had his fingers in you again. “Figured you’d be full by now.”
He looked up at you from where he was trying to devour the space where your thigh met your hip. “Nah, I saved plenty of room for dessert,” so you definitely weren’t imagining that double meaning yesterday. You felt a puff of air against the swollen lips of your cunt, “You gonna let me taste you now?” All you could offer was a nod since it was too difficult to think with his head between your thighs.
It shouldn’t have surprised you that he didn’t dive right in. Instead, he kissed all along your inner thigh, higher than he was able to explore before. He gave so many ignored parts of yourself affection, like it was always meant to be given. Slowly, so slowly, when he was satisfied, he licked a long stripe up your pussy, tongue curling at the end to collect everything it could. “Jesus sweetheart, you taste so fucking good,” he barely finished his sentence with a groan before practically unhinging his jaw to devour your cunt.
He had been slow and gentle with his fingers, but his tongue acted like you were a meal about to be taken from him. “Oh f-fuck Jack, that’s–you’re so…”
“So what,” he asked, releasing the suction around your clit with a wet pop. Opening you up with his thumb so that he could get a good look at you. “So what baby?”
“So good, Jack, you’re so good.” Turns out you weren’t the only one that coveted a bit of praise.
“Hmm, I’m still learning,” another lick, “still gotta figure out what you like.”
“Doctors and their case studies, huh.” He chuckled against your pussy, and it had you jolting forward with a whimper.
“Nice to know you’ve still got jokes even when I’m eating you out.” His efforts redoubled before you could actually make another one. For a while, it was just you trying and failing to catch your breath until he slowed down again. Your hand reached for the one that was digging into your thigh bringing it up so that his fingers could wrap around your breast. He was close enough to feel the rapid drumming of your heart, and you could feel his own heavy pulse from where your hand was wrapped around his wrist.
His pace slowed down, desperate to drag this out, desperate to fuck you with his tongue. “God Jack.” It was guttural, you didn’t even know your voice could reach a pitch that deep, fading into a whimper. “I-I wanna make you feel good too Jack.” This was new to you, the focus, the attention, the drive to make sure that you feel divine.
Your eyes focused on the movement of his hips as he grinded himself into the couch, his lips parting, air blowing on your pussy. “Oh baby, you have no idea how good I feel right now.”
“Fuck, it’s-it’s never…” It was almost embarrassing, the way you couldn’t even complete a sentence.
“Never what?”
“It’s never been this good.” A compliment and a confession all in one. How could you have known it’d make you emotional, tears stinging at your eyes that you tried to blink away. You couldn’t look at him now, but everything still felt so good.
His arms wrapped around you as best as he could with his mouth being occupied. A tight hug, part of you wished for tighter, for him to crush you against him. “I know baby, I know…”
Your other hand reached down to bury into his curls, which had become unruly throughout this entire ordeal, but they were oh so soft. The groan he let out when you tugged made your back arch, thighs spreading open even further. Jack wasted no time in occupying the space, pressing himself even closer, smothering himself in your pussy. “M’gonna make sure you know what it’s like to be taken care of.” Why did that almost sound like a threat?
“Please, Jack baby, please.”
“You can let go, I’m not going anywhere. Want you to know exactly where I want to be.” Between your thighs, in your arms, standing behind you in support. His voice was husky, a gentle, hard-edged promise. Your hands couldn’t seem to figure out which part of him to hold onto. One entwined with his on your thigh, the other held onto the side of his face, holding his cheek in your palm. It was an entirely new sensation to feel the muscles of his jaw moving beneath your fingertips as he worked to bring you over the edge.
His mouth lifted to press a wet kiss against your palm before diving back down, getting lost in his task. “Need you to come on my face sweetheart, need to feel it.” Your brain zeroed in on that word, need, need, need, and fuck if you didn’t need it more.
He didn’t let up until you were tugging too harshly at his hair. Your heightened gasps echoed in his living room, a few bursts of disbelieving laughter mixed in. His hand coming up to rest against the middle of your chest, slowly rubbing small circles into your skin. “Breathe baby, breathe.”
You were worried you might cry again once you finally caught your breath, once you finally settled, but you buried it down. “Thank you.”
His head shook at your soft gratitude. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he said through soft laughter.
Jack was a bit surprised at your strength, attempting to pull him up so that you could wrap your arms around his shoulders. “Oh no, I really, really, do. I hate stroking your ego, but fuck that was…amazing.” Both of you were laughing now.
“Ridiculous,” he teasingly mumbled against your collarbone. “Just you wait, I’ve got plans for you now that I’ve got a sense for what you like.”
You brushed away a curl that had stuck to his forehead, “Hmm, what about you?”
“Me? I’m good baby, trust me.”
It was like a foggy memory finally clearing up. You remembered his groans getting louder, his hands molding into your skin, the slight whimper. “Did you…”
It was him that couldn’t meet your eyes this time. “Yeah, yeah, sorry…”
“Jack baby, please don’t apologize, that’s really fucking hot.” You had to tease him, how could you not? This was a big first for you. “But I know damn well I don’t taste that good, so do you just really love eating pussy or…”
His finger was tracing over a blossoming purple mark above your breast. “Ohhh, I beg to differ. I’d have you with my coffee everyday if I could.” He winked at you, and it tempted you to push his head back down for another taste, “and yes, I do love eating pussy thank you very much, yours especially.” His teeth nipped at your shoulder, causing you to let out a surprised grunt and playfully push him away
He just pulled you closer, “But–but it was, it was actually the way you were holding me while I was doing it, if that makes sense. Feeling your fingers in my hair–fuck it felt good baby–but when you reached down to hold my jaw, your thumb against my cheek, drove me fucking crazy sweetheart.” In his mind, he was planning on making you come at least once more before you got off this couch. He was already warming you up to the idea with his mouth, “What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?”
Unwilling to fully break away from you, he left a few kisses against your jaw so you could answer. “Not until ten thankfully,” you glanced over at the clock on his stove, seeing that it was past twelve already. “Shit, it’s late, I should probably get home before Trinity brings out the searchlight.” Usually, you’d already be in bed by now, but the hours had slipped by unknowingly between the two of you.
He was fully prepared to get up and change his pants to go take you home, but he was selfish and not ready to give you up for the night just yet. “Yeah…or you could stay, text her that you’re okay, and I can bring you back tomorrow morning before you have to get ready. I make a pretty good breakfast sandwich too.”
Spending the night on the first date would be another new one for you. The desire to spend a few more hours in his arms already had you deciding that you’d stay for a whole week if he asked. “Oh, I’m definitely not doubting your capabilities after tonight. Will there be coffee included?”
How is that even a question? The look he gave you asked before leaning in to kiss you as best he could through his smile. “Mhm, told you I wanted to have you with my coffee in the morning.”
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@julllliiiii86
a/n: if y'all want more of this pairing plz like, comment and reblog, hell even feel free to dm if there's something you really wanna see. also here's my masterlist if you're interested!
pairing: jack abbot x plus-size! santos' sister! reader
summary: trinity is in the middle of a double and is desperate enough to have her sister show up at her job to bring her food. (takes place between seasons 1 & 2)
word count: 5.1 k ⚕♡
warning: y'all this one got away from me, it was just supposed to be a cute abbot x reader but sibling angst got mixed in and now we have this. reader is 12 years older than trinity so age gap, no smut just fluff and angst but if y'all like it than there may be some more in the future!
You couldn’t be prouder of your baby sister. But if you were to ever tell her that to her face, she would probably punch you. The past week has been an inescapable nightmare for her; they were down a few staff members, which had her picking up the slack for the next month while replacements were found. That’s how you found yourself at the farthest entry of the ambulance bay, balancing a tray half-filled with two different types of lumpia and okoy, there was some chicken mixed in there as well.
“Dude, what the hell are you doing back there?” You looked towards the sliding doors and saw Trinity calling out to you.
“It didn’t feel right going all the way down!” It honestly felt wrong to even be this close to the hospital without going through the front entrance.
She waved her arms like she was directing air traffic. “Hurry up and get down here, I’m starving!” No way in hell were you running, you were carrying precious cargo, but you did pick up the pace for her sake. “What took you so long?”
You held up the tray, “Uh, I was finishing up the food.” The aluminum pan was handed over, and she almost dropped it from the unexpected weight.
She looked at you wide-eyed, “Jesus, why did you make so much?”
You had gotten into a groove, and it felt nice to make familiar recipes. “Figured I’d make enough for you and your coworkers since I had access to the big kitchen at work. That’s if you choose not to be greedy, of course, if nothing else, leftovers.”
“None of them deserve your cooking,” she remarked as the sliding doors opened up to the emergency department.
“Except you?”
“Except me.”
An older blonde woman called from behind the desk. “Trinity, you’re needed in room two now.”
Your sister held up the tray like it would cover for her. “But Dana food…”
Dana just shrugged with a small laugh, “Sorry kid.”
Trinity was already rushing towards room two. “Alright, fine, can my sister stay with you for a minute?”
“Sure, your sister can stay. Nice to meet you sweetie.”
“Nice to meet–” the tray of food was dropped back into your arms without warning. “Nice to meet you too.”
She grabbed a stack of papers and knocked them against the desk to straighten them out. “Hate to say it but it’s the first time I’m hearing about you.”
You gave her a ‘what can you do about it look.’ It was normal at this point. “If you look up mystery in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of her underneath.” Sometimes it hurt that your sister never talked about you. Especially when you would mention her and her accomplishments to anyone who would listen. But you also couldn’t blame her for wanting to keep her private life separate in a workplace like this.
There was a huff of laughter behind you, and suddenly, a warm body was leaning against the counter next to you.
“That has to be the most accurate description I’ve heard of her.” Holy shit, you thought hot doctors only existed in medical dramas, either that or you’ve just never had the pleasure of meeting one like this. Silver fox personified, god he’s gorgeous. “So Santos’ sister, huh?”
You had to shake yourself back to life. “Y-yeah, you know I feel like I should be offended, but I would have been more surprised if she had mentioned me before.” You finally introduced yourself, balancing the tray so that one hand was free.
His hand was strong, steady, calloused, gosh, he has really, really nice hands. “Dr. Abbot.”
He fits the bill, and right into your fantasies, woah, down girl. “Ahhh, the famous Dr. Abbot, don’t tell her I said this, but Trinity thinks you’re pretty cool, and that is high praise right there.”
He did a small playful fist pump, “I knew I could still relate to the kids.”
Someone likes to use old-man humour, don’t they? “Probably better than I can at this point.”
He looked out towards his younger residents, “comes with experience…” his remark trailed off, staring again at you like there’s a question unanswered.
God, I probably look like a mess, you thought. Leggings that had a hole in both knees and an oversized volunteer shirt with about a dozen bleach stains screamed put together. You can hear your mother ‘you should always have makeup on, never know who you’re gonna meet.’ Damn, maybe she was right about some things. He’s staring. Why is he still staring? “Do I have something on my face?”
A short cough from him, clearing his throat and breaking his gaze. “Uh, n-no, sorry, you just look really familiar. Don’t tell me I’ve treated you here before.” Oh, if only you were so lucky.
Thankfully, nothing had landed you in the hospital since moving to Pittsburgh with Trinity. Though now you feel like you should probably knock on some wood to keep up that winning streak. “Definitely not, but now that I’m thinking about it, so do you…oh wait, I know, the uh, the Veterans Center!”
He smiled and snapped his fingers, “That’s it, you’re with the Meals on Wheels crew, right?”
“That’s me, we try to help get them set up with different plans.”
“It’s good work you’re doing there.” Lord is everything he says laced with such sincerity? He seemed like the type of person to choose every word carefully, to make sure it means something.
You threw the compliment back, “It’s good work you’re doing here.” As if what you were doing could compare to his work, to your sister's work.
“Just doing the best we can.” Something tells you his best goes above and beyond the normal. Something also tells you that you could become addicted to the small uptick at the corner of his mouth. So subtle, a blink and you’ll miss it moment.
“That’s about all you can do some days.”
The silence shared between the two of you was charged, the background noise of the ED fading in and out the more seconds passed. Neither of you was aware of the small crowd that formed behind the desk.
Trinity popped up behind Abbot, hand sanitizer being generously applied to her hands, before she scootched between you two. It cut the moment completely like a faint record scratch, well, if there had actually been a moment and you weren’t imagining things. The cover of the tray was lifted and nearly smacked you in the face. “God, that was ridiculous. I’m starving.” She had already picked up two chicken skewers and an okoy fritter before glaring at the vultures surrounding them.
“Why didn’t you tell us you have a sister?” A woman with glasses and a very put-together braid asked. No doubt this was Mel.
“I have a sister, there, now you know.” She responded mid-bite, determined to end the conversation there. Something she’d once said to you had always stuck. ‘The less people know, the better,’ it’s a motto she seemed determined to live by.
Your arms were starting to get tired from carrying this tray. “She talks about you all so much, I feel like introductions aren’t even needed at this point.” Based off descriptions you were sure you could match up the names to the faces, but one you hoped to run into was the infamous Garcia, but you knew that would be unlikely, life of a surgeon and all that.
“Shut the fuuuck up.” She said through clenched teeth and a mouthful of chicken.
You gently nudged her, and she subtly did it back like it was muscle memory. “Aww come on, it’s been forever since I’ve gotten to embarrass you in front of your friends.”
“Were you adopted?” Tired eyes, curls, ahh, Huckleberry.
“Was she?” Small, youthful, definitely Javadi.
There was murder in your sister's eyes. “Don’t both of you have patients?”
The mythical Dr. Robby seemed to appear out of thin air. “Don’t you Santos? And I think foods supposed to be eaten in the lounge.”
She took another bite of chicken, almost mocking, like she was saying, ‘you’re just jealous cause I actually have decent food.’ “Thought you said eat when you can?”
You opened the lid again, the smell hitting every nose in the vicinity, setting off a few stomach growls. “You’re welcome to have one, please don’t let her hog it all.” You felt a short warning smack to your side.
Robby picked up one of the lumpia before taking the tray out of your hands. “Hmm, you can stay.” He gave Dr. Abbot a look as he passed by, taking a bite out of the roll. Prompting Abbot to take one for himself before the tray was carted off to the lounge for Santos to take care of later.
Your sister looked over your shoulder, “shit I gotta go take care of this, find me before you leave.” She was already running down the hall, shovelling down the rest of her food, your soft ‘okay’ following after.
“I’m still not convinced you two are siblings.” Dr. Abbot said, taking a bite of the food he was able to snag.
“Wanna see my driver's license?”
He groaned from the taste, eyes closed, head back, and he even did that small bend that people do when something is just that good. “Hmm, no, there it is, same snark.”
“Nobody ever believes we’re siblings, we’ve got different dads, not to mention the twelve years between us.” There are a couple of other reasons that run through your mind, but those are best kept to yourself.
“Well, the more I stand here, the more I start to see it.” Interesting.
“In a good or a bad way?”
He took the last bite. “All the good parts, I promise, you both have a very caring heart.”
Very interesting. “Huh, caring heart typically isn’t used to describe my sister.”
“I like to think we’ve worked together enough that I can see it, even when it’s hidden under all her spikes.” It surprised you to hear this kind of praise from someone above your sister; she had always had issues with authority. Constantly complained about the teachers and professors that she’d had over the years. Except for Dr. Abbot, he must be one hell of a teacher.
“She really does care about her job. It’s nice to see that she’s got a good group of people behind her.”
“That’s the Pitt crew for you.” There it was again, that small movement, and there goes the silence again. Sometimes it’s better not to scramble to fill it. “Hey, I uh, I think we used to work with Meals on Wheels before Covid happened, but I think it would be worth starting up again for the patients. I know it would help out a lot of the people we see.”
Work, thank god, something you can confidently talk about. “Yeah, definitely, I’ll talk to my supervisor and see if I could maybe work as a representative for the hospital.” It would be a good chance to see Trinity more…and Dr. Abbot…no bad, bad brain.
“Oh, I’d hate to add more to your plate.” Where does he hold all that sincerity?
“Nah, it wouldn’t be a problem at all, most likely they’d have me swing by a couple of days a week to review forms for anyone who was interested.”
He crossed his arms, fully leaning into you, or is he leaning into the counter? And why is it getting harder to breathe right now? “Well, I know for a fact we’d be lucky to have you.”
Once again, Trinity snuck up on you. “Alright, all done, thanks for bringing dinner by.” She gave you a quick one-armed hug before practically pushing you away like the hug wasn’t her idea in the first place.
“Okayyy…well, I’ll get out of your hair, really nice meeting you all, and I’ll see you at home Trinity.” You gave a wave to the few residents and nurses that had stuck around the desk.
“Bye Sissy,” the term of endearment seemed to slip out of her sleep-deprived mouth before her brain could catch it. You could see the way she braced herself for war as her coworkers slowly turned their heads towards her. Shit-eating grins on all of their faces.
“Bye Sissy,” you echoed back, adding fuel to the fire.
The month passed by, and like clockwork, you would bring Trinity and the Pitt crew whatever you could to help feed them. After the first visit if Jack was available it meant that the tray you were carrying would be out of your hands the moment he saw you. It made your heart flutter, his fingers always brushed against yours. He had to know what he was doing.
Honestly, it just felt nice to have other people outside of your work to talk to, and you wondered why you hadn’t been doing this before.
Until one day, something snapped the fragile routine.
You were speaking with Jack, and he insisted on a first-name basis the next time you stopped by to bring Trinity dinner. The two of you were discussing the positives, among other things, patient satisfaction with the program inclusion, and what you were planning for the rest of the night, while he’s happily trapped here.
Suddenly, your arm was yanked backwards, “Dr. Abbot, I need to borrow her for a second.”
Trinity was a lot stronger than she looked, not a lot of people knew that until she decided to reveal it. Like she was now, by dragging you towards the staff lounge. “Hey, hey, are you trying to dislocate my arm?”
“Oh, trust me, you’d know if I was.” Oh, she’s pissed, but why, you have no idea.
You crossed your arms across your chest once she finally dropped the death grip that she had. “Okay, what the hell is your problem?”
“This has to stop.”
“You just gestured to all of me. What does that even mean?”
She poked her finger against your chest, dangerously close to your tit, which she knows is sensitive. “You, you coming here, bringing food for everybody, and whatever this thing is that you have going on with Abbot, it has to stop.”
That stopped you in your tracks because nothing inappropriate was going on with Abbott, not that you wouldn’t mind if something inappropriate were happening. “Trinity, there’s nothing–”
She poked you again, “Don’t bullshit me alright. This is my job, and you cannot come in here and fuck it up.”
You were brought back to a party that you didn’t know about and killed when you walked in the door. Back when she was being reckless and angry. “I wasn’t trying to–”
Trinity was on a rampage right now, and you were the target. “And I don’t care if you’re desperate, pick someone else besides one of my fucking attendings.” This was humiliation at its finest, she wasn’t trying to be quiet or private, she wanted people to hear.
You took a deep breath in, trying to ground yourself. “I’ve only ever come here to bring you food Trin, and for work, I see that you’re working doubles on the calendar, and I know you don’t eat like you should–”
She threw her hands up. “You’re not fucking mom okay! I’m not your problem, and you need to leave so I can do my fucking job!” She stormed out of the break room, a “what” thrown out to anyone who was looking her way.
You waited a second before adjusting your bag on your shoulder and walking out as well, head down, the refusal to make eye contact with anyone evident. A tear didn’t fall until the sliding doors closed behind you.
Trinity never thought that she would feel this hesitancy to enter her home again. But the weight of an apology was on her shoulders. Robby had chewed her out after her spectacle in the break room, told her to keep the family drama out of the ED, or her sister wouldn’t be allowed back. She didn’t want that, she never wanted that. The place somehow felt lighter when you showed up, helped make everything not feel so suffocating.
But the look that Abbot gave her today just pissed her off, fuck that man and his obvious crush on you. If he wasn’t going to ask you out then he needed to knock off the goo-goo eyes at work. And they wanted to say that she was being unprofessional.
Every movement was slow as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. She didn’t expect you to be sitting on the couch, an episode of Rick and Morty playing on the TV. She remembered you letting her watch an episode when she was way too young. “Hey…I brought home takeout.”
You didn’t say anything as she set the bag down, but you could hear a soft, annoyed sigh behind you. “What episode are you watching?” She knew exactly what episode it was. “Are you not gonna say anything?” No, you were not. “Alright, fuck, I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have snapped at you today. That was really shitty of me.” Trinity Santos, the master of apologies, ladies and gentlemen.
“So you still meant everything you said?” There was no move to look away from the screen.
“I shouldn’t have brought mom up, that wasn’t fair to you–”
Your head shook in disbelief. “You have said that to me before so many times Trin, it really doesn’t phase me at this point. I know it’s your go-to when I’m ‘smothering’ you I just–I care. You know I care right? I’m not trying to be…”
It was obvious that she was reaching for the right words. “I know you’re not, it’s just–it’s hard sometimes…you’ve always been more of a mom to me, and now that I’m older. It feels like I’m having to relearn how to be your sister.”
It made a lot of sense. Part of you hated that you had to be an adult at such a young age, but you wouldn’t give up your sister for the world. “I think I’m having to learn that too. I didn’t mean to encroach on your space or your work, I actively tried not to be in your way–”
She cut you off, “You were never in the way, it’s actually been nice having you there, and you genuinely seem to enjoy that place, which is crazy to me since I’m itching to get out of there.”
You nudged her, and thankfully, she nudged back. “You enjoy it too.”
“Yeah, I think, I think I just got so used to it being you and me that I didn’t really bother to have friends at work in the beginning. And then you started being all buddy-buddy with everyone, and I thought that’s it, she’s gonna be everybody’s best friend, and I’m gonna be alone again.” You always thought that was just the way she liked it, on her own. ‘Nobody to disappoint her that way,’ she would say.
You paused the TV, sensing the shift. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
She scoffed, “How could I talk to you about feeling lonely?”
Now you were the one scrambling, “Trinity…I’ve been alone a really long time–”
“Yeah cause you choose to be.” Maybe your sister does need a psych evaluation.
“Choose to be, I’m sorry, you think I choose to be alone?” She nodded her head like it was obvious, “No…no, that’s you, I don’t choose this.”
She looked like she was ready to ditch this conversation now. “Okay fuck you. If you’re so alone, go out and find someone.” It’s almost like you could hear your mom's voice in your ear, ‘you have such a pretty face, if you just had form like your sisters, you’d be a knockout.’ ‘Of course you’re gonna be alone if you never put yourself out there.’ How were you supposed to put yourself out there when she had been putting you down for so much of your life?
Now your words had bite and sharpness to them. “You say that like it’s so easy. It is for you, it’s not for me, and it never has been.”
“What are you talking about? You never had a problem with making friends.” Friends that never stayed in contact, not one from high school or college, and it sure as hell wasn’t from a lack of trying on your part.
“Yeah, and you never had a problem finding someone that wanted to be with you. There are different kinds of loneliness Trin.”
It took a second for her to fully understand what you meant. “Oh, oh, I didn’t realize you…missed that.” Honestly your last relationship was so long ago that you felt like a born again virgin somedays.
“Yeah, I’m not a nun. I just don’t talk to you about it cause you’ve never had that problem before.”
Trinity was tired of standing, so she reached into the fridge to grab some beer to go alongside the takeout. She handed one to you before placing the bag on the coffee table and sitting beside you. “Yeah, just a problem with people staying.”
You cracked open both bottles while she started to unbox the food. “To be fair, you’ve never asked anyone to stay before.”
Her shoulders shrugged. “True, probably something I need to be in therapy for.”
“You and me both Sissy.”
“I hope you know, I don’t actually care about you and Abbot, I mean, I do I–I want you to be happy. You deserve it, you’ve taken care of me my whole life and you–you deserve someone who wants to take care of you too. And if that’s Abbot, then good for you, I guess.” What a world it would be if Jack Abbot wanted to take care of you. Maybe for a brief moment you thought he might have been interested, but after spending some time with him, you’re sure that subtle flirting is just his default mode. Nothing else has really hinted at interest or even desire, which you wouldn’t be able to spot in a person anyway.
Even though you wish it wasn’t true, “Trinity Jack’s not interested in me like that.” He probably wants someone in the same field anyway; it’s not like you’d understand half of what he talks about at work, you barely understand Trinity some days.
She took off the lid to her curry. “Uh, yes, he is.”
Accepting the takeout container from her, you pressed yourself against the back of the couch. “You sound awfully sure about that.”
She looked at you like she couldn’t believe someone could be so oblivious. “Okay, I’m starting to think that you’ve been alone because you’re just blind to when people like you, honestly, I should’ve caught on to that sooner.”
As sad as it was, it still made you laugh. “Well, can you blame me? I could never tell if it was a joke or not.” Boys had always been unnecessarily cruel to you growing up.
“Just…take my word for it…he likes you.”
You wanted to believe her so badly. It would be so easy to. But even if you did believe her, what would you do with the information? It’s not like you’d make a move, no, you’ve done it before, and it never works. That’s why you decided that if someone actually liked you, then it would have to be on them. At least nothing gets lost in translation that way. “I wouldn’t want to make things weird at work for you.”
She finished about a third of her beer. “Things are already weird, trust me, you’re fine. Listen, if he asks you out, just promise me you’ll say yes, at least give it a shot.”
Who would have thought your baby sister would try to set you up with her attending? Just what was the world coming to? “Yeah, that’s if he asks me out, which is a big if.”
A slow, smug smile crept onto her face. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that he asks you out tomorrow when you bring me lunch.”
“You and I both know you don’t have that money.” One would think being a doctor would pay better, but the world’s becoming too expensive even for them.
“That’s how confident I am.”
“I’m thinking you just want an excuse for me to bring you lunch tomorrow.”
The next day, you just ended up bringing the damn chicken soup in a crockpot since containers were a hassle. It seemed to be the right call, since the cold had brought in a wave of sickness throughout the ED.
Hands came up from your left and took the crockpot from you, both of you on a familiar path to the break room. You sure would know those biceps anywhere. Not that you were objectifying him in that way, of course not, you would never. “She returns…you know, we had a bet going on whether you’d be back around.”
You thanked him per usual and asked, “Oh yeah? Who won?”
He had a sort of playful scowl on his face. “Whitaker, he bet that Santos would apologize after work and you’d be back the next day. Kinda scary how well that kid knows her.”
“She’d never admit it, but she has a soft spot for him.” They reached the breakroom and Jack set soup down on the counter close to the outlet. You reached out to plug it in expecting him to take a step back. Only he didn’t, he just stood there without a care in the world.
Now the bastard was smirking at you, “Want me to get that for you?”
Come on, pull up your big girl panties and fucking flirt with this man. You have the approval of your sister of all people. A leap of faith had you leaning in, “That’s okay I got it.” Your arm brushed against his chest, and lord, that is one sturdy man, of course you could tell that just by looking at him, but to actually feel it. “Can I ask what you ended up betting?”
He leaned in even closer, “I was not a betting man this time around.”
“How come?”
His hand reached out, an inch away from your hip, a question, ‘am I allowed to?' So you leaned into the touch. “Didn’t want to take the chance that the outcome would be longer than I wanted.” That struck you, the way he said it, so simple, just a fact trapped in the room.
“You got lucky then, Trinity and I didn’t speak for three months straight one time.”
The smallest tug had you jolting forward, quickly trying to catch yourself. Jack had you right where he wanted you. “Oh, now I would’ve missed you way too much.”
“You mean my cooking.”
“That too but mostly you.”
“Good to know,” now’s when you say ‘I would have missed you too,’ go ahead. “Make sure you get some of the soup then, who knows when Trinity might decide to banish me again.” What the fuck is wrong with you?
He gave you a full smile, one of his rare ones, as his hand squeezed your side. You used to shrink away from touches like that, but from him, every part of you just softly pleaded more, more. “Perish the thought,” he looked over at the pot, “I can’t remember the last time I had homemade chicken soup.”
“Hope it lives up to the memory if you remember it.”
Jack has a silent intensity about him, and it keeps dragging you in. He’s just staring, a million questions he could be asking, and somehow he’s asking each one simultaneously. “Hmm,” even his ‘hmms’ have a vocabulary of their own. “You know, if you ever get tired of cooking, I’d be happy to do it for you.”
Is this–is this him asking you out? “Oh, you’d cook for me, huh?” Friends have dinner together, hell you’ve been doing it a lot this past month. But friends don’t hold onto someone like this and they definitely don’t keep glancing down at your lips like they’re seconds away from kissing you. Fuck, you wish he would.
The hand on your waist glides to your spine and his hands have a way of making you feel small, and incredibly weak in the knees. “You sound surprised.”
“Just thought you lived off of adrenaline and protein shakes at this point.”
“I’ve been known to make a mean steak.” The mental image of Jack standing over a grill just about does you in. It’s almost sad. When’s the last time someone cooked for you?
“Hmm, I’m very picky about my steak.”
That smirk makes you want to reach up and kiss it away. “As am I, you have to be. You free tomorrow?”
What the hell is happening right now? “Uh, yeah, yeah, I am.”
“Great, so I’ll pick you up at six.”
“I’ll bring dessert.” It was unmistakable, the heat, the way his eyes wandered slowly across you. You hadn’t meant it that way, or maybe deep down you did, maybe this is what it was to actually flirt. Maybe you were even good at it.
“Can’t wait.” He took a step closer, christ, he wanted to kiss you. Just a quick one, something to tide him over during his shift, but he knew it wouldn’t be quick, it wouldn’t be enough, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for the workplace.
Thankfully and annoyingly at the same time, one of the nurses came through the door asking for him before he could give in. “Sorry sweetheart.” He felt like he had to pry himself away from you, and you were just as desperate to hold on, but you knew better.
“Jeez, do your job Dr. Abbot,” you playfully teased. Secretly, it was a way to also catch your breath. But little did you know what that did to him. Eyes followed his back as he walked towards the door, his hand gripped the frame, and he looked so close to turning back around, but he knew better. His head shook with a small laugh, and then he was off.
