Reader-banger: a double of a significant other who makes him second guess who you belong to
summary: five times jack stumbles upon your doppelgänger vs. the one time it's actually you
tags: shawn hatosy universe, brett richards, sammy bryant, andrew "pope" cody, titus danforth, grant reilly, jack abbot, younger fem!reader but age is not specified, mentions of human sacrifice, 18+ MDNI
notes: okay, everyone seemed to like the first doppelbangers fic so much that I thought about how jack would start reacting if he came across multiple variants of the reader AND if jack happened to also meet his double (highly requested as well), also as you can see, I swapped out terry for grant because I don't see any timeline where jack doesn't sock terry for being a creep, again I'm sorry if any of them are occ, and like always if you'd like to be added to my permanent tag list, please comment here!
word count: 9.4k
The community outreach event had seemed harmless enough when the day started. SWAT volunteered at them a few times a year, and while Jack would never admit it out loud, he usually enjoyed them. It was difficult to have a terrible day when half the crowd consisted of elementary school kids who thought every volunteer spent their workday hanging off helicopters and kicking down doors like they’d seen in cartoon movies. Crowds seemed to swarm the park despite the heat with tents stretching across the grass to make it easier to find shade. Multiple organizations from both Pittsburgh and visiting cities stationed next to their tents that lined the walking paths.
Families drifted from booth to booth carrying melting snow cones and bags stuff with pamphlets and stress balls printed with specialized branding they would probably throw away before they got home. Somewhere behind him, a group of children were taking turns climbing through an armored vehicle while another one of his SWAT buddies attempted—and failed—to maintain order.
Jack was halfway through answering a little boy’s very serious question about whether he’d ever fixed up a ninja when movement across the path caught it attention.
Truly, it wasn’t even your face that got him first; it was your posture.
He’d seen you enough to recognize the specific way you stood with your weight shifted slightly onto one leg while reading something. Your hair was pulled back like you always had it, and from a distance, framed by the movement, he was sure that you were 100 percent standing across from him.
His first thought was confusion, because you were supposed to be working. He knew you had a shift scheduled until seven, and while he knew that was subject to change all the time, you usually let him know when they did.
Jack frowned and glanced at his watch.
Maybe you’d gotten off early, maybe you’d decided to surprise him (at the wrong booth he thought), or maybe you’d gone and volunteered for . . . the Chicago Fire Station tent? Each guess seemed more ridiculous than the first.
If this had happened six months ago, he would have let you at it. However, ever since he kissed you in that parking lot after spouting nonsense about seeing his double about five times before you finally figured out he was the real Jack, he’s been pretty protective of you. He was your boyfriend for crying out loud. Seeing you over there at a random booth when you were supposed to be at work made something curl inside his chest.
He liked the idea that you might have let him known you got off early, he believed in himself to show that you shouldn’t be worried he’d be mad if you chose to spend your time somewhere else, but a simple call or text wouldn’t have hurt.
So, through his confusion, Jack did the only thing he knew how do to: talk it out like a grown ass man and not get angry or possessive.
“Hey, sweetheart!” he called out, already walking over to the booth with his limping gate. “Did you get off early or something?”
The sound of his voice had you looking up at him, and he willed himself to not get lost in your eyes.
“Can’t believe Robby let you have the afternoon. Did he hit his head or something? Don’t think I’ve ever seen him give a resident the day off, especially during a weekend,” he muttered the last bit to himself.
Now, see, since Jack was so close to being distraught about you not texting him, he failed to noticed the very confused look on your face while he talked at you.
He stopped when he was finally over at the booth and about a foot away from where you were standing. “Did I make you mad or something, sweetheart? If you wanted to spend your day off by yourself, I wouldn’t have cared. Just thought you might have wanted to let me know.”
His first warning should have been your lack of response after the first term of endearment that seemed to always make you swoon when he used it.
But again, his brain was befuddled with ideas of him making you so upset you’d rather stand over at the firefighter tent than over with him just across the path.
At this point, Jack was rambling. “I get it, our relationship hasn’t been going on for that long, and before that you had men kissing the ground where you walked, but I’d really like this to work, I want us to work. And if that means you’re volunteering as a firefighter on the weekends, I’ll take it. But you couldn’t have picked up . . . I don’t know . . . a safer hobby? You’re usually not the one with destructive tendencies—”
“I’m really sorry to say this, sir, but I have no clue who you are,” you interrupted.
Against all odds, Jack’s never quiet brain ceased all functioning. Because when you stopped him from talking, he finally looked at you, like, really looked at you, and it clicked that the woman across standing right in front of him wasn’t actually you.
She had your eyes, your nose, and your mouth, and for one completely ridiculous moment, Jack wondered if he’d somehow developed a concussion without noticing before profession instinct won out over common sense.
“Oh,” he breathed, a heated flush climbing his neck at a rapid pace. “Oh, no.”
Seeing his absolute embarrassment, the not-you giggled softly. “While I’m partially endeared, I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”
Jack ran a hand down his face. “I see the appeal of getting run over by oncoming traffic now.” He huffed. “I sincerely apologize for the last three minutes; you quite literally have my girlfriend’s face.”
“Well, I can assure you that I am most definitely not your girlfriend.”
Jack’s eyes quickly caught on the very sparkly ring on her finger that he certainly did not put there. The sight rewired his brain. For the next small moment, Jack contemplated drowning himself in the watercooler nearby until the not-you reached out her hand.
“Richards.”
He took her hand and shook it. “Abbot. Jack Abbot.”
She smiled warmly at him. “So, Jack Abbot, does SWAT include you mistaking women for your partner or is that just a you-thing?”
