﹕﹒ italian , pisces , summergirl , polka dots , taylor swift , fleetwood mac , abba , jeff buckley , lana del rey , cherry & cinnamon scented , fashion & cinema ...
🍨 mostly a rb account with occasional thoughts ― also trying to make friends, so feel free to text me 𖹭.ᐟ
Description: Recently broken up, you end up drunkenly crying from watching teenage girls doing karaoke to sad Olivia Rodrigo songs. Cue your hot attending comforting you, who only hates two things: 1. Incompetence 2. His favorite nurse looking sad
Tags/warnings: idk why i included santos, drinking, r is drunk, age gap (r is in 20’s, abbot is 50), very much flirting, tons of teasing, jack refers to himself as daddy at one point (non sexual context), this man is a sweetie pie, and also as protective as a guard dog, slightly suggestive themes, many OR references, no allusions to r’s gender, petnames: sweetheart
Note: Not my best, but it’s pretty cute. Like you all. My cuties fr.
“I wish I was 13 again,” Santos murmurs, wistfully eyeing the pack of teenage girls who are currently moving in flashes of glitter, dancing uncoordinated steps on the karaoke floor.
You lean back in your seat, watching your friend with curiosity. “Really? Thought you had a dark past,” you playfully whisper the last part, so as to not accidentally trigger a serious conversation. That is not the mood you are in. You are in a floaty wonderland: surrounding loud, chirpy, noises kept at bay — thanks to the long island iced tea you're sipping on.
Trinity finally tears her gaze away, though it's impossible to ignore the delighted, uninhibited singing coming from the other side.
GUESS YOU DIDN'T MEAN WHAT YOU WROTE IN THAT SONG ABOUT MEEEEE….
Before she can expertly dodge your question, everyone — Shen, Walsh, and Mateo — come back with their drinks. You slowly rise to your feet and take a sidestep, so Mateo and Walsh can slip into the booth. Having already been squished enough, you're willing to take only the corner this time.
You settle in again, next to Walsh, the leather under you creaking with every drag of your thighs.
“Are you both always so fun at parties?” Emery sips through a straw, eyes darting between you and Santos.
“This one —” Shen points a thumb at you “— is already uptight as it is. And Santos is just a poor influence. Don't think I've ever seen her smile, actually.”
“Yeah, she only smiles on her day shift when huckle– Dennis gets pissed on. Or, something of the same sorts,” you join in, ignoring the dig at you.
However, everyone's attention is quickly stolen away by the lives of the party again.
‘CAUSE I STILL FUCKING LOVE YOU, BABE OOoooOohhhOOO
You cannot stifle your laughter anymore when Mateo cheers them on, hooting with his palms cupped around his mouth. The best part is that he looks genuine and sincere, rooting for them no hint of mockingness.
Yeah, you wish you could be 13 again.
It's your turn to miserably and longingly watch the teenager birthday party taking its full swing, completely drowning out the overlapping conversations — and petty arguing — of your colleagues.
You smile at one of the young girls on stage, giving her a lazy wave. Suddenly, she's flushing and whispering in her friend's ear, presumably about a “cool adult” that interacted with her. You wish you could tell her that even though you might look the part — the sitcom adult who sits in a booth with a friend group and drinks — your life couldn't be less boring.
You work at the PTMC, go home, watch TV, fall asleep in front of the said TV, and daydream of a certain honey-eyed doctor. Maybe he's your rebound crush after your recent breakup. Not to mention, a deeply inappropriate one, both work and age wise.
Speak of the devil.
Your face snaps up when you hear your name in that low, raspy, voice. You register his face, tired under the dim lights, and his perfect salt & pepper curls frazzled from the ride over. He's in a white t-shirt stretched taut across his pecs, and a simple pair of black jeans. Though, nothing about how he looks is ‘simple.’
“Doctor…” you speak slowly, narrowing your eyes, and making a show of thinking very, very deeply. You snap your fingers in front of your chin, Before pointing your index at him, “aha! Doctor Abbot, attending of the nightcrawlers. What will you drink?”
The corner of his lips quirk up, amused by your liquor-induced playfulness. “Two of whatever you're having,” he replies, smoothly stealing the glass right out of your hands, holding it in front of his eyes to examine the brown liquid.
