SUMMARY: Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything.
WARNINGS: the summary is a warning in itself but this part includes mentions of Tom, alcohol consumption, deep talks, heavy mentions of foster care, flirting (!!!!!), slight miscommunication, Jack opening up about his relationship with his wife, yet another phone call from Robby and god I don't want to spoil it but.... a surprise at the end !!!!!!
A/N: it's here!! This is it, here we go. I have been so excited to get to this point in the series because this is where we get the juicy stuff, and I was screaming my ass off writing the last part of this chapter hehe. A huge thank you for all the love and support this series is receiving, it truly means so much <3
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 8.7k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
It was a mistake to have told your friends what happened in the ER. Even more of a mistake that you told them your fucking neighbour was the one to conduct your pelvic exam. Because you know that they're a bunch of busybodies. And you also know from experience that whenever one of you mentions a new male figure entering your lives in any capacity, they have to do their research.
It should not have surprised you that Bella had somehow found his LinkedIn and sent his very attractive and recent photo into the group chat. You also should’ve known that with that, came the thirst comments and that they’d be more than happy to have their pelvic exams to be done by him, too.
All in jest, to begin with. You didn’t stress because it was separate. There was no reason for them to ever meet him. Except now, there is. Because he’s coming to Phoebe’s birthday party and now you’ve had to gather the girls around the kitchen island while the kids play to give them their one and only warning to be on their best fucking behavior.
“Jack’s coming.”
It’s all it takes for all four pairs of eyes to land on you and widen. Bella, naturally, is the first to smirk. An expression that is very quickly mirrored by Leone, Chloe and Karis. You raise a palm to stop them before anyone can try to say something stupid or inappropriate.
“You are all to be on your best behavior and not stare at him like he’s some sort of zoo animal.”
Their smirks collectively turn into feline grins at your words. “Jesus, we’re not that bad.” Karis defends, though really she’s only actually speaking for herself.
You huff. “He’s just a friend and he’s Phoebe’s favorite person. Please don’t be weird and please do not bring up my pelvic exam.”
Karis giggles at that, her short brown bob swaying with the movement of her shoulders. Her reaction is much more innocent than the crazed smirks of the others. She’s always been the prude one of the friend group, never openly engaging in sex talk or sharing personal experiences. She’s just a bit of a quieter, more timid soul. Engaged to her lovely fiance, Ricky, and four months pregnant with her first.
Bella feigns an offended sigh, leaning across the kitchen island on her forearms. Her palms clap together gently, the chunky rings on her fingers clicking. “We promise to behave.”
You squint at her, unconvinced. Bella will be the biggest problem. Single, flirty and has no real sense of shame or embarrassment. That’s probably why she’s your favorite.
Your eyes flicker over to Leone and Chloe who are honestly the least of your concerns. “Don’t look at us.” They spend so much time together that the words slip from their mouths at the same time.
Anyone who meets them assumes they're in the honeymoon period, freshly smitten. But in reality, they’ve been together since high school. When they were told it was just a phase. When they got bullied by girls and sexualized by boys. You’ll forever have the memory of the time you broke Henry Stevenson's nose when he called them dykes and asked them both to scissor in front of him.
You feel a palm on your lower back, a presence at your shoulder. Your mom stands beside you, unwrapping the rest of the party food that’s plated on the island. “Tom not coming?”
You scoff at her joke. “Nope. I invited him for Pheebs, but he said he has plans.”
She pauses, turns to you. “But it’s her birthday.”
With a sigh, you purse your lips and drop your shoulders. You can’t help but look across to Phoebe; playing with Bella’s daughter, Florence, and some of her other friends from preschool. It makes your heart ache to watch her laugh with excitement and grin in happiness and know that Tom doesn’t love her the way he should. The way she deserves.
“Don’t worry about it, honey. She's got everyone she needs right here.” It’s your dad’s hands that land comfortingly on your shoulder, a grounding touch and a blanket of reassurance and love.
You sink into it a little, let him wrap you in his arms. No matter how old you are, it always makes you feel like a teenager again. Safe in your fathers hold, knowing that he will never let anything touch or harm you.
“Besides,” Bella begins with a grin, “I’m sure she’ll forget all about Tom when Jack gets here.”
Your moms head whips to you, eyes wide and sparkling as her lips curl in intrigue. “The silver fox?”
You feel your dad still slightly as he pulls away from you, cocking a brow at your mom in what can only be playful from him. She swats his rounding tummy in jest and wraps herself around him. But your dad…he turns to you with raised brows, a silent question as to what the fuck your mother is talking about.
“You’re seeing someone? Someone older?”
A groan tumbles from your lips. “No. He’s a neighbor. A friend.”
“For now.” Chloe murmurs over the rim of her glass, eyes shining something mischievous.
He looks at Chloe, then back to you. Your mom pats his stomach, one arm around his waist. “David, you’re not allowed to feel any type of way about this. You’re nineteen years older than me!”
A huff falls from you but you can’t help the laugh that follows. “There is nothing to feel about anything because Jack is a friend.” It’s like you speak in an alien tongue, because they all blink at you blankly.
Your dad rolls his shoulders, clears his throat like the subject has made him uncomfortable. If he’s honest with himself, it has. He’s never liked the topic of you having a boyfriend or a partner. He hated it as a teenager and now you’re almost thirty…it still hasn’t gotten easier to come to terms with.
That you, his little girl, isn’t a little girl anymore. David often has to remind himself that you’re an adult, a mother. And that despite how uneasy he feels about you potentially being interested in an older man, Prue is right. He is nineteen years older than her. He has no place to judge, only has room for validated fatherly concern.
He clears his throat, focuses his attention on you. “How old is this Jack, exactly?”
You chew on the inside of your cheek. There is absolutely no need to be having the conversation, and yet you find yourself quietly indulging your father anyway. “Forty-four.”
Your father blinks and you know he’s mentally calculating an age difference. He has the same look in your eye that you did when you were staring at your reflection the night after the ED visit, calculating the gap yourself.
Sixteen years.
David looses a breath and there’s a stillness in the kitchen. Phoebe and her friends continue to play, unaware of the turmoil he’s mentally battling. He reminds himself that you’re a big girl now, that you can make your own decisions. That he knows Phoebe is your priority always.
But David knows what an age difference looks like. There’s a worry that wedges itself deep beneath his ribcage for you. Because while an older man may be able to offer you more, he can’t offer everything. At seventy-five years old, he knows he’s lucky if he’s got another ten years in him. That he’ll be leaving Prue a widow at sixty-six. That he won’t make it to see Phoebe become an adult, won’t make it to meet his grandchildren if she grows to have any.
It doesn’t matter how fit and healthy he is, or how good he looks for his age. David is old, getting older. He can’t do the things that Prue can. He doesn’t want that life for you.
The tension in the kitchen makes the next part even harder. And you don’t look at anyone when you utter words that make your father tense even further. “If you see his wedding band, don’t ask about it.”
An even thicker silence settles over the room at that. Partly because you’d never told them he was married, but also because they all seemed to get the hint that his wife is no longer here.
It makes David’s chest feel tight. Like history is repeating itself. Because before Prue, he was also a widow.
Before any other questions can be asked, Phoebe is shrieking in delight as she tears open another gift. It’s all that’s needed for everyone to swiftly move past the doomed conversation. You avoid your mothers sympathetic gaze as you reach Phoebe, grinning as she slips her feet into a pair of plastic heels.
There’s wrapping paper everywhere, toys and books and dress-up outfits. She’s torn through the majority of her gifts, screaming at Alexa to play Ain’t It Fun by Paramore. She’s no longer wearing the pretty dress you picked out for her; replacing it sometime ten minutes ago with a bright pink tutu and a Def Leopard t-shirt.
After a round of musical statues and beating the shit out of a pinata, there’s a firm knock at the front door and Phoebe is moving toward it before you can say otherwise.
The excitement in her screech is ear shattering as she throws the door wide open and bounces on the spot. Jack grins down at her widely, a large box wrapped in funky paper tucked under a muscular arm.
“Hey, birthday girl.”
“Jack! You came! Look, I'm having a party.” Phoebe doesn’t wait for Jack to respond, wraps her hand around his fingers and drags him into the apartment with far too much excitement.
You watch with pursed lips, desperately trying to hide your grin at the sight. Jack’s eyes find yours amongst the chaos of hyperactive children and wayward adults, his gaze softening but the edges are lined with amusement.
No more navy scrubs, but a pair of dark wash jeans and a white t-shirt that’s far too tight around his biceps. The slightly salt and pepper hair sits in what you can only assume to be their natural curls, and you have to remind yourself not to stare.
You offer a wave, stepping over toys and little feet to reach him. It’s far too natural in how his free arm opens to pull you into a casual hug, your front pressing against his side for a brief moment in greeting before you both pull away.
“Looks crazy in here,” he observes with a fond tone.
You can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, you couldn’t have arrived at a more chaotic time.”
Phoebe pulls on Jack's pants, eager for his attention again. He gives it to her without another thought, crouches with a soft groan and about as much fluidity as a rusty pole. But he offers the gift to a bright eyed girl and she tears the paper off it within seconds.
Another shriek of delight echoes through the room and you watch with raised brows as Phoebe jumps and shakes the box. “Mommy! I’m just like Jack!”
She shoves the box to the ground and frantically begins to rip into it. It’s a medical kit. Complete with a doctor's case, plastic medical equipment, a pretend ID badge and blue scrubs that match Jack’s a little too well.
You blink at him, lips parted slightly in surprise. It was only yesterday that Phoebe told him she wanted to be a doctor when she grows up. And somehow, he’s found the most perfect gift between then and now.
“This is the bestest present ever! Thank you, Jack.” Phoebe throws herself at him again, arms wrapping around his neck and he smiles softly as he holds her with a gentle palm on her back.
“You’re so welcome, kid.”
He rises with another soft groan when Phoebe finally releases him from her clutches, and you both watch as she struggles to put the top on over her current one and step into the pants beneath the tutu. She’s grinning wide when she wraps the stethoscope around her neck and shoves the rest of the medical tools in her little bag.
You have to stifle a laugh when she orders one of her friends to pretend to be sick and Jack follows you toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you a drink. You didn’t have to get her a gift.”
He scoffs, like he’s offended. “And show up to a diva's birthday party empty-handed?”
A laugh falls from your lips but lodges in your throat the moment you approach the kitchen island and realize all eyes are on you. Well, not you. On Jack.
He stands with a polite smile, hands behind his back and a slight stiffness in his shoulders like he’s about to be interrogated for something he absolutely has not done yet.
You clear your throat. “Um, Jack, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Jack. Our neighbor and Phoebe’s best friend.”
He laughs softly at that, a brief blush of pinkness dusting across his cheeks at your introduction. Bella is the first to introduce herself as your best friend. Then Karis, who’s a little more polite about it. Both Leone and Chloe offer smirks and a wave, no words to tell him their names.
But your mom and dad… they approach Jack slowly. Your mother with a warm smile and your father with a slight squint in his eyes.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Jack. I’m Y/N’s mom, Prue. And this is my husband, David. Phoebe does not shut up about her favorite doctor.”
Jack’s laugh is a bit nervous, a bit self-deprecating. But he offers a warm handshake to your parents and you take that moment to shoot a glare and a silent shut the fuck up to your grinning friends.
“Ah, nothing too special about me but she’s a pretty cool kid.” He deflects it easily, casually.
Your mom makes a sound of disagreement. “She’s a strongheaded girl, like her mom. I trust her judge of character more than my own sometimes, and I’ve been a lawyer for thirty years.” She laughs and Jack dips his head a bit bashfully.
“Yeah, I heard you retired recently. Congratulations.”
She waves him off with a grin. “Is a lawyer ever truly retired? You ever need a defence attorney for anything outside of the hospital, you let me know.”
He grins appreciatively at the offer. “I’ll keep that in mind, Prue.”
“You always been a doctor, Jack?” David asks it casually enough but there’s a slight accusing tone to his voice that’s completely unwarranted.
But Jack just shrugs with a slight nod. “I’ve been in medicine most of my life. I served three tours as a combat medic before I went into emergency medicine.”
Your dad pauses, stares at your neighbor and you quickly take note of the wide eyes of your friends. You’d missed that tidbit of information when they were grilling you about him. And you’re yet to let them know about his little SWAT hobby.
There’s a hint of approval in your dad’s eyes at that and you visibly watch the way his shoulders relax slightly. “I did four tours back in my day. The medics are the real heroes… PTMC is lucky to have you.”
It’s about as much outright approval David has ever given a man that’s come into your life. It’s something that makes you feel sick and happy all at once. He’s just your fucking neighbor, why is everyone treating him like he’s your boyfriend?
Phoebe is bouncing into the kitchen before much more can be said, complaining about the lack of food she’s eaten and your parents and friends make quick work of moving the food to the small table set up in the lounge. You take that moment as a breather as they set the kids up for dinner and busy your hands with making a drink for Jack.
“Sorry, you kind of got thrown in the deep end there.” You apologize with a fond laugh.
Jack sits at the island, shrugging a shoulder and lazily waving a hand to brush it off. “They all seem nice. Phoebe had a good day?”
You nod with a tired smile as you slide a plastic cup toward him. He probably shouldn’t trust you as blindly as he does because he lifts the cup to take a sip before even checking what’s inside it, and swallows with brows raised.
“Beer at a kids party?”
You lean across the island to clink your cup to his. “I won’t tell if you won't."
Jack laughs but nods his head, taking another gulp before twisting in his seat to watch Phoebe help her friends put party hats on their heads and hold a mini speech to thank everyone for coming.
Your head falls between your arms as you laugh at the sight, a loud chuckle falling from Jack as he watches her with a wide grin and an ache in his chest.
For a moment, you just watch him watch her. Notice the way his grin softens into something fond and caring. Your throat dries up and you have to clear it with a cough. “Thank you for coming and for her gift. She’s a bit crazy about you at the minute.”
His eyes remain on Phoebe when he speaks. “Yeah, I've got a soft spot for her, too.” And when he turns back to you, his expression morphs into something slightly more intense. “And her mom.”
You swallow around the dryness in your throat, pray to fucking God that he doesn’t notice the heat that crawls up your neck and sits on the apples of your cheeks. You feel warm and fuzzy all over at his words, at the potential implications of them. The actual meaning.
You don’t know what to say so you don’t say anything at all. Your lips roll between your teeth to conceal a growing smile and you try your best to maintain his eye contact as you bring your cup to your lips again to take another sip.
Jack doesn’t get to spend much more time with you for the rest of the party. You’re either pulled away by duties or Jack is pulled away by Phoebe. He spends the next hour playing doctors with the four year olds and getting to know your mom and dad. But it’s on more than one occasion that you glance over to find him in deep conversation with Bella.
It sits uneasy in your stomach; the way he looks at her in such an intense way, like whatever she’s saying is gospel. It makes your throat swell in something like insecurity and embarrassment. There is nothing between you and Jack, you know that. But he says he has a soft spot for you and Phoebe and then submerges himself in Bella’s presence.
You’re not blind. You know how beautiful Bella is. Dark skin and silky hair. Chocolate brown eyes and fluttering lashes that frame them. She’s slender, perfectly proportioned and she has a smile that tends to daze anyone she speaks with. It’s not a surprise to you that Jack fell into her captivation either.
But it hurts, nonetheless. It stings in a way that it always has done with Bella. You’re wanted and desired until they meet her. Then you’re just a stepping stone to get to who they really want.
You believe what Jack said, that he does have a soft spot for Phoebe and you. But you believe it’s a spot of pity. Where he feels sorry for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Bella finds you when you’re sticking candles into the frosting of Phoebe’s birthday cake, a sly look on her features as she stands beside you. “Jack seems nice. I see why Pheebs is obsessed with him.”
You still at her voice, at the mention of him. You force yourself to shove her playfully as crimson begins to crawl across your skin. She watches the heat on you, the insistent blinking. A mixture of embarrassment, hurt and if you’re honest with yourself, something like jealousy.
Her lips part. Body turning to look at you. “You like him.”
It’s not a question, it’s written all over your face. You can’t bring yourself to deny it, you’ve never been able to lie to Bella. She sees right through you. Always has. But you do look at her and it’s then that she notices a vulnerability in your eyes that she’s never seen before.
It makes her pause, makes her teasing falter. You see the look of understanding cross her features and you look away. You’re not prepared to have this conversation with her. Not here. Not now.
So you grab a lighter instead and bring the flame to the candles. Heaving a sigh, you slip your palms beneath the cake board and slowly round the kitchen island to make your way over to everyone.
Jack notices you approaching first, eyes darting between yours with a small knit between his brows like he knows something is wrong. But when he notices the cake in your hands and your careful footsteps, he doesn’t approach you to ask.
He does a quick take of everyone else, all too occupied in conversation or tending to the children and without much more of a thought, he slips his phone into his pocket and angles it toward you and you have to look away as he begins to film.
Bella starts singing first, allowing you a moment to find your voice before the entire room is singing off-key and you’re kneeling in front of Pheebs. She blows out the candle on a big breath and it’s not lost on you that this is the first year the cake isn’t covered in her saliva from it.
Jack moves closer to catch it on camera, his laugh bubbling out of him when he actually sees the cake properly and the iced writing on top of it.
DIVA, ALL THE TIME. OLDER, OCCASIONALLY.
Phoebe scoops her finger into the edge of the cake, a hefty chunk of frosting making its way into her mouth and she grins cheekily at Jack’s camera. Your mom scoops her up, peppering kisses to her cheeks and nose despite Phoebe’s obnoxious protests to put her down.
You move in exhaustion and auto pilot for the last thirty minutes of the party. Cutting cake, filling goodie bags, watching Phoebe and her friends do round after round of Singstar on the old PlayStation2 you had kept from your younger years. It made you laugh when she started singing Faint at the top of her lungs.
“I thought she didn’t like screaming music?” Jack had asked.
And it was his turn to laugh when you both turned to look at him and said, “Linkin Park doesn’t count,” at the same time.
By 7.30p.m, the party is clearing out of guests. Parents come to collect their kids while Bella drags a very uncooperative Florence out of the apartment; overtired and not wanting to leave.
Jack sits on the couch with a very sleepy Phoebe who has tucked herself into his side as she makes him read your copy of Stevie Nicks’ autobiography. The sight is so overwhelming it almost makes you feel sick and you have to look away and focus on the state of your kitchen instead.
You feel a presence approaching you, gentle hands resting on your shoulders that you know to be your moms. Her lips barely tickle your ear as she speaks quietly. “I didn’t see a ring.”
Your brows pull together slightly in a frown. For a moment, you’re confused as to what she’s talking about. But when you turn to face her and she offers a subtle movement of her head toward Jack’s direction, you blink.
“Really?”
She hums. “He’s not wearing it. Not today at least.” She presses a kiss to your cheek as your dad joins her, wrapping you in a hug to say goodbye.
You watch them press kisses to Phoebe’s head but she dodges them and shimmies out of Jack’s grasp. Her legs can barely keep her on her feet as she reaches you, rubbing at her eyes and insisting she needs to have a bath and go to sleep.
Taking her into her arms, you’re reminded that your four-year-old is no longer a baby and actually weighs thirty-eight pounds of pure sassiness. You throw an apology over your shoulder to your parents and Jack, each of them dismissing you with a smile and wave of their hand.
She puts up a fight in the tub, fighting you for the jug as you try to wash the soap out of her hair. Brushing her teeth is a wrestling match in itself, her argument being that she wants to be able to taste her birthday cake while she dreams.
But when you go on a bit of a desperate spiral of convincing Phoebe that her teeth will fall out and then so will her tongue and she’ll never be able to eat cake again if she doesn’t brush them, she gives in.
Settling her to bed is an even bigger struggle. First, her pyjamas are too warm, then the second pair are not pink enough. It takes every ounce of you to remain calm and patient. And after four pyjama changes and three Avril Lavigne songs, she’s snoring into her pillow like butter wouldn’t melt.
By the time you creep out of Phoebe’s room, your apartment is silent and…clean.
You blink.
The food and wrapping paper has been cleared up. The frosting smears on the furniture have been wiped clean and popped balloons and torn party streamers no longer litter the floor.
Rustling from the kitchen catches your attention and you follow the noise. Jack stands there, trash bag in hand and humming something that sounds oddly like AC/DC under his breath. He catches your presence as you move closer, taking in the spotless kitchen in slight astonishment.
He smiles at you, not stopping the task at hand. “Phoebe okay?”
You blink again at him. “Uh, yeah. Just overtired—Jack, you didn’t need to stay to clean up.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “You snuck me beer, it’s the least I could do.”
A tired laugh escapes you, and when he nods his head to the open doors to the balcony, you notice two more in the bottle sitting on the little patio table. Your shoulders sag in relief at the sight of it and even from a short distance, you can make out the little drops of condensation that drip down the glass.
“On second thought, you can stay and clean up whenever you like.”
Jack chuckles at that, nods his head toward it again and you hate that you don’t argue with the silent but gentle command. The moment you step outside, your clammy skin is kissed by the cool evening breeze. It shakes a stressed sigh from your chest and you sink into the patio couch.
You’re a few sips into your beer when Jack joins you, easing himself beside you with a small grunt. You watch him take in the surroundings. Unlike Jack’s balcony—which is bare of anything but a table and two chairs—yours is comfortable, homey.
There’s outdoor furniture suitable for weather with throws and pillows, plant pots lining the corners and warm twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the iron fencing. When he reaches for the beer, it’s then that you notice for yourself what your mom observed earlier.
He really isn’t wearing his ring.
You take another long gulp from the bottle, let the bitterness line your tongue when you catch him stretching out his leg from your peripheral.
“You can take it off by the way.” You nod toward his leg. “My great uncle had two prosthetic legs.”
Jack cocks a brow as he looks at you.
“Army?” He assumes but he doesn’t argue with your offer. He tugs his jeans up as much as the denim will allow and reaches beneath the hem to pop the clips on the prosthetic.
You scoff. “Being a jackass.”
It’s both a laugh and a sigh of relief when he eases the socket past his knee and places the machinery to the side of him. The relief in his body is almost immediate. You watch the way his shoulders sag in something like relaxation and he sits back with his beer and a gleam of tiredness in his eyes.
“Thank you again, for coming. For her gift. For cleaning up. She really does adore you, you know.”
A softness eases the worrylines on his face, coaxes the tiredness from his eyes and loosens the clench in his jaw. Jack looks at you with something gentle. “She’s a great kid. You’re a great mom.”
A smile teeters on the edges of your mouth, cheeks swelling slightly at the motion. And despite the fact that he’s interested in Bella, you still find yourself wanting to open up to him. His company is exciting. His presence is comforting.
No matter what, you know you’ll always have a friend in Jack. It’s a fact that you believe enough that your lips are moving and unspoken vulnerabilities are slipping out.
“I was only three months pregnant when Tom told me he couldn’t do it. Be a dad…” Jack listens intently, eyes on you despite your gaze landing on his balcony across the way. “I was barely twenty-three and I was terrified. I never even wanted kids, you know? I was too selfish to be able to care for something so dependent. I had no job, no qualifications… a boyfriend that was an ass.” You laugh but Jack doesn’t. He just watches you, soaks the information in.
You swallow, fingers catching the drops of condensation that race down the neck of the bottle.
“But I loved her already, and I promised her and myself that I’d be the best mother I could be. I was content with doing it alone, without Tom. But he kept coming back. Hot and cold. One minute she was his daughter and the next he needed time away. I gave him so many outs, Jack. So many chances to just leave her alone before it got complicated for her.”
Jack watches the tears well in your eyes and it clenches his heart in a vice. “He picks and chooses when he wants to be in her life. When it’s convenient for him. And now she’s four and she notices when he doesn’t show up when he’s supposed to. He’s constantly disappointing her. He couldn’t even show up for her fucking birthday.”
Jack’s hand moves before he can really comprehend the action. His palm rests on your fist in your lap, a soothing and grounding gesture to tell you he understands, he’s here, he’s listening.
You sniffle and look down at it, the thin, pale line of where a ring used to sit.
“I’m sorry.” You laugh a bit watery. “Didn’t mean to unload that on you.”
He shakes his head. “No, don’t do that. Don’t apologize for how his actions have made you feel. You deserved more than that. Both of you.” His voice is tender, the words wrapping around your soul in the form of an embrace. And you allow yourself to find reprieve in it, if only for a moment.
But the weight of his palm above your fist becomes suffocating. A ring-less hand, a touch that no doubt itches for your beloved friend. Your fingers wiggle beneath his hand and he retreats, watching you use it to wipe the tears from your face that have fallen.
“I know.” You whisper. “My parents were a saving grace.”
Jack feels lighter when he watches the sadness morph into something happier. “You’re close with them.” He comments with a small smile of his own.
“Yeah.” You smile. “Not always.” You add with a laugh.
When you turn to Jack, he’s looking at you with a lopsided smile and raised brows. A silent question.
You huff a laugh. “I grew up in foster care. I didn’t get assigned to David and Prue until I was twelve, and by that age I was angry at the world and drowning in hormones. I was…a difficult teenager. But they were patient. They were kind and understanding and they let me express myself. It took me a long time to understand that they cared about me. That they loved me.”
Reminiscing on your youth doesn’t bring up fond memories. You’ll always be plagued with the houses before them. The unforgiving foster families. The neglect and the bullying. And how it’s somehow continued to transpire into your adult life.
A bit similar to that saying, always the bridesmaid but never the bride.
He understands you a bit clearer now. Your frustration and heartache when it comes to Phoebe. Because it hits you deeper than anyone could truly understand. Because you’d never been enough for anyone before David and Prue chose you.
Jack calls your name softly, a reverent look in his gaze, like his soul is boring into yours. “You are an incredible mom. An incredible woman.”
There’s so much conviction in his voice that you don’t know what to do with it. It wedges its way into a chained off crevice in your heart and settles there like a permanent tattoo.
You try to wave him off, attempt to scoff out a light laugh and look away but Jack chases your gaze. “I’m serious. I mean, c’mon. You’re not even thirty and look at what you’ve accomplished. Give yourself some grace.”
That does make you scoff, but not maliciously. “Says the guy that’s served three tours, is an attending physician in the ED and also spends his free time as a combat medic for SWAT.”
Jack cracks a wonky grin at that, one that screams flirtation and a promise of heartbreak. “Don’t forget I’m also your daughter's favorite person.”
Your head falls back on a laugh before it lulls to your shoulder and you’re looking at him again. “What about you? No kids of your own?”
It’s a sobering question for Jack. One he would prefer not to delve into right now… or at any point, for that matter. But there’s a comfortability he feels with you, no judgement or disgust.
And you’ve opened up so deeply to him, he supposes it’s only fair he offers part of himself to you in return.
“No,” he begins softly. “I was never against the idea, but Moira…”
You offer him the same grace that he gave you. You don’t rush, don’t speak. Just listen and absorb his past as he did yours. It’s intimate for him to share, to admit to someone new that his wife worried she’d be a bad mom, that Jack believed she knew she was sick for longer than he did.
That it was her way of protecting him.
It almost clears your heart in two when he confides in you that, actually, it breaks him more to live with nothing but the foggy memories of her. Nothing shared between them remains.
How he sold the house, how she never wanted to take his name in fear of it removing the hard work she’d made for herself prior to him. How Jack understood it all, how she loved him unconditionally and he her.
And how recently, he’s come to terms with the fact that he can’t live with the ghost of her. That his once undying love has eased into something he’ll carry forever, but not something he can never move forward from.
But one thing he’s certain of is biggest regret of not having children. Before his wife, with his wife, after his wife.
“I think being around Phoebe made me realize that.” The admittance that comes from him almost paralyzes you. “I’ve come to realize it’s my biggest regret in life.”
You have to blink back tears. At the sad and very vulnerable admission he’s given, and the fact that your Phoebe is the one to make him realize such a thing. That she’s special enough to have that effect on someone.
“You don’t think you’ll have any in the future?” You ask softly.
Jack scoffs a laugh, humorously. “I think I’ve passed my sell-by date for that.”
You roll your eyes, ready to argue that forty-four is not too old to have a child but Jack cuts you off with a question of his own before you can.
“What about you? Do you think you'll have more?”
The question gives you pause and it takes you a moment to truly consider your answer. “I’ve always said no. That Pheebs is my one hit wonder. But sometimes, I don’t know, I get worried she'll grow up lonely like I did.”
You don’t mention that having more children would mean having to meet someone who you can trust and rely on not to step away. That a man that isn’t put off by a single mom is harder to come by than people think.
“Besides, I think Phoebe is enough of a handful on her own.”
Jack’s grin stretches wide in amusement and fondness, chuckling into the rim of his beer bottle as he takes another long swig. His eyes cloud over with something pensive before turning to you with a slightly sheepish expression.
“I need to be honest with you about something.”
You grow uncomfortable at his words, shifting in your seat to face your body to his. Jack doesn’t speak again straight away. He looks to be considering his next statement and you’re a bit concerned at how quickly it's pushing you toward the brink of panic.
“Phoebe might’ve slipped up on something about a silver fox.”
His eyes glimmer with mirth when yours widens with horror. A crippling wave of humiliation spreads through as fire licks at your skin from the inside out. He doesn’t have to say it properly for you to know exactly what Phoebe has said.
That meddling little shit.
“I am so sorry.” Your hands come up to shield your burning face and you force yourself to laugh to ease the embarrassment but it comes out more pained than anything. “She must’ve heard me on the phone.”
The sight makes Jack chuckle, finding the situation both flattering and endearing. It makes him feel other things, but they’re nothing he’s willing to admit just yet.
Dragging your hands down your face, you turn to him sheepishly and can’t help but laugh at your own predicament. “I’m sorry. I hope it didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
Jack waves you off with a dismissive hand, the muscles in his biceps stretching as he leans across to place his beer on the table. Your eyes track the movement, your thighs clench.
“Are you kidding me? I’m flattered.”
A laugh barks out from the back of your throat at that and Jack decides it’s one of the most gorgeous things he’s ever heard before. It makes his lips move again, keeps him talking, if only to hear it one more time.
“I think you should consider it for your next book. A silver fox protagonist.”
Your giggles follow through his next statement, head lulling back and body shaking slightly. “Oh, I’m sure that would do wonders for your ego.”
Jack’s brows raise, his smirk stretching. “Well, I never said it had to be about me, but I’m more than happy to play muse if I get a scene like chapter fifty-five.”
You don’t miss the slightly sultry dip in his tone. It’s playfully enough to not be truly perceived as anything more than that, but it still ignites a flame in your belly.
Turning to him with burning cheeks, your eyes squint accusingly. “You finished my book.”
He grins wider, teasing. “That chapter is some of the best writing I’ve ever read.”
You refused to be embarrassed or ashamed for it. So you cock a brow and force a smirk and pin him with a look of accusation and taunting. “Oh, yeah? You’re into threesomes and sex toys?”
Jack chuckles, loud and carefree. But he doesn’t answer the question, just pins you with the same look you gave him. “Is that chapter based on a personal experience or…”
“No, I’m just blessed with a very vivid imagination.”
“Yeah?” It comes out breathlessly, a raspy whisper that you’re sure he doesn’t mean to speak in. Jack’s eyes zero in on yours, captivating in a way that makes you violently ill.
He’s flirting. You’re not dumb. The smirk pulling at the corner of his tempting mouth, the glimmer of mischief in his eyes like he’s testing the waters.
Your breath hitches, you’re hot all over, and it’s completely involuntary when your eyes flick down to his naked hand. Like you’re doing something wrong. Jack catches the movement, sobers him enough to drop the smirk and reach for his bare finger. A hint of panic begins to seize in your chest. Partly because you’ve made him uncomfortable with the slip but mostly because his interactions with Bella are at the forefront of your mind.
“I know you’ve noticed. It’s okay for you to ask about it.” His soft voice brings you back to the present and your lips part to blubber out something you’re unsure of.
You don’t deny it, you won’t lie to him. So instead, you settle on the only thing that’s truthful and respectful to him and his late wife. “It’s not my place.”
Jack shrugs a shoulder, brows pinched just slightly. “Sure it is.”
Confusion doesn’t manage to fully reach you before Jack dips two fingers into the hem of his shirt to pull out a silver chain and his band dangling from it. “You’re the one that gave me the idea.”
You stare at the thin chain pinched between two thick fingers, at the silver band that glimmers when the moonlight catches on the metal. Something happens in your chest; a clench, an ache, a cry. You’re unsure of the sensation, the way it spreads cold and warmth through your blood at the same time.
The idea that you and your daughter have made such a profound effect on someone in such a short amount of time is almost dystopian. You’re not used to it. Being noticed, being seen. Not used to your actions or words being absorbed so fully to the point of them altering someone else in a positive way.
It steals your breath from your lungs, makes your eyes sting. But you muster up a gentle smile, anyway. It’s a feeling of happiness for Jack that shortly follows, pride. Because you remember how long it took for you to finally move your ring to a chain around your neck. You remember the struggle and inner battle about moving forward, scared that you were belittling a once prominent presence in your life.
Jack’s phone vibrating and ringing a generic sound breaks the lull between you both. He keeps his eyes on you, like he’s willing to ignore whoever it is in favor of whatever the fuck is happening between you right now. But responsibility gets the better of him and he reaches for his phone in his pocket at the same time as Phoebe waking up and shouting that she needs to poop.
With a laugh, Jack watches you excuse yourself and returns his attention to his phone. Robby’s name is on his screen and he’s never fucking wanted to strangle him as much as he does in this moment. But Jack answers, and brings the device to his ear with a heavy sigh.
“Hey, man. You good?”
“Yeah. You told me not to leave it for two weeks next time. You watching the game?”
Jack huffs to himself, lets his eyes gaze behind him and through the window where you’re making your way to Phoebe’s room. “Uh, no. I’m out…kinda busy right now.”
Robby’s silence is enough to make Jack cringe. Because if his best friend knows anything, it’s his work and sleep schedule, his inability to have a hobby that doesn’t include a near-miss and an adrenaline rush.
“You’re on a date?” He can fucking hear the smirk in Robby’s voice.
Jack clears his throat. “No, not…exactly.”
Another pregnant pause echoes down the line and he knows what Robby is doing. Thinking of a snarky comment, fighting off a shit-eating smirk that’s no doubt already stretched across his stupid face. Really, Jack’s happy to be his source of entertainment for the evening. Better it be at his expense than Robby throwing himself into incoming traffic.
“Babysitting?” He finally quips back.
Jack scoffs, fights off his own grin and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll call you tomorrow, asshole.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply before ending the call. Jack stares at the darkening night sky, finally catching a glance at the time on his phone screen. You’ve been talking for almost three hours, the time slipping between his fingers. It bothers him a little to know he’s likely overstaying his welcome and should probably leave.
By the time he’s reattached his prosthetic and gently discards your empty bottles of beer in the trash, Jack finds you in the hall, sneaking out of Phoebe’s bedroom with hushed steps. You spot him immediately, notice his leg back on and keys in his hand. You try to hide the disappointment of his departure.
“I should probably head out, it’s getting late.”
You nod, offer a gentle smile as you approach. Jack lets you lead him to the door, lets you thank him for the third time for Phoebe’s gifts, for cleaning up, for keeping you company.
When the door opens and he crosses the threshold, you lean against the doorframe with your arms folded loosely across your chest. Jack smiles down at you, only a few inches taller but enough for your lashes to flutter as you blink up to meet his gaze.
Only a foot away from you.
“Thank you for inviting me. And the beer.” He grins. “Your folks seem like good people.”
You smile despite yourself at that, at how easily he had conversed with your mom, how quickly your dad had offered his respect to him. But you’re sobered with the reminder of your friends. Of his interactions with one in particular.
“It looked like you and Bell got along.” You smile but it doesn’t reach far.
Jack seems to notice, a minute squint in his eyes at the very slight waver in your voice. “Yeah, she’s nice. Cares about you a lot.”
You hum, believe him wholeheartedly. Bella does care, deeply and irrevocably. You’ve been sisters by choice for as long as either of you can remember. That’s what makes it so hard. Because she notices the shift in a man’s attention when she’s introduced to them.
Jack’s eyes flicker slowly across your face, like he’s memorizing every line and imperfection. Like he’s searching for the truth beneath your closed off expression and body language. When his eyes reach your forehead, a twitch forms on his top lip.
A little smear of frosting tucked close to your hairline, something he hadn’t noticed under the dim lighting of the balcony. Without much thought, he reaches a hand to your face, lets his thumb brush against the dried, flaky consistency. Tries not to think too much about how warm your skin is. How soft.
You force yourself not to seize up beneath his touch, can feel a tightness on your skin in the area he gently tries to brush clean. “She’s single, by the way.”
Jack’s too fixated on the frosting coating your skin to pay much attention to your words. Doesn’t register his movements until after he’s brought the pad of his thumb to his tongue and returned it to your forehead with three caressing strokes.
“Who’s single?”
The raspiness of his voice paired with his actions makes you falter for a moment. You’re barely quick enough to catch yourself from slipping under as goosebumps pebble across your warm skin.
“Bella,” you swallow thickly. “I can give you her number, if you’d like.”
Your breathing becomes somewhat labored as you watch him, drowning in the focus in his gaze as he wipes away whatever is blemishing your skin. His hand slips down the same time that Jack’s eyes do and he locks his line of vision into your soul as his palm cups your jaw.
You don’t know when he stepped closer, when your arms dropped to your sides, when your chest suddenly became pressed against his. But you know when you feel a gentle pressure on your hip, a testing squeeze and a thumb stroking against your cheekbone.
Jack moves closer, tentative enough to give you the chance to pull away. But you don’t. You let his palm tilt your head back just an inch, let the tip of his nose ghost against the nape of yours. You feel his breath on your lips, warm with the scent of vanilla frosting and a tinge of beer.
“It’s not Bella that I'm interested in.”
You feel the movement of his lips against your own. And against your better judgement, you press your mouth to his. Jack responds to you immediately, like he’s been waiting on the precipice of this for far too long. His grip on your hip tightens just a notch, his touch on your face growing reverent.
And you find yourself melting into him. Your arms reach for his waist, slide up the hard expanse of his sides, press against his toned chest until they reach his stubbled jaw and snake to the nape of his neck.
Your fingers get lost in his curls as Jack’s mouth opens for you, your tongue chasing him in languid strokes of need. He matches your every lick with as much ferocity as the stroke before. You swallow the breathless sounds that escape him, a rugged whimper that travels like lightning bolts between your legs.
It’s only the need for air that forces you apart, but even then, Jack doesn’t move far. He keeps his hands on you in any capacity that he can as you both breathe heavily. Your head feels muzzy, like you're drunk on just the most simple taste of him.