Oh, she had your jokes.
“Would it help to say that she went a few weeks going around finding men that looked like me?” he mentioned sheepishly.
“A bit.” She paused before continuing. “Really, I should have stopped you the first time you called me sweetheart, but seeing you grovel was really nice.”
“I don’t think I’d count that as nice. Maybe highly embarrassing and dignity-disgracing.”
“You sound like my husband.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But all things considering, I think there’s a possibility that it is a very good thing.”
Jack continued to eye her carefully, part of his brain still unconvinced that this wasn’t you pulling a prank on him. In the small moment, he quickly noted all the visible differences: her hair was greying at the edges, her neck held a small burn pattern, and, most importantly, her eyes didn’t hold the softness yours did when you looked up at him.
“I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around this.”
She cocked her head. “Well, what does your-me do?”
A fondness melted across Jack’s face as he thought of you. “She’s a senior resident at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. She’s actually there right now, which is why I was so confused to see you standing here.”
“Ah, the root of the groveling then.”
“Could we maybe move past that? I do have a reputation to uphold.”
“It was actually quite funny.”
“I’m still considering jumping into traffic. Seems much less humiliating than this.”
“Well, if there’s a time to do it, now might be a good time since this is the largest group of first responders I’ve ever seen. Might even send my husband to drive his firetruck to get on sight first.”
Husband?
“Where I am driving to, baby?” a new voice sounded, causing Jack to tear his eyes away from not-you’s face.
And somehow, in that moment, finding your doppelganger was not the most interesting part of Jack’s day. That was now taken by looking his right in the same-hued eyes. The man across from him was quite literally a spitting image: same salt-and-peppered curls, same nose, and same stature. However, the man across from him most definitely had both feet and was donning a heavy bright yellow coat.
The man—probably not-you’s husband—also looked at him with a weird type of awe you’d only get if you somehow found one of your seven look-a-likes, which he had.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the man muttered. “Your doctor wasn’t lying.”
Jack sputtered. “My doctor?”
He nodded. “Yep. Came up to me yelling because she thought you went through another mid-life crisis. But at least now I get to tell you that I am most definitely the hotter firefighter version of you.”
Not-you punched his shoulder. “Brett,” she hissed. “Don’t be mean.”
“He can take it,” Brett shot back. “If he’s my double, he can surely take it.”
Jack stared between the couple before saying, “Well, now that the universe hasn’t entirely imploded on itself, I should probably head back to my tent before my brain actually takes on any more damage than it already has.”
He had just started to turn slowly, wanting to get back to the SWAT tent asap, when not-you’s voice called out easily. “Take care, Abbot! Hopefully the other me won’t be too surprised to hear about this.”
“She’ll be utterly delighted,” he called back, shaking his head with a wide smile plastered on his face.
_______________________
By the time Jack had gotten to the hostage situation, it had already been dragged out to the point he knew it would consume the rest of his afternoon in a way it always seemed to. One minute he was finishing paperwork, and the next he was standing behind a patrol vehicle and waiting for the green light to head in. This particular situation was apparently lengthy because the man in question had fled from out of state. Jack wasn’t too sure which one, but mentions of the west coast had him questioning how dangerous the man inside the building was if he’d fled halfway across the nation.
The entire scene buzzed with controlled tension. Patrol officers maintained the perimeter while detectives moved in and out of the command post. Ambulances waited several blocks way in anticipation of the worst-case scenario: a mass killing. Nearby, Jack’s eyes caught the flashes of cameras as reporters hovered at the edges of police tape like vultures circling a dying animal, hoping someone would accidentally tell them something useful.
Jack hated hostage situations simply because they were slow. Hours just ticked by while they waited around for somebody else to make a mistake. It was hard for him to stay still, a big reason why his career choice after the army had been an attending position in an emergency department; there was hardly ever time for boredom. Which is why when he let his attention drift toward the command post after standing still for less than a second, he spotted your familiar figure near one of the folding tables.
Every coherent thought he’d ever had left his brain.
He harshly blinked once like the action would rid his sight of the hallucination. But when he opened them back up, you were still there, standing inside the command center, wearing a vest that clearly had Detective written across the front.
You were standing with one hand resting against your hip while studying something spread across the table. Your hair was pulled back, a radio hung from your shoulder, and a badge sat clipped to the waistline of your pants.
Jack stared long enough for his assistant medic to notice.
“Abbot? Are you okay?”
“No,” he managed to get out.
“Oh.”
“My girlfriend is apparently a detective.”
The medic looked at him, then over to the command post, then back at him. “Isn’t your girlfriend a doctor?”
“That’s what I thought until approximately two seconds ago.”
Jack continued to stare. There had to be a perfectly normal and reasonable explanation for why you were working during an active hostage situation. Maybe the Pitt had sent you over to help identify a victim, maybe someone inside was related to a patient, or maybe Robby had finally snapped and decided trauma medicine wasn’t stressful enough for you.
Jack’s stomach dropped when you looked up, because the big problem here was that you absolutely should not have been standing in the middle of an active police station and not that your features didn’t quite match the ones in his memories.
But before common sense could stop him, Jack started walking. One of the negotiators called out after him but was ignored. He was about halfway over to you when you narrowed your eyes at his approaching figure.
The expression should have warned him, but all it did was convince him that you’d been hiding a double life because you gave him that exact look every time he tracked mud into your apartment no matter how many times you reminded him to take his shoes off.
“Sweetheart,” he called. “What are you doing?”
You continued to stare, and Jack just kept going.
“Actually, before you answer that, why are you dressed like a detective?”
Silence followed.
“Did someone recruit you?”