“Long island?”
“Yep. L-I-I-T, it's pretty L-I-T. Lit. It means cool.”
“I know what lit means.” He takes in your sluggish blinks, the drop in your usually tight shoulders, and the almost giddy smile on your lips. “How many have you had?”
You hold up one digit, wiggling it back and forth for emphasis.
Jack tuts, “L-I-G-H-T-W-E-I-G-H-T”
“F-U-K-C-Y-O-U,” you proudly smile at your mature retort, mind completely unbothered that your mouth just sweared at your boss.
He shakes his head, contemplating if he should tell you that you spelled your insult wrong.
“Jesus…” he watches you carefully for a second, before handing your cocktail back to you. His thick fingers brush against yours, sending a jolt up your arm.
“Jack! Man, we thought you abandoned your children,” Shen exclaims, realising along with everyone the presence of the new arrival, and bringing you out of your head.
“Well, Shen, daddy's gotta come home.”
Daddy.
Well, technically, he is the attending, so he is the daddy. Daddy of the department, daddy of the floor, daddy of your–
Getting a little off-track there.
You clear your throat, trying to push the sinful thoughts away, putting them back in the compartment that only opens itself in sleepless, late, horny, nights.
“Do you wanna sit orrrr…?” Trinity trails off, jutting her chin towards the karaoke stage.
You bring your glass to your lips again, savouring the citrusy taste on your tongue. You expect to hear the scrape of a chair's legs dragged along the floor — Jack, as always, hauling an extra seat to sit at the head of the table. You always thought it was a way to maintain boundaries even outside the workplace, to make sure there's a tangible difference to avoid misuse of power dynamics. Your attending was quite easygoing, as far as bosses went, but that never deterred his ability to be responsible.
Instead, “Yeah, there's some space here.”
You don't realise you're being spoken to, until you look and everyone is staring expectantly at you. “Wha– oh.”
You try to visibly measure the space next to you, barely larger than your hand. You look back up at the towering man, raising his grey brows in impatience.
You move your ass.
As soon as he's shifting next to you, your senses are overwhelmed by his dominating presence. Your entire side is pressed against his. And he must've showered before coming here, because you can smell the soap he must use — cedarwood. You're thankful for the alcohol in your system, calming your nerves enough to not send a body-wide emergency signal.
“So…” you begin, taking in his face, which is so, so close to you. The disco lights of the place dance on his features, and you try not to chase the shine with your fingers.
“Sorry for crashing. Must be a bummer to have your boss here,” he speaks louder than usual, voice trying to carry over the singing, though his attention is on waving over a server.
You wait until Jack orders a whiskey for himself, continuing after the waiter leaves, “oh, you're not a regular boss. You're a cool boss.”
“Yeah? Is it because I yell a lot less than Robby?”
“No.” You lean forward to catch the view of the little pop-stars again. It seems they've moved on from Olivia Rodrigo to…more Olivia Rodrigo. It's a song you've only recently heard — something about higher standards and expectations.
THEY SEEM SO DESPERATE FOR LOVIN’, BUT BABY, I'M NOT…
The loud singing must have called for his attention too, because now he’s focusing intently on the concert since the first time he came here.
NOW I TAKE CAREFUL CONSIDERATIONS
I'M NOT KISSING ANY BOY THAT IS PASSIVE…
His eyebrows draw together in concern, and almost to himself, he murmurs, “they shouldn't be kissing any boys right now.”
“They're 13, grandpa,” your voice snaps his gaze to you again, “kissing at that age is normal.”
“I'm 50. Anyone under 25 is a kid to me. They—” he gestures to the pack, “—are practically toddlers to me.”
“To remind you, you also have staff in their 20’s working for you. We, very much, aren't kids.”
That makes him pause. If you would've blinked, you would've failed to notice how his gaze dropped to your lips for just a second, before flicking up.
The server brings his order, and Jack is quick to take a swig. “That's what I try to remind myself, too.”
“Do you think Stacy would mind if I join them?” you whisper in Jack's ear with the eager expression of a dog waiting for its owner. You're practically vibrating in your seat, knee bouncing from the third drink you definitely should've refused.