But nothing about that kiss was simple. Nothing about how Jack makes you feel is simple.
His eyes are closed as his forehead rests against yours, his chest heaving with whatever restraint he has left not to pursue more of you. Not to take whatever you’ll give. Not to give whatever you want.
The tips of your noses caress each other, and Jack almost makes a sound of protest when your fingers slowly uncurl from his hair and slide down his back before your hands are resting back at your sides.
Jack’s eyes remain locked on yours as he presses a final kiss to the corner of your mouth before following your actions. You feel cold the moment his touch is no longer warming your skin. Disoriented when he takes a single step back and out of your space. It's a fight not to reach for him again, to pull him back into you.
“I’ll call you?”
His voice is fucked and raw and it zaps something unhealthy in your core. You don't trust your words, don’t think you can muster anything up even if you tried. So you nod. Dumbly, far too eagerly. It earns you a bit of a smug grin from Jack, but he has the decency to bite his bottom lip in an attempt to hide it.
The act does absolutely fucking nothing to quell the wetness beginning to pool in your panties, but you make no mention of it. Pray to whatever fucker is listening that he can’t notice the tremor in your thighs.
Jack dips his head, another pisspoor attempt to hide his smug amusement.
“Night.”
You say nothing but you watch him walk away. Until he rounds the corner for his side of the complex. Until you’re left standing in your open doorway with arousal coursing through you and the ghost of his lips on yours.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
WHAT DO WE THINK PLS TELL ME UR THOUGHTS BC I AM SO EXCITED TO FINALLY GET INTO THE START OF THEIR ACTUAL RELATIONSHIP!! I feel like it was a good time for them to open up more about their pasts before things progressed between them and don't worry, Jack will get his moment with Tom hehe
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, 18+ smut, fluff
word count: 7.6k
a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently!! i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.
Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.
The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.
"Don't."
You'd frozen mid-motion.
"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".
That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.
But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.
One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.
The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.
"I can carry—" you start to say.
"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.
You press your lips together, then follow him.
The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.
Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."
You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.
With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.
Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.
"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.
He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.
It's the longest elevator ride of your life.
Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.
You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.
Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."
"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.
Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.
Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.
"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.
"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."
You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.
Two more days and he's free.
Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.
"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.
"What?"
He shrugs stiffly.
"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"
Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.
The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.
Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.
Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.
Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.
And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.
The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.
The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.
By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.
He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.
You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.
You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.
It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.
This couldn't be farther from that.
Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.
"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"
Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.
"Jack!"
His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.
"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"
She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."
Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."
Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.
"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"
"Jeremy?"
"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.
"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.
Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.
Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?
"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"
"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."
"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."
You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—
He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.
"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.
But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.
Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.
"Yeah, we met in med school."
"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."
Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.
"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.
"I did."
"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."
"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.
You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.
And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.
"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.
"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.
Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.
Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.
"Oh, I've already been there."
Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."
Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"
Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.
"Uh—"
"We dated," Turner says.
Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.
"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."
"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.
You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."
Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.
You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.
"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.
"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.
Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"
He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.
"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."
You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"
Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."
"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.
Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."
Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."
"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.
"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."
"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.
"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.
You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.
For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.
Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."
"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.
Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.
He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.
The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.
When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.
You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.
By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.
You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.
A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—
A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.
Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"
Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."
You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."
Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."
You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"
He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."
"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.
Jack stills next to you.
Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—
You squeeze your eyes shut.
The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."
"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."
He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.
"...Goodnight, Jack."
Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.
How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—
God.
The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.
You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.
Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.
The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.
Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.
Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.
Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.
He doesn't.
A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"
Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.
You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.
"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.
But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"
You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.
He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.
Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.
You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.
"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.
"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.
Jack frowns. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.
The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.
You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.
You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.
When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.
The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.
You stride over to him.
"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.
You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."
Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.
He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."
Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."
"What—"
You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."
Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.
Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.
It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.
Your words replay in his head.
Text me if you need the room.
Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—
His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.
As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.
He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"
You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.
"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.
"To Warren. Or whoever."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."
Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."
"I told you. Nothing."
"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.
"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.
"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"
Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."
"No," he says. "I really don't."
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."
Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."
Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"
Your expression twists instantly. "What?"
"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.
Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."
Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?
Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"
You shrug.
"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.
"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."
Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"
You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."
You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.
"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."
"What?"
"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."
"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.
"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."
"Pretend what?" He steps closer.
"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"
"That's not true!"
You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"
There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.
"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.
You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."
The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"
You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."
His brows pinch together. "Who?"
"Lily."
Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"
You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don’t know."
"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"
"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."
His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"
"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"
"Yes, because that's insane."
"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."
"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"
Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."
Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."
His mind is spinning. You love him.
"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.
"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.
You love him.
"Jack," you interject.
He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“
"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.
His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"
You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."
"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?
"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."
"You think this is pity? After everything?"
"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."
"No."
"Jack—"
"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.
You hesitate.
His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.
You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.
"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.
"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.
"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."
"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."
Your breath hitches in your throat.
"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."
Doubt still flickers across your face.
"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."
You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."
"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.
You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."
"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."
You still look doubtful.
Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.
You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.
His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.
All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.
You love him.
It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.
Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.
"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."
Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.
Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.
"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.
His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.
"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."
He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.
You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.
"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.
"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.
He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.
He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."
It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.
He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.
You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.
"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.
You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"
"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."
"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.
"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.
"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."
"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.
"You sure?"
"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.
He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.
"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."
Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.
You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.
Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.
"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.
He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.
What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?
You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.
You don't regret it.
"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.
"For what?"
"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."
You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."
Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"
"In the hallway. With Robby..."
He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."
"I do—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."
He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."
He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.
"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.
He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."
You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."
Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."
"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.
"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.
"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.
He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.
a/n: aaahhhh!! they finally confessed!!! it's been a long (and painful) journey but we're finally here <33333
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, 18+ smut, fluff
word count: 7.6k
a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently!! i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.
Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.
The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.
"Don't."
You'd frozen mid-motion.
"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".
That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.
But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.
One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.
The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.
"I can carry—" you start to say.
"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.
You press your lips together, then follow him.
The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.
Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."
You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.
With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.
Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.
"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.
He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.
It's the longest elevator ride of your life.
Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.
You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.
Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."
"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.
Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.
Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.
"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.
"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."
You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.
Two more days and he's free.
Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.
"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.
"What?"
He shrugs stiffly.
"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"
Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.
The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.
Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.
Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.
Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.
And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.
The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.
The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.
By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.
He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.
You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.
You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.
It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.
This couldn't be farther from that.
Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.
"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"
Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.
"Jack!"
His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.
"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"
She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."
Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."
Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.
"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"
"Jeremy?"
"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.
"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.
Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.
Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?
"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"
"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."
"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."
You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—
He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.
"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.
But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.
Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.
"Yeah, we met in med school."
"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."
Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.
"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.
"I did."
"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."
"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.
You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.
And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.
"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.
"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.
Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.
Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.
"Oh, I've already been there."
Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."
Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"
Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.
"Uh—"
"We dated," Turner says.
Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.
"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."
"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.
You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."
Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.
You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.
"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.
"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.
Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"
He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.
"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."
You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"
Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."
"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.
Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."
Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."
"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.
"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."
"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.
"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.
You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.
For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.
Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."
"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.
Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.
He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.
The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.
When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.
You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.
By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.
You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.
A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—
A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.
Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"
Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."
You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."
Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."
You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"
He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."
"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.
Jack stills next to you.
Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—
You squeeze your eyes shut.
The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."
"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."
He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.
"...Goodnight, Jack."
Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.
How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—
God.
The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.
You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.
Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.
The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.
Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.
Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.
Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.
He doesn't.
A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"
Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.
You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.
"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.
But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"
You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.
He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.
Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.
You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.
"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.
"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.
Jack frowns. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.
The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.
You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.
You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.
When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.
The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.
You stride over to him.
"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.
You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."
Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.
He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."
Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."
"What—"
You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."
Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.
Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.
It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.
Your words replay in his head.
Text me if you need the room.
Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—
His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.
As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.
He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"
You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.
"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.
"To Warren. Or whoever."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."
Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."
"I told you. Nothing."
"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.
"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.
"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"
Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."
"No," he says. "I really don't."
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."
Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."
Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"
Your expression twists instantly. "What?"
"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.
Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."
Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?
Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"
You shrug.
"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.
"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."
Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"
You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."
You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.
"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."
"What?"
"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."
"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.
"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."
"Pretend what?" He steps closer.
"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"
"That's not true!"
You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"
There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.
"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.
You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."
The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"
You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."
His brows pinch together. "Who?"
"Lily."
Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"
You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don’t know."
"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"
"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."
His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"
"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"
"Yes, because that's insane."
"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."
"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"
Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."
Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."
His mind is spinning. You love him.
"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.
"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.
You love him.
"Jack," you interject.
He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“
"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.
His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"
You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."
"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?
"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."
"You think this is pity? After everything?"
"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."
"No."
"Jack—"
"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.
You hesitate.
His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.
You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.
"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.
"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.
"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."
"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."
Your breath hitches in your throat.
"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."
Doubt still flickers across your face.
"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."
You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."
"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.
You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."
"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."
You still look doubtful.
Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.
You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.
His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.
All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.
You love him.
It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.
Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.
"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."
Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.
Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.
"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.
His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.
"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."
He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.
You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.
"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.
"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.
He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.
He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."
It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.
He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.
You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.
"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.
You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"
"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."
"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.
"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.
"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."
"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.
"You sure?"
"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.
He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.
"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."
Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.
You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.
Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.
"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.
He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.
What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?
You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.
You don't regret it.
"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.
"For what?"
"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."
You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."
Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"
"In the hallway. With Robby..."
He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."
"I do—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."
He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."
He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.
"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.
He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."
You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."
Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."
"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.
"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.
"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.
He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.
a/n: aaahhhh!! they finally confessed!!! it's been a long (and painful) journey but we're finally here <33333
SUMMARY: A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen.
WARNINGS: medical inaccuracies (IUD removal and replacement), a very awkward encounter, Phoebe being a blabber mouth, some very inappropriate and unprofessional thoughts, small amount of alcohol consumption, everyone thirsting over Jack, talks of Robby and his sabbatical (aka his mental health crisis), swearing and flirting!!!!
A/N: I had the best time writing this chapter!! It is another long one but I promise every word and encounter is necessary. First person to spot the hidden reference wins a big old smooth from me <3 Also, next chapter is Phoebe's birthday party so be prepared for a whole lot of chaotic toddlers and a bunch of moms thirsting over Jack.
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 7.1k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You’ve been trying to ignore the pain for the last two hours.
Bubble baths, heat packs, even yoga as a last-ditch effort to try to relieve the intense ache and stabbing in your lower abdomen. But the pain has grown exponentially, almost crippling you into a fetal position in the middle of your bed.
In hindsight, you know you should’ve taken yourself to the ER hours ago, had them check you over to make sure it’s nothing serious. But you assumed it was just a heavy period making its appearance for the first time in three years. Now, you have a sneaky suspicion that your IUD has either shifted or embedded itself into your uterine walls.
Not ideal. A bit scary, to be quite frank.
And of course, it’s something that has to happen on one of the only real nights you get off to yourself. Not a night where you expect a call or text because Phoebe wants to come home. A night where, if anything, Phoebe has most likely begged your mom to just move in with her.
You have to laugh at the thought, but the movement and contractions of your stomach only heightens the pain. You’ve bled through two pads and pairs of pyjamas, soiled your sheets well enough that you’ve had to throw them out.
Perhaps it’s dramatic to call an ambulance to get you to the ER, but you’re unsure you’ll be able to stomach getting up, let alone driving yourself the short ten minute trek to PTMC. You consider leaving it, just ride it out for as long as you can. But the thought of Phoebe coming home tomorrow afternoon to a crippled and possibly bleeding out mother…
A pathetic groan follows your movements as you force yourself to sit up on the bed, allow yourself a moment for composure and a silent prayer to the Universe to just make it stop.
Much like all other times, the Universe doesn’t listen. And the moment you stand, you’re met with that horrifying sensation of blood pooling between your legs and soaking into three pads you’ve stacked in your underwear.
What should take you fifteen minutes to get ready and arrive at PTMC actually ends up taking you almost an hour. The only reprieve you are offered is a slightly quiet waiting room. Twenty to thirty people at most occupy the chairs, all too exhausted or pain-ridden to offer up much conversation between each other.
You don’t look much better than them. Pyjamas, messy hair, face bare of anything other than a grimace. Every step toward the check-in desk takes you back to when you first had Phoebe. When, for two weeks, you could only just shuffle your feet across the floor to get around after the emergency surgery.
You’re clutching your abdomen when you finally reach the desk. An older woman sits on the opposite side of the protective screen, dark hair pulled back into a bun, kind eyes that assess you and a soft voice that asks for your name and what’s brought you in.
“I think my IUD has moved or embedded.” You manage to get out through gritted teeth, hunching slightly over the tall ledge as you take in her name badge.
Lupe’s head tilts sympathetically to the side. “Can you describe your symptoms and pain for me? When did it start?”
“Uh, about four hours ago. Very heavy bleeding, the pain is both an ache and a stabbing sensation. Feels kind of like someone’s got a chainsaw on my uterus.” You try to laugh through the pain, but when your stomach tenses you’re met with a blinding sensation of agony that you struggle to blink away.
Lupe types on the keyboard of her computer, side-glancing you as if checking you’re not about to pass out and smack your head on the ledge or marble floor. “Any nausea or dizziness, hon?”
You nod, swallowing on a dry throat. “I think that’s only due to the pain, though.”
Lupe finishes typing before the printer beside her begins to rumble and she’s slipping you a write-up through the small gap beneath the safety screen. “There’s free sanitary products in the restroom. Take a seat, hon. Someone should be with you shortly.”
You offer a weak smile in thanks and she returns one with understanding.
It’s painful to sit but even more so to stand. After ten minutes, you’re slouching in the most uncomfortable chair you’ve ever had the displeasure of using. Another ten minutes and you’re shuffling to the public restroom before you can leak through yet another article of clothing.
It’s only twenty minutes later, when you’re trying to remember labor breathing techniques that the door opens and a gentle voice is calling your name. It takes you a moment to reach her but she waits patiently, an understanding look on her face through pursed lips.
She introduces herself as Dr. McKay as she slowly guides you to a curtained off section in triage. It’s not until she’s helping you onto the bed with steady hands that you take notice of two other doctors standing behind her.
Dr. McKay follows your line of sight. “We’re typically a teaching hospital, if you’re okay with two of our students observing tonight?”
You wave her off. “I’m a mom, I lost my dignity a while ago. The more the merrier.” You manage to joke but when a laugh slips from your lips, your face scrunches in pain and your body curls involuntarily.
Dr. McKay grins through a sympathetic look, sitting at the stool to the side of you. “Trust me, I know all about that,” she reassures, turning back to the students at the foot of the bed.
“This is Kwon and Ogilvie. They’re in their third and fourth year as med students and getting a little taste of the night shift. We’ve read through your patient intake report, but do you mind explaining again what’s going on? You think your IUD has moved or embedded?”
You nod on a sigh. “Yeah, the pain and bleeding started around four hours ago. I’ve leaked through pads and clothes maybe three times since it started.”
McKay hums, snapping on a pair of gloves and lifting your pyjama shirt to expose your abdomen. “Copper or hormonal IUD?”
“Hormonal. I only got it about three and a half years ago. A few months after I had my daughter.”
She hums. “Any dizziness or nausea?”
Your head bobs, a wince slipping from you when she pushes slightly lower on your mid-section. “A little dizziness, a lot of nausea. I think it’s just because of the pain, though.”
Kwon moves to your side, as she slips her hands into a pair of blue gloves and reaches for the thermometer. It beeps, flashes green. “Temp is steady at 98.96.”
McKay moves back, discards her gloves into the trash and slides back over to you. “Are pain and bleeding usual for you?”
You shake your head before she can finish her question. “No, my cramps and monthly periods stopped a month after I got it inserted.”
She nods, a distant look growing in her eyes for barely a moment. “Alright, we’ll do a pelvic exam to check if we can identify the device to rule out any embedding. If it has shifted, we’ll get you ready for an ultrasound to find out what’s going on before attempting removal.”
You nod with a wince when Dr. McKay stands, reaching over for a robe that she hands to you with a sympathetic smile. “We’ll step out for a moment while you change and get comfortable and then we’ll be back shortly.”
You hear her speak with the students as they pull the curtain closed behind them, questioning something about initial assessments but you zone out when the pain begins to grow. It’s five minutes later when you're situated in a gown on the bed when the three of them return.
“Our student doctor Kwon is going to conduct your pelvic if you’re okay with that?”
You hum at McKay’s words, not really caring who is going to be all up in your vaginal canal so long as the issue is resolved. You weren’t lying when you said your dignity left when you fell pregnant almost five years ago.
Joy Kwon doesn't offer any pleasantries as she slides her hands into a pair of gloves and positions herself on the stool between your legs at the foot of the bed.
Ogilvie stands behind her, looking anywhere but at your parting thighs. You move silently, without guidance. Knees up, dropping them to your sides, heels together. McKay grins at the sight when you fist your hands and shove them beneath your back, in line with your coccyx.
You catch her amused look and offer an exhausted grin in return. “I know my way around these exams.”
Kwon cocks a brow as you meet her gaze again, a flicker of amusement washing across her eyes. It’s fleeting, but you catch it nonetheless. She reaches for the speculum, applying the translucent lubricant to the equipment.
Your eyes are closed, an overwhelming wave of pain washing over and you crippling any sense of peace you had begun to find. It’s so intense that you miss the voices from outside the curtain, only just catching McKay informing you that an attending is going to observe Kwon’s exam.
“Yeah, no worries. Let’s call it a party.” The words are rushed on a pained laugh from your lips before McKay is slipping outside before returning with another.
When your eyes flicker open and a shaky exhale leaves your lungs, the air gets suddenly stuck in your throat at the sight before you.
“This is Dr. Abbot.”
Jack stares at you with wide eyes and raised brows, his gaze involuntarily trailing down to your parted knees before snapping his eyes to the wall on the other side of the room. Your cheeks feel hot, your heart is thumping against your ribs and you feel like you can’t fucking breathe.
There is no fucking way this is happening right now. Jack is barely able to meet your gaze again as he tries his hardest to offer the most professional nod and tight-lipped smile you’ve ever seen.
“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor.” You can’t help it. The words fall from your lips before you can think twice, the tension in the room that the others are only now privy of is too much to remain silent under.
McKay’s eyes dart from you to Jack, lashes hitting her brows in shock. “Neighbor?”
Jack clears his throat, scratching at the nape of his neck in a nervous tick you’ve never seen before. He blinks at you, lips parting and closing again. You never imagined him to be anything other than confident and composed.
Bored with the conversation, Kwon moves closer and lines the speculum with your entrance, a hiss falling from your lips at the cool contact of the lubricant.
“Take a deep breath, you’ll feel some pressure.” She advises, a bit dully. Like she’d rather be anywhere but here. You feel the fucking same.
Ogilvie frowns at the speculum, eyes darting from the tool to between your legs. Like he’s assessing the physics of the exam. “Is that going to fit?”
“I can get Shen, instead.” Jack offers abruptly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. Perhaps he’s trying to find a way out for himself, maybe he’s the one that’s uncomfortable with the situation he’s accidentally walked into. But the thought of yet another doctor staring between your legs is the last thing you want right now. Your eyes squeeze shut in pure mortification.
Your hot, widowed neighbor has just seen you in the most unappealing way you could ever imagine.
“Nope. Four doctors getting an eyeful is enough. I don’t need a fifth.” You keep your eyes closed, unable to bear the thought of meeting Jack’s gaze right now and a wince passes through your teeth when Kwon slowly pushes the instrument into your vaginal canal.
You blink up at the ceiling through quick breaths, discomfort turning into pain as you struggle to stretch around it. Kwon peeks up between your parted knees, noting the discomfort in your expression, can feel the resistance of the instrument and casts a quick glance to McKay.
“Did you have a vaginal birth?” she asks you softly.
You laugh through gritted teeth. “Emergency caesarean, baby.”
Kwon sighs, slowly retracting the speculum and placing it back on the tray. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s covered in blood. “I thought it felt a bit tight.” She comments.
Your eyes bulge open at that with another mortified laugh. But when your gaze snags on the tool she originally tried to use, you blink rapidly. It’s bigger than anything you’ve ever had inside of you before. Including any and all speculums you’ve had the displeasure of being examined with. “You thought that was going to fit!?”
“I didn’t think it would. I’m happy to try instead with a Pederson.” Ogilvie offers with a wide smile and you’re far too quick to shake your head for someone who was, at the beginning, happy for students to observe and conduct the exam.
“No! That’s okay, Dr. McKay—”
“Dr. McKay, there’s a phone call for you. An officer from the PPD.”
“Are you fucking kidding me!?” She doesn’t excuse herself. Just tears off her gloves and stomps through the curtain. Leaving you with two student doctors and Jack fucking Abbot.
Wearily, your gaze meets his again; your cheeks aflame and a stillness in his shoulders that makes you slightly more uncomfortable than the idea of Ogilvie spreading you open. Ultimately, you know Jack is your best option out of the three.
More experience, kind and compassionate. Familiar, but maybe that’s not a pro in this situation. No. Definitely not a pro to have your fucking neighbor inspect your cervix. Yet you don’t look away from him. You don’t mean for your gaze to be pleading, don’t mean to ask the silent question that you do but Jack hears it anyway, answers it with a subtle dip of his head and he’s slipping into a pair of blue gloves and clearing his throat before taking Kwon’s position.
“Asking the patient what birth they had should always be asked before conducting a pelvic exam.” Jack notes, eyes flickering to Kwon in a brief moment of silent scolding before he reaches for the other, much thinner probe.
You don’t miss the way Kwon shoots a glare at Ogilvie with slightly threatening eyes. He has the right to look sheepish and a little scared before slowly stepping on foot closer to the foot of the bed.
“That would be my fault, Dr. Abbot,” he admits nervously. “She said she was a mom, so I assumed the birth was vaginal and the largest speculum would be most appropriate.”
You don’t mean to scoff when you laugh, but you do. Partly in offence for all women across the fucking world that this guy assumes all moms to have loose vaginas. The other part because if he had been watching Dr. McKay when she was checking your abdomen, he would’ve seen the small but visible scar just above your pubic bone.
Jack blinks as he unwraps the sterile tool and smears a small amount of lubricant over it. “In that case, I highly recommend you brush up on your knowledge of a woman’s anatomy.”
Ogilvie takes the hint. He tears off his gloves and slips past the curtain to do exactly what Jack has said. A wave of guilt begins to ride over you but it’s also quite quickly replaced with a bigger wave of relief.
Kwon turns to you with a thin grin, like she’s pleased with his lack of presence. “Sorry about him. I don’t think he’s seen a vagina since he came out of one.”
You almost choke on your laugh at that, wincing quickly after as your body locks up with another crippling cramp of pain. Jack’s gaze flicks up to your face, assessing the furrow in your brow, the flush to your clammy skin.
“You doing okay, neighbor?” His voice lacks its usual flirty tone; gravelly now and laced with a thickness he can’t quite shift. But you can hear the lightness he tries to offer, the reassurance he doesn't speak that this is okay and you are okay and you don’t need to be embarrassed that he’s seeing you like this.
“Oh, just peachy.” You snip back through gritted teeth, fisting the thin cotton sheets beneath you.
Jack blinks his way to go between your thighs, jaw clenched and having to remind himself to separate any personal sensations right now from his professional responsibility. It’s one thing to think about you being laid in the position, but it’s a completely other thing to have you like it for an entirely different reason.
Jack tries to block out the actual sight of you. Because in truth, there isn’t anything erotic about this, not even in the slightest. You’re in pain and bloody and hurting, and you’re trusting him to fix the issue. He feels sick with himself for how much he’s internally struggling at the situation.
“I’ve done this plenty of times, promise you’re in good hands.” He clears his throat, lines the speculum with the entrance of your vaginal canal and very slowly eases it between your walls.
There’s no pain this time, only a slight hint of discomfort but that’s mostly at the cold gel. You can’t help the cock of your brow at Jack’s words. “You examine a lot of your neighbor’s cervixes?”
He laughs at that, breathily enough that you can feel it ghost the side of your thigh. You swallow, blink up at the ceiling. His laughter helps ease this fucking awkwardness and embarrassment of having to dig around in his neighbors vagina. Doesn’t do enough to stop it from haunting you moving forward.
“No, you would be my first.” Jack promises, and you’re foolish enough to let yourself believe that comment has a double meaning to it.
“I’m honored.” You mutter it sarcastically and brave the thought of looking down to the foot of the bed.
You’re met with the sight of Jack peering between your legs, eyes slightly squinted as he works. Kwon looks just as invested as Jack does, handing him another tool when he silently opens his palm toward her.
“You said you bled through clothes and menstrual pads?” Kwon asks.
You nod, trying to remember not to tense or hold your breath. “Yeah, why? I’m not haemorrhaging or something am I?”
“No.” Jack assures you with a firm tone, catching the lick of anxiety growing in your voice. He doesn’t move his head but his eyes flick up to meet yours and your entire stomach turns molten at the sight.
You can’t look away and despite your best efforts, you do find yourself holding your breath.
“You’re not haemorrhaging and it’s definitely not embedded, which is good. Looks like it’s just shifted slightly which has caused the pain and the bleeding. Did it start tonight?”
You nod, watching Jack slip into a fresh pair of gloves and reach across the room for a small machine. “Well, I’ve felt a little uncomfortable for a couple days. Just light cramps that I usually get when I should be due on my cycle. But the bleeding and pain started tonight, yeah.”
Jack nods as he approaches your side, a look of reassurance on his face as he turns on the ultrasound screen and reaches for the gel. Kwon moves silently, offering you a large sheet and gesturing to cover your lower part and pull up the hem of the hospital robe to reveal your abdomen.
“I’m just gonna check everything is okay internally and then Kwon should be able to do a quick removal and replacement.”
You nod, loosing a breath as you try to relax yourself as Jack presses the transducer to your lower abdomen. He moves it slowly, tenderly with his touch; not using too much pressure or pushing on your bladder like the midwives did when you were pregnant.
He keeps his eyes on the screen and you realize you definitely have a thing for doctors. Or more specifically, this doctor.
“You bring Pheebs with you?” He asks softly, offering a brief glance to your face before returning his attention to the screen again.
“No, she’s having a sleepover with my parents tonight.” You say softly and you don’t miss the fond grin that spreads across his lips. It warms your heart so much that you can’t help but subtly mirror it.
“How’s her tummy now?”
A laugh bubbles up your throat. The irony of him being the one to check you over when only a week ago he was checking your daughter. “Yeah, good. Back to shitting like a pro again.”
Jack huffs in laughter, taking one more moment to assess the ultrasound before removing the probe from your skin and cleaning it off.
“Your uterine walls are thicker than usual. They're shedding, which is why you're bleeding the way you are. Totally normal. Other than that, ultrasound is clear,” he concludes with a smile that you can finally meet.
That awkwardness and tension has finally begun to ease and disappear. Right now, you’re not neighbors. He is your doctor and you are his patient.
“So, everything looks okay?” You ask. Jack nods, eyes on you again with that intensity you’ve started to grow used to.
“Yeah, you look perfect.” It’s slightly raspy when he speaks, both the tone and his words causing a flush to burn across your entire body.
It feels like air has trapped itself in your lungs and Jack’s shoulders stiffen as if he’s just realized the words he’s used and the tone he’s spoken them in.
From the foot of your bed, Kwon’s slightly uncomfortable eyes flicker between you and Jack, blinking as if that’ll clear the air as to what the fuck she’s witnessing right now. Before she can open her mouth with a remark, before Jack can splutter an apology or a distraction, the curtain moves and McKay is slipping back into the area.
Jack steps away from the bed, lips pursed into a firm line and he’s tugging off the gloves and moving toward the curtain. “She’s all cleared for removal and replacement.” He tells McKay, voice slightly strained.
You can’t help the amusement that starts to curl within your lower belly, a grin stretching across your face and Jack meets your gaze, mirroring it a bit bashfully before slipping past the curtain. Leaving you with your legs spread, heart thumping, and delusional thoughts in your mind that he found this procedure just as eye-opening as you did.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
It’s late Sunday morning by the time Jack’s done with his shift, exhausted and almost limping with how sore his leg is. He stayed late. Again. And his knee is protesting at the idea of potentially having to do it once more on his next shift.
It’s been a slight struggle now that Robby is on sabbatical. Jack’s left with the responsibility of staying later or starting earlier to aid Al-Hashimi with the influx of patience as the weather has gotten hotter. The sun comes out and people grow stupid. And Jack has to work through the pain of his prosthetic growing sweaty and unstable.
On top of that, he’s been riddled with something he can only compare to high-school level anxiety. Every time he’s walked through the main doors of the apartment complex for the past week, Jack’s been fucking nervous. Anxious that he may stumble into an awkward encounter with you after performing your pelvic exam.
It’s stupid, he knows. You’re both adults and Jack’s a professional, for fuck’s sake. He offered to get you another attending, and you declined. You had smiled—grinned—at him when he left you in McKay’s capable hands. And yet he had not heard from you since.
No text, no collisions in the hall. Not that you owe him anything, he knows that. And it’s not even like you texted religiously before your night in the Pitt. But Jack can feel something strained between you. Perhaps you’re embarrassed by the situation. That your neighbor had pried you open to check for an embedded IUD. Or maybe he had made you uncomfortable with that stupid fucking slip he made when he said you looked perfect.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Jack takes the elevator to the third floor, his leg far too achy to brave the stairs after being on his feet for the past nineteen hours. When he makes it inside his apartment, he’s not sure what’s worse. The deafening loneliness or Robby’s contact popping up as an incoming call on his phone.
He answers before he even closes his apartment door.
“You’re alive, then.”
Robby scoffs a breathy laugh down the line at the greeting, something Jack can’t help but smirk at. He makes his way straight to the couch and falls into it, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear while he works to remove his prosthetic.
“Yeah, well… who would’ve thought nature could be so refreshing.”
Jack hums, half listening with a grunt until he slips the metal from his knee and exhales a breath of relief. “You doin’ okay, though? Haven’t heard from you for two weeks.”
“What? Miss me already?” Robby snides.
It pulls at the corners of Jack’s mouth in the form of a gentle smile. This is good. He’s cracking jokes, his voice doesn’t sound strangled and pained. He sounds better than he did when he left two weeks ago, but Jack is not a fool. He’s all too familiar with what Robby is experiencing, he’s danced toward the line one too many times himself.
“What are you even doing with yourself out there?” Jack says instead.
He can almost hear Robby shrugging through the line. He’s quiet for a few moments, likely contemplating, deciding how much or how little he wants to share. “How’s the hospital?”
Jack scoffs, shakes his head and leans back into the couch, allowing his eyes to close for a moment. “Work is not your concern until you’re back from sabbatical. Not a day sooner.”
Robby grows quiet again and they stay like that for a little while. No words spoken, just breaths shared down the line; both basking in the quiet comfortability of one another. Calming, familiar. Like moments shared on the roof after a particularly long shift.
“Spoke to McKay yesterday.” It’s Robby that breaks that silence. “Said you performed a pelvic exam on your neighbor.”
Jack can hear his smirk, the teasing churn in his voice. He takes a deep breath and then a laugh is spluttering from his chest; exasperated and exhausted.
“Brother, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” Jack admits roughly.
Robby doesn’t push, gives him a chance to add more if he wants to. He doesn’t. So Robby approaches carefully.
“You like her?”
The question makes Jack pulse skip. “Barely know her.”
“Not what I asked.”
Jack hesitates. It’s a lie, really. He does know you. Perhaps not in the most stereotypical way, but he does. He knows your love lost, your hatred for the way your ex treats your daughter, how your mind works when you create the excellence that you do.
Deeper than that, he knows your heart beats solely for your daughter. He knows Phoebe. Her chaos and easy charm, knows how you’ve bled your personality into her unintentionally.
Jack swallows. Robby waits.
“I don’t know what it is. There’s just—there’s something there. Something about her…”
“It’s not just her, though, Jack. She has a daughter. Package deal. Big deal.”
Jack hums, an involuntary smile curling on the corners of his lips. “She’s the coolest kid I’ve ever met, man. She makes her mom sing her AC/DC as a lullaby.”
Had they been on the roof, Jack would see the softness that smoothes the worry on Robby’s face. He’d see the quiet understanding in his eyes as he listens to every word, as he understands why there’s a certain dullness in Jack’s voice. A reservation.
Robby takes a heavy breath. “You don’t have to feel guilty about that, Jack.”
It makes Jack wince. Because he does feel guilty. Whenever his mind wanders to the thought of you, he’s crushed with an immense wave of guilt. Like he’s betraying his wife, like he’s losing sight of her in the fogginess of his memory.
Maybe that’s what scares him so much. He’s been with people since. One night stand, casual flings to keep the loneliness and demons of the night away. Physically invested and emotionally detached. It’s different this time. With you. Because there’s no physicality there, just this undeniable pull he feels whenever he looks at you, thinks of you.
It’s deeper than a surface level attraction. It fucking terrfies him because he hardly knows you. Not truly, not in the ways he wants to.
“You’re allowed to find happiness somewhere else. With someone else.”
The phone slips to rest on Jack's shoulder as his gaze falls down to the hands resting in his lap, the silver band that still wraps around his ring finger.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just lets you grow around them.
Jack changes the subject fairly quickly. They spend the next ten minutes talking about nothing much before Jack forces Robby to promise he won’t leave it two weeks to reach out again. He showers, changes, takes some time to tend to the ache in his knee before brewing a coffee and making some eggs and taking them out to the balcony.
He hears it the second the door opens.
Music. Singing. Laughter. Loud and carefree and happy.
It pulls a smile to his face immediately as he sits at the table and watches across the gap between your balconies. Jack sips on his coffee, admires the sound he’s blessed enough to hear, the fleeting catches he gets of you and Phoebe running around or dancing on the kitchen island.
The sun is warm on his skin, the breeze soothing the ache of his tight skin where a limb once was and he feels himself slowly beginning to relax.
“Morning neighbor!”
His eyes peek open, a palm out above his eyes to cover the blinding sun. Jack blinks and you’re there. Standing on your balcony, one hand on the railing and the other is waving above your head. Calling out to him, like that night last week didn’t happen.
So you’re not embarrassed and he hasn’t made you uncomfortable. He can’t see you properly, too far a distance but he can make out the wide grin you offer.
Jack throws a hand up to reciprocate your wave and you jab a thumb over your shoulder. “What do you think!?” You call back, and it takes Jack a moment to realize you’re asking about the music.
His hand drops from the air and moves to cup the side of his mouth. “I love The Smiths!” He calls back.
You lean closer, he’s sure he can see your brows pinching as you call out to him again. “What!?”
Jack huffs a laugh, leaning forward in his seat and sitting up straighter. He cups both hands around his mouth now and bellows across the space. “I said I love The Smiths!”
He watches you throw your head back in laughter and suddenly wishes Robby never called. Because then he wouldn’t be so aware of the feeling in his chest whenever he looks at you. He wouldn’t have had to acknowledge and verbalize the turmoil that’s been brewing in his head from the moment he first laid eyes on you and Phoebe.
You don’t say anything else. He watches you retreat back inside and you don’t come back out. The balcony door is closed sometime ten minutes later. And within thirty minutes, the music stops completely and Jack’s left in that horrible, aching silence again.
After his eggs and coffee, he too is returning inside, leaving the dishes in the sink. He only allows himself a quick shower when the coffee begins to perk him up and decides it’s probably best to run some errands and grab some groceries before he inevitably crashes and sleeps for the rest of the day.
He dresses in a black t-shirt and a pair of beige chino shorts. It’s not something he’ll ever really admit outloud, but Jack hates the summer. He hasn’t always, but in more recent years, especially since losing his leg, he does. There’s a choice he has to make every time the heat begins to pick up in Pittsburg.
Wear trousers and ignore the sweat and swelling on the tight skin of his knee, or wear shorts and ignore the lingering stares of the general public. He should be used to it by now, it’s been well over a fucking decade since he lost his leg. But in recent years, without his wife’s reassurance that they’re curious glances and not judgmental stares, Jack can’t seem to decipher a difference between the two anymore.
Still, he knows he has to take care of himself. And with the ache still settling deep in his bones from his earlier shift, he’s aware that shorts are his best bet. It’s just after he clips his prosthetic back on again that there’s an uncoordinated knocking at the door.
The short relief of letting his leg breath allows Jack to move a bit more fluidly now, limp barely noticeable as he makes his way to the front door and slowly eases it open. He’s not offered much of a chance to check who his visitors are before a small body is barrelling into limbs.
Jack only just manages to catch himself by gripping a hand on the doorframe as he blinks down at a small head of curls of a three-year-old who is blinking in wonder at his prosthetic. He faintly hears your voice, soft but firm and scolding Phoebe for barrelling into him.
The child beams up at him, excitement laced in her chubby features as she points to his leg. “I like your leg.”
It makes Jack blink, pulls him back to the present where a throb begins to form around his knee and he grins at her, reaching down to readjust the prosthetic that the kid has somehow almost displaced.
He misses the way your brows raise as you look at him. You’d never realized he had a prosthetic and you can't help the way your head tilts at the sight of his arms straining when he readjusts the straps.
“SWAT?” you ask, voice thick as his veins pop and muscles flex beneath freckled skin.
Jack huffs out a laugh, pretends he can’t hear his heart in his ears and the fact that you’ve seen his fucking leg and you’re not being awkward about it. “Military.”
Phoebe watches him intently as surprise flickers across your face. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for your service.”
He rises to his full height at the flirty tone of your voice, letting his eyes rove over your body from the painted toes to the hair on your head. A beautiful sage green summer dress kisses your skin. Cinched at your waist, short but puffy sleeves, a neckline that teases the swell of your breasts and the hem stops just mid-calf.
Jack swallows, admires your face. Hair pinned back in a flaw clip, messy and yet presentable. Your lashes look fuller and darker, a brightness to your face with makeup that doesn’t hide but accentuates your natural features. It momentarily knocks him breathless.
He’s never seen you like this before.
“I could say the same about you.” Jack’s voice is low and raspy when he speaks. It prickles your skin in buzzes of excitement, spreads a warmth beneath the flesh that charges your blood.
Of course, Jack notices. The way your lashes flutter, how your lips part. How, despite the warmth, goosebumps prickle your skin. A smirk kicks at the corner of his mouth and he looks away, back down to Phoebe.
She wears something similar, a blue summer dress that stops below the knee. Her hair is twirled up into a bun, little white sandals on her feet. It’s the most presentable he’s ever seen the kid look. And from the way she pulls at the dress and rolls her shoulders, he can tell immediately that it was a fight getting her to wear it.