He watched you slowly lower the file you were holding; again, Jack pressed onward because apparently humiliation was included in his list of recreational hobbies just under getting shot at.
“You know what?” he asked, eyebrows all furrowed. “Never mind. I don’t even want to know. Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you do something that completely rewrites my understanding of reality.”
Your eyebrows climbed high than he’d ever seen, but even that wasn’t enough to get him to stop talking.
“Sir—”
“Because, honestly? I was prepared for a lot of things when we started dating. Long shifts? Fine. You move into trauma surgery and leave me downstairs? Fine. The occasional thirty-six-hour workday where you survive entirely on caffeine and spite? Fine.”
Several detectives had stopped what they were doing; Jack failed to notice.
“What I wasn’t prepared for was finding out that you’ve secretly joined the police department in your spare time.”
“Sir—”
“And if that’s what happened, I have just a few questions. Most of them are about paperwork—”
“Do you smell burnt toast?” you suddenly asked, halting the next words out of Jack’s mouth that suddenly tugged into a frown.
“What?”
“Any numbness in your left arm?”
“Excuse me?”
“Blurred vision? Because right now, you’re either having medical emergency, or you’ve mistaken me for somebody else.”
Jack stopped talking, which was a miracle in itself, and it gave him a small moment to actually look at you without the lens of confusion or concern. In one blink, he instantly wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“Oh.”
You—or suddenly and visibly not you—tilted her head. “Yeah.”
“It’s happening again.”
“What’s happening again?”
Jack dragged both hands down his face, and for several seconds, he wondered how long fleeing the country would take. Unfortunately, that would mean never seeing the real you ever again, so he had to face this version of you like a man.
“I am so sorry.”
A very apologetic man.
The woman laughed, and to his absolute horror, it sounded enough like your laugh that Jack’s head started spinning.
“It’s fine,” she stated after her laughter slowed. “I’ve had worse introductions.”
He peered at her. “Somehow I don’t believe you.” A sigh flooded his lips. “You have my girlfriend’s face, but she is definitely not a detective.”
“Understandable. Home for me is a long way from here, guessing she lives in the area.”
Jack nodded. “Works here too as a doctor. Which, speaking of, I’m Jack Abbot, volunteer SWAT medic.”
She shook his head. “Detective Bryant. LAPD.”
Detective. Of course this version of you had a job that matched the hardened look on your face. While his version of you still held a small bit of softness around your cheeks, this woman looked like she’d seen brutal death after brutal death. He felt his heart clench. Pittsburgh was kind to you in a way Los Angeles was mean to her.
His hazel eyes went wide. “Shit, that’s how far the suspects from? Long way for everyone.”
Her hands gripped at her vest, knuckles going white. “Yep. We’ve been tracking him and his gang since last month. His group sadly killed my husband’s partner before he fled.”
So the second not-you also had a husband . . .
“Oh,” Jack breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” she responded, peering up at him. “He was a good guy, that’s why we’re all hoping this goes smoothly.”
Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You and me both. I’d rather not have to wheel one of them out of here on a gurney again.”
“Again?” Her eyes (that looked exactly like yours) widened. “I hope then my husband’s squad gets through just fine then.”
“Aw, hell,” a deeper voice grumbled over your look-a-like’s shoulder. “This day just got a whole lot stranger.”
“Speaking of my husband,” she muttered before glancing toward the new comer. “Sammy, this is—”
“Jack Abbot as I live and breathe,” Sammy drawled out, hand already reaching out.
Another part of Jack’s brain stilled, because where Brett Richards could have been in twin, this man looked like a twenty-year-younger Jack. He barely remembers himself at that age, but the similarities were uncanny. This . . . Sammy was the Jack that was in his wedding picture, standing next to his first wife, that you insisted he kept on the mantle of his house.
Jack was quick to grasp his hand tightly. “Guessing you remember from . . .” he trailed, letting the man who looked very much like him fill in the gaps.
“Yeah, I remember. Kinda hard not to when a woman starts talking to you like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. But now that I’m looking at you, it all kinda makes sense.”
“At least it is for one of us. I think my head’s still spinning,” he tried to joke. “At least nothing’s exploded.”
“Yet,” not-you teased. “At least not yet.”
Sammy smiled brightly. “We’re hoping nothing blows up. That would make all of our jobs a lot harder.”
“And would add more paperwork,” Jack added. “I should get back to the squad just in case someone decides to be a hero.”
Sammy nodded. “As long as it’s not you or me. We both have someone to get back home to.” He wrapped an arm around not-you’s shoulders. “Don’t think your doctor would like it very much if she had to patch you up.”
Jack chuckled in response. “Absolutely not. She’d probably give me a worse wound if I showed up injured.”
“I don’t know her, but damn right she would,” Sammy’s version of you agreed. “It was, uh, nice meeting you, Jack. Hope you don’t run into another me again.”
“Knowing how the universe works, I’m sure there’s a few more coming.” Jack took a step before pausing to look back at the couple. “By the way, this was somehow much better than meeting the firefighter.”
Sammy frowned. “You met him too?”
“Let’s just say his ego was big enough to feed a small army.”
“Firefighters,” Sammy mumbled. “It’s always the firefighters.”
“Amen, brother.”
Jack kept his hands in his pockets as he walked back over to his SWAT group, ready for this day to be over and with a silent prayer that he wouldn’t run into any more versions of you in the days to come.
Oh, how wrong his prayers were, because the universe did as it pleased.
_______________________
By the time Jack made it to the grocery store after a grueling twelve-hour shift, life seemed to be working against him.