But it's not like you're the only one stupidly drunk. Santos and Mateo are at the pool table, losing to strangers. Shen is in a corner on a facetime with his wife — like, just go back home — and Walsh is nowhere to be seen. So, it’s a thing to wonder why you and your senior are still sitting glued together. You are drunk. What reason does the most rational man you know have?
“Who is Stacy?” He shifts, trying to maintain some semblance of a physical distance between you both, but you just end up closing the space again.
“The birthday girl, Dr. Abbot!”
“The 13 year-old on the karaoke with her friends?”
“Yes!”
Jack sighs, “you don't have to exclaim everything, you know.”
“YES, I DO!”
He physically recoils at your sudden raise in pitch. He takes in your erratic energy: the restless leg, the speedy talking, eyes blown wide. His palm slowly reaches out, firmly cupping your knee, bringing the bouncing to a halt. “Okay, exclaim away. But–”
“But?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking the deep breath of a man who wasn't expecting to babysit his drunk colleague today.
“Okay, this time, we let me finish talking. Yeah?” You immediately nod your head. In reality, you have no idea what he just said. You only heard the “yeah?” in his authoritative voice, and agreed.
“I'm very concerned you know her name.”
“Who? Stacy's?”
“Exactly. You're referring to a random teenage girl as if she's a close, personal, friend,” he explains carefully, like he's talking to a child.
“Nooo! She's not a friend, doc.”
“Of course, that would be creep–”
“But I want to be her friend sooo bad,” you whine, staring adoringly at Stacy and friends like they hung the moon. “Just look at them! They did Olivia, moved to Glee's soundtrack, and are now doing Olivia again. They're sooo cool.”
Jack shoots them a quick look and lets out a small huff of laughter when he sees the deep longing in your eyes, a pure look of awe.
He says your name, and your gaze darts straight from the stage, and into his eyes again. It always steals your breath when he calls you by your first name, anchoring you completely to him with just one word. One person should never have so much power.
“I'm cutting you off.”
“What?” Your mouth hangs open, words blurting out from shock, “like, from your life?”
“What? No–” he uses his free hand to pry the drink out of your hand. He lifts the glass, swinging it in front of your eyes, before setting it far on the table. Out of your reach. “From drinking. No more alcohol for you.”
A huge sigh of relief leaves you, and you dramatically clutch your palm to your chest. “That's nice. It would've been hard to work together with beef between us.”
“It's already hard to work with you, sweetheart,” he says under his breath, scanning your face for any signs of distress.
Your brows draw tight in confusion. Huh, what does that mean?
OH BECAUSE MY HEAD IS FULL OF POISON
AND MY HEART IS FULL OF DOUBTS…
The sound of collective cries panics you before you realise sad girl hours have started. You look from Stacy to her other two friends, fortunately not knowing their names. They're clutching the mics tightly enough that you're sure one of them ought to break the device. The singing is a little uneasy on the ears, but you find yourself softly smiling.
Then frowning.
And next you know, your eyes are welling up with tears when the song comes to an end.
IT'LL NEVER BE THE CURE
IT'LL NEVER BE…
Poor girls. They're crying thinking about their eighth grade crush, but they have no idea what's coming for them. One day, they'll be in their 20's and a stupid man with a stupid name will tell them he loves them, and they will believe him, even though he does nothing to prove it. Poor, poor, girls.
You're not sure if it's them you're upset about, since you feel like the only poor, poor person in this entire room.
“Are they okay?” Jack has forgotten his drink, attention fixated on the young girls. His hand unknowingly slides off your knee, hovering near the edge of the table, as if he's about to get up any second. “Why is the girl in the green dress crying? She can't possibly relate to this. Where are their parents?”
“I'm gonna go make sure–” He turns to look at you for assurance, but he sees a fat tear rolling down your flushed cheek. Suddenly, the concern in his eyes is replaced by panic. “Woah, hey, what's wrong? Do you feel dizzy? Overstimulated?”
His head tips down to map your face. You were fine just a few minutes ago. Now, you're tearing up, and your breath is hitching, and his hands are hovering unsurely near your face.
“It's just,” you sniffle, “it's just so…”
“Sad…?” He prompts.
