࣪ ִֶָ☾arya⭒ @reidrum - Tumblr Blog

To Need Somebody

jack abbot x f!reader

summary: Every year, around the anniversary of his wife’s death, Jack starts slipping away from you piece by piece—and this time, the loneliness festering between you finally reaches a breaking point.

cw: angst, smut (mdni, 18+), arguments, misplaced jealousy, insecurities, discussions of death, jack's not doing great, a happy ending

smut warnings: the opening scene involves consensual sex with some internal conflict and hesitation from the reader. there’s no explicit refusal, but there are moments of discomfort and emotional tension, so please read with that in mind.

wc: 5k

a/n: I’m lying, this fic is 4.9k words. not beta read bc i don't want to

now playing: Renegade – Big Red Machine, Taylor Swift

You have loved Jack long enough to recognize the signs. The fleeting eye contact, the missed dinner reservations, the drifting—he turns into a ghost around this date, like he can’t wait to join the woman he truly yearns for in the afterlife.

Part of you is aware that he doesn’t mean to hurt your feelings, and that you are hardly being fair in your bitterness, but the jealousy comes and won’t go when you watch him sink into his melancholia.

You hold your breath and hope that the phase passes, as it always does, and that while it does, your soul stays intact. Despite the vicious covetousness that floods through your every vein, you want him to feel your support—you can’t begin to imagine what it feels like to have lost the love of your life. You only know what it feels like not to be the love of his life.

It’s the early morning, and for once, Jack isn’t coming from his night shift to immediately get himself shot with SWAT. You hear the front door close, then the soft thump of his shoes being placed in the cupboard. Only half asleep, you can picture his after-work routine: a full glass of water downed in one sip, a quick shower, and then a fresh pair of pajamas. Except for the change of clothes and the removal of his prosthetic, none of those things happen before he slips into bed.

His hands are cold when they find your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You wait for the kiss on your cheek that he usually bestows upon you to greet you, but it never comes.

“Hi,” you mumble, sleep sticking to your voice.

He hums a half-answer, not a single word actually discernible.

You’d blame it on a bad shift if the upcoming Friday wasn’t that date.

Jack moves a little, and his hands wander up from your side to cross in front of your chest. It’s harder to breathe like this, but you missed him so much you won’t complain.

Your nipples harden when his fingers brush over your breasts, and heat collects in your lower tummy, along with the slightest bit of discomfort. You would never say it out loud, but you’re terrified he’s imagining her right now.

He palms you through your camisole, his cool hands gentle but demanding.

It was one of the first things you noticed about him—how cold his hands always were. He had laughed when you told him and said he was a doctor, that that was just part of the job. And it stayed true to this day; whether he was holding your hand, passing you something, or burying his fingers deep inside you, his skin was always icy enough to make you shiver a little.

You want to speak up, say something to him, ask him about his day, but the only thing that makes it out of your mouth is a soft moan when he cups your breast and kneads it.

“Such a pretty sound, baby,” he whispers. His lips brush the outer shell of your ear, chasing goosebumps up and down your arms. His breath ghosts over your face, and your lashes flutter, fighting to stay open as Jack spins his webs of sweet comfort around you.

He spends so much time working you open and pliant for him—tugging and twisting your nipples until you are writhing right in his arms, desperation turning you into a whining mess. Only then does he move his fingers lower. They drift between the valley of your breasts, then over your belly button, until he meets the edge of your panties.

“Jack,” you gasp, his name more prayer than anything else.

He shushes you sweetly, then slips underneath your waistband. You’re warm and wet and gooey, like honey on the stove. His fingers drag through your folds, collecting your arousal that already drenches your underwear.

“Fuck,” he whispers, “So goddamn wet for me. Missed me that much, hm?”

He has no idea. How much you still miss him even now, while his pointer and middle finger circle your clit, the pressure just gentle enough to keep you eager.

“Jack—yeah, I-I did,” you manage to answer.

With his free hand, he finds your mouth. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip before he tugs it down a little. Your tongue darts out almost instinctively, and he uses that opportunity to press the pad of his finger against the wet muscle. When your lips close around his digit, he moans out loud.

The pressure in your mouth almost makes you gag, but with his fingers teasing your entrance, all you can think about is how badly you want him. You keep letting your tongue swirl around his finger, sucking him deeper into the hollow of your throat, while his middle and ring finger slip inside of you.