His prosthesis was hurting more than normal, his back ached, and on top of it all, the weekend he was planning to spend with you had to be rescheduled because, of course, the day shift was short this weekend, so Robby had to ask you to come in. So, Jack was there, at the grocery, debating whether generic noodles would finally be the thing that ended his relationship.
It wasn’t as serious as he was making it, but you had once claimed that you could taste the difference between seven brands of spaghetti. While Jack remained convinced you were lying, he was also fairly certain that no one on earth possessed that level of culinary sophistication. You were a trauma resident who recently joined a surgery fellowship. Half your meals came from vending machines, cafeteria food, and whatever happened to be left in the physician’s lounge whenever you finally remembered that eating was actually really important to the human body. And the fact that you somehow had strong opinions about pasta seemed suspicious.
Still, he’d learned very early on in your relationship that questioning those opinions usually resulted in lengthy lectures.
So, he stood in front of a wall of nearly identical boxes with his shopping basket hanging from one hand and his phone in the other, squinting at the list you’d sent him three hours ago when you should have been asleep before your shift.
The list itself looked normal.
Milk, eggs, bread, coffee pods, pasta*.
What made it significantly less helpful were the additional notes you’d attached.
*not pasta; the good pasta.
Whatever the hell “the good pasta” meant. He rubbed a tired hand over his face, letting it rest against his chin, fingers scratching at the few days’ worth of stubble that you complained about before he left for his shift.
“You are a menace,” he muttered to himself, making the elderly woman beside him look deeply concerned, to which he pretended he hadn’t spoken at all.
His attention dropped back to his phone as he reread the text conversation for what was probably the fifth time.
What makes pasta good?
That means the good one, Jack.
I’m sorry, sweetheart, but that’s not an answer.
You’ll know it when you see it!
I probably won’t.
I believe in you! <3
He smiled as he scrolled through the messages, but that meant he wasn’t paying attention when he rounded the corner into the aisle. However, just as he happened to glance up to see where he was going, he spotted you at the end.
Immediately, every other thought vanished.
His eyes trailed from your face and down toward your shopping cart, or at least, what he assumed was your shopping cart. The thing was loaded with groceries that were definitely not on the list: fresh vegetables, fruit, actual ingredients, enough food to sustain a small village. He frowned deeply at the sight.
It wasn’t like you hated grocery shopping; between your added hours with the surgery fellowship, you simply never had the time. Most weeks, Jack barely convinced you to buy enough food to just survive. And the sight of you voluntarily pushing a cart filled with produce was concerning enough that he started walking over before he could think too hard about it.
“You know,” he called out, “I think this is the most vegetables I’ve ever seen you buy at one time.”
At the sound of his voice, you looked up, and Jack smiled.
“You finally decide to start listening to me?”
You stayed quiet.
“I’m serious. Last week I found three energy drinks and a packet of crackers in your apartment, and you claimed that was enough to last you the weekend.” He stopped beside your cart and pointed. “Actually, no. Hold on; are those Brussels sprouts?”
Your eyes widened as you followed his finger down to the green vegetables.
“Sweetheart,” he pouted. “If Santos is forcing you to buy those, you can tell me. I’ll tell her to lay off.”
When you only blinked slowly, Jack missed the warning sign completely.
“But come on, you spent three days arguing with me about vegetables,” he continued. “Three. Entire. Days. And now you’re buying enough produce to open a farmer’s market.”
Silence stretched between you and him until you said, “I’m sorry.”
Jack nodded. “You should be.”
“No. I mean I’m sorry, but I have absolutely no idea who you are.”
The words hit him like a freight train, and for a second, he simply stared until he felt his soul leave his body.
Universe three; Jack Abbot zero.
In this moment, he would’ve preferred if the earth opened up and swallowed him whole. Of course his luck wouldn’t have let him just continue on with his life after finding your double twice. He wondered if he were becoming you: a doppelganger magnet, or if he were just lucky—unlucky in his opinion—to make the same mistake three times in a row.
However, seeing another version of you meant that at least she chose another version of him. He at least let himself look closely at this one. Under the grocery store lights, her skin held a tan that he’d barely seen around the bi-polar weathered Pittsburgh. He wondered if she was from somewhere sunny. But unlike the firefighter’s wife or the detective, her eyes held a brightness that rivaled his version of you’s eyes. Jack had to guess that she might be pared with a smiley version of himself.
And if this interaction went anything like the others, he’d meet him soon enough.
Jack must have been staring for a while, because in the next moment, she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Do you have a problem, sir?”
He shook his head instantly. “Sorry, this is just . . .” he trailed. “This is the third time this has happened?”
Third-you looked utterly confused. “What’s the third time?”
“The third time I’ve mistaken a stranger for my girlfriend.”
That seemed to stun her. “The third time?”
“Shockingly, yes.”
Her head tilted. “That’s either incredibly romantic or deeply concerning, if you ask me.”
“I’m leaning more toward mentally unstable,” he joked, thankfully making her let out a soft giggle.
The sound had comfort blooming in his chest. If there was one thing that stayed the same, it was your laugh.
“You probably have the correct answer,” she agreed.
A soft inhale whistled through his nose as he offered out his hand. “Jack Abbot.”
She hummed when she shook his, letting the hum of the overhead light fill the silence between them. The entire time, he felt her eyes on him, almost looking like she was trying to look into his soul and find the darkness in it. That was another difference that he noticed between you and her.
You always seemed to treat people with an undying kindness, never once looking for the bad in them. Your personality is exactly what made you an amazing doctor in Jack’s eyes. Where he was all judging and sullen and closed in, you were warm and bright and open to whoever walked through the door of the Pitt.
This version of you was more like Jack than he’d like to admit, even if she exuded a warmness in her eyes. She seemed trusting enough, but he could tell it was only reserved for the people closest to her.