“Yes!” Your eyes flash like he just invented a new word. “Exactly! See, you have the heart of a teenage girl.”
He shakes his head, “I'm 50, but thank you.”
“Why do you tell me you're 50, like 50 times a day? We get it, grandpa.” You sniffle again, trying to look at the stage. But Jack effectively blocks your view with his sturdy frame, instead offering you his handkerchief like some sort of a gentleman from a 60's rom-com.
You wipe your nose in what you hope is in a dignified fashion, barely hiccuping a thank-you to him. “Is it that you forget it too? And you have to keep reminding me so you don't forget it yourself?”
He sighs, finally swiping his thumb under your eye to brush the wetness away.
“Believe me, I try to forget it.”
As if catching up to what he just did, his hands rush towards the safe territory of your upper arms.
You nod thoughtfully, “that makes sense.”
“Yeah?” You watch as hope flickers in his eyes. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, as if contemplating if he should say something. “You understand why?”
“Mhm,” you nod again. “If I was 50, I'd be trying to forget my age too,” you say completely sincerely, eyes swimming with sympathy.
His head falls forward, and his shoulders shake. For a second, your drunk mind makes you believe you made him cry. But when he looks up at you again, he's flashing an amused grin, shaking his head at you.
“Real funny.”
“I wasn't trying to be funny.”
WENT TO THE DOCTOR AND SHE SAID I WAS FINE
BUT EVERY MOVIE THAT I SEE MAKES ME CRYYYyyYY…
Oh, no. When did they start singing this one? It's that song. The one you've had on replay since your breakup, the one you've been singing in showers, in cars, and in the kitchen.
You feel a fresh wave of tears clawing their way up again. Your lower lip juts out in a pout, and you flush in embarrassment when Jack's laugh dies. “I'm fine.”
He gently squeezes your arm, “up.”
Before you have any mind to be confused, your world tilts when you're suddenly hauled off your seat. You sway on your feet for a moment, before Jack steadies you, firmly planting his hands on your elbows.
“Are we finally going to join Stacy?”
“No. Not while you're doing your best impression of a kicked puppy.”
I CAN'T SLEEEEEP
I CAN'T EAAAATTTT
I THINK YOU'RE WHAT'S WRONG WITH MEEEE…
A soft sob escapes your throat. What is wrong with you?
“Nothing. Three-drink-you is just not as fun as two-drink-you,” Jack assures you, his fingers twitching at your elbows without his permission, stuck between staying noble and wiping away the hot tears that are rushing from your ducts again.
Oh. You hadn't realised you'd said that out loud. You can't believe you're breaking down in front of your attending. Because of a breakup song. Because you're drunk. That's, like, top 3 tell-tale signs you need some help. Or, another drink. But you're quite sure that four-drink-you is a horny you, so, maybe not.
The surrounding noises get muffled when Jack spins you around, and starts walking you towards a hushed corner. He swiftly steers you away from any table, chair, or a group of people that comes in your way, before you even register it.
You're disappointed when his hands drop to his own sides, when you're both tucked away in a corner. You look around, and the lights are even dimmer in here, painting everything a dull shade of yellow. There's a door behind you, presumably leading to a bathroom, because you can see the universal signage for a male. Before you can ask Jack to move from here, you notice a lock on the door.
“No one's gonna come here. Talk.”
You clear your throat, managing to speak through your watery throat, “It was just really–”
“Sad? Yes, we covered that,” he catches the sharp edge in his tone, and quickly smoothes it over, gentling himself for you, “but as sensitive as you are, I know that you're not really sobbing because some little girls are crying along to a sad Taylor Swift song.”
“It's Olivia, not Taylor.”
“They're all the same.”
You immediately gasp, narrowing your eyes at his disgusting comment, “I take my words back. You have the heart of a cold, unfeeling, man.”
Jack bites the inside of his cheek to not burst out laughing. “I'm sorry. Will you please tell me why you're worrying yourself over an Olive song?”
“OLIVIA!”
He raises his palms in surrender, but instead of giving up like you'd expect anyone to, he apologises again. Now he's looking at you expectantly, as patient as a saint, and you feel your sob story tumbling out of your mouth.