It was just you and the soup now, you checked the heat once more and made your way towards the exit. There was an overwhelming need to get some fresh air and run the last ten minutes over and over in your mind.
Behind you, the almost evil voice of your sister whispered, “If you could send me that hundred bucks now, that would be great.”
a/n: hope you liked it, please let me know if you want to see more of this pairning! also i think I might start strictly writing plus-size characters from now on cause why the hell not, there's never enough of them! ⚕♡
here's my masterlist if you're insterested ــــ٨ـ🩺
summary: with your recent stress levels, you haven’t been sleeping much. this is a problem, because if you don’t rest, clark doesn’t rest. put it this way: without you, clark is as helpless as a puppy. a puppy who needs his toy back.
word count: 2.2k
contains: fluff & smut. reader works at the daily planet, clark is literally a human dog. softdom!clark, slightly condescending but full of praise, smothering with love, somewhat bratty!clark also. reader has a tease streak (hot). *clitstim f!receiving, excessive use of pet names. *no use of y/n
a/n: never go to college if you want to write again (kidding, go to college if you want). sorry for being so slow with my updates. more to come, promise. enjoy this half-toothrot half-smut mishmash of requests- thank you requesters for the love. :D
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Clark couldn’t sleep without you. This was entirely your fault, obviously.
There was just something about you that worked for him. Like medicine, or clockwork. The feeling of your soft hips sinking into his mattress, and the way it dipped under your weight, making his body roll just an inch your way. It was as if the universe was pushing him towards you perpetually, a very loving boulder. Your scent probably had something to do with it, too. The warmth, the sugar and spice and cottony-freshness of your lotion, ruined the smell of clean sheets. If he was ever in a bed that wasn’t his own or yours, he couldn’t quiet the part of his mind that was hung up on how good you smelled. It was a depressant that slowed his lungs and sucked him into REM. Not to mention the low, soft sounds of your breathing. Or the way your feet brushed his under the covers. Or how it felt to have your nails gently scratching just above his belly button, pawing like a kitten, making sure he was there. Or how pretty you whined when he got his hands all over you… What was he supposed to do, sleep without you? It just wasn’t possible. You were more important for sleep than the bed itself.
But lately, he hasn’t been sleeping. And that is because you haven’t been sleeping.
Clark knows it’s not something he can control. Your stress was a result of the world, not your own doing. Your job was out to get you both, but the let-it-roll-off-your-back gene was something that Clark inherited, and you didn’t. Every rejected article from Perry, every vetoed edit, every pitch for a new column or a shot at a simple byline– they ate at you. While Clark could live without being the best reporter in the world, you wanted to rip your hair out. Clark’s purpose was saving the world, but yours was writing. Measly human purpose, huh? Reporting the truth. Shining light on good people. And you were good– really good. It was just that damn job, stupid Perry, stupid bureaucracy keeping you down. Three years until you get a solo byline, for now stick to the obits, Perry said. Every week. It made you sick, and it made Clark sleepy.
You’ve been staying up into the wee hours of the morning for weeks now, trying to strike a golden story that might override the rules. You write and crunch up and throw out and start again, over and over. You’ve been through two composition books and left nearly one hundred Word documents unfinished on Clark’s desktop. It’s showing everywhere. Rings of spilled coffee on various surfaces in his room trace your steps. Your undereyes were almost as purple as your eyeshadow. Your nails were chipped and bitten. You even seemed to be losing the littlest bit of weight, and that had every alarm going off in Clark’s head, because a pound off your plump figure felt worse than losing a war. Therefore, empty plates with crumbs from muffins and dregs of ice cream marked the places Clark had dragged you from writing to feed you something to preserve you.
Because you haven’t been sleeping, Clark is off his game. More than twice he’s snapped at Chloe, and he accidentally sneezed and shattered a window at work. He’s pouty, he’s grumbling, and he misses you. Don’t underestimate the power of a desperate man.
Tonight was just like the last handful. You were slumped over his bedroom desk, half-dozed in your palm, trying to find a different word to use that would more eloquently describe a broken stoplight. Frizzy hair was in your eyes, or what was left open of them. Your shoulders looked like they were frowning. Clark was sitting up in bed with a book in his lap, nowhere close to reading but intensely watching you, and feeling the spot above his belly button itching to be scratched. He couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed the book into the covers to be swallowed up by the sheet-sea, and he padded across the room. His gentle palms slid down your arms and up again, and he gathered your hair behind your neck to pull it away from the skin.
“Give up, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“I can’t.”
“Not on your career. Just give up on this one article, just for tonight. You’re exhausted, bunny.”
“I”m fine, I just need to finish this.”
Clark huffed, brows furrowing in frustration. You smelled so good, and you were withholding yourself from him. Couldn't you see that he was going through withdrawals? Itchy, cold, uncomfortable withdrawals from not kissing your collarbones and squeezing your thighs? This was prison. Personal punishment for not being in control of your universe and making you wonderfully rich and satisfied.
Clark slumped all his weight over your back and frowned. “I’m dying here.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” you grunted, his heavy body smushing your torso against the desk. “Get off. You’re like a big puppy.”
“But I miss you,” he whimpered, nuzzling your neck. His hands pawed at your hips.
“Clark, I swear I’m almost done.”
He was growing impatient. Clark lifted his head to peer over the computer screen. All you had written was this:
Clark snickered to himself and huffed, swatting your hand away and closing the document out.
“Hey! I was working on that!”
“Not anymore,” he determined, and with a quick movement, he scooped under your armpits and lifted you from the chair.
You yelped and wriggled a bit as he tossed you onto the mattress, the bedframe creaking. Rumpled and annoyed, you lifted your mussed head of hair and pouted. “What the hell?"
Clark sighed with relief as he crawled onto the mattress, eager to get you back in his desired environment. You weren’t fast enough; he grabbed your ankles and tugged you down, clambering over you and plopping all his weight on your body. He smiled when he heard your quiet little “oof!”
“You haven’t slept for days, honey,” he mumbled, pressing kisses over your tummy, pushing the hem of your shirt up to reveal a strip of pudgy skin. “Haven’t smiled, haven’t touched me… I’m going crazy. I can’t sleep if you don’t. I can’t live without you.”
“Clark,” you complained softly, but there was very little discontent in the tone. It was hard to be anything but content with his warm mouth stamping your skin. Your heavy hands rested in his hair, curling the locks around your fingers, petting and messing as he smushed his cheek against your belly.
“I mean it,” he peeks up at you, eyes wide and pleading as a Christmas card.
“You really are like a puppy,” you smiled a little, “puppy.”
Clark flushed a bit and nuzzled into your hip. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? You’ve got a million for me. Bunny, honey, sugar, sweetie, baby, lovie, pumpkin–”
“Yeah, and they’re all true,” he huffed, crawling up your body until he could bracket his arms by your shoulders. He traced his nose along your rounded jaw before leaving a soft smooch beneath the ear.
A sated little hum escaped your throat. “I have to write something good,” you mumbled.
“You already have. Be with me for a while.”
“I’m with you every day.”
“I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over two weeks, bunny,” Clark whispered, snoodling your neck. “Please don’t torture me any longer.”
You chuckled softly, watching how desperately he wrapped his arms around you, snaking them under your back and hauling you into his chest. Clark was a paperweight of a man. You wouldn’t get far if you tried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you knew he was right. You had to stop before you ran out of juice completely. You were exhausted. You wanted sleep, and you wanted him. You never slept better than when he was there to whisper to you, to touch you, to make you feel right again…
“Okay, puppy,” you sighed.
You felt the curl of his grin against your clavicle, and suddenly the dog’s ears perked up. “You hungry? Need something? I have ice cream. Ma left pie when she came by earlier. Or I can put on a movie, we still have that copy of Clueless, I never dropped it off at the Blockbuster-”
“No, stop, shh,” you giggled, “I just want to sleep.”
“Thank God,” he wheezed, and artfully rolled over, taking you with him.
You fell right into place, hand above his belly button and face smushed in his chest, breathing in the woodsy smell of his old tee. The rise and fall of his happy chest was enough to make you forget why you were working so hard in the first place.
“I missed this,” he grinned.
“Clearly.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” he looked down at you, petting your hair. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you smirked, tilting your head back.
Clark’s heart swelled at the sight of your tired eyes, because there was some light there, and it was his. He tugged you up closer so he could slot his lips against yours. Nothing wild– just soft, lazy motions, sleepy jaws pushing and pulling, little bits of saliva collecting in the divot of your chin which his tongue kept tidy. His eager lips crossed your face and down your neck again, and as he felt your heartbeat pick up against his chest, he knew that you needed him just as much as you needed rest.
Clark suckled on the soft spot beneath your jaw that always made your breath sing, and his thumb hooked into your cheek, giving you something to keep busy with. The heat of your tongue sent pins and needles down to his knuckle.
“You’re a good writer,” he praised, nipping at the crease of your neck. “You write so well, you’re so smart. I love you, honey.”
“I love you, too…”
“You’re so pretty when you're tired,” he kept on, kissing his way back to your mouth, pulling your bottom lip down with a wet thumb. “My poor baby, always workin’ so hard. You just need a little break, yeah? Just need me to tell you when to stop, huh, bunny?”
“Yeah,” you whimpered, brain and eyes fuzzing over. Your hands twisted in his shirt and you let him hitch your knee over his hip, squeezing you flush between him and the bed. His lethargic kisses felt like they were slowly tapping your lungs for air.
“Yeah, I know, honey,” he cooed, pushing your hair back from your face and shutting your eyelids with his kisses. “You want me to make sure you fall asleep, sweetheart?”
Your skin began to flush, he could see the pink peeking from under the collar of your (his) shirt. “Maybe a little,” you breathed, mind already reeling with anticipation. You should’ve known he wasn’t lying when he told you he was going insane without you.
“Okay, yeah, baby… okay…”
You sighed, unburdening yourself of the weight on your shoulders as Clark gently tucked his palm under your pajama shorts and coaxed his fingers across the collecting slickness. He purred happily and sealed his lips over yours, notching his fingers in slow circles, absolutely basking in the warmth of you that’s been missing from his nighttime routine for far too long.
“Say you love me again,” he slurred against your lips, teeth tracing your cupid’s bow.
“I love you,” you moaned, hips bucking into his touch.
“My good girl, my good bunny,” he smiled, concentrating his efforts solely on your swollen little bud, knowing it would tucker you out. “Feels good to take a break, hm?”
“Mhm… oh…”
“That’s it, there she is… c’mon, bunny girl… c’mon home for me.”
Your body twitched as heat waves rolled down your legs, the indicators of a slow and deafening orgasm weighing your limbs down. Your breathing drew deep into your lungs, and Clark kept coaxing you to sleep, fingers drawing circles over your hot skin, trailing them up to your hips to your mouth, letting you suck the mess off.
“That was a quickie. Finally feelin’ sleepy?”
“Mm,” you droned, mouth a bit slack around his fingertips. “Thank you…”
“Oh, you’re welcome, baby,” he grinned, ribs aching from the love rotting him down to the bone. “Just want you to focus on getting some rest, okay? You’re so tired… get some sleep for me, come here, honey.”
You let him collect your buzzing body in his arms and roll you back on top of him, cuddling in, careful not to move your hips too much. Your palm scratched habitually at his favorite stomach spot, and he grumbled with delight, a very, very happy puppy.
“Atta boy,” you mumbled, eyes already drooping with impending sleep.
The third time it happened, you were genuinely starting to take it personally.
Not the kidnapping, exactly. You'd made a kind of grim peace with the kidnapping. What you couldn't make peace with was the look on the goon's face when you explained — calmly, reasonably, with your hands zip-tied behind your back — that the whole operation was fundamentally flawed.
"I'm telling you," you said, from your position duct-taped to a chair in what appeared to be a condemned warehouse in Crime Alley, "this is not going to work."
The man guarding you — big, bored-looking, a tattoo of a serpent crawling up his neck — squinted at you. "Shut up."
"I'm serious. He's not going to come for me. We broke up."
Serpent-tattoo looked at the other guy across the room, a wiry nervous one who kept checking his phone. They shared the particular look of men who had not been briefed on this possibility.
"We got good intel," the wiry one said, defensive. "You're his girl."
"Was. Past tense. Three months ago." You flexed your wrists experimentally. The zip tie was cheap, at least. "Look it up, if you have some kind of database for this sort of thing."
"Red Hood will come," Serpent-tattoo said, with the conviction of a man repeating something he'd been told in a briefing.
You sighed at the ceiling.
The first time, you'd almost found it sweet, in a horrifying way.
You and Jason had been broken up for three weeks. The wounds were fresh, the kind that made you stare at your phone at 1 a.m. wondering if you should text him. (You hadn't. You were proud of this.) You'd been at a corner store buying ice cream — the emotional support kind — when four men in masks had bundled you into a van.
When the Red Hood had crashed through the skylight forty minutes later, guns blazing, body moving through the space like violence given shape, you'd had one complicated second of oh before the familiar exhilaration and terror of watching him work collapsed into something much messier.
He'd gotten you out. He'd cut the zip ties. He'd made sure you weren't hurt, hands checking your face, your wrists, all business except for the way his jaw was set like he was holding something back with his back teeth.
"I'm fine," you'd said.
"I know."
"You didn't have to come." You said quietly, your voice cracking slightly with emotion.
The helmet had turned toward you, unreadable red lenses where his eyes would be. "Yeah," he'd said. "I did."
And then he'd been gone, and you'd stood in the dark street with your pint of melting ice cream and felt about seventeen things at once.
The second time had been more embarrassing for everyone involved.
A different crew, apparently uninformed of the update in your relationship status, had grabbed you outside your apartment building. You'd had more warning that time, enough to get a solid elbow into someone's ribs before the numbers overwhelmed you, but the outcome was the same. Warehouse. Chair. Zip ties. The waiting.
Jason had been angrier that time.
Not at you — he never did that, never once made you feel like your existence was an inconvenience even when it clearly was — but the carefully controlled fury radiating off him as he'd worked the knot at your wrists had been palpable even through the armor.
"You need to move," he'd said firmly, his tone controlled.
"Excuse me?"
"Apartment. Different neighborhood."
"Jason." You'd turned to face him, which put you extremely close together in the dark, close enough to see the tension in his throat above the collar of his jacket. "We broke up. You don't get to tell me where to live."
He'd looked at you for a long moment. Something had moved through his expression that you hadn't been able to name, or hadn't wanted to.
"No," he'd said. "I don't."
And then he'd handed you your bag, which he'd apparently retrieved from the scene, and walked away without another word, and you'd gone home and sat on your floor for a long time.
"Okay," Serpent-tattoo said now, checking his watch. "He should've gotten the message by now."
"What message?"
"Told him we had you. Sent proof."
You blinked. "What proof? You just grabbed me twenty minutes ago."
The wiry one held up a phone, showing a photo of you in the chair. You looked annoyed in it, which was accurate.
"He'll come," Serpent-tattoo said again. He seemed to need to believe this.
You were about to explain, again, the fundamental error in this logic, when the high window on the far wall exploded inward.
He moved the way he always moved — like the room owed him something and he was here to collect. Two of them were down before you'd fully processed the entry. The third caught a kick to the sternum that sent him crashing into shelving units. Serpent-tattoo, to his credit, put up a decent fight. It lasted approximately eight seconds.
Then there was just Jason, standing in the wreckage, helmet sweeping the room, and you in your chair with your hands behind your back.
He crossed to you in four strides and crouched behind you, and you felt the zip tie give way with one sharp pull.
"Hi," you said, a tired smile on your face.
"Hi." His voice through the modulator was even.
You stood, rolling your wrists, and turned to face him. He was still crouched, which put him slightly below eye level for once, and something about that felt significant in a way you didn't want to examine. Get your mind out of the gutter girl.
"Third time," you mused.
"Yeah." He said, not quite meeting your eyes.
"I told them we broke up."
"I heard you telling them. Through the door." There was something in his voice that wasn't quite amusement but lived in the same neighborhood. "You were very thorough."
"I was trying to save everyone some trouble."
He stood then, slow, and you were back to having to look up at him, at the inscrutable helmet. Neither of you moved.
"You know," you said, because apparently your mouth had decided to handle this without consulting the rest of you, "this is getting ridiculous."
"Which part." He quipped.
"All of it. The kidnapping. You showing up." A pause. "The part where you always do show up."
The helmet tilted, just slightly. The gesture was so Jason — that particular angle of his head when he was thinking something he didn't want to say — that it hit you somewhere behind the sternum.
"What do you want me to do," he said. "Not come?"
"That's not—" You stopped. Started over. "That's not what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
The warehouse was very quiet. Outside, somewhere, sirens were starting to wail toward you, still distant. You had maybe four minutes before this got complicated in a different way.
"I'm saying," you tried, "that you keep coming. And I keep—" You gestured, uselessly, at the space between you. "And you've done it three times now. You didn't have to. We're not—"
"I know what we are." He interrupted you.
The flatness of it stopped you.
"Do you," you said, eyebrow raised.
A long pause. Jason reached up and pulled the helmet off, which he almost never did in the field, and you were suddenly looking at his face — tired, jaw shadowed with stubble, eyes that had always given him away whether he wanted them to or not.
He looked awful, honestly. Not injured-awful. The other kind.
"I'm miserable," he said. Like he was confessing something that had been extracted from him through considerable effort. "If that's what you're asking."
Your throat did something inconvenient.
"I wasn't asking," you said. "I'm just — I've been—" You stopped again. Pressed on. "I'm miserable too. For the record."
Something shifted in his face.
"Why did we break up," he said tiredly.
"You know why."
"I know what we said. I'm asking if it was real."
You thought about the last three months. About staring at your phone. About ice cream and warehouses and the way he always, always came, and the way you'd always, impossibly, known he would.
"I don't know anymore," you said honestly. "I think we were both scared and we called it something else."
The sirens were getting closer. Neither of you moved.
"I want to try again," he said. It came out careful and certain in equal measure, the way Jason said things when he'd made a decision and was done second-guessing it. "I know that's — I know it's complicated. I know what being with me costs."
"I know what it costs," you said. "I've known for a while."
"And?"
You looked at him — at his face in the low light, at the careful way he was holding himself still, waiting — and felt the last three months dissolve into something much simpler.
"And I'd like to stop getting kidnapped by people who are better informed about our relationship status than I am," you quipped back.
The corner of his mouth moved.
"Yeah," he said. "Me too."
He crossed the last bit of distance between you, and when he kissed you it was like something settling back into place — not frantic, not desperate, just right in a way that you'd been refusing to think about for ninety-three days.
You were both smiling when you broke apart.
"We should go," he said.
"Probably," you agreed.
He tucked you under his arm as he steered you toward the exit, helmet under his other arm, the easy familiar weight of him against your side.
"You should still think about moving," he said, conversationally.
“Jason”
"Different neighborhood. Better sight lines—"
"I will zip-tie myself to that chair—"
His laugh, rare and real, echoed off the warehouse walls, and you walked out into the Crime Alley night together, and behind you Serpent-tattoo was starting to regain consciousness, and the sirens were close, and none of it touched you at all.
Later, when a fourth crew grabbed you outside your — admittedly same — apartment building, they would report back to their employer that the target had laughed for almost a full minute before saying, with great satisfaction, "oh, he is going to think this is so funny."
poly!superbat + pussy eating.. and a lot more because I got carried away.
warnings: pregnant!reader, oral (f receiving), p in v sex,
this is 18+ in so many ways
bruce and clark were already obsessed with your body, but the changes it’s gone through during your pregnancy have only enhanced their adoration. your swollen breasts, round belly, the little bit of fat added to your cheeks. not to mention how you sensitivity is heightened beyond belief.
their favorites? your peaked nipples and seemingly always swollen pussy. the extra blood flow to your most intimate areas has changed the way things look now. but, there’s no time to feel insecure. these two men worship you every single day.
it’s late in the evening, enough that the sky is fading from a burnt orange to a deep indigo. clark’s running late at the planet, no doubt almost breaking the keyboard from how hard he’s typing in his haste.
bruce has sent dick out on patrol tonight. they took down their biggest lead last week, so hopefully things will be more calm for a while.
after you complained about your aching legs, bruce pulled you to the bathroom. the kids were either out or tucked away in their own rooms.
steam filled the giant bathroom when bruce turned on the tap. he poured some bath oil in before making his way to where you were perched on the toilet lid. with the most gentle touch, he slipped your robe off your shoulders, stroking your arms as he went.
his touch gave you goosebumps, causing you to shiver. immediately, bruce had a shit eating grin on his face. he crouched in front of you and used a hand to tilt your face to the side. you felt his stubble before his plush lips, scratching softly over the skin of your neck. you weren’t sure if he heard the soft whine that escaped you, but after he nipped at your collarbone you knew he did.
bruce pulled away and shifted his attention to your protruding belly. it seemed to grow bigger each day, especially over the past month, getting so large you had to bend over to see your toes.
his two hands, large and steady, covered the width of your belly. gentle kisses were pressed to the stretched skin, followed by whispers of love and devotion. his fingertips pressed in slightly on your sides, feeling for the position of the baby growing inside you. bruce was always trying to cradle baby’s head, even if they didn’t know it yet.
with the tub almost full, he moved away to cut the water off. he took your hand and led you to the giant soaking tub before getting in first. bruce helped you in before helping you get comfortable in front of him. the oil was slick on your skin, and he got right to rubbing it into your heavy breasts.
bruce cupped your breasts as if they were made of glass, with his giant hands holding their weight. both of his thumbs began caressing your nipples. they had grown larger in the later months of your pregnancy, grown even more enticing to bruce and clark. even the slightest whisper of air across them had your back arching, and it was no different in this moment.
your head fell backwards onto bruce’s shoulder, thighs parting on instinct. the oil allowed his fingers to glide right over the sensitive buds. they were slippery as he softly tugged at them and rolled them between his fingertips.
against the small of your back his cock hardened, you could picture the flushed red tip already. he made no move to relieve himself though, solely focused on you in that moment. strong hands brushed up and down your ribs before meeting under the swell of your belly, his thumbs caressing the bottom as he pressed tender kisses against you shoulder.
“so gorgeous, y/n. you look incredible, especially growing our child. you’re radiant”, his voice was soft but sure in your ear.
you huffed out a laugh, “i look like a whale, bruce”
“none of that. you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen, darling.”
a satisfied hum leaves your lips, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of bruce tracing patterns against your belly. he gently presses his fingers into the skin when ever he feels a little kick.
bruce spreads a plush towel out on top of the duvet covering the alaskan king bed. he helps you onto the bed, although you’ve insisted a million times that you can get up there yourself.
once you’re settled, he grabs your lotion and rubs it between his palms to warm it up. gentle hands rub the lotion in, starting at your shoulders.
he works it in with tender but steady pressure.
“when did clark say he’ll be home?” you murmur.
“9ish. got stuck writing a big piece. perry’s been hounding him, i think.”
“mmm” you hum. “miss him.”
bruce leans down to drop a kiss to your hairline. “he’ll be here soon, love.”
his lotion hands move from your shoulders to your breasts. with slick fingers he immediately began playing with your nipples. brushes of his thumbs at first, then soft pinches before adding more pressure. the feeling had your pussy clenching and you knew if he felt you you’d be soaked.
after a few minutes it was as if he couldn’t hold himself back any longer, dipping down to swirl his hot tongue around the stiff buds. you arched into his mouth, soft whines falling from your panting mouth.
finally, bruce pulled away and used the back of his hand to wipe at the corner of his mouth. you pouted at him, making him chuckle.
“sorry, darling. just give me a minute, i’ll give you some more. i always take care of you, don’t i?”
cheeks flushing, you nodded.
your belly is next, and you’d normally melt at how tender he’s being, but you can’t think of anything other than the throb in your pussy at the moment. bruce, always the tease, skips straight from your belly to your thighs. his fingers caress the bend where they meet your torso, but don’t dare inch any closer. it feels like he spends an hour on your calves and feet, before finally moving onto his belly between your legs.
a single finger dips into the folds of your soaked cunt, spreading your arousal up to your aching clit. already swollen from the increased blood flow pregnancy has brought on, it’s seemingly rock solid with how horny you are right now. the hood is slightly pulled back with how puffy it is, the red bead of your clit out and begging to be touched.
bruce spits onto it before taking it into his mouth. he suckles and licks in the pattern he knows gets you weak. he dips lower to get a taste of you. nose pressed into your clit, he groans from deep in his chest. the sounds are nothing short of obscene as he drinks from you like he’s been lost in the desert.
he makes a “v” with his fingers to nestle them on each side of your clit. they stroke up and down the sides as he takes it back into his mouth, getting you close but not letting you fall over the edge just yet.
“bruce! stop.. stop teasing” you pant.
“don’t you want to wait for clark, angel? don’t wanna save it for him?”
“fuck!” you groan. bruce distracts you with a tongue-filled kiss, letting you taste yourself on his lips.
bruce sits against the headboard, propped up. you flip over and take his hard cock in your hand, cleaning the precum with your tongue before it has time to roll down. in no time your lips are wrapped around his base, your nose smushed to his happy trail.
he grabbed your hair into a makeshift ponytail, holding your head down to grind just a little further into your mouth. through his hazy eyes he saw you slip a hand down the bed between your legs, and pulled you off him.
“save it. clark will be here soon”
“bruce i need it, please” you whimpered. no shame at all for how desperate you sounded.
“c’mere, angel.” he patted his muscular thighs. once you were in his lap he turned you facing outwards, towards the door.
clark walked and was met with the sight of you straddling bruce’s cock. he had an arm around your waist, holding you still. the only relief he was giving you was light strokes against your clit.
the sight rendered clark speechless. his cheeks flushed at the sight of bruce buried in you and the way your arousal dripped down onto his heavy sac. your clit was the hardest he’s sure he’d ever seen it, folds puffy and glistening around bruce’s shaft. the arch of your back only helped showcase your bump, and he’d been dying to get his hands on you since he left you sleeping in the bed this morning.
“um.. hi, guys.. w-wow this is..” he stammered. clark’s glasses began to fog from the heat of his cheeks.
“hi clarkie..” you moaned at bruce’s teasing.
“clark, we’ve been waiting on you. don’t keep us waiting any longer.” although bruce’s tone was stern his words were laced with love and adoration.
in an instant clark was naked and on his belly in front of you and bruce. clark’s tongue drew a long stripe from bruce’s balls all the way up to your clit. bruce moaned at how hard you clenched when clark finally started suckling at you. even with bruce trying to hold you still, you were shifting your hips as much as you could trying to get him to move inside you.
“how was work, clark?” bruce asked.
“was good”, his words were muffled.
“good. how does our sweet wife taste?”
“mmm” clark groaned, “even better.”
clark could feel how intensely your clit throbbed in his mouth.
“gosh, bruce.. you’ve kept her waiting, huh?”
“mhm”, bruce hummed. he reached a hand around and fished for clark’s hair.
“c’mere, hun. lemme taste her”
as he licked into clark’s mouth he finally began bounce you on his cock.
“oh, bruce. oh- god.. fuck” at your whimpers he began palming your tits again. clark clearly took pity on you and reached around to stroke your clit. by the time the two of them were panting behind you, you were fully working yourself onto bruce’s cock. clark moved his hand down to cup bruce’s sac.
“clark, shit.” bruce cursed. clark had moved to nipping at bruce’s flushed neck. moving down, he took one of bruce’s pink nipples into his mouth, you could tell by the way his hips bucked into you.
clark was quick with the way he moved back in between your legs. the way he spit onto his fingers was filthy, but there was no time to consider it before he was stroking your clit. his head ducked down to lap at bruce’s sac. bruce had admitted to you both early on how much he loved the feeling, but never had a partner who really ventured that far down.
it reduced bruce to grunts and whines in seconds, and you loved how needy he became. clark alternated between that and your clit until he had you both as loud as he wanted. he was truly the definition of a service top most of the time.
you could tell bruce was close by the way he sat further up and put more effort into slamming you down onto him. it was as if they exchanged some sort of look. clark doubled down his efforts on your clit.
their hands met at the bottom of your belly and caressed it with touches that were extremely gentle compared to the treatment they gave your pussy.
“y/n, please- mmm, cum, honey. let it out. i’m right here.” clark murmured against you.
bruce moved to pinch both of your nipples, and it sent you crashing over the edge.
your cunt clamped down against bruce, almost locking him in and milking every drop from him. clark worked you both through it, with firm touches and gentle words.
when bruce’s cum leaked out of you, clark was there immediately to clean it up with his tongue. he wasted no time, and went on a side quest to make you cum again on his fingers.
between your whines, you whimpered a “clark, no. need you, too. please.. please clark. i can take it” as if you had to bargain with him for his cock.
clark pushed up onto his knees and slid into your leaking cunt. bruce held you tight as you arched against him.
the focus seemed to have switched onto your nipples this time. you knew they both loved how they’d gotten a tad larger and darker over the past few months. bruce nipped and sucked at your neck while clark pinched them in time with his thrusts.
bruce’s hands came up to rest over clark’s. occasionally he reached further out to grab and scratch at clark’s biceps, knowing how he loved all the touching he could get in these moments.
your final orgasm came quick, hard, and with a loud wail. seconds later clark came, too. he rested against the two of you for a minute to catch his breath. although he had immeasurable strength, you and bruce knew exactly how to wear him out. bruce slipped out from behind you and went to the bathroom to grab a washcloth. while he was gone, clark smoothed your sex hair and pressed gentle kisses to your rosy cheeks.
“you okay?”
“mhm”, your eyes were already fluttering shut.
“promise? is baby okay?” clark whispered with his soft but worried tone.
with a hand in his curls you guided his cheek to your chest and used your other hand to pull his larger one onto your belly.
“we’re fine, honey. all good here. just missed you, s’all”
you felt his smile against your collarbone.
bruce cleaned all three of you up before returning to bed and tucking you all under the thick duvet. one of his large hands found it’s place on your belly. meanwhile, clark had shimmied under the covers to press his face against it.