At first, the fullness is what you’ve been waiting for. Your warm walls stretch for him, accommodating the size of his digits that work their way in and out of you. But when he thrusts his fingers deeper into you, there’s a new coldness introduced, one you wish wouldn’t belong to him. As he curls his fingers to meet your G-spot, you feel the hard metal of his wedding ring bite against your skin. It’s a sensation you’ve gotten used to, but today, it feels different—just another reminder that there was someone before you, someone Jack would give anything to have again.

Your jaw grows slack with his thumb still inside your mouth, and part of you wants to tap out, but the heat at the base of your spine grows tighter. The knot unravels as his fingers piston in and out of you, and you cum on his hand with a muffled cry.

Jack works you through your release until you are shaking from overstimulation and pushing his hands away.

“That was a good one, huh?” he mutters, and pulls his respective hand from your mouth and cunt. You are still catching your breath as you nod, tears that won’t spill collecting on your waterline.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

Jack hugs you from behind, wrapping his big arms around your middle. You stare at the wall in front of you, waiting for that inherent feeling of sadness to pass.

“How was work?” you ask.

“Fine,” he answers, then presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “Less busy than usual.”

He clears his throat and tightens his arms around you. “I’m really tired,” he declares softly.

You swallow hard, the spit in your mouth bitter.

“You should get some sleep then, my love,” you whisper, “I gotta get up soon anyway.”

--

You’ve learned to only ever cry in the shower when Jack gets like this. It wouldn’t be fair to him to unload your burdens and insecurities on him while he is grieving the life he could have lived.

As the warm water cascades down your back, and the suds of soap collect at your feet, you let the tears flow until you no longer feel like you are going to choke on them. The lump in the back of your throat doesn’t exactly go away, but it eases. You breathe a little better, and the tightness in your chest feels more like a memory than an active threat.

Wrapped in a towel, you stand in front of the mirror and look at yourself. You might look worse than him—dark circles under your eyes, your lips dry and flaky. You pull on the dead skin with your teeth until you bleed, then put on moisturizer and get dressed.

Jack is asleep, or pretends to be, when you walk into the bedroom. His eyes are shut, his chest rises and falls softly. Your wet hair drips down the back of your neck and drenches your fresh blouse.

For a moment, you watch your boyfriend. He always looks younger in his sleep, but it is so obvious that this time of the year is tough on him. It’s not that you expect him to just be okay; you’re not that selfish. You simply wish that he would talk to you instead of acting like things were fine. But then again, one might say you are doing the same thing.

So you keep getting ready for the day and make yourself lunch while this large cloud of things left unsaid hangs over you.

Work passes by in a blur and drags on simultaneously. It’s a little after 5 pm when you come home, and Jack is up by then. You put your shoes in the cupboard and walk into the kitchen.

“Hi,” you greet him.

Jack turns to face you, a tender smile on his lips. He crosses the room slowly, then kisses you briefly.

“Hey,” he answers when he pulls away. He smells freshly showered, and the tips of his hair are still a little wet.

As you lean against the counter, he fills up a glass of water and passes it to you.

“Drink up,” he says.

The gesture is sweet, but your skin crawls during the entire interaction. Everything feels so utterly performative and unreal that you almost wish he would leave for work early. The word ‘disassociation’ bounces around in your mind, just jumping out of reach every time you try to get a hold of it.

When you look at Jack, his face doesn’t mirror yours at all. He seems unaware of your emotional turmoil, as if he doesn’t take issue with the situation at all. His face might as well be blank.

Every day, you miss his smug smile, his cheeky remarks, and the way he loves to tease you. All those habits die down every time the date gets closer, and then it takes a few days afterwards until he builds up the courage to slip back into that persona.

Sometimes, you feel like you are being gaslit. Like you’re imagining all these issues, because he just won’t say or show that there is something wrong.

So you pour a little oil into the fire.

“Any plans for the weekend?” you ask. “I saw that you’re not working.”

His work schedule hangs on the fridge, this weekend being the only one blank for the entire month. You watch as Jack freezes in his step, just for a moment, before he fills his mug with tea.

“Nope, not really,” he answers then. Lie.

“Yeah?” you go on, knowing that you’re treading the line, and leaning dangerously to one side.

“Yes,” he says, a little sharper than before. His fingers tap against the counter once, twice, before he looks out the window. “Actually,” he continues, “Maybe I’ll visit the garage with Robby. Check out some bikes with him.” Lie.

“Oh,” you reply dumbly.

You watch as the tension builds in his shoulders, and you think you might have him now, but when he turns to face you, Jack is smiling.

“Yeah, don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t start riding, too,” he vows quietly. He holds your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, then kisses you again. There is not an ounce of feeling to it.

You smile weakly, and he accepts that.