“I had a break-up recently. And it's,” you click your tongue in frustration, “I don't even miss him. He was a mistake. A big one. But…”
“But?”
You sigh, “I don't know. It's humiliating. Can we go back?”
“What's humiliating?”
You scramble for words but all that comes out is, “this! You! Here!”
“I'm humiliating?”
“Gosh, no. You're– you're not. You're anything but. You're sweet and patient and kind–” you immediately lock your lips when you realise you're verbally fawning over the man in front of you. “That's not what I mean.”
“So, I'm not sweet and patient and kind?” His eyes are crinkling with amusement, and you would want to wipe that smile from his face if it wasn't so goddamn beautiful.
You take a deep breath, “what I am trying to say is, It's humiliating because we work together. You're my senior. Like, super, super senior.”
“And that makes me unempathetic towards one of my staff having a meltdown in a public place?”
“Okay, I think we're throwing the word ‘meltdown’ a little too easy here.”
Jack pretends to ponder for a moment, observant brown eyes scanning your face slow enough to make you squirm. “I think not. Look at yourself.”
You immediately straighten up. “Huh, do I look like a mess?” Your hands rush to your face, trying to harshly rub the messy tears away.
His eyes immediately soften. “No, hey, that's not…You just look so upset is all. Otherwise, you look fine. Good. As always.” He says it like it's obvious, like it's a rule he learned in medical school.
Almost hesitantly, he pries your wrists away from your face, leaving them in his grip, hanging between you both. You have no option but to look straight at him.
“I'm sorry. You've just caught me on a bad day.”
“What do you mean? I'm having a really good time.”
You let out a watery laugh. “You don't have to make me feel better.”
“Gloria is always on my ass about keeping staff happy. Consider this a part of my duty.”
You have a good couple of inches between you, but the distance seems really, really little right now. You're not sure if it's him or you who takes a step closer. Probably you, since his thumb is stroking the side of your wrist, and you're feeling floaty again.
“I'm not sure this is what duty looks like, Jack,” your voice comes out barely more than whisper.
He tuts in disapproval when you use his first time, voice dropping an octave lower. “No, it doesn't. You should be thankful. Robby just yells at people and tells them to pack it up.”
“Don't joke.”
“If I stop joking, I'll have to tell you that you have no reason to cry for a fuckin’ idiot who owned forty different colors of the same polo t-shirt.”
For a second, you're taken back enough to not speak. “How…how do you know that?”
“Used to see him everyday when he would pick you up, remember?” He reminds you as you watch irritation flare up in his eyes, “and he was 20 minutes late. Every single day.”
“20 minutes is not a lot. He was, after all, picking me up.”
“If you're gonna do something, do it right. I wouldn't even be 2 minutes late for someone who spent the entire night working their ass off.”
You downcast your gaze to avoid his sharp eyes. “Shame you're not the one picking me up, then.” You try to play it off as a joke, but it only comes out as wistful.
“Shame,” he murmurs. “So, you don't miss him?”
You shake your head. “No, but it gets lonely.” You sigh before continuing, admitting with a hint of shame, “I like the whole routine — the dates, the places, the high while it lasts.”
“So? Go on a date again.”
“Right,” You laugh in self-deprecation, “It's not like I've queues outside my door, people waiting to take me out.”
“Impossible. Look at you,” he replies, without missing a beat. You examine his face, trying to gauge the intent behind his words. Mindless affirmation or meaningful compliment?
“You're just saying that,” you whisper.
“What reason do I have to lie?”
“Getting me off your hands, and back to your whiskey again.”
His breath mingles with yours when he tips his face forward, gaze locking in on your soft lips. “I'm not so eager to get my hands on whiskey. I've got better things going on for me,” he speaks, voice dropping low and intimate.
“Like me having a meltdown?”
“Like you allowing me to be here for it.”
“Of course. You're sweet and patient and kind.”
“Pray tell. Don't let me stop you from singing my praise.”
“And…calm and funny and…” you pause, trying to even out your shallow breaths, “incredibly, stupidly, frustrating.”
“Careful. Still your attending.” Irony is that right as he's saying it, he's letting go of your wrists to cup your hips instead — long fingers curling around the fabric of your shirt, settling heavy and firm, grounding you in place.
“You're not acting like it.”