“missed you so much, sweets.” he pressed a gentle kiss beside your belly button.
as bruce and clark’s voices always seem to reach baby, he got a tiny kick in response.
“my littlest love. mommy’s doing such a good job, huh? keepin’ you all safe in there.” you shivered at the feeling of his eyelashes fluttering against you.
“love your mommy so much. your daddy, too. pa can’t wait to meet you, sweets. i love you so much already..”
his voice was so low you wouldn’t have heard it if you weren’t listening for it. bruce nuzzled his face into your neck when he heard clark’s sweet words. ever the emotionally constipated man, he was silent but rubbed circles into your belly as if he were desperate. needing to feel a kick himself.
and he didn’t stop until he did. baby began kicking like crazy in the presence of the two of them. as if they knew they’d be protected from anything headed their way. clark pressed soft kisses to bruce’s hand, and hummed at the feeling of bruce’s hand cupping his cheek.
silence filled the room for a while.
“d’you think they know we’re here when we aren’t pressed against your bump?” clark whispered, almost as if he were scared. “like… do you think they feel alone in there?”
“mmm i don’t know..” you reached a hand down to play with clark’s thick curls. “ s’hard to not feel loved around the two of you.”
“ask my bladder, it’s been converted to a trampoline recently.”
they both barked out a laugh. clark moved back up to wrap his arms around you. as always, his fingers searched for bruce on the other side of you.
once the three of you all had a hand on each other, both your men passed out relatively quickly.
Being reborn as the daughter of a psychotic, murderous alien from a comic book you kinda remember reading leads you to having to grit your teeth and play ‘loving daughter’ to avoid having your skull caved in. With daddy issues like that, is it really surprising that you go on to sexually torment the protagonist of said comic book? Not that he seems to mind.
(Mark Grayson x Reader)
Maybe you liked reincarnation and transmigration stories so much because it seemed so inconceivable of it being even close to plausible. Maybe if you knew the sheer fright you would feel in such a story, you wouldn’t have entertained the notion in the first place.
Well, being reborn into what you thought was a fictional world wouldn’t be too bad if you woke up in Pokemon. Now, that sounds like a good time. Getting to leave home as a minor and not having to worry about money when you can just beat the shit out of your fellow trainers seems pretty good, actually. Way better than your actual situation, cruelly so. In fact, you think God or whatever entity-concept-bitch that threw you into a new life should recompense you. Maybe if you monologued hard enough you’d be given what you’re owed—
Are you being dramatic? No. No, you’re not. And if you are, then maybe you’re allowed to be a little obnoxious when you have a bloodied behemoth of a man with a scarred face and metal arm staring down at you, expression not dissimilar to a feral animal with rabies.
Judging by how the screams and sound of buildings collapsing has long gone silent, you suspect that the alien world you were born into was now distinctly lacking its lifeforms. It’s almost a shame. Your new species looked like pretty space elves, like something out of a shut-in nerd’s erotic sci-fi fanfic.
You’re almost disappointed that you have to die as a toddler, you’re pretty sure you were going to grow up to be quite the beauty based on how your new mother looks—
Oh, she’s probably dead too.
You feel like you should be crying right now, but you remain motionless, pinned under the gaze of an apex predator that seeks to maul you, without the right to even grieve.
In the depths of your fractured mind, you realize that this doesn’t seem to be in character for the man, if you can even call him that, before you. You should already be dead, like an ant carelessly crushed by the heel of an uncaring giant. But you’re still alive.
He speaks, and your heart nearly stops.
“So, you are the one that your…mother sought to protect. Once, she was a fine warrior, ravenous and uncaring, but you made her…weak. Pathetic, even. It was almost a mercy to put her down, free her from the sad morsel of flesh she has degraded into.” He leans down now, fully looming above you, your wooden cradle acting less like protection and more like a trap, leaving you unable to escape.
“And for what? To nurture you beyond what her teat can offer—“
Does he have something against breastfeeding?
“—Viltrum had no tolerance, even when it came to weeping babes—“
Oh. You know who’s standing above you now, Negan voice be damned to the worst layer of hell.
“Yet, here you lie, a new generation of our dying empire; weak and disappointing. The only spawn I have sired, the only being in the universe that shares any blood with me—“
Anything else he says is drowned out by your own internal screaming. Your father is Conquest and he's a deadbeat. The unhinged psycho from yet another superhero comic that delights off suffering and broken bones.
But, this information, while horrifying, brings a clarity that washes over you like cold water. You’re currently a toddler, a Viltrumite one, sure, but a toddler, nonetheless, with a pathetic grip and too small limbs, reliant on your now dead mother to care for you. But you’re Conquest’s child. His family, even if the term is a foreign concept to him, and that makes you special. That gives you a chance to survive. You know his isolation, his loneliness. You know how easily Viltrumite pride crumbles when its few survivors found love on Earth, folding like a house of cards. Nolan was the outlier and then the rule.
The way of survival was clear to you, another remanent from your past life; play the fool, stupid and oblivious.
So, you embrace your new body and abandon shame, and throw your hands into the air, making grabby hands at the murderer, asking for ‘uppies’.
(You’d cry later.)
He ends his traumatizing soliloquy, going frighteningly silent.
Yeah. He looks like he’s going to kill you. So, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.
“Da!” You cry out, giving him a gummy smile.
Maybe you should have just let him kill you.
His face remains as impassive as stone but after another painfully long pause, he reaches down with bloodstained hands and picks you up, holding you from under your arms, large fingers completely covering your ribs.
“You are Viltrumite in blood only, your weakness would have had you purged—“
You let out a childish laugh, innocent and pure, desperate not to get ‘purged’ as he put it, “Silly da!”
That gets him to shut up. You ignore the way he flexes his fingers, the way they dig into your skin, more than capable of crushing your bones—
Your stupid, tiny hands grip his, as if willing—pleading him to not end your second life.
“You are so new to life, so sheltered, you cannot even comprehend who holds you, what I am even capable of doing. Your own mother has been slain by my hand,” he muses. “You truly…perplex me. Do you know who I am by sheer instinct? Does our blood tie us together so intrinsically?”
You kind of want to laugh at how much his words piss you off. What an annoying way to speak. Without even realizing it, your little fingers start to squeeze and you hear his surprised intake of breath. Your hand pulls away, to reveal the beginning of a bruise on his finger.
Oh, fuck.
“So young, and your powers are already appearing? This feeling, is it…” He lets out something similar to a laugh, ugly and unnatural, “There is value to you yet, child.”
He abruptly lets you go, and you fall back into your crib, too shocked to even yelp. Who drops a child!? The only thing you do is stare up at him in shock. He smiles down at you, and you almost piss yourself.
“You…are different. I will not take you with me. Do not fret, for I will be watching.” He promises, expression odd, “The being you will become, so unlike what we should be…I look forward to it. After all, you are mine.”
And as sudden as he appears, he’s gone. And you’re left, feeling slightly bruised, alone in your crib on a now dead planet.
How were you supposed to survive, exactly!?
*
You did survive. It seems like your planet had ties to the Coalition, who only arrived after everyone died. Pretty cowardly, really. But, you can’t really complain since they did retrieve you from your broken home , taking you with them. To fight for their cause, but beggars can’t be choosers in a brutal subversion of superhero media. Why couldn’t you have ended up in Venture Bros?
The cherry on top of this train wreck of a situation is that they immediately clocked you for being a half-Viltrumite, presenting you to their leader, Thaedus. Tad, as you sometimes called him, when you wanted to annoy him.
He trained you, along with many others, who drilled it into you to survive, to be stronger than the Viltrumites that threatened the safety of all life and freedom as you know it. You were their ace in the hole, their hunting dog, the hope of the Coalition. Mongrel and messiah in one. They made sure you were educated, well versed in their code of ethics. That your loyalty would always be to them. Questionable of them to do, frankly speaking, but they kept you clothed and fed, so you had no reason to protest.
The company wasn’t so bad at least. Under the Coalition, you’ve had the opportunity to meet a lot of people, from all ends of the universe, some kind, others absolutely terrified of your mere existence.
Allen fell into the former category, always seeking you out, sharing anecdotes from his missions and asking for you to share your own. And with Allen, came Telia, a higher ranking member than you both that you trusted to not spit on you for being ‘Viltrumite scum’ or whatever it was that some practically scornful cadets called you. Little did they know who their leader truly is.
*
You’d figure you wouldn’t see your ‘father’ after he killed your mom, but fate was unkind and Conquest is bat-shit insane. But at least he didn’t rat you out. You still wonder why he annihilated your home planet when you were clearly proof of compatible breeding. Honestly, genocide was a mercy compared to what you know they wanted to do to Earth, what they would probably do to you, if they caught wind. It was for the better they died, unfortunately. Even if their only survivor carried their legacy as recessive genes.
Not that you would ever ask him, even if you did often have the opportunity. Whenever you least expected it, when you were too concentrated on your mission, whether it was peacemaking or inspecting a new planet to add to the Coalition, he would appear, killing whatever adversary you were facing gleefully, expecting your gratitude and admiration for it, so you’d grit your teeth and call him ‘father’, despite the humiliation. You were still too weak, too scared to act how you wanted to. Which was to cave his skull in.
Other times, he would just follow you. Silent, like a spectre. Or a fucked up looking dog.
It was worse when he tried to copy the acts of physical affection you shared with others. His hugs usually broke one or two ribs and his head pats left you with a bump. You’re not even sure how he learned about them in the first place. Other times, they weren’t…too painful, at least.
*
“Child,” he calls after slaughtering the fleet you were leading on a recon mission. “You grow stronger, yet you still lack the true strength of an Viltrumite.”
“Is that so?” You laugh, good natured, noting Shez’s head by your feet. He was your pilot. A good man and father from what little you knew about him.
“Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken you with me, if I still should,” Conquest admits.
“That’s an interesting thought,” you smile stupidly, trying to keep the murder off your face.
“But you are…more interesting like this.” He concludes. And you wonder why someone like him was committing probably the highest level of treason. For some daddy-daughter time? The Empire obviously didn’t do family, bonds were meaningless to them, but apparently not to Conquest anymore. Did the isolation from his race finally get to him? Was he really that simple? That…lonely?
Another long moment of silence passes before he leaves you with your broken ship and dead crew.
“Okay?” You whisper, making eye contact with Shez.
*
You were on your way back to base after surveying a planet of bug people, they had no warriors or weaponry to speak of and their technology was nothing to write home about. Unfortunately, they had nothing to offer to the Coalition. At least that meant Viltrumites would have no interest in them either. No, that sounds wrong——
Your thoughts are cut off when you’re suddenly tackled mid-flight, and before you know it, you find yourself in a stone cube your father apparently dragged around as shelter. A house? Just without a bed. And everything else. It was sad and barren, only having some supplies and what looks like a…cake? On the ground before you, messily frosted a deep red colour. You hope that isn’t blood, actually.
“You told me once how some species choose to celebrate their day of birth. A foolish sentiment,” he rumbles, sitting before you.
You can kind of remember rambling about birthdays. You usually just say whatever pops up in your mind so his thoughts don’t swerve into killing you. The most terrifying thing about him was how we could go from looking like the psycho killer he is to giving you big, sad eyes. It almost humanized him.
“Oh, it’s not my birthday,” you start to say before noticing his expression, “It’s— it’s your birthday?”
“I do not recall when I was born.”
Neither of you say anything for a moment.
“You said there would be singing,” he scowls.
“Oh, well, only sometimes, like rarely, actually—“ you notice his glare, and duck your head. “Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…”
*
While you didn’t have to worry about debt or making something of yourself like in your past life, your current life was uniquely difficult.
You were growing wary (and scared) of having to placate your ‘father’. You don’t believe he would snitch to the Empire about your existence, that would be mutually assured destruction, so you were finding little reason to continue your ‘hangouts’ with him and you were beginning to worry if you were impacting the plot too much, god forbid your existence becomes the reason he survives.
So, you’re going to Earth, to hide yourself being the bigger, flashing target that was Mark Grayson. Let him deal with Conquest when the time came.
…and maybe you missed having a home. And the PlayStation, you definitely missed that.
And after years of having Conquest rough you up (break your bones and rupture your organs) to test your might, you weren’t looking forward to him trying to give you some type of sick ‘becoming an adult’ beating.
So, you told Thaedus you were going on leave, a vacation, really. You needed a break from the continued mess that was your life. What better than reliving the mess that was your past life instead? When your biggest worries were meeting the disappointment of your parents rather than having to placate your colonizer father.
“You want to go to Earth…? The planet that inhabits the only other half-Viltrumite we know of, that is currently the Empire’s main focus?” Thaedus blinks at you. "For fun?"
“What, I’m not allowed to sightsee? Take a load off? I see, so I don’t even have the right to take time off! I mean, I’m already a child soldier so I might as well be under Thragg’s rule—“
“And that’s the only reason?” Your fellow Viltrumite interrupts.
“What? Worried I’m going there to revive our dying civilization with Nolan’s son?” you tilt your head, smiling blandly.
And the conversation ended pretty quickly, after that. Not before he tried to once again ask you to bring your sperm doner over to your side. Which was another hard no. You were not going to mess with canon.
At least Allen seemed a little more thrilled.
“They really do grow up so fast,” Allen wipes a tear from his eye. “But, look at you, finally putting yourself out there, getting some work-life balance! Earth will love you! Well, some of them are pretty paranoid after the whole ‘Viltrumite killing thousands’ thing, but you’ll be fine! Just be yourself! Well, maybe not ‘yourself’—“
“Worried?” You tease.
“No, not at all!” He laughs nervously, “It’s just that sometimes you can be just a teensy bit…mean? Which I love! Great banter between us! It’s our thing! But, maybe, the Earthlings will see it as psychological warfare…?”
“Me? Mean? I wouldn’t say that, in fact, others would describe me as nothing but pleasant!” You chortle, disregarding everything he said, and Allen awkwardly joins you, muttering something under his breath that suspiciously sounded like a prayer.
*
Allen told you to just hang around the moon and someone would pop up to greet you. You hope it isn’t the Immortal.
You internally curse when the Immortal appears, rage clear on his face as he shoot’s up, ready to attack. How embarrassing of him, really.
You tackle him back into Earth’s stratosphere in a sudden burst of speed, breathing in sweet, probably polluted air.
“Take me to your leader?” You ask, arms stilled wrapped around his shoulders. “Or better yet, have him head over to me. A welcoming committee would be nice.”
He only lets out another shout, throwing a punch towards your face, so you grab his arm, throwing him over your shoulder before deigning to fly away then waste any more of your time trying to talk to a knockoff…Vandal Savage?
You instead head to New York City, normally known as a magnet for trouble, in any other reality than this one. You definitely stand out in your Coalition uniform, but people barely spare you a second glance from the park bench you’ve currently claimed as yours.
You watch a group of nearby pigeons fight over a hot dog bun before a presence blinks next to you. Honestly, Cecil’s teleportation was comparatively primitive to other civilizations you’ve come across. A lot more wasteful too.
A moment of silence passes and you can at least commend him for taking a seat next to you. You’re sure that he has a bunch of weapons and satellites honed in on you, but it’s brave of him regardless. Maybe you should thank Allen for opening a bridge in the first place. You doubt he’d be as chill if you weren’t wearing your uniform.
“So, I hear you have a Viltrumite problem,” you start, smiling.
“And I should assume you’re not here to add on to that?” He asks wryly. “Not here to spread word of the Viltrum Empire?”
You laughed as if he actually said something funny, “You know that not all of us were raised like that. No, there are outliers that weren’t indoctrinated from birth. Not of pure blood. Me…and Nolan’s kid. Is he too busy to say hi?”
“Extremely.” He narrows his eyes at you, and you can tell you’ve unsettled him. Oh, Mark wasn’t here was he? Looks like little Oliver would be arriving soon.
He meets your gaze, “I’m going to be blunt. I already figured you weren’t a hostile force because of your ‘friend’ already popping by, but I thought your little group was too busy to grant us any aid. So tell me this. What the hell are you doing here? You’ve already gave everyone a heart attack, to do what? Watch birds fight?”
“I’m on vacation,” you reply brightly.
He stares at you. “You’re here…on vacation.”
“Yeah, Allen mentioned Earth was an interesting place, if not a bit…behind. My old planet wasn’t too different actually! I mean before we started stripping it for resources. Don’t worry, everyone was already dead,” you continue. “Honestly, it feels nostalgic being here. In more ways than one.”
“For some reason, I don’t believe you and believe you at the same.” The man rubs his face tiredly, but you don’t take it as him letting his guard down. It’s probably a signal for something, you’re guessing.
“I’m being pretty polite, you know. I could have just came here undetected. I’m fast enough and I have the tech for it, but I wanted to meet you,” you admit, still smiling, though you doubted it was comforting. “You’re in a pretty tough position here, friend. Viltrum believes you can help replenish what they lost and the only reason they haven’t is because Earth is continuously racked with…internal issues. And they trusted Nolan, too much, a mistake you guys made too. Your strongest fighter would die to any Viltrumite, including me. Honestly, feels like you guys just have horrible luck. And it’s not going to get any better.”
“So what? The Coalition is going to back us up now? From what I’ve heard you guys haven’t had much luck against the Viltrumites either,” he retorts and you laugh again, throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him against your side. You can feel his tension despite his expression not changing. You doubt he’s ever been manhandled like this. “…awfully friendly, aren’t you?”
You’re being mean. But you have a lot of frustration that you aren’t able to take out against the one that wronged you. So, yes, you’re being a bully right now, making his weak, little heart almost go out, but you’ll make up for it. Someday.
You wonder if Donald is shitting himself right now. “I’ve killed two of them before. Viltrumites, that is.”
“Two?” He sounds unimpressed, but you can tell you only raised your danger level.
“Believe it or not, it was a major loss for them. Painted a target on my head the first time, the second time, they started getting a bit nervous,” you share, “The only way to kill one of us is to be stronger. Plain and simple.”
You’re lying a bit there, but you’re not about to share your weaknesses with him of all people.
“Roundabout way to sell yourself, I thought you were here to…relax,” he says, shifting in your grasp.
“I am, but even off duty, I took an oath to protect, especially when Viltrumites are involved. Don’t think of me as an enemy or something you need to worry about. If they come, I’ll help. And if I’m not fighting whoever they send, and they will send someone, I’ll just be enjoying the sights.” You pat his shoulder before pulling away. “I think we’ll become great friends…sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Cecil.” He’s playing nice, at least. “You can stay, we’ll even fund your…activities. But, the only way you involve yourself in any altercation, you wait for my call. Trust that you’ll be met with immediate consequences if you act out.”
With those final words, he’s gone. You’re amused that he only threatened you after you let go of him. He was definitely placating you the same way you did for your father.
“Some clothes and currency would be nice?” You call out to the sky, aware you’d be monitored during your stay. Voyeurs.
You were definitely going to take advantage of the taxpayers. Sorry, Americans.
*
You let out a sigh of contentment as you emerged from the ocean, heading back to where you left your towel. You’ve seen a lot of beaches over the years, but you never had the chance to actually enjoy any of them. So you figured you’d make sure of a private beach in Australia, uncaring of the actual owners.
Right as you bent down to pick up your towel, you had to dodge an incoming punch from the protagonist himself. Wow, he just got back on Earth and he came to visit you. You’re honoured.
“This isn’t your planet—“ you know he was about to make a speech about how colonization is bad, but he pauses, mouth agape as he takes in your form.
You meet his gaze, tilting your head. Ah, you understand now. In your last life, you weren’t a big fan of revealing outfits, but after interacting with a variety of cultures and species, you were comfortable in your skin, meaning sometimes you liked to wear sexy bikinis that didn’t leave much to the imagination.
“Yes?” You smile.
“Uh, you, uh, I’m not—you’re a Viltrumite!” He barely gets out, obviously going red under his mask.
“You definitely didn’t let Cecil finish before hunting me down, did you? And did he really give you my location before at least saying I’m a friendly Viltrumite like you?” You pout, crossing your arms, already sure Cecil is shouting into his earpiece.
“You—yeah, he’s bringing me up to speed now,” he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re friends with Allen? He didn’t mention you…like at all.”
“Viltrumites aren’t something you can freely talk about,” you reply, “I’m sure you can guess why.”
“Heh, yeah, for sure,” he says awkwardly.
When you don’t say anything, he speaks up again, “You, uh, don’t seem that different from a human. My mom said even my dad took a while to get used to Earth. But you look great— like you’re doing great!”
“Well, compared to the Empire, the Coalition is all about diversity. They made sure I wasn’t an emotionally constipated killer.” You take pity on him and ignore his slip up. A part of you wants to mess with him a bit more, mostly out of envy for him having a human mom and an actual childhood, but that’s twisted even for you. “Did you want to join me?”
Okay, maybe you did have it in you.
“Oh, me? Wow, that’s, wait, no, I have a girlfriend! Oh my god, Amber,” he starts to mumble to himself guiltily. Did he come see you before his girlfriend? You’re flattered, even thought those two are on the brink of a breakup.
“You should get comfortable having me around, Mark.” You mention casually, “Cecil wants me to help whip you into shape. Allen mentioned you were a late bloomer.”
His cheeks flush again much to your glee. “You? But you’re—“
“Doubting me, are you?” In an instant, you’re behind him, kicking his knee in, so he stumbles before whipping around to face you.
Oddly enough rather than offence, he’s giving you the same stupid look as earlier. You look done and let out an ‘ah’. You turn around, arm covering your now bare chest. You weren’t that secure.
“Can you pass me my top?”
In a flash, he’s holding up the piece of fabric, his other hand covering his goggles. For that act of kindness, you pretend not to notice how affected he is by the sight of your tits. Honestly, he’s acting like he’s a virgin, which you know he is not!
*
You’re having the most fun you’ve had in a while, or maybe even the most fun you’ve had in this life.
You get to laze around, eat good food, beat the shit out of Mark for ‘training purposes’. Going on vacation really was the best, especially since you were basically waiting to get drafted to fight in a war. Right now, the best thing to do is nothing.
“You don’t pull punches, do you?” Mark hovers above where you’re perched on a cliffside, watching the sunset after hours of tossing him around.
“That’s what makes me so good at my job,” you grin up at him. Surprisingly, he smiles back at you. You guess being associated with Allen is like a ‘get-out-of-jail’ card here. Well, for now.
“You sure about that? You just smack me around and yell ‘dodge this’,” he teases. “By the way, you’re supposed to warn me before you hit me, not after!”
“I’m Pavlov-ing you. In a good way,” you clarify.
“I don’t thinking saying it’s the ‘good way’ actually makes it good.”
“Hmm, yeah, I guess you’re—dodge this!”
*
“He smells like grape juice,” you breathe, hugging the purple toddler to your chest.
“He doesn’t smell like grape juice just because he’s purple,” Mark retorts, crossing his arms as he watches you nuzzle your face into Oliver’s hair. “I don’t get why you wanted to see him.”
“He’s another halfie, we’re like a super minority right now,” you explain, “And I didn’t really see too many kids growing up.”
“How old are you?” Mark asks suddenly before backtracking, “Oh, wait is that rude to ask? I don’t mean it in a bad way, just curious if, uh, I’ll shut up now.”
“Worried I’m as old as your mom?” You ask. “No, I only recently entered adulthood like you.”
“Cool, cool, cool.” Mark nods, attempting to appear casual. “So, uh, me and Amber broke up.”
That’s earlier than you thought it would happen.
“Why?”
“I’m going to drop out of Upstate, I barely have enough time with the super hero gig and training, as is, forget about actually being able to be there for her. It wasn’t fair to her,” Mark admits. “It felt like we were holding onto something that doesn’t exist anymore.”
“You did sound like a bad partner,” you hum and he shoots you a betrayed look. “But, life isn’t so simple for you. You’ll find your peace eventually, Mark.”
You’ve seen it, after all.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” He rubs his neck sheepishly. It’s a cute habit, you hope it’s one he keeps even if it seems unlikely.
*
“—are you okay?” Mark appears in your vision, bloodied and bruised. “You…scared her off? Uh, asserted your dominance?”
“I’m not a dog,” you grumble, lifting yourself from the sand, as he collapses to sit beside you. “But, yeah, Anissa, was it? Older than us, way older. Any further confrontation between us would have led to more serious injury, so she cut her losses and left. Wish I could have bashed her head in permanently, but there’s always next time. If she was just a little slower…”
“You guys were faster than I thought was possible,” he shakes his head ruefully.
“Experience does count for something. At least, you’re good at taking a beating,” you console.
“Yeah, that definitely makes me feel better.”
“That’s what I’m here for; pina coladas and emotional support,” you grin mockingly before your face falls back into neutral dissatisfaction.
Mark pats your arm, “You’ll get her next time.”
*
“Wow, you really suck at this,” Oliver remarks, watching your character die for the nth time, the two of you sitting on the floor, engaged in the most broken game of all time. You'd rather play a RPG.
“Why do you even like playing shooters? Bullets are literally the most useless thing in space,” you mumble, tossing your controller away.
“Why do you keep playing with my brother when I’m the one that invited you over?” Mark wonders, slumped on the couch behind you.
“She just likes me better,” Oliver brags. “How long are you here for anyway? You said you were just on leave.”
“I’ve literally never taken any day offs, so like ten years, I guess. Or whenever they’re planning to take out the remaining Viltrumites,” you shrug, prompting Oliver to starting ranting about how he’s going to get the most takedowns.
“What are you going to do when it’s over? When there’s no threat?” Mark asks suddenly.
“What? Like, universal peace? I guess the same thing I’m doing right now,” you answer, unsure why he looks so pleased. Dork.
“Then I guess I’ll have to get to work,” he says as if he could just achieve it like that. Well, he would, but doesn’t know that.
“Maybe win a fight first.”
“Ohhhh!”
“Shut up, Oliver.”
*
Shit was going down. It was the average Ao3 user’s wet dream. Dozens of morally dubious Marks fucking everything up.
And, you were having your (Y/N) moment. And letting out some steam through violence. You can only blame your genetics.
“I’m gonna be real with you, babe, this is the most fun I’ve ever had,” a variant wearing a mask without lenses, revealing stupid Bambi eyes, admits, nose bleeding, staining his teeth red when he smiles.
“Aw, you’re going to make me blush,” you giggle after bringing a knee to his face.
“No, really! I thought the only kinda cool thing I could do was kill the Guardians again, but that was a bust! When you tackled me into a mountain, I think I got, like, a gratitude boner or something!” He exclaims, what a manic sweetheart he is. And he should be grateful, you saved him from having to survive the horrors alongside Darkwing Jr.
“Wow, you’re actually being serious about the boner thing,” you comment, doing your best to look into his eyes, and not at his—
“What can I say? You just do it for me, baby, maybe it’s your penchant for punching the shit out of me. Or maybe it’s those pretty legs of yours,” he admits shamelessly, “Actually, do you own any fishnet—“
You punch him into the ground and watch him bounce, but he only lifts his head to look at you like a lovesick puppy. “Marry me?
Okay, that’s enough. The sadomasochism thing was mostly a joke. He can get cannibalized. You’re pretty sure Rex is about to sacrifice himself and take that as an excuse to dip.
*
The day you’ve been dreading. Conquest’s arrival, and you do not want to stand ready for it.
People (and dogs) are going to die. Mark and Eve are going to get mutilated. And you don’t think you can live with that happening on your watch.
So when Cecil calls you for backup, you don’t ignore him. You cry a little, but you go.
When you see him about to tear Oliver in half, you dive down from the sky, landing a kick against his back, forcing him to drop Oliver, you’re barely able to catch him, watching Conquest land a couple feet away.
“That’s enough,” you declare, gently setting the boy down for retrieval, trusting Cecil to take care of him, and approach your father.
“It looks like you’ve improved at hide and seek, it’s been months since I’ve seen you, and you’re here? Your softness…I can only take responsibility for it,” he tells you, quiet compared to the devastation around you. His hand cradles your cheek when you’re close enough, gentler than he’s ever been with you. You raise an eyebrow at the absurdity. Did he miss you that much?
“That’s right, it’s your fault. You could have taken me in at any time, let me be molded into a ‘true Viltrumite’, but you didn’t. Why? All that loyalty to them but you falter now? I don’t understand,” you admit. “Families don’t exist for our people. You want me to be strong, but not enough that I be trained like the rest of you.”
“You were the only one to ever smile at me,” he states simply.
You really hated when you felt bad for him.
Your little moment is interrupted when you hear Mark shout.
“Get away from her!” You raise a hand, stopping his charge as he stares at you in confusion.
“Father, what are you doing? I thought maybe you wanted me to be the one to kill you, but it’s that not that,” you exhale steadily before continuing, “The day you didn’t kill me or take me, you became a traitor. You don’t care about the Empire, clearly, and based on the way you keep following me around like a sad, old dog, there’s more to you than just wanting to fight. What do you want?”
“I want you to live as you always have, without the influence of anyone but myself,” he says. “That way, you can still bear to look at me. That matters more than anything else. Treachery or even destroying this planet, it doesn't matter what I do, so you must remain as yourself.”
That’s almost sweet.
“I came here to drench myself in blood, but now, I will crush this planet against my heel, even if it’s against the Empire’s wishes, for attaching itself to you like a parasite, wasting away your potential and time,” he vows. “I will liberate you from this weakness.”
What?
“What!?” Mark, who was previously stuck in a shellshocked state, shouts.
Your father turns back to Mark, glee gone from his face, replaced with a look of loathing. Before he can move, you wrap your arms around him, feeling him stiffen in shock, as he stares down at you.
“Father! Dad! Dad, you’re right, I’ve gotten attached to this place, for better or worse. Maybe that makes me weak. But, I’m okay with that,” you nervously ramble, clutching onto the man like a lifeline, even thought you have to resist the urge to start shaking. You need to come up with something quick. “The truth is…that I want to start a life here. On a planet where blood and bonds ties us together, where families are forged. Because I’m…”
You silently apologize to Mark.