He shifted his weight, the pain of his prosthesis surging through his spine. “Sorry again that I thought you were my vegetable-hating girlfriend.”
“It’s fine,” she stated. “I’m glad to know that your version of me is being taken care of.”
Jack looked around. “Now, it probably won’t happen, but right about now, the version of me somehow pops up as well.” He glanced back at the woman in front of him. “Do you happen to have one?”
At the mention of his double’s possibility, this version of you’s face softened. “Yeah. My fiancé I’m guessing.”
He watched her twiddle with the ring on her finger, and for the first time since meeting the first one of your doubles, Jack’s chest twisted with an aching want. Before he could ask another question, a voice sounded from the other end of the aisle.
“Babe?”
Jack followed the sound of the voice and froze, while not-you looked over her shoulder and waved.
“Over here!’
And like clockwork, another version of him was walking towards him. This one, like Sammy, was younger with auburn curls Jack hadn’t seen in almost a decade yet also didn’t carry the easiness that the officer had. This version of Jack reminded him of the time right after he lost his wife: all hard around the edges and looking like life had chewed him up, spat him out, and danced on his corpse. He also donned the same tired expression that suggested that life also routinely tested his patience.
Even worse, he looked just as startled. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, but this time, Jack wasn’t going to be the first to say anything.
Finally, the man spoke. “Did she ever find better coffee?”
Jack, against every screaming muscle, lifted the backet. “She’s started making it at home.”
He nodded once. “Good.”
This version of his’s you looked up with wide eyes. “Andrew?”
The now-named Andrew looked down and completely softened. “Remember that doctor I told you about? The one that sat with me when Craig got hurt?”
A realization flashed across her face. “Oh.” She glanced back at Jack. “That actually makes a lot of sense now.”
Jack continued to stare just like Andrew was staring back at him, almost calculating like he could see Jack’s next move. But apparently, Jack new how to surprise both of them.
“Now that introductions are over, do either of you know what good pasta looks like?”
Andrew blinked once before reaching for a box overhead, and Jack couldn’t help but notice the scars and split knuckles on the man’s hands when he took the box from him.
“You sure?” he asked with a smile.
He got another nod.
“The box just looks right.”
And when Jack was leaving the store, Andrew-Cody-and-almost-Mrs.-Cody-approved pasta in bag, he couldn’t help but notice that yes, the box did look correctly like the good pasta. And for once, Jack thanked the universe.
_______________________
Jack’s champagne had gone lukewarm around the time the fifth filthy-rich billionaire talked to him like he wasn’t a doctor himself.
Now, he wasn’t above a little ass kissing to bring in large donations; the Pitt, like any hospital, ran much smoother when a large donation came in every so often. But while this older man talked and talked about the importance of strong-head doctors, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander. This year, the banquet location had been done up to the nines, and Jack wondered who had much the big donation to make sure this looked like a presidential ball rather than a bi-monthly gala that he’d been to way too many times to keep track of them all.
The large open space was filled to the brim, and Jack knew it was probably in violation of a few OSHA codes, but that wasn’t his department of health and safety. So, he just let this close-to-dying man continue on with his speech as a favor to Robby, who had somehow mastered the ability to make Jack’s attendance request sound more like an obligation.
If anything, Jack would’ve rather happily spend his evening literally anywhere else, preferably next to you. And a quick glance down at his watch told him that the evening was far from over. He fought to swallow down a groan, until he spotted you across the way, taking small sips from your own glass.
He let his eyes roam the dark dress that hugged your body and the way your hair was pinned back from your face. The outfit was very far from your regular scrubs, but honestly, Jack would still look at you the same even if you were wearing a potato sack.
For a moment, a wave of gratitude washed over him, because obviously, Robby must’ve invited you too. Jack should have expected it. His friend had spent months insisting that Jack needed to participate more in events that didn’t involve gunfire. You being here must have been some type of Pavlovian incentive.
The realization that you were there improved his mood so dramatically that he immediately abandoned the conversation he had been trapped in and started making his way across the banquet hall.
“Sweetheart,” he said as he approached. “I know you’d probably be back home, but man am I glad Robby invited you too.”
You looked over at him with a smirk. “I was wondering when you’d come over.”
At this moment, Jack should have taken a second to pause, to remember the past three times that this had happened. Because, really, he should have noticed that the woman standing in front of him, although looking a lot like you with similar eyes and facial structure, looked exactly like she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth while her hands suggested she knew her way around beating someone to death. But alas, Jack Abbot’s greatest strength and failure at the same time was loving his woman to the point that, once he saw her face, he couldn’t shut up.
His brows pinched. “You’ve been here this entire time? I’m sorry, sweetheart, I would have tried to find you earlier when I got here.” He looked around as he spoke. “Robby didn’t even tell me you were coming, that little fucker.” A sigh heaved from his chest. “I hope you’ve had a better night than standing and listening to rich bitches act like they normally do.”
You, for some odd reason, looked downright pleased at his distraught, taking a sip from your glass with a sly smile. “Hmmm, tell me sir, what exactly do rich bitches do?”
Again, the answer should have set him off, but the few glasses of champagne plus the pregame drink he had beforehand really diluted his inhibition.
“Wave their money around like they own the world,” he muttered.
“I mean, some of us do.”
Some . . . of . . . us . . . do . . .
It was almost as if a giant lightbulb went off behind Jack’s eyes. “Oh fuck.”
And suddenly, the features that had seemed just like yours melted away. However, where Mrs. Richards had been nice, and Detective Bryant had been just, and future-Mrs.-Cody had been warm, this version of you looked downright evil with her stilettoes that looked like they could kill a man with a single stomp. An idea like that finally had Jack pausing, another lightbulb going off.