The fondness in that crevice of his heart aches at the thought.
“Where are you two off to, in your pretty dresses?” He directs the question at Phoebe, who offers a twirl despite her hatred for the clothing.
“Grandma is dying.” She chirps.
Jack’s brows shoot to his hairline at the same time as you whipping your head down to your daughter. “What? No. Grandma is retiring, baby. We’re going for brunch with her company.” You correct her quickly, blinking profusely and both you and Jack are confused as to how she got those two words, of all things, mixed up.
You clear your throat, taking a step closer to the threshold that Phoebe has occupied. Jack notices the movement from his peripheral and sets his burning gaze on you again. You smile at him, a bit sheepishly and push your arms out to offer him the tray of cupcakes he had missed.
They’re decorated with multiple colors of messy frosting, some smothered in sprinkles and others decorated with some diced fruit. Jack blinks at you.
“We made cupcakes for Phoebe’s birthday tomorrow, and we made you some as a thank you. You know, for helping her tummy and then… well—mine.” You finish on a nervous laugh, one that Jack reciprocates.
But he takes the dish from your open palms, a revert thank you falling from his tongue and he lets his finger tips brush against yours as he does. So this was a peace offering of sorts, a way to clear the air. He offers a glance to Phoebe. “It’s your birthday?”
Phoebe nods. “In the morning, and I’m having a birthday party at my house, Jack! Will you come?”
His eyes widen slightly at the request, casting a quick glance to you. You shrug a shoulder, pursing your lips to hide a smile and when he looks back down at Phoebe, she’s got her palms together in a prayer-like position with far too convincing pleading eyes.
Jack breathes through his nose, smiles fondly at the young girl. “Absolutely, I wouldn’t want to spend my day off doing anything else.” he promises.
You smile at the sight, at how Phoebe brushes a sprinkle off Jack’s prosthetic that fell from the tray. He watches her just as intently, but when she returns her attention to the chipped polish on her nails, it’s like he loosens a breath.
“Everyone’s coming by at like 5 ish. But come whenever.”
Jack nods, allows his gaze to drift over you again. “You both look beautiful.”
There’s a reverence in his tone, like it’s a physical need that you believe him when he says it. All you can do is smile; soft and shy. You reach for Phoebe, tell her to say goodbye and slowly guide her away from Jack’s door and down the hall.
Of course, he watches you both go. Phoebe’s hand in yours, your slow steps and her quick skips. He’s about to go back inside when Phoebe halts abruptly, tears her hand from yours and turns to race back to Jack, giggling his name like she needs to tell him something exciting.
She stops by his feet again, he watches as you wait for her with a sigh at the other end of the hall.
“Jack! I told Mommy I want to be a doctor when I grow up, just like you!”
He blinks down at her, feels his throat constrict as she admits something that causes so much turmoil within him. “Yeah?” he rasps, clears his throat and bends slightly at the waist. “I think you’ll make a fantastic doctor, Pheebs.”
Her toothy smile is wide and excitable, it’s almost impossible for Jack not to mirror it.
“Before, I wanted to be a pop star so I could marry Harry Styles. But now, I wanna be a doctor.” She states it so matter-of-factly, like she’s discussing something as simple as the weather.
It makes Jack chuckle. “You don’t wanna marry Harry Styles anymore?”
Phoebe shrugs, makes a small noise of contemplation. “Mommy said she’d fight me for him!” She giggles.
Jack cocks a brow, dares a glance down the hall to you where you’re texting someone on your phone as you wait. “Oh, so Mommy wants to marry Harry too?”
Phoebe steps closer, looks a bit conspiratorial as she whispers her next words. “She said Harry will be a silver fox when I’m old enough to marry him… What is a silver fox?”
He blinks at that, unsure as to how they’ve crept into this territory and why the kid even knows the saying of a silver fox. He blubbers momentarily. “Um… it’s someone who’s old but….pretty.”
Phoebe grins, chin tucked to her chest with wide eyes and raised brows. The conspiratorial look has morphed into something far too mischievous for Jack’s liking. This kid is going to be so much fucking trouble when she’s older.
“Mommy said you’re a silver fox.” There’s a slyness to her tone, like she knows what she’s doing. That she absolutely should not be repeating whatever it is she’s heard you say.
Little shit.
Jack stills, lips parted into a soft O shape and he blinks at Phoebe. An amused huff of hair slips past his lips “Oh, I don't think Mommy meant for me to know that.”
“Why not? She told my Aunt Bella so. It's a compromise.”
Jack’s brow raises again, though this time in amusement. “You mean complement?”
Phoebe nods at that, moving even closer now. She reaches on her tip toes and cups her small hands around Jack’s ear. “My mommy is a silver fox.”
He laughs harder at that, pulls away to get a look at her face and he shakes his head, rubs at his eye. “Your mommy isn’t old, kid.”
“But she is pretty.” It’s a statement, not a question. And she looks about ready to fight if Jack even dares to argue otherwise.
Not that he would. He couldn’t ever. He lets his eyes drift across the hall again, finding you standing in the same place. Jack feels his heart rate pick up, feels his skin grow warm and a rush of pure adoration and fondness overwhelms him.
“Yeah, Diva. Your mommy is very pretty.”
It makes him realize something very, very sobering.
Jack’s got a fucking crush on you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
Ahhh okay, the flirting is beginning, Robby is trying to knock a lil bit of sense into him and Pheebs is just well... she's doing her thing LMAO. This is where things start to get super juicy and I promise you the next chapter will have lots and lots more of flirty playfulness. I would love to know your thoughts so far!! <3
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
tldr; imagine bucky’s got a girlfriend, and she’s perfect. sweet, cheerful, kind, thoughtful, pretty in a way that makes people pause when she walks by. she never lets him leave without a kiss goodbye. she’s there with a shoulder to lean on when he’s bone-tired. she always chases away the ghosts of his past when they come to visit. and she does it all without complaint or expectations. she’s the softness that’s been missing from bucky’s broken life.
after weeks of hiding out in the eastern bloc for some ambiguous mission valentina wanted done, bucky returns home to her with heavy footsteps and a heavier heart.
she knows what these missions do to him, so she does all she can to ease him out of it. she makes his favorite dinner. she closes the curtains against the noise and lights of the city. she puts on a record from his collection that fills the home with sweet crooning. when bucky walks through the door, it’s the paradise he’s been waiting for.
and later, when he’s sunk down into the bed, and his beautiful, loving girlfriend is slowly revealing the lacey lingerie she put on just for him, he knows that he’s living a good life.
if only he could get you out of his head.
you — you are the opposite of his perfect girlfriend, and you’re all bucky ever thinks about. you, with your piercing eyes, your tense silences, your perpetual frowns. you walk out of the room when the laughter’s too loud, you give tight-lipped one-word answers until you physically can’t, you scan for threats and exits and potential weapons wherever you go.
where his girlfriend is soft, you are hard. where his girlfriend shines bright, you go dark. you are jaded, cold, unreachable.
and yet bucky wants you.
the guilt consumes him every second he’s with his girlfriend, but hurting her would be even worse. he tries his hardest to suppress the intrusive thoughts, but you’re as stubborn in his head as you are in person.
when his girlfriend climbs up his body, stroking him slowly before sinking down on him, he watches as her pretty lips part in ecstasy, eyes fluttering closed, breathy moans like ringing bells filling the room. and then he thinks of you.
he wonders if you’d make the same face while struggling to take him. or if you’d frown like you always do, brow furrowed in concentration because a tough thing like you would never back down from a challenge, no matter how big he is and how tight you are. something in his brain tells him you wouldn’t make a noise, biting your lip and refusing to moan — but he’d try like hell to get you to.
as his girlfriend sets a steady pace, caressing his chest and promising how good it feels, he thinks about you on top of him. he thinks you’d claw at his skin. slam your hips into his. grab his jaw and hold it how you want. you’d look deep into his eyes and make sure he feels everything he’s making you feel, because you’re nothing if not retributive. you’d bite your lip to suppress the whimper when he takes a chance and thrusts up into you, feeling every tight crevice you allow him to sink into. your eyes would roll back, but you’d keep going, determined, relentless, committed to the mission of getting off on his cock.
bucky’s girlfriend places his hand over her breast, and he squeezes instinctively. she mewls but he barely hears it, hips rocking up to meet hers while he imagines you loose and pliant above him, moving every which way you decide. when you want to grind into him, you do. when you want to fuck him hard and fast, you do. when you want to stop for air but clench around him, you do. you do what you want and whenever you want anyway, why should fucking him be any different?
he’ll try holding you down, big palms eclipsing your waist, gripping as tight as he can because the thought of letting you go might be worse than a thousand falls from the train. he doesn’t care if you glare or hiss or pull at his hands, he’ll keep them there and watch the fire growing in your eyes as you pick up speed.
his girlfriend sighs as she leans down to kiss him. his lips move vaguely, without purpose, against hers, but she doesn’t seem to notice, her hips drawing a figure eight on top of him, rhythmic and sensual. he wants more, but he doesn’t say anything, afraid to spoil the purity of her love with a depraved ask borne from an imaginary tryst with another woman.
god he’s so fucked up.
just like you. your bloody past haunts you as much as his does to him. but instead of running from the darkness like he tries to, you embrace it. maybe you even welcome it. bucky’s sure it comes out in the way you fuck, and he wants to know what it’s like very, very badly.
even with your incessant need for control of the situation, he thinks you’d let him flip you over without argument. on your back, yanked to the edge of the bed, because he wants you as close as possible and unable to crawl away, he wants to see every detail of your face when he pushes into you over and over, faster, harder, deeper. he’ll fuck you until you can’t contain the noises anymore and cry out for him, breaking apart with his name on your lips and finally, finally showing him vulnerability. he wants to earn it by making you shatter. he wants you to trust that he’s the only person that can make you see god and feel entirely human at the same time. he wants you to look up at him, breathless with your legs wrapped around his waist, and beg for more. he wants you to—
“baby? where’d you go?” his girlfriend whispers, slowing to a stop on top of him. her beautiful face is lined with concern. she has no idea where his mind has been.
bucky’s cock twitches inside of her, the last images of you dissolving into thin air. he exhales shakily, fingers pressing into her skin while he remembers where he is, who he’s with, what he risks losing if he doesn’t try to be a better man like he promised he would be.
“i’m here,” he mumbles, pushing up to kiss her throat. she melts immediately, but there’s still worry in her voice.
“are you sure? are you hurt?”
his heart hurts, but that’s his own damn fault.
“no, just…just tired. i’m sorry, sweetheart. you’re perfect. this is perfect. you feel amazing.”
she purrs as his mouth makes a line down her chest and captures a nipple. she arches into him, fingers winding through his hair and tugging (but not hard enough). he sucks and nips and wills the feelings of emptiness away.
“love you,” he murmurs against her skin. he ignores the angry loud voice in the back of his head.
“love you,” she gasps, rocking into him again. he winds his arms around her and thrusts up in time with her breaths, slow and sweet. she comes with a soft whimper, fluttering around him delicately. bucky lets her catch her breath as she drapes herself over him, trying not to think about how you probably come with everything you have, raw and heavy and messy and powerful.
“so good,” she slurs, lips peppering his shoulder. then they find his ear. “are you close?”
bucky grunts, rocking faster but not harder, shallow thrusts that stimulate just enough without growing rougher. he’s panting when he comes with drawn out groan, brain fuzzy and glitching as he watches his girlfriend turn into you and then back to his girlfriend. he closes his eyes and kisses her before he says something stupid, feeling his fingers twitch on her skin as if they’re dying to press harder, to make it hurt, to make her feel what he’s feeling.
she doesn’t deserve that, but you might.
his girlfriend sighs dreamily as his body relaxes again, trembling through the come down and something heavier. “missed you.”
two words he doesn’t deserve to hear.
“i missed you, too, sweetheart.”
guess i can only make bucky shitty lately. hey siri am i okay?
also i promise i will get the taglist going for my next real fic, i was too lazy to do it for whatever this garbage is. masterlist here if you wanna read more!🤍
filipino resident!reader looking at jack who is standing a couple feet away from her, muttering to herself, "ang sarap putangina" (he's so yummy, fuck)
and that's how trinity finds out that reader is filipino LMAO
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his.
WARNINGS: chaotic toddler and reader, mentions of dead beat parents, swearing, slight flirting, Jack being an absolute softie and some of his internalized angst over his wife and the life he never got with her :( also meet cute!!
A/N: I've been so excited to write and share this with you guys and I have SO much planned for this series. The toddler in this is very much inspired by me niece who is also three years old, most of the dialogue for her is stuff my niece has actually said so brace yourselves lmao.
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 3k
SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Jack Abbot is a creature of habit. Structure and routine are infused within the very makings of him, written in bloodwork and DNA if anyone looked close enough.
He likes to stay busy; working nights at PTMC, helping out as a field medic for SWAT, going for a run every other morning, and squeezing in the gym four to five times a week. And every Sunday morning, when it reaches 10 a.m. and the city lazily turns in motion, Jack sits out on his balcony with a mug of coffee and tunes into a half hour episode of his favorite show.
The single mom in apartment seventeen.
Large windows that offer a clear view of the inside of your apartment; a mirror layout to his, like all complexes in Vanguard Plaza, but furnished in the most eclectic and chaotic way. The building wraps in a U-shape, your balcony doors propped open, and just like every Sunday, music pours through your kitchen and drifts across the barely thirty-foot space to Jack’s balcony.
The first Sunday that Jack noticed the presence of new neighbors, you were blaring nothing but Tame Impala. Week two was Fleetwood Mac. Week three was a mix of Lynyrd Skynyrd and Adele. Week four was filled with anything and everything country, and last week consisted of Paolo Nutini.
This morning, it’s Nelly Furtado’s entire discography.
Like every Sunday, Jack sits and listens. Echoes of loud giggles and shouts of singing from two sets of healthy lungs. Watches from a distance; ungraceful twirls, obnoxiously playful dancing, until a small body is standing on the counter and dancing too.
The girls in apartment seventeen have wiggled beneath his ribcage and into a secret crevice of his heart. The place that warms every time he hears the laughter, every time he watches the most wholesome mommy-daughter time.
He doesn’t know your name, nor your daughters. But he knows you love music, that it’s bled into your child in the most copy and paste way. She dances like you, uses wooden spoons for microphones, chopsticks for drum sticks, and her imagination for an electric guitar.
It makes Jack’s heart swell and sting at the same time.
His wife didn’t want children, a decision that he always told himself he was okay with. They were both slight workaholics, both too selfish to give up the idea of financial freedom. She didn’t think she’d be a good mom, no matter how much Jack disagreed. And then she died.
Left Jack with nothing but fading memories and a big house that felt too suffocating until he sold it five years ago. He keeps her photo in his wallet, a frame on his nightstand, his wedding band around his finger. Six months married and then she was gone. They didn’t even make it on their honeymoon.
Perhaps that’s why he relishes these Sunday mornings. He knew he’d never have that life with his wife, he knows he most probably won’t ever…but it’s a secret desire he wishes for. So he tucks it deep away, close to his chest, close to his wife.
The bitter coffee doesn’t chase the ache away. It still festers beneath his ribs, an itch that he can’t rid himself from. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just allows you to grow around it.
Jack allows himself five more minutes in the captivity of apartment seventeen before retreating back inside in search of sleep.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
“Phoebe, Grandma's on the phone!”
You hear the tornado of flat feet smacking against the floor before you even finish your sentence. Your mom laughs on the screen, a screech of excitement tearing through the three-year-olds throat as she barrels onto the couch and snatches the phone from your grasp.
“Hi, Diva.” She beams wide, panting for breath and attempting to swat the sweaty hair from her face. “Are you coming to my house to play today?”
You bark out a laugh at that, her unashamed favoritism when it came to your mom.
“Not today, pickle. Grandma is on vacation with Grandpa, remember?”
Phoebe huffs and nods. “Can you bring me back a fridge magnet?” She asks instead, a question both you and your mom saw coming.
Your eyes dart over to the refrigerator. Covered in magnets and drawings and post cards… you’ll have to do some reorganising if she wants to fit another one on there.
“Absolutely, I’ll even bring you back some new shoes.”
Your eyes roll fondly when Phoebe’s lights up, an excited squeal falling from her lips as she nods her head vigorously. You press a kiss to her head before leaving her on the couch, pulling the phone closer to her face to speak.
Their conversation is a muffled background noise as you start to clean up the mess of her toys, the thirty-something articles of clothing strewn across the floor from her fashion show this afternoon. Plastic princess heels, a tiara, fairy wings…you’re sure she has a pirate’s outfit somewhere in the mess, too.
Your eyes flick to the time flashing on the microwave. 16:30.
Your shoulders drop, heart sinking. Thirty minutes late, you can try to hold out hope. But when it gets to the hour mark, you know it’s yet another no-show. Another night of tears with Pheebs and fast thinking on your part to distract her.
You learnt your lessons months ago. You know better than to tell her when she’s supposed to be seeing him. It only sets her up for disappointment and resentment. Let her come to the decision about him when she’s old enough to understand. Not when she’s three, upset and feeling like he doesn’t want to spend time with her.
You’ll shelter her from the truth of him for as long as you possibly can.
Throwing her outfits into her dress-up box in the corner of the lounge, you turn to your daughter with a heavy heart and the brightest smile you can muster.
“Alright, Diva. Go put your shoes on, let's go out for pizza.”
Phoebe doesn’t even offer your mom a goodbye. She throws the phone to the side of the couch and leaps to her feet, little legs scurrying toward her bedroom to no doubt retrieve the bright pink Crocs she’s recently become obsessed with.
You reach for your phone, sharing an exasperated laugh with your mom before she settles and tilts her head at you through the screen.
“What’s the excuse this time?” she asks.
You sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine. No calls or texts, just a no-show.”
Your mom’s lips form into a thin line, a look of disapproval that only ever seems to be reserved for him. “I take it Pheebs doesn't know?”
You shake your head, toeing your own shoes on as you wait for her. “No, I stopped telling her when she’s supposed to be seeing him months ago. Unnecessary upset, you know?”
Your mom hums, a contemplative look crossing her features. When she notices the disappointment in your eyes, she softens. “You are all that she needs, baby.” She reassures you. “I know you’re trying to do the right thing by her, and you are. But when she’s older, she’ll realize it for herself.”
Shoulders sagging and heart aching, you sigh again. “I know, it’s just not fair on her. Wish I could shield her from it forever, you know?”
“I know, but you are doing fantastic. Me and Dad are so proud of you.”
It’s a struggle to blink back the tears. In truth, you likely wouldn't have coped at all if it weren't for your parents. You were young when you fell pregnant, just shy of turning twenty-three. No real job, no real qualifications. Still living at home and accidentally knocked up by a douche of a boyfriend you were trying to figure out how to break up with.
But your parents…they were a rock for you. They supported whatever decision you wanted to make. They let you stay at home until you had the money to move out, took you to every appointment, helped you turn your dad’s office into a nursery without a hint of annoyance.
Your mom held your hand when you were rushed into hospital to deliver Phoebe, and she sang to you softly when you had to go in for emergency surgery.
Your parents were the ones to encourage you to go back to college. They were the ones to babysit while you worked for your degree, when you had last minute interviews and meetings. And they were the ones you thanked and celebrated with when you finally made it.
When your first book got published and made its way to a New York Times Bestseller within the first week of its release, they were the ones you celebrated with. It was their mortgage you paid off with your very first cheque.
It was only at that point that Tom decided he wanted to be in Phoebe’s life again. That he had apparently made a terrible mistake and wanted to be a ‘family’. You’d allowed him access to his daughter but denied him ever having any access to you.
“Get out of that brilliant head of yours.”
You blink as your mom’s voice drifts you back to the present and you smile, slightly wonky. “Have a cocktail for me and keep Dad away from the dirty martinis. I doubt half of Cabo wants to hear his Elvis impression.”
She barks out a laugh at that, blowing kisses to the phone and promising to call back tomorrow before hanging up.
“Mommy!?” Phoebe calls out to you from her bedroom.
“Coming!” You call back, feet slowly moving you down the hall toward her bedroom. Stopping short with a sigh when her next words echo from her room.
“I pooped my pants again.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Phoebe’s tummy is filled quite comfortably with a veggie pizza and three scoops of chocolate ice cream. A dinner of champions, in her humble opinion, and a day well spent with you.
Her legs bounce her along the marble floors of the complex entrance, a skip in her step which is slightly making you regret that third scoop of ice cream. A sugar rush right before bed is not something you have the energy for.
“Hold up for a moment, baby. Mommy needs to check the mailbox.”
Her sassy huff is the only response you get, but she listens. Trudges back to your side with less enthusiasm than before. You can hear her clicking her tongue and jumping on the spot when you unlock your designated box, rifling through some letters and the package you’ve been eager to receive.
The first print of your newest novel.
It’s not until you’re locking the box back up that you notice Phoebe isn’t to the left of you anymore. Instead, she’s to your far right with her hands behind her back and her small neck craned up to meet the gaze of a middle-aged man walking toward the main front doors.
“Hi, my name is Phoebe." Her small voice speaks at his legs and the man stops short at the sound of it.
His neck whips down to her, a small kiss of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth before it morphs into a friendly smile. Jesus Christ.
He blinks at her. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Phoebe. I’m Jack.”
His voice is like slowly crystalizing honey. Soft and smooth yet a slightly raw register as he lowers his tone to address the toddler. You swallow as you watch, a little taken back by the sight of him.
Salt and pepper curls with a mostly salt stubble, slightly tanned skin and bulging biceps that threatened to tear through his––is that a scrub vest—
“Are you a doctor?” Phoebe asks the question aloud that you silently ask in your head.
Jack smiles, nods his head and reaches to pinch the ID badge clipped to the pocket of his pants. “I am.”
You realize yourself then, tucking the mail under an arm and moving to approach the two. Your hand comes to rest on Phoebe’s shoulder and Jack’s eyes lift up your body before settling on your face.
“Sorry, she’s a bit of a social butterfly. She’ll chat your ear off all day if you let her.” It’s a slightly nervously laugh that bubbles from your throat and you’re completely unsure why.
You don’t get nervous. Not usually. But it’s also not every day that your daughter is introducing herself to a hot older man who happens to be a fucking doctor. More than that, and maybe it’s just his age, but it’s also not every day that you meet a man with such intense eye contact.
The moment his gaze meets yours, it doesn’t look away.
Jack laughs breathily, offering an open palm just above Phoebe’s head. “Nothing wrong with that. I’m Jack.”
His tone holds a flirty lilt—light and airy and far too comfortable for someone you’ve just met. Your palm meets his in a gentle greeting, skin rougher than yours, palm bigger than yours. You shake his hand with as much mirth as he does to yours.
“Y/N, this is my daughter, Phoebe.” You say softly, retrieving from his hold and resting your hand back on her shoulder again. “I think you’re the first normal neighbor we’ve met. We only moved in like six weeks ago.”
Jack’s smile widens just an inch as his hand moves to the strap on his backpack, his laugh something understanding, like you already have an inside joke. “Seventeen right?”
Your brows pinch slightly, head tilting. “Yeah… how—”
He points a finger to the ceiling. “I’m fourteen. Your balcony is opposite mine,” he turns his attention to Phoebe with a playful smile. “I’m pretty jealous of yours and mommy’s Sunday morning parties. They sound like a lot of fun.”
Color stains your cheeks but Phoebe grins at that. “We call it Sunday Funk Day. Music, chores, and pancakes for breakfast,” she counts them off on her chubby fingers, her tone slightly bordering authoritative, but Jack only seems more entertained.
“I didn’t realize we had the music on so loud… I’ll keep it down next time.” You apologize quickly. Another thing out of the norm for you. But you’ve been trying to teach Phoebe to be a bit more considerate of other people the older she gets.
Jack waves you off with a scoff. “No way, it’s nice to have a neighbor with good music taste. Not like apartment twelve.” He says the last part a bit quieter, like he too doesn’t want to influence your daughter with his less than kind opinions.
Your eyes widen, the sound of a scoffed laugh scratching the back of your throat. “Is that the crazy bird lady?” You mirror his pitch.
Jack’s lips part. “So that’s what that noise is. I’ve been calling her Chirpy in my head for the last six months.”
You laugh louder at that, stopping yourself just short of snorting. The way he speaks makes you feel strangely warm. His words and voice are relaxed, lazily drawled together with a slight accent that you can’t quite place.
Phoebe scrunches up her nose. “Mommy says people can listen to what they like, but I don’t like screaming music.” She shakes her head.
Jack has to stifle a laugh, expression mirroring yours as you close your eyes and take an exasperated but fond breath. “While I agree with your mommy, I have to say that I agree with you too, kid.”
An insistent buzzing echoes through the silence between you. You notice the brief movement of his hand cupping his pocket, realize that he’s being paged or called but too polite to check or excuse himself.
You squeeze gently on Phoebe’s shoulders. “Okay, we need to get you bathed and ready for bed and I think Jack needs to go to work.”
He offers a tight-lipped smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes but doesn’t feel forced. His eyes flick between you and Phoebe, a soft look of fondness relaxing his features for a moment. “It was nice to finally put names and faces to the lovely singing voices I get to hear.”
You smile warmly, albeit a little bashfully, before guiding Phoebe to your side to hold her hand. Jack lets his gaze fall on you again, warmth in his smile as he offers a slight nod.
“Have a good night.” His voice is tender and soft, heavy with security and you don’t understand how it feels so foreign and familiar at the same time.
“You too,” you say softly, turning at the same time he does to go your respective ways.
Phoebe turns her full body to look at him, hand waving frantically in the air. “Bye Doctor Jack!” She shouts at him, despite there being only a ten-foot distance between them.
You turn just in time to see Jack do the same, a small wave of fingers over his shoulder as he shouts back softly, “Bye Phoebe.”
Then he’s gone out of the complex doors and you’re ushering Phoebe into the elevator, unaware of the small smile that curls at the corners of your mouth.
“I like Doctor Jack.” Phoebe hums, pressing the button she has learnt for your floor. You smile down at her as the doors close and the elevator begins to hum and shift.
“Yeah? What do you like about him?”
She shrugs a shoulder, uncommittingly and swipes hair from her face. “He has kind eyes.”
Blinking slowly at her, your heart seizes. You find yourself wondering how your daughter comes up with some of the things that she does, how attuned she is to the people around her and the way her judgement of character grows every day.
You barely know the man, yet you can’t help but agree.
“Yeah, baby. I guess he does.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
NEXT PART
Cute little meet cute for our single mom, Phoebe, and Jack!! I am almost busting at the seams with excitement for what I have planned for these guys; little moments and big!! There will lots of tiny hidden references in this series that I would love to know if you guys pick up on, and I also have a very comical and painful scene that I've already written for later on in this series hehe.
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
The tag list for this series is open so if you'd like to be tagged in future parts, please let me know!! <3
summary: you're called into the ED on a rare friday night off, saving you from a disastrous first date. throughout your shift, dr. jack abbot can't keep his eyes off you and lends a helping hand when he notices you're in pain.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, undefined age gap, hint at power imbalance, swearing, slight suggestive content, no smut, smutty thoughts, slow burn (hehe oops), mutual attraction/pining, bad dating experiences, the pitt loves to gossip, santos is a terrible matchmaker, misogynistic/derogatory men (no one from the pitt), slight hurt/mainly comfort, jackie boy and his miracle hands 🙂↕️, dual pov (kinda?), jack & dana call reader kid, sweetheart said once, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, reader has had knee surgery (and the scars to prove it), partly proofread, medical inaccuracies no doubt, let me know if i missed anything 🤠
word count: 7k
authors note: first crack at writing jack abbot! yes, this is self indulgent, yes my knee is hurting like a b lately. (goldi on a man hating agenda? say it ain't so!). reminder that i live to give ai two big middle fingers 🫶 400 followers celebration - hello what???
song inspo: sweet serotonin - amber mark
divider credits: red line divider by @/omi-resources, medical divider by @/sisterlucifergraphics
Right on time, taking me by surprise
Must have been in your eyes, like me, oh, my
Where you been my whole life?
Where you been my whole life? Oh-oh
Dating had always felt like a chore—a time consuming, anxiety riddled, unsatisfying chore. Most of the men you matched with on dating apps made it abundantly clear that they were only interested in casual, no strings attached fun. It was never fun for you—maybe in the beginning, when you would exchange a handful of flirty texts that had butterflies flapping in your stomach and a giddy smile blooming across your face. But then, once they had you where they wanted—laid out on their questionable smelling sheets, straddling them on their lumpy, faded couch—all the promises they had made over the phone suddenly vanished.
Nine times out of ten they didn't even bother with foreplay, hitting you with "does that feel good?" before spilling in a condom within two minutes of sporadically thrusting into you. You never lied, never bothered with faking a moan—let alone an orgasm—just to satisfy their ego. They were shit at taking care of a woman's needs, and you weren't going to spare their feelings just because it was polite.
So, why you were on a date on your rare Friday night off from working in the ED was fucking beyond you.
You wanted to blame Santos, she was the one who had set the date up after all. She claimed she was sick of hearing you bitch and moan about your dry spell, saying that if you weren't going to get back on the apps then she would find someone for you. And honestly, after working at PTMC for a few years—getting increasingly frustrated after every twelve hour shift you spent with Dr. Abbot—you owed it to yourself to give dating one more try. Maybe this would be the guy that would finally touch you right, finally make you feel something more, scratch that itch that you couldn't reach yourself.
He was your type, just as Santos had raved. Well, your new type. At some point, maybe around month two of swapping to the night shift, your thumb had slipped and the dating apps started showing you men at least fifteen years your senior. Men with fine lines crinkling their eyes, salt and pepper scruff lining their jaws, their terribly posed selfies accentuating their age.
But, surely, these men would be experienced enough to care for a woman's pleasure, right?
Wrong.
God, you were so wrong.
You gave up after two failed dates—one ending shortly after the appetisers because he was still married, the other ending when he got aggravated because his dick was staying semi-hard and had an ego too big to take viagra. Oh, and he refused to make you feel good if he wasn't getting anything in return.
You deleted the apps in the uber on your way home. You tried to convince yourself that it was these men that you kept picking and not you. You sure as hell weren't the problem. Comparing them to your extremely off-limits attending had nothing to do with it, either.
Santos said he was a regular at her gym, no mark on his left hand where a wedding band may have been, with an enticing smile and deep eyes that promised a good time. If only she had spoken to him for more than a couple of sentences.
You internally cheered when your phone vibrated on the table in front of you with an incoming call. You didn’t even bother checking caller ID, you would gladly take a call from a scammer if it meant it got you out of one of the top five worst dates you’ve been on in your life.
“Excuse me,” you muttered to the man sitting across from you before lifting the phone to your ear. He rolled his eyes and gave you a dismissive wave, sipping on the ridiculously expensive whiskey he’d ordered for himself.
“Hey, hon,” Dana’s urgent voice came through the line. “Sorry to interrupt your night off, but we need you in the ER. Ellis has come down with a nasty stomach bug, and the place is about to overflow with patients from a multiple MVC. Night shift needs you, kid.”
You couldn’t resist the sigh of relief you let out. Being elbows deep in traumas sounded a lot better than continuing your date with the misogynistic asshole in front of you.
“I’m on my way,” you replied to Dana, ending the call and gathering your clutch. You offered a fake apologetic smile to your date as you stood up from your chair.
“I’m really sorry,” you weren’t, “but I’ve been called into work. Life of being an ED doctor.” You offered an awkward chuckle.
He let out a sigh, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “So you’re not coming home with me, then?” Your eye twitched. “Least you can do is pay for your half of the bill.”
And there it was. The disgusting norm that comes with modern dating—the man only footing the bill if he knows he’s getting his dick wet.
You pulled a twenty dollar note out of your wallet, slapping it onto the table with more force than necessary. You shot him a sickly sweet smile before turning on your heel.
“Have a nice life, dick.” You muttered to yourself, pushing open the door to the restaurant. You pulled out your phone, ordering an uber straight to PTMC.
“Holy fuckin' smokes!” Dana exclaimed, her eyes locked on the sliding doors to the ambulance bay.
Despite the chaos engulfing the Pitt, her outburst caught the attention of the nurses and doctors hanging around the hub. Half of the day shift had their bags hanging off their shoulder, midway through saying their goodbyes.
It was almost cartoonish, the way they slowly spun, their eyes following the path of Dana's. A couple pairs of eyes bulged, a med student's jaw slightly dropped, and a smug smirk curved Santos' lips.
"Oh damn," Princess whispered, McKay and Mateo humming and nodding their agreement.
They had seen you plenty of times before—right before the start of a long shift when you were bright-eyed and eager, at the end of a double when you were sunken and hollow, stumbling into an uber after one too many at the local bar. But, they had never seen you like this.
There was a shift in the air, one that you seemed completely oblivious to. You were walking the path from the ambulance bay to the staff lockers, mind focused on getting into your spare pair of scrubs and out of your stupidly uncomfortable shoes. You briefly wondered how long into your shift it would take for your knee to start twinging, for the muscles around it to start straining because you decided to wear nice shoes instead of practical ones.
They were shoes you had bought to match the dress that had been hanging sadly in your closet for the past four months. It was a nice dress, one that you had been eager to wear and finally you had a reason to. Now you were regretting wasting it on that douchebag.
It wasn't just the dress that everyone was taking notice of, wasn't the only thing that had the room momentarily holding its breath. You looked…different. Still like yourself, but with your best features highlighted—making you stand out in a crowd. Not that you even noticed the attention on you.
Dr. Jack Abbot was leaning his elbows on a desk in the Hub, his back turned in your direction. Dana's abrupt—but not unusual—outburst had him looking over his shoulder, doing a double take when he realised it was you that had Dana swearing. He straightened his posture instinctively, turning and folding his hands behind his back like a soldier standing to attention. His eyes followed you as you kept walking towards the group of fleetingly stunned medical professionals.
He always noticed you, more than he cared to admit. He gravitated towards you from the second he saw you on your first day shift years ago, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You were intelligent, quick-witted, determined but you were also kind, compassionate, empathetic—all important attributes for a doctor to have. You were his best resident. And you were beautiful.
It was a matter of fact to him, that you were pretty in a way that had his pulse tumbling and breath hitching. He knew it was dangerous for him to be attracted to you—his resident that was way too young and had way too much of her life ahead of her. So, he never did anything about it. He kept things strictly professional, pretending like he didn't have a file cabinet tucked away in his brain where he stored every little detail about you.
He convinced himself that every detail he knew served a purpose, that it made him a better attending and in turn made you a better resident. It was to help you, which then meant you could help patients.
Knowing the exact way you liked your coffee? That was so you were well caffeinated and less grumpy towards patients when the four am low hit.
Noticing when you took more frequent deep sighs, accompanied with rubbing your temples? That's when he knew you needed fresh air to ward off an incoming headache, and then you would be fine to treat more patients.
Carefully watching the way your face lit up when he bought your favourite snacks? Just confirmation that you were getting sustenance, so you would have the energy to continue your hard work as an ED doctor.
It was habit for him to catalogue everything about you, and now you were giving him details to store that had nothing to do with improving your work as a doctor. The way the light reflected off your lip gloss, how you filled out your dress and made it look like it was designed just for you, the sway of your hips thanks to the shoes you were wearing.
He couldn't control the drag of his eyes down your body even if he wanted to. And that's when he saw it—the three faint scars on your left knee. The fluorescent lights above made them stand out more, and his eyes were glued to them. Two were barely an inch long, laying in horizontal slits either side of your kneecap—keyhole scars. The third one was more noticeable, running in a clean vertical line along the very top of your shin. He recognised the surgical scars immediately.
“I feel sorry for the poor bastard we dragged you away from.” Dana's raised voice knocked him out of his trance, the sounds from the ED around him rushing back into his ears.
He turned back to the desk, back to his charting before anyone could see how he had been looking at you—before you could see. His eyes still flicked back to you over his shoulder, observing how your pretty glossy lips were pulled in an out of place pout and your brows were furrowed in what looked like annoyance.
You sighed at Dana's comment, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. He wasn't a poor bastard at all, he deserved being walked out on. Before you could reply to the day charge nurse, Santos let out a long low whistle from her spot leaning against the Hub, right next to Dr. Abbot.
Whatever pleasantries you always had loaded for your coworkers disappeared in an instant, anger and irritation flaring hot in your chest. Your jaw clenched and your eyes narrowed in a glare, a single finger raising to point accusingly at your fellow resident and friend.
"Don't you fucking dare, Trinity." You seethed, pulling more attention towards you.
Whitaker froze in his spot, his hand's pausing on the keyboard where he had been finishing up his charting for the day.
"Oh, shit," he whispered, worried. "You never call her Trinity."
It was true. She was only ever Santos or Trin to you, Trinity was saved for the extremely rare occasion that you were mad at her.
Perlah and Princess stopped in their tracks, exchanging knowing looks with growing grins on their faces. They could wait a few more minutes before heading home.
Santos' eyes widened briefly, surprise flooding through her—she wasn't the one who had called you in and ended your date early.
"What did I do? Not my fault there's a ten car pile up." She raised her hands in mock defense.
"You're the one who set me up with a misogynistic prick!" You couldn't help but exclaim, your hands starting to shake with the unleashed anger you had been feeling since the second you sat down at dinner.
The group gathered around the Hub went still, eyes darting towards each other as they watched the rare scene of you losing your temper. The women around you shared a collective wince, immediately understanding your situation. They didn't even need you to explain what happened, they already knew how awful men could be—especially in your line of work.
Jack couldn't stop the protectiveness that ran deep through his bones at your statement, couldn't stop the jealousy souring his gut at the fact you were out with another man. A man that apparently did not deserve your time, did not deserve how beautiful you looked. He didn't think any man deserved you, even himself.
He wanted to know what happened, wanted to know who deserved a beating for treating you poorly. The possessive rage bleeding in his veins was new and incredibly dangerous.
The doors to the ambulance bay split open, a handful of paramedics rushing in with gurneys carrying bloodied victims from the MVC Dana called you in to help with.
Robby emerged from Trauma one, glancing around at his staff loitering while chaos rushed around them.
"Hey! What are you all doing standing around? Get to work!"
Everyone shifted into gear at his yell, splitting off to assess the new patients and to prepare rooms for their treatment. The day shifts with one foot out the door already slowly inched towards the exits.
You passed Dana as you rushed towards the staff lockers to quickly change, her hand briefly squeezing your shoulder.
"I'll be here if you need to vent, hon." She threw you her signature mother bear smile. "God knows I've dealt with my fair share of misogynistic pricks." And she had the battle scars to prove it, too.