“I’m with child. Nolan’s son is the father,” you lie, looking your father in the eye. “Here, parents raise their child. They spend every day with them. And…and grandparents are very involved! They just pop up and spoil their grandkids…and that’s totally something I want.”
“A child?” Your father brokenly gasps, looking back at Oliver’s battered form.
“No, that’s not—obviously not! I meant, in my womb, dad!” You yell, pulling away.
He stares at your stomach like you have a bomb strapped to you. He stumbles back before flying away, concrete breaking under the impact. You wonder if canon even matters anymore.
You’ve saved thousands, but at what cost?
Mark finally regains the ability to speak, “We’re pregnant!?”
“I lie when I'm scared, Mark! You should know that!”
*
When you exit the washroom after a very long shower, you’re not surprised to find Mark in your hotel suite, awkward lounging on your bed, staring a bit too long at your fluffy bathrobe for it to be an admiring gaze.
“How was Rex’s going away party?” You ask, sitting next to him, crossing your bare legs.
“Great, I’m happy for him. They missed you, actually. Rex wanted to thank you for taking down that variant,” he smiles, and you take note that most of his injuries have already healed. You stopped the worst of it. “Rae too, looks like they’re a thing now. Didn’t see that coming.”
You hum, an urge to bully him hitting you. You turn to face him, “Do you want to have sex?”
“S-shouldn’t I buy you dinner or take you to a movie first?” He blurts out.
“You wanna take me out?” You ask.
“Yes, of course, I think we’re doing things a little…out of order?” He says. “I mean, sex is also, hmn, good. Really good.
“I was just thinking you should put a baby in me before Conquest comes back,” you explain casually. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. I figured we might as well go along with it.”
He chokes, and you bite back a smile.
He’s too easy.
“You don’t have to. It’s a better alternative than fighting him, but we can figure it out,” you continue, “Maybe we could—“
You’re cut off when he presses his lips against yours, hands cradling the back of your head. Any noise you make is swallowed by him. He pulls away, nose brushing against yours.
“Let’s do it,” he declares.
“Uh, I think your line is supposed to be ‘that’s crazy’ or ‘how can we have a baby’,” you reply, face feeling hot at his sudden boldness.
“I mean, it’s like you said, it’s the best alternative. I’d rather have Grandpa Conquest showing up than the bloodthirsty version,” he says, hand already moving to untie your robe.
“Dude, no way do you want a baby,” you blanch. Is this a game of chicken? Are you losing said game of chicken?
“We can at least try,” he says dragging you further up the bed. “And we can figure out the money thing. I wouldn't let the mother of my child go hungry."
“Well, uh, I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to try,” you bite your lip before he pushes you down by the shoulders, climbing atop you, pressing his mouth against your neck.
“We’re doing this for Earth,” he mumbles in between his sucking and biting.
“For peace,” you agree, a little breathless.
This was either going to cause Cecil a stroke or be some good wank material.
*
“I think I might be a little obsessed with you,” he admits from in between your thighs, face drenched.
Join the club, you think delirious.
Mc’s mom looking up from hell to see Conquest doing the same thing he shamed her for; loving their daughter: I’m going to rip his dick off
*
Mc:
Thaedus: what have you done
*
Cecil, after meeting mc: mass suicide?
*
Mc, bullying Cecil because she can’t kill her dad: damn I need therapy
Mc: I’m going to physically intimidate that old man again.
*
Mc, sobbing after hearing someone sing ‘happy birthday’:
Mark, the ‘someone’: I’m…sorry??
*
Mark: so you’re not pregnant 😔
Oliver, lying a couple feet away, bleeding out: can you do this shit somewhere else
*
Mark: why is that variant still here…and why is he holding roses
Mc: should we keep him as a dog or something
Mark: no??
*
GDA admins, after basically creating a sex tape: delete…or save🤭
*
Conquest: where is the womb??? Where is my grandchild being held!?
I feel like whenever I come up with a title before I actually write a fic, I end up changing everything and doing a rewrite, which is what happened here…I decided to make mc apart of the coalition rather than the empire, creating a more estranged relationship, the only way love could form since it would impossible if mc was raised the Viltrumite way…anyone still around from when I made the original poll? I prefer this version more since there’s more freedom to write the mcs personality when they’re not part of a regime
Anyway even the style of the fic changed from being manwha adjacent to becoming a mix of Gintama/adult swin humour lol
But yay over 6.6k words ughh lemme know about any errors, I’m so bad at editing
summary: you assume jack likes you until the pitt starts betting on how long it'll take him and samira to get together; jack assumes you like him until you get called into work while on a date with your coworker. turns out, all it takes is a bad bet and an even worse date for you and jack to realize how in love the two of you are. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity santos, samira mohan, nick barker, mcvadi crumbs
contents: friends to lovers, idiots in love, implied age gap, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, jealousy, humor, so much flirting, cw for medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, and probably several hr violations
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You make it halfway through your shift with a lighter wallet and a heavier heart than when you started it.
You can hear Princess shuffling through her stack of cash from the other side of the workstation, flaunting her winnings from a well-placed bet. You try and fail not to let it distract you as you scribble at the clipboard before you, with your heavy head propped on your clenched fist.
Charting was hard enough back when the computers were still running, back when it was easy — let alone when you have to make every single note by hand, and flit physically through a hundred different files just to cross-reference all the information.
“Is this what it was like back when you were a resident?” you’d asked Jack, when he dropped off an order slip by the filing cabinet, beside the bulky fax machine you were standing in front of and trying to tame.
He slid in beside you with a wide hand on your lower back, smelling like a dizzying mixture of sweat and musky cologne. He adjusted your labs in the tray without another word, turning it around and flipping it right-side up for you.
“Yeah, actually,” he’d nodded, dialing the proper number on the machine with his pointer finger, including the area code that you had forgotten to add. The corner of his lip flickered upward in a faint half-smirk as he joked with squinted eyes, “Back in the 1900s— when charting was done by candlelight.”
You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”
“Extremely,” he deadpanned.
“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”
Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”
“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”
Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”
You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot.
You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.
“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.
Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”
“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.”
You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again.
“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”
“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”
“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath.
Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick.
You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”
“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’”
She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.
“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”
You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.
“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”
“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”
“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”
She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”
You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken.
You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.
You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”
Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.
“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms.
Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black.
He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.
“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.
“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”
He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting.
“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”
“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.
Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”
“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”
“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”
“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.
“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.
“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”
You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.
“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose.
A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:
“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan.
You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips.
Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)
“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”
“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”
“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.
“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”
“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.
“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”
Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.
“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly.
Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow.
“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”
Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again.
“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”
“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?”
“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”
You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do.
Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels.
“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”
Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”
“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”
Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”
You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient.
You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.
“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”
His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze.
Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R.
Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.”
Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy.
You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.
Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room.
You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.
“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.
“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.
“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”
The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name.
“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”
You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.
“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”
He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.
You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”
“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”
“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.
“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”
His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”
You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is.
You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness.
You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile.
“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”
“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”
“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”
“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.
“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”
You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.
“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.
“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.
“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”
Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.
“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.
“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”
“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”
“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”
“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”
“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”
“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”
Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.
You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once.
The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.
You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.
You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him.
Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.
You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.
“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”
“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth.
He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.
“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”
You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.
“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.
“…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.
“Dr. Abbot.”
Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”
His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”
“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”
Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.
“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”
It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.
Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.
“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”
Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call.
You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better.
The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.
“You can get that if you need to—”
“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”
The call ends before you can answer it.
Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”
“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”
Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.
“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.
“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”
“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”
You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.
“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”
“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”
The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach.
The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts.
You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.
Jack smells you before he sees you.
He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder.
By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.
“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.
“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.
“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.
“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.
“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”
“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”
Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger.
“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”
Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.
Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s.
“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor.
“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.
He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.
“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.
Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”
“How was the, uh… The date?”
“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”
“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”
His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.
“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”
“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”
You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.
Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.
“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.
Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.
It clicks shut behind you.
“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”
“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.
“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”
Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.
“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”
“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”
Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.
“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”
The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”
“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”
“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.
Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.
“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.
“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”
“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”
You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.
Jack follows your every move.
“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”
You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach.
“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”
Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”
Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”
You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin.
You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.
Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.
“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”
You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again.
“Crystal,” you quip drily.
You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later.
Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.
The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.
“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.
You push the man away from you on instinct.
“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.
Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.
Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile.
“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.”
The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach.
“Which means I just lost all of my money…”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”
It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.
“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”
“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”
You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.
“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”
“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”
He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.
“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug.
“No?” Jack hums.
“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”
: ̗̀➛ Summary: The chances of befriending a Wayne online are low, but never zero. You honestly thought somebody was trying to catfish you, you don't just believe anybody who tells you that they're Tim Drake online.
When you actually meet him, you realize that somehow you beat that impossibly low statistic and actually befriended Tim Drake. However, there is something strange going on with the Wayne family. You weren’t sure what it was.
Until Red Robin saved you.
: ̗̀➛ Word Count: 14.5k
Warnings/Tags: Online friends to friends to lovers, texting, LOTS of texting, they're literally online friends idk what you'd expect, Tim does photography as a hobby, reader is a uni student, reader and Tim deserve each other <3, secret identity reveal, very fluffy fic
: ̗̀➛ A/N: First Tim Drake fic! Hope you guys enjoy :)! Thank you @r-4-y-v-3-n for this request! This prompt was a lot of fun <3! I hope I delivered :D!
Masterlist
“Yes, I'll have the files emailed as soon as possible.” You place your phone onto your desk, pulling up your drive on your laptop. The moment you place your phone down, it buzzes. The vibration echoes loudly on your wooden table.
“Thank you,” your boss responds on speaker. “Could you have them sent to IT as well?” He asks, and you hear some rustling on his side of the call.
You nod, forgetting that he can't see you. “Of course.” Buzz. “I am sending them right now.” Buzz. “Did you want it sent to your assistant as well?” Buzz.
“If you could.” Buzz. “I'd appreciate it.” Buzz.
You grit your teeth, “Great.” Buzz.
You glare at your phone, hoping the intensity of your stare will compel him to stop texting you.
Buzz.
You sigh, rubbing your temples as you click send. “Alright, I just sent them.”
“Thank you,” your boss says your name. “I'll be in touch.”
You nod, “Let me know if anything else is needed.” Your boss hangs up. The display on your phone changing back to your home screen. Buzz. You are going to kill this man.
Tim: at this point i feel like you're just ignoring me 😔
Tim: i KNOW you're home right now
Tim: gotta admit you're dedicated tho
You glare at your phone, quickly typing out a response.
hey sorry to disappoint but i can be at home AND still work, some of us are actually employed
He instantly responds.
Tim: tf you talking about?? I am literally the ceo of wayne enterprises bro 🥀
I thought that was Lucius??? and even if you are employed you sure act unemployed bro 🥀
Tim: are you calling me chronically online?
Tim: how do you think we met???
Tim: it's a two way street 😭
yeah but like
Tim: 🤨🤨
ok fair enough, but I was working 😭 what was so important that you had to spam me while I was talking to my BOSS
Tim: mb gang i didn't know :(((
Tim: I figured if you didn't respond the first time you'd respond by the 15th time
Tim: and it worked soooo….
get to the point
Tim: so consider
Tim: dinner
You feel your heart skip a beat, your thumbs freezing as any comments you had evaporate from your head.
Tim: at the manor
Oh… That makes more sense. Why would you assume he was asking you out? You scoff, feeling a low surge of disappointment run through your chest.
again??
Tim: yeah i don't wanna be alone 💔
won't there be like 10 people there??? how would you be alone?
Tim: can you just be there pls
no
Tim: please?
i'm busy
Tim: doing what
i shouldn't tell people online what i'm doing, that's creepy of you to ask there buddy 🤨
Tim: you've literally been in my ROOM before hello??
You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as you type. Any prior work you were doing is entirely forgotten.
that's an issue, what if I stole something? clearly SOMEBODY forgot to tell you never to tell strangers online your address 😔
Tim: fyi i can handle myself PERFECTLY fine
yeah huh
Tim: and are you implying you stole something from me???
no but i could've, you wouldn't have even noticed
Tim: no I would've
then why'd you ask me if I did?
Tim: to see if you'd admit guilt
I didn't steal anything though??
Tim: that's what a LIAR would say
oh my goodness
you're on your own for dinner
Tim: WAIT PLEASE
Tim: IM SORRY PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME WITH THEM
Tim: WE CAN HANG OUT AFTER MAKE IT A WHOLE THING
Tim: ACTUALLY WE CAN JUST DITCH LIKE HALFWAY THROUGH AND HEAD UP TO MY ROOM
damn you're acting as if they burn you at the stake each time there is dinner 😭
Tim: please be there i beg of you 🙏
mmmm i dunno you don't sound desperate enough
Tim: now I KNOW you're lying cause there's no WAY you just said that
Tim: I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could
lmao what's stopping you?
Tim: my dignity
😔
Tim: u being fr rn?
the mental image is very funny
Tim: i'm sure it is, now can we get back on track? could you PLEASE show up to dinner Sunday I'm LITERALLY begging you
THIS SUNDAY???? I THOUGHT IT'D BE LIKE NEXT WEEK OR SOMETHING
Tim: PLEASE I KNOW IT'S SHORT NOTICE I WILL MAKE IT WORTH YOUR TIME 🙏
Tim: I'LL EVEN ASK ALFRED TO MAKE YOUR FAVORITE FOOD AND DESSERT
That makes you pause.
you will? 🤨
Tim: YES JUST PLEASE SHOW UP
mmm okay
gotta ask, why do you need me there that bad??? don't just say your lonely or smth stupid
Tim: if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal
You furrow your eyebrows, pondering what “abnormal” would look like for the Wayne family. They seemed kind of normal when you met them. Maybe it's some Wayne thing you just don't understand.
what does that even mean??
Tim: just trust me, you being there makes my life 1000x easier
oh so I'm bait 💀
Tim: nononono not like that
Tim: it's nothing actually bad I promise
relax Tim I'm joking lmao, I'll gladly be bait to make your family behave normally 🫡 (as long as you hold up with your deal with Alfred of course)
Tim: you're literally my favorite person in the world right now
Smiling, you chuckle at the message, leaning back into your chair. You are not going to read too much into that.
after this I better be, I'll see you later then
Tim: I can pick you up Sunday around five
perfect, see you then
Tim: see you
You place your phone down. Dinner, huh? It's not like you haven't been to the Wayne's for dinner. This shouldn't be any different. The only other time Tim invited you to dinner was when you were starting to get to know him in person. To be fair, he didn't exactly “invite” you. His family actually insisted that they had to meet Tim's new friend. Tim had quickly informed you that you could decline the “offer,” but you had went anyway. It's not like you could just decline an invitation from Bruce Wayne himself.
The difference between now and then is that Tim is not only inviting you, but practically begging you to show up. Sure, he had snuck you in a few times, but formal invitations were not something that either of you did, not anymore.
What changed?
It's not something you should read into. However, your mind keeps going back to that one line. You open your phone again, scrolling to look at the messages. Your thumb hovers over the message: “if you're there, it forces everybody to act normal.”
Now, it should not be something you should read into. However, the strange thing is, you know exactly what Tim is talking about. When you met the Wayne's everything was seemingly normal, but the issue was that it was too normal. It set off some alarm in your brain, but you couldn't figure out what they did that set it off.
Normal.
What defines normalcy?
Is it the standards that you are accustomed to? Is it expectations one expects a well-adjusted person to have? Either way, it set off some alarms because while you didn't know how to describe their usual behavior, Tim does.
They act normal when you're there. This implies that there is a time where they don't act normal.
Your finger lightly traces the edge of your phone as you stare at the messages. Now, you're definitely reading into this, but the fact of the matter is something is up.
You're going to figure it out.
Meeting Tim had been, potentially, the most unexpected event in your entire life. Now, since both of you live in Gotham, one might presume that perhaps you met somewhere in the city. Perhaps you went to the same university or bumped into each other on the street. Perhaps you had met him at one of the dozens of events hosted by the Waynes every year. The possibilities were endless.
Instead, you met him on a thread online.
You didn't even know it was him.
It had been an online forum. You don't even remember what the exact topic was. It was something photography related. One of the users— TimTam— had been discussing something about how to balance one's subject with the environment around them. They had gone on and on about the rule of thirds, and how the the environment was meant to enhance the subject. Curiously, you had checked out their profile. After all, you'd expect somebody who talked the talk to be able to walk the walk. You'd found a link to a blog he had.
Apparently, you should've never doubted TimTam because the photos he took were absolutely breathtaking. You've lived in Gotham for decades, and yet the photos that TimTam took exhibited an unconventional beauty of the otherwise deplorable city. For a moment, you wondered if this was his job. Some of the photos looked too perfect to just be a mere hobby. He had shots next to the gargoyles on Wayne Tower with angles that looked unfeasible for any sane person to achieve.
Who was this guy?
Curiosity got the better of you. You had attempted to look him up for any other social media accounts, but your efforts were fruitless. A conclusion that only made you more curious.
You wanted to find more about this mysterious individual, so you sent him a quick message. Polite and inquisitive.
Hello! I stumbled onto your page, and I adore your photography! I was wondering if you had any other social media accounts. I would love to follow some of your other socials.
Checking the original forum, you noticed that the timestamp was from over a week ago. Hopefully he'd respond. You didn't really keep up with online photography forums much. Stumbling onto this had been an accident, but a happy accident nevertheless. You were about to get up from your chair, when you saw a little bubble signifying a notification.
Your mouth parted in surprise. That was quick.
TimTam: Hello. I don't have any other socials at the moment for photography. I only really post it occasionally on my main.
You nod, understandable. It's a shame, but you weren't about to ask a random stranger for what may be their potentially personal account. You were about to type your response, when TimTam sends another message.
TimTam: You think I should make a photography accoutn?
TimTam: account*
You slowly blink at the message followed by the typo correction. Somehow this person seems a lot less intimidating than they did five seconds ago.
Absolutely! It's rare that I can find somebody capture Gotham in the perspective you do. I would definitely follow you if you make any other socials.
There's a pause for a moment. The bubble appears, disappears, and reappears again. You tap the space bar of your laptop idly, curious what TimTam has to say.
TimTam: Like right now?
You can't help the surprised snort that escapes you.
I mean if you want? I meant more generally, but now works.
TimTam: Right, right, of course
You like their message, unsure how to respond to that. You think that's the end of your adventures with TimTam, but about ten minutes later you get another message. You open the chat back up. It's an Instagram link.
TimTam: Thanks for the advice. I made the social.
You nod as if they can see your physical response. Tapping onto the link.
For sure! Honored to be the first official follower :)
You actually are their first follower. The account's user is Tim_Tam with a profile picture sitting on the ledge of a building overlooking the sunset. Zero posts, one follower, zero following. It was brand new. Not even a bio present.
Satisfied with how the interaction went, you had presumed that your conversations with TimTam had ended. You didn't exactly give them a reason to keep contacting you.
A few days went by, and slowly TimTam began to post on social media. His first posts garnered thousands of likes, which you found impressive for such a fresh account. You did tell him that he'd do well on other platforms. It didn't take long for him to build up a following. Nothing insane, but definitely a good start.
You had been keeping up with TimTam. You weren't sure what drew you to him, but you found yourself liking each post of his. You found a smile appear on your face each time he posted.
Perhaps you were a tad bit proud that your suggestion led to such fruition.
Judging by the way he had immediately asked you if he should make a photography account, you assumed that he had previously considered the idea. Either that or he was a very spontaneous person.
Either way, you took some satisfaction out of it.
Days had gone by and you watched as his followers trickled up. You found yourself living vicariously through TimTam, silently celebrating ten thousand followers with him.
Then you saw it.
You had been about to go to bed. It was nearly midnight, and it was freezing. The comforters weighed heavily onto you, shrouding you in warmth. On top of that, you had pulled the Batman throw blanket up to your neck, nearly suffocating yourself with the soft material. The blanket had the different symbols of all the Bats plastered onto it against a light gray backdrop. You'd gotten it years ago, and to this day it was still one of your favorite blankets.
You squinted your eyes as the bright light of your phone shone through the otherwise dark room. Your eyes started to feel the strain as you continued to fight the urge to sleep.
Then you saw the notification.
The first thing you registered wasn't the message, but the sender of the message.
TimTam (or is it Tim_Tam now?) had sent you a message.
Sitting up, you read the notification, not wanting him to know you're reading his message.
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
Tim_Tam
Which one do you think looks better?
Sent now
You paused, thumb hovering over the Instagram notifications. You couldn't see the photos if you didn't click the message. However, if you clicked the messages, he'd know you're awake.
Would it be weird to respond? It's nearly midnight. What if he judges your poor sleeping schedule?
Then again… He texted you first. If anything he should be worried about how he comes across. Also, why should you care? It's just a stranger on the internet.
Before you could reconsider your actions, you clicked on the messages.
Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.
The two photos looked practically identical. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a few discrepancies, but they were so insignificant that they were practically the same photo.
It was taken on a rooftop. Nightwing and Robin were shown to be conversing with one another. It was, quite possibly, the clearest photos of the vigilantes you had ever seen.
Of course, you've seen the blurry images and videos of the vigilantes captured by the news or even by Gothamites themselves, but none of them were this sharp. It was evident that the photo was taken from a distance (likely due to TimTam not wanting to be spotted), but that didn't change the fact that this was potentially the best photo you'd seen of the vigilantes before.
Sure, you've seen a whispered shadow pass over your head, or even heard the roar of the Batmobile echo across the city, but you had never gotten a clear look at their faces. It's blurry enough where specific identifiable facial features may not be evident, but it's clear enough that you can actually deduce their facial expressions.
Nightwing appears to be smiling, a wide grin plastered onto his face. Robin doesn't share the same expression. It's more difficult to tell what he's thinking, but it's evident that he does not share Nightwing's apparent amusement.
You swipe between the two photos TimTam sent. You were only able to make out five differences total. In the first photo, Robin's shoulders were more tense, Nightwing's mouth was slightly open (though still grinning) as if caught mid-speech, and the lights of the city shined down a low red lighting onto their costumes, bathing them in the ominous color.
The second photo had Nightwing simply offering an amused grin, smiling with his teeth on display. He wasn't saying anything. Robin's shoulders were more relaxed, but the unamused expression was a constant in both photos. The low red lighting from the first photo turned into a slightly more vibrant scarlet that enveloped the subjects. If you looked closely, you'd notice that Nightwing had a couple strands of hair out of place. The change making him look slightly more unkempt. The only other noticeable change was the direction Robin faced. In the second photo, he is angled just ever so slightly more towards Nightwing.
The second one for sure. It makes them both look cooler with the lighting and it feels slightly more personal.
Tim_Tam: Okay, thanks.
You stare at the photos for a moment longer, waiting for something else. No other response came. You furrow your brows, typing another message. Before TimTam was interesting. But now?
Wait that's it?
Now he's borderline unreal.
Tim_Tam: Yeah, I couldn't really decide
Tim_Tam: It's not like I could ask Nightwing and Robin their opinions. I doubt they even know the photo was taken.
Who even is this guy?
You're telling me that you snuck up on NIGHTWING and ROBIN
and you can't choose which photo looks better???
Tim_Tam: In all fairness, their vibes are VERY different. I couldn't tell which one to go for.
He's right. Despite capturing the same moment, the minute differences change the interpretation of the photos immensely.
That's fair.
Should I even ask how you got these photos?
Tim_Tam: It sounds like you are asking
Tim_Tam: Let's just say I have my ways
You frown. That was entirely expected, but still disappointing.
Are you planning on selling them?
There's a pause for a moment. The bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.
Tim_Tam: What?
Like the photos. You could probably sell them to the Gotham Gazette and get a quick buck or something.
I don't think I've ever seen any news agency with photos THIS clear. I'm sure they'd eat it up.
Tim_Tam: Maybe? I hadn't really considered that
Wait wait you're telling me you stalked after vigilantes for love of the game??
Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much
At this point, you're wide awake. All sleepiness that clouded your brain fanned away long ago.
Are those the only ones you have?
There's a long pause.
Tim_Tam: At the moment.
I'm not saying you should follow the Bats again but like…
These photos are actually phenomenal, you could get famous for this.
There's another long pause.
Tim_Tam: You think?
100%. I've NEVER seen such prisitine photos of Nightwing and Robin. It's genuinely impressive.
Tim_Tam: Hm
Tim_Tam: I'll see what I can do.
That was the start of your friendship with TimTam. Vigilante photos. Two nights after the Nightwing and Robin photo situation, you received another text.
Tim_Tam
[Image attached]
Sent now
You nearly dropped your phone upon opening the message.
If you thought the Nightwing and Robin photo was clear? This was night and day. It was single handled the best photo of Red Robin you've ever seen. The image pictured Red Robin kicking some criminal. The dynamic pose combined with the sheer clarity of the photo made for an actual masterpiece. You could see the way that his suit fit his form. The way he clenched his jaw as he struck the criminal. It was so close. It almost looks like TimTam had taken security camera footage, zoomed in, and somehow enhanced it.
???
Tim_Tam: Is that a good or bad ???
GOOD DEFINITELY GOOD
HOW IS IT SOMEHOW BETTER THAN THE NIGHTWING AND ROBIN ONE
Tim_Tam: I'm good at photography I guess
Tim_Tam: you're a Red Robin fan?
Were you imagining the smug tone behind that? Was Red Robin even your favorite? You liked Red Robin, but your favorite?
I suppose
Tim_Tam: You suppose?? Damnnnn okay
My bad 😭 didn't realize you were a big Red Robin fan
Tim_Tam: No no it's fine
Tim_Tam: Perhaps I'll have to get more to convince you
At that point just interview him. You're already stalking the poor guy.
Tim_Tam: He's finr
Tim_Tam: fine*
He paused.
Tim_Tam: For the record though, I probably could
You chuckled. Whoever this was seemed very confident they could get an interview with Red Robin. Have you even seen vigilante interviews? Maybe a statement or two here and there, but never full on interviews.
Maybe stick to your day job
Tim_Tam: I feel like you're challenging me 🤨
Nonono
Just like
I'd hate to read in the paper that Red Robin beat you up
There was a long moment of silence, Tim_Tam wasn't even typing.
Tim_Tam: Nah I can handle him
You were full on laughing at your phone by this point.
Tim_Tam: He didn't even notice me taking the photos or anything
And that translates to his fighting ability??
Tim_Tam: I mean all you got to do is get one really good hit in and he's out
Tim_Tam: he's only human
you sure of that? 🤨🤨
Tim_Tam: Positive, I think I have a shot
Well then, I await the day I see the headline
“photographer takes out Red Robin with a single hit”
Tim_Tam: Oh yeah that'll for sure be the headline
Tim_Tam: I'll personally get the photo for that story. Send a photo of it just to you to prove myself
Do you always look for validation from strangers on the internet??
Tim_Tam: Do you always judge the photos of photographers on the internet??
do NOT pin this on me, you asked me to pick between the two :(
Tim_Tam: mhm
I wasn't even being critical of them, all I said was that I liked the second one better
Tim_Tam: I believe your exact words were that they looked “cooler” and “felt more personal”
I didn't say the other ones were bad though!! I'm pretty sure I said they were the BEST photos of Nightwing and Robin I've seen so far
also
Tim_Tam: ?
You hesitated. Was this being too casual with TimTam? The two of you seem to be getting along fine, but you hadn't asked him any truly heavy questions.
I was just curious— feel free to not answer— but are you planning on posting the Nightwing and Robin photos?
Somehow, you felt as if the tension rose at your question. TimTam diidn't immediately respond. There was no indication that he's even read your message. Then you saw the bubble. Typing. Not typing. Typing.
Tim_Tam: No
Tim_Tam: I can't
Absentmindedly you tapped the side of your phone, eyebrows furrowing.
Ah okay
The response was lame, and both of you knew it. You silently berated yourself for ruining the atmosphere. TimTam didn't respond after that. He didn't react to the message, but you still saw that he was online. Resigned, you slowly put your phone back on the nightstand. Shutting your eyes, you twist your body in the opposite direction of the device. Out of sight, out of mind—
Bzzt!
Your phone's vibration caused you to freeze. No, no. You needed to sleep. It might not even be TimTam. It could've been a random email that you'll never look at. Even if it was TimTam, it was completely understandable if you didn't respond, given how late it is.
However, curiosity did kill the cat.
You turned over, slowly grabbing you phone. You had zero expectations (at least that's what you told yourself). TimTam was probably asleep too. It's not like you two were close enough to be chatting casually this late.
Tim_Tam: It's not that I don't want to don't get me wrong
Tim_Tam: It's just that something happened, and I can't do it
Without thinking, you opened the message. Damn it, he's going to think you're a loser, immediately coming online the moment he messages you.
No need to justify yourself, I get it
I'm glad that you decided to share the photos you've taken with me though
TimTam paused, but his next reply had you reeling.
Tim_Tam: Robin paid me a visit
You felt your heart start to pound as if it was you who Robin visited. You could only imagine how TimTam handled the situation. How did he neglect to mention that?!
Are you serious??? Thought you said that he and Nightwing weren't aware you were photographing them?
Tim_Tam: So
Tim_Tam: How do I say this
The responses were rapid, you could feel TimTam's unease through the screen.
Shoudl I be concerned??
should*
Tim_Tam: Would you believe me if I hypothetically said I sought out Robin
like you took more photos of him??
Tim_Tam: No like I talked with him
He did what?
Tim_Tam: And hypothetically he said that the photos must never be seen by the public
hypothetically did you agree??
Tim_Tam: kinda??
oh my gosh are you going to be on a vigilante hit list?
Tim_Tam: I don't think that's a thing 💀
you THINK? the same guy who THOUGHT Nightwing and Robin weren't aware of you??
Tim_Tam: TECHNICALLY they weren't, I just wanted to show them the photos get their thoughts
…my guy this is on you why would you TELL them??
praying for you 🙏
Tim_Tam: Are you still implying that Robin is going to off me??