“Please tell me that you don’t sacrifice people to Satan too, because if so, I will need to admit myself into a psychiatric hold.”
She took another sip from her glass. “And what if I do? Seems like you already know me.”
“You somehow look a lot like my girlfriend, but last I checked, she saves lives, not sacrifices them.”
She laughed, but this time, it did not sound like yours. Each time her laugh came out, it sounded like a million dollars were spent each time. “Doctor, do you spend all your charity galas trying to find women who look like your girlfriend?”
“I spend my charity galas trying to find a way to leave.”
“You don’t enjoy them?”
“I don’t enjoy listening to . . .” he paused, brain scrambling for another word.
“Rich bitches?” the woman provided. “Go ahead; I don’t mind.”
Jack winced. “Billionaires who hold money over our heads.”
Her eyes glanced around the room before stopping on the man Jack had just been talking to. “You think anyone would miss him if he disappeared.”
He followed her gaze. “You know that entire sentence just solidified the idea that you do actually sacrifice people.”
“You didn’t answer my question, doctor.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re toying with me.”
A fire lit behind her expression. “You’re catching on. I do enjoy playing with my food, you’re right.”
“Now I really want to find a way out. Maybe the fire escape and jumping off the roof might be my best bet,” Jack said in hopes to get the conversation away from ritualistic human sacrifice.
“Good. I’d get my body easier by the end of the night.”
A literal chill ran up his spine while this version of you stood like what she’d just said was meaningless conversation. While Jack might have been a bit unsettled by the other ones, he had never been as nervous as he was right now. When he failed to say anything else, the woman waved a hand around her face.
“Relax, doctor. I’m mostly joking.”
Still, that did nothing to ease the feeling building inside his chest.
“Mostly is still in that sentence,” he muttered, hand reaching to pick up another flute. “I’m not sure that did much to make me relax.”
“We are strangers after all.” She turned to face him completely but did not hold out a hand when she introduced herself.
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Like . . . those Danforths?”
Her grin widened. “Again, you sound like you already know me.”
“It’s hard to not when you look like someone I love but have the last name of the richest family in the world. This is definitely right out of a fanfiction or something.”
“Or something. You still have yet to hand over your name, doctor,” she teased, but it landed weirdly in Jack’s chest.
“Promise to not use it in your next ritual?”
“On Satan’s head.”
“Darling, are you scaring the poor doctors again?” someone said behind Jack, thankfully ending that conversation.
For a moment, Jack let himself relax, finally out of the claws of the woman’s manicured hand. However, when the person rounded Jack to stick himself to the woman’s side, he blanched, because yet again, the man across from him looked like a version of himself. Well, a version of Jack who apparently wasn’t a doctor, sneezed into million-dollar tissues, and hunted people down as a hobby instead of volunteering for SWAT.
The man’s eyes (the same hue as Jack’s) lit with glee. “So, the little dove really wasn’t lying when she said we shared a face.”
His nickname for you burned a jealously Jack didn’t know he had, and now this couple was looking at him like a piece of meat to prey upon. Not knowing what else to do, Jack set down the now-empty flute on the bar. Danforth-you looked up at—yes, you had a very large ring on—her husband with fluttering eyes.
“I wasn’t scaring him,” she whined. “Just making sure that we picked a good one. The last one wasn’t fun at all.”
Again, that sounded way too sacrificial for Jack to relax or feel comfortable in the couple’s presense.
“Brother, there you are!” Robby shouted like divine intervention. Hands landed down on his shoulders with a squeeze. “Gloria’s going to have my head if we’re not in the conference room for the next showing.”
Jack tried (and failed) to give the Danforths a smile. “It was . . . lovely speaking to you two, but duty calls, right?”
Before he could turn to leave, not-you reached into her clutch and pulled out a piece of paper. “For your hospital, doctor. Some of us rich bitches actually do care about your cause.”
Jack was hesitant to take it but eventually did. His eyes widened like a cartoon when he saw the number of zeros. “I think this is a mistake?”
“I don’t make mistakes, Dr. Abbot” she replied, closing up her clutch. “Titus, darling, I think we’re also needed somewhere else.”
“Ah, yes, it is that time, isn’t it.” He smirked over at Jack. “Nice meeting this version of me. Say hello to your dove for me.”
Words escaped Jack as the pair turned and left, leaving just him and Robby, who looked close to fainting, alone at the bar.
“That’s it. No more galas for both of you,” Robby announced while steering Jack into the direction of the conference room. “Even if we get millions for the hospital, I am not losing you both to your Satan-worshipping twins.”
Jack let out a large sigh. “Sounds like a good plan, brother.”
_______________________
Jack was done.
D-O-N-E; done.
After the last version of you had been one look away from draining his blood dry while he lied across a black table, he believed that everything was out to get him. The first version of you had been okay; she was nice. The second crept into unsettling territory, but by the third and fourth, Jack was tired of second guessing himself every time he saw your eyes looking back at him.
However, that didn’t mean he entirely walked right past the restaurant when he noticed you sitting by yourself at a table in the middle. No, he outright paused by the large window, chest curling at the thought of you eating alone. He glanced up at the restaurant’s sign, and a small glimmer of recognition bloomed.
North & Vine had made quite the stir a few months ago when news articles poured in with reports that the beloved restaurant might lose its Michelin star. But since then, Jack was pleased to see that it had been able to keep the one and also win another.