The hour between your arrival from work and his parting for his shift, you spend in shared discomfort. You start cooking dinner and pack some of it for his ‘break’ that he won’t get, while he hovers in the kitchen like he is scared to leave you alone for too long, but not willing to talk to you either.

You’re incredibly thankful for the invention of music because you would have fled the house if Jack hadn’t turned on some jazzy playlist to cover the fact that neither one of you had anything to say to the other.

The second the clock strikes half past six, you pass Jack a Tupperware with his food, then kiss him goodbye. “Have a good shift,” you mumble when you pull away. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he answers, “Will try.”

The front door falls shut, and dinner tastes like ash.

--

On Thursday morning, things come to a boil.

Jack comes home from his shift, the look of death written all over his face. He barely even greets you before he walks straight to the bathroom and locks himself in there for thirty minutes. You call in sick to work when you hear the water running but never catch him stepping into the bathtub. Pure fear settles in your stomach, so you pace up and down in front of the bathroom. You know you should tell him you’re there for him and that he can talk to you, but you are too scared to spook him. Your nervous wandering turns into a slow trot before you slide down the bathroom door and sit there in silence.

It’s almost 10 am when you dare to call out his name. “Jack?”

You hear a gasp and a soft thump, then his voice follows. “Sweetheart? What- what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?”

The thick wood of the door makes him sound muffled, but you don’t miss his tone. Jack usually compartmentalizes well, even after a terrible shift, but right now, he sounds like rock bottom is close, and he is holding a shovel.

“I took the day off,” you reply.

He stays quiet for a moment. You picture him in the room, sitting on the edge of the bathtub or leaning over the sink with horror etched into his face, memories he’ll never shake replaying in his mind.

“Wish I had done that,” he murmurs then. The words are so quiet that you barely catch them, but you do.

You chew on your lip, trying to think of something to say, anything that might soothe his aching soul, but you can’t come up with anything. So you try the next best thing.

“Can you let me in?”

Your choice of words almost makes you laugh—after all, that is all you’ve wanted for the last few days.

The other side of the door stays quiet for a long while, and you almost give up hope. Until the lock clicks. You scramble to your feet just in time to meet Jack’s eyes. It breaks your heart to see him like this. Faint tear tracks glisten on his cheeks, wiped away hastily until his skin had reddened.

“My love…,” you mumble, and he looks away instantly.

“Just a bad shift,” he mutters, his eyes trained on the floor.

You shake your head and take his hand. “It’s not just that, is it?”

You know the answer; you knew it before you even asked the question. Jack’s eyes find yours for a second, and your heart drops as you see his expression: there’s anger in his gaze. Just for a moment. Just a millisecond. It fades into sadness, the one you’d do anything to carry for him. But it was there long enough for you to see it. To read it. To file it away and have it gnawing at your already dwindling confidence until the end of your days.

But now is not the time for your worries and hurt feelings.

You pull yourself together and lead Jack out of the bathroom. After situating him on the bed, you bring him a fresh pair of sweatpants and a simple black shirt. You watch him change, watch how his skin is exposed and then covered again by cloth. The faint scars, from training and his time overseas, the ones you know by heart, are a little more noticeable today.

“Let’s get you into bed,” you whisper to Jack as you push back the blanket. He follows your request on autopilot, slipping underneath the covers. Seeing the blank stare, you almost wish he’d go back to being angry at you.

“Do you want to eat something, my love?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

“Can I keep you company?” you continue.

You hold your breath as you wait for his answer, and he takes his time. The vacant look in his eyes threatens to trigger tears in your own. His lips part once, twice, before he turns his head and looks away.

“I’d like that,” he mutters then.

His skin is cold beneath your fingers when you find your place next to him on the bed. Your palm comes to rest on his chest, feeling the sturdy beat below.

You take a deep breath and try to think of the best thing to say.

“I know tomorrow will be hard for you,” you begin. Jack’s entire body tenses up, and his head whips to you, the first sign of life flashing across his face.

“Don’t,” he pleads. “Don’t talk about it.”

Your lips part, uncertainty making it impossible to think properly. His eyebrows draw together as you struggle for the right answer, and you can almost hear his thoughts.

“Alright,” you whisper against your better judgment. “Just… just get some rest, honey.”

--

Friday morning, you wake up to an empty bed—not the way you’re used to. In the entirety of your relationship, you can practically count the days you woke up in Jack’s arms on both hands, but today, it’s a new loneliness that greets you as the sunlight filters in through the curtains.

His side on the mattress isn’t even warm anymore, and you wonder just how much time he had even spent asleep.