I'm JUST saying, now they know who you are
if they see any photos like the ones you took they'll know it was you
probably dox you or something idk
Tim_Tam: You make an excellent point
Tim_Tam: eh It'll be fine though
Did you get Nightwing or Red Robin's opinion too?
It felt stupid to ask. You imagine he would've said something if he met another vigilante. TimTam took a minute to respond.
Tim_Tam: Nightwing no, Red Robin yes
Or not… What kind of guy just casually forgets to mention he met not one but two vigilantes?
What'd he say?
Tim_Tam: He thought it was cool
You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting to see if he'd elaborate.
He thought it was cool??
Tim_Tam: Yep
and that's it..?
Tim_Tam: Uhh I can't really remember
did he knock you out or something??? you conversed with RED ROBIN and can't even bother to remember what he said??
Tim_Tam: to be fair he didn't say much
You're telling me he SERIOUSLY just said “cool” and then left??
Tim_Tam: yeah pretty much
You let out a puff of amusement. What a weird world you live in. This random internet photographer you found has somehow met two of Gotham's vigilante's, been threatened by one of them, and is still acting like this isn't a big deal.
Tim_Tam: Oh and he said he didn't mind the photos
Finally, something.
Are you going to try and catch him again?
I feel obligated to preface this by saying this is NOT me encouraging you to go track down vigilantes
Tim_Tam: uhhhh
???
Tim_Tam: [Image Attached]
Tim_Tam: You're a bit too late, already caught him again
You stare blankly at the new image. It's another image of Red Robin. This time it's not an action shot. Instead, it capture the vigilante sitting casually on the edge of the building. His knee is propped up in front of him, his arm casually resting on it. The angle of this photo is different. It isn't taken from above, nor from the streets below. Instead, it's taken from the very rooftop Red Robin is sitting on. If you had to hazard a guess, TimTam took this photo from the ground of the rooftop with his camera at a low angle.
Dude did you CRAWL to get this photo???
Tim_Tam: …why would you ask that??
Cause how else did you get a get that specific angle of Red Robin?? Did you share a rooftop with him??
You pause, scrutinizing the photograph. There's a figure in the back, and upon further examination, you realize who it is.
IS THAT NIGHTWING IN THE DISTANCE???? YOU CAUGHT HIM AGAIN???
Tim_Tam: What???
There is a pause for a moment.
Tim_Tam: Huh didn't even see him lol
“Didn't even see him lol.” You weren't even sure if you're surprised anymore. All you can do is stare at the photograph with Red Robin (and Nightwing pictured in the back) in awe. For a moment, you considered whether TimTam truly asked Red Robin to pose for it. It certainly looked like it.
you ACCIDENTALLY got a picture of Red Robin posing with Nightwing in the distance???
Tim_Tam: Red Robin isn't posing what??
dude he is LITERALLY posing for the photo
There was a momentary pause.
Tim_Tam: idk it looks pretty natural to me
sure we'll go with that
You sighed, rubbing you temples. This guys has to be playing you.
Tim_Tam: damn okay fine doubt me
Tim_Tam: I'll try again
You almost felt your blood pressure spike seeing the message. What kind of person gets threatened by Robin and decides to pursue the guy? Determined, you pick up your phone, fingers flying over the keyboard.
You are not going to be a bystander in this guy's inevitable demise.
Was it an unconventional way to befriend somebody? Perhaps, but it was Gotham. TimTam seemed relatively nice, a trait found few and far between in a city like this. It helped that he enjoyed your company as well. There were many nights where neither of you could fall asleep, and the only thing keeping you up was the quiet vibration of your phone going off, signaling that he was still there.
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, months dragged on for a year.
After a year, you’d think that you’d know a bit more about who TimTam really was. Perhaps a small slip up that leads to a meet up? Did you even want to meet up with TimTam? What if he’s been playing the long game, waiting to get your trust before inevitably killing you in a back alley, your name never to be mentioned again outside of a True Crime Story podcast in a few years. You shuddered at the thought.
Dramatic? Yes. Paranoid? Absolutely.
Still doesn’t stop the growing desire to know who he is.
Have you walked past him on the street? Maybe you went to school together? Perhaps you both frequent a place with no idea the other is there. The possibilities were endless. They were killing you, and yet neither of you brought up the topic.
The closest you got to hints was talking about the latest news.
did you see hear about those buildings that Firefly lit up?
Tim_Tam: “see” would be an understatement, closer to felt
Your eyebrows raised into your hairline.
oh shit, are you okay??
Tim_Tam: i’m fineeee
Tim_Tam: tis but a scratch
Tim_Tam: or burn
You back straightened as you sat up from the curb. Police sirens still rang out, the blaring noise causing your eardrums to vibrate in an unpleasant manner. You frantically looked over the crowd of people: officers, paramedics, examiners, victims, detectives.
Is he one of them?
You weren’t sure what he looked like. He’d been (frustratingly) vague about who he is, but, to be fair, you weren’t any more explicit.
you’re here?
The message is sent and read almost immediately. You watch as the bubble of him typing appears. On. Off. On. Off. You stare at the screen, squinting, attempting to block out the noise of your environment. For a moment, you wonder if something happened. Does he not want to answer that question?
Tim_Tam: wait you're here??
Tim_Tam: shit what are you doing here?
Against your will, your heart started pumping. The accelerating rhythm causing your hands to shake as you typed out your next message, even if— at the time— you insisted it was just the cold, damp, air of Gotham.
Tim_Tam: are you okay?
Tim_Tam: did anything happen to you?
Tim_Tam: are you still here?
You didn't get a chance to respond. Tim manages to send three messages in the time it takes your freezing hands to type half of one. You ran your finger slowly against the screen of your phone, your hands leaving imprints on the device.
not for much longer, I’m planning on leaving soon
“I’m free to go, right?” You confirmed with the paramedic on your right, looking over a young boy. The kid was unharmed, but apparently did not appreciate the examination. The paramedic turned to you, looking you up and down.
“You were already checked for other injuries? Concussions? Anything?” They slowly turned away from you back to the kid. You nodded, “Yeah, I feel fine.” You weren’t lying either. If anything, you were more shaken up then injured.
The paramedic sighed, “Alright, just make sure to rest. It’s been a long night. Take it easy for the next few days. If you notice anything, I’d go to any of the Wayne sponsored health facilities.” They pasued for a moment. “If anything, I’d recommend the clinic near Crime Alley if you want to avoid wait times.” They shined a light into the boy’s eye, “Sketchy area, but the General Hospital tends to get overcrowded fast.”
You blinked, surprised by the helpful advice. “Thanks,” you nodded slowly, “I’ll keep that in mind.” You waited there for an extra beat to see if they’d respond, but it seemed as if that was all they had to say. Slowly, you made your way around the scene, ducking under the caution tape as you attempted to find a way out of the area. Reporters and police officers appeared to be stationed at every corner of the scene, and you didn't particularly want to look at the burned down section of the Upper West Side mere blocks away from the university.
Braving the crowds of cameras it is.
Slowly, you made your way over to the least crowded corner of the scene, nodding at the officer. He returned the nod and watched you raise the caution tape and walk past the dozens of journalists and reporters.
Then you felt it.
You’re no stranger to the sensation of having eyes on you. In fact, it’s a universal experience for every Gothamite. You’d heard stories from friends who committed crimes, albeit petty ones, that even if they got away with a crime or two, they always felt like he was watching. Despite avoiding crime as much as possible (a challenge on its own), you somehow understood them.
The sensation of somebody always there.
Somebody always in the shadows.
Somebody watching.
Usually, you’d describe that sensation as heavy, looming. It was akin to a shadow being cast over you, blocking out any source of light, essentially leaving you in the darkness with nothing but your own doubts and fears. It's part of how Batman was able to have some semblance of control of crime.
However, contrary to that fear, it also provided a sense of safety. You knew you weren’t a target, you’d never be a target. That fear that’s instilled by Batman wasn’t meant for you, it was meant to help people like you.
This, though, is different.
There is no doubt in your mind somebody is watching you. Your skin prickles at the thought, yet the longer you wait for that sharp spike of fear…
It doesn’t come.
Now, you’ve lived in Gotham for a long time. Perhaps your instincts aren’t perfect, but you’d say they’re pretty damn good.
So the fact that somebody is singling you out and watching you? Your brain screamed at you that there was everything wrong with that, which made sense. It’s an assertion most people would agree with.
However.
With an almost dramatic turn, you slowly lifted your gaze up to the buildings across the street. Far enough to be safe from the fire, but close enough to have the perfect view.
You huffed, a small smile on your face.
In the distance, you saw two figures on the rooftop. While it’s hard to deduce the exact builds of the tem, what you could see were the colors.
You could also tell that one of them is looking directly at you. After seeing who knows how many Red Robin photos in the past year (courtesy of Tim), you concluded that Red Robin was most definitely watching you from across the street.
Yep, this is normal. Perhaps Red Robin knows that Tim sends you the photos he takes of him.
You slowly raised a hand up, hesitantly waving at him.
For a moment, nothing happened, and you felt a tad bit stupid for waving at a vigilante and expecting him to wave back. Awkwardly, you lowered your arm, grabbing your phone out of your pocket to check the time. Shutting your phone back off, you shifted your eyes up, expecting the vigilantes to have vanished (something you’ve heard they’re notorious for).
Instead, your mouth parted in surprise as Red Robin slowly waved back at you.
You blinked slowly at the vigilante in the distance in sheer disbelief, not physically reacting otherwise. Almost as if he’s embarrassed, Red Robin slowly lowered his arm back down. The two of you stared at each other for a moment longer before, inevitably, something else caught his attention. His head tilted away from you, and you watched as he turned to face Spoiler and Black Bat (when did Black Bat get there?).
You used the opportunity to slowly raise your phone up, zooming your camera in on the small group of vigilantes before snapping a photo.
Tim won’t believe this.
Tim did, in fact, believe you.
Truthfully, he was… not as impressed with you as you were with yourself.
Tim_Tam: lowkey?? why is the quality pixilated 💀
I’m sorry I don’t walk around with a professional camera around my neck???
Also what happened to “man that was really scary” and “I hope you’re okay”
Tim_Tam: man that was really scary
Tim_Tam: I hope you’re okay
Tim_Tam: quality could be better tho (genuinely glad you're okay though)
damn I’m sorry not all of us have vigilantes on call to do photo shoots with
I tried my best and I was lucky I even got that shot
you know he WAVED at me
thought he’d ignore me
Tim_Tam: Why would he ignore you??
idk maybe he’s like “eugh look at the civilian waving at me like a loser”
Tim paused for a moment.
Tim_Tam: why does he sound so mean in your head??
oh right mb, forgot you're the #1 RR apologist
Tim_Tam: okay now THATS an exaggeration
is it though??
Tim_Tam: very much so yes
if you say so
You snorted, putting your phone on the nightstand and turning the lights off before you nestled yourself into bed. Gotham's freezing weath showed no mercy tonight, and the warm blankets made you brain leap with joy, sending tingles throughout your body. Your phone was charging, the night was young, you’d actually sleep well tonight, and—
The light of your phone flashed, blinding you temporarily. The accompanying vibration didn’t help because now you knew it was Tim. Huffing, you turn your body away from the device that attempts to lure you in.
You needed to go to sleep early, you had an eight AM the next day. You couldn't afford to lose sleep talking to—
The light from your phone manages to light up the whole room, even if you’re not facing the source.
Okay, you will check the phone once to turn the brightness down. You would not read the messages. Tim would understand. You have to sleep, being a responsible adult and all that. With a slow, deep sigh, you reached over to grab your phone, squinting when you realize just how bright it was. That’s when you saw the messages:
Tim_Tam
Would you want to meet in person?
Sent 3m ago
Tim_Tam
Sorry that was really abrupt
Sent 1m ago
Tim_Tam
Just ignore that lol
Sent now
You had never sat up so fast from your bed, and that’s including the times he sent you those photos of the Bats the first few times.
Tim wants to what?
You haven’t even called the guy before.
Wait you can’t just drop that on me and leave
Tim_Tam: sorry?
Where would you want to meet?
Tim_Tam: Wait you’re saying yes?
Tim_Tam: What if I’m like a creepy serial killer who befriends people on the internet and then takes them to their house to kill them?
You paused.
Are you?
Tim_Tam: No but like
Tim_Tam: how would you know I’m NOT?
I can’t tell if you’re trying to defend yourself
I’m like 99% sure you’re not a killer though?
Tim_Tam: Okay but like
Tim_Tam: 99% isn’t 100%
Tim_Tam: chances are not 0
Tim
Tim_Tam: yeah?
If you want to meet, where would it be?
Tim_Tam: uhh
Tim_Tam: Robinson Park work?
Yeah I can probably head there after my classes
I’ll be done around 11
Tim_Tam: Alright cool
Was it you, or did this feel a little anticlimactic? Perhaps it just hadn't hit you yet? You waited for another message, yet the bubbles of forming messages continued to taunt you.
Tim_Tam: Sorry I gtg, we can work out more details later?
Yeah sure, have fun photographing your fav
Tim_Tam: haha you’re SO funny
I know :)
The next day came all too soon yet not quick enough. The second you opened your eyes, a singular thought implanted itself in your head:
Today was the day you were going to meet Tim.
Despite the quiz you had during your early morning discussion, and the midterm prep went over during your following lecture. Neither of the them made you as anxious as meeting Tim. As the final minutes of your lecture passed, you felt a nervous excitement run through your body.
Okay done with my classes, omw
You sent the quick text, giving him a heads up. It’d probably take you a bit to walk there, but it gave you enough time to plan this out.
Like… Do you need to worry about first impressions?
Is this a first impression?
You're technically meeting him for the first time, but it’s not like he’s a stranger.
It's... First-impression-adjacent. Yeah, something like that. You still weren't sure, but you didn't get a chance to dwell on it because you felt your phone vibrate. You didn't stop walking as you check the screen.
Tim_Tam: Hey there is something I should tell you before we meet
Tim_Tam: It’s a little important
uh oh, you’re not actually a killer right?
Tim_Tam: no, no, no
Tim_Tam: Nothing like that
Tim_Tam: but uh
Tim_Tam: My name
Tim_Tam: it’s Tim Drake
You halted. Staring at the words laid plainly on your phone. Tim Drake?
That Tim Drake? The one Bruce Wayne took in? You weren't well versed in the intricate details of the Wayne family lore, but you know about as much as any other Gotham citizen. Bruce Wayne’s parents were murdered in front of him when he was a kid, and now he’s a billionaire playboy with a known habit of adopting kids. Tim Drake is one of them. You didn't actually know much about him, but you’ve seen him on TV or on the news every now and then talking about Wayne Enterprises or something.
woah that’s crazy
I didn’t wan tot tell you but I’m actually Bruce Wayne
want to*
Tim_Tam: I’m not joking I swear
nor am I
Tim_Tam: You don’t believe me
I believe you when you say you aren’t a killer
idk about the Tim Drake thing though
Tim_Tam: should I be concerned that you somehow find me being myself is less probable than me being a killer?
Probably
Is this like a new catfishing tactic
There was a long pause.
Tim_Tam: I’m sorry what??
You could almost hear the bewilderment, and you chuckle at the thought.
oh you know
Tim_Tam: I don’t actually? Is this a common occurrence for you??
no
hence why I ask what’s with the Tim Drake catfishing tactic
Tim_Tam: I really hope it’s NOT a thing? How would it even work??
idk probably something like “Hey baby my name is Tim Drake, I have lots of money do you want to meet at the park to get to know each other better?”
Tim_Tam: I have never ONCE in my LIFE said that
Tim_Tam: I swear I am Tim Drake, we’re literally meeting in like five minutes
Tim_Tam: I promise I’m here, just meet me around the gardens
Now, was it stupid to potentially walk into such an obviously fake trap?
Absolutely.
Did you do it anyway?
Absolutely.
It wasn’t long before you had found a bench not too far from the gardens. You sent Tim-Maybe-Drake a quick update on your location. In spite of how ill-prepared you may seem to the naked eye, you did ask one of your friends to check your location and check in to make sure you don’t die.
Oh and pepper spray. Better safe than sorry.
Tim-Maybe-Drake reacted to your message with a quick thumbs up, and you fidgeted on the bench. You loosely kicked a rock with your foot, taking note of old footprints on the dirt path. As the minutes passed by, the anxiety began to creep back in. What if this was just a joke? What if you were dead-on with the catfishing Tim Drake idea? It was a strange idea, but it got you to come meet in person, didn’t it?
Somebody cleared their throat from the left side of the path, and you turn to look up.
Holy shit.
You blinked rapidly as if Tim Drake will vanish from your eyesight. He looks both the same and different from what you’ve seen in photos. Physically, he mostly looks the same, perhaps a bit leaner than you expected. He must workout, you idly note. His hair looks the same as it does in the photos, perhaps a bit more messy? It also seems too perfect in every photo you see of him.
However, the way he carries himself?
When you searching up information about a billionaire and his children, you saw what you expected online. Articles written on the Wayne children weren’t nearly as ever present as ones about Bruce himself, but every now and then there would be something.
In the few minutes before Tim arrived (you may have looked him up mere seconds before his arrival), you noticed that he looked confident, composed. He had that air about him that only comes from growing up in such a high-end environment.
On one hand, you see the Tim Drake that the media portrays. The adopted son of Bruce Wayne. A man who has clearly grown up in an environment so unlike your own it’s a miracle you even crossed paths with him.
However, you also see the hint of uncertainty that bleeds through his fleeting glances to you. The way his eyes rest on you anxiously, as if waiting for your judgment. For a moment, you consider that he was just as anxious about meeting you than you were meeting him. The prospect seems absurd, but looking at him now, you believe it.
“Oh…” You commented eloquently.
He furrowed his eyebrows, “That’s— That’s it? Just ‘oh?’”
You nodded slowly, “I mean— I… You know I had like zero faith in you.” That’s a lie, you had at least a sprinkle of faith that he was telling the truth. Not that you’ll tell him that.
“That’s reassuring. Thank you for that.” Tim replied dryly.
“You know the whole photographing vigilante’s thing makes so much sense now.” You stood up, hesitantly approaching him.
He tilted his head, “How so?”
“Only rich people would have such an insane hobby. The adrenaline rush or something I assume.” You shrugged casually, and Tim had the gall to to look offended.
“Okay, but my main thing isn’t even photographing vigilantes. I don’t even post those, and you know that.” He raised a finger indignantly. “And they aren’t even intentional anyway! I’m just lucky.”
“Luckiest guy I’ve ever met then.” You smirked, “Save some for the rest of us.”
He chuckled, “Of course, it’s my fault whenever somebody has bad luck.”
“At least you acknowledge it.” You huffed, a grin plastered on your face.
He laughs, and it hits you that this is Tim, as in the Tim you’ve been talking to day and night. That Tim also happens to be the billionaire Tim Drake, and you are having a normal conversation with him in a park in Gotham. You watch as his eyes crinkle in amusement, and you feel yourself mirroring his expression involuntarily.
You stifled your laughter, clearing your throat, “You know, I was actually worried you were catfishing me.”
He groaned, rolling his eyes. “If I wanted to catfish you, I’d have gone about this way different.” He pauses, "For the record, I do not want to catfish you."
“That’s reassuring.” You threw his own words back at him, and he sighed.
“It should be.” He paused for a moment, and the two of you continue to walk down a path. “Did you really not suspect anything?”
You blink, “About you being…” you gestured to him, and he nodded. You shook your head, “Not until you said anything, no. You don’t give ‘Tim Drake vibes’ when we text.” You did air quotes.
He let out a surprised laugh, “What— What are ‘Tim Drake vibes?’” He looked amused at the prospect.
You shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s just, when I text you, I don’t think ‘wow this guy seems like Tim Drake.’”
He nodded as if that made sense, “I’m going to take that as a good thing?”
You shrugged, “I mean it’s certainly a thing. Your call about whether it’s good or bad.”
He sighed, and you laughed at his exasperated expression. “Y’know now that I actually know you’re you, I’m surprised you actually showed up.”
His eyebrows raised in surprise, “Why would I not? I asked you?”
“You had no idea who I was up to like five minutes ago, what if I had planned this and planned on using you for ransom?” You teased, and the two of you exit the park. You weren't sure where Tim is taking you, but you’re heading back in the direction of Gotham University.
“Been there.” By his tone alone, you believed him. “And trust me I can handle myself perfectly fine if you tried kidnapping me.”
You raised an eyebrow, “If you can handle yourself so well, how come people were able to kidnap you for ransom in the past?”
He opened his mouth, glaring at you, ready to defend himself, but no words came out.
“I… Those were extenuating circumstances.” He scoffed.
“Mhm, real extenuating.” Your voice contained the utmost sympathy for him.
“And I feel like you’re mocking me.” He tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly.
“It’s okay, I probably wouldn’t have been able to escape the thugs too.” You winced, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
“That’s not—” At your laughter he stops talking, and instead stares dumbly at you, slowly blinking, as you continue to laugh at him. He released a half-amused exhale while you snickered at him for the next few minutes.
The rest of the meeting went well, very well. The two of you had instantly fell back into your familiar banter, except it was a thousand times more exciting in person. After that meeting, Tim had started asking if you wanted to hang out regularly. It was a safe distance for both of you. Neither of you got too close.
Then he invited you to one of Bruce Wayne’s charity events. It was a casual invite, it meant nothing, and you knew that. He wasn’t inviting you as a partner, but as a friend. It was a completely normal invite that had no other implications. Why would you stress over that?
It certainly didn’t help your stress levels when you realized that if you accepted you’d have to meet Bruce Wayne himself.
You had— not subtly— asked Tim if this meant that you would be subjected to the judgment of his family. He had told you that you “Don’t need to worry about that” and that “They should be the last people judging.” Both of his “reassurances” did little to truly ease your worries.
Eventually, you had accepted, attempting to dress your best. The actual event itself was as you expected. Long and filled with lots of meaningless chatter. The main joy found was snickering with Tim off to the side. You had teased him for the sheer switch in personality he would make every time one of Gotham’s elites approached you both. It was kind of jarring, the phoniness of everything here. It made you feel better every time would side eye you with a look reading “Get a load of this guy.”
It reminded you that somehow you had worked into one of the highest circle’s in Gotham without even knowing. Seeing him turn to you, relieved to have somebody who knows him?
It may sound silly, but it made you feel good, like your friendship actually means something.
Your gratification at the prospect was short lived. Quickly replaced with the familiar stress of meeting Bruce Wayne. Tim reassured you that it would not be as bad as you were imagining, and that he’ll like you. You didn’t share his confidence, but you appreciated his optimism. You ignored the idea in your head that this could be interpreted as you both dating.
Cause that’d be stupid.
It turns out that Tim was right though. Bruce was actually not as bad as you expected. He was a bit brash and you definitely forced some laughs in the conversation, but he seemed to approve of you the second that Tim introduced you. You didn’t miss the look that he gave Tim when first introducing you. Tim never mentioned it afterwards, and while you were curious about it, you didn’t feel the need to bring it up.
By the end of the night, he had introduced you to most of his family, and— like Bruce— they all seemed to like you. The consensus seemed to be positive, which was what you were hoping for. After leaving your final introduction with Duke, Tim had placed his hand on your shoulder with a grin as if saying “See? You lived!”
After that event, you had assumed that meetings with his family would be few and far between. Perhaps for a social event every now and then, but you didn’t expect to start seeing them regularly.
It felt strange at first, like visiting someone’s house for the first time and always having to go through the unavoidable phase where you practically tip-toe everywhere, not wanting their family to hate you.
It was that but tenfold.
Tim had welcomed you in, soon followed by Steph and Duke. You felt more at ease the longer the four of you spent time together. By the time it was time for you to return home, you had practically forgotten your earlier worries.
It quickly became routine. At least once a week, you’d come over to hang out at the Manor. Sometimes Steph would be there, sometimes some of his brothers would be, and sometimes it’d be just you and Tim. As time went on, you started to hang out with his family without him, and you quickly found yourself recounting stories about Tim over girl’s night with Steph, Cass, and occasionally Barbara. You had told them how the two of you met, and somebody must have talked because you had received texts from Tim the next day saying that everybody was making fun of him. You felt a tad bit bad for him, but both of you seemed more amused than genuinely angry.
You were happy.
It seemed like everything was going right for once. You were doing well in university, your job was paying the bills, and you had a group of friends you truly liked being around. Your life felt normal, and that felt good.
Obviously, that normalcy didn't last for long.
You got out of the taxi, walking up the stone steps as you put your phone away. Unfortunately, registration this semester was not kind to you, and you ended up with a lecture at seven in the evening on a Friday.
Not ideal.
You had debated skipping this class, but you told yourself that you’re going to do the responsible thing and show up to class. After all, with finals coming up, you didn’t want to make any risks that could lead to failure.
The lecture itself was the same as always. You had definitely spaced out a few times, and the dim lighting of the room combined with the slow tone of the professor was not helping one bit. By the end of the lecture, it seemed like everybody was eager to go home, and the professor had even let the lecture end ten minutes earlier.
Instantly packing up all your notes, you had promptly left the building. The chilling breeze of Gotham immediately hit you, and you sighed realizing it had begun raining. Typical Gotham weather strikes again.
You had attempted to stay under any roofs you could, but eventually you were forced to venture out into the pouring rain. Before reaching the main streets, you had taken a shortcut. A shortcut you had taken hundreds of times in the past. It was a lot less crowded, and did a better job of shielding you from the rain.
Weaving around puddles on the ground, you attempted to get out of the path as fast as possible. All you could think of is that warm taxi that would be awaiting you at the end of this alley. The end was in sight, but that vision crumbled before your eyes when the resounding blow of gunfire echoed in your enclose space. It caused you to flinch, and you immediately spun around, attempting to determine the source of the sound. You didn’t see anybody behind you, so you came to the dreadful conclusion that it came from your intended destination.
You slow to a stop, is it worth just pushing forward and attempting to run for the first taxi you see? You already made it this far, and you’d have to retrace your steps just to take the alternative path. Sighing, you move to turn around when four men in balaclavas entered the alley, running like their life depended on it. Fuck.
“You think we lost em?” One of them, still looking back, asks. He turns to face you, and you stare at each other awkwardly.
“Scream and we put a bullet through you.” Another one hisses, raising his gun to point at you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you silently raise your hands, nodding.
They don’t separate as they each point their gun at you, slowly moving around you. They keep their eyes trained on you, and you aren't entirely sure which one to look at. They eventually made their way around you, and you were stuck in this awkward stalemate. They don't move to lower their guns.
“We can’t just let her go! She’s gonna run out and yell for someone!” One of them whispers to his friend.
“So what're we gonna do?” He whispers back.
“We can kill her?” Another one suggests. Please no. You bite your tongue to keep from saying something stupid.
“No, no, bad idea. The Bat will be on our ass if we leave a body behind.” A different one responds.
“So what? We just knock her out?” One of them gestures to you with his gun.
“Probably the best idea. We’re taking too long to debate this, somebody knock her out.” The one next to him points to you. You let out a sigh of relief, at least they won’t kill you. Maybe you can get away with just pretending to get knocked out and waiting for them to leave?
“Alright, I can do it.” One of them approaches you and raises the butt of his gun. He’s about to strike down, when he is flung against the wall, startling all of you.
“Who the hell?!” A thug cries out, raising his gun, finger twitching on the trigger. You instinctively cover your head and hunch over as he swings his gun to point to you. Once you realize he’s not aiming for you, you turn your gaze from the ground up to your savior.
Red Robin? Huh, what are the chances?
You watch as he effortlessly disarms the goons before sweeping two of them off their feet. Red Robin rushes to pin them back down, but one of them uses the opportunity to strike the vigilante just above the eye with the butt of his gun. You wince, hissing in sympathy. Red Robin barely reacts, instead giving them a quick strike to the head, silencing their yells.
You feel yourself relax as you watch Red Robin turn his head to the remaining thug. He’s attempting to run away, and Red Robin pulls out a grappling hook before launching it and yanking the guy back. “Please man! Let me go!”
“Not a chance.” Red Robin replies dryly before knocking him out, similar to the guys before. With all the threats neutralized, he turns to face you for the first time. Instinctively, you stand up straighter.
“Are you okay?” He asks, shifting on his feet under your gaze.
Huh, you didn’t expect him to sound like that. You weren’t sure what you expected, the voice modulation wasn't a surprise, but his tone is somewhat discernable. You had expected something similar to the grittiness of Batman or even the charismatic confidence of Nightwing.
If anything, you’d say Red Robin sounds just as awkward as you feel right now.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” You nod, “Thanks.” You smile at him.
He returns the nod, “Yeah, of course.” He nods at you, and you smile at him. For a beat, neither of you say anything.
Well, this is going great.
“He didn't hit you too hard, right?” You break the silence, and Red Robin gives you a questioning frown. You gesture up to your own forehead, around the area you saw him get hit.
“Oh, that,” he mirrors your action, offering a small smile. “Nothing I can't handle, barely even noticed it.” He waves off your concern.
You nod, accepting that answer. “Were you the one who was chasing those guys?” You ask, and you want to smack yourself for the stupid question. Obviously he was the one chasing them.
“Hm? Oh,” he blinks down at the unconscious thugs, “yeah that was me.” He confirms. “They mention me?”
“Not by name. They just said they were being chased.” You watch as he grabs a bag off one of the thugs.
“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, “yeah that was me.” He’s not really facing you, but you can tell he’s smiling.
You purse your lips, unsure how to proceed with the conversation. Do you just leave? As you look over the scene, you notice something glint out of the corner of your eyes. You turn to Red Robin, but he isn’t looking at you. Hesitantly you approach the object, and you crouch down to look at it. It’s one of those Bat-shaped objects that the Bats carry on them.
Carefully, as if it's fragile, you pick it up. You’re surprised at first. It’s heavier than you expected, but you suppose that makes sense. To be able to do damage, it’d have to have some weight for something so small.