The frustration from your awful date lingered, only being subdued during the frantic hours you treated the patients from the car crash. You focused on what you knew best, on providing the utmost medical care you could.
Even after the influx of injured and critical patients from the crash, you had to handle the day patients that had been waiting for hours. The last of the day shift went home by ten pm, looking like zombies and talking about a goodnight drink at the park before they split ways. Just after midnight, multiple dirt ridden trucks pulled up into the ambulance bay—dumping off a load of drunks that had ruined their faces and fists by starting a bar fight.
Your frustration rose back up to the surface as you tried your best to treat the belligerent drunks, their acrid breath hurling derogatory insults at you despite how you were helping. Some nights this behaviour was easy enough brush off, to file away for you to scream about later. Not this night though, you were already feeling torn down by a date's outdated and chauvinistic views and now it was just more fuel to the fire.
Dr. Abbot was standing next to you, observing as you examined a drunk's head lac, asking questions to determine the best plan of action.
He was standing next to you when the drunk grumbled out loud, his glazed eyes glued on your scrub covered chest. "Don't think you belong here with those."
Jack watched as your hand faltered, a grimace flexing your jaw at the crude comment. He opened his mouth, whether to tell the asshole off or to reassure you he wasn't sure, but you met him with a sharp look and shake of your head.
He was next to you again, letting you take the lead on a hip dislocation. Unfortunately, it was another one of the bar fight idiots—an old man who slipped from standing on the bar. You treated him how you would any other patient—your hands in the exact same position.
"Bit further up, sweet cheeks. That's where I need your hands most." He leered with a sleazy grin.
Your hands slipped, a flare of disgust and rage tearing up your chest. Your breathing grew heavy, coming out in quick audible bursts. Angry tears started to fill your waterline.
Why were men so fucking awful?
Dr. Abbot stepped in from behind you, adjusting his stance to block you from the drunks invasive eyes. He gripped the man harder than necessary, leaning down with an authoritative, deadly glare.
"Shut your fucking mouth," he simmered, pushing the man's hip into place with more force than required.
After exiting the room you leaned against the wall to take a breath, pinching the bridge of your nose as you willed yourself to calm down.
"Hey," Dr. Abbot's low voice mumbled in front of you. You lifted your head to find him peering down at you, worry softening his hard features.
"You doing okay?"
He watched you visibly collect yourself, pulling in a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. The faint tremble in your jaw gave you away, though.
"I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle," you muttered, crossing your arms across your chest. You couldn't break down over a couple brass comments, not when you've witnessed much worse happen to your fellow female colleagues.
He lowered his chin towards you, his shoulders dropping. He spoke in a soft, private tone. "Doesn't mean it's okay, kid."
He sighed and took half a step closer, careful not to invade your personal space. "You've had a long few hours of dealing with pricks tonight." He paused, a faint smile gracing his lips. "I promise we're not all bad."
You rolled your eyes with an amused scoff. "Yeah, that's what they all say."
Still, you couldn't help but feel hope at his words—because you knew they weren't all bad, you were reminded of that every time you worked with him. And the other men who worked in the Pitt alongside you. But, you always noticed the good qualities in him more than anyone else.
You noticed how he never flaunted his money, yet was always the first to pull his phone out to call an uber for a struggling patient. How he often door-dashed dinner for the ED staff, careful to make sure everyone's dietary requirements were catered for. You noticed the way he positioned himself between an aggressive patient and female staff, becoming an immovable shield. And you sure as hell noticed how gentle he was with the younger patients, how his voice softened as he put them at ease.
You hated how much you noticed about him. Hated how hours, days, weeks later a warmth still curled in the pit of your gut. You hated how much you wanted him, hated how his soft hazel eyes and hardened lines threw your world off its axis.
What you hated most was that you knew you would never find a man like him. You were stuck dating assholes because the one man you wanted was the last man you were allowed to have.
He kept his eyes on you as you pushed away from the wall, heading towards one of the day shift patients in the West rooms. His eyes tracked the subtle hitch in your step, the way you shifted more weight onto your right leg. It was something he had noticed before, when the sun would breach across the horizon signaling the end of the night shift. He never focused on it too much, filing it away as tightness after being on your feet for twelve hours straight. But now, after seeing the scars your scrub pants kept hidden he knew it was more than that, and you were only halfway through your shift. It was obvious your knee was bothering you. He felt his own knee twinge in sympathy.
"So," Mateo started, leaning back in one of the swivel chairs at Central. "What happened on your awful date?"
You didn't have to look up from your charting to see the cheeky grin on his face, you could hear it bleeding through his voice.
"You've spent too much time with Princess," you muttered in reply.
Shen peered up from his spot in the Hub, his ears perking at the mention of a date—the man loved to gossip, especially with a dunkin coffee in his hand. He grabbed the tablet he was working on, his lips pursed around his straw as he walked over to you two. You felt his presence before you heard him.
"What's this I hear about a date?" He leaned his hip on the desk next to you, raising his eyebrows in interest and slurping his coffee.
You sighed, bringing a hand to your left thigh to rub a twitching muscle—you were really paying for those stupid shoes you wore earlier.
"Why is it that I'm always surrounded by men?"
"Hey!" Lena exclaimed as her and Bridget walked past you three. "We're still here—and we want to hear the date story too!"
You didn't even remember them being near you when you first got to work, seething at Santos about her awful blind date set up—gossip traveled fast at the Pitt, especially at shift change when the nurses overlapped.
After taking a look at the relatively calm board, the two women came back to Central with matching curious grins. It was nearing the end of the three am witching hour, when the influx of crazies quietened down and the exhaustion started to creep into your bones. You had just over three hours of your shift left and you figured venting about the thing that had been simmering in your chest wouldn't do you any more harm.
You didn't notice Dr. Abbot hovering in the doorway to Central nine, midway through removing his gloves when the unmistakable sound of gossip reached his ears.
He was curious, he couldn't help the way he shifted closer—focusing on your voice over the other sounds filling the ER.
"Where do I even start," you muttered, lifting your head to meet the intrigued eyes of Mateo sitting across from you.
"Firstly, he didn't hold the door open for me as we entered the restaurant—just let it swing into my face." You chuckled bitterly, "should've taken that as the first red flag."
Lena and Bridget nodded along sympathetically, knowing the worst was still yet to come.
"He then proceeded to order for me—both my drink and food when we had barely spoken a word to each other."
Shen shrugged next to you, and you focused a glare on him. "He ordered me clams. I fucking hate seafood." That made the man wince.
Jack drifted closer to the conversation, standing a few feet behind you. You were too caught up in the annoyance that lingered from your date to notice his quietly commanding presence.
"When I told him what I do for work, he went on a five minute monologue about how the ED is no place for a woman."
That gained a collective eye roll and groan from everyone gathered, even pulling silent wince and twitch of the mouth from Jack.
"You stayed after that?" Lena questioned, her face showing how incredulous she found the situation.
You groaned in response, lowering your head into your hands. "I know, don't remind me." Your voice was muffled by your palms.
You took a breath and lowered your hands, loosely crossing your arms over your chest to ground yourself. "That wasn't even the worst part…" you trailed off.
"After bragging about his job as some finance hotshot, he said that because it takes him all over the world—by that, he meant he goes to Canada sometimes—he needs to have romantic partners in every city he travels to."
"Yikes," Mateo blurted with a wince.
"Said that it's his right as a man to have multiple partners, but that the women he's seeing can only exclusively date him."
Jack couldn't stay quiet any longer. There was a deep burning in his chest the more he listened to you.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered with a humourless chuckle. "Where the hell did you find this guy?"
You whipped around quickly, shocked and flustered that your attending had heard all about your terrible date. You expected him to be annoyed at you all for sitting around gossiping, but you could only find disgust and another unreadable emotion clenching his jaw.
"I didn't find him," you mumbled with a shrug. "Santos set it up. Said he's a regular at her gym."
"I'm surprised you weren't more mad at her earlier."
"I was actually relieved when I got Dana's call asking me to come in." You let out a small laugh, feeling ridiculous that you preferred the night shift chaos over a date with an attractive man—well, he was attractive until he opened his mouth.
Jack felt a misplaced sense of pride blooming in his chest at your admission. He took it personally when you said you would rather be with him—the night shift—than on a date.
"To top it all off, he made me pay for my half of the bill when he realised—"
The rest of your vent was cut off by one of the medical assistants wheeling in a patient from chairs.
"This is Mr. Wilson, mid sixties, he's been erect for the last eight hours."
The irony of the situation didn't get lost on you, a small snort slipping from you. Shen patted your shoulder before straightening up.
"I got this." He had the decency to leave his dunkin coffee behind as he walked over to the patient.
"So, Mr. Wilson. Did you take anything that might have lead to this condition?"
Five minutes later you were sat alone at Central, some of the lingering frustration now eased from your shoulders. A freckled arm appeared in front of you, placing a cup of coffee and your favourite protein bar next to the keyboard you were typing on.
You looked up in time to see Dr. Abbot's face tilted towards you, a soft smile smoothing his features.
"Thanks, Doc." You breathed with your own faint smile.
He responded with a smooth wink, one side of his mouth quirking up before he turned and headed towards South.
You watched as he left, noting how his gait shifted to accommodate his prosthetic leg. Your eyes trailed up his back, watching the subtle shift of his muscles beneath his scrub top, lingering on the freckles sprinkling his neck before landing on his silver curls. God, how you wanted to tug on those curls. A rush of warmth flooded your body as images flashed through your mind unprompted, unwanted. Images of you running your fingers through the curls while his head was between your thighs, hazel eyes dark with his own desire.
You spun back around before anyone caught you staring, quickly chugging your coffee and burning the roof of your mouth in the process. You took it as a much needed distraction to the heat gathering in your core. All he did was give you a goddamn coffee and snack.
It was just after five am when your knee buckled, straining from the long night and making you audibly wince. You were back at the Hub, hands clenching the counter as you tilted your foot against the half wall trying to stretch the tight muscles pulling on your knee.
It offered you temporary relief, one of the knots on your lower calf slightly easing. But it wasn't enough—the hard to get knots clustered on your upper calf were too deep, too close to the joint to get any relief from a quick stretch. You sighed as you felt the joint start to throb, a clear indication that the inflammation was flaring up.
That steady presence you quickly came to admire fell next to you once again, a veiny hand placing a tablet on the counter. You tried resisting following the lines of veins up his forearm, but you knew it was a losing battle so early in the morning. The fluorescent lights were still bright above you, but the early hour made everything feel soft—like the calm before the day shift storm.
"ACL reconstruction?" Dr. Abbot's voice grumbled low next to you.
"Huh?" You questioned, your brows scrunched in confusion. The patient you had just seen was a young teen with a fever that wouldn't break, possible meningitis.
Dr. Abbot tilted his head towards your leg that was still in a half stretch position.
"Your knee, I saw the scars when you came in earlier. Is it giving you trouble?" A line appeared between his brows, his cute mouth curving downward in a concerned frown.
He knew it was giving you trouble, he didn't need to ask. He had observed you the whole shift, feeling concerned when you stilled with a huff and changed your stance to accommodate the pain. He knew the pain of an injured joint all too well, could feel his own leg starting to scream at him after ignoring the tenderness for over ten hours. His fingers itched to help you, to offer you some comfort and take away your pain. He told himself it was because you were his resident—he couldn't have you hurting and disrupting your job as a doctor.
You straightened under his watchful gaze, distributing your weight evenly on both legs—a jolt of pain had you shifting to your right with a subtle wince.
"Reconstruction and a meniscal repair, too." You answered his first question. "Nothing I can't handle," you repeated your earlier statement, trying to brush off the obvious discomfort you were feeling.
He shot you a deadpan look, not buying your bullshit. He crossed his arms across his chest, leveling you with his quiet, intense authority that had fire tingling under your skin.
"What happened?" He asked gruffly.
You sighed out of habit—it really wasn't that big a deal.
"A not-so-friendly soccer match in high school." You shrugged, looking away from his unwavering stare. "Hurt like a bitch, but it's been over ten years. I've learnt to deal with it."
He grasped your elbow gently, leading you away from the Hub despite your complaints. He lead you to an empty patient room in North.
"Dr. Abbot, what are you—my patients—"
"Shen and Crus have it covered, you're allowed to take a break." He let go of your elbow, turning to close the curtain halfway—giving a slight semblance of privacy.
You stood awkwardly near the patient bed, feeling flustered from his attention and stubborn to prove you were fine.
He shot you another look, something between amused and impatient.
"You're in pain. Sit."
Again with that goddamn commanding tone, the one that always had you shutting your mouth and obeying.
You sat down on the edge tentatively, not missing the faint smirk twitching his cheek.
He was enjoying this.
You couldn't focus on the thought for long—your attention being seized by him grabbing stool and rolling it in front of you.
"What are you doing?" You asked with a single brow raised, watching as he sat down on the stool and patted his leg.
"I'm helping my resident," he said nonchalantly, like this was something he did all the time. "Now lift your leg. Doctor's orders."
You huffed with an eye roll, succumbing to his authoritative charm. You placed your ankle in his lap, careful to not rest the full weight on him. You weren't sure whether this was crossing a professional line—it felt just shy of being intimate, of being more than just your attending helping you with an old injury.
You could feel the strength of his thighs beneath your leg, how they were pure hard muscle. It was something a resident shouldn't notice about her attending—something she definitely shouldn't store away for later, when she was home alone with her hands between her thighs.
His hands gently grabbed the bottom of your scrub pants, slowly pushing the fabric up your leg. It felt way too intimate for such a simple act—his bare hands brushing against your skin, eliciting a path of fire and goosebumps in their wake. You no longer had control over your eyes as they dropped to watch his hands, catching sight of the wedding ring he still wore. He rolled the pant leg above your knee, his eyes darting up to yours for consent—moving his hands down at your small nod.
His hands gently pressed around your inflamed joint, the heat radiating up to his skin before he even touched you.
He gave a disappointing shake of his head. "You need to ice this, kid."
"I will when I get home, promise." Your voice was low, quiet. "It's not usually this bad—it's, just…it's been a long night." You don't know why you were explaining more than necessary, maybe you didn't like feeling like you had disappointed him.
Even with the door wide open, the noises of the ED fell away around you—fading into a faint hum as you looked into his hazel eyes.
"Why is tonight any different? I don't think I saw you limp once on the Fourth of July."
Your breath hitched without your permission—he was paying enough attention to you to make note of that?
His hands traveled down from your knee, fingertips lingering briefly on your scars before wrapping around your lower calf. His calloused fingers pressed into your skin, feeling around for the tight knots.
A steady stream of shocks ran up your leg from his touch, gathering in a simmering warmth in the pit of your belly. His hands on you felt way too good, you started to regret accepting his help. You would not be forgetting his hands on you any time soon.
Jack was doing his best to keep his head clear—repeating to himself that this was to relieve your pain. But, god, your soft skin and the smell of your lotion cutting through the usual antiseptic was making it hard to focus on anything else. Add in the way you were looking at him with big, trusting eyes and he was a goner.
His mind betrayed him further, thoughts of how you prepared for your date earlier clouding his mind. Was your smooth, tempting smelling skin just a coincidence, or were you planning for more? He remembered the dress you wore—how could he ever forget it?—and his thoughts strayed to what you might've been wearing under it, what you may be wearing under your scrubs. It was a seriously dangerous train of thought to have, especially with your leg in his lap.
He watched your face carefully, looking for the slightest wince to indicate you were in pain. He pressed harder, rolling a knot and catching the way your body tensed in response.
"I didn't wear the most sensible shoes earlier," you mumbled. There was something about the two of you alone in here, with his hands carefully tending to you that made you more…vulnerable. Open. "Wasn't expecting to work a twelve hour shift—I went with shoes that matched the dress." You finished with a small shrug, looking away from his piercing eyes.
"Ah. The date that keeps on giving," he grumbled bitterly.
His hands pressed further up, reaching your mid calf. You felt the cool band of his wedding ring press into your skin, and it made this feel even more personal and intimate.
"What were you saying earlier? When he made you pay half the bill…" Dr. Abbot's voice trailed off, eyeing you expectantly with raised brows.
You scoffed, the disgust you felt almost twelve hours before still sitting on your tongue.
"Yeah, that. He said the least I could do was pay my half since I wasn't going home with him."
Jack's brain short-circuited for a brief second, his grip on your calf tightening a fraction.
"That's…awful. I'm sorry."
You looked away from his intense gaze again, your heart doing something stupid in your chest. It was hard to miss the mix of anger and concern swimming in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched and shoulders tensed.
"That's modern dating for you." You let out a humourless chuckle, "some assholes even try to claim it's for the sake of feminism." You rolled your eyes with a sigh. "It's part of the reason I gave up on dating, I was hoping the guy today was going to be different." You couldn't help the self deprecating chuckle that slipped out.
"God, I didn't realise how bad it was out there."
Jack didn't know what else to say, couldn't think of much past the rage boiling his blood. A man had really said that to you? He wanted to show you that there were some redeemable men in the world, but by the sounds of it this wasn't this first time a man had said something like this to you.
His thumb swept across your shin soothingly, a motion he wasn't even aware of. But you were. It was all your body could focus on, every nerve ending rushing to the spot his rough skin was rubbing tenderly against yours.
"You reckon there'll be new gossip for people to focus on by my next shift?" It was your attempt at deflecting the conversation, talking to Dr. Abbot about your lackluster dating life wasn't exactly on your list of favourite things to do.
Jack jokingly checked his watch. "You're next shift is in what, fourteen hours?" He shot you a cheeky smile. "I'll make sure there's something else to talk about by then," he finished with a smooth wink.
It's something you've seen countless times—Dr Abbot's inherently flirty nature. You've seen it in the way he smiles at Samira, how he easily asked Dr. Al-Hashimi out for drinks when he first met her. You knew not to take it personally, he handed flirtatious comments out like they were as necessary as breathing.
Still didn't stop the hoards of butterflies wrecking havoc in your stomach.
"Thanks," you muttered, suddenly self-conscious from his gaze. It felt like he could see right through you, and you added it to the long list of things you hated about Dr. Jack Abbot.
"Don't mention it."
You both fell quiet as he continued his massage, the conversation coming to a natural end. His fingers reached the most sensitive part of your calf, right behind your knee where the muscles pulled on the joint. He pressed down on a knot, your hand shooting to his shoulder for stability as pain flashed from the tender muscle. He focused on the spot more, watching your face as a small whimper slipped through your lips. Your leg spasmed in his hold from the pain.
"That's the spot," he muttered absentmindedly.
He continued his ministrations, finding a handful of small knots just below your knee that provoked similar responses. Your hand didn't leave his shoulder, clutching his shirt tighter when he pressed on an extra sensitive spot. He started to file away new details that had nothing to do with your jobs or the hospital. The faint pained whimpers you let loose, the pinch in your brow when he worked on a sore spot, the way your breathing had shallowed. Those were all things that were making his scrub pants sit a bit too tight. Gradually, your leg relaxed in his hold and the pain evaporated from your facial expressions.
He rolled your scrub pant down your leg, the act feeling just as heightened as before. He gave your clothed shin an affectionate pat before lowering your leg to the ground. He stood from the stool and walked to the curtain, pulling it fully open. He needed to get back to work, needed to do something with his hands so he could get rid of the itch to touch you again.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot." You said as you stood up, relief washing over you as the throbbing in your knee eased to manageable. You almost forgot what it felt like when it wasn't in pain.
"No problem, sweetheart."
Your head shot up to him at the term of endearment, another dangerous burst of heat rushing through your body—the feeling of sweet serotonin flooding your system. Your eyes bulged as you noticed the dusting of red climbing up his neck and cheeks. He cleared his throat and made his way to the open door, stopping with one foot out in the ED. He looked at you over his shoulder, still frozen next to the bed.
"Come find me next time it flares up, alright?"
You briefly nodded, feeling slightly light-headed from the whole ordeal.
"Yes, sir."
His shoulders tensed at your choice of words, a primal part deep down in his gut rearing it's head. He felt his cock twitch in interest and he knew he was fucked. You really shouldn't have said that to him.
He took a breath and rolled his shoulders back, a small limp to his step as he made his way back to the Hub.
You watched him as he left, a heavy feeling of dread and hopelessness washing over you. This was now past the point of an innocent crush on your attending. This was something you had to cautiously keep in check or else it could derail your whole career, ruin your reputation as an upstanding resident at this hospital.
Why the fuck did he have to be so hot, and be a decent guy on top of that. It wasn't fucking fair.
soooo...smutty part 2 anyone ?
jack abbot taglist: @lovelexi717 @buckysdecaflove @moonstoneandmoonlight @sheriff-bodecker + want to be added?
not a lover, just a fighter 🥂 (john walker x reader)
part 5 of civilian life 🎖️
summary: when walker asked you to be his plus one to the GRC new year's gala, neither of you could've anticipated how hard you’d both fall - or how soon shit would hit the fan.
warnings: mutual pining, typical thunderbolts shenanigans & cringe wingmanning yet again, ANGST/hurt some comfort (depictions of physical paternal abuse, implied homophobia, anxiety/panic attacks, dissociation/dissociative episodes, traumatic flashback, symptoms/reactions related to PTSD, alcohol abuse/alcohol used as a coping mechanism), canon typical action & violence, mild depictions of injuries, reader is more fem presenting and misgendered by strangers at times
words: 27.7k (hey man. what the fuck.)
a/n: welp. happy EXTREMELY belated new year!! :'''D this shit was a LONG time coming, but im happy to report that along with finally finishing this chapter, ive also found (mostly) stable employment again! that being said, im definitely taking a break from writing until at least june for the sake of my sanity lol, but i am aiming for the next chapter to try and be out around the anniversary of this fic (which is crazy to think about!! what the freak!!!), but seeing as this chapter is a good few months late, we'll see how that goes lmao. ANYWAYS, thank you as always for your patience, love and support!! dividers are by the amazing @/cafekitsune as always, and the void dividers are by @/saradika-graphics!
album pairing(s) 🍷: none in particular for this one, mainly bc i listened to so much different music for all the different vibes this chapter entails lmao
click here to read on ao3!
John Walker hadn't texted you in almost a week.
Okay, well, he technically did text you, but it was mostly those classic one word dad texts that you kind of loathed receiving from anyone, especially when it was in response to your comparatively chattier messages.
The only clue you'd gotten for why he started acting like this was when you shot him a more direct check-in question. It took only a few minutes for him to respond with the longest text he'd sent you yet, clocking in at a whopping five whole words:
I'm fine. Just…work stuff. <
You weren't sure how to take it really, but you were also busy with your own stuff relative to the surprisingly busy Christmas season at the bar, so maybe it was something similar. You wanted to press for details whenever you tried to pen another message, but at the same time you didn't want to take the risk of coming off as too nosy or too annoying - and just in case you would possibly flag the tiny FBI agent living inside your phone at all times if you did.
So, you just let it be.
It wasn't until a few days after Christmas that you finally heard from him properly. You were unwinding with a long hot shower after a busier Saturday shift, only to see a few small notifications pop up with his name when you checked your phone once you were out. You open it only to be greeted by an absolute dog-pile of photos of the Thunderbolts; some where they were totally geared up in some sort of presumably professional setting, others where they were in more casual, slightly more festive attire. You never took John for an amature photographer, but its clear that some of the photos were also at the behest of probably someone like Bob or Alexei, including some adorable group photos by a rather tiny Christmas tree in some kind of meeting room you didn't recognize.
With the photos came a small smattering of messages underneath, almost like a tag tied on the side of a belated Christmas present.
Just a taste of all the nonsense I've been dealing with for the past few days… <
Weeks? <
Kind of lost track but, regardless. <
Hope your holiday was more relaxing than mine. <
You don't know why you have the instinct to tap the call button on his contact instead of just texting some simpler reply, but the phone only rings twice before it abruptly stops.
"Hello?"
You almost want to kick yourself when you feel your heart skip a beat at the sound of his voice. Your busy work had definitely helped settle down the flames of your crush, even if it was just a smidge, but a single word in that familiarly gravelly tone was enough to ignite it all over again.
"Hey! I, uh…I dunno," You stumble over your words a bit with a nervous smile, trying to readjust yourself on the bed, "I figured calling would be better than texting to catch up."
"Yeah, makes sense." He replies with a chuckle. "So you saw the photos then?"
"I did! They're very adorable," You admit with a smile, popping him on speaker before swiping through them again, "Though I am kinda bummed you guys had a little Christmas party without me."
"Felt more like pulling teeth than partying." John clarifies. "Alexei kept trying to get us to do stuff - go see Christmas lights, make us do a Secret Santa, all that kinda stuff - but we all really just wanted some peace and quite after the fucking circuit they made us work all week." He sighs, and you hear the familiar clink! of ice against a glass in the background. "I'm just glad it's finally over."
"Tell me about it. Now we just have to make it to New Years in one piece."
"God, don't remind me." He groans, alongside the equally familiar glug of what you assumed was the bourbon you gave him. "At least you had the hindsight to give me something to help get through it." He notes, but then pauses. "I don't think I ever said thank you, by the way, so…thanks."
"You're very welcome." You answer back with a smile stuck to your face. "As a bartender it's my job to always know what my customers need."
"Ouch. I'm just a customer to you now?"
"No, you dummy," You tease, "If you were just a customer for me to milk cash out of, I'd be a lot more flirty with you, that's for damn sure."
"So you just think I'm broke?"
"I didn't say that!"
"Eh. Kinda did."
"Oh whatever." You giggle with a roll of your eyes, taking him off speaker and bringing the phone back to your ear. "What kind of salary do you even make as a superhero anyways?"
"Less than you think." John answers honestly, albeit somewhat bitterly. "But we do get a decent 401k match. And dental."
You can't help but scoff. "Can't believe being a superhero is somehow more stable sounding than any normal ass job I've worked." You say as you lay back on your bed. "Maybe I'll have to fall into a vat of radioactive goo sometime, or…do whatever people do these days to get superpowers."
That draws another chuckle out of John, which pulls the undeniable smile on your face even wider. "Mhm. And just how many vats of vague radioactive goo do you think actually exist in the state of New York?"
"I mean, there's gotta be at least one, right? Stupid rich techie assholes are probably dumping shit into the Hudson as we speak- oh! Hey, speaking of rich assholes-" You straighten up as soon as the reminder hits your consciousness, "I…actually managed to get New Years off."
You weren't sure if it was the booze moving through his system or the weird pivot you took, but John sounds just as stunned as you felt about the whole ordeal. "…Wait, really?"
"I know, right?! I didn't think it was possible for a bartender to get THE drinking holiday off - well, maybe besides Saint Patrick's Day I guess - but turns out if you work for a guy for a while and bring in some superhero clientèle, he might get a little soft around the edges."
"Wow, that's-" He's silent for a moment before finally finishing his sentence. "That's great."
Your brow knits together a bit. "You say that like you're not excited."
"What? No, no, I am-" He sighs, and you can practically hear him pinching the bridge of his nose. "I am. Really. I wouldn't have extended the invite otherwise, you know that."
"I know, I know." You try to reassure, but a thought can't help but prickle in the back of your throat before it slowly manifests itself past your lips. "…If you don't want me to come though, it won't hurt my feelings."
"No, it's- goddammit-" He mutters to himself before speaking up again, "Look, I'm sure you know this, but this isn't just some fancy party. This is real bureaucratic government bullshit we have to deal with, and it's not only stuffy and boring as hell, it's-"
"An unnecessary peacocking arena for rich assholes?"
You hear John stifle a laugh. "Well, that too, but the biggest thing is that this isn't something anyone can just waltz into. Everyone in there has some sort of agenda, good, bad or otherwise, and if something happens-"
"You don't want me to get in trouble?"
He sighs again, but this time it seems to be more in relief. "…Yeah. In a sense."
Your smile softens a bit, your heart squeezing in your chest just enough for you to notice. "I appreciate the concern John, but I'm a big kid, remember? I promise, pinky promise, that I won't stir up any trouble at this thing-"
"Oh c'mon, you don't have to-"
"Ah-ah. Let me finish." You tut. "And, if you get a weird feeling about anything, if you feel like something is about to go down that's well above my pay grade, you tell me to leave, and I will. No questions asked."
A silence lingers between the two of you on the line, but when John finally does say something, it's almost like he feels sorry for you. "You don't have to do that, y'know."
"I know, but…I want to make sure I'm the least of your problems at this thing, and this feels like the least I can do." You purse your lips as a sudden thought crosses your mind. "Although, I might ask you to cover the cab fare if I dip early."
John just scoffs out a laugh, "Fair enough…and, thanks."
"Hey, can't help if your military brain needs a plan of action for every little thing." You tease. "Figured it'd help put you at ease."
"It...weirdly does." John admits. "Jesus, am I really that easy to read?"
"Eh, not necessarily. Just gotta pay attention to the right things." You try to reassure, but you can't help but poke at him a little more. "And also the super obvious things, but mostly the right ones."
"God, I hate you sometimes."
"Hey, don't hate the messenger, hate the message. 'To be loved is to be perceived' and all that."
There's a lingering silence after you say that, and even though it lasts a few seconds, you can't help but bite your own tongue a bit.
"…I guess so." He eventually huffs. "So…I'll pick you up and take you to the Tower on Saturday at about, like, seven or something?"
"Sounds good to me." You reply with a nod, pulling your phone away from your ear to write down a little reminder for yourself. "Oh, or should I say, 'yes sir!' like I'm your little chipper cadet now or something?"
"Oh shut up. I'll see you Saturday."
"See you Saturday." You parrot back, your face practically beaming as you hang up the phone.
Walker never took himself as a fidgety person, and did his damnest not to seem like one. He always walked, talked and stood like a solider: spine straightened, shoulders back, trying to come off as the hard-earned proof that everything he's been through has been for some greater purpose after all. But here he was, standing at the doorstep of your apartment building, restlessly tugging at the sleeves of his jacket, thumbing over the grooves of the Army sigil engraved on his silver cuff links.
Hell, it didn't help that he was practically teased out of the Tower as he left to pick you up, insisting to the team that five people did not need to be deployed to pick up "a god damn glorified prom date."
"Oh, so it is a date?" He heard Ava call out just before the elevator doors closed on him, scoffing while his cheeks burned the whole ride down.
Assholes.
He didn't know why he was so nervous - or rather, he knew why he would be nervous, but every reason sounded more irrational and more stupid than the last. If the team somehow made a fool of themselves, he at least had control over his own actions so he wouldn't be caught up in the consequences. If Valentina or Mel (or worse, both) had some harsh words for him bringing a guest, he could pass the blame more evenly on by claiming it was a the entire team's idea, which wasn't technically a lie. If some random Avengers-level threat decided to roll up in a limousine along side them, you'd go straight home, just like you promised, and they'd handle it.
So why the hell was he still so uneasy?
He feels every burning second tick by after he presses the buzzer for your apartment number, the cool metal of his watch having mellowed out to a comfortable weight on his wrist on the brisk commute over.
Soon enough, your chipper voice cuts through the static of the speaker. "John?"
"Yeah, it's me."
"Oh, hey! I'll be out in like, five minutes, just hang tight!"
"Alright, but we gotta get moving." John replies, pulling up his watch as he notes the time. He made sure to arrive early just in case something happened, plus to accommodate for time to get back to the building and to the entourage of black SUVs that were taking them to the venue.
It wasn't your fault really, or at least you weren't doing this to him on purpose. He was certain you'd behave yourself despite your personal shortcomings with certain politicians and other people that would surely show their faces tonight. Maybe he was just nervous about things being taken the wrong way? If the press showed up tonight, which some probably would, would some trashy tabloid blast your face out there if you're even within a five foot radius of him? Or what if it wasn't some trashy tabloid, but an actual reputable news source, or worse, some stupid fucking influencer who somehow got an invite filming just one brief interaction out of context.
If he really was worried about it that deeply, he could just bail right now. Text you that something had come up, that he had to be called back for an emergency mission, something to get him out of even the sheer possibility of the world seeing him with you - no, that's not it-
Something to get you out of being seen by the world with him, of all people.
Just when he's descending back down the stairs and pulling out his phone to text you, he hears the door open behind him as soon his foot hits the pavement.
"Hey, I was about to text you, uh…we should probably-"
As John turns on his heel, tucking his phone back in his pocket while moving to look up and face you, he freezes. He stares at you with his mouth still partially open, slightly slack-jawed like it's all he can do as your looks halt him mid sentence.
When you told John off hand that you "might have something that can work," he was thinking of something more simple. Something like a cute little cocktail dress maybe that was just classy enough to get away with at such a high caliber event, or maybe even a simple suit you'd stuffed in the back of your closet. But this?
A silver-bordering-on-nickel dress hugged your figure like marble sheets draping across an ancient statue, shimmering in the streetlights with a small slit on the left side of the slim skirt rather appropriately rising to your knee. Other than that slit, the dress simultaneously covered you chastely while still highlighting all the dips and curves of your body in a way John never knew was possible with a piece of clothing. There was even a piece of silver hardware resting on your left shoulder, a silver hoop seeming to be the primary suspect as to how the fabric draped over you so elegantly. You even had the perfect earrings to match, silver warbled hoops dangling from your ears that caught the light beautifully, along with some strappy silver heels and a simple silver clutch.
While you were known to get dolled up to a certain degree for your shifts and occasionally on your days off, getting invited to something so fancy called for something a bit more…dramatic. Considering you hadn't done a true full face of make up in God knows how long, you'd enlisted the help of some of your friends earlier in the day as you were getting ready. Your eyes were somehow more doe-like than they ever had been before, long lashes batting at your date for the evening through glitter-covered lids. A touch of rogue tinted your cheeks and the tip of your nose, your facial features a little more deliberately carved out with some subtle contouring. Despite the more fancy face get up, you decided to stick with a classic last-ditch lip look you always relied on - a hint of liner on the inner part of your lips, ombreing out under a shiny layer of your favorite lip gloss that had seen you through many nights out.
John closes his mouth, taking a moment to blink - taking a moment to breathe.
You look at him, your eyes glittering like your gown in the low light of dusk before looking down, brushing your hands over the fabric. "What? Is there something on my dress, or-"
"No, no, you're fine. Just-" John folds his arms over his chest, giving you a proper once over. "Wow."
You can't help but let out a nervous laugh as you feel his eyes rake over you. "I clean up nice, right?"
Understatement of the fucking century.
"Yeah." John manages to reply, clearing his throat as he watches you start to descend down the short flight of stairs. As you do, he reaches out his hand like a proper gentleman, keeping you steady as you walk the rest of the way down. Jesus, you even had your nails done for this damn thing, silver swirled accents on slightly longer nails glittering in John's grasp like diamonds.
"Well, just for the record, you clean up nice too." You speak up with a radiant smile - the same one you always had. "You look really handsome."
John blinks again, letting out an awkward chuckle as he lets go of your hand that he was still absentmindedly holding, brushing off his suit. "Oh, uh, thanks. Haven't had to wear something like this in a bit, but, still fits just fine."
"So you just had this dorky little bow tie hidden away in your closet and you didn't tell me about it?" You tease, playfully adjusting it while still making sure it sat straight under his collar.
"Wh- It's not dorky, it's basic black tie, everyone knows that."
"Oh yeah? Where's your cummerbund then?"
He frowns, looking down at his suit then back up at you. "My what?"
"Y'know, that weird thing old timey dudes wear with their suits to catch their crumbs at dinner or whatever." You gesture over your stomach like you were wearing a belt. "You snap it on here and it makes you look like a little penguin."
John's nose crinkles. "I have no clue what you're talking about."
"What? It's a real thing, I promise!" You insist. "I only know about it is because the boys in my high school choir had to wear them when we had performances. Didn't help us in the cool department, but at least we got good scores for our acapella competitions."
John's face uncrinkles for a moment in slight surprise. "You were in choir?"
"Yeah! What, did you think I'd choose, like, home ec as an elective or something?"
John shrugs. "I don't know, just…I swear every time I learn something new about you it puts something else into perspective."
You raise a brow. "Oh yeah?"
John presses his lips into a fine line, looking out into the street as he tries to think of something to say. "Yeah, like, how you can talk for so long without taking a damn breath." He ends up teasing right back. "Probably learned some kind of magic breathing technique that just lets you talk and talk and talk-"
"Haha, very funny." You dryly reply, though you're unable to wipe the smile from your face as you playfully jab his ribs with your clutch. "I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to talk on the way to…wherever this thing is."
"Oh, right," John recalls, rearranging what he was going to say before you walked out the door, "We should get back to the Tower, they're probably waiting-"
Before you could lightly protest about John making you walk all the way to the Tower in heels, a loud succession of honks calls out from behind you on the street. Usually you'd chalk it up to some typical New York traffic shenanigans, but it grew even louder as a long, sleek black limousine merges into the lane closest to the sidewalk before pulling to a stop right in front of your door.
Well, sleek as it could be with the brazen star-shaped logo it had with clear white lettering below it on the driver's door - Red Guardian Limo Service.
You read the tagline aloud under the name. "…'Protecting you from boring evening,' huh."
John is already swearing under his breath by the time the window rolls all the way down, revealing Alexei behind the wheel in a nice maroon suit, along with a drivers hat and driving gloves. "Your chariot has arrived!"
Your cheeks puff out as you try to hold back a laugh, looking back at John only to be met with the pure anguish on his face. He gives you an almost apologetic look before he steps forward to lean down in front of the window. "Alexei, what the fuck are you doing here man."
Alexei gestures to the dashboard in front of him. "I am your ride to the gala tonight, I thought that was obvious-"
"No, no, we were planning to go back to the Tower and ride in the vans or whatever with Valentina and the others, remember?"
Alexei just shrugs. "Well, they already left. Something about not being able to wait for your return-"
John swears he feels a vein pop up beneath his temple. "What do you mean they already left?!"
"I fear you should really have your hearing checked, Walker." Alexei comments, only for John to groan and back off from the window, running his hands over his face. Alexei's brow scrunches in confusion, leading him to emerge from the limo to continue the conversation. "So, naturally, I come to rescue." He clarifies as he walks around, initially set on Walker until he passes a glance at you, then does the world's strongest and most obvious double take that looks like it could've popped every bone in his neck.
He gasps, muttering something in Russian before hastily walking up to you, taking your hands in his. "My dear, have you been hiding this radiant goddess away inside you this whole time?" He regales dramatically, getting a flustered laugh out of you as warmth rises to your cheeks. "You are stunning, I am nearly at a loss for words-" He looks back at John, who catches his glance only to see Alexei not-so-subtly mouth 'HOLY SHIT' to him before turning back, giving you a warm smile. "It will be an honor to have you in my limo tonight, truly."