As you climb out of bed, you let your eyes drag through the room and find your favorite photo of all time. Your face is half hidden in it, mushed into Jack’s neck, your nose tickled by his slightly unkempt beard, but it is the happiest you’ve ever looked. You still remember the day as clear as if it had been yesterday.

It had been taken on your six-month anniversary, just you, Jack, and a small boat he barely knew how to commandeer. As the salty sea water had sprayed your face with its cold droplets, you grinned at Jack, all smiles and teeth and pure unfiltered happiness.

He had wrapped his arms around you and whispered, “I love it when it’s just us.” With his chest pressed against your back, you had stared out onto the sea, his warm lips pressing against your cheek. “Me, too,” you had mumbled fondly.

Now, you wonder how much of that was still true today. Back then, you had known that he was a widower but hadn’t known the date of his wife’s passing yet.

You know it’s wrong to be so jealous of a dead woman—and Jack would probably hate you if you knew just how much you despised her on some days. But as your fingers drift over the cold, empty space in bed next to you, you allow yourself to wallow in your melancholy a little longer.

Selfishly, you think you wouldn’t want Jack to move on if you were to die. Of course, no part of you wished to see him sink into depression and utter loneliness as he’d mourn you, but your heart constricts at the idea of him finding love after your passing. You wonder if his wife had thought the same thing, or if she had been a much better person than you and hoped for his happiness—or if the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind at all.

The sound of the front door closing rips you out of your head. You run to the window overlooking your front yard just in time to catch Jack slamming his car door shut and driving off.

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself.

You think of the past years, of all the anniversaries of her death during which you watched from the sidelines, breath bated.

On the first, you didn’t even know what was happening. Jack had hidden from you all day, keeping his head buried as he worked a double shift. When he came home, all 24 hours of her death day having already passed, he confessed to you what the date meant to him.

A year later, you thought you were prepared—you were wrong. You bought flowers and made soup and lasagna, the most comforting food you could think of. When Jack came home that morning (—this time around, you had convinced him not to work all day—), he ate a spoonful before he excused himself and cried in the bathroom. His sobs still echo through your head every now and then when the darkest, deepest part of your insecurities comes to life.

Eleven months after that, you made the biggest mistake to date. You tried to get Jack out of the city for that week. A booked hotel room, couple’s massages, and room service all went down the drain when you tried to surprise Jack with it. He hadn’t screamed at you—it might’ve hurt less if he had. Instead, he had only muttered that he couldn’t believe you’d think he’d want to do something like that on a day like this.

Which is why you didn’t come up with any plans this year.

But not doing anything at all feels worse than giving yourself to him as an outlet for his pain.

The day passes like chewing gum stretches. It expands and grows and keeps giving until you think it might snap, but it doesn’t. Solitude clings to you, burying itself in your bones—it practically settles in your lungs to the point where you’re not sure anymore whether you’re still breathing.

You wander around, fulfilling chores and taking care of things that need to be done, but you don’t remember any of it by the time the clock strikes seven pm.

Jack isn’t home.

You are.

He is chasing a ghost you’ll never be able to replace.

As you get into your car and drive, it’s an obvious guess where he is.

--

Wind chases goosebumps down your spine when you open the squeaky gate. Its metal looks old, the rust on its surface rough against your palm. The lush greenery all around surprises you—it’s too early in the year for the shrubs to have that color, but you understand the intention. No one wants to grieve their loved ones in a field of grey.

The graveyard looks well-kept, some of the graves more than others. Shame fills your chest as you catch yourself wondering how much money Jack might spend on the upkeep of his wife’s one per month. It could be more than your rent, and she’d deserve every penny.

He is easy to spot. The silver hairs stand out, illuminated by the gentle evening sun just beginning to settle in for the night. He stands awkwardly, most of his weight shifted onto his left leg, and you feel your heart clench. It’s obvious that he is in pain. You don’t know for sure whether he has been here all day, but you assume so as you walk up to him.

The bouquet you’re holding trembles in your hands. You take a deep breath before you come to a stop just a few meters shy of him. You try to think of something to say, something clever or loving or maybe even funny.

“Hi,” is all you can manage.

Jack flinches—and you wish you hadn’t come. You almost wish he had never even met you.

Seconds that feel like hours pass where neither one of you speaks or moves. One of the petals of the chrysanthemum in your bouquet falls to the ground.

Jack’s mouth opens and closes twice, but not a single sound comes out.

“I…” You stand there in front of him, feeling like a little kid caught up past their bedtime. “I hope it’s okay that I came,” you mumble then.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he glances at the flowers in your hands and clenches his jaw.