“You want to keep it?”
You jump as Red Robin’s voice suddenly appears right next to you. He raises his hands up, and gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No worries.” You offer him a small smile before returning your gaze to the object. “Don’t you guys need these things?” You wave it up.
He shrugs, and the action is so normal that you want to laugh. “Batarangs?” Huh, that’s what they’re called. He waves a casual hand at you, “We have plenty. Plus, we lose them all the time. You can keep it.”
Your mouth parts, and you’re about to open your mouth when he adds on. “Consider it a souvenir.” He grins looking down for a second before reaching to rub his back, meeting your eyes again as he massages himself. You watch as his eyes flicker over your form, looking up and down.
You freeze.
Not because of the Batarang, but because of the actions.
He chuckles at your appalled expression. “I mean you don’t—” he abruptly stops speaking before letting out a deep sigh.
His sigh only causes your jaw to drop even more, yet he doesn’t notice. He mouths a quiet “Sorry” before turning away from you, speaking to whoever is calling him.
You aren’t sure what he is talking about or even who he is talking to, but you’re hit with what may be the most insane conclusion you’ve ever reached (even more insane than Tim attempting to catfish you).
You steel yourself before turning your full attention to Red Robin. He’s restless, shifting on his feet in a way that tells you that he’d rather be pacing at the moment.
There’s no way your hypothesis is correct.
Red Robin sighs again, and you see him place his hands over his mask. You narrow your eyes at the action.
It’d make sense though.
You’re willing to chalk up a few shared mannerisms to just basic human traits. A couple makes sense, that’s normal. Now if you add the fact that Tim has been the best photographer for the vigilantes you’ve ever seen?
That’s a little more suspicious.
Then if you add on the fact that he has confirmed that he’s conversed with Robin in the past?
Your eyes are locked onto Red Robin, and he must feel your piercing gaze because he turns towards you. He seems to be taken aback by your blatant staring, but you can’t even help yourself because how else do you process this? He tilts his head, and you offer a strained smile in apology before averting your gaze.
The reason he couldn’t post the photos was because the vigilantes asked him not to.
The reason he could take the photos wasn’t because he had insane luck.
You watch as Red Robin shifts on his feet once again, before tilting his head up to the sky in an exasperated motion. The action uncannily familiar.
Holy shit.
You don’t a chance to process the revelation because the reason Red Robin was looking up quickly becomes evident. You jump back as Nightwing lands casually behind Red Robin and in front of you.
He turns to face you and for a moment he looks startled by your presence before he smirks. “Ahhh, I get it now.” Nightwing grins as Red Robin slowly turns to face him. “Real important stuff to handle, huh?”
“Can you not—” You watch as Red Robin furtively glances between you and Nightwing. “I did handle stuff.” He gestures down to the unconscious bodies below, "As you can see.”
Nightwing nods, “Yuh-huh,” he places his hands on his hips as he turns around to look at the entire scene. “I’m sorry, Miss. Is this guy bothering you?” Nightwing gives you a shit-eating grin, and yup.
If you didn’t know that Red Robin is Tim before, you certainly know now. Dick looks nearly the exact same, and for a moment you ponder how people have never connected him with Nightwing, especially with the devious grin he is giving you now.
“I am not bothering her! I just sav—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Nightwing raises his finger and shushes him softly, and you have to look away in order to avoid laughing. “Let her speak for herself.” Nightwing gestures to you in a slight bow.
Yeah, Tim. You snort as Red Robin takes a deep breath in order to calm himself. You offer a small grin to Red Robin, and he keeps his gaze trained on you, “He wasn’t a bother. He saved me from these guys. In fact—” you raise the Batarang up, “—he gave me a souvenir.” You grin at Dick.
He lets out a surprised bark of laughter before turning to Tim, who refuses to look at either of you. You think you can hear Tim mutter “Oh my God.”
“Aw, givin' out gifts to civilians now?” Dick teases Tim.
Tim groans, and you think you can see him turning red. You feel a little bad for embarrassing him in front of his brothers, but this reaction makes it all worth it. “I’m leaving.” He declares before launching his grappling hook up to the railing at the roof above you. He gives you one last look, a minuscule nod, before leaving.
You and Dick watch as he leaves before he turns back to you. “You are actually okay though, right?” He reaches out to put his hands on your shoulders before stopping and awkwardly putting them down.
You smile at Dick, nodding. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
He nods, “Well, get home safely. I’ll handle these guys.” He gestures his thumb down to the thugs on the ground. As if on cue, one of them begins to groan as they wake up. “You might wanna stay down, bud.” He gives you one last glance before winking and turning back to the thugs on the ground.
You watch him for a moment before walking out of the alley and waving down a taxi. You tell him your apartment complex, and look out the window. You rest your head on the window as you watch Gotham pass by you. You feel yourself truly relax for the first time in an hour before immediately stiffening.
How the hell are you going to tell Tim?
The day of the dinner arrives sooner than you’d like.
You are no closer to figuring out how to tell Tim that you know. You debated just texting him, but quickly threw that suggestion in the trash. Bad idea, terrible idea.
You pace your living room back and forth, trying to calm yourself. It’s not even dinner you’re worried about. What if you act oddly? Tim will definitely figure it out if you are fidgeting every five seconds. You must act normally, that can’t be too difficult? Just don’t think about it. It’s not like Red Robin or even Nightwing will come up in conversation with his family, right? That’s not really a dinner table topic.
Yeah.
You’ll be fine.
Just act normal—
Tim: I’m here
You swallow as you grab your items, giving your apartment one last look over, before exiting. You find Tim waiting in the parking lot, and you make eye contact through the windshield. He raises a hand, giving you a small smile, his other hand is lazily tapping the steering wheel.
“Thank you again for doing this.” Tim smiles gratefully at you as you step into the passenger seat. You attempt to smile back at him. You observe the interior of his car.
Hm. Red. Interesting. Almost like Red Robin—
You chuckle, more out of nerves than any actual amusement, “Yeah, no problem."
He pauses, giving you a long look before laughing softly. “Don’t be nervous. It’s relatively painless, and Alfred is making your favorite.”
You smile at the thought, “How’d you convince him to do that?”
Tim smacks his lips, “Let’s just say that my dignity isn’t in tact anymore.”
You raise an eyebrow, “I thought you didn’t have much of that?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second to give you a decidedly unimpressed expression. You return it with a smile, “I mean you practically had to beg me to show up with you—”
“Woah, okay.” His eyebrows shoot up, “First off, that wasn’t begging—”
You pull out your phone, “— ‘I'd literally get on my knees and beg if I could’” You recite his words to him, reading the text directly. When you look up, his face is a light red. You try and catch his eyes, but he is stubbornly refusing to meet your own, instead focusing on the road. “Sound familiar to you?”
He remains silent for a bit. “I— Uh— Well, no. I never heard that before.”
“Mhm, sure.” You lean your elbow against the side of the car, propping your face up. His eyes flicker over to you, and he somehow gets more red. He looks you up and down for a brief moment, and while Tim usually does that, you did notice that Red Robin also—
Nope. Do not think about your best friend’s alternate vigilante identity while in the car with him. Stay focused.
The remainder of the ride is filled with light banter, your teasing provides a reprieve from your thoughts. It’s not long before you both pull up. “Master Tim.” Alfred greets Tim before turning to you and greeting you in similar fashion. “A little birdie told me to put your favorite on the menu for tonight.” Alfred offers a small smile, and both you and Tim stiffen.
Oh. Bird puns.
Yeah, Alfred definitely knows.
“Aw, thank you, Alfred. I think the little birdie knew I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” You nudge Tim teasingly. For a moment, he doesn’t react and you wonder if he’s even breathing. “Right, birdie?” You lightly nudge Tim again.
“Yeah, uh— mhm?” You frown at the reaction. Tim shifts on his feet, and waves you off casually. “Sorry, just uh— dinner, you know? Got me stressed?”
You nod, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, “Right,” you turn back to Alfred, “Thanks again, Alfred.” You grin at him.
“My pleasure, Miss.” He inclines his head to you, “Now, if you’re ready to greet the others.” He turns around, tossing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you and Tim are following.
“Look who finally showed his face— Oh,” Steph abruptly cuts herself off.
“Hello to you too.” You respond dryly, taking a seat at the table.
Steph grins at you, “Hello!” She greet you before glaring at Tim. “You know what you’re doing.”
“Yep.” Tim replies dryly. He takes the seat across you, he offers you a small smirk.
“And you know we can’t do anything about it.” She huffs, shaking her head disapprovingly.
You nod solemnly, “I was informed that I was bait.”
Dick chokes on his water, “You told her that?”
“I did not tell her that.” Tim furrows his eyebrows at you, raising his hands in surrender. “She reached that conclusion on her own.”
“Is that all you told her?” Duke asks, raising an eyebrow. He looks between you both.
“Yes.” Tim nearly hisses, eyes wide as if saying “Not one more word.” He clears his throat, sparing you a quick glance, and releases a long sigh, “Is Bruce here, yet?”
“You’re attempts to change the topic at hand are futile.” Damian looks between you and Tim, evidently bored.
Dick frowns at Tim before sighing, “No… He had some last minute business to take care of. He’ll be a little late.”
“Perfect.” Tim abruptly stands up, and your mouth parts, taken aback. “It’s getting kind of hot in here. I think I need a minute. I— Uh— Do you wanna head up for a bit until Bruce shows up?” Tim turns to you.
You furrow your eyebrows, if he needs a minute, why is he asking you to come with him?
“Sure?” Tim is already walking around the long dining table, he raises his hand to gently guide you away from everybody before you get a chance to say anything else. “Isn’t this rude?” You whisper to him, his hand is still guiding your back.
“Not with them. That kind of rude doesn’t count.” Tim huffs, and you two begin the familiar trek to his room.
You release an amused huff, “For you. What if they think I’m rude or something?”
Tim spares a glance at you, as if the idea you presented is absurd. “They’ll just blame it on me.” He shrugs. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it later.” He rubs your shoulder casually, offering you a smile that tells you he’s used to this.
You furrow your eyebrows in concern, “If you say so…” You trail off, hesitant. He gestures for you to enter his room. The space is familiar. You’ve been here many times in the past. However, never had you known that Tim is Red Robin during those times. Your eyes survey the room in front of you. Nothing is different about it (why did you expect there to be anything different?). You slowly make your way over to his desk, a few pieces of scrap paper lay on it. Nothing incriminating. You frown looking over the contents of the paper.
Tim appears at your side, “You okay?” He asks, following your gaze to the paper.
You nod, turning to him, “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” You pace the room for a beat before planting yourself onto his bed, something you’ve done a million times before.
He looks you up and down, and you resist stiffening under his scrutiny. He must’ve found something because he frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then slowly walks over to you. “I… Sorry, was asking you to come for dinner too much?” He sits down next to you, and his gaze falls down to your hand on his comforter.
You blink, looking off to the side before returning your attention to him. “No, no, it’s fine.” You shake your head, “It’s not something I haven’t done before.” You shrug, attempting to offer him a reassuring smile.
Tim’s frown doesn’t change. “You don’t actually have to do this if you don’t want to… I know I was kinda joking about needing you here, but if there’s something—”
“Tim, there’s nothing wrong. What gave you that impression?” You feel your heart race. Does he know that you know?
He meets your eyes, your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and his eyes trail down to your shoulders. “I… You just seem—” his eyes look off at something off to the side, “—distracted, is all.” Your lips part, and his gaze returns to you. “You don’t have to say anything. This isn’t me trying to pressure you into telling me if something is up.” He rambles, shaking his head.
You heave a sigh, “It’s— I don’t think you want to know, Tim.”
Perhaps that’s the wrong thing to say to a detective because Tim— despite his attempts to be sympathetic— also has that spark of curiosity in his eyes. He trains his eyes on you, as if expecting to you to continue. When you don’t, he hesitantly responds: “If— and again, this is not me pressuring you— If it helps you get something off your chest, then I will always be here to listen.”
You swallow, looking toward Tim, “That’s… Thanks, Tim. I really appreciate that.” He nods, offering you a smile, and slowly inching his hand closer to yours. You pretend not to notice. “Are you sure you want to hear what I want to say?” You whisper softly to him, smiling nervously.
He blinks, “If that’s what you wish,” he changes his focus from your hand to your face, “then yes.” He gives you a disarming smile.
Your smile grows, “This is your last chance, Tim.”
His eyes lighten up, “Well,” he chuckles, “I’m not planning on changing my mind.”
You smile, leaning closer, and Tim mirrors the action whether he knows it or not. His chest rises and falls, slow, and you look into his eyes. The blue diminishing by the second as its replaced by the growing size of his pupil.
“Do you remember the other night?” You keep the same quiet tone, the words are meant for him— and him alone.
Tim’s eyebrows raise, evidently not expecting that, “What?” His words are breathless, but still ring of confusion.
“I just… I appreciate you helping me out.” You smile at him, watching as he processes the information.
“Yeah…” He slowly nods, eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, that… It’s no issue it all. I…” He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes are turned away from you. His eyes gloss over the ground. He must remember that you’re watching because he suddenly turns to look at you tight-lipped smile. “Yeah...” he trails off, “Could you remind me exactly what I helped you with?”
You chuckle at his attempts to play it off— and failing. “Oh, come on, Tim.” You tilt your head at him, “You remember. You gave me the souvenir.”
You can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.
He doesn’t instantly react. Instead he stares at you (or, more accurately, through you) unblinking. At his lack of a functioning reaction, you worry that maybe this wasn’t the best idea to go about this. After all you still have to sit through dinner after this. You aren’t even sure if he’s breathing when his smile strains in a way that almost looks painful.
“What?” His voice is quiet, as if incapable of mustering up any more volume.
Your purse your lips, taking a deep breath. You don’t get a chance to respond because he continues. “I… I haven’t given you anything— I think I’d remember if I gave you a souvenir.” He laughs, slightly hysterical. “You might be thinking of somebody else?”
You sigh, slowly reaching your hand up to his chin. Tim immediately stiffens at the contact, as if afraid him moving would deter you. A small smirk grows on your face when you realize how red Tim is at your touch. Gently, you move a few strands of hair out of his face, and he doesn’t stop you. They were covering up a specific spot, and while it appears Tim did try to cover up the bruise he received from the other night, he did not do a clean enough job.
“That’s,” he swallows, “That’s uh— I fell off my skateboard.” He doesn’t attempt to move your hands away from his face.
“Mhm,” you hum disbelievingly, “in the same spot Red Robin got hit, right? You two skateboard together?” You tease lightly.
“Well, I—” he clears his throat, leaning away from you, and you don’t try to stop him. “I… think?” He presses his hands onto his face, shielding his face from your view.
You frown, amusement evident in your tone. “You don’t know?”
He shifts his hands slightly, peaking through his fingers to look at you on his side. “I… You know, maybe you were right that I didn’t want to know.”
You let out an startled puff of air, “Oh,” you begin slowly, “now you heed my warnings?”
He avoids your eyes, smacking his lips. “Okay, fine, but how did you figure it out?” He asks, resting elbow on his knee. He props his head up, rubbing his forehead as if to remove tension.
“You share mannerisms with Red Robin.” He squeezes his eyes shut at the mention of his alter ego.
His jaw drops. “There’s no way you figured me out just because I acted kinda similar. I had a voice modulator!” He whisper-yells.
You nod, “Well, yeah, initially it was just suspicion. Then Dick showed up.” You watch as Tim mouths the words “Oh my God.” You smile sympathetically at Tim, “Yeah, I don’t know how anybody who looks at Nightwing for longer than a minute doesn’t put two and two together.”
“So what you’re saying is that it’s Dick’s fault.” Tim furrows his eyebrows at you. His hands aren’t covering his face anymore.
You frown, “You sent me photos of yourself.” Tim instantly gives you a look of horror, and you watch as he begins to turn red again. “Uh— I mean you were posing for the camera as Red Robin.” You elaborate, and Tim looks no less embarrassed.
“Okay,” he holds a finger up, adjusting his position on the bed next to you. “I did not pose for the camera. I just took a photo of whatever I was doing at the moment.” He grumbles.
You nod, “Modeling, apparently.” You quietly respond, at his glare you smile back at him. “I kept the Batarang by the way. It’s sitting in my room.” His glare softens at that, and he looks at you for a beat before flopping onto his back. The action causes the bed to jostle a little bit. You follow suit, turning to face him. “I wasn’t gonna tell anybody, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He turns to face you, and the two of you are inches apart, “That wasn’t my worry. It never was.” He whispers back.
You use your arm as a pillow as he continues to stare at you, “Then what is?”
He doesn’t immediately respond, but when he does his words are soft. “I didn’t want you involved in this.” He begins. “I… I don’t want you getting hurt because you know me.”
You let out a long exhale, “Tim,” you start, reaching for his hand, “if I didn’t want to be involved, I would’ve stopped the moment you started ‘chasing after vigilantes’ for photos.” You chuckle as he sheepishly looks away at the mention of his escapades. “I like being around you, Tim. That doesn’t change just because you go out as Red Robin every night.”
He swallows, squeezing your hand, “I… I like you—” He hastily cuts himself off, “—I like being around you too.” He smiles at you, and you feel better seeing that familiar spark in his eyes. “I… You’re not mad or anything right?”
You furrow your eyebrows, “That you like me?”
Instantly, that spark is replaced by pure unadulterated horror. He sits, startling you, “No! I meant the—” at your laughter, the tension leaves his body, and he releases a soft puff of air before slowly settling next to you again. “You know what I meant.” He scoffs, but it appears more endearing than anything.
You chuckle, smiling at him, “I’m not upset, Tim. If anything it makes sense. I was wondering how you always had such clear photos of the vigilantes. Oh— Terrible way to hide your identity by the way, going around and taking selfies of yourself.” You watch as he lightly glares at you before settling down closer than he was before. “And your terrible sleeping schedule makes sense now.”
He smacks his lips, “Okay, but I have an excuse. You—” he lightly points an accusing finger at you, “— do not.”
You grin, grabbing his hand, pressing it against the soft mattress of his bed. You adjust your position, ready to defend yourself, “Oh, really—”
“Father is here. He requests your presence—” Both you and Tim jolt as if caught doing something illegal before turning to look at Damian. To nobody’s surprise, he looks wildly unimpressed (and perhaps a little disgusted) by you both.
“Damian, can’t you knock?” Tim groans, brushing off imaginary dust off himself.
Damian’s eyes linger on your hand laid casually over Tim’s. Slowly, you remove it, and Tim frowns down at his lone hand. “I did knock. I took your lack of response as permission for entry.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works… like at all.” Tim stands up, and you follow suit.
Damian eyes you both accusingly then huffs. He whips around before shutting the door behind him, leaving you and Tim there standing awkwardly.
“We… We better get down there. He’s going to tell everybody.” Tim looks over to you, eyebrows creased in worry imagining what might be conversed at the dinner table. You nod solemnly, that would not be ideal.
“Lead the way, Birdie.” You walk up to his side, and Tim freezes at the nickname. You release a loud laugh at the reaction.
“You’re lucky I don’t have time to address that.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a smirk on his face.
“Aw, I knew you like me.” You grin, nudging your hand against his own.
He lets out a long sigh, and his smile turns soft. “Yeah,” he swallows, “I do.” He clasps your arm, and you give him a blinding grin.
A/N: Maybe I should just start up a collection of “civilian reader scaring the shit out of her boyfriend after figuring out he’s a vigilante but being unsure how to tell him so she goes about it in the most stressful way possible for him.” We’re going 2 for 2 and I absolutely LOVE this trope.
Anyway, sorry this took a while! I have one more final then I’m FREE! I absolutely LOVED this idea, and I really hope I did it justice. Online friend!Tim Drake has so much potential and it’s definitely an idea I wouldn’t mind revisiting in the future. As always, feel free to let me know about any major errors :)!
Funny thing, I actually had to write some small headcannons for myself of some random traits I think Tim would have so that Reader could inevitably realize Tim = Red Robin. If you guys wanna see that let me know, they aren’t very long, but you might notice a few things if you go back and reread it :)!
Tim Drake Taglist: @sebstancevanss @gaychaosgremlin @koibleufish
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Please, marry me, Bill. I got the wedding bell blues. Or: why won't Clark Kent propose already?
Clark Kent x Female Reader
word count: 1.6 k
content: just fluff! mentions of drinking.
a/n: This was one of my most listened songs last year, I love Laura Nyro (although I prefer the Fifth Dimension version). Just a quick little blurb about wanting to marry your soulmate.
“Did y’know Tupelo doesn’t have honey? I mean, they probably do but it’s not like a thing. So why would Van Morrison even write that? He’s Irish! What the fuck does he know about Mississippi?” Clark smiled as you kept on babbling, tipsy with your third vodka cranberry in your hand. His hand was steady at your waist, making sure you wouldn’t accidentally fall off the high chair of the bar.
“That’s a really good point. All men do is lie.” Lois answered, also sort of drunk and egging you on with all your dumb conversation topics. Clark kept you against him as the conversation drifted without him and he got distracted, seeing if there was something going on outside that needed his tending to. He focused real hard, but there wasn’t. He could gladly stay here, under the flashing light and loud singing with his girl by his side and his friends laughing along.
His devotion to his work, his calling for protecting the human race had been sort of trumped when he met you. You usually took the same subway to work in the mornings, both running late all the time but always having time to smile at each other. Once, at a particularly sharp stop where you were reviewing papers, you stumbled and at the speed of light, Clark caught you and your documents. The smile you shared was warm and toothy and Clark could feel something inside of him shift. Like he knew from the start this was the smile he wanted to see every day. You got to talking and realized you worked in the same building, Clark just usually ran out so fast he never noticed. You offered to buy him lunch that day in appreciation and the rest, as they say, was history.
You became part of the plan, he hadn’t lived a single day not loving you only, never not eager to be with you or see you, always keen to learn you inside out. So this moments, where everything felt soft and right and fun, it was all he could ask from this life. That’s who was now, Clark Kent, yours. Superman, yours.
“I- what song should we pick, Clarkson?” You asked, one hand coming to the side of his face to get his attention. He smiled at the nickname; you once jokingly asked if Clark was short for something and when he asked what could it possibly be short for, you responded “Well, I don’t know. Clarkson?”
“Don’t know, darling. Me and you?”
“No, me and her. God! You’re always trying to intrude in our moments.” Lois corrected, giving him a dirty look which Clark could not be offended at, he was only delighted that everyone loved you too. You giggled as you ran your finger down the list, looking for the correct song you two would belt out.
“Let’s do… Cowboy take me away! I loved this song secretly in high school.”
“Yeah! You’re a cowboy, baby. ‘S for you.” You said and looked up at him, winking at him and he rolled his eyes. He helped you down the chair, letting you run towards the stage and leaving him alone with Jimmy and the girl who was flirting with him, the rest of the group elsewhere in the bar. He watched you get a microphone and clear your throat, whispering something into Lois’ ear which the two of you laughed at.
The song started playing and Lois took the first verse, not terrible but not good. However, someone cheered at her which only made her get more excited and louder. Clark looked down at his phone, checking the time and weather to make sure no one got out of here too late, when he was distracted by a melodic voice taking over the chorus. He looked up, and sure enough it was coming from his girl. His beautiful, silly, sincere girl. It was like a choir of angels in your voice; he wondered if your spawn would get the same talent.
“Dude! How had you never mentioned she can sing?”
“I didn’t know!” Clark defended himself from Jimmy, looking back at you whose cheeks were red from the attention, but you were looking at him, singing right into his eyes before looking back at Lois. Clark couldn’t help but crack a smile at the fact that after three years together, he was still far from knowing you completely. There was still so much to go and, Jesus, was he excited for it. He still hadn’t found anything he didn’t like. When the song was over, you two waltzed back to the group hand in hand like you’d just finished a sold-out show, all giggly and sweaty.
“How’d we do, cowboy?” You asked as you came towards Clark and immediately grabbed your face between his hands, pulling you towards his own face and kissing your lips tenderly. A smile threatened to break the kiss on both your mouths so you pulled away and looked at him.
“Why were you hiding that from me?” He teased and you shrugged, not giving any answers to something you didn’t know. It hadn’t come up, and it’s not like you were Whitney Houston. You were just slightly better than average. It wasn’t much of a lie either; you’d never lie to him, scheme or hide. He’d never do it either. You two were already on the peeing with door open stage, the ‘look at this pimple’ stage, the ‘I talk to your mother just because’ stage.
“Gonna take me away now?” You asked and he nodded, one hand on your hip as the whole group moved towards the exit. Behind you, at the stage, a group of girls started to belt out Wedding Bell Blues and you looked back at them as Clark led you away, words starting to pour out like vomit from your mouth.
“Clark, are you ever going to marry me?” Clark’s eyes nearly fell out of the sockets when he heard the words, you looked at him first like you’d were embarrassed you even brought it up but then it turned into a quiet, alcoholic confidence because, hey, just like Laura Nyro wonders, when were you going to see your wedding day?
“Okay, you two… be safe. Bye!” Lois pulled Jimmy away from you and walked towards the other direction, eyes wide and amused at your sudden question. You kept looking up at Clark, waiting for an answer from his suddenly dry mouth.
“No comments? Want me to make my own conclusions?”
“No! I mean, baby, of course I want to! I love you.” Clark walked fast, as if he needed to get home and run from the conversation. Well, jokes on him, you live together.
“Want to what? Say it.”
“I- I want to, marry you I mean.”
“You almost barfed, Clark.” Clark laughed now, because surely you knew you were exaggerating. He loved you; you knew that more surely than anything else in the world. He stopped your steps next to a streetlight and made you look up at him, your silhouettes reflecting the image of love onto a white wall behind you. Picture perfect, exquisite, all that made up you two.
“Honey, I love you so. I always will. C’mon, you know I see my future with you.” He tried to reason but you still groaned at him, wrapping your arms around yourself as the alcohol wore off and so did your body heat. Clark sighed and placed his jacket on your shoulders; you didn’t fight it because deep down you knew he was right. You did know it was you and him for good. You just… wanted it on paper. With a picture, a dress, a vow reassured. Soon enough you got home and said nothing more, you took off your shoes and grabbed a glass of water as Clark went into your bedroom immediately. You sat on the couch and sighed, feeling a little ridiculous now for cornering him like that.
“Clark! I’m sorry, okay? It’s fine if you’re not ready. I know we’re committed, you’re my person, you’re always there for me.” You said as you walked into the room, pulling off his jacket before turning around to see him kneeling next to your window. You laughed, thinking he was being silly before he took his glasses off, putting them on the bed and pulling open a red velvet box. You dropped the jacket in shock, moving closer to see if he was just playing a sick joke on your poor heart. But no, there it was cushioned between mountains of superman blue you were sure was on purpose. It was a ring. A perfect, lovely ring. Perfect size, perfect color, perfect cut. God, did your man know you.
“You, my impatient, beautiful woman, are the love of my life. You’ve been on my side whether I’m winning or loosing, whether I’m Clark or Superman. It’s you, my girl. Will you marry me?” Your mouth let out a huff before you kneeled in front of him, kissing him quick. His mouth tasted different, like the relief of not having to hide that damn box all over the house, having to fly home to get to it before you did and check the ring again and again to make sure you’d like it. Like excitement of giving you a new title, his fiancee, his bride. His.
“So yes?”
“Yes, yes, fuck, yes. I’m sorry I was so annoying-“
“No, you’re not annoying. We were on the same page, I was planning to do it next week. But it’s as good a time as any, ain’t it?” Clark smirked and you nodded, watching him take the ring out of the box and place it softly on your ring finger. Like it had always belonged there. Your smile was surely sweet and sickly, looking down at your hand as Clark maneuvered you into his arms.
“Can I take you to bed, my bride?” He whispered, a kiss on your cheek and you looked at him. In his eyes, his ridiculous blue eyes, there was nothing but wide pupils and passion and love. Yours hopefully matched that, but by the way he looked at you right now, you were sure they did.
jack abbot x younger!fem!reader summary: two times abbot tried to end whatever it is you have going on and the realization that he definitely does not want to lose you. cw: doctor!reader, abbot is a sad man, he needs reassurance!! classic plot, ER descriptions, blood, reader gets briefly injured, poorly written & english is not my first language :) 3k. and yes, he only likes to take his whiskey soooo neat.
Jack Abbot had never believed in timing, not in the kind people romanticized or wrote about, not in the idea that two people could simply meet at the right moment and everything would fall into place as if life had been quietly aligning itself just for them. His world didn’t work like that, and neither did The Pitt. There was nothing poetic about fluorescent lights that never turned off, about blood that never fully washed away, about the way loss lingered in the air long after a patient was gone. Everything here was messy, complicated, unfinished, and most of all, heavy.
And then there was you, who somehow existed in that same space without letting it hollow you out.
You weren’t naive. That was the part that unsettled him the most. You saw everything he saw, you stood in the same rooms, watched the same monitors flatline, heard the same cries from families in waiting areas, and yet you didn’t let it turn you into something closed off or distant. You still spoke gently to patients. You still found ways to smile. You still believed that what you were doing mattered in a way that went beyond survival rates and statistics.
Jack noticed it in ways he didn’t want to admit. He noticed how your presence changed the tone of a room, how people relaxed just a little when you spoke, how even he felt steadier when you were nearby. It wasn’t dramatic or obvious, but it was there, and that was enough to make him start pulling away before it could become something he couldn’t control.
He told himself it was because you deserved better. Someone lighter, someone who hadn’t already been worn down by years in a place like this, someone who wouldn’t look at you and immediately think about everything that could go wrong.
It didn’t happen all at once. At first, it was subtle, almost unnoticeable unless someone was paying close attention. He stopped lingering near you after shifts, stopped initiating the small conversations that had once come so easily. He kept things professional, efficient, distant in a way that felt deliberate but never openly acknowledged. If you stood too close, he found a reason to move. If you looked at him like you wanted to say something more, he gave you just enough to shut the moment down without making a scene.