"Oh, no, it's my honor to ride with the noble Red Guardian behind the wheel." You reply with a gentle smile, doing a little curtsy to draw a deep laugh from Alexei. "And it looks like you clean up just as nice as I do."
"Ah, of course," Alexei beams, his smile turning sly as he strokes his still bushy but slightly less crazy beard, "But I wish I could shine with even a fraction of your radiance."
"You're too sweet, Alexei, really."
Alexei just shrugs. "I only tell you what my eyes see."
The sweetly intimate moment is slightly broken by John's muttering of expletives just over Alexei's shoulder, prompting you to both turn around as John messes with his phone. "Goddammit, why isn't anyone answering-"
"…Well," Alexei says as he turns back to you, seeming to brush John off, "We should get this show on the road, ah? Don't want to be late for such a fancy event, you know."
He walks over to his limo, clearly taking pride in being your gentleman driver as he opens the door for you, revealing a sleek black interior with slightly worn but still nice-looking leather seats.
You look back over at John before walking over to him, lightly tugging on the sleeve of his tux. "C'mon John, it'll be fine. We'll just…be the ones pulling up in style."
John huffs, but when he finally breaks his eyes from his phone, he can't help but linger over your face. Beneath all the various creams and powders and whatever else was invisibly enhancing your features, it was still just…you, at the end of the day, and for some god damn reason, it made him almost think everything was going to be fine.
John sighs, straightening himself and his suit he shrugs. "Well…not like we can just walk there anyways."
"Says the guy not wearing heels." You say with a roll of your eyes, threading your arm through his to playfully tug him towards the door. "C'mon soldier boy. We've got a party to uncrash."
He lets you tug him along, a small smile cracking at the edge of his mouth. "Uncrash? Really?"
"What? I know you'd hate me if I said we were crashing it - I mean, I technically am, but still."
Alexei watches with a shit-eating grin as you both slide into the car, giving John the most obvious wink in existence before shutting the door on you both.
"…I feel pretty protected from a boring evening," You lean over and mutter as Alexei gets back into the driver's seat, trying your hardest not to sputter into a fit of laughter as you meet John's eyes. "Don't you feel protected from a boring evening John?"
"Don't." John groans, taking in the interior of the car more as Alexei starts to pull away into the road.
Much to his relief, your smile just softens, gently nudging his shoulder as you turn to stare out the window, fidgeting with the clasp of your purse in your lap.
It clearly takes John a minute or two to adjust to the drive considering his history with Alexei behind the wheel, shifting in his seat and tugging at his suit every now and again as you rode in relative silence. This car was definitely nicer than the one took them across the desert - it even came with working air conditioning, and a more complete mini bar sitting at the near-opposite end of the car.
"By the way," Alexei calls out from the driver's seat, "You are more than welcome to help yourself to the fine Russian vodka back there."
Your eyes drift from your view out the window and catch on a large bottle just ahead at the mention of it, a big red logo and barely readable yet clearly Russian text on it a few feet away.
"I'll pass, but, thank you." John awkwardly calls out with a nod.
You, on the other hand, figured you could use something to calm your secretly frazzled nerves as the reality of everything was starting to set in. It was one thing to be invited to this thing in the first place, which you were still secretly wondering how serious the proposition was, even in the back of a limo on the way there. Your friend who you'd been blatantly crushing on for the past few months was sitting next to you, somehow even more comically handsome than he'd ever been before in your presence, taking you to a fancy event you couldn't even imagine fantasizing about, as his date.
Well, a group date, sure, whatever that meant, but you were still on your way to the venue with him by your side. That had to mean something, right?
You wondered what the scope of super soldier powers were all of a sudden, because God forbid he could hear how fast your heart was thrumming in your chest, feel the way your pulse was giving yourself away completely under your skin.
"I think I might have some, honestly." You mention to John, holding out your glittery clutch to him as you shift to the edge of your seat. "Mind holding my purse?"
John nods, taking the purse from your hands as he watches you attempt to trek the inside of a moving vehicle, in heels, towards the little bar just ahead.
"Careful!" John calls out as you wobble bit, but you just laugh it off and reassure him you were okay with a thumbs up.
"It's fine, I've got it!" You call back, making it to the bar with one last wobble, one hand clutching onto the small protruding counter while the other grabbed the small neck of the bottle sticking out of the built-in ice bucket. You're surprised to find that the logo was actually a genuine wax seal, bearing the text 'JEWEL OF RUSSIA' in gilded lettering, with the same color wax sealing the twist off cap.
"Hey, I didn't know they named a vodka after you Alexei." You note with a smile, getting another laugh out of Alexei from the driver's seat.
"Oh hush, you are too kind, really." Alexei beams back while keeping his eyes on the road, clearly taking the boost to his ego in stride. "Enjoy it my friend - it is the good stuff, really."
"Cheers to that." You say as you raise the bottle slightly to him, trying your best to break the seal but finding it somewhat finicky. "Damn, do you need to be a fucking super soldier to open this?"
"Ah, I would help, but…" Alexei vaguely gestures to the steering wheel.
"Hey John?" You call out, "Mind helping me out with this?"
"Huh? Oh, sure." John speaks up, briefly pulling him out of his own thoughts that he'd quickly sunk back into as he watches you attempt to make your way back, the vodka bottle stuffed oh-so gracefully under your arm for the sake of your leverage.
Unfortunately, the more run-down streets of New York apparently had other plans for you.
The limo jostles violently as Alexei cruises over a nasty pothole, with the back taking a brunt of the shake up like you were on some old school rollercoaster. You were almost back at your seat before you started tumbling forward in the chaos, clasping onto John's broad shoulders ahead of you without a second thought to steady yourself. John attempts to catch you before you could crash into him on the seat, but the surprisingly slick fabric of your dress causes his hands to slip a bit too far past your hips as your collarbone nearly collides with his face.
You don't get to see how quick color rushes to his cheeks, his face beaming bright red when all he can take in is…well, the fact that his face nearly slammed right into the plushness of your chest, for one, but also the smell of that god damn perfume, the one that he rather vividly dreamed about just over a week ago.
In the microcosm of time that was this brief moment before you'd jerk away from each other and just (hopefully) go back like nothing ever happen, there's just one lingering thought that crosses John's mind:
Well, at least this limo doesn't have-
The car suddenly hisses with the sound of a fog machine activating, being made even more visible by the colorful LEDs shifting from the edge of the ceiling - and the worst part, of course, was the speakers firing up:
Touch me baby, put your lips on mine,
Could go to hell, but we'll probably be fine,
I know you want it, baby you can have it,
Oh I've never done it
Naked in Manhattan!
It wasn't something John recognized right off the bat, but unfortunately you would know that iconic voice and catchy building synth line anywhere. That being said, even a name like Chappell Roan couldn't pop into your head as you felt John Walker's hands right on your ass, his lips unintentionally ghosting over the collar of your dress. Thankfully you'd caught yourself just before your knee could slam into his crotch, pushing back to hover above him, both of you reading the palpable embarrassment on each other's faces plain as day.
"Fuck- Shit, I'm sorry-"
"N-no, shit, I'm-"
It all happens in a flash, but the lingering feeling of his hands practically burns through the fabric of your dress as you sit back down beside him, the mountain of apologies rushing from both your mouths clashing in the air, barely audible over the music blasting from the speakers just behind your seats. You almost want to hide your face in your hands, feeling an unbearably embarrassing heat crawl up your neck, your cheeks, even your-
Wait a minute.
Wait a damn minute.
It comes over you in waves, but once it starts, the laughter is hard to contain let alone stop. You throw your head back as you run your hands over your face, tears of laughter brimming in your eyes as you look over at John who, naturally, looks absolutely horrified.
"Do you not know this song?!"
"Wh- No, of course I don't!" He almost yells, his embarrassment clear as day with his face being the reddest you swear you've ever seen it.
"Do you know who Chappell Roan is?"
"Why the hell does that matter right now?!"
"BECAUSE, John," You emphasize over the speakers, "She's a lesbian who makes songs about being a lesbian!"
You hold up a finger to silence any further questions or confused stammering from John, who was clearly processing what that all meant as you partially sang the next few lyrics to get it through his thick, assumingly heterosexual skull:
"Hair clips and lip gloss,
French kiss sitting criss-crossed,
If I don't try, then it's my loss-
An inch away from more than just friends."
John just blinks, staring at you with such a deep seated confusion taking over his face, then shifting his attention to Alexei guffawing in the driver's seat before groaning deeply, taking shelter from the lingering embarrassment behind his hands.
Taking some odd comfort and a hint of guilt from your shared flusteredness, you pull out the bottle of vodka that was still somehow safely nestled under your arm, taking another crack at opening up the damn liquor that you both definitely needed right now. "Goddammit- Why can't I break this fucking-"
"Give me that-" John suddenly interjects, perking up to snatch the bottle from your hands and crack the lid open from it's waxy imprisonment like it was nothing. He takes a quick swig and swiftly makes a face, letting out a small cough or two before offering the bottle back to you, his gaze locked onto the stretch of limo in front of you.
You can't help but smile a little, gently taking the bottle from his hand and taking a small swig yourself - you also can't help but wince a little as it burns in your throat - before capping the bottle, nervously wringing your hands around the neck of it. You didn't even know what song was playing anymore, it now having faded into some fuzz of noise as you both sat there in what could've been the most awkward silence of both your lifetimes.
"…You really don't know who Chappell Roan is?"
John groans again at your question, less in frustration with you, but as if he could exorcise the sheer embarrassment out of his body somehow by doing so. "No, I don't."
You nudge his arm with your hand, holding it out to him. "Hand me my clutch."
He does it without any protest while still not making eye contact, but can't help but look a little confused as he hears you pop it open with a snap!
Since your bag was so small, you weren't able to fit your normal everyday distractions and knick knacks, but you did manage to cram some old wired headphones in there, along with some lip gloss and smaller essentials from your wallet. You stick the jack into the bottom of your phone, putting one earbud in your ear before offering the other out to John, waving it in front of his face. "Here."
John stares at it for a moment before his brow furrows again, finally looking back at you. "…You brought headphones?"
You just shrug. "Never know when you're gonna be stuck somewhere for an indefinite amount of time." You justify with a smile, nudging the earbud at him again. "Now put it in."
John's shift briefly between the dangling earbud and your face for a moment before gently taking it from your hand and popping it into his ear. You scrolled through your phone for some more Chappell songs - you can't just not educate him on one of the hottest pop artists of the last few years.
"Here," You point out as you hold your phone where he could also see your screen, tapping on a song, "This is one of the more popular ones and it's pretty cute. There's even a little dance for it and everything."
"What, like, the Macarena or something?"
You can't help but laugh as the opening cheers for HOT TO GO! start playing. "I mean, technically yes, but also absolutely not."
John holds his hand up to the ear bud to try and hear the song better, and you do your best not to accidentally yank it away as you hear the chorus start. You mouth along with the words while you do a slightly smaller version of the choreography, spelling out H-O-T-T-O-G-O with your arms before pointing towards John, then lightly guiding your hands down your torso. John just watches with a soft yet slowly growing smile, chuckling as you nudge his shoulder to try and get him to join you on the second chorus. He just laughs as he shakes his head, you exaggerating your moves even more the second time around before belting the bridge along with the track. He finally gives in one the last few spellings, doing smaller movements but still clearly charmed by your infectious enthusiasm.
You're caught in a giggling fit by the end of it, your cheeks starting to ache a little from how hard you were smiling. "You should teach that to the other Thunderbolts. Might be good for your publicity if you start doing cool trendy TikTok dances." You joke.
"Well, not like our public image couldn't get any worse." He noted with his usual sarcasm, a small cheeky smile plastered to his face as he nods down towards your phone. "Do all of them have dances like that?"
"Lucky for you, they don't actually." You clarify with a mischievous smile. "At least not all of them. Some of them are really fuckin' sad actually, but those are honestly my favorites."
"Could've fooled me." John teases. "Is that why you're so 'happy-go-lucky' all the damn time? You just listen to super depressing music when no ones around to siphon all the sadness out of you?"
"Hey, don't knock it till you try it." You tease back, leaning a bit closer to show him the next song you wanted to play. "Here, this is probably my favorite on the album-"
Once he pulls to a gentler stop at a red light, Alexei can't help but catch glimpses of you two from the rear-view mirror. As you seem to babble about the song that was playing or softly sing along to the words, he can't help but notice how John's gaze on you softens, how his shoulders finally seem to relax as he tries and fails to evenly divide his attention between the lyrics on your phone and your face.
Alexei smiles to himself, sighing happily as he turns his focus back to the road.
It didn't take as long as you anticipated to finally arrive at the venue, the event itself practically announcing itself to you with the glowing lights shining on the columns carved into the building. There was also a small crowd of well-dressed attendees starting to file in from the looks of it, a few cameras and reporters also seemingly posted at the sides as they ascended the stairs that led into the building.
"We have arrived!" Alexei announces with a boisterous laugh. "Sit tight - I will get the door."
While John just sighs, you simply nod at Alexei's little declaration as you watch him step out of the car, a sinking feeling in your stomach starting to spread as the door slams behind him.
Even with everything you'd done to mentally and physically prepare yourself, even knowing damn well what this whole thing entailed (or at least having some sort of idea about it), your breath can't help but shake a little as you tuck your phone and earbuds back into your clutch.
And, of course, John notices.
"Hey." John gently calls out, causing you to look up from your lap. "Don't tell me you're thinking of bailing on me now?"
"What? No, absolutely not-" You clear your throat as you smooth out your dress. "I guess, uhm…nerves are just starting to get to me, that's all."
John hums in understanding, looking out the window to assess the scene ahead of you - always the soldier, trying to think tactically through every little detail.
"Well…" He starts, turning back to face you, "Usually getting in is the hardest part. Once you're past those doors though," He makes a point to gesture to the entrance just ahead, watching as other attendees in fancy attire stroll up without a hitch, "It's a cake walk, I promise."
You look just over his shoulder, apprehensive eyes looking like they were planning to make an escape more than an entrance. Without thinking, John gently takes your hand from your lap, pulling your attention right back to that handsome face right in front of you.
"Just keep your eyes on me, okay?"
You softly nod, watching as John nods back before Alexei opens the car door for him to exit. As he's stepping out onto the sidewalk and extending his hand back inside the limo, your heart itches to leap out of your chest as you reach out and clasp your hand in his. Feeling the the gentle tug on your arm as he helps you out of the car, his clear eyes watching you carefully as you steady yourself on the concrete, it was all weirdly soothing and exciting all at once.
"See?" John says with a smile as he lets your hand slip out of his grasp. "You're a natural."
You can't help but smile a bit more bashfully, even as your nerves finally start to settle. "I guess so." You reply back, but you smirk a little as your brow quirks. "You trying to say I look like a rich asshole?"
"I'm trying to get you to stop putting words in my damn mouth." John throws back.
"Ah, now you think I'm broke?" You joke with a smile, and John just scoffs.
"I mean, everybody is 'broke' in some sort of way, if you think about." Alexei suddenly speaks up, pulling you both from your little private world.
"That might be the most insightful thing I've ever heard you say, Alexei." John notes.
Alexei grins with a nonchalant shrug. "It is because I am insightful man."
John just slowly nods. "Sure bud."
Alexei just smiles, but the joy from his face is cut short by the sudden cacophony of car horns from behind the limo. "Ah, shit- I will rejoin you later! Surely there is valet or…something around here."
Alexei dismisses himself with a tip of his drivers cap, you and John watching as he runs back to his drivers seat while yelling at the awaiting cars just trying to make their way to the venue.
"Where the fuck is he even gonna park that thing?" You ask, and John just shrugs.
"Not our problem." John answers simply, his eyes quickly scanning over the small crowd outside before spotting a familiar face buried in her signature tablet. "C'mon. Gotta check in with someone first before we head inside. Let me do the talking, okay?"
"…Okay?" You say with a hesitant smile, following just a step or two behind John as you both approached the base of the stairs.
The woman looks up, seeming to immediately recognize John with how quickly her face went from slight relief to annoyance. "Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be with us in the envoy-"
"Well, I would have, if you guys didn't leave early." John throws back.
"What? What do you mean?" Mel tries to correct. "We didn't leave early, we left at the time we all scheduled, like we planned."
"Wh- but, Alexei-" John freezes for a moment, blinking once before letting out a frustrated sigh before muttering under his breath. "Those motherfuckers-"
Mel brushes off his sudden epiphany with a wave of her hand and a small shake of her head. "It's fine, whatever, what matters is that you're here-" She cuts herself off, looking around over John's shoulder and seemingly to just gloss over you entirely, "Where's Alexei?"
"Oh, uh, I think he's trying to find parking somewhere." You helpfully speak up with a smile.
Mel stares at you like she had only just now registered your presence, turning her seemingly disapproving gaze back to John. "I'm sorry, who is this?"
"O-oh, sorry, I'm-"
"This is our plus one." John clarifies before you can stumble over your own tongue, clearing his throat and introducing you by name to Mel.
"Wh- Wait, I'm sorry- our?"
"Yeah, it's like, a group thing." John continues, albeit a little less confident with every word that left his mouth. "We all wanted them to come, so-"
"Even when I explicitly told you to not bring anyone else?"
This, of course, was news to you, your eyes widening as you look over at John for some kind of explanation.
"…Well-" John starts, stumbling over his words just a tad, "I mean…like I said, we all wanted them to come. Just ask the rest of the team."
Mel forces a smile as she hugs her tablet to her chest in an attempt to cross her arms. "You really expect me to believe that when you guys couldn't even decide on catering for your lunch last week?"
"Oh come on, you're still hung up on that?!"
"You would be too if you saw the new 'World's Mightiest Heroes' nearly kill each other over pizza toppings."
"Okay, you and I both know Yelena was the one that started that-"
"Hey, uh," You meekly try to interject, "I can just call a cab and get the fuck out of here, if it's really-"
"No, no, you're not." John more sternly answers for you, less of a demand and more as a declaration as he turns back to Mel. "Look, Mel, I swear, I'm telling the truth, and if Val ends up giving you shit for it, then just…I dunno, blame me specifically if you have to. Say it was my idea, that I snuck them here or something, and that you had no way of knowing - you wouldn't even have to lie about that part, technically."
Mel's face scrunches as she takes a deep breath, opening her eyes to stare daggers into John's expectant expression. "…Alright. Fine," She concedes, going back to tapping away at her tablet, "I don't know how they're going to get in anyways with the guest list being so-"
Mel's voice is suddenly cut by a small look of shock washing over her expression, before her brow somehow furrows further at her screen, pointing up at you without looking away from it. "Wh…Why is- Their name is already in here."
You and John meet each other's eyes in equal surprise before trying to take a glance at the screen she was tapping away at. Mel was already looking at a list of names that were supposedly on the RSVP list, with a small section for all the names of your dear Avengers highlighted - along with your name just at the bottom, followed by the note: Official Guest of Mr. Barnes.
"Was wondering when you guys were gonna show up."
As if comically on cue, everyone's eyes suddenly fall on Bucky Barnes as he makes his way out of the building, his hair slicked back to compliment his well styled suit, all black with a matching bow tie, small yellow-gold cuff links complimenting the stripes of what was visible of his virbranium arm.
Your face must've lit up like a Christmas tree with how a small smile tugs at the Winter Soldier's face as he approaches. "I knew you had a soft spot for me." You tease as you nudge his arm.
"I guess you could call it that." He admits, shoving his hands into his pockets as he gives you a once over. "Y'look nice."
"Why thank you sir." You're practically beaming now as you give him a little curtsy. "You don't look half bad yourself when you aren't solemnly staring into glass of whiskey."
Bucky puffs out a chuckle. "Might be staring into one pretty soon depending on how the night goes."
"I'm sorry-" Mel's voice cuts in, "Just- How do you know them, again?"
"Relax, Mel, they're just a friend. I made a personal call for them to come tonight." Bucky clarifies before turning to you. "Don't say I never did anything for you."
"Never have, never will." You emphasize with a grin, crossing your fingers over your heart before leaning into him a little. "So, does this mean I have to be stuck to your side all evening, Mr. Barnes?"
"Absolutely not." He clarifies, his typical tired sternness already itching to return to his face. "I already have enough to deal with tonight with these guys."
You can't help but stifle a laugh as he shoots a look towards John, who's brow immediately furrows. "What are you looking at me for?!"
"Then I will be on my absolute best behavior." You reassure with a cheeky smile as you look back at Bucky.
"Mhm…" Bucky hums, looking around for a moment. "Wait, where's Alexei?"
"Trying to find parking for his limo." John speaks up.
"His limo?" Mel asks, already seeming to dread whatever the hell that meant.
One of Bucky's brows shoots up just a tad. "He's still doing the limo thing? Where the hell did he get enough money for another limo?"
"Another limo?!"
John sighs. "Don't ask."
Your brow furrows slightly with just a hint of confusion, but you shrug it off as you clear your throat. "Well, I guess there's no point in waiting for him to try and figure out how to parallel park that damn thing." You say as you clasp your hands together, bag tucked away under your arm. "Are the others already inside?"
"Yep, and anxiously waiting for their guest of honor." Bucky answers, nodding a reassuring goodbye to Mel before offering out his arm to you. "Shall we?"
You answer with a smile, locking your arm with his as you both start to make your way towards the entrance. John also gives Mel a passing nod before following not too far behind, moving up to walk on the other side of you.
"Told you." John reiterates with a smile. "Now you've got nothing to worry about."
You smile right back at him before your attention is snapped back by the double doors opening in front of the three of you.
As if transported by some oddly elitist time machine, the venue opens up like a portal to a first class party of the future right before your eyes. Elegant silver and gold decor lined almost every surface, complimenting the well dressed cast of characters scattered and clustered around the venue - including some you certainly recognized. Most were just ones you knew in passing; government officials of New York, some senators you'd catch on the occasional news cast, larger heads of corporations you didn't pay much attention to. Larger banners ringing in the new year were draped from the tops of the ceiling, along with a few decorative holograms showcasing the GRC's logo and images of the work they've done over the years.
Then, of course, standing near the corner of one of the bars set up throughout the venue, a familiar and far more friendly faced trio was chatting away about something you couldn't make out from this distance, but it didn't take long for their collective gaze to shift to you with Bucky and John by your side.
Yelena's hair was slicked back, with a dark lip and moodier eyeshadow complimenting her short sleeved black dress, hugging her figure while looking surprisingly comfortable. Bob was dressed up in a nicer black suit, a classy tripe of satin lining the sides of his pants along with a fancy double breasted coat, but despite the nicer attire Bob still nervously fidgeted with one of the loose ends of the ribbon-like tie emerging from the collar of his dress shirt. His hair was also a bit slicked back, and he honestly looked more like an adorable caricature of a butler than a guest, but you could tell he was doing his best to stand a bit taller and seem just a little less like a complete fish out of water.
Ava's outfit was probably the most impressive transformation of the night. Despite having to compensate for her rather utilitarian Ghost-tech, Valentina had found a way to take away some of the tactical bulk and replace it with softer, more elegant fabric. The larger device on her neck that hid away her signature mask was replaced with a more simple mandarin collar, draping a silken cloak-like fabric over her shoulders and down to her knees. In place of a utility belt was a more normal silver clasp, holding up more billowy fabric draping down her legs and creating the illusion of a more put together gown than a bulky technical suit. On top of it all, her hair was more elegantly pulled up into a bun, being held together by a long stick of silver with a larger white pearl at the end.
Yelena's eyes widen along with the smirk on her face as she sees the three of you approach, a flute of half drunk champagne sitting in her hand. "Wow, look at you."
"Look at me?!" You parrot in slight disbelief. "Look at you guys! You look gorgeous!"
You detach yourself from your lovely Avengers arm candy to give Yelena a squeeze, then quickly moving to hug Ava and Bob. "Gang's all here then." Bob lightly jokes with a smile.
"Not quite." Bucky notes, tossing a glance to Yelena.
"God, I warned him about parking that thing," Yelena groans as she rolls her eyes. "You all saw it, right? There's actual evidence that I told him it was a bad idea?"
"Yes, we did." Ava agrees flatly. "And if I ever hear that level of stupid bickering again between you two, I'm phasing into your bodies to clamp your vocal cords shut."
"…You can do that?" Bob cautiously asks.
"Want to find out?" Ava challenges.
Before Bob can answer, but just enough time so he can shrink away just a tad, a familiar booming voice comes up from behind you all - "There you are!" Alexei greets with a smile.
Your initial reaction is to smile and wave, but your arm falters halfway when you see who's by his side as he approaches. Of course there's Mel, naturally, since she was probably the one who somehow wrangled Alexei in from outside in the first place - and then, there was the single person you were dreading to encounter the entire damn evening.
You'd only caught more artificial glimpses of her in passing - snippets of reports on her government duties and investigations into her shadier connections, or random interviews you'd catch on passing news articles while mindlessly scrolling - and while a million and one of your harshly worded thoughts crossed your mind in an instant, only one shot through cleanly enough to parse through all the profanities you could throw her way.
She was…shorter than you expected.
Even with the fancy black heels clacking against the floor adding a few solid inches to her height, the general appearance of Valentina Allegra de Fontaine looked just as warped by her own lust for power as you thought it would, given her reputation. Her head was held high, a well kept facade of a smile greeting significant figures as she passed them by, but her stride never lost focus as she continued to cross the room right towards you.
"Hey, relax." Bucky leans in to quietly reassure you. "Just…try not to say too much…or, anything, really."
You were at least thankful the coldness of Valentina's arrival was contrasted by the warmth of Alexei's sheer presence, now slightly altered by his missing drivers cap and gloves. "I'm so used to driving my limo, but not parking it, ah?"
"Maybe we should've just biked here then," You can't help but awkwardly crack with a smile, "Would've saved y'all some gas money."
Alexei thankfully laughs to fill the blossoming awkward silence, but your nervous glances towards the other Thunderbolts immediately cancelled out your fleeting relief.
"…Charming." Valentina notes dryly, still wearing the smile she uses to entertain guests she really couldn't give two shits about. "This is your little guest of honor then?"
"Go easy on 'em Val." Bucky intervened. "They're just a civilian. And a friend."
"Oh Bucky," she says almost dotingly, infuriatingly so, as she walks up to straighten his bow tie, "I would never dream of hurting a little hair on their head, or their ego." Valentina tries to reassure, before turning back to you.
"Since it seems everyone else knows who you are," She snidely comments, extending her hand, "Valentina Allegra De Fontaine."
You hesitate to reach for her hand, but still do, making sure your handshake still felt firm as you introduced yourself by name. "I've…heard a lot about you." You awkwardly greet.
"Oh, I'm sure you have." Val notes with a certainty that makes your skin crawl, but it evaporates from her expression as she moves a little closer. "So? How does it feel to be the darling of the New Avengers?" She asks more innocently. "I'm sure you feel on top of your little world right now."
"Uh…I guess?" You admit. "I-I mean, this is all very lovely and I'm thrilled to be here, but, uhm…they're just my friends, y'know?"
"Aw. Humble and cute." Valentina fawns with a smile, glancing back over to Bucky. "Really picked a winner with this one."
You can't help but force a smile as she makes her way towards you now, not afraid to lean into your personal space. "Just a word of advice," She lowers her voice, any feigned kindness from before absent in the small space between you, "Stay out of everyone's way tonight, keep that pretty mouth shut, and everything will be just fine. Got it?"
You can't help but tighten your grip on your clutch just a tad as you force a smile.
"Yeah, of course."
Though I'd take you more seriously if you weren't such a bitch about it.
Valentina seems satisfied with your subjugation, giving you a small nod. "Atta girl." She imparts with a smile, patting your shoulder lightly before turning her attention back to the rest of the Thunderbolts. "I expect everyone to be on their best behavior tonight, all right?"
"When haven't we been?" Ava drones sarcastically.
Valentina brushes off Ava without a second thought, starting to go into more in depth plans of the various big shots the Thunderbolts were required to speak to tonight, either for securing more funding or public support, or just to rub elbows for Valentina's reputation. Once her eyes are off John when she finishes his personal list of social chores, he gives you a pointed look. You good? He mouths.
You nod with a small smile, giving him a small thumbs up. He smiles back softly before his attention is snapped back by Valentina, clearing his throat as his face falters back to his default frown.
"Attention all esteemed guests," A sudden call from some distant intercom announces, catching everyone's attention in the vicinity, "If you are participating in our charity auction this evening, please proceed to the auction hall. The auction will start in 15 minutes."
"That's our cue." Valentina remarks. "Let's hope they have an extra seat for your friend."
Valentina leads the charge as she walks off towards a set of large wooden double doors, Mel trailing close behind with her handy tablet tucked under her arm. The rest of the Thunderbolts follow suit, filing into a smaller group as the crowd starts to file into the room, leaving you and Bob trailing behind just a touch.
"…You look beautiful, by the way." Bob leans in to shyly comment as you walk, his cheeks turning a touch pinker before your very eyes.
You don't know what it was about the way Bob said it, but despite all the hassle from Valentina you've already been catching tonight, the tightness forming in your chest starts to loosen a bit. "Thanks Bob, you're too sweet." You quietly reply, nudging his shoulder with a smile. "You look handsome too, but you always do."
A fresh redness spreads all the way to the tips of Bob's ears as he registers the compliment, trying to brush it off with a nervous chuckle. "O-oh, thanks. Val already had this thing tailored for me, but, uh, this is actually the first time I've ever worn one…I think."
A smile starts to blossom on your face. "I guess you could say it suits you then." You crack with another, more playful nudge.
While some of the Thunderbolts who overheard you let out a collective groan, even garnering a small "boooo" from Yelena, Bob just tries to stifle an earnest snort. "You had that one locked and loaded, huh?"
You just shrug. "Maybe. Just wanted to see how long it'd take me to use it."
You're both still smiling as you make your way into the auction room, a relatively smaller but still impressive showroom lined with rows of fancy looking chairs with fancier people starting to fill in their seats. The Thunderbolts and yourself slowly file into a line as you shift with the crowd and make your way to your respective seats, professionally reserved with a small sign with The New Avengers proudly inked in beautiful cursive font. Much to your surprise, there actually was a seat marked for you, but your name was substituted on the placeholder in favor of the repeated phrase, Guest of Mr. Barnes. You were also the notable the end marker of this superhero filled side of the row, with Bucky taking his appropriate seat next to you. John, Ava, Yelena, Bob and Alexei filed in and shuffled awkwardly among themselves to find their seats beside him, leaving Mel and Valentina on the edge of the row.
You take your seat without much fuss, but you notice Bucky's eyes locked on something, or someone, just behind you. You glance over to see an older gentleman, probably no younger than 70, slowly shuffling over to make his way towards your row, wearing what looked like an oddly casual hat that definitely stood out against his more official white suit.
"…You good Buck?" You ask as you turn back towards him, gently nudging his shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." He puffs, trying and failing to get comfortable in his own seat. "Just don't get too chatty with the guy sitting next to you."
"Jeez, okay," You reassure, "It's only the third time y'all have asked me to stay quiet. Next thing you know you're gonna ask Ava to shut off my vocal chords as insurance."
Bucky sighs. "I know, I'm sorry, but if you're not gonna listen to anything else I say tonight, at least do me a solid with this one."
You glance back at the old man, now caught up in some conversation at the end of your row. "What? Is he some secret billionaire asshole I need to worry about?"
"No- Well, sort of." Bucky clarifies. "He does have money, but, his name is Stan Lee. He's a well-respected vet, but, he uh…also has mouth on him."
You quirk a brow at Bucky. "Stanley? You on a first name basis with this guy?"
"No, Stan Lee." He emphasizes. "And, surprisingly, yes. He was a private in the 107th infantry with me, actually."
Your eyes widen. "Holy shit."
Bucky just sighs, but both your shifts gaze as you hear the older man start to scoot into his seat beside you. It should've been obvious when you saw him across the room, but now that he was a bit closer, you could make out the out of place cap as a WWII veteran's cap, covered in various badges and military honors.
"Nice to see you again, Mr. Lee." Bucky greets with one of the more friendly smiles you'd seen on him so far tonight. "You here with your usual crowd?"
"Nah, thought I'd go stag tonight for once." He says with a smile, but his eyes are clearly more set on you as he lowers his glasses to get a better look. "And who's this beauty with you tonight?"
"Oh, uh, hi!" You greet awkwardly, giving him your name as you offer to shake his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Lee-"
"Oh please, Mr. Lee was my father," He cuts in with a smirk, taking your hand with a firm shake. "All the ladies call me Stan."
Hm. Gross. "Well, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Stan." You awkwardly answer back.
"Pleasure's all mine, really." He reassures with a smile, looking back up at Bucky. "You won't mind if I steal her for a dance later tonight, will ya Buck?"
"I would, actually." Bucky answers surprisingly firmly, but still trying to keep his flimsy politeness afloat. "They're just here as a friend, not so much to…mingle."
"Ah, that's a shame, but you know I can't object to you Buck." Stan replies, but he still leans in a bit closer to him, dropping his voice to still clearly audible whisper. "Don't let this geezer try to keep you all to himself tonight, sweetheart."
"I'll…try my best." You reply rather dryly, which seems to leave Stan content enough as he leans back in his seat. You notice him reaching under it to grab a paddle with a number on it - the weapon of choice for people with too much money on their hands to absentmindedly throw onto luxury items they probably didn't really need.
After a bit of sustaining ambient chatter and people finding their rightful seats, a plucky young auctioneer wearing a simple suit with a bright red bow tie walked up to the podium standing tall on the left side of the stage. He pulls out a small gavel from behind the shelter of the podium, lightly tapping it on the sounding block to get the room's attention.
The first few items go off without a hitch. Innocuous pieces of art you'd rather want in the MoMA than some random asshole's third penthouse, ancient paraphernalia you can't help but ponder of the questionable attainment of, even some small fragments of superhero history that came from the Battle of New York just a decade or so ago - God, was it really that long ago now?
It takes all of your will power to not stealthily pull out your phone and headphones to throw on a podcast or something during the duller moments, something you also caught John and Yelena trying to do, but judging by how were quickly snapped back by Mel, you figured it'd be safer to just try to entertain yourself in the expanse of your mind instead.
You couldn't help but be a little caught up in the ridiculousness of it all the more you thought about it as the auctions progressed. Thousands of thousands of dollars were being thrown left and right by these people like it was just pocket change they found in their couch, but normal everyday people outside of this building were starving in the street, dying from insane medical bills, suffering under under some insane myriad of things this beloved capitalist hellscape had uniquely created and trapped humanity in.
What you wouldn't give to give these rich assholes something to briefly suffer from. Briefly. Just a small thorn in their side, some petty form of revenge in the face of everything.
"Hey, hold this thing for me, will ya?" Stan asks, breaking your downward spell of thoughts as he practically shoves his auction paddle into your hands. "Gotta go powder my nose."
"Huh? O-oh, sure, of course." You answer, shifting slightly as Stan gets up to awkwardly shuffle out of the row. You look down at the paddle in your hands, the numbers 616 painted on in fancy red script.
"Our next item for auction is a real treat." Notes the auctioneer, smiling as an assistant removes a covering of red fabric over a clear acrylic cube. Inside was some sort of partially destroyed but certainly intricate helmet of some kind, a thick gold band resting almost like a crown in laid with a steel colored dome, the sides of it draped with some kind of foreign chainmail you'd never seen before.
"This is a Chitari Helm that was recovered from the Battle of New York, and although it is partially damaged, if anything it stands to remind us all of the destruction that took place that fateful day. It also certainly proudly serves as a symbol of the bravery of those heroes who took on those invaders and proudly protected our city."
Huh. Something actually cool. You can't help but think.
The auctioneer smiles gleefully towards the crowd as he raises his mallet. "The bidding will start at $1,000."
Quickly, the numbers start to rack up from various voices in the audience - $1,500, $1,750, $2,000.
"Can I get $2,500?"
And then, without really thinking, you decide to test something. You slowly start to raise your hand, your paddle now rising just above your shoulder-
"I see $2,500 for the lady in silver!"
Oh.
Shit.
The Thunderbolts heads whip to the side to see you raising Stan's auction paddle, with Bucky in particular staring befuddled daggers into you as his metal hand snatches your wrist out of the air. "Are you crazy?" He hisses under his breath.
You just blink, looking like a kid who just got caught sticking their hand in the cookie jar to any nosy onlookers. "What? He's not even here, I'm not gonna do anything stupid." You try to reassure him.
"You're already doing something stupid." John butts in from beside him.
"Guys, it'll be fine," You quietly reassure. "These assholes could stand to pay a few extra bucks to charity for some richy rich piece of junk they'd want."
Both John and Bucky's looks are still stern, but Bucky at least lets go of your wrist to avoid any further attention he could possibly cast on him or you.
"…They've kinda got a point." Bob quietly brings up, but the pair of super soldiers swiftly shoot their mental daggers in his direction before he can try to further soften the severity your actions.
"$3,000!"
The declaration turns your attention back to the auction, where you notice some smarmy looking man closer to the front raising his paddle and his voice despite being so close to the stage. You watch as he turns to consult with some woman sitting beside him, probably some accountant assistant or member of whatever sort of team he had.
"$4,000!" You call out above the crowd, raising your paddle even higher this time.
You watch as the man's head whips in your direction, large square glasses obscuring his face, but you could at least tell that he wasn't expecting someone else's bid.
He turns back to the stage, raising his paddle again. "$4500-"
"$5,000!" You immediately yell out, an infectiously cocky smile spreading across your face. Even if you were only making one slimy billionaire squirm in their seat, it was worth it for the pure rush running through you.
The man's double take towards you is less intense this time, but it doesn't stop him from raising his paddle again. "$5,500!"
"$6,000!!"
"$6,500!!!"
The auctioneer grins, letting out a small chuckle himself behind the mic. "Oh, we're really in it now folks - can I get $7,500?"
"$8,000!" You yell out above the crowd as you raise your paddle even higher.
Yelena and Ava look like they were about to keel over with how hard they were stifling their laughter, while everyone else on the team looked at you like you were the fucking Grim Reaper incarnate - except for Alexei, who looked even more proud that you would ever think was possible for a man like him, and Valentina, oddly enough, who only looked mildly surprised given the circumstances.
"$8,000 from the young lady in silver." The auctioneer notes with a grin, turning towards the man once again. "Your move sir?"
Your smirk that's settled on your face wavers a bit when he doesn't immediately jump up with an answer, leaning towards his associates as they start talking among themselves.