The area about North & Vine was beautiful at the edge of downtown, tucked between two older brick buildings and lit with the kind of warm amber lighting that convinced people they could afford appetizers even if they couldn’t. Getting a reservation was also unheard of if you hadn’t placed your name on the list by almost three months in advance.
Which, that was another reason as to why Jack was so confused when he stood there watching you. To his knowledge, you’d never spoken about wanting to go. If you had, Jack would have made it possible. But there you were, sitting alone, looking contempt as hell with a plain glass of water in front of you.
The other reason was because you had just texted him a few hours earlier with a selfie in front of the nurses’ station with the words: currently fighting for my life.
It was beyond him how you’d apparently gone from that to peacefully waiting for a dinner. And apparently that mean that the situation alone deserved an investigation. So naturally, Jack walked inside and was immediately hit with the best smelling food he’d ever smelled before.
But he wasn’t there to stop and smell the mashed potatoes; he was a man on a mission. He walked up to the hostess podium with a smile and pointed toward your table.
“I know here.”
The hostess smiled and moved to let him pass.
Now, after four other encounters, Jack should have known better that the “you” sitting at the table probably wasn’t really you. But he didn’t. No lessons had been enough to stick in his head, because if there was one thing Jack Abbot learned about loving you, it was that he’d recognize you anywhere.
Unfortunately, the universe kept proving that statement technically incorrectly every time.
As he approached the table, nothing felt off at all. At least the other times, the other versions of you had looked different. The firefighter volunteer shirt, the detective vest, the beach-going outfit, the dress that looked like it costed more than his life was worth: they all were things Jack knew you wouldn’t wear.
So seeing you in comfortable clothing, any of his regular alarm bells had gone silent. Because of this, he had no issues sliding into the empty seat across from you with a confused smile.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” he asked.
You looked up at him, almost taken back by his presence. “Not that I know of?”
His eye brows pinched. “You texted me a few hours ago that you were fighting for your life at work.”
“I don’t think so,” you replied, pulling out your phone from the small purse by your side. Your lip twisted before you looked back up at him. “And really, I couldn’t because I don’t have your number and—”
“You don’t have my number?” Jack pushed out. “How is that possible—”
“And really, it’s because I don’t know who you are.”
Jack froze in his spot across from the now fifth version of you. Under the warm glow, it was downright uncanny how she looked exactly like you. If Brett was his spitting image, this woman was yours. Everything down to your phone color was the same. However, now that he was taking the time to look, once again, he found a nice-looking ring on her left finger. His face dropped in humiliation.
“I am so sorry,” he muttered, hands coming up to cover his face.
He missed the way she softly smiled at him. “It’s okay, really. You seemed innocent enough.”
“I’m five seconds away from going back to the kitchen to drown myself in mop water.”
She giggled. “I’m sure that this interaction isn’t bad enough to warrant that reaction.”
“If you only knew how many times I’ve mistaken a stranger for my girlfriend then you’d understand that, yes, I’m having a believable reaction.” Jack dropped his hands back down to the table and leaned back in the chair. “Jack Abbot, and now I’m seeing that you are not my girlfriend.”
“Nice to meet you, Jack,” she stated, resting her chin against her hand. “Have you tried getting a bit more sleep?”
He sighed. “My job sadly doesn’t allow for extra nap times, I’m afraid.”
That seemed to pique her interest. “Oh? What do you do?”
“I’m the night shift attending at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.”
“That makes sense,” she said before picking up her water for a sip. “You look like the type to have that kind of job.”
Jack pursed his lips. “Should I be offended by that?”
“Not at all.” She paused. “I just mean that you look like the type of man to care for others more than you care for yourself. It’s admirable.”
Her words hit him right in the gut, because you had said something similar to that during his and yours first argument after a SWAT raid had gone wrong, leaving him with a little more than a graze that time. His saliva suddenly felt thicker in his mouth as he swallowed it down. He guessed that this you was more similar to his you than he first thought.
“That’s . . .” he trailed, not knowing if he wanted to say what he was thinking. “You sound just like her.”
“Smart woman.”
She was also right with that as well.
For the first time since meeting your parallels, Jack felt comfortable enough to enjoy just sitting there to the point he wanted to see if there were any more similarities between the two of you. However, he was stopped short when a waitress stopped right at the table.
“Mrs. Reilly? Chef wanted to talk to you.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” she responded, already collecting her things before smiling back down at Jack. “Have a lovely evening. And if you ever want to bring your version of me here, I’ll make sure you get a table.”
“Thank you,” Jack managed to spit out right as she turned to walk toward the back kitchen door.
He had half a mind to leave, but he felt glued to his seat when the door swung open, revealing yet another mirror image of himself. He watched as the Mrs.-Reilly version looked at the man with love in her eyes while she spoke to him with a smile. The two glanced his way, his counterpart’s eyebrows also rising as he lifted a hand in a weird and awkward way.
Jack smirked and waved back, rising to his feet to leave. He could have stayed, but seeing the two together just showed him how much he actually missed you. And if the universe decided to be kind to him, he hoped that he’d never have to miss you again if the ring in a shoebox back at his place had anything to say about it.
_______________________
The universe, apparently, had decided it wasn’t quite finished tormenting him.
By this point, he’d stopped trying to understand its ways. Five women with identical faces to yours should have been enough ground for him to quit life and move to New Zealand under a different name and become a sheep farmer. He didn’t know how much more humiliation his body could handle. At least now he though he knew what to look for: eyes that didn’t hold a special warmth for him, smiles that didn’t quite tilt correctly, faces that weren’t structure enough to form the face that belonged to the woman he loved.
Every single encounter had taught him that much. Which was why he barely looked up when he entered the Pitt’s lobby and spotted you standing near the elevators. Finally, he had learned all the rules; he wasn’t going to say anything to you, humiliation be damned.