You noticed, of course. You always did because you knew him. And eventually, you asked.
There was a night when you finally said something, leaning against the nurses’ station with your arms crossed, watching him instead of whatever chart he was pretending to focus on. You didn’t look angry or upset, just thoughtful, like you were trying to understand something that didn’t quite add up.
“Did I do something?” you asked, your voice calm but steady.
He didn’t look up. “No.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
“I’m not acting like anything.”
You let out a quiet breath, the kind that suggested you didn’t believe him but weren’t ready to argue about it yet. “You are, but okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push.”
That was the thing about you. You gave people space even when you deserved answers. You trusted that if something mattered, it would be said eventually.
Jack used that against you without meaning to.
He let the distance grow, convincing himself that it was the right thing to do. Every time he saw you laughing with someone else or focusing on your work with that same unwavering attention, he told himself he was protecting you. You didn’t need someone like him complicating things. You didn’t need someone who had already been worn down by this place, someone who didn’t believe in the same things you still held onto so easily.
The breaking point came on a night that felt too familiar, the kind of shift where everything seemed to pile up at once and there was no time to breathe. A patient didn’t make it, a kid not much younger than you, and Jack saw the way it affected you even though you tried to hold it together. Your hands were steady when they needed to be, your voice controlled, your movements precise, but there was something beneath all of it that he recognized immediately because he’d felt it too many times before.
You stepped outside for air, and he followed without thinking.
You were sitting on the curb, your posture slightly slumped, your gaze fixed somewhere distant. When he approached, you didn’t seem surprised, just aware.
“He wasn’t supposed to die,” you said quietly.
“They never are,” he replied, but the words sounded empty even to him. “But there is nothing else you can do.”
You turned your head slightly, looking at him in a way that made it clear you weren’t going to let that answer stand. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
He didn’t argue, because you were right.
There was a moment of silence before you spoke again, your tone shifting just enough to make it clear that this wasn’t only about the patient anymore. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
He exhaled slowly, already feeling the conversation slipping into territory he had been trying to avoid. “I’ve been busy.”
“Don’t do that,” you said, your voice still calm but firmer now, you were getting angrier.
“Do what?”
“Pretend like I don’t deserve a real answer.”
That landed harder than he expected, not because it was harsh, but because it was true.
He finally looked at you, and for a second, he considered telling you everything, explaining the thoughts that had been running in circles in his head for weeks. Instead, he chose the version that would push you away cleanly, the version that would hurt enough to make you let go.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you.
Your expression shifted, confusion mixing with something more guarded. “What isn’t?”
“This. Whatever this is.”
You let out a small, disbelieving breath. “There is no ‘this,’ Jack. At least not officially. There never was.”
“Exactly.”
The response didn’t land the way he expected. Instead of ending the conversation, it only made your gaze sharpen, like you were trying to understand how something that had felt so real could be dismissed so easily.
“Then why does it feel like there was?” you asked.
He didn’t answer that, because he couldn’t.
“You deserve better,” he said instead, and even as the words left his mouth, he knew they sounded like an excuse.
Your reaction wasn’t immediate heartbreak, which almost made it worse. You looked frustrated, like you were hearing something you fundamentally disagreed with.
“I didn’t ask for better,” you said. “I just asked for you.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Why?”
Because I will ruin this. Because I don’t know how to keep something good without breaking it. Because you’re still whole in ways I stopped being a long time ago.
“I’m not what you think I am,” he said instead.
You shook your head slightly. “I work with you. I see you every day. I know exactly who you are.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Then tell me.”
He didn’t. Instead, he took a step back, creating distance that felt final in a way neither of you had said out loud yet.
“I’m trying to do the right thing,” he said.
“For who?” you asked.
“For you.”
Your expression softened then, but not in a way that meant you agreed. It looked more like disappointment, like you were realizing something you didn’t want to accept.
“That’s not your decision to make,” you said quietly.
“It is if I’m the problem.”
“You’re not,” you started, but he cut you off.
“I am.”
The certainty in his voice stopped you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, after a pause that felt heavier than anything else that had been said, you nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He hadn’t expected that. He thought you would argue more, push back harder, force him to confront the things he was avoiding.
But you didn’t.
“If that’s what you want,” you added, your voice steady even if your eyes weren’t.
He nodded, even though it wasn’t what he wanted at all.
“Take care of yourself, Jack,” you said, and then you walked away.
The Pitt didn’t change after that. Why would it do? It remained exactly what it had always been, loud and relentless and unforgiving. Jack kept working, kept moving from one patient to the next, kept doing everything he was supposed to do without hesitation. From the outside, nothing about him seemed different.
But you were no longer part of his routine, and the absence of you settled into everything in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
He noticed it in small moments at first, like when he reached for a second coffee out of habit before remembering you weren’t there to take it, or when he caught himself looking up during a shift because he expected to see you nearby. He noticed it in the break room, in the hallways, in the quiet seconds between tasks when his mind had nothing else to focus on.
You were still there, of course, just not with him. You smiled at other people, talked to other coworkers, moved through the hospital with the same presence you had always had. You hadn’t changed, and that had been the entire point.
So why did it feel like he had made a mistake?
Then everything went wrong at once.
A trauma case came in fast, louder than usual, voices overlapping as the team moved to receive the patient. Jack shifted immediately, stepping into place, his focus narrowing as it always did when things escalated. There was blood, there were shouted instructions, there was the controlled chaos he knew how to navigate without hesitation.
And then, in the middle of it, something else happened.
It wasn’t even part of the case.
A crash from the other side of the room, sharp and sudden enough to cut through everything.
Jack’s head snapped up before he could stop himself.
A piece of equipment had gone down hard, metal hitting tile with a sound that made everyone flinch, and in the movement, in the confusion of too many bodies in too small a space, someone had been caught in it.
You.
For a second, nothing made sense. The noise, the movement, the way people shifted around you—it all blurred together until his brain caught up with what he was seeing.
You were on the ground.
Not moving.
Something in his chest dropped so fast it felt physical, like the air had been pulled out of his lungs before he could react. He didn’t remember crossing the room, didn’t remember leaving his patient or handing anything off, only that one second you were across the chaos and the next he was there, kneeling beside you.
“Hey—hey, look at me.”
His voice sounded wrong, too sharp, too tight.
There was blood, not a lot but enough, a thin line near your temple where you must have hit something on the way down. Your eyes were closed, your body too still, and for a moment that stretched longer than it should have, there was nothing.
Then you shifted slightly, a small, disoriented movement, and his breath came back all at once.
“Hey,” he said again, softer this time, one hand hovering near your face before he forced himself to focus. “Can you hear me?”
Your eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first before landing on him. “Jack…?”
Relief hit him hard enough to make his hands shake, but he kept them steady as he checked you over, his movements automatic even while something inside him was unraveling.
“Yeah, I’m here. Don’t move, okay? Just stay still for me.”
“I’m fine,” you murmured, already trying to push yourself up.
“No, you’re not,” he said immediately, more forceful than he meant to be. “Just—stay.”
You blinked at him, clearly still dazed, but you listened, settling back against the floor as someone else moved in to help. Around you, the ER kept going, the original trauma case still unfolding, voices still calling out instructions, but Jack’s entire focus had narrowed to you in a way that felt dangerous.
Because for that moment, nothing else mattered.
Not the patient he had left behind. Not the noise, not the urgency, not the rhythm he had spent years training himself to follow without deviation.
Just you.
The realization hit him before he could push it away.
This was what he had been trying to avoid. This exact moment. The loss of control, the shift in priorities, the way his entire world tilted because you were hurt.
Except it wasn’t hypothetical anymore.
It was real.
And it was worse than anything he had imagined.
They got you onto a bed, started running checks, voices calmer now that it was clear you were conscious, responsive. Jack stayed close, closer than he should have, watching every small reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the room.
“You hit your head,” someone said. “We’re just going to make sure everything’s okay.”
“I said I’m fine,” you insisted, your voice steadier now, though your gaze kept drifting back to Jack.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t trust himself to. His chest still felt tight, his thoughts louder than they had been in weeks.
You could have been seriously hurt.
You could have—
He stopped the thought before it finished, but it didn’t matter. The fear had already settled in.
The idea of losing you wasn’t abstract anymore. It wasn’t something he could distance himself from with logic or excuses.
It was something that had just almost happened right in front of him.
And he had felt it.
Fully.
Completely.
There was no going back from that.
—
He found you later, after everything had calmed down, after your scans came back clear, after the incident had been reduced to something manageable, something explainable.
You were sitting on one of the empty beds, a small bandage near your temple, looking more annoyed than anything else.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said as he approached.
You looked up, surprised. “I am resting.”
“That’s not resting.”
“It is compared to what we usually do.”
Despite everything, he almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, he stopped a few feet away, his expression more serious than you had ever seen it.
“What?” you asked, your tone shifting slightly as you picked up on it.
“I thought—” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair like he needed a second to get the words right. “When you went down, I thought—”
You watched him carefully, something softer settling in your expression.
“I’m okay,” you said gently.
“I know,” he replied. “But that’s not the point.”
Silence stretched between you, but this one wasn’t empty. It was full of everything he hadn’t said before.
“I was wrong,” he said finally.
You tilted your head slightly. “About?”
“Letting you go.”
Your gaze didn’t waver, but there was something guarded there now, something that hadn’t been before. “Jack—”
“I didn’t do it for you,” he continued, the words coming more easily now that he had started. “I told myself I did, but I didn’t. I did it because I was scared of this, of what it would feel like if something happened to you and I couldn’t do anything about it.”
Your expression softened, but you didn’t interrupt.
“And then it almost did,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And it wasn’t easier, it wasn’t better, it was worse. So much worse.”
You let out a slow breath, looking down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “You don’t get to decide what I’m worth risking, Jack.”
“I know,” he said immediately. “I know that now.”
“And you hurt me.”
“I know that too.”
Another pause, but this one felt like something being weighed instead of avoided.
“I’m still the same person,” you said. “This didn’t suddenly make me fragile.”
“I know,” he repeated. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you?”
He held your gaze, not looking away this time, not trying to soften the truth into something easier to accept.
“Because I don’t want to do this without you.”
The honesty in that settled into the space between you, heavy but not unwelcome.
You studied him for a long moment, searching for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that he might pull away again.
You didn’t find it.
“You’re an idiot,” you said finally, but there was no heat behind it.
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t get to run next time something scares you.”
“I won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he admitted. “But I can promise I’ll stay.”
That seemed to matter.
You nodded slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. “Okay.”
That word again, but this time it felt different.
Stronger.
More deliberate.
Jack let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Okay,” you repeated, a small smile forming despite everything. “But if you ever try to push me away again, I’m not making it this easy for you.”
“That’s fair.”
“And you’re buying me coffee for at least a month.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound unfamiliar after everything that had just settled between you. “Deal.”
You shifted slightly, wincing just a little before settling again, and he instinctively moved closer, his hand hovering near yours before he let it rest there, light but certain.
For the first time, he didn’t pull back.
Because the fear was still there. It hadn’t disappeared, hadn’t softened into something manageable or distant.
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: daughter! reader confronts jack about always spending time at the hospital and never making time for her
pairing: jack abbot x teenage daughter! reader
warnings: use of medical terminology, descriptions of a hospital setting, probably incorrect medical scenes
notes: another jack abbot x daughter! reader fanfiction because i’m having sm fun with them!!! if you have any requests feel free to ask! <3
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / next
You had grown to hate the sight of the ED.
It wasn’t always like this. When you were little, the emergency department had felt almost magical, bright lights, fast movement, people in scrubs who always seemed to know exactly what to do. You used to sit in the corner with a juice box, swinging your legs off a chair that was too tall, watching your dad move through the chaos like he belonged to it.
Back then, you told anyone who would listen that Jack Abbot was a superhero.
My dad saves people, you’d say, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Now, all you saw when you looked at the ED was everything it had taken from you.
The older you got, the more time Jack seemed to spend inside those walls and the less time he spent at home. Birthdays cut short. Dinners gone cold. Promises made with good intentions and broken just as easily.
You wouldn’t call him a bad father. That felt unfair. You knew, logically, clinically, almost, that he was trying. That people needed him. That emergencies didn’t pause for fireworks or family dinners.
But right now?
Right now, he’d made you come all the way down to the hospital on the Fourth of July because he’d forgotten his dinner at home.
A week ago, he’d promised you something different.
We’ll watch the fireworks together this year, he had said, already halfway out the door, keys in hand, voice distracted but hopeful.
You had nodded, pretending you believed him. You didn’t. And, of course, it went exactly how it always did.
“It’s gonna be a busy night,” he’d said yesterday, not even looking up from his phone as he scrolled through the staffing schedule. “Holiday weekends always are. Fireworks injuries, drunk driving… they’re gonna need all hands.”
You had just stood there, arms crossed, waiting for him to realize what he was saying. Waiting for him to connect the dots.
He never did.
So now you were here.
Walking through the sliding glass doors from the ambulance bay, the noise hit you first, monitors chiming, voices overlapping, the distant roll of a stretcher moving too fast over tile. The air smelled the same as always, antiseptic and something sharper underneath, something that never quite left.
You didn’t hesitate. You knew where everything was.
Your feet carried you straight toward the nurses’ station, weaving automatically around a paramedic pushing an empty gurney back outside and a nurse scanning medications into a chart. Someone nearby was calling for a set of vitals to be repeated; another voice asked for a respiratory therapist to come to room five.
Same chaos. Different day. Dana was exactly where she always was, behind the desk, glasses low on her nose as she looked over a chart.
You tightened your grip on the paper bag in your hand, Jack’s dinner, already cooling, and reminded yourself to look annoyed. To stay annoyed.
Before you could say anything, Dana looked up. Her expression softened instantly.
“Well, isn’t it my favorite Abbot.”
A smile spread across her face as she pulled off her glasses and stepped out from behind the counter, not even hesitating before wrapping her arms around you. The irritation you’d been holding onto slipped, just a little.
You melted into the hug before you could stop yourself, your forehead resting briefly against her shoulder. For a second, just a second, the noise of the department dulled, like the world had given you a break.
Then she pulled back, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes as she pushed your hair back to really look at you.
Dana had always been like that, like she could read everything you weren’t saying. You didn’t have the energy to fake it completely. Not with her.
You met her gaze, and whatever you were feeling must have shown, because her expression shifted, something more careful now, more concerned.
“How are you?” she asked softly, voice dropping just enough that it didn’t carry past the desk.
You let out a quiet sigh, glancing down for a moment as if the answer might be somewhere on the floor.
“I’m good,” you said, finally looking back at her, forcing a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Dana didn’t call you out on it. She just hummed quietly, one hand dropping from your face to your shoulder, giving it a small, grounding squeeze.
“Mm-hm,” she said, not convinced in the slightest.
You let out another sigh, sharper this time, frustration bubbling up at how easily she could read you. You hated that, how one look and she just knew. No pretending, no brushing it off.
Dana didn’t push.
She moved back behind the counter, slipping her glasses back on as she picked up the chart she’d been reviewing. Her eyes flicked over it quickly, pen tapping once against the paper before she glanced back up at you.
“You can sit at my station,” she said, already half-focused on what was in front of her again. “Jack’s gonna be a while, he just got called into a trauma.”
That did it. The irritation came rushing back, hot and immediate.
“Of course he did,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
Because why wouldn’t he be?
You moved around the counter, dropping into the chair beside her. The paper bag crinkled as you set Jack’s dinner down on the desk a little harder than necessary, like it had personally offended you.
A trauma. Of course that mattered more.
You pushed off lightly with your foot, letting the chair spin just a little as you glanced out across the ED.
From back here, everything felt different, closer, louder, harder to ignore. Phones rang intermittently. A printer spat out labels in short bursts. Someone nearby was drawing up medication, flicking a syringe to clear air bubbles before heading toward a room.
You got bored of looking around almost immediately.
There was a time when all of this felt fascinating, like every movement meant something important, like if you just watched closely enough, you’d understand how everything worked.
Now?
It was just noise.
You stared straight ahead for a moment, eyes unfocused, before glancing back at Dana. She was still looking down at the tablet in her hands, scrolling through a chart, completely locked in.
“Hey, Dana?” you said.
She hummed in response, not even looking up.
You hesitated for half a second before asking, “Can I watch Netflix on your computer?”
That got her attention.
Dana looked up slowly, giving you a really? look without saying a word. You immediately flashed her your most innocent smile.
It didn’t work.
“That look doesn’t work on me anymore, missy,” she said flatly, already looking back down at her tablet. “And you know the answer is no.”
“Oh, come on,” you pushed, leaning forward slightly in your chair. “You know it’s gonna be, like, an hour. You used to let me all the time.”
“Yeah,” Dana replied, scrolling again, completely unbothered, “when you were eight. You’re seventeen now. Why don’t you just go on your phone?”
You slumped back dramatically. “Because it never works here. Please, Dana, I’m gonna die of boredom.”
She huffed out a small laugh at that, shaking her head.
“You don’t have to stay, you know,” she said, glancing at you again. “I can give Jack his dinner when he comes out.” She paused for a second before adding, a little more gently, “Aren’t you supposed to be watching fireworks with your friends tonight?”
And just like that, the smile slipped.
It wasn’t dramatic, no big reaction, no sudden shift, but it dimmed, like someone had quietly turned down a light.
Because how were you supposed to explain that?
That the only reason you were here, sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a place you couldn’t stand, was because you hadn’t seen your dad all day?
That you had canceled on your friends, on actual plans, on something normal, because for once, he’d said he’d be there?
We’ll watch the fireworks together.
You swallowed, looking down at your hands, picking at the edge of the paper bag without really thinking about it.
“Yeah,” you said after a second, your voice quieter now. “I was.”
Behind you, a monitor alarmed again, sharp and insistent, followed by hurried footsteps and a voice calling out for a doctor.
The trauma room doors were still closed. Still busy. Still more important.
You leaned back in the chair, forcing your expression back into something neutral before Dana could look too closely.
“Guess not anymore,” you added, trying for casual and missing it just slightly.
Dana’s brows knit together, her mouth opening like she was about to ask what was really going on with you, but before she could, a familiar voice cut across the noise of the ED.
“Look who it is! The brooding teenager finally decided to grace us with her presence.”
Robby.
You didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.
A second later, he appeared at the counter, leaning casually against it like he had all the time in the world, even with everything happening around him. His scrubs were slightly wrinkled, a pair of gloves tucked into his pocket, stethoscope slung loosely around his neck.
He looked down at you expectantly, waiting for the usual reaction, some sarcastic comment, an eye roll, something.
Instead, all he got was a small, half-hearted chuckle and a quick smile before your gaze dropped right back to your hands.
You picked at the chipped burgundy nail polish on your thumb, scraping at the edge until it lifted.
Robby’s expression shifted almost immediately. It was subtle, but it was there.
Because this wasn’t you.
“Damn,” he said lightly, trying to recover the moment, though his tone had softened just a bit. “That’s it? No comeback? I’m losing my touch.”
You shrugged one shoulder, still not looking up. “Maybe.”
Across from you, Dana watched the interaction closely.
Robby glanced up at her, eyebrows raising slightly in a silent what’s going on?
Dana just gave a small shrug, lips pressing together, she didn’t know either.
A call rang out overhead, “Respiratory to trauma bay, now” and somewhere behind Robby, a monitor alarm escalated into a sharper, more urgent tone before being silenced.
The trauma doors still hadn’t opened.
Robby followed your line of sight for half a second, then looked back at you, something more serious settling in his expression.
“You waiting on your dad?” he asked, gentler now.
You nodded once, still focused on your nails, picking at another chipped edge.
“Yeah.”
It came out quieter than you meant it to.
Robby exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight against the counter. “He’s gonna be tied up for a bit,” he said. “That one’s… not quick.”
You didn’t respond. Didn’t look up.
Just kept picking at your nails like if you focused hard enough on something small, it would keep everything else from spilling over.
Behind him, the trauma bay doors finally swung open for a split second, just enough to catch a glimpse of movement inside. A team clustered around the bed, voices overlapping.
“Pressure’s dropping—”
“Get a chest tube tray—”
“Where’s Abbot?”
The doors shut again just as fast. Robby went still for half a beat. Then his eyes flicked back down to you. And this time, he didn’t try to joke.
Inside the trauma room, Jack finally had a second to step back, not fully disengaging, just enough to take in the bigger picture. The team was moving fast but efficiently. Monitors were cycling, numbers updating in real time. Someone was setting up for a chest tube, sterile packaging torn open and dropped onto the tray.
“BP’s still soft, eighty over fifty,” a nurse called out.
“Hang another liter,” Jack replied automatically, eyes already shifting.
He glanced out through the glass. A habit. A quick scan of the department, making sure nothing else was crashing, nothing else needed him, and that’s when he saw them.
Dana. Robby. And someone sitting at the station.
His eyes narrowed slightly, trying to place the figure and then you turned in the chair.
“Shit,” Jack breathed, the word barely leaving his lips.
He checked the wall clock without meaning to.
8:57 PM.
He’d called you at the start of his shift. Told you it would be quick. Told you to just drop it off.
He knew you hated being here. He just… hadn’t thought it would turn into this.
Hadn’t thought at all, really.
Jack dragged a hand briefly over the back of his neck before looking back at the team.
They had it under control for the moment.
“Hey, you got this for a sec?” he said, already stepping backward. “I’ll be right back.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Shen replied, not looking up as he worked.
Jack didn’t wait.
He pushed through the trauma room doors, the noise of the ED rushing back in immediately as he made a beeline for the nurses’ station.
“Ah! Just the person we were waiting for!” Dana called out as soon as she saw him, her tone light, but her eyes weren’t.
Robby looked at him next.
Then quickly over at you.
Then back at Jack.
A look passed between them, something silent, something questioning.
What’s going on with her?
Jack frowned slightly, not understanding. He didn’t have time to ask.
Because you were already moving. You didn’t say hello. Didn’t hesitate.
You pushed up from the chair, grabbing the paper bag off the counter and walking straight toward him.
“Hey, Bear, sorry I had you wai—”
The words were cut off as the bag hit his chest, your hand pressing it into him just firmly enough to stop him.
“It’s fine,” you said, your voice tight, controlled. “See you in the morning.”
You forced a small, tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach your eyes.
And then you were gone.
Turning on your heel and heading straight for the ambulance bay doors without waiting for a response.
For a second, Jack just stood there.
Holding the bag.
Watching you walk away.
“Bear—” he started, the word coming too late, too quiet to catch you over the noise of the department.
The doors slid open.
Then shut behind you.
And just like that, you were gone.
Jack exhaled slowly, something heavy settling in his chest as he stared at the empty space where you’d been.
Jack didn’t think.
For once, he didn’t calculate, didn’t prioritize, didn’t run through the list of everything that needed him more.
He just went after you.
“Shen’s got it,” he muttered, already pushing through the ambulance bay doors.
The noise dropped the second he stepped outside.
Not gone, just… distant. Muted by the open air.
Fireworks cracked somewhere overhead, bright flashes reflecting off the concrete and the side of the ambulances lined up along the bay. The smell of smoke drifted faintly through the air, mixing with the lingering scent of antiseptic that clung to him.
You were already halfway across the bay, walking fast, head down, shoulders tight.
“Hey!” Jack called. “Bear—hey, wait up.”
No response.
If anything, you picked up your pace.
He jogged the last few steps, reaching out and catching your wrist, not hard, just enough to stop you.
“Hey—”
You spun around immediately, pulling your arm free like his touch burned.
“What?” you snapped.
Jack blinked, thrown, not by the volume, but by how sharp it was. How done you sounded.
“I just—” he started, trying to find his footing, “you didn’t have to leave like that.”
You let out a breath through your nose, shaking your head slightly like you couldn’t believe what you were hearing.
“No, I didn’t have to come at all,” you said.
The words landed heavier than you probably meant them to.
Jack’s jaw tightened. “I said I was sorry. I got pulled into a trauma—”
“I know,” you cut in quickly. “I know, okay? You don’t have to explain it to me. I’ve been around this place my entire life, remember?”
There was something almost mocking in that, like the knowledge didn’t make it better, just made it worse.
Jack exhaled, slower this time, trying to keep his voice even. “Then you know I didn’t have a choice.”
You laughed, short, hollow.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding like that proved your point. “Exactly.”
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you never have a choice,” you said, your voice rising just a little. “There’s always something. There’s always someone. There’s always a reason you can’t just—” you stopped yourself, pressing your lips together.
“Can’t just what?” he pushed gently.
“Be there,” you snapped.
Silence stretched between you for a second, broken only by another firework popping in the distance.
Jack ran a hand over the back of his neck, tension settling in his shoulders. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” you shot back immediately. “You told me it would be quick. You said I could just drop it off and we’d go home.”
“I thought it would be,” he said. “I didn’t plan for a trauma to come in—”
“But it did,” you interrupted. “It always does.”
That hit something.
Jack’s expression hardened slightly, not angry, but defensive now. “People don’t schedule emergencies.”
“I’m not asking them to!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “I’m asking you to stop acting like I’m just… something you can fit in when it’s convenient!”
He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” you demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I come second to everything in there.”
You pointed back toward the ED, the bright lights spilling out through the open doors behind him.
Jack followed your gesture for half a second before looking back at you. “That’s my job.”
“I know it’s your job!” your voice cracked now, frustration bleeding into something sharper. “God, everyone always says that like it’s supposed to make it better.”
“It should,” he said, a little firmer. “I’m helping people—”
“And I’m your kid!” you cut him off, louder now. “I’m supposed to matter too!”
The words echoed slightly in the open space.
Jack stilled.
You swallowed hard, blinking quickly, but once it started, you couldn’t stop.
“I canceled on my friends tonight,” you admitted, your voice shaking now. “I had plans. I had an actual night where I wasn’t just sitting at home waiting for you to maybe show up, and I canceled because you said—” your breath hitched slightly, “you said we’d watch the fireworks together.”
Jack’s face fell.
“I meant that,” he said quietly.
“Yeah?” you laughed again, but there was no humor in it now. “When? Between patients? While you’re checking someone’s vitals?”
“Hey,” he said, stepping closer again, softer this time. “I’m trying—”
“No, you’re not,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re trying there. You’re always trying there.”
The words hung heavier this time.
A louder crack split the sky above you, a burst of light illuminating everything for a brief second, the ambulances, the concrete, the distance between you.
Jack looked at you like he wanted to fix it.
Like he just didn’t know how.
“I didn’t ask you to cancel your plans,” he said carefully.
“No,” you said, your voice dropping, quieter but more cutting. “You didn’t. You just said something for once, and I believed you. That’s on me, right?”
Jack flinched at that.
“Don’t—” he started, but you shook your head again.
“I’m tired,” you said. “I’m tired of getting my hopes up every time you say something’s gonna be different. I’m tired of coming down here and pretending I don’t hate it, just so I can see you for five minutes in between everything else.”
Jack opened his mouth—
The ambulance bay doors slammed open behind him.
“Dr. Abbot!” a nurse called, breathless. “We need you, he’s crashing. Pressure’s dropping, they’re preparing to intubate—”
Time seemed to split. Jack turned halfway toward the voice, instinct pulling him back inside, then he looked at you.
You let out a quiet, defeated laugh, stepping back.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding toward the doors. “Go. Something more important.”
Jack’s head snapped back. “Hey, don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” you asked, almost exhausted now.
“Don’t make it sound like that,” he said, firmer. “This is someone’s life.”
“And I’m your kid,” you said again, softer this time, but somehow worse. “I’m supposed to be your life too.”
That one didn’t come out as a yell. It came out honest. And that’s what made it hurt.
The nurse hovered awkwardly near the door, urgency written all over her face. “Dr. Abbot—”
Jack closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight.
When he looked at you again, there was something heavier there. Guilt. Conflict. Helplessness.
“I do care,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”
Your expression didn’t change.
“If you cared,” you said, barely above a whisper now, “you’d stay.”
The worst part?
He wanted to.
You could see it in the hesitation. In the way he didn’t move right away.
But then another shout from inside. And reality snapped back into place. Jack glanced toward the doors, then back at you.
“I have to go,” he said.
Wrong answer.
You nodded once, like you’d already expected it.
“Yeah,” you said. “I know.”
Another firework burst overhead, bright and loud and completely ignored.
Jack lingered for half a second longer, like he might say something else, like he might fix it but he didn’t.
He turned. And ran back inside.
Leaving you alone in the ambulance bay, surrounded by noise and light and everything you weren’t watching.
summary: you’ve always been a little clumsy, but this time it lands you in the hospital with no memory of what happened after the crash. your neighbour, jack, remembers everything though, especially what you confessed to him. (7.2k+)
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader
content: hurt/comfort, neighbours to lovers, slow burn payoff, tension, very very light angst, protective!jack, accidental confession, mutual pining. cw: head injury, concussion, brief loss of consciousness, blood mention, medical inaccuracies, not proof read soz.
“Could you come and fix it?” you say into the phone, voice pitched just a little too casual considering the state of your living room.
You’re standing there, kind of uselessly, staring at the bookshelf you just finished building — or, well, thought you had. It had held together for a solid three seconds after the last screw went in before the entire thing gave up on life and collapsed in on itself like it had personal beef with you.
Pieces of wood are still scattered across the floor. One of the shelves is leaning against the wall at an angle that feels almost judgmental.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. You hear fabric shift, the low rustle of sheets, and then a quiet exhale.
“Yeah… yeah, I’ll come.”
His voice sounded rough through the phone, sleep heavy, a little gravelled, and guilt immediately creeps up your spine.
Shit. You definitely woke him.
You hesitate, chewing lightly at the inside of your cheek as you glance around the mess again. This wasn’t even the first time. Ever since you’d moved into the house next to his, it had somehow… become a thing. If you had a loose cabinet door, flickering light, a lock that wouldn’t turn properly, you would call him.
And every single time, he showed up.