The auctioneer glances between the two of you, but the small smile curling on the corners of his lips (even from this distance, mind you) made him out like he was an eager referee for a western standoff. "Going once…"
Oh fuck. You might accidentally buy this thing.
"Going twice-"
Did you even have $8,000 to your name? How many shifts would you even have to work to save that much, to make that much? Were they even going to charge you- were they going to charge Stan? Sure, Stan probably has money, but $8,000 doesn't just disappear without someone noticing.
Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck were you even thinking?!
"$10,000!"
Part of the room gasps as your competitor's declaration hits the air, your body freezing like a deer in headlights as your head practically whips itself around to look over at him. That sly bastard doesn't even bother to look back at you to realize the sudden mercy he's granted you.
The auctioneer's eyes find you along with everyone else's, and you decide now is the time to end this little charade with a simple shake of your head.
"Sold!" The auctioneer calls out. "To the rather competitive gentleman for $10,000! Well played sir."
You almost pass out in your seat as the gavel hits the sounding block, finally ending the rollercoaster ride that you now desperately wanted off of. Your eyes wander back over to your friendly competition, seeing one of his cohorts lean over to whisper in the man's ear, and you find his eyes are still set on you through the shine of his glasses. He even has the nerve to give you one last glint of a smile before turning back in his seat.
"What a douchebag..." You hear Bob mutter, only for Yelena to gently elbow him in the ribs.
Once the room finally settles down, you hear a familiar shuffling and small hushed flurry of "Sorry hon- 'Scuse me-" from beside you.
Stan reappears as if he'd only been gone for a few seconds, casually taking his seat again beside you with a smile. "Hey sweetheart - what'd I miss?"
"Oh, uh, nothing much." You explain a bit breathlessly, handing him back his paddle. "Just a few boring paintings and some other boring stuff."
"Huh. Typical." Stan passively sighs, but he leans in a bit closer. "The black market ones are always more interesting anyways."
You let out a strained yet soft laugh, and you can't tell if he's joking or if he's serious as you try and fail to relax in your seat.
A few smaller items come and go with a lot less interesting fan fare, but at least it gave your heart rate plenty of time to climb back down from its unintended high.
"And now, to introduce our last item of the evening," The auctioneer states, and you say a silent prayer to whatever higher power that this auction is finally coming to a close. "Please give a warm welcome to Saber Security Technologies CEO, Archer Brooks."
Much to you and the other Thunderbolt's surprise, the man in the glasses you just had your little bidding war with earlier rises from his seat, making his way to the stage with a few long strides through the appropriate amount of applause.
"Thank you, thank you-" He calls out to the room as the applause dies down, his strong New York accent striking you like a shovel to the back of the head, "It really is an honor to be here, truly, but even more so to have the opportunity to present this item for your bidding tonight."
"The last couple of years have been…challenging - for everyone of course, but also for those of us where the safety and security of people is our entire job." Brooks states. "The entire world has had to adapt to this new constant barrage of threats, the kinds that we could never even begin to think were possible. Super geniuses gone psycho, warmongering aliens from outer-space, even genetically juiced-up super soldiers gone rogue - no offense to those in the room with us tonight, of course."
He weakly gestures to the row where the Thunderbolts were sat, causing a few eyes to stray over to Bucky, John and Alexei. Bucky and John straighten themselves up a bit in their seats, while Alexei just smiles and waves. "None taken!" He shouts back at Brooks with a small laugh.
A small scattering of chuckles rise from the room, and Brooks just nods in reply.
"What I'm trying to get at is," Brooks continues, quickly getting back on track, "The stakes have truly never been higher, for all of us. Thanks to my father, a man who proudly dedicated his life to the safety of his neighbors for over 20 years in the NYPD, he instilled in me that it is all our fundamental duty, our right, to secure our collective safety in the face of these evolving threats by evolving ourselves - and, in the case of him having a little nerd like me for a son, the assets we can create and use to our advantage against them."
More subtle laughter rings throughout the room, but everyone's attention is quickly drawn to the small but audible noises of some sort of device being powered on, whirring just to the side of the stage and hidden behind a solid red curtain.
"This piece of tech is the start of something bigger. Not just for our company, but for - what I believe - is the future security of humanity as a whole." Brooks declares, starting to stand a bit taller as a proud smile blossoms across his face.
"Ladies and gentlemen," He announces as he slowly lifts his arm, gesturing towards the side of the stage, "I am pleased to present, FOXHOUND."
The room sucked in a collective breath, sharp gasps resounding as a large, quadruped machine slinks into the stage's spotlight. You could hear the weight of its metallic mass in every lumbering step it took, notable thunks emanating across the room as it saunters up to a small elevated platform to stand proudly before its newfound audience.
Even from this distance, the machine was terrifying and impressive all at once. Its silver sheen reflecting the spotlights, two small slits on the front of its face glowing with a soft, white light that vaguely resembled eyes interrupted by a small, black diamond shape in the center of its forehead. Its "ears", if you could even call them that, were more like two sharp diamond shapes that jutted out from its head, slightly twitching as its head moved to scan the room. Even its tail was metal, a rounded whip-like thing swaying softly from left to right, almost as long as the machine's body itself. Despite its sharper shape language and overall terrifying aura set by Brook's whole schpeal, it was acting rather docile, simply watching. Waiting.
"I mean, nothing against my fellow techies in arms, but, c'mon," Brooks proudly gestures towards the machine, "Boston Dynamics has nothing on this, frankly."
Another, notably smaller wave of laughter echoed across the audience, though it was certainly more nervous than before. Brook's flashes his million-dollar smile to work its magic as his gaze sweeps across the crowd, almost in reassurance that his humble creation wouldn't accidentally kill them all on the spot.
Then, of course, his eyes catch on something.
"Mister Lee," He suddenly calls out in your direction,"Mind if I borrow your date for the evening?"
It takes you a second to realize he's talking about you, before Stan nudges your shoulder with a playful smirk to hammer it home. "Go on!"
It takes half a second for you to register the cold metal of Bucky's hand catching your wrist yet again, not holding it as tightly as last time, but just enough to stop you from rising out of your seat. "You don't have to do this." He mutters without looking over at you.
"It'll be fine Bucky." You quietly reply. "It's just an asshole trying to settle the score to his ego. I can at least handle that."
Bucky's hesitant sigh is cut off by said wounded ego - "Aw c'mon, don't be shy now." Brooks goads from the stand.
You let out a nervous chuckle, slowly rising from your seat as you feel every eye in the room suddenly set themselves on you, including the remainder of your beloved Thunderbolts with all their mixed reactions. Alexei seemed to be the only one happy for you, giving you a gleeful thumbs up while the rest of the team had an air of 'what the hell are you doing???' plastered all over their faces. A soft applause waves across the room to help dispel any awkward silence as you make your way out of the row of seats and towards the small stage, maybe trying a little too hard to keep yourself steady in your heels as you did so.
"…Five bucks says they break the dog." Ava leans over and whispers to John, who immediately glares at her. Ava just pretends to look offended before leaning back in her chair with a smile.
To your slight surprise, Brooks actually steps out from behind the podium to offer you his hand, steadying you as you climb up onto the slightly raised stage. "Easy does it." He teases softly with a sly wink, guiding you to stand just next to the podium. "All you have to do is stand there and be pretty. Should be easy for ya."
You bite back against every instinct to roll your eyes, and simply nod instead.
Why do these entitled assholes all have to share the same stupid shit talk dictionary?
He lets go of your hand to walk back to the podium, speaking once again into the microphone just in front of him. "FOXHOUND is our latest development in more hands-on security measures, you could say." "
You head turns as you hear the thunk of FOXHOUNDS footsteps, and you're too distracted by the giant metal dog walking towards you to notice John visibly tense in his seat, fists clenching tighter and curling into his lap
"Don't worry, it doesn't bite," Brooks teases, "Civilians, at least."
Brooks detaches the microphone from his stand, some offstage assistant emerging to hand him a tablet of some kind in a rather bulky black tech case. He takes it graciously, moving to stand beside you on the presentation stage as the metal hound circles you curiously - or, as curious as a dangerous looking robot dog could be.
"FOXHOUND is equipped with our peak biometric recognition technology to immediately identify friend from foe."
The small faux eyes fade and brighten as it finally stills beside you - it blinked at you, you realize - a gentle white light pulsating from it as Brooks looks up at you from the tablet. "Go on." He goads with a smirk. "Give it a command."
Your eyes go wide, setting themselves back on the metal hound staring right back up at you. It was more like a wolf than a dog up this close, it's hulking metal frame standing at the height of your rib-cage while it was still just on all fours.
You release a shaky breath, clearing your throat as you let out a squeaky, less than firm command. "…Sit?"
The lights of its eyes fade and brighten yet again, tilting its sharply shaped head to the side as it plops down on its hind legs, its metal tail wagging just a touch faster than it was before.
More calm laughter erupts in the room, including a nervous chuckle of your own as you cautiously reach out a hand to the robot's face. Much to your surprise, this scary looking security robot has the nerve to nuzzle into your palm , a raising a few 'aws' ringing out from the crowd in response.
"It's uniquely trained on the public data of the masses," Brooks casually continues, "Think social media handles, blog posts, that one terribly named email you still have from 2009. It filters through it all to create it's own unique identity profiles, then matches the person or persons in their line of sight against public criminal databases we've been granted access to. from around the globe.
"And, the ability- no, the privilege," Brooks corrects himself, "To beta test our FOXHOUND technology in your respective field, is exactly what's up for auction tonight."
The crowd gasps, excited mutters and chatter breaking out among the respective guests.
"You gotta be shittin' me." Bucky curses under his breath.
"The winner will also have access to some of my own programmers and staff, along with myself, to help facilitate this testing and ensure the best results possible, both for you and for our program." Archer reassures, tapping away at a few things on the tablet again before tucking it under his arm, gesturing to the best of his ability to you and his creation. "Can we get round of applause for my beautiful volunteer, please?"
The fire returns to your cheeks in more welcome sense as gentle applause breaks out from the crowd again, nervously giggling and waving as FOXHOUND proudly straightens its posture beside you.
Brooks turns to hand the mic back to the auctioneer, who takes his rightful place back on the podium, small gavel in hand. "The bidding will start at $500,000."
After concluding with the most vicious bidding war of the night - one that even Valentina dropped a bid or two on, though ultimately lost - you join the other Avengers as you all exit the auction hall, walking back out to the main ballroom as their voices join the more eager chatter of the crowd now surrounding you.
"Kind of an odd place to reveal such a big piece of tech." John offhandedly comments, clearly trying to sound unimpressed. "Especially some weird…robot dog thing."
"Unless you wanted to make the right kind of impression." Ava notes, plucking some little snacks from the various trays that passed by. "Or try to out shine a bunch of newly appointed public-facing superheroes."
"Oh please, have some respect for yourself." Valentina suddenly cuts in from the front of the group. "A robot dog isn't going to save the world on its own, but you all somehow already have. At least you have that over it."
"Says the person who's actively working with that same company for our tower's security measures." Yelena throws back. "That's a conflict of interest if I've ever seen one."
The other Thunderbolts seem surprised such a casual drop of consequential info, but Valentina just rolls her eyes. "Someone's been doing their homework." She sneers. "Saber Securities already has a government contract with the military, and we were offered a little piece of that pie, that's all. It's called getting on the ground floor of technological advancements." Valentina pauses to glance back towards you. "Seems like your little friend can understand that much."
Your body tightens as your face burns with raw embarrassment, but for a second you almost think Valentina weirdly respects you, albeit in her own ludicrously bitchy way.
"Ah, technology-schmology," Alexei cuts in, his lacking ability to read the room on full display, "It is too fickle to rely on theses days. I'd rather have real dog - super dog even. Like Krypto!"
"Well, magical mutts that shoot down from outer space are in short supply these days, so this is the next best thing." Val replies rather dryly as she turns to face him. "Maybe if you're good Santa will get you one next Christmas."
"Really?"
Val just throws Alexei a look, causing the large man to shrink a little in mild disappointment.
As you wander back to the table with the team, Val briefs them on how they'll be split up tonight for optimal shoulder rubbing purposes. You did your best to make it clear you didn't want to intervene, occupying yourself with some people watching that was surprisingly dull considering your subjects. Fancy rich folks who's money is their whole personality, government drones kissing ass for endorsement money -
"You think they could've at least invited some actual celebrities to this thing." Your let out as your thoughts finally manage to grumble past your lips.
John, who was tasked with babysitting the remaining table of Ava, Yelena and Bob while the others were making their personal rounds, just scoffs as he moves to lean against the table beside you. "I'm sure there's famous people here, just…not the normal kind of famous, y'know."
"So not actually famous." You try to clarify. "Just more of the rich-people-circle-jerk kinda famous, all because what? All the actual famous people were booked tonight? Because Ryan Seacrest is personally holding them hostage for a New Year's Rockin' Eve or something?"
John just laughs. "Wouldn't be surprised if he was."
"I swear, I think that thing is secretly one of those, like, 'illuminati humiliation rituals' people theorize about online…Wait." Your train of thought trails off as your eyes scan across the room, and you let out a soft gasp as you nudge at John's ribs. "Hey, who's that girl Bucky's talking to?"
John glances over in the direction you were already looking, spotting Bucky at one of the nearby tables chatting with a strikingly pretty blonde woman he was sure he recognized from somewhere.
"Oh, that's uh, Sharon Carter I think." John clarifies as places the name to the face. "They go way back apparently."
"Way back as in…they're a thing?"
"Oh, hell no. They worked together to try and stop that terrorist group that attacked the GRC building a few years ago."
"Oh shit, yeah! I remember hearing about that."
"Yeah, well, I was actually there, so-"
You raise your brows as you throw an incredulous face at him, but as you pull bits and pieces of news stories you remember catching glances of, there might've actually been some mentions of a "disgraced Cap candidate" somewhere in there.
"Holy shit, you were!"
John can't help but smirk a little at your awed reaction. "Yeah. Saved a ton of these people's lives, actually." He gestured vaguely around the room. "No big deal."
Despite the impressiveness of it all, his tone makes you roll your eyes with a smile. "Well, the one thing money isn't is bulletproof. Maybe you should hold it over some of their heads tonight."
"Well, it can sure as hell buy you bulletproof shit." John notes.
"Touché." You reply with a smile, glancing back over at Bucky. "So, if they aren't a thing, why's she here at this fancy party then?"
"…I dunno." John answers unsurely, crossing his arms over his chest as he contemplates. "Maybe the GRC is trying to make amends or something. I know she's back in the CIA nowadays after she was on the run for a while. Sam Wilson even got her a government pardon for helping out Steve Rogers and him back in the day."
"Wow…" You can't help but be impressed by her connections even from this distance, but your brow is quickly furrows. "Wait, what did she do to need a pardon from the government?"
"Something about stealing Cap's shield and Sam's wings back for them when things were going to shit with the Avengers before the blip." John says with a shrug. "Guess it pays to have powerful friends in your debt all the time."
"Hm. Wonder what that's like." You tease, looking up at him with a smile.
John just chuckles again. "Hey, I sure as hell couldn't tell you."
You eyes flick back to Bucky for a moment, and you can't help but notice that Sharon was actually drawing a genuine smile on his face. You've maybe been lucky enough to draw something similar out of him once or twice in the shorter time you've known him as his bartender, but you were honestly just more glad to see he had more good company to keep himself with.
"So…does that mean if I ever commit a heinous act of treason, you're the first person I'm gonna have to call?"
John just rolls his eyes. "Hell no. If anything I'd probably have to bring you in myself."
"But what if I had, like, a really good reason to do it?"
John's amusement falters slightly, but he still lets out a softer chuckle as his eyes find the floor beneath him. "…Doesn't really matter if you had a good reason, from my experience."
Your face drops slightly, but before you can apologize, a gratingly familiar voice pipes up just beside John.
"Alright soldier boy, you're up." Val calls with an artificial smile, lightly tugging at John's sleeve to get him to follow her as it pulls his gaze from the floor. "Gotta rub elbows with some government officers - lovely to meet you, by the way."
Just as quickly as she had appeared, Val waves you and the rest of the remaining table of heroes off before walking away with John and Mel at her side. John throws a glance back towards you, showing off a weakly reassuring smile before turning his attention back to Val as she leans a bit closer to him. "I really don't know where you find these women John- or where these women find you, I guess."
John doesn't even get a beat to respond before Valentina is already greeting a group of well-dressed and militarily decorated gentlemen nearby, doing his best to throw on a somewhat genuine smile as his grueling small talk of the evening truly begins.
You're admittedly a bit sad to see John go, but you figured that was some of the price you'd have to pay to briefly rid yourself of Valentina's overbearingly elitist presence.
"Alright," You declare as you turn back to your remaining Thunderbolts, leaning onto the table like you were going to brief them with a mission of your own, "Now that the bitchy buzzkill is gone again, who's gonna dance with me, hm?"
"Oh hell no." Yelena quickly objects. "I wouldn't be caught dead dancing in front of these assholes."
"I practically have two left feet anyways," Ava notes with a strained smile, "But you're cute for asking."
"Aw, c'mon guys- I mean, there's literally a band right there!" You point out, gesturing to the small string quartet in a corner of the venue.
"Yeah, for ambiance." Ava points out, taking a sip of some champagne she'd nabbed from a tray earlier. "Not like any of these stiffs can dance anyways."
The two other remaining Thunderbolts at the table expertly dodge your gaze, even when you put on your cutest pout in protest. "But it's literally a ball-"
"Gala-"
"Whatever." You cut off Ava's swift correction without a second thought. "You can't treat me to just one dance while we're all fancy like this?" Your eyes quickly dart over to Bob, pulling your biggest puppy dog face as you lean closer to him. "Pleeeease?"
"O-oh, no, no," Bob stammers, subtly trying to scoot away from you, "I don't think-"
"C'mon Bob, it's just one dance, I-"
Before the Yelena and Ava can stop or even try to warn you, your hand is already clasped around Bob's to try and pull him out of his seat.
The music quickly fades as everything around you is permeated with a thick miasma, lightless shadows saturating your surroundings until you're enveloped in an all-consuming darkness. Your heart barely has time to plummet to the pit of your stomach before it fades just as quickly, but doesn't take you back the ballroom.
Your heels sink slightly into the soft grass now beneath you, a haze of gray clouds covering the sky as you stare out at the empty streets of a cul-de-sac you hadn't thought about in half a decade.
You're slow to turn as your bearings remind you where you are, the faint muffled sound of voices yelling and screaming coming from what you feared was behind you:
Your childhood home, that red brick, vine-covered hell hole with white-lined windows and a crackled sidewalk leading to the screen door, fills your vision like water in your lungs, your breathing staggering at the sight.
You watch, unable to tear yourself away as a younger version of yourself storms out the door, slamming it open with a tinny BANG! and stomping out despite the sprinkle of rain just starting overhead.
"Well, God forbid I try to build a fucking life for myself, huh?" You mutter through grit teeth, though your voice quickly crescendos towards someone inside. "I wish you were still fucking DEAD."
Your father's voice chases after you like hellfire licking at your heels, the burlier man following you out into the building rain. "IT'S A GOD DAMN SHAME OF A LIFE IS WHAT IT IS-"
You stop yourself, spinning on your heel and throwing down your bags to slam your hands to your chest. "BUT IT'S MY LIFE, DAD! MY FUCKING LIFE!"
Your father doesn't care, a silver cross waving like a warding sign across his chest as it rises and falls with his declarations. "IT'S A GOD DAMN FUCKING SIN, THE LOT OF IT!"
"SO WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT DAD, HUH? WHY NOT JUST KILL ME ALREADY SO I CAN PARTY IT UP IN HELL LIKE I'M SUPPOSED TO?"
You watch as you storm up to meet your father in the middle of the pavement, thunder booming all around you as if the gods themselves were bearing witness, as if you had the power to summon lightning to smite the both of you to hell right where you stood.
"JUST FUCKING SAY IT." You spit out right to his face. "JUST SAY I'M A FUCKING PATHETIC, WORTHLESS, PIECE OF SHIT FA-"
Your own father's fist, still bearing the tough steel of his wedding band, collides with your face with no mercy, sending you tumbling down to the ground to land on your own hastily packed duffel bag. Your lower back flares with the familiar pain of how you awkwardly landed on a hardback book you shoved in there somewhere, your right eye pulsing with the pressure and the pain of the color-shifting bruise it would hold onto in the hours and days after.
He sneers at you, knuckles gripped tight at his side, looming over your body like a tormenting specter. "Fuckin' pathetic."
You and your younger self can only watch helplessly as he turns away, slowly making his way back towards the door.
Your hands flex at your side, your breathing shallow and your body tense with…everything. In this moment you remember how paralyzed you were by fear, your one fleeting chance of rightful vengeance stamped out like a cigarette butt under your father's boot.
But it's been years since then, and by now, you've had more than enough time to think of what you'd really wanted to do.
Despite your fancier attire, you trudge forward through the now muddying ground, leaning down to grab a loose piece of concrete from a more a broken part of the walkway. It weighs lighter than you expected, but you continue forward anyways, thunder crackling louder as if in accompaniment to your every step.
Raising your arm to the sky as you approach your father from behind, the angry sting of tears brim in your eyes as you attempt to bring it down on the back of his unsuspecting skull-
In a flash before contact, something steps in front of you to grab your wrist, something stronger than you expect, and the rage in your vision fades for a fleeting moment at the sight of a kinder, more familiar face.
"…Bob?"
He seems just as shocked as you are, but is still holding your wrist with an iron grip, his blue eyes practically pleading with you before his voice can squeak it out.
"I-I…I'm sorry, I-"
The blackness from before consumes the scene around you, fading once again as faint yet familiar orchestral music hits your ears. You look back at your hand, the pointed edges of your clutch's clasp digging into you, gripping it with a petrified strength you didn't know you had.
You feel a rogue tear slip down your cheek as you glance to the side, the two remaining Avengers looking like they were about to spring out of their damn chairs, their stares laser focused on you. Your attention is swiftly brought back to Bob as he slowly brings your hand down with his, gently taking your bag from you with his free hand.
You both can't help but notice the stinging imprints it left behind on your palm.
The shame on Bob's face is painfully palpable, but despite it his nervous voice is able to croak out, "…You okay?"
You do your best to blink away the remnant tears stinging your eyes, taking a moment before letting out a deep, shaky breath, lungs tensed from holding one in for far too long. You pull yourself free from his grasp, his hand falling from you with no resistance, like grains of sand in the wind.
"…Yeah." You eventually manage to get out, not even acknowledging the others as you try not to visibly tremble. "I, uhm…I need a drink."
Without another word, you do your best to wipe your face as you turn and make a swift beeline for the bar just across the room. Bob, in a similar silence, slides right back into his seat, resigning himself to try and sink into the floor beneath him and disappear completely as he holds his head in his hands.
The room blurs at the edge of your vision through the lingering tears stinging your eyes, causing you to miss zipping past the table where Bucky and Sharon were catching up. It's also far behind you before you can notice Bucky turning around, noticing an extremely concerned Yelena hover over Bob slumped in his chair, and swiftly excusing himself from the conversation.
The bartender spots you from a few feet away, greeting you with a friendly smile that you try your best to weakly reciprocate when you finally get close enough. "Hi. Whiskey double on the rocks, please."
You do your best to steady yourself with a few deep breaths, knowing it was bad when you had to pull out old breathing exercises your therapist taught you on the fly. As you take your glass with a wavering smile and a thankful nod, you couldn't help but feel a little relief as the first sip of whiskey burned on it's way down, fighting tooth and nail to take your mind off that scene you were forcibly sent back to. Hell, your back almost instinctually flinches when you feel a piece of the wooden counter press into that same spot in your back, straightening yourself up as your still somewhat bleary eyes wander aimlessly around the room.
Shit, what even was that? You'd heard of trauma victims having vivid flashbacks, sure, even suffering through your own the first few years after you left home, but that was clearly an entirely different beast. The sheer vividness of it all, the way you could feel the rain gently tapping the top of your head, the weight of the humidity in the air, the sting of that small stripe of metal making precise contact with the flesh and bone of your cheek.
The room slowly starts to descend into a haze, not from foggy vision or another fit of shadows, but just with the idea that you could still be thrown into that memory so vividly at all. Five fucking years later, and you thought you'd be over it by now, that you'd finally put that shell of a life behind you completely.
You can just barely feel the chill of the glass as you grip your drink a little tighter.
"…Rough night?"
The thick New York accent cuts through your mental fog like a car horn on the street, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin as you glance towards the man standing next to you. "Uh, n-no, just," You stammer, trying to string some semblance of something believable together in your thrashed about brain, "I, uh, like to party, what can I say?" You get out with an admittedly strained smile.
The man almost looks confused, but just chuckles, adjusting his glasses before turning to the bartender. "Same for me please." He orders, the bartender nodding and pouring up some whiskey in another glass of ice. He gingerly takes it from them, then raises it to you, the crystalline glass glistening under lights of the room. "Just a couple of party people at one of the lamest New Year's parties of the century."
You can't help but let out a weak laugh, clinking your glass against his before you both take a sip, the whiskey burning against the lump still resting in your throat. "Y'know…why is it the more money and power you get, the lamer you actually become?" You decide to randomly ask, hoping the stranger would vapidly fill the air. Maybe some lighter conversation would do a better job of distracting you than the whiskey, hopefully.
The man just laughs, shoving his free hand into one of his pockets. "Shareholders have that affect on you after a while." He admits. "Sometimes I worry I'm getting lamer by the day."
It takes you a moment through your self-induced haze to actually realize who you're talking to, but the memory comes back quick with another slip of your tongue. "At least you're building a cool robot dog. That's probably a million times cooler than what anyone else in this room will do with their entire lives."
"Well, that depends," He poses, turning more to properly face you, "Entirely on what you're doing for the rest of the evening."
It was your turn to laugh more fully, sputtering out like an engine trying to start as his intentions reach your ears. "Oh really? My evening is more valuable than a huge piece of soon-to-be militarized tech?"
"It does when such a pretty face makes me pay over $5000 more than what I anticipated for an auction item I so desperately wanted." He draws out with a smirk, moving his free hand from his pocket to hold it out to you. "Archer Brooks."
You give the man a good once over now that he wasn't some annoying head in a crowd or an occupied presenter on a stage. He was taller up close, hair slicked back with a slight 5 o'clock shadow that made him look a little more rugged than you'd expect some high honcho tech bro to be. His clearly 70's inspired glasses framed his face in a way that made him look a bit older, but not in an unwelcome sense. You were finding his accent didn't bother you as much as you thought it would, but that could also be the whiskey and the severe lack of dick appointments in your life recently talking.
You take his hand, giving him your name without much of a second thought. "Just had to make you sweat a little, that's all." You tease. "Gotta make men like you work for something in your life for once."
He chuckles, still holding your hand as he shrugs. "Touché."
Instead of shaking it, he has the nerve to bring your hand to his lips, just barely brushing them against your knuckles before bringing it back down and letting it slip from his grasp. "The pleasure's all mine…but I am curious," He states, his voice growing quieter as he moves in a bit closer, "How does a little minx like you find yourself at a big government shindig like this, hm?"
"O-oh, well…" You hesitate for a moment, but the liquor starting to soften your edges lets your tongue slip. "I'm actually here with the Avengers."
His brows raise in surprise, but not as much as you'd expect. "Oh, really now? And how exactly did you get to know the god damn Avengers?" He blatantly asks through a chuckle. "You're not some secret superhero or government agent or somethin', are ya?"
"Oh God no. I actually know Bucky- uh, Mr. Barnes," You correct, "Through my job."
"Really? Fascinating." Archer practically purrs. "Cause you seem far too smart to be just a secretary to the guy - though, you're definitely pretty enough to be one."
Your awkward flustered laughter echoes across the room, causing Walker to twitch as he tries to steal a glance mid conversation. His brow furrows when he clocks that the weird robot dog guy is chatting with you so casually again, and while you seemed to have a handle on it, he couldn't help but feel that something was…off.
He feels a small nudge on his arm, looking over to see Mel trying to direct his attention back to the conversation at hand, and he does his best to center himself again.
It takes him all of five minutes until he can't take it, trying his best to more covertly steal another glance over at you again, though this time his blood really starts to boil when he notices that tech head had moved even closer to you somehow, pulling something out of his suit jacket -
"-wouldn't you say, Mr. Walker?"
It takes John a second to realize someone else had said something to him, trying and failing to relax the ruffled look on his face. "Huh? O-oh, yes, uh…"
Val quirks a brow at him, John suddenly fumbling for an answer to a question he was absolutely not aware of. "I, uhm-"
"I think what John means senator, is-" Mel suddenly cuts in, saving his ass with some bullshit answer that she definitely had on stand by for something just like this.
John's eyes naturally drift back to you, and- Jesus Christ, it was a god damn business card, one that he was now scrawling something onto with a pen he'd also grabbed from in there somewhere.
"…Yeah. That." John weakly confirms, before he just clears his throat in defeat. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."
As he breaks off from the government groupies without even a word to Val or Mel, he briskly makes his way back to the Thunderbolts still at the table. His gaze on you finally breaks though when he notices Yelena hovering close to Bob, a surprisingly tender hand on his shoulder.
God, he leaves these guys alone for five minutes-
"What the hell just happened?" Walker asks accusingly as he approaches. "And why the hell are they chatting it up with Dr. Dynomutt at the bar?"
Bucky is quick to shut down Walker as always, rising from his seat beside Bob and grabbing him firmly by the arm. "Take it easy Walker." Bucky warns quietly, looking over John's shoulder before meeting his eyes. "…Bob might be having an episode."
"What?!" John hisses back, his eyes going wide. "See, I told you, I told you guys this would happen, I-"
Bucky's grip on his arm tightens. "Just listen." He hisses. "They tried to grab Bob's hand for a dance, and…they saw something. We don't know what, but, it was definitely something."
"And you just let them run off to the bar?!" John reprimands, struggling to keep his voice low.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Bucky hisses right back, "Let's run after the one person that can supposedly handle themselves, like they've said all night, and leave the possibly sentient black hole all by himself to sulk us all into the abyss again."
Both their gazes flick back over to Bob, still being comforted by Yelena as he clearly tries to pull himself back together. "I-I'm fine, really-"
John tries to stare a hole straight through Bucky as he yanks his arm free, scoffing to himself as he starts to stride across the ballroom without another word.
"-and y'know, there's gonna be an after-party too. Maybe, we could-"
"Excuse me."
You nearly jump out of your skin at the sternness of John's voice, sounding more like a parent catching their kid sneaking out than a friend. "Oh! Hey John-" You greet with a smile, but your voice starts to teem with concern when you notice the glower set on his face. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." John emphasizes, making it clear as day to you that he was, in fact, not fine.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. America himself." Archer greets despite John's demeanor. "John Walker, right? Pleasure to meet ya, I'm-"
"I know who you are, asshole." Walker spits before he can stop himself, leaving both you and Archer in stunned silence as he completely ignores him, his gaze sternly set on you as he reaches for your wrist. "C'mon, let's go-"
"John!" You let out before he can finish his sentence, turning back to Archer apologetically. "I-I'm so sorry, I-"
"No no, it's okay," Archer reassures, softly putting a hand up as he meets Walker's gaze again. "I guess it wasn't Mr. Barnes I should've been worrying about then."
John's brow furrows, crossing his arms as he stands a bit taller. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, well," Archer starts, taking a sip of his whiskey before vaguely gesturing with his hands, "I mean…I'd just assume that, with your somewhat recent divorce, someone like you might move on a bit slow, but-"
Your eyes widen, and John just freezes.
His whole body visibly tenses. His fists drop his side and tighten till his knuckles burn white, and his jaw muscles flex with how tightly clamped they are as you watch the light leaves his eyes.
"O-oh, no, no, it's not like that-" You stammer out nervously, your heart hammering in your throat as you put your drink down on the bar top, ready to stop whatever nonsense was about to start. But once you lay your eyes back on John…
He doesn't argue. He doesn't yell or throw something back in his face, doesn't explode or lunge at him, or anything you'd expect for him to frankly have the rights to do.
He just…stares.
"Oh, my apologies." Archer offers, innocently placing a hand over his heart. "Didn't mean anything by it, really, just heard about it through the grapevine. You know how it is."
John says nothing, but your barely hidden scowl towards Archer says enough. "Well, it was lovely to talk to you, Mr. Brooks, but I think John was just grabbing me for a dance, right?"
John blinks, as if suddenly yoinked back into the realm of the living as slight confusion cloaks his anger. "What?"
Before he can make anything worse, you give Archer a dismissive smile and a nod before hooking your arm with John's, gently turning him as you guide yourselves away from the bar.
"Jesus fucking Christ." You mutter under your breath once you were out of earshot, glancing back at the bar briefly before looking up at John. "You looked like you were going to kill him."
I wanted to. John thinks.
"Fucking asshole." He grumbles instead.
"How the fuck did he even know about that?" You rather innocently ask, and John finally lets out the tight breath that'd wedged itself in his chest without him realizing.
"Divorce filings are public records." John loosely explains, briefly recalling when a few smaller shithead tabloids managed to get a hold of them in a similar, shittier way. "Maybe he dug around for it when he was making that-" He gestures vaguely, but can't think of a quippy enough insult through his leftover haze of anger. "Thing."
"Why would a robot dog need to know about your fucking divorce?"
"I don't know!" John weakly argues. "To piss me the fuck off, specifically?"
"Jesus- okay, forget about the dog." You stop in your tracks, gently yanking him back towards you and facing him fully. "Are you okay? Did something happen?"
"I told you, I'm fine." John reiterates with a loaded sigh. "Bucky, uhm…Bucky mentioned something happened back at the table, so I wanted to make sure you were okay."
You can't help but puff out a feigned laugh. "Nothing happened, John, it's fine-"
"You sure?" He insists. "You're absolutely sure nothing happened?"
"Yes, I'm sure!" You lie. "I'm totally fine. I promise."
John huffs, his shoulders finally dropping somewhat as he glances back towards the Thunderbolts table. Bob was standing now, nodding and still chatting with Yelena while Ava and Bucky were watching closely.
…Okay, maybe you really didn't see anything. How were they supposed to know anyways, really? Bob did seem to have his powers under control, at least for the moment. Yelena had always been there to help talk him down if he was getting back to a darker place, and Bob himself had been doing his best when it came to his newly mandated therapy sessions after his initial void out.
Besides, even on the off chance you probably did see something, John knew well enough from his own experience that those types of memories weren't something you just casually bring up in conversation.
…Maybe it was fine then.
Maybe. Possibly.
He looks back at you, a frown still seared onto his face as you look up at him.
"…I was 'grabbing you for a dance' then?" He brings back up, raising his brows as he folds his arms over his chest. "Really?"
You let out a small sound of surprise, feeling the heat rise back up in your cheeks again. "What?! I was put on the spot, okay-"
"You know this isn't one of those types of events, right?"
"God, for the seven billionth time, I know," You groan, "But there's literally a band and a big open space in the center of the damn room, and it's still called a gala, so-"
John can't help but chuckle a little. "You really wanna tear up the dance floor that bad?"
"No!" You weakly protest. "Well- sort of-"
John sighs. "You're hopeless."
"Oh shut up!" You throw back, batting at his arm. "Can't someone dream about having a sweet Cinderella sort of moment?"
"Oh yeah, really loved when Cinderella charmed the big robot dog and got it to do tricks for her. Classic stuff."
You roll your eyes and groan, but you can't deny the smile starting to creep up on your face. "Fuck you."
John chuckles, a small smug smile forming on his own. "…Well, now I'm not gonna ask you to dance with that attitude."
Your sarcastic expression falters a bit, the warmth in your face now crescendoing to a full inferno. "You…actually wanna dance with me?"
"Well…yeah." John answers with a shrug. "I mean…not like the night can get any worse."
To your surprise, John starts walking ahead of you towards the small corner where the event's quartet was centered, leaving you standing there just gawking, a bit dumbfounded. "Are you coming or what?"
If John wasn't watching so closely, you might've tried to pinch yourself.
"I- yeah, I'm coming."
As you approach, Walker takes your hand gently as he guides you over, his grip firm enough that you could feel him holding back his strength as you make your through the crowd. Only a few of the onlookers cast a glance or two over to you, including the musicians who's eyes briefly drifted from their sheet music as you approached.
If there was one thing about John Walker that you knew, it's that this man committed himself to tasks like nobody else, no matter how stupid or inconsequential it was. Despite knowing this, your heart still tries to leap from your chest as he pulls you closer to him, raising his hand that was still holding yours, while his free one moved to rest on your waist. You hesitantly bring your free hand up to his shoulder, and just like that, John helps you set a rhythm as you start to sway slowly to the music.
In all the close proximity you've had to John over the past few months, for some reason you can't bring yourself to meet his eyes, your vision darting around instead to the various elegant tiles decorating the floor beneath your feet.
Maybe, if you don't look at him, you won't say something stupid. You won't choke on your own tongue about how good he looked in that stupid well tailored suit, with that stupid bow tie, and that stupid watch, and especially that stupid musky cologne that was suddenly enveloping your senses now that you were so close to him.
Just don't look at him. Don't look into those stupid, stunning blue eyes that were looking right at you.
Looking only at you.
John tilts his head down a bit closer to yours, trying to pull your gaze back. "…You okay?"
"Hm?" You manage to squeak out, glancing briefly into his eyes before looking off towards the musicians beside you. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."
"…You sure?"
"Yes, John, I'm sure." You weakly reassure him with an attempt at a more solid gaze. "I promise, you don't need to fret after me at every turn."
"I'm not," John argues, "I just…want to make sure you're okay. That's all."
You press your lips into a fine line, trying your best to hide a smile or, really, a completely internal squeal. "…Well, I'm definitely a lot better now that you're dancing with me."
John scoffs, but you swear you see his cheeks were growing just a touch redder every time you look back at him. "Yeah, well, just don't step on my toes and we'll be fine."
"It's a slow dance John. I couldn't fuck it up even if I tried."
"Hey, don't underestimate yourself."
"Oh shut up." You throw back, before your whiskey ridden tongue almost gives you away again. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that Archer guy lit a fire under your ass all of a sudden."
John's eyes widen, and if you weren't sure of it before, the flush on his cheeks was definitely obvious now. "What? No- that dweeb? Absolutely not-"
Now it was your turn to raise a brow at him. "Uh huh. You sure?"
"Yes! He was clearly creeping on you, so I decided to, y'know. Step in."
"And now you're dancing with me?"
"Yeah? Because you wanted to, and-"
"And did you mean to step in…so he wouldn't think I was single?"
John freezes again, but it's much less hostile than before. "…Well, not…intentionally."