He playfully squeezes your hips, “why am i frustrating?”
“Because…sometimes, I come to the shift, and I get to hear from Santos that somebody decided to play the hero and got shot. And I'm obviously never there, because it all happens during the day shift.”
“You worry?”
“You're not a man with ill styling choices. I can worry.”
“As long as you don't cry.”
“Are you one of those people who don't like people crying? You get all awkward and uncomfortable?”
His hand drags up your arm to swipe across your cheekbone, brushing over the dried tears. “I don't like when you cry. It makes me frustrated and insistent.”
“Insistent to do what?”
“To fix whatever caused it. Or whoever.”
Your throat dries up, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “It's not recommended to go causing trouble in the name of nurses.”
“What if it's a pretty nurse?”
Red rushes to your cheeks, and you feel yourself warming up. You urge the alcohol in your system to deliver you courage, but all you feel is like wet noodles in front of him.
“That's not a valid reason,” you murmur.
“My floor, my rules.”
“Careful. Next thing you know, it's 20 missed calls from HR.”
“Shit,” he says, not sounding concerned in the slightest.
You clear your throat, “now that I'm not actively sobbing, we should head back. Somebody will notice we're gone.”
“They're all too busy being idiots. Besides, there's nothing to notice. I'll just tell them–” your eyelids flutter when he lightly blows air into your right eye, “–there was something in your eye.”
“And you were helping me while using your bedroom voice?”
Jack sputters a small laugh, “oh, this is not my bedroom voice.” His hand on your hip moves, leaving a trail of fire up your side, settling high on your waist. “Or my bedroom hands. Or my bedroom acts.”
Your eyes flutter close, and heat melts low in your belly, leaving an ache between your thighs. Your thoughts wander, trying to imagine his ‘bedroom acts.’
You snap your eyes open before your body can take control from you, and start acting on its own accord.
“HR. 20 missed calls,” you breathily say, not sure if it’s him or you you’re trying to remind.
He sighs as he backs away from you, and you feel sharp dissatisfaction at the loss of his burning, comforting touch. He holds his arm out towards the small hallway from where you both entered. “Pretty nurses first.”
I KNOW THAT THE BAR CLOSES AT ELEVENNN
I HOPE YOU NEVER FINISH THAT BEEEERRR…
What do you know? Your colleagues were indeed too busy being idiots to notice any change. You sit in the booth again, next to Jack, watching the girls be happy and bright again.
You on the other hand feel disappointment settling deep in your chest. You're suddenly wishing that you hadn't urged Jack to come back out here. Something could've happened. Something you had been wishing and hoping for. And now you have let the moment pass.
OOOO, ONE NIGHT, I WAS BORED IN BED
AND STALKED YOU ON THE INTERNET…
“So, I'm gonna leave.”
You turn to look at him, trying very hard not to let your dismay show, instead sweetly smiling at him and nodding your head a little too quickly.
A pause.
“You can leave 10 minutes later. I'll be in my truck.”
Your brows snap together in confusion, lips parting to say something, but Jack is already getting up, grabbing his leather jacket from where he kept it in the booth.
“They're idiots, yes, but it's better if they don't see us leaving together.”
You scramble for words but nothing comes out.
‘CUZ I ALWAYS HAD A VISION OF US STANDING LIKE THIS
ALL PRESSED UP IN THE BATHROOM LINE…
“Where will we go?” you dumbly ask.
Jack shrugs, “dates, places, chasing the high while it lasts.”
Your heart leaps out of your ribcage, body unable to do anything but watch his back as he walks towards the door. Your lips open. And close again.
What.
Deep breaths. It’s chill. All good. Just a normal hangout with Dr. Abbot. Surely, nothing will happen.
Fuck.
You give a final glance towards the cheerful trio of girls, a luminous grin finally breaking out on your face.
They'll be okay. So will you.
You take out your phone and tap the screen awake. One minute passed, nine more to go.
KISS MEEE AND I MIIIGHTT
KISS ME AND I MIGHT DROP DEAD.
Sigh…i missed my husband. Now everyone say, “thank you, stacy” and then everyone who liked this, please glaze all over me. Likes, comments especially, and reblogs increase one minute of my lifespan.