“I’m really sorry,” you wince, pacing a small circle around the mess like that’s somehow going to fix it, “it’s just– I actually tried doing it myself this time, and it looked like it went well. Until it didn’t.”
You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, your hand coming up to scratch at your eyebrow, a nervous habit you’ve never managed to shake.
Another pause. Softer this time.
“Hey,” he says, a little clearer now, like he’s forcing himself properly awake, “it’s fine. Seriously.”
You’re not convinced.
If he was napping in the middle of the afternoon, then he was off shift, which meant this was probably one of the only quiet hours he got to himself all week. With the kind of hours he worked at the hospital, long shifts that seemed to blur into each other and never really end when they were supposed to, sleep wasn’t something he got nearly enough of.
The last thing you wanted was to be the reason he didn’t get it.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumble, quieter now, eyes flicking back to the mess like it might suddenly resolve itself out of pity. “I can– I can figure it out, if you want. You don’t have to come.”
There’s a brief pause. “Too late.”
You blink.
“What?”
“I’m already up,” he says, there's something dry in his voice, something faintly amused, like he’s already decided that he’s going to come over and fix it whether you like it or not. “And I’d rather fix it once than come over later when it’s somehow worse.”
“That’s very optimistic of you,” you mutter.
“Experience,” he shoots back easily.
Despite yourself, your lips twitch.
“Don’t worry about it,” he adds, softer now, and you can practically hear him dragging a hand down his face, grabbing for a shirt or whatever’s closest. “You’re not the first person to lose a fight to flat-pack furniture.”
“That makes me feel worse, actually.”
“It shouldn’t,” he says, a beat passing before his tone shifts, something lighter threading through it. “What can I say? I guess I’ve got a way with my hands.”
You go completely still.
There’s a brief, dangerous pause where your brain tries to decide whether that was a joke, a joke, or something you’re definitely overthinking.
Because there’s no way he just said that.
Right?
Your eyes flick to nothing in particular, grip tightening slightly around your phone as the words replay in your head, slower this time, like that’s somehow going to help.
I’ve got a way with my hands.
Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re standing alone in your living room reacting like this over a sentence that may or may not have been completely innocent.
He probably didn’t mean it like that.
He definitely didn’t mean it like that.
…He absolutely meant it like that.
You press your lips together, inhaling through your nose like that’s going to reset your brain. It doesn’t.
“Right…” You clear your throat, dragging your attention back to the mess in front of you like it might ground you. It doesn’t.
“Yeah. We’ll– we’ll see about that, Abbot. Just ring the bell when you get here.”
“Mm. Try not to make it worse before I arrive.”
“Oh, shut up–”
You hang up before he can say anything else, your mouth still slightly parted. You stand there for a good five seconds, just blinking at nothing. Then you look back at the broken bookshelf.
God help you.
A good ten minutes go by, and you still don’t listen to him.
Because of course you don’t.
You’re crouched in front of the bookshelf again, one knee pressed into the floor, the screwdriver clutched a little too tight in your hand as you try, for the third time now, to get the top shelf to sit properly. Your head is half inside the frame, eyes narrowed as you angle the screw just right, tongue pressing lightly against your cheek in concentration.
“Okay just– stay,” you mutter under your breath, like the thing might actually cooperate if you asked nicely.
It doesn’t.
The doorbell rings.
And in the exact same second, the shelf gives way.
It comes straight down, catching the top of your head with a dull thud that makes your whole body jolt forward, the screwdriver slipping from your fingers as a sharp sting spreads instantly.
“Ow, shit,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut as your hand flies up to your head, pressing against the spot like that’s somehow going to undo it.
For a second you just stay there, hunched over, breathing through it, before letting out a quiet, annoyed exhale. “Perfect,” you mumble to yourself, pushing yourself up slowly, still a little dazed. “That’s just perfect.”
The bell rings again, longer this time.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” you call out, your voice slightly strained as you make your way to the door, your hand still resting on top of your head, your face caught somewhere between a grimace and irritation.
You open it, and there he is.
You take him in for a second without meaning to. The faint grey stubble along his jaw, his hair still slightly out of place like he didn’t bother fixing it before leaving, the simple black shirt and pants thrown on in a rush. There’s a look on his face already, caught between amusement and expectation, like he knew exactly what he was walking into before you even opened the door.
His eyes move over you quickly, taking in the hand on your head, your hair out of place, the look on your face, and you can see the moment it clicks to him.
You drop your hand a little too late to make it subtle.
A small smile threatens at his lips as he adjusts the toolbox in his hand, stepping forward when you shift to the side to let him in. You hold your breath for half a second as he passes you, the space between you just close enough to make you aware of it, before you shut the door behind him.
“Do I need to guess what happened,” he says, glancing down at you as he steps further inside, his voice still a little rough but clearer now.
You scoff softly, already turning to follow him. “Don’t start. I was trying to take matters into my own hands again, and apparently this shelf is harder to build than it looks.”
He hums like he’s not convinced, already walking into your living room, and he’s done it enough times to know exactly where he’s going. His eyes land on the mess almost immediately, taking in the scattered pieces, the half-built frame, the screw you’d dropped on the floor.
“Right,” he says after a second, one brow lifting slightly. “You tried.”
“I did try,” you shoot back instantly, crossing your arms, even though there’s still a faint sting at the top of your head reminding you how that went.
His gaze flicks back to you, slower this time, settling on your face, then your hair, then the spot your hand had been covering.
“What did you do.”
“Nothing,” you answer quickly, a little too quickly.
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s fine,” you insist, waving it off like it’s nothing even as you avoid looking at him properly. “It just hit my head a little, it’s not a big deal.”
He doesn’t say anything straight away, and that’s almost worse.
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine, Jack–”
“Let me see,” he repeats, already stepping closer, his tone not harsh but not really leaving you much room to argue either. It’s something about the way he says it, like he’s already decided and that’s that, and then there’s the way he’s looking at you — his eyes settling on your face, focused so intently that it makes your chest feel a little too warm all of a sudden, like you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
You hesitate for a second before letting your hand fall away, tilting your head slightly despite yourself. “It’s not even that bad,” you mumble, though it comes out weaker than you meant it to.
He doesn’t respond, just lifts his hand and brushes your hair aside, fingers careful as he checks the spot. There’s a brief pause while he looks at it properly, his expression shifting as the earlier amusement fades.
“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself. “That’s gonna be a bump.”
You let out a small, unimpressed breath. “Great. Love that for me.”
His hand drops away, but instead of saying anything else, he turns and heads toward your kitchen. You watch him go for a second, still standing where he left you, a little thrown off by how quickly he just takes over your space (not that you're complaining about it).
You hear the fridge door open, the low hum getting louder for a second, then the scrape of the freezer compartment, things shifting around as he moves stuff aside.
“Of course you’ve got nothing useful in here,” he mutters.
“There should be peas or something.”
“There are,” he says after a second. “Miraculously.”
You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you.
A moment later, he’s back, a bag of frozen peas in his hand as he stops in front of you. He doesn’t hand it to you.
Instead, he steps in closer, lifting it straight to your head before you can react.
You flinch slightly at the cold. “Oh–”
“Hold it,” he says, already reaching for your hand and bringing it up, pressing your fingers around the bag so you keep it in place. His touch lingers for half a second before he lets go.
“Okay.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just turns and walks back over to where he dropped his toolbox, crouching down and flipping it open like he’s done this a hundred times before (he has.)
You don’t move.
For a second, you just stand there, hand pressed to your head, watching him. Or more specifically — You’re watching the way his back shifts under the black shirt as he bends slightly over the frame, the fabric pulling just enough across his shoulders, his arms moving as he starts sorting through the pieces, he makes it look so easy.
You blink, forcing your eyes away for a second, adjusting the peas against your head like that’s what you were focused on the whole time.
It doesn’t really work because you look back.
He’s still crouched there, focused on the shelf, completely unaware, and you’re suddenly very aware of how long you’ve just been standing there doing absolutely nothing.
You clear your throat, shifting your weight as you take a small step forward, still holding the peas to your head as you glance between him and the mess. “Do you– need help, or something, or are you just gonna do the whole thing yourself?”
He doesn’t even look up, already moving pieces back into place like he knows exactly what he’s doing, fingers working easily as he adjusts the frame. “No, you’re alright,” he says, like it’s obvious, like you asking was almost unnecessary.
And then, after a second, like it’s nothing, “Just sit and look pretty.”
You just stand there, your brain going completely fuzzy for a second as it registers what he just said, your grip tightening slightly around the bag of peas while your mouth opens a little before you can stop it.
You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that he can’t see your face right now, because if he could, you’re pretty sure he’d notice it instantly.
So you don’t say anything.
You just stand there, holding the peas to your head, trying to act like that didn’t just completely throw you off, even though it absolutely did.
He keeps going like nothing happened, adjusting the frame, tightening something into place before leaning back slightly to look at it, checking his own work.
You shift slightly, lifting the peas just a little off your head, your fingers moving to press lightly against the spot instead, testing it to see if it still hurts. The second you do, his head turns slightly over his shoulder.
“Don’t touch it,” he adds after a second, almost as an afterthought, still focused on the shelf. “Just leave it for a minute.”
You freeze for half a second before putting the peas back where they were, pressing them properly against your head doing exactly as he said.
“Okay,” you say, softer this time, a lot more normal than whatever you would’ve said earlier.
He keeps going like nothing happened, adjusting the frame, tightening something into place before leaning back slightly to look at it, like he’s checking his own work.
You watch him for a second longer than you should, adjusting the peas again just so you have something to do.
“Thank you,” you add after a moment. He pauses briefly at that, just for a second, before continuing like it didn’t affect him at all.
“Yeah of course,” he says easily.
It was an awkward predicament you found yourself in, one that seemed to happen so quickly you couldn’t even properly process how you got there in the first place. One second you were standing on the sidewalk after getting out of the sports bar you had gone to with a few friends you hadn’t seen in a while, still half caught up in the lingering conversation, your eyes scanning the street for a taxi that could take you home.
And then the next second, without even looking properly, you didn’t realise a bike was coming straight toward you along the sidewalk.
There was barely any time to react before the impact happened, the force of it knocking straight into you and sending both you and the rider crashing down onto the concrete. Your body hit the ground hard, but it was your head that took most of it, smacking sharply against the pavement that made everything jolt at once.
A loud groan leaves you instantly, the pain spreading so suddenly and so intensely that you don’t even think before running your tongue over your teeth in your mouth, checking them one by one to make sure they were still intact, still where they were supposed to be. The sensation was so overwhelming, that it made it hard for you to focus on anything else.
You don’t even register that people have started gathering around you, their voices overlapping, questions being thrown at you all at once as they hover nearby.
“Shit– I’m so, so sorry,” the man says quickly, the one who had collided with you.
You blink up at him through the blur, trying to focus your eyes enough to actually see him properly. He looks young, around your age, crouched close by, clearly shaken, his hands hovering like he doesn’t know whether to help you up or not. He looks completely fine in comparison, his helmet still strapped on, knee and elbow pads in place, protected in a way you clearly weren’t.
You try to sit yourself up from the ground, pushing against the concrete with your hands, but the second you do, a sharp sting spreads across your palms and arms. You hadn’t even noticed how badly you’d scraped yourself up until now. It barely registers though, not properly, not compared to the pounding in your head that only seems to get worse the more you try to move.
Your vision doesn’t clear either. It stays unfocused, everything still slightly out of place, and no matter how much you blink, it doesn’t quite fix itself.
You’d always been a little clumsy, always the type to trip over nothing or drop things at the worst possible time, but this was different. This wasn’t something you could laugh off later or brush away like it didn’t matter. It was worse.
“I’m okay, I think,” you mumble, the words coming out slower than you intended, your voice lacking any real certainty behind it.
The people around you don’t seem convinced.
There’s a shift in the air around you, a sudden stillness that you can’t fully understand, not when your head is still pounding and your vision refuses to cooperate.
“What?” you ask, more confused now, your brows pulling together as you try to make sense of their reactions.
You lift your hand to your head without thinking, fingers brushing against your temple as if to check it, and that’s when you feel it.
Something wet.
Sticky.
More than there should be.
Your hand comes back down into your line of sight, your eyes struggling to focus on it properly through the blur, and it takes longer than it should for your brain to catch up with what you’re seeing.
Blood.
A noticeable amount of it, smeared across your fingers and it doesn’t feel so minor anymore.
“Well, shit,” you mumble under your breath, the words barely leaving your mouth before everything around you starts to feel off again.
The noise of the crowd dulls, their voices becoming distant, like they’re being pulled further and further away from you. The ground beneath you feels unsteady, your vision darkening at the edges as the pounding in your head overtakes everything else.
Somewhere through the haze, you can hear the urgency in their voices shift. “Call an ambulance, quick—” But it all feels far away.
And then, just like that, everything goe s completely black as you fall back against the concrete.
Jack can’t quite take you off his mind.
Ever since you moved into the house next to his a couple months back, ever since that first day when you were tripping over the stairs trying to help the movers carry boxes into your place like you weren’t about to take yourself out before even settling in, he’d clocked you as someone he wouldn’t forget easily.
And it should’ve stopped there, it really should’ve, because it’s not like he doesn’t have other things to focus on, not like his job doesn’t take up most of his time anyway, but it didn’t, it just stuck. He never realised how often he was thinking about you until he caught himself doing it multiple times a day.
Robby would’ve absolutely lost it if he knew. Like actually laugh in his face, not even try to hide it.
Which is exactly why Jack never said anything.
Because it sounds ridiculous.
It feels ridiculous.
At least it did, up until the moment he sees you being wheeled into the E.R.
And for a second it doesn’t even register properly, because it’s just another stretcher, another patient coming in too fast, paramedics talking over each other, the usual noise that never really stops around here, until his eyes land on you and everything’s stopped in Jack’s world.
Your head’s turned to the side, there’s blood at your temple, too much of it, dried and fresh mixed together, your hair stuck where it shouldn’t be, and you’re not moving, not even a little, and that’s what gets him the most because you’re never still.
Robby’s saying something, holding something out to him, but Jack doesn’t take it, doesn’t even look, because his focus is completely gone, locked on you in a way that makes everything else feel like background noise.
“You alright, brother?” Robby asks, and there’s something in his voice this time, not just casual, not just checking in, because he’s clocked it straight away, the way Jack’s just stopped responding, like he’s not even there for a second.
Jack doesn’t answer him.
He’s already moving before anything else can catch up, already at your side, falling into step with the stretcher as they push you through, his eyes running over you quickly, trying to take in as much as he can at once, trying to piece it together in real time without letting it slow him down, even with that tight feeling sitting heavy in his chest.
“What happened?” he asks, already reaching for gloves, his voice coming out like it normally would, like this is routine, like it’s just another patient even when it very clearly isn’t.
“Bike collision,” one of the paramedics says, not missing a step. “She hit her head pretty hard on the pavement, was talking when we got there but not making much sense, kept drifting in and out, then stopped responding on the way here.”
Jack nods once, already there as they move you across, his hand coming up without thinking, steadying your head like it’s instinct, like muscle memory has kicked in before anything else could.
Which it has.
He’s done this a thousand times before.
Just not with you.
“Alright, get her on the monitor, let’s check her properly, and I want a scan ready,” he says, more to the room now, more to himself, slipping into it because that’s what he does, that’s what he knows, even if everything in him feels slightly off.
Robby’s there beside him again, quick like always, but there’s a look he gives Jack, brief but there, like he’s noticed more than he’s saying.
Jack doesn’t acknowledge it.
He doesn’t have the space for that right now.
Because his attention is already back on you, and this time it lingers a second longer than it should, taking you in properly, the way you look like this, the way you look too still for his liking.
He preferred you up and clumsy. Not like this.
As you’re laid down, somewhere between conscious and not, everything comes in pieces, sound first, then light, then shapes that don’t quite make sense straight away. You turn your head slightly, slower than you mean to, your mouth parting a little as your eyes try to focus, landing on him.
Jack.
He’s right there, by your side, talking to someone just out of your view, his voice low and quick, but you can’t really make out what he’s saying, it all kind of blends together in a way that makes your head feel heavier.
“Fancy seeing you here, doc,” you mumble, the words coming out a little off but still there, like you’re trying to make it sound normal even though nothing about this feels normal.
They move you properly onto the bed, and your brows pinch together almost immediately, a quiet wince slipping through as someone shines a light into your eye, then the other, the brightness too sharp for how your head already feels.
Jack’s attention shifts straight back to you the second you speak, his focus settling on your face properly now.
“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that, hm?” he replies, but it doesn’t sound like him, not really.
There’s no humour in it this time.
And you notice that.
Despite everything, you still smile at him, all teeth, like none of this is as serious as it probably should be, even with people moving around you, checking things, definitely listening even if they’re pretending not to.
“You know,” you start, your words coming out a little uneven but still very much you, “I think because of whatever they’ve pumped into me… I should probably confess my undying crush on you, Mr Abbot.”
You let out a small laugh to yourself, like the thought genuinely amuses you, your head shifting slightly against the pillow before immediately regretting it.
“I feel like this is a very good time for that,” you add, softer now, like you’ve convinced yourself it makes perfect sense. “You know… just in case I die or something.”
Jack just looks at you for a second, properly this time, like he’s trying to decide whether to humour you or shut it down completely.
“…You’re not dying,” he says, and it comes out more firm than anything else, like he’s not even entertaining that part of what you said.
You squint at him slightly. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he answers straight away.
You hum softly, like you’re weighing that up, even though you’re not really.
“Okay… but if I did,” you continue, still looking at him, “that would’ve been a really good confession. Like you would’ve thought about it for the rest of your life.”
There’s the smallest shift in his expression at that, something that almost looks like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite let himself.
“Yeah,” he says after a second, quieter now, “I’ll make sure to keep that in mind.”
You nod slightly, like that’s settled.
“Good.”
He exhales through his nose, then glances over his shoulder toward one of the residents, his focus snapping back into place.
“Keep checking her pupils,” he says, his tone shifting without effort. “She’s been in and out, so keep talking to her, make sure she’s tracking, and get her ready for a CT. I don’t want to miss anything.”
There’s a quick nod, movement picking up again around you.
When you wake up, it takes you a second to properly come to, your head feeling heavy as confusion settles in before anything else does. You blink a few times, trying to clear the haze from your eyes as you stare up at the ceiling, not fully registering where you are at first.
The room is quiet.
Not completely silent, but quiet enough that it feels strange, especially compared to the E.R. you only faintly remember being brought through, the noise and movement and voices that never seemed to stop. It’s different here, and it throws you off more than it should, like you’re expecting something else to happen even though nothing would.
You know what led you here. You remember the bike, the impact, the way everything happened too quickly for you to even react properly before you both went down onto the concrete. But after that it’s blank. Completely fuzzy. Like your brain just cut everything off. You don’t remember getting here. You don’t remember being brought in, or what anyone said to you, or how long you’ve even been here. Just bits and pieces that don’t quite connect, like you were in and out of it the whole time and your mind never fully caught up, which was what exactly happened.
The hospital bed beneath you feels stiff, uncomfortably so, and it only makes everything worse as you shift slightly, trying to sit up more properly. It’s not helping. If anything, it just makes you more aware of how off your body feels, like nothing is sitting right.
You move again, slower this time, trying to find some kind of position that doesn’t make you feel like you’re about to tip sideways or sink straight back into the mattress. The bed doesn’t cooperate, obviously.
“They really need to invest in better beds,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than anything, your voice still a little thick as it comes out. “People are gonna leave here with more problems than they came in with.”
You adjust again, one hand pressing lightly against the mattress to steady yourself as you sit up just a little more, even though it doesn’t actually make it any more comfortable. It just makes you more aware of everything — your head, your body, the fact that you’re here and not entirely sure how you got to this exact point.
And that part bothers you more than anything.
You don’t even realise when someone enters the room, only properly registering it when you hear the door shut. It makes you turn your head, slower than you mean to, and that’s when you see him.
Jack’s standing by the door, not fully inside yet, like he stopped himself halfway through walking in and couldn’t move himself further into the room. You don’t really understand why, but you don’t point it out.
What you do notice is the relief that crosses his face the second his eyes land on you. It’s quick, but it’s there, clear as anything, easing some of the tension that had been sitting in his expression. Like seeing you awake, sitting up, actually aware, settles something in him that had been building since you were brought in.
“Fancy seeing you here, doc,” you say repeating what you said hours ago (even though you didn’t remember saying it), a small smile pulling at your lips as you try to ease the tension that had filled the room the second you saw him.
He doesn’t answer straight away, and it gives you a second longer than you should have to actually look at him properly. His arms are crossed over his chest, his shirt pulling across his shoulders and biceps just enough that you have to stop yourself from staring any longer than you already are.
You drag your eyes back up, a little too late, and the second you meet his gaze again you can feel the heat surge through your body, because he’s already looking at you, not even pretending he wasn’t. His expression is still controlled, still holding onto composure, but there’s concern sitting there underneath it, clear in the way his hazel eyes stay on you.
“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that,” he says finally, his voice even, but not as light as it usually is with you, “I work here. You’re the one turning up as a patient.”
You don’t really know how to take that, and that’s what throws you off more than anything, because normally with him it’s easy, you know where you stand in the conversation, you know when he’s joking and when he’s not, but right now you can’t tell which one this is supposed to be.
You shift slightly against the bed, like you’re about to say something back, something quick or sarcastic just to ease it, but nothing actually comes out, and instead you just end up looking at him, the silence stretching a little longer than it should between you.
“You gave me quite the scare,” he adds after a second, and there’s no humour in it now, none of that usual back-and-forth you’re used to, just something honest that makes your expression shift without you meaning it to.
“I didn’t know you cared.” You say vulnerably.
“Of course I care,” he says, and now there’s something more familiar in his tone, something that actually sounds like him again, even if the concern hasn’t fully left his face. “Who else is going to call me every time something in your house decides to fall apart, hm.”
Your lips twitch at that despite yourself, a small breath leaving you as some of that tension in your chest eases, even if it doesn’t fully go away. “So that’s the only reason you care?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, your voice lighter than it probably should be for what you’re actually asking.
Even as the words leave your mouth, there’s a part of you that pauses, because you don’t really know where that came from. A week ago you could barely hold a normal conversation with him without overthinking every little thing he said, without second guessing the way you stood or where you looked whenever he was over fixing something in your house, and now you’re sitting here in a hospital bed questioning him like this without even hesitating.
It throws you off more than anything.
Maybe it’s the medication they’d given you earlier, still sitting somewhere in your system, loosening whatever filter you usually had, making it easier to say things you’d normally keep to yourself. That’s the only explanation you can come up with, because there’s no way you’d be this forward otherwise, especially not with him.
He watches you for a second after that, like he’s caught onto the shift just as much as you have, his gaze settling on you in a way that makes your chest feel warmer than it should.
“That’s not what I said,” he replies, his tone quieter now, but there’s something in it that makes it clear he’s not brushing you off, not really.
You watch as he finally moves fully into the room, like he’s done holding himself back, his hand reaching down to pull a chair from the wall beside the door before dragging it over and sitting right next to your bed. It’s close, closer than he needs to be, but neither of you say anything about it.
And now he’s right here, close enough that you don’t really have anywhere else to look.
His attention doesn’t leave you once.
It makes you want to look away, break it somehow, but you can’t bring yourself to. You just lay there, holding his gaze, even as it makes something in your chest tighten in a way you don’t want to think about too much.
“Do you remember anything?” he asks.
You let out a small breath, glancing down for a second like that might help you find something you missed. “I can remember the crash,” you say slowly, trying to piece it together as you speak, “like I remember the bike and hitting the ground and everything, but after that it just cuts off.”
You shift slightly against the bed, your brows pulling together. “Which I’m actually kind of thankful for, because if my head still feels like this now, I don’t even want to know how bad it was when I got brought in.”
He watches you the whole time, his gaze fixed on your face like he’s taking in every little detail, every shift in your expression, and it does something to him he doesn’t really want to sit with.
Because he remembers it.
He remembers it clearly, not in bits the way you do. He remembers the way you looked, the way you kept drifting in and out, the way you said it like it didn’t even cost you anything to say.
And he remembers exactly what you said.
“You don’t remember anything after that?” he asks again, and this time it’s not just a question, there’s something behind it, like he’s checking before he says anything else.
You shake your head, a little more sure this time even though it’s frustrating, like you should be able to remember and you just can’t. “No. Nothing. It’s just blank.”
You look at him properly then, and it’s the way he reacts that makes you pause. Not what he says, but what he doesn’t. He just nods once, like he expected that, but there’s a look on his face that says otherwise, one that you couldn’t name properly.
It doesn’t sit right with you.
“Why,” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, “did I do something?”
He huffs out a breath through his nose, like he almost laughs but doesn’t fully commit to it. “You always do something.”
“That’s not helpful,” you mutter, shifting a little on the bed as you look at him again, more serious now. “What did I say?”
He doesn’t answer straight away, which makes your stomach drop. Because if it was simply nothing, he would’ve said something, but it was as if he was holding himself back from doing so. It surely couldn’t be that bad, whatever you may have said.
“Jack,” you pressed, panic in your voice, “what did I say.”
He looks at you then.
“You told me you’re in love with me,” he says, like it’s a normal thing to say, like it didn’t just completely shift everything between you in the span of a second, “in front of half the room.”
For a second, you just look at him.
Properly look at him, like maybe if you stare long enough the words will rearrange themselves into something else, something less insane, something that actually makes sense coming out of your own mouth. Your brain lags behind, struggling to catch up, like it’s still stuck somewhere before the crash while everything else has moved forward without it.
“I what?”
“You heard me.”
Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out straight away, because it’s hitting you in pieces now, slow and heavy, each part worse than the last as it actually starts to settle.
“Oh my God,” you say, sounding utterly horrified.
“Oh my God,” you say again, louder now, your hand lifting instinctively before dropping again when your head protests the movement, the dull ache making everything feel that much more real. “No, I didn’t– I wouldn’t–”
You stop yourself.
Because you would.
“I am so sorry,” you rush out, the words picking up pace before you can even think about slowing them down, like if you don’t get them out now he’s going to look at you differently. “I didn’t mean to say it like that, or out loud, or in front of people– especially not your coworkers, like that is actually the worst possible place that could’ve happened, I literally could not have picked a worse moment for that if I tried–”
You drag a hand down your face, pressing your palm against your cheek for a second, your thoughts already running ahead of you before you can even catch them.
“I don’t even remember saying it, which somehow makes it worse, because now I’m hearing it from you and I don’t even get to know how it came out or what I said before it or after it, and that just makes me look even more insane–”
You glance at him quickly before looking away again, your voice getting faster the longer you keep going. “Did I say anything else? Actually don’t tell me, I don’t think I can deal with that right now, like genuinely I think I’d rather not know if it gets worse than that–”
A breath leaves you, somewhere between a laugh and something closer to a groan, your head tipping back slightly against the bed.
“This is so bad,” you continue, the words tumbling over each other now, your brain refusing to slow down. “Like I’ve completely ruined it, haven’t I? I’ve made it weird now, and you’re not even gonna come over anymore, and every time something breaks in my house I’m just gonna have to deal with it myself because I decided to confess my feelings in front of an entire hospital like that’s a normal thing to do–”
You barely paused to breathe, your thoughts running ahead of you faster than you can catch them, too caught up in defending yourself, in trying to explain it away, to even realise what you’ve just done again.
Because you’ve said it again.
Just as easily.
Right in front of him.
And you don’t even notice it but Jack does.
He doesn’t interrupt you though, doesn’t point it out, doesn’t say anything at all. He just sits there, watching you, one brow lifting slightly, amusement settling into his expression the longer you keep going, like he can’t quite believe you’re doing this without even realising it.
“And now you’re just sitting there,” you add, your voice still rushing out, “like I haven’t just made everything ten times worse, and I don’t even blame you if you don’t want to come near me after this because I wouldn’t either, I’d actually avoid me at all costs–”
You stop just enough to breathe, your chest rising a little quicker, your eyes finally landing back on him properly. There’s a small shift in his expression, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly, his brows lifting just a bit like he’s watching something you haven’t caught onto yet.
It doesn’t make sense to you, the way he’s acting like this, like you didn’t just make everything awkward between you, like you didn’t just ruin whatever this was supposed to be.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice softer now, more confused than anything.
What you didn’t expect was for him to suddenly lean forward, closing the short distance between you, and before you can even fully process what he’s doing, his hand comes up to your face, fingers settling along your jaw as he kisses you.
It shuts you up instantly.
Completely.
One second you were still mid-rant, the next you’re just there, kissing him, your brain trying and failing to catch up with what’s happening. Your breath catches slightly against him, your eyes fluttering shut as you lean into it without even thinking, your hand coming up to grip lightly at the fabric of his shirt like you need something to ground you.
His hand stays where it is, steady against your face, his thumb brushing just slightly against your skin as he deepens it, slow enough to make you feel it properly, like he’s been waiting to do this and finally decided to stop holding back.
And you respond just as easily to the kiss, like all that overthinking you usually do just isn’t there right now.
He tastes like coffee and mint, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to him from the hospital mixed with his cologne, and it settles into you in a way that makes your chest tighten, your fingers curling a little tighter into his shirt as you lean into him just a bit more.
You don’t even realise how long it lasts.
It’s only when he finally pulls back, slow and unhurried, that your head starts catching up, your breath still uneven as your eyes open and find his straight away.
You can feel it then, the heat you feel, the way everything feels just slightly off in the best way, and you’re pretty sure it shows, because there’s no way you look normal right now. A small smile pulls at your lips before you can stop it, and you try to turn your head, instinct kicking in like you suddenly remember how to be self-conscious again.
He doesn’t let you.
His hand stays where it is, steady against your face, and he dips his head just enough to keep your attention on him, his expression shifting into something that looks a little too pleased with himself, like he got exactly the reaction he wanted.
“Next time,” he says, his voice lower now, something warm sitting underneath it, “try saying it when you actually remember it.”