Despite your heart trying to leap out through your throat, you cover its desperate attempt to be heard with a small laugh. "Hey, relax," You try to reassure, "I'm just busting your balls John."
"…Right." John answers after almost too long of a pause. "Yeah, right."
"Hey- look who finally got their dance at least." Ava calls out, turning the remaining Thunderbolts back at the table's attention towards you and John on the other side of the room, slowly swaying to the music.
"Well that's…nice." Bob lets out, admittedly still a little strained from his brief Void episode.
"Who knew Void would make ultimate wing man, ah?" Alexei tries to joke with a grin, having finally returned from his own escapades of trying to eat as much of the catering as possible without anyone raising a fuss.
"No, no." Yelena firmly cuts him off, pointing at him sternly. "Don't you get any ideas-"
Bucky groans as they start to descend into their typical father-daughter bickering, Ava carefully patting Bob on the shoulder. "Well, at least we have our entertainment for the rest of the night."
Before Bucky can warn Ava to not goad them on any further, his eyes lift from rubbing his eyes with his hand to notice something - the auction room was…oddly dark, one of it's doors cracked open slightly with curtains covering door's windows, obscuring the inside of the room from view.
Then, he hears it. That quiet, mechanical whirring again.
Bucky lightly touches Ava's shoulder, his gaze locked on the doors ahead. "Stay here. Don't let them kill each other."
"No promises." Ava emptily assures, but her brows furrow in concern as their eyes follow his path towards the auction room.
Your dance with John had now dissolved into a comfortable silence between you, still gently swaying at the music carried your every move in its slower tempo. You try and make eye contact with John again, only to give up immediately at the instant sign he notices, your eyes instinctually flicking over his shoulder.
You softly gasp. "Hey, look!"
John glances over his shoulder at your hushed command, and notices an older couple nearby taking their own stance near you, now slowly swaying to the music just a few feet away, their wedding bands briefly glinting the light.
John just chuckles softly, looking back down at you. "Guess you're a trendsetter now."
"Oh, whatever." You shrug off with a smile. "It's just sweet, that's all."
With your eyes still contently watching the old couple sway just behind you, John can't help but just…look at you. The softness of your gaze, the weight of your hand in his. The warmth of your skin below the surface of your dress, bleeding into his hand as he gently held the curve where you waist met your hip.
He almost...wanted to apologize. For what, he wasn't entirely sure - I mean, where would he even start? He was honestly amazed at the fact that you were both back to just being whatever this was, like he hadn't just ignored you for weeks, partially on accident, but also partially on purpose. Ever since he had that dream about you, he couldn't bear to think about you, to risk thoughts like that surfacing again, trying his damn hardest not to ruin the one normal thing in his life. You weren't just some pretty face that stumbled into his life, you were his friend, someone he respected and trusted just like you respected and trusted him, despite everything.
But, God, you were so…beautiful.
You just had to be so fucking beautiful, didn't you?
[OPERATION: FOX HUNT - INITIATED]
You don't know what moved you to do it - maybe you just wanted to avoid the awkward eye contact, maybe you were growing tired through the whole emotionally vampiric energy surrounding you - but you let the world around you deafen as you lay your head on John's chest.
Thump thump, thump thump, thump thump-
John's heart, thrumming away like a well oiled engine under his dress shirt, gives himself away before any words could even try.
[ENGAGING LETHAL ARSENAL]
You hand on his shoulder slides down slightly, curling just beside your head on his chest, just…resting. Sinking into him fully, letting him hold you steady as you continue to sway in his arms.
"…Hey John?"
John glances down at you, and you swear his gentle gaze lingers on your lips for a split second. "…Yeah?"
[TARGET SIGHTED - ENGAGE]
"Would you…maybe want to-"
Before you can finish your sentence, before you can finally have some sort of catharsis for the months-long feelings you'd kept so close to your chest, Bucky Barnes reenters the ballroom by being violently thrown through the auction hall's doors.
Splintered wood and shattered glass scatter across the floor as he lands just a few feet away from you, cuts already marking his face with small streaks of blood as he pushes himself up off the floor. He whirs back his vibranium arm as he widens his stance, facing the more audible humming of machinery now making its way through the debris.
Whatever docile aspects that were a part of FOXHOUND's design and demonstration were suddenly nowhere to be found. Long metallic claws sheathed out from its paws, its metal whip of a tail now sporting a sharpened spear-like tip at its end. A synthetic snarl clawed its way from its mouth, metal spikes of teeth gnashing before emitting a piercing, horrible screech, something akin to a thousand nails scraping down a single chalkboard all at once.
The room collectively grabs at their ears to try and shield themselves from the horrible sonic blast, you and John included as you also squeeze your eyes shut. You feel the crowd thunder around you as you sense guests swarming to leave the building in a panic, along with the sturdiness of John's arms around you as he pulls you closer, a feeble attempt to shield you from the oncoming chaos.
Your ears are still ringing as you slowly pull your hands away, the muffled tenor of John's voice piercing through the higher shrill of screams surrounding you.
"-LENA, HELP GET EVERYONE OUT OF HERE-"
Despite John barking orders right next to your ear to his teammates, your eyes can't help but be drawn to Bucky in the center of it all. You watch as the robot lunges for him, Bucky landing a haymaker right on the hinge of its jaw with his metal arm. Surprisingly, it tanks the hit, briefly tumbling over from the force before landing right back on its feet. Bucky's eyes go wide - if this was made by any other metal, the vibranium in his arm would've at least put a dent in it, much less blown it clean off - but its jaw was still firmly in place, not even a scratch.
The beast lunges for Bucky again, bracing for impact the vibranium takes the brunt of it. FOXHOUND's jaw latches onto his forearm, metal teeth sinking through the fabric of his suit. Thankfully it doesn't bite through his arm, but Bucky still has to fight for leverage to make sure his prosthetic doesn't get violently yanked out of its socket.
"Hey, HEY! Look at me!"
Your hazed over attention snaps back to John as you look at him, feeling his hands gently push you forward as he ushers you away from Bucky and towards the sea of civilians still trying to evacuate. "Go with Bob, get outside and as far away from here as possible, alright?!"
"O-okay-" Is all you can manage, your voice trembling more than you anticipated as you notice Bob's familiar shape just ahead of you, but the fear welling up in your chest makes you turn back, hesitating. You feel John's hands slip from your backside, briefly trailing down your forearm before he snags your hand, giving it a quick, strong squeeze.
"It'll be okay, just GO!"
You just wordlessly nod, finally turning around to fully face Bob.
John quickly vanishes back into the crowd, but Bob finds you just as swiftly, doing his best to make sure you don't get separated by all the madness. "Just- Just follow me, okay?" Bob instructs, though he seems just as shaken up as you are, trying his best to navigate through the chaos ahead. "Grab onto my jacket!"
You don't need to be told twice, your clammy hands snatch the fabric as you both weave through the noise surrounding you.
The streets outside were almost as much of a shitshow as the ballroom, hoards of people spilling out of the venue and into the busy New York streets, sirens echoing off the buildings from blocks and blocks away.
You'd be able to have more of your wits about you at this point if it weren't for the panic starting to set in.
You can't help how your mind churns up and spits out that scene of Bucky fighting for his life on repeat. Sure, you didn't know much about real superhero nonsense or the latest innovations in robotics, but you knew damn well that Bucky was supposed to have put that damn dog down with just a sucker punch. They were all in there, no protection, no weapons, nothing but the dresses and suits on their backs and the super abilities that could clearly only carry them so far.
If Bucky couldn't stop it, did the others even stand a chance? Did anyone?
"I think…I think we're okay…" Bob notes as you start to reach the edge of the crowd on the street, but your grip had now curled even tighter into his jacket as he looks back at you. "…You okay?"
Your eyes were a bit glazed over that this point, your mind racing with the endlessly gruesome possibilities, your breathing growing shallow as your heart tries to makes a break out of your chest, your throat-
Bob tries to reach for your shoulder, but you instinctively jerk away before you can stop yourself. Bob's eyes widen, his reach faltering as his arm slowly sinks to his side, that familiar guilt from earlier coming back in full force.
"I- shit," You try to claw out from your tightened throat, "Bob, I'm sor-"
"N-no, no, it's…fine." Bob says, still shrinking away from you.
"…There's- there's gotta be something we can do, right?!"
"I-I dunno," Bob admits, "I mean, the cops are gonna be here soon, I'm sure-"
Bob's fumbling attempts at reassuring you fall on deaf ears as you finally try to take in your surroundings. Everything was practically an attack on your panic-driven senses, but your eyes catch on a familiar face in the more rowdy part of the crowd.
You find Archer Brooks struggling to fight off wave after wave of a newly formed mob, ready to tear him apart over his creation unleashing itself to the world. You can barely hear his protests over the rest of the noise, especially with more remaining guests and staff desperately spilling out of the building. There were even some of the caterers still evacuating from the alley nearby-
Wait.
There were caterers.
There were fucking caterers.
And you'd catered enough events in your bartending career to know that meant one thing - there was another way back into the building.
Before Bob can try and stop you, you're already rushing off towards the angry mob just ahead of you.
"Hey! Jackass!" You call out, practically having to bully your way through the crowd to get even remotely close to him.
Archer's eyes somehow find you in the crowd, adding another angry head to his growing list of problems. "Fuckin' Jesus- sweetheart, believe me, now is NOT the time-"
"You know how to turn that thing off?!"
"What? Of course I do!" He yells back, "But LIKE I TOLD THESE PEOPLE, I can't do SHIT without the-"
All the adrenaline from before now burns in your veins as you snatch his wrist, using all your limited strength to drag him unwillingly through the angry crowd and down towards the alley on the side of the building.
Jesus fucking Christ. You were going to save the Avengers.
John Walker is taking cover behind a nearby table, suit already fraying at the edges, and even in all the chaos of it all he can't help but wonder if they're all going to make it out of this fucking mess alive.
Bucky was the first to go down, his vibranium arm only able to do so much before it managed to pin him to the ground, clawing at his chest before Bucky managed to turn the tides and try to tear it apart with his super strength. Not even a super serum could tear whatever super metal this thing was made out of, and it didn't take much to latch its jaw back onto his arm, throwing him to the wayside like an old torn-up chew toy. He was still breathing, thank fuck, but he definitely wasn't in good shape to keep fighting.
Ava already tried to phase through it to somehow rip out its machinery, but imagine everyone's surprise when it managed to leap away from her, kicking her back with its hind legs before she can even realize it can see her. The claws scratch deep into her suit, deep and sharp enough for Ava to start to feel her physical form start to falter as she cries out in pain, her atoms being ripped apart from her and sewn back together in real time.
John's heart is thudding in his ears as he tries to come up with a plan, think of something that can get them out of this fucking mess, when he spots a metal serving tray just to his left.
It wasn't his shield - Hell, it was barely even half the size - and it certainly wasn't that solid…but it could work.
John dives for the platter, snatching it from the ground and swiftly rising to his feet before running head first towards FOXHOUND. Without the familiar straps his shield would normally come with, he's forced to hold it with both hands, swiftly dodging FOXHOUND's swipes at him as he tries to close the gap. FOXHOUND bears its teeth, gnashing at John like a feral dog before it goes for a full on bite. John tries to brace himself with his makeshift shield, but FOXHOUND's powerful jaw comes down and practically folds it in half over his forearm, a horribly makeshift bracer being the only semblance of protection between John's arm and the metal fangs that could tear him to pieces.
With its mouth firmly latched to John's arm, its teeth slowly starting to make headway through the metal as is continues to close its jaw, it fails to notice Yelena as she hops onto his back, crossing her arms and bashing her electrified widow bite cuffs right down onto its metal skull. John's too busy fighting through the pain of metal teeth starting to breach the meat of his arm to warn Yelena, FOXHOUND's whip-like tail swatting at her as its blade-tipped end slices at her arm.
"LENA!" Alexei bellows from the other side of the room, both him and John watching helplessly as the tail wraps around her ribs, throwing her off as she thuds across the floor.
Bucky does his best to rush to her despite the pain, dragging her to safety behind one of the makeshift bars. "Hey, hey, it's okay-"
Alexei wastes no time to try and take vengeance, letting out what can only be acquainted to a battle cry as he sprints towards John and FOXHOUND.
"Are you sure about this? Like, really sure about this?"
You can't help but groan at Archer's insistence, but you knew it was fair to ask. "No, but it's our best shot of getting this thing under control." You argue, doing your best to navigate through the larger industrial kitchen you'd entered into.
Archer follows in hot pursuit, his dress shoes furiously tapping against the tile floor behind you. "God, you're fuckin' crazy-"
"Oh, I'm the crazy one?!" You throw back in his face as you stop dead in your tracks. "I didn't make an unstoppable fucking murder robot, dickweed!"
"I meant it as a compliment!"
"Yeah fucking right." You spit back, turning your back to him as you resume your stride. "Just get ready, I think we're almost out-"
"I'm sorry- remind me again what your fucking plan is here?"
"I told you-" You repeat, looking back over your shoulder at him as you walk, "You go find the auction hall and get your stupid tablet to turn it off-"
"While you do what?"
"While I find a different way into the ballroom and…standby as the back-up plan."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"
You angry gaze on Archer falters for a moment. "…It means I go out there and try to talk to the fucking dog."
"What?!"
"It means if you can't turn it off before it all really goes to shit, I have a plan."
Archer groans, running his hands through his now disheveled hair before throwing his arms wide. "Look around sweetheart! We're already waist deep in this shit, and I don't see it getting any worse-"
"It will get worse if it kills the only people who can try and stop it, who also happen to be my fucking friends!" You yell back, jabbing a pointed finger right into his chest. "During your presentation it did what I told it to, so maybe I can get it to listen to me again!"
Archer's eyes look like they're about to blow out of his sockets, even from behind his glasses. "That's your plan?"
"Do you have a better one?!"
Archer groans loudly, throwing his hands up in the air before they fall back at his side as he turns on his heel to pace. "Un-fucking-believable."
You run your hands down your face, not caring if you smear your make up as you try to steady your own breath for once. "Look, you can hate me all you want after this, but this is the only way to make sure nobody fucking dies tonight." When you catch him pacing towards you again, you reach over to grab his shoulders, halting him in place and forcing him to look at you. "Just…trust me."
Archer just stares at you for a moment before he sucks in a breath, his eyes darting between the double doors just ahead of the both of you and your face.
"…Fuck it."
Before you realize what's happening, Archer grabs the sides of your face, your noses clashing haphazardly into each other as he pulls you in a for a quick, harsh kiss. You don't even have time to slap the stupid look off his face before he releases you and backs off, smirking as he starts making his way towards his exit.
"Just in case everything really does go to shit." Archer explains breathlessly, "Now, go find that fucking ballroom."
When you make your way out of the kitchen and through the winding backrooms and hallways of the venue, you're greeted by exactly what you were afraid of - the New Avengers actively getting ripped a new one by Archer's hell hound of a robot.
Alexei, with large cuts littering his cheeks and suit, has the dog by the tail now, narrowly avoiding being sliced to pieces by the end of it as he starts swinging it around and around. Once he builds up enough momentum, he launches it as hard as he can to the side, hoping it slams into the wall and at least gets stunned for a moment.
Much to everyone's surprise, it twists in the air to land on it's feet on the wall, using the force to propel itself off it right back towards Alexei. He only survives by Ava weakly phasing back into view to tackle him out of the way, causing FOXHOUND to land and skid across the ornate flooring with a terrible screeching sound, sparks flying in its wake.
Before it has a chance to leap for Alexei again, John practically roars as he launches one of the tables nearby towards it - and FOXHOUND fucking catches it, like an oversized wooden frisbee clenched in its eager metal maw. It rears back, twisting its body in an unnatural way only a machine possibly could, throwing it right back at John without any room to move or even breathe.
John's body collides head-on with the flat surface table, slamming him right back into the wall behind him with a loud CRASH!, leaving a hefty John-sized indent in the brick as his beaten and bloodied body slumps down onto the floor. The machine lets out a low pitched, artificial growl, its sights clearly set on finishing the job as turns back around, readying itself to barrel towards him at full speed.
You don't know exactly how it happened - how your legs started bolting ahead at a break neck pace despite the heels you were wearing, how you managed to swipe a stray silver tray from the floor on your way over, how you even had the faintest notion that you could somehow protect John from this absolutely terrifying technological advancement. You stand in front of his collapsed body, raising your make shift weapon to the sky in some pathetic, meaningless attempt to protect the man you didn't even fully realize you loved.
The dog bounds closer, closing the gap in seconds, and your eyes slam shut to brace yourself for some kind of violent impact, some random assortment of readied blades scoring your body to pieces…
But it doesn't come.
Your eyes flutter open, and you realize you somehow aren't dead right where you're standing. You look down, and the violent machine that was just tearing the Avengers a new one is halted in front of you, sitting as if you'd personally commanded it to. It's blood red interface fades to the soft, familiar white you saw in the demonstration right before your eyes.
It doesn't last long though, as the light abruptly shuts off, the robot collapsing lifelessly to the ground in front of you.
The platter drops from your hands, clattering to the ground as you stare at FOXHOUND's inanimate form. Your gaze flicks to the other side of the room, and you see Archer, breathless from bolting out of the busted doors of the auction room, tablet in hand, arms slumped to his sides in clear relief.
The room is dead silent, save for the faintly distant noise of something crackling outside…
Fireworks.
Times Square was just a few blocks away from the venue.
"…Happy fuckin' New Year." Archer mutters under his breath.
You have to stop yourself from fully collapsing to the floor, watching as Bucky helps an injured Yelena out from behind the bar, a large gash on her arm poorly bandaged with some table cloth scraps he likely improvised. Alexei is holding Ava in his arms like his own child, trying to soothe her through the clearly painful phases as he atoms jitter in and out of existence.
You do your best to slowly turn around, dropping to your knees to look over John's still collapsed body.
"…John?"
It comes out broken, terrified, but your fears are just barely extinguished when you notice his back rise and fall with his strained breathing. He grunts, attempting a few times to push himself off the floor before you practically dive in to help, but your shaking arms don't add much leverage. Finally, he sits up, adjusting himself to lean back against the wall. Blood dribbles down from a gash on his head and onto the collar of his dress shirt, his suit torn and roughed up from the entire encounter.
John's vision is blurred, practically spinning as he tries to adjust after getting slammed into a god damn wall without his typical protective greaves. You weren't medically trained in the slightest, but you did your best to gently move his jacket to make sure he didn't sustain anymore serious injuries. You notice the wetness of his sleeve before you even see the bite marks on his arm, John having haphazardly wrapped it in some fancy cloth napkins he must've improvised like Bucky did.
You move your hands to cradle his face, tears finally bubbling to the surface of yours as you try to get John to look at you. "H-hey, John? C'mon, stay with me-"
"Wh…" His eyes flutter for a moment, pupils blown out from the adrenaline clearly doing their best to adjust as he mutters something you don't catch.
"H-hey, it's okay, it's-it's dead or, something, I don't know, but-"
John's good arm comes up off the ground, raising to grab onto your bicep with his hand. His mental fog seems to come down slightly as his brow scrunches at the sight of you, muttering your name a little more clearly. "Why…why are you here?"
"Archer said he could find a way to stop the dog if he could get back inside, so I figured since there was catering shit, there had to be a back entrance or something we could-"
You suddenly feel John grip your arm more firmly, his hand beginning to curl around it like iron.
"Why…are you here?"
"I-" As you try to form a sentence to further explain yourself, you can't help but wince as John's grip just gets tighter.
A sound closer to a growl than anything human snarls out of his mouth behind tightly grit teeth. "Why…did you do that?"
"I-I," You trip over your own tongue - how do you even begin to explain such a visceral instinct? "I-I, I don't know, I just-"
He sits up more now, startling you with a sudden explosion of energy behind his beratement. "You don't know?!"
"I- I wanted to help-"
A small, strained noise makes it's way out of John's chest, and he somehow finds the strength to sputter out a harsh laugh, some traces of blood-filled spit hanging out of the corner of his mouth. "You…walked into a room full of half-dead superheroes, and thought you could help?"
The unfamiliar venom in his tone strikes your chest like a poisoned tip arrow, but you swallow harshly against the lump building in your throat as you attempt to take it in stride. "Wh- It was going to KILL you-"
"I told you to evacuate with everyone else-"
"What the fuck else was I supposed to do, just stand there and watch you get mauled to death?!"
John yanks you towards him, his now bloodshot eyes searing into you. "You PROMISED."
Whatever next protest you were trying to summon immediately dies in your throat, but the growing pressure on your arm keeps you tethered to reality. As you try to tug yourself free of his super soldier grip, it was almost starting to hurt.
"John, let go-"
Bucky finally looks up from tending to Yelena at the sound of Walker's shout, catching a glimpse of your confrontation before calling out, "Walker-"
"AND WHAT IF YOU DIDN'T STOP IT, HUH?! WHAT THEN?" Walker's continuing roar rips from his chest like another open wound, clawing its way into your heart with no mercy, forcibly yanking you back when you try to squirm away. "WHAT IF YOU JUST STOOD THERE AND LET THAT FUCKING THING TEAR YOU TO FUCKING PIECES-"
"WALKER."
Bucky's voice bellows up to the ceiling, echoes bouncing off the walls and finally tearing John from his heated trance. Bucky wastes no time, carefully leaving Yelena with Alexei as he starts to make his way across the room. "Let them go."
Walker's breathing was ragged, his shoulders tense with adrenaline and the rage of disappointment. Why did you of all people have to throw yourself into the line of action? Why did you have to save him?
This…this was exactly what he was afraid of in the first place.
John huffs, releasing your arm before letting himself collapse a bit against the wall, clearly having used his last bit of remaining energy on his outburst. He grumbles something almost unintelligible, a barely audible rumble from deep within his chest.
"Fuckin' pathetic…"
SMACK!
The impulsive command strikes through the nerves and muscles of your arm like lightning as you slap John across the cheek, a gut reaction carved out by some old, vengeful spirit now freshly stirring inside you. John's head stays limp as he now looks off to the side, his bloodied cheek blooming with a softer red under his skin in the flat shape of your palm.
It doesn't take long for police and paramedics to swarm into the building, shouts for their respective back up echoing to the high ceiling above the chaos. You feel a different pair of strong arms around you as Bucky gently lifts you from the ground, ushering you off with the nearest paramedic before turning to call more over to John and Yelena. You feel a tinny, crinkly sheet of some kind get wrapped around your shoulders, your vision and senses in a haze as you're escorted through the rubble of scene and out of the building, into the cold, now-January night.
Ushered out to the edge of the curb, blue and red lights flash and coat the scene as a paramedic checks your vitals. You vaguely register the various news vans already arriving at the scene, various reporters and camera men already questioning witnesses to get the bigger picture before any of their colleagues could. The chatter surrounding you blends together in a continuous cacophony, until it all just fades into some unfamiliar white noise.
The paramedic says something to you that you don't quite catch, but you nod mindlessly in an attempt to get them to leave. It surprisingly works, them grabbing their go bag and heading back up the stairs behind you - but their place is quickly taken up by a darker shillouette stepping in front of you.
"…I think this is yours."
Your haze somewhat breaks as you register the shiny black shoes in your line of sight, looking up to see Archer Brooks holding out your long-forgotten clutch.
You only look long enough to register his face, not meeting his gaze as you take it back from him without a word.
"…I'm not even gonna to begin to ask for context, but," Archer says softly, clearing his throat as he squats down beside you, "If it's any consolation…I'm sorry."
You pull the shock blanket tighter over your shoulders.
"…So," Archer finally says after a pregnant pause, "That really was your back up plan?"
"…Yeah." You weakly answer.
"How did you know that would even work?"
"…I didn't." You admit.
Archer's face falls for a moment. "Y'know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you have a fuckin' death wish."
You puff out a sad excuse of a chuckle. "Maybe I do."
Archer can't tell if you're joking or not - and frankly, neither can you.
"…Do you have a ride home?"
"I was…probably gonna wait for a cab, honestly."
"Jesus-" He mutters under his breath, looking at you incredulously. "On fuckin' New Years?"
"…Shit. Good point."
Archer sighs, tapping at his leg as he looks over your shoulder impatiently, something clearly trying to take his attention back from you. "Look, I need to talk with the cops, but, uh…if you wanna to take my ride home, you're more than welcome to." He gestures up the road to a large black Cadillac SUV, parked on the side of the street just ahead of the crowd. "My driver knows the entire state of New York like the back of his hand, he can take you to wherever you need to go. Wouldn't hurt a fly either."
"That's…listen, I appreciate it, but, my friends-"
"Who? The fucking 'Avengers'?" He cuts in harshly, "The ones who didn't even bother to thank us- to thank you for saving their asses just now?"
Your body can't do much else but freeze, meeting Archer's gaze as you just stare at him, into him. You barely even notice how your eyes start to sting with freshly forming tears.
Archer puffs out a breath, sweeping back his hair in a weak attempt to recompose himself. "Sorry, I- That was out of line."
You press your lips into a fine line, looking away as you wrap yourself up even further into your shock blanket.
"Look, just…go home." Archer says. "Get a nice hot shower, a good nights rest, call some…other friends, maybe. This is the least I can do for you after all this."
Archer's eyes catch on an officer nearby, nodding to them before rising from his spot in front you. "You have my card, if you need anything. Anything at all." He reminds you. "I mean it."
With that, he walks back into the fray of frazzled guests and first responders, your ears only catching some small apology of his before it all fades into the buzz surrounding you.
After what feels like an eternity unwinding before you, hiding yourself away in the makeshift cover of your shock blanket, you finally come to terms with the fact that if you sit there much longer, you'll practically become a human statue just sitting side of the road.
You gather up any remaining strength you can gather, wadding up the blanket and tossing it into an open and waiting ambulance nearby before walking on shaky legs to the Archer's car.
You see a man in a sleek all-black suit open the car door, gesturing for you to come inside. "Evening ma'am."
You just nod as some semblance of a greeting, slowly sliding into the sleek black leather interior as the door shuts gently behind you. It doesn't take long for him to circle the outside car, watching him through the thoroughly tinted windows before he climbs into his rightful seat.
He glances up into the rear-view mirror, adjusting it slightly to catch your gaze. "So…where to?"
Your hands curl around the base of your clutch. If this were any other terrible party or just horrendous night out, you would want nothing more than to just go home and crawl into bed, never to return to the outside world until your next shift at the bar.
That somehow doesn't stop some terrible impulse from leaving your lips, your voice trying its best to be something steady in the uneven storm of an evening still ahead of you.
"…You know where that after-party is?"
The world decides to fully detach itself from your being as you step out of the car, the barely sentient husk of your body swaying slightly in the wind. You watch as you stand, still dolled up but long disheveled in your fancy dress and freshly smeared make up, outside of some kind of underground nightclub you had no clue existed. The pulsing music muted by the layers of brick and self-induced vignette between you and your senses beckons you forward like a siren, stepping inside to be swallowed whole by a heavy, grimy darkness.
You make the mistake of grabbing not one, but three free mystery shots being carted around by some sexy bottle girls around the place, deciding to seize the rare opportunity to get absolutely fucking wasted. Despite having encountered many people lost in a sea of liquor on the shore of your bar, seeing and knowing the destruction that kind of vice can reign first hand, you start to slowly understand why so many people chase the bottom of the bottle as your senses blur impossibly further. You feel more hot tears sear across your cheeks, how John's eyes bore into you like your father's all those years ago, and you sloppily reach for another handful of shots in a desperately futile attempt to dull it for good. The alcohol vaguely stings as it goes down your throat, like a notion of a punishment, but it falls on deaf nerves as your vision starts to falter.
The next thing you know, your lips try to find solace in a stranger in the bathroom, arms wrapped limply around their neck as you barely feel them sloppily lay their impulses into you. Their tongue slithers on the edge of your throat like a vile parasite prodding for entrance, teeth clashing and scratching against your own, biting down with no remorse for the sensitive flesh of your lips.
Your mind flashes back to the dream you had of John. One that, in the past few weeks, morphed and changed as your unconscious mind replayed it behind tired eyes. Waking you up with coffee, kissing you tenderly. Making you breakfast, only to get distracted by slow dancing in the middle of the kitchen. Stupid jokes and warm laughter over half-burned toast and rubbery eggs, but you insist that they're better that way anyways. Gentle whispers you never thought you'd hear someone say to you, modern prose that sounded like it could've competed with the deepest and truest lovers of history.
In your borderline blackout stupor, you do your best to shove the stranger off you, feeling tears race down as you push yourself out of the stall you were cornered in and back out into the club. The strobing lights blind you temporarily as you make your way through the dense crowd, not caring how harshly you'd shove people out of your way.
Breaking out of the building into the chilly December - no, January air, you delay in reminding yourself - you instinctually wrap your bare arms around yourself as you brace for the weather. You could feel the tears clinging to your face now in the cold, along with the dark streaks mascara down your cheeks and smeared lip gloss across your lips. Through your bleary vision the roads were now slick with slush and ice, and the sky was still somehow clear. Your whimpers and choked back sobs condense into a tangible haze in front of you, only to be swiftly carried off by the icy winds cutting into your skin.
Stumbling towards the ominous black SUV that brought you to this wretched place of your own volition, you yank your phone out of your clutch to start furiously typing. Hammering your thumbs into your phone's keyboard, you treat each strike of a key like it would smack John across the face again and again on his way to wherever the fuck he was now.
You manage to slur out your home address to the driver before fully collapsing in the back of the car, not even bothering with a seat-belt as you curl up across the now cold leather seats beneath you. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes like you'd push them back into the recesses of your skull, hoping the darkness would consume you whole, and you'd wake up back home like none of this ever happened in the first place. Like trying to shove a cork back into an overflowing bottle, you feel your onslaught of tears stream down the side of your arms and your cheeks, giving into the absolute despair that had been slowly gnawing at you all evening.
Fuckin' pathetic…
You couldn't stop your shallow, heaving breaths even if you tried, hyperventilating as you try to fold yourself further inward, hoping to hide yourself away like a curled mollusk shell buried in ancient stone and debris. You wanted to sink into the seat, beneath the grimy asphalt speeding past under the car, straight into the ground dead and buried, never to be seen again.
You wish you could collapse into John's warm embrace like you did in the quinjet again. Ask him to hold you and squeeze harder and harder and harder until you only felt the pressure and none of the pain.
Why were you built to care so deeply? To love and want so badly to be loved, only to be dashed on the rocks of the reality that accepting your love was an impossible task to the rest of the universe.
"…Ma'am. We're here."
The gruff voice from the front of the car calls out, lightly tugging your lone tether to reality. You let out a few harsh puffs, sniffling as you push yourself off the seat, a small tear stain clearly marking your anguish on the car ride back.
"S'thank you." You slur, but your nose is stuffed, and your voice is hoarse. It barely sounds like you, like the person were now - it sounded like the blubbering of a small child, one who's existence was lost and shoved down so deep, you didn't even know it was still there, aching all this time.
You open the door, being greeted once again by the chill in the air as you stumble out of the car. You slam it shut behind you, your fist tightly gripping the railing of your stairs as you make your way up, and fish your keys from your purse.
When you enter your apartment, banishing the void that had now consumed it with the light of the dim hallway lamps, you yank off your heels and pull the door shut behind you. You don't bother to even turn on the lights as you drop your clutch, hearing it clatter to the ground somewhere nearby as you stumble through the darkness and into your room. You do your best to squirm out of your dress in the dark, feeling around a bit on your bed before finding a big, comfy hoodie to bury yourself in, along with endless layers of blankets waiting for you with an artificial embrace. You only realize then that you're still clutching your phone in an iron fist, opening it to reread a message you barely remember sending.
2:27 AM
> FUCKYOUFUCKYYOUFUCK OYOU FUCKIHOYUT FUCK YOU
You type out one last, actually coherent message, sending it before peeking out of your cocoon to throw your phone halfway across the room, hopefully to never be seen again as you cry yourself to sleep.
2:51 AM
> im sorry
thanks for reading! huge thanks to my besties @raemoriendi @fairyysoup & @verasadventures as always :) this chapter honestly took a lot more out of me (if you couldn't tell by how god damn long it took for me to get it out lol), but it was also setting up a lot of stuff for future chapters, so it was going to be a meatier one no matter what :'D i even made a post breaking down my outfit inspo for this chapter if youre interested in that kinda thing! hopefully i'll get the next chapter out by the anniversary of civ life like i said! but no promises lol. thanks again for everyone being so patient while i worked things out in my real life lol, and i hope you look forward to whatever comes next!
consider supporting by sharing and reblogging or dropping a comment here or on ao3 🥰🥰🥰
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, guns mentioned, injuries
word count: 7.8k
a/n: thank you all for still being here! i appreciate you lots. love reading your comments <33 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
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Olivia's never experienced a more painfully awkward breakfast in her life. And she's sat through her parents 'let's-tell-our-child-we're-divorcing-over-croissants' breakfast and survived. But this takes the prize. Because this time she's hungover, struggling for her life as she fights the nausea and throbbing in her head, while she has to watch as the two of you slowly torture yourselves over toast and coffee.
It's mostly quiet except for the occasional scrape of cutlery and chewing—something hungover her usually would appreciate, but today it's killing her. It's like you take turns to look at each other, just missing the other by seconds, and she can see both of you wanting to speak, but neither of you does. When she tries to force conversation, everything dies in short, flat answers.
Olivia had come ready for damage control after your phone call—the one where you'd sounded so heartbreakingly sure everything was over. But after seeing Jack at the party? The gifts, the speech, flying her out, the way he'd looked at you all night. The problem had never been feelings.
She had liked Jack the first time she met him because it had been obvious then, too. The man loved you. Desperately. The problem was that everyone seemed to see it except the two of you.
So, she was certain that things would be okay again. She only needed to give you slight pushes—saw it in the way you didn't deny her every time, how your eyes looked hopeful when she talked about him—and then that kiss happened, and somehow everything got worse.
Olivia still didn’t know what the hell had gone wrong. You hadn’t been in bed when she woke up, and she hadn’t had a chance to corner you yet. But something had shifted. Yes, you'd been upset when she found you afterwards, but not like this. She still thought it could be salvaged with a few encouraging words—the man had kissed you in private for fuck's sake! If that wasn’t a sign that it wasn’t just pretend, what was?
But you looked different now. Quieter. Defeated in a way that made Olivia’s stomach sink.
She sits and watches as you barely touch your food, keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on your plate—except every few minutes, when you’d glance toward Jack before catching yourself and looking away again.
And Jack—
Jesus Christ. He looked awful. Kept reaching for things that didn’t need reaching for to end up closer to you. Refilling your coffee before you asked. Sliding the jam toward you without a word. Every few minutes, Olivia also catches him looking. Quick little glances when he thinks you aren't paying attention. Checking if you’d eaten. Watching your face. Looking away the second you turned.
Two idiots. Clearly sad. Clearly in love. She's seconds away from grabbing both your heads and smashing them together.
"I’ll be right back," she announces suddenly, shoving her chair back.
Your head snaps up immediately, panic flickering across your face. Jack looks up, too, but neither of you says anything, which somehow makes it worse.
She shuts the bedroom door behind her with a long, suffering sigh and collapses onto the edge of the bed, grabbing her phone.
Robby picks up on the second ring. "You're alive," he teases, voice still gruff with sleep.
"Barely," she groans. "These two are gonna kill me."
He laughs softly. There's a rustling sound on the other end, and she imagines him sitting up in bed, sheets falling down on his lap, chest bare—she needs to focus.
"That bad?" he asks.
"You have no idea," she says, rubbing her temple. "We need to do something about it—it's even worse than I thought."
Robby's silent for a moment. "Hmm," he says, voice turning serious. "I think I might have an idea."
Olivia sits up immediately. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."
"Oh?" Robby replies, sounding far too pleased with himself. "You like me?
Her ears flush. "Oh, shut up!" she snaps, shifting on the bed. "Tell me your plan!"
"Yes, ma'am," he laughs.
"Any progress?" Parker asks as she leans against the counter, coffee cup balanced in one hand as she watches Shen stare blankly at the computer.
"None," Shen answers after a moment, drumming restless fingers against the desk. "Absolutely none."
Parker sighs and turns her attention down the hall as Abbot rounds the corner, a tablet tucked under his arm. He moves more slowly than usual—quieter, with less of his usual bark and bite.
"He's miserable," Parker murmurs. "Honestly, I’d prefer him to chew me out than to see him like this."
Shen follows her gaze and exhales through his nose. "Yeah."
Abbot pauses near the board, scanning patient updates. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth.
"Did you see her at rounds?"
Parker nods. "I think she looked even worse than Abbot does." She frowns, contemplating. "Do you think something happened?"
Shen bites the end of his pen. "No way, right? They seemed fine at the party."
Parker watches Abbot again. "...Yeah."
Jack knows he shouldn't be doing this. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't go back. But it's been weeks since the surprise party, weeks since that kiss, and weeks since he’s had a proper conversation with you.
You're still stuck on day shift, too. Through no fault of Robby’s this time—Gloria had stepped in, and suddenly you were staying put 'temporarily'. Temporary, his ass. At this point, he hardly ever sees you. Just quick hallway glances, elevator rides, and once in a while, a brief hug—but those are growing rarer.
So when the text came—the one he’d ignored for months—he answered. He put on his uniform, convincing himself it would be simple. Routine. A warehouse break-in—nothing major. Just in and out. But then someone panicked. Shots were fired, and everything went sideways.
Luke—a tall guy Jack barely knew—went down hard, hit in the side, then the jaw. Training kicked in before his mind could even catch up. Jack moved instinctively, dragging him to cover while bullets cracked overhead, stabilising him and applying pressure where needed.
After that, things blurred. Sirens. Movement. Noise. The Pitt. He barely registered the burning in his shoulder by the time Luke had already been rushed upstairs. Even then, he’d ignored it. Because Luke was alive. Because it barely hurt. Because—
Because maybe part of him didn’t care all that much lately. That thought sat ugly in his chest.
In the midst of it all, he had instinctively searched for you. Even in the chaos, he hadn’t seen you. Now that things had settled, he still can't find you. No glimpse of you in the hub, no voice echoing down the hall, no familiar figure moving between rooms. You're probably in an exam room, likely avoiding him.
His shoulder throbs harder.
"Fuck," he mutters. He steps toward the first empty room he sees, closes the door and pulls the curtain shut behind him. He gathers supplies one-handed, jaw tightening as he starts peeling off his shirt. It catches on the edge of the wound, and he bites back a hiss of pain.