Jack Abbot was going to win this war.
The lobby bustled around him with usual chaos; he had nearly tripped over a patient in the hall and almost ran into Perlah as she crossed the floor to Trauma Room one. Somewhere, he heard pager buzz, and the ambulance light made him wince.
Really, Jack wasn’t even supposed to be there, but you had just happened to leave your lunch in his truck . . . again. You could have gone without it, but apparently it consisted of an approximately fourteen-dollar takeout meal that you’d been excited about all morning. The number of times he’d rescued your forgotten meals was beginning to feel less like a favor for his girlfriend and more like a second job (that he really didn’t mind doing).
When he stopped by the elevators, you finally glanced up. From the corner of his eye, Jack took in the similarities: your hair color, shoe brand, and surprisingly, a hospital ID. This one was close—very close. But not quite enough for him to say something. The others had ruined him. A few weeks ago, Jack would’ve walked right over. Now? Now he barely gave this sixth version of you a second glance.
“Nope,” he muttered. “Not falling for it this time.”
His voice had been just loud enough that your ears picked up on it. You turned and looked at him with a pinched face and deep frown.
“Jack, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” He pressed the elevator button, willing the machine to open quickly. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Jack,” you stated, so very confused as to why he was acting like this.
He ignored you. This was exactly how the nonsense started. Familiar face, familiar voice, and the next moment he was somehow discussing ritual sacrifice with a stranger. But not today; today, he was smarter; today, he was prepared.
“Nice try, but I’ve learned my lesson,” he said, eyes still glued to the elevator doors in front of him. “You look close enough that last week this might have worked.”
You stared at him. “Are you having a stroke?”
“See?” He finally pointed over at you. “That’s exactly the kind of thing she’d say.”
If he took a moment to look over, he’d see the horrified look on your face.
He sighed loudly. “Look. I’ve done this enough to know better—hey!”
You had grabbed his wrist and yanked him along. “Come here.”
Jack stumbled forward. “What—”
The direction you were pulling him was right into an open room. He didn’t even have a moment to react before you pushed him down right onto the bed. Your fingers held his face, and he winced when your pen light flashed in his eyes.
“When was the last time you slept?” you questioned. “You’re not having a stroke because your face is perfectly fine. Is this dehydration? Concussion? Did you hit your head?”
All while you were spitting out question after question, Jack stared ahead at you to the point that he finally guessed the universe was on his side, because after five different versions of you, this had to be his.
Mrs. Richards looked nice.
Mrs. Bryant looked confused.
Soon-to-be Mrs. Cody looked guarded.
Mrs. Danforth looked bloodthirsty.
Mrs. Reilly look endeared.
But you?
You looked at him with such concern that he could practically feel your love from him spilling out from your body. Suddenly, the ring in his pocket felt very heavy.
“Sweetheart—”
You ignored him. “Maybe this is a rare case of amnesia. Jack, what’s my name—”
He grabbed your hands and held them. “Sweetheart, I’m fine. Actually, right now, I’m better than fine, unless you’re about to tell me that you don’t know who I am before another one of my doppelgangers reveals himself as either your husband or fiancé.” He faux shivered. “I cannot do that again.”
You blinked slowly. “You met them?”
“Sadly.”
“You interacted with them.”
“Extra sadly.”
“How is the universe still standing?”
He chuckled loudly. “Maybe because every version of me has a special version of you. We keep the world balanced, sweetheart.”
An oomph left his chest when you all but threw yourself into his chest. His arms wrapped tightly around you, keeping you against him. A helpless laugh escaped from your throat at the idea of Jack running into different versions of you.
“Were you contemplating running into traffic after each one?” you asked.
“Every single fucking time,” he replied with a groan. “Any small body of water also looked enticing for a drowning.”
“I know right.” You finally pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “But at least you’re still here.”
Jack closed his eyes when your hands rested against his cheeks. One of his hands rose and rested on top of yours. Even through all the drama, through all the embarrassment, he still had you, the one who truly cared for him through everything, even if you thought he was having a stroke. His other hand reached down for his pocket.
“This wasn’t how I wanted to do this,” he said softly, “but after running into versions of you that weren’t mind, I realized that I’ve waited too long to do this.”
He heard you softly gasp when he raised the ring.
“I know six months isn’t that long, but damn it, sweetheart, I don’t know if I can wait any longer. You are the best thing that’s happened to me in forever. I really didn’t know if I’d been capable of loving someone like I love you after losing my wife. But seeing that you still belonged to someone that looked like me in every version of you’s life, I wanted to have that, to have you.”
Tears started falling down your cheeks as he spoke, hazel eyes never wavering from yours.
“Will you please do me the honor of being my wife. Not a firefighter’s, not a cop’s, not a man who looks like he holds the baggage of the world’s, not a Satan-worshipping billionaire’s, and definitely not a chef’s wife, but the wife of a grumpy, old night shift attending who likes to get shot at on the weekends.”
You were silent, but your head was nodding.
Finally, your voice rang out with “Yes, yes, yes. A thousand times, yes.”
With shaking hands, Jack slipped the ring onto your finger before bringing you in for a kiss. He shivered at the feeling of the metal heating up against this skin, and his finger played with the diamond as his lips moved against yours. He wasn’t kissing you like he had six months ago, but it still held the same warmth and steadiness that his kissed always had.
Jack pulled back after a while and rested his forehead against yours. “I’m glad you’re actually you.”
You smiled and giggled. “And I’m glad you’re actually you, too.”
His nose brushed yours before he pulled you into another kiss.
Take that universe.
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