“I’ll come home soon,” he murmurs. His voice is rough from disuse, thick with tears unshed, or maybe they have been shed already, and he has run out.

Your heart sinks.

“You don’t have to,” you reply. “You- you can stay here. I can stay here with you.”

“No.” His answer is final. It’s not cold or disapproving, just desperate—but so are you.

“Jack, please,” you beg. “Let me stay. Just… let me help you.”

He flinches as if you shot him. One hand raised uncomfortably, like he’s trying to keep you at bay, he stands there as still as a deer in headlights. You’re the car going ninety.

“My love, please,” you repeat, taking a step towards him. “I… Just talk to me. Tell me- tell me how you feel, or about her—”

“No,” he interrupts. “Jesus Christ, do you really think—” He stops himself and shakes his head. Your worst fears unhinge their jaws as they get ready to feast on you.

“Do I really think what?” you prompt bitterly. “Do I really think that I… that I deserve to know her? That I’m the one who could maybe help you a bit through this grief? I don’t know, Jack, you obviously don’t.”

His mouth falls open.

“What?” he croaks.

You shrug helplessly. “You don’t want me here,” you reply.

“No, I don’t,” he replies. “But not… not because I think you don’t deserve to know her, but because… because you don’t deserve this weight on your shoulders. My grief—my fucking… never-ending grief…”

As his words drizzle out into uncertainty, you’re left to stare at him.

“I… I just don’t want you to see me like this and think… think that I…” He shakes his head.

“That you want her instead of me,” you finish for him.

“That’s not the case,” he says sharply.

“Isn’t it?” you counter.

“No,” he hisses. “She’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do to bring her back. You’re here.”

“Yeah, but if you could—”

“But I can’t!” His shoulders tremble as he fights to keep his voice down. “She’ll never come back. Never.”

“But you’ll never stop loving her,” you whisper.

“How can I?” he snaps. “I… I vowed to love her until death do us part, and now—now she is dead, and we’re apart, but I’m still here. And I fell for you.”

He takes a deep breath. “Every day, I’m fucking terrified that I make you feel like… like you have to compete for my love with someone who is not here anymore, and obviously, I’ve fucking done that. And you look at me like… like I’m wounded. You treat me like I’m someone to take care of, so I behave like it.”

“But you don’t let me take care of you,” you reply. “You don’t let me in. You don’t let me help.”

“Because if I do, I’ll have to start talking about her to you. I’ll have to tell you how much I love her and that—I can’t fucking do that to you!” he answers.

“But I’m asking you to do that,” you spit out. “I’d rather hear how much love her than live with her fucking ghost looming over us unmentioned. Like that, I don’t even get to feel second best next to her.”

The world grows quiet at your admission. The wind that was blowing before dies down, much like your bravery. You want to take it back. You wish you could rewind time.

“Fuck, Jack,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes are glassy as he looks at you.

“You’re not second best,” he mutters. “You matter as deeply to me as she does. I just don’t know how to show you that.”

“Maybe start letting me in,” you whisper. “Treat me like I’m worth your time. Don’t lie to me about how terrible you feel. Help me help you.” You awkwardly shake the flowers in your hands. “Let me be part of your grief.”

His eyes follow your hands, and he swallows hard.

“Did you buy them for her?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you mumble. As you walk towards him, it feels like crossing a bridge into unknown territory. Maybe you’re overstepping. Maybe you’re being cruel. Maybe you should be more understanding.

“They’re… I don’t know what kind of flowers she liked, or… if she liked them at all, but they’re chrysanthemums and Peruvian lilies,” you explain.

“She would’ve liked them,” he answers quickly. “She liked all flowers.”

He reaches out but stops himself. “Do you… do you want to…” He motions to the grave and steps aside. Your path is clear.

Her grave stone is made from smooth limestone, her name engraved in simple, strong letters. Beloved wife.

You crouch down and lean the flowers against the stone, then stay there for a second. As you glance over your shoulder, you see Jack looking at you. At both of you.

“I didn’t get her any,” he mumbles.

You straighten up and return to his side.

“Why not?” you ask.

He stays quiet for a moment before he turns to look at you. “It felt disrespectful to you.”

For a second, it’s like he has stolen all the air from you. The pit in your stomach deepens. And then it eases.

“Jack,” you whisper, “I don’t care if you get her a million flowers—I’ll deliver them here myself. I just want to know that you look at me and see me. Not her, or her… her successor.”

“I do,” he vows, “I do see you.”