Just as he throws the shirt on the bed, the door slams open. The curtain is ripped to the side violently as the door bangs shut. You stand there, breathing hard like you sprinted through the entire hospital. Your eyes are wild and desperate as you frantically sweep your gaze over him—face, chest, arms, stomach.
"I thought you got shot," you breathe out when you don't see anything out of place.
"You heard about my dramatic entrance?" he remarked lightly. "I was hoping for flowers, at least." He sits down on the bed, beginning to tear off the tape for the dressing.
That gets nothing from you. No eye roll. Not even an annoyed huff. Your chest is still rising too fast.
"What the fuck were you thinking?" you snap, voice cracking halfway through. "Why were you out there?"
"I—"
"Since when do you do that?"
Jack rubs at the back of his neck. "I've done it for about a year."
Your expression changes from confusion to hurt. "What?" Your brows furrow. "Have you done it while we've—" you trail off, hands gesturing between you.
"No," he says quickly and firmly. "No."
Your shoulders relax a bit, your breathing slowing as you watch him squeeze out saline and reach for a cotton swab. You frown, only then realising that he's sitting shirtless in front of you with a tray of medical supplies in front of him. The way he's favouring one arm, the ugly scrape across his shoulder— "Oh my god."
You move instantly, snapping on a pair of gloves, gently slapping his hand away. "Let me."
"It’s fine," he says automatically, even though he knows he can't reach it.
You shoot him a look sharp enough to silence him.
The room falls quiet as you step closer, reaching for a cotton swab with shaking fingers. You don’t say anything as you start cleaning the scrape. Your fingertips brush briefly against his skin as you adjust your grip, and something in his chest twists painfully. You haven’t touched him in weeks—not properly. No absentminded shoulder bumps, no hand on his back, no leaning into him during rounds—none of those quiet little gestures that used to come so naturally.
And now here you are, jaw tight like you're holding yourself together by sheer will, dabbing at the wound gently, fingers holding onto his shoulder to keep him still.
"Why do you do this?" you ask quietly as you place a dressing over it.
He tilts his head instead of shrugging. "It's better than golf," he jokes. You don't laugh. He tries again, "Midlife crisis?"
Maybe you’ll call him old, maybe you’ll roll your eyes—anything that’ll show him that he hasn’t ruined everything with that kiss. Instead, he hears a sniffle behind him.
Jack stills, turning to look over his shoulder. You're staring down at his back, jaw still tight, but now your eyes are also glassy.
"Whoa, hey," he turns around as you tear off your gloves and throw them into the bin forcefully. "Hey."
"I'm fine," you mutter, not looking at him.
"You're crying."
"I'm not." Your voice cracks on the final word, and Jack hates himself for choosing to respond to that text.
"Sweetheart," he says quietly, the word slipping from his lips before he can stop it. He hasn’t called you that in weeks.
You wrap your arms around yourself and sniff once again. You're still not looking at him. "You really scared me. I thought you got shot."
"Hey," he encourages softly. "Come here."
You hesitate, but then take a step closer to him. He reaches for your hands—they're still shaking a little. He’s not sure if you’ll let him, but you do. Before he can think better of it, he pulls you in between his knees.
He tilts his head, waiting until your eyes meet his. "I'm okay. My vest caught it—it’s just a graze."
"This time, maybe," you stress. "What about next time? You can’t control what happens out there, Jack."
He fights the urge to look away.
"You could’ve gotten seriously hurt," you add quietly.
"I know."
"I just—" Your voice wobbles again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—" You bite your lip hard and look away again.
He squeezes your hands gently, bringing your attention back to him. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. He wants to promise he won't do it again, but the words catch in his throat. You’ll be out of his life soon—not for good, but in a way that’ll tear the rest of his heart out, and he knows he won’t be able to fight it.
Then a tear drops down your cheek, and he can't stop himself. "If you hate this," he says softly, his thumbs brushing your knuckles subconsciously, "I won’t do it again."
You peer up at him, teardrops beading your waterline. He wipes your cheek gently. "What?"
"I won't go," he promises.
"Jack—"
"I mean it." The thought of seeing you cry breaks him. Not over him.
"Really?"
He can't say no when you look at him like that, like it means everything to you that he's safe. "Yeah," he says. "Really."
You stand there for a second, searching his face like you want to believe him, then something shifts in your face. You step back, drop his hands and wipe your face harshly.
You snap on a new pair of gloves and busy yourself with throwing out the supplies. "You don’t have to do that," you murmur. "I—I overreacted. You can do what you want."
Jack’s heart sinks, unsure what changed so suddenly. "You didn’t—"
"I did," you interrupt, a tiny laugh escaping you. "I just…" you trail off, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. Whatever it is, you swallow it down.
"You should get some sleep," you say quietly instead. "You have to be back in a few hours."
Jack opens his mouth, but you’re already turning away.
"I didn’t mean to—" he starts. He isn't sure what he means, just that he wants you to look at him again.
"It’s fine," you cut in too quickly. You leave him sitting on the bed, staring at the closed door.
The next day, Jack comes in early, shifting awkwardly in front of you until you look up from the computer.
"Uh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "You got a minute?"
You nod, instinctively looking at his shoulder. "Yeah?"
He gestures vaguely. "The dressing thing... It's kinda tricky one-handed."
You close the chart immediately. "Okay."
The exam room he leads you into seems to shrink, feeling even smaller with him standing there, his broad shoulders taking up space as he awkwardly settles onto the bed.
You stand in front of him with gloves on. "Take your shirt off," you say.
His mouth twitches. "You buying me dinner first?"
You raise an eyebrow at him.
He sighs. "Tough crowd." Slowly, he slips his shirt off.
You try not to stare and begin peeling back the dressing. The scrape looks better. You work in silence.
"How’s it look?" he asks eventually.
"Fine." You finish taping fresh gauze over the scrape. "You should still be careful," you say softly.
"I am careful."
You don't answer him.
He sighs. "…Careful-ish."
You almost smile. Almost.
"Thanks," he says quietly when you finish.
"No problem."
He lingers like he wants to say something. You do, too. Eventually, duty calls when rounds begin.
After that, you start looking at apartments like you'd promised. Stealing glances at listings between patients—careful not to let anyone else notice. Scrolling through options when sleep refuses to come. It gives your hands something to do when the house feels too quiet.
You try very hard not to think about how much you don't want to leave. You love this little house. You love sitting on the terrace, listening to the birds. You love curling up on the couch. You even love the coffee machine you can't figure out how to use.
For the first time, moving doesn’t feel impossible. Not with your new salary. It would be tight, sure. Painfully tight. Your student loans aren’t magically gone just because you graduated, but—
You could make it work.
A studio. A shitty kitchen. Questionable plumbing. Somewhere small. Somewhere yours. Somewhere that doesn’t make your chest ache. Jack would probably appreciate it if you left. Sooner rather than later. You wouldn’t blame him.
Ever since the shoulder thing, something had shifted again. Or maybe you had.
Because the embarrassment lingered. You’d panicked. Ran through the hospital like a crazy person because someone mentioned gunfire and Jack. Cried and acted like losing him would ruin you.
You’d scolded him like you were together. Like you had any claim over what he did with his life. And then he’d agreed too easily to stop. That somehow made it worse because obviously he’d just been trying to calm you down. Keep things easier and less awkward.
The sooner you could release him from his shackles, the better. Then he could live his life how he wanted.
One morning, you don’t hear him come home. You’re curled sideways on the couch, laptop balanced against your knees, rental listings spread across the screen. You barely register movement until a familiar hand sets a paper bag down beside you.
"Breakfast," Jack says.
You glance up too quickly and slam the laptop halfway shut, like you'd got caught doing something you shouldn't have been doing.
His eyes flick downward, catching the word lease. He stills, and something unreadable passes over his face. "Didn’t mean to interrupt," he says quietly, then he heads for the kitchen fast.
You stare after him, chest twisting.
"Hey, sweet cheeks," a familiar warm voice greets you as you round the corner.
You glance over, offering a tired smile. "Hi, Myrna. You doing okay?"
"Yeah," she says, raising her cuffed wrists slightly. "Better if you let me out of these."
"No can do," you say, already walking backwards toward the hub. "Sorry."
She lets out an exaggerated grumble that usually makes you laugh, but today, you simply rub the heels of your palms hard against your eyes. Sleep has been awful lately. Even worse than before. For weeks, the same haunting images replay in your mind: Jack bleeding, Jack unconscious, Jack upstairs, Jack—
You stop yourself before your brain can finish that thought. Because imagining what would’ve happened if he had been the one shot, if that shoulder graze had been just inches over—
"You okay, sweetie?" Dana asks, lifting her glasses to look at you more closely.
You immediately straighten and drop your hands. "Yeah, I'm fine," you say quickly. "Just tired."
Which isn’t technically a lie. You are tired. Exhausted, honestly. Still adjusting to attending life. Still trying to prove to the hospital that they didn't make a mistake when hiring you. Simultaneously cursing and praising them for keeping you on day shift a little bit longer.
"We’ll get through it," Dana says, mistaking your expression for stress about the overflowing waiting room and how you'd been running around all day, barely able to catch your breath.
You nod once. "Yeah."
But honestly? The day has been good—busy, but good. You caught a medication error that could have had serious consequences and handled a complex consult. You kept the board moving. The pace allowed you no time to think, and if you just pushed through another few hours, maybe you’d be tired enough not to dream tonight.
Suddenly, the ambulance bays swing open behind you. "Agitated on scene," Ziggler reports as they wheel a patient inside. "Had to give midazolam en route. Vitals stable, but he’s a big guy—took three of us to get him on the stretcher."
You step in beside them, nodding. "Any known head injury?"
"Not clear. Witnesses reported he fell before we got there. Could be alcohol involved."
You exhale slowly. "Okay." Turning, you catch Trinity's eye and nod for her to join you.
Ziggler adds, "No obvious trauma on primary survey," as you guide the stretcher into a room. The transfer goes smoothly—monitor hooked up, vitals steady, respirations normal.
As you step closer to the bedside, the patient stirs slightly. You watch Trinity adjust the pulse oximeter and check his pupils.
"His respiratory rate’s picking up," you note.
"The sedation should still hold," she states.
You don’t answer immediately. You’ve seen this before. "He’s coming up early," you say.
And then—
His eyes snap open. Not slowly or smoothly, but suddenly; confused and unfocused. His head turns slightly, and his breathing sharpens.
"Hey," Trinity says quickly, her voice calm. "You’re in the hospital. You’re safe."
The patient shifts too quickly, his upper body attempting to rise.
"Sir, don’t sit up yet," you say calmly.
Trinity moves in. "Hey—" she starts.
"Trinity, don’t—" you start to warn, but it’s too late. The patient surges forward, and you react without thinking, grabbing Trinity's arm and pulling her back.
This leaves you at an awkward angle, and his elbow strikes your side as he moves. A sharp, crushing pressure slams into your ribs, knocking the breath out of you mid-inhale.
You try to steady yourself with your hand on the railing, but your fingers slip, and your head catches the side of the bed. Everything dulls for half a second as you crumple to the ground, groaning.
Trinity’s voice slices through the chaos, calling out your name in concern. You can't respond. "Hola Hoop!" she screams. She moves back, trying not to further agitate the patient, keeping her eyes on him when all she wants to do is glance down at you.
Footsteps sound in the distance—fast, hurried. The room fills with more people, and you catch glimpses of arms securing the patient. You hear shouting, someone calling for more sedatives.
You attempt to sit up but instantly double over as pain flares in your side. Gentle hands reach down to assist you. It’s Dana. You blink hard, struggling to breathe.
"I'm okay," you manage to say, slowly standing. Dana keeps her hands on your arm the entire time, her brow furrowed with worry.
"I just got the wind knocked out of me," you say, lifting your head. Something drips down on your nose, and when you wipe it away, your fingers come back bloody.
"Mm," she mutters.
Robby appears beside her, panting. He scans you quickly, already assessing the situation, barely glancing at the chaos behind him. "What happened?" He grabs gauze and gives it to you. It stings when you press it against your forehead.
"She hit her side and her head," Trinity blurts out. "Hard." You shoot her a glare.
Robby shares a glance with Dana. "Okay," he says, replacing her touch on your elbow. "I've got you."
"I can walk," you say.
"Great," Robby says. "Walk to an exam room, then." He ignores your groan and guides you out the door into an empty room. "Sit."
"I'm fine," you mutter, taking in shallow breaths.
"Mm," he says while snapping on a pair of gloves. "Let me be the judge of that. Sit down." You listen this time.
He stops in front of you, his voice softening as he looks down at you. "What exactly happened?" He gently touches the edge of your wound, shifting your face around. The bleeding has slowed, and when he doesn't immediately do anything, it confirms that it's superficial.
"I'm fine."
He frowns, pulls out his flashlight, and begins checking your pupils.
"Patient woke up early," you sigh. "Too little sedation. He was confused." You shrug and regret it instantly. Pain flashes white-hot. You mask it.
"You get hit anywhere besides your ribs?"
You glare at him, knowing he already knows. Still, you indulge him. "My head."
"Did you black out?" He lifts his finger, and you follow it.
"No."
"Nausea? Dizziness?"
"No." You answer all of his questions and follow his orders, knowing it's the only way you can get out of this room.
He nods when he's satisfied with your neuro exam and then gestures at your scrub top. He pulls it up slowly. The bruise already blooming along your ribs looks ugly. Robby presses lightly on it, and you hiss despite yourself.
"That bad?"
"It’s not bad," you correct him, but he raises an eyebrow as if not buying it. He presses again, and when your breath catches painfully, you finally admit, "…It hurts."
He rolls his stool back. "Okay. I’m ordering you a CT and chest X-ray."
"Robby, no. I'm fine," you protest. "I just need a moment."
He doesn't answer you.
You try again. "Robby, we’re understaffed."
"You’re not going back on shift like this," he turns and types something into the computer. "Jack would kill me," he mumbles, mostly to himself, but you hear it all.
"Don't call him."
"What?"
"Don't call him. I'm fine," you say. "He doesn't need to worry."
"Too late," Robby says as he takes a seat again. "Dana already filled him in."
"What?" You close your eyes slowly. "Great."
Robby frowns as he begins preparing to clean the wound. "What's going on with you two?"
"Nothing," you retort sharply, then let out a sigh. "Really, nothing. I just don't want him to worry over nothing."
You don't want a lecture again. You don't want a reminder of what he thought of you the last time this happened.
You straighten again, looking at Robby hopefully, "Can I come back if things look fine?"
Robby exhales slowly. "Maybe."
The usual ten-minute drive to the hospital is cut to a reckless five when Jack receives the call from Dana.
You got hurt. That's all he needed to hear before he was up and out of the house. A patient hit you. You hurt your side and your head.
Dana hadn't sounded panicked, but head injuries could be serious. You could be bleeding internally while he was driving. While he wasn't there with you.
He parks haphazardly in front of the ambulance bay, not caring that he's blocking the entrance. He tosses the keys to Whitaker, who stands outside with his phone, then pushes through the door without waiting for a response—he ignores the dumb expression on Whitaker's face.
"Where is she?" he calls, the second he spots Dana.
"In there," she replies, pointing. She grabs his shoulder before he can take off. "Easy there, soldier; she’s okay."
Maybe so, but he needs to see it for himself before he’ll believe it. He flings the door open and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed. He quickly assesses you: one hand is bracing your side, your breathing is shallow, and you blink more slowly than usual. Your jaw is tight, brows furrowed, and there’s dried blood on your face.
His jaw tightens before he can stop it. He hears Robby start to explain—
"Possible rib injury, head strike, CT ordered—"
You cut him off. "I’m fine," you say, then look at Jack. "You can go home again."
His brows furrow. He knows what you're like when you're in pain—how you downplay it and try to hide it. He steps closer instead.
"I don’t need a CT," you insist, starting to rise.
Jack exhales. For some reason, you’re negotiating this like it’s optional. It isn’t. "Sit down." He keeps his voice steady. "No," he says as your mouth opens. "Sit down."
You scowl but sit after a second, your breath catching slightly. A flicker of pain crosses your face before you manage to mask it. It lasts barely a second, but he sees it.
His tone softens. "You’re going for a CT." He glances over at Robby. "I can take it from here."
"Jack—"
He doesn’t respond, just holds his gaze steady, and Robby steps back with a sigh. "The wound is superficial. Neuro exam is clear."
Jack nods, snaps on a pair of gloves and sits down. He’ll do his own assessment after cleaning you up.
"I'll come get you when it's your turn," Robby says, shutting the door softly behind him.
"So," Jack says, tilting your face to get a better look at the wound, "you come here often?"
You huff an annoyed breath, easing the tension in his chest. Annoyance is a good sign. "Very funny."
He continues to work in silence, cleaning the blood away, irrigating the wound, and closing the cut with a butterfly stitch. "This probably won’t leave a scar."
"Good. I was really worried about that," you mutter. "Don’t want my face to look like Scarface."
"Even if it did, you'll still be the prettiest woman in the E.D," he says with an exaggerated wink as he turns around to discard his gloves.
You huff another breath, but this time it's softer, less annoyed.
"Can I see?" he says softly, nodding at your side. You nod, and he pulls up the fabric slowly. His jaw tightens again, his fingers hovering just above the bruise before settling cautiously against your side.
"Jesus," he mutters quietly. He pulls the shirt down again after a moment.
You fiddle with the ends of it. "I didn’t do it on purpose," you say quietly.
"What?"
"I didn’t mean to get hit," you say, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of at him.
"Hey." He waits until you look at him. "I know."
Your brows pinch together like you don’t believe him.
Jack exhales through his nose and drags the stool closer until he’s right in front of you. One hand settles carefully over your knee. "Sweetheart, I’m not angry at you. I'm—" scared. The word sits right there, lodged somewhere behind his teeth.
He looks away instead, jaw working once before he settles on, "I’m just glad you aren’t hurt badly."
You study him quietly.
"I just…" He glances down, shakes his head once. "Dana called and said you got hurt, and suddenly I’m thinking about head injuries and internal bleeding and all the shit that could be wrong before I even get here."
His voice stays steady, but only barely. "And then I walk in, and there’s blood on your face."
You look down at your hands. "I didn’t mean to scare you."
"I know, sweetheart." He waits until you glance back up. "I promise I'm not mad. Not at you."
You nod, looking like you accept his answer. He keeps your gaze for a moment, then stands and helps you settle more comfortably onto the bed.
As soon as Jack’s certain you’ll be fine alone, he storms out of the room to find Robby. Spotting him, Jack pulls him into the break room and struggles to steady his breathing.
"Jack—" Robby starts, already sensing where this conversation is headed.
Jack crosses his arms tightly, straining the fabric of his shirt. "She shouldn’t have been in there by herself."
"She wasn’t alone," Robby replies.
"You know what I mean." Jack's voice remains low but cutting, controlled in a way that shows he’s trying hard not to lose his cool. "She got hit hard enough that she needs a fucking CT scan."
Robby leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "Yeah," he says. "But she also pulled Santos out of the way before things turned worse."
Jack’s jaw clenches.
"Jack," Robby says softly now. "You’re scared."
"I'm pissed."
"No," Robby says simply. "You're scared, so you're pissed."
Jack looks away. Because yeah. Fine. Maybe.
Robby continues, "That doesn’t mean she stops being good at her job."
"I know she’s good at her job." That's not what this is about.
"Then trust her."
Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Because he does trust you. That’s the problem. You were good enough to run toward things that could hurt you. He knows you'll do it again.
Robby sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, if I thought she was being reckless, I’d speak up. If I thought she couldn’t handle herself, she wouldn’t be here right now." He pauses. "She made the right call. The patient surged. Santos froze. She did what you’d have done."
Something in his expression shifts despite himself. Jack exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "...I hate this job sometimes," he mutters.
Robby chuckles. "Join the club. We’ve got t-shirts if you’re interested."
That gets a faint laugh out of Jack.
Robby nudges his shoulder lightly. "Go check on her before she decides she’s medically cleared and sneaks back onto the shift."
Jack’s eyes narrow at the thought. It’s not a question; you would absolutely do that. He shakes his head and pushes away from the counter. "...Thanks," he mutters.
Jack stays with you through it all.
From the CT scan to the X-ray, and through the heavy silence in between, he never leaves your side. He positions himself just out of the technologists’ way but remains close enough to notice if you shift incorrectly. The only time he steps away is when he isn’t permitted to stay, and he’s quick to return the moment he can.
When you’re wheeled back into the ER bay, you insist on getting into the bed by yourself, but you can feel his hands hovering just behind you.
You shift wrong, and pain flashes through your side. "Fuck," you hiss quietly.
Jack’s there before you can even regain your balance. One hand rests on your waist, the other steadies your arm. "Easy."
You blink at him as he helps you settle in. His hand remains firm on your waist while the other supports your arm until you're fully seated. It’s only once you’re steady that he takes a small step back—still close enough to catch you if you sway.
And then there’s nothing to do but wait. That’s the worst part. Waiting gives you time to feel things you’ve been outrunning.
"I’m fine, Jack," you say again. "You can go home."
Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you, not angry but also not convinced. Just… steady in a way that says he’s not participating in the argument.
Trinity appears at the edge of the curtain before either of you can speak again. She hesitates when she sees both of you. "I—I’m really sorry," she blurts out. "I didn’t think—he moved too fast and—"
You lift a hand slightly. "Hey, it’s fine," you say. "You couldn't have known."
Trinity still looks like she might combust from guilt. Her eyes flick to Jack, then back to you, unsure where to land. "I can—do you need anything? I can stay—"
"No," Jack interjects immediately.
Trinity blinks at him.
He continues, quieter but still firm: "You’ve done enough. She needs rest."
Trinity hesitates one second longer, then nods quickly. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Sorry again." She slips out, letting the curtain fall back into place.
"You didn't have to be that harsh," you murmur.
"You got hurt because of her. She needs to know that," he says.
You sigh. "It was an accident. She couldn't have known what would've happened."
"Maybe," he says, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed. He sighs after a second, "These chairs suck."
You snort, wincing slightly. "Well, what did you expect? If the hospital can't afford more nurses, we're not getting the good chairs."
He huffs. "Still."
Jack calls out from his night shift. You tell him three separate times that he doesn’t have to. He ignores you all three times.
By the time you're discharged, he's there, clearly settled in for the long haul. And as you walk into the house, he keeps one hand on your elbow, as if afraid that if he lets go, you might just collapse.
"I can walk," you grunt for the fourth time.
"Congrats," he says flatly, still not dropping his hand.
You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. Mostly because your ribs feel like they’re trying to murder you. Also because—
Well. His hand is comforting.
Inside, he hovers like a worried shadow. He guides you to his room and then to the closet for a change of clothes. When you mention wanting to shower, he frowns. He glances at the door and then back at you.
"I won't lock the door," you assure him with a sigh.
He nods, exhaling reluctantly. "I'll be right outside. Just yell if you need anything."
You raise an eyebrow. "It's just a shower."
His expression remains serious. Before you can say anything else, he rummages through his closet and emerges with one of his button-up shirts. "You can’t lift your arms properly," he points out, awkwardly holding it out. "This is easier."
You look at the shirt, then back at him. You have your own shirts, but you take it anyway. "…Thanks."
He shrugs in response.
The shower sucks. Everything hurts. Washing your hair hurts. Breathing hurts. Existence hurts. By the time you’re done, your head is throbbing again. It's not a concussion. Robby had been annoyingly clear. You got lucky. No concussion, no fractures, no internal bleeding. Just bruised ribs and a nasty bump on the head. You don't feel particularly lucky.
Jack fusses the second you emerge. He follows you to the dining room table, makes you food, and then proceeds to stare until you eat it. After a few painful bites, he helps you stand, his hand finding your elbow again. You don’t mention that you’re perfectly capable of standing on your own this time.
He starts steering you down the hallway toward his room.
You stop. "What are you doing?"
"You can sleep in my bed."
"What?"
"It’s better for your ribs."
You frown. "My bed is fine, Jack."
"Mine is firmer," he says immediately.
You stare. He's right. Your mattress is softer, cheaper, but perfectly fine under normal circumstances. Less ideal when every breath feels like a knife.
Still, you hesitate. "That’s really not necessary."
Jack exhales slowly, visibly trying not to argue. "There’s also more space."
You blink.
"For pillows," he adds hastily. "You’ll probably need to stay propped up. Plus, you hit your head, and I need to keep an eye on you."
You narrow your eyes. "I don’t have a concussion."
"You still have a head injury."
"It’s minor," you say, crossing your arms, only to regret it as pain flares up. You uncross them gingerly. Jack notices but stays quiet.
"You shouldn’t be alone tonight," he says, quieter now.
You look away first. "…I’ll be okay."
"I know," he says softly. "I just wanna keep an eye on you."
Something in your chest aches worse than your ribs because he sounds so careful, so concerned. You shake your head and slowly turn toward your room, hoping he’ll let you go. "I’ll be fine."
Jack doesn’t argue, which somehow feels worse. You take three steps before hearing movement behind you. He returns from the dining room, carrying a chair.
"What are you doing?"
He shrugs. "If you’re sleeping in there, I’m staying in there."
"Jack," you protest.
"What?"
"Your back’s gonna hurt."
He shrugs again and pushes your door open with his shoulder. "I’ll survive. I've slept on worse things." He sets the chair down beside your bed and sits down, like that’s the end of the discussion.
You stare at him from the doorway. At the chair. At him sitting there with crossed arms waiting for you. He means it—he’ll stay there if necessary, on that hard chair rather than crossing any lines by sharing your smaller bed. It's gone too far echoes in your head, but the image of him sitting there all night for you is too much. You're too tired, too sore, to keep this going.
With a long, exhausted sigh, you finally relent. "…Fine."
Jack looks up.
Avoiding his gaze, you mumble, "Your room... I’ll sleep in your room."
His expression softens in an instant—too quickly, almost as if he had been trying hard not to hope you’d agree. "Okay," he says quietly. Then, gentler, "C’mon."
And when his hand brushes lightly against your back as he helps you toward his room, you don’t move away. He helps you get into bed, positioning the pillow so you hurt the least amount. There’s a glass of water and some painkillers on the bedside table. His fingers brush back your hair, and you lean into his touch before you can stop yourself. For a moment, both of you freeze.
He steps back first. "I'll be right back."
You can hear him rummage around, and then he enters with the chair in his arms again.
"…Jack."
He sets it beside the bed and angles it towards you. Then he sits again, arms crossed.
You stare at him. "What are you doing?"
He frowns like the answer should be obvious. "Looking after you."
"No," you say slowly. "Why are you sitting there?" The whole idea of sleeping here was so he wouldn't stay in that chair.
He shrugs. "You’re hurt," he adds. "It's better if I—." He nods down at the chair, like that explains everything.
You exhale slowly and pat the mattress beside you. "C’mon. I didn’t mean to take your bed from you."
He hesitates, which somehow stings more than the chair itself.
You try to hide your hurt with humour. "Okay, well, I guess this way, there’s more distance from your snoring."
Jack just shakes his head at you. He lasts maybe forty minutes in the chair before you wake in pain, attempting to turn and failing without hissing.
Before either of you thinks about it too hard, he's helping reposition the pillows, one hand braced carefully at your ribs. It's easier for his leg to crawl onto the other side of the bed, and he stays there waiting until you fall back to sleep. He doesn't even realise when he falls asleep half on top of the blankets.
Jack checks on you constantly during that first night. He’s alert every time you shift, every breath that seems off, and even the tiniest sounds. The moment you move, he’s awake.
You don't say anything when you see that he's moved to the bed, and he doesn't either. But he keeps his distance, lying rigidly on the far edge of the mattress like touching you might somehow make things worse. Somewhere during the night, still half-asleep and in pain, you inadvertently shift closer. When you awaken again, you find his hand loosely wrapped around yours. The second he realises you're awake, he instantly lets go.
"Sorry," he murmurs quietly.
You don't answer. You just close your eyes again, a different ache settling in your chest.
The second night, you're not sure why you wake up. There’s a blanket tucked around your shoulders. Jack’s still asleep with one arm stretched awkwardly toward your side of the bed like he’d fixed it without waking properly.
By the end of the first week, things have shifted. You stop waking every time you move wrong. Breathing no longer feels like punishment, and turning in bed has become more uncomfortable than impossible. Sometime during that first week, Jack quietly stopped pretending the chair was still an option.
Somewhere along the way, the physical distance between you also disappeared. Sometimes you'd wake to find yourself closer than you remembered falling asleep—your shoulder brushing his chest, one of his hands loosely curled near your waist like he'd reached for you in his sleep and stopped halfway.
For the first time in weeks, despite the pain, you sleep. No nightmares. No gunfire. No waking up imagining Jack bleeding out somewhere you can’t reach. Because with him there—warm, solid, and close—your brain finally quiets down.
You tell yourself it’s practical. His mattress really is better. Firmer. Easier to breathe on. Less painful to get up from. You tell yourself that staying another night makes sense. Then another. Then somehow—
Another week passes. And you’re still there. By then, you don’t technically need help anymore. Breathing feels almost normal, and the bump on your head is gone.
You could return to your room—probably should. But every night seems to end the same way: you drifting closer in your sleep, Jack pulling you in without thinking, one arm heavy around your waist, your face nestled against his chest.
You tell yourself it’s just because moving hurts. Because untangling yourself would disturb him. Because his room is colder. Because—
You stop examining it too closely. It’s easier that way because you know what you're doing is only gonna hurt you in the end. It almost starts feeling normal again, and with every little thing, you catch yourself hoping. Then you remember the hallway.
I should’ve never agreed to this.
The hope curdles again.
Going back to work takes another week.
Jack hates it, insisting that it's too early and that you should take another week off. Eventually, he relents since you'll be back on night shifts—with him. You assure him you’ll stick to light duty: no lifting, no trauma rooms unless absolutely necessary. You listen—mostly—trying to let your residents take charge whenever possible.
You're still hurting, and maybe you should’ve taken a few more days off, but that's not the worst part. That's how normal everything has started feeling again. The heating pad after shifts. Coffee waiting while you chart. Pain medication offered before you even remember it's time for it. Parker and Shen grinning whenever they see the two of you together.
It should’ve felt reassuring. Instead, some days it made you want to scream. Because none of it made sense anymore. Not after the kiss. Not after the hallway.
The longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore that eventually something will have to give. You needed to move back to your own bed. Look at apartment listings again. Print out the divorce papers.
One morning after rounds, Robby lingers like he’s debating something. "Hey," he says. "You two got a second?"
"No," Jack says flatly.
Robby ignores him. He herds both of you toward a quieter corner near the supply room. You lean back against the wall automatically, careful of your ribs, relieving the dull ache after twelve hours of work. Jack's hand lifts like he wants to steady you, but he drops it again after a second.
Robby notices but says nothing. Just pinches his brows together and hopes that what he's doing won't backfire. "There’s a convention in Cleveland this weekend," he says carefully.
You groan immediately.
Jack blows out a frustrated breath. "Why do I feel like this is about to become my problem?"
"Because it is," Robby admits, wincing slightly.
"Seriously?" you sigh.
Jack exhales through his nose. "Fine. I’ll do it."
You turn toward him instantly. "What? No. You have the weekend off."
"You’re still recovering," he counters.
"I’m fine."
Jack shoots you an unimpressed look. "You’re leaning against a wall right now."
Before you can argue further, Robby clears his throat, looking surprisingly guilty. "Actually…"
Both of you turn to look at him.
"It’s a two-person thing."
Silence hangs in the air.
"…Oh," you say slowly.
Robby immediately starts retreating before either of you can object. "Thanks, guys," he says quickly. "I owe you one."
"Robby—" you start, but it’s too late. He steps around the corner fast.
You let out a sigh, and Jack follows suit.
"Well," he says after a second. "Looks like we’re going to Cleveland." He doesn't sound particularly happy about it.
You aren't exactly thrilled about it either. Hours trapped in a car. A convention neither of you cares about. He could have gotten a weekend to himself, but now, instead, he was stuck with you.
He sighs, then says, "I'll bring the car round."
You nod. "Okay."
There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Jack shifts his weight like he’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. Instead, he just gives a short nod and turns away.
a/n: ahhh almost there!! and we finally get trouble's injury scene that i have had planned since the start. a few of you have suggested it as well and i've just been waiting in excitement for it!! :DD
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, exam, drinking, two people being dumbasses once again
word count: 6.7k
a/n: ahh here we are again :DD i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
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Your alarm goes off a little after the first rays of the sun streak through your curtains. You've already been awake for half an hour, staring at the ceiling as you flip through differential diagnoses that you probably won't see on the exam.
It still twists your stomach to think that after this, only the oral boards stand between you and becoming a board-certified physician. It's even hard to wrap your head around the fact that your residency is over, and in just a few days, you'll officially step into your role as an attending physician. The longest and most challenging years of your life are behind you, just like that.
Maybe you should have decided to do a fellowship instead of taking the offer PTMC gave you—are you even ready to have others depend on you to have the answers?
You have to be.
But first, you need to pass this exam—a condition made by the PTMC when they offered you the position, which only makes this day even more nerve-wracking.
You roll out of bed with a sigh, get dressed and then head to the kitchen. You sit at the island, staring blankly at the piece of toast on your plate. Your mouth feels dry.
"You really should eat something." Jack’s voice filters in from behind you, sounding a bit rougher than usual, probably strained from talking all night. He had convinced Robby to come in early so he could be there to drive you. You didn't even have to ask; he simply made the call, leaving no room for discussion. At this moment, with your hands trembling from nerves, you’re grateful you don’t have to deal with public transport.
You steal a glance at him as he leans against the counter, looking more careful than ever. It’s as if he’s making an effort to ease things between you, despite the unresolved tension that lingers. Ever since that conversation, everything has felt off—hesitant. But this morning, it’s like none of that matters. Or perhaps he’s just getting better at masking it.
He takes a few steps forward and nudges your plate closer. "Toast. Half a banana. Something."
You shake your head, eyeing it distrustfully. "I'm gonna throw up."
"You're not," he says.
"I might."
"Then you'll throw up with food in your system."
Despite your nerves, a weak laugh slips out of you. Jack's mouth twitches like he's relieved to hear it.
He turns to the fridge and places a few things inside a paper bag and then pushes it towards you.
"What's this?"
"Emergency provisions," he says. "A sandwich. Pretzels. Protein bar. Water bottle. Some candy."
Despite everything, despite how far away he feels now, he still does this for you. "Jack—"
"Go finish getting ready. I'll make you a smoothie for the car," he says, tilting his head toward your room.
You slide off the chair, murmuring, "Thanks."
He doesn't answer, just turns and grabs the ingredients. You can hear the blender as you throw the last things in your bag. Then you both head to the car.
The drive is quiet, with only the gentle hum of the radio and the rhythmic tapping of Jack's fingers on the steering wheel breaking the silence in the car. You take occasional sips of your smoothie, the liquid gliding down easier than a piece of toast would have. You sit curled in the passenger seat, rereading the testing confirmation email for the hundredth time, even though you already know every detail.
By the time Jack pulls into the testing centre parking lot, your pulse feels like it's vibrating under your skin. You feel nauseous and dizzy at the same time as you step out of the car. Too much hinges on today going well—what if you fuck it up?
"Hey," Jack says, catching your wrist gently.
You look at him, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. He stands closer than he has in days, near enough for you to notice the faint crease between his brows, a mark that's been appearing more often lately. You can’t help but wonder if your own brow mirrors his. Without even realising it, you find yourself following his slow, steady breaths.
Someone passes nearby, and your attention snaps back to the building. Your nerves start churning again.
"You've got this," Jack says.
"Mm," you respond absentmindedly, still not looking at him.
He drops your wrist and cradles your cheeks with both hands, bringing your attention back to him.
"You've got this," he repeats, head tilting to look you deeply in the eye. The way he's looking at you, the softness in his voice, settles painfully behind your ribs. But this is just Jack. He takes care of people. Caring isn't the same as loving.
You nod weakly. His thumbs brush your cheeks lightly, making sure he keeps your attention before it can wander again. He breathes slowly, and you follow his lead.
"Repeat it," he says.
You breathe out. "You've got it," you echo, smirking a little.
"Ha," he huffs, rolling his eyes fondly. His hands leave your cheeks but don't go far, landing on your shoulders instead. "Don’t overthink it. You know what you’re doing."
You don't answer right away, but nod after a moment.
Jack grins and squeezes your shoulders before letting his hands fall down. "Go get them, tiger. I'll see you after."
You hesitate for a second, but then you lean in for a hug. His arms wrap around you immediately, palms rubbing your back gently. You breathe in deeply, letting his scent wash over you, and then you step back.
When you look behind you just before the doors, Jack sends you a thumbs up and mouths another 'you've got this'. You give him a shaky smile, and then you head inside.
After signing in, locking away your phone, and being led to a grey cubicle, the day flattens into hours of clicking through cases—trauma, chest pain, aches—questions that seem straightforward until they aren't.
During breaks, you mechanically chew bites of the sandwich Jack made you.
By the time it’s over, your eyes are stinging, and your brain feels completely drained, running on nothing but adrenaline and sheer determination. Finally, you see it: Exam Complete. It’s a bit underwhelming, really, with no score to indicate how well you did—just an empty screen staring back at you.
As doubts begin to creep in, you step out into the afternoon light, squinting against the brightness.
"Hey, I could use an attending over here," a familiar voice calls. Jack leans against the wall, holding an absurdly large bouquet of flowers, grinning from ear to ear.
You shake your head at him, yet a smile spreads across your face. You're too worn out to put on a facade, and his smile is too contagious. As soon as you reach him, he pulls you into a warm embrace. "Congratulations, sweetheart!"
You pull back enough to look at him. "You don't know if I passed."
He gives you a pointed. "I know. I saw how hard you studied for this." His expression softens as he hands you the flowers. "There's no way you didn't pass."
He gently places a hand on your back, guiding you toward the car. "Now, let's celebrate. You want something to eat?"
"Yes, please!" As the adrenaline begins to fade, your hunger sets in. "Can we get fries?"
Jack chuckles warmly as he opens the passenger door for you. "Of course! We can get whatever you want, honey. It’s your special day."
Jack pulls into a nearby diner, which you pointed out had a sign proclaiming to have 'America's best fries'. The place looks frozen in time—shiny red booths, black-and-white tiled floors, chrome-edged tables, and neon signs glowing softly in the windows despite it still being bright outside. It's perfect.
A sweet older waitress named Ethel seats you in the corner booth and takes your orders. She eyes the presents that Jack has placed on the table with a curious smile—you'd been just as curious when he grabbed them from the back.
"Is it your birthday, sweetie?" she asks.
"Oh no," you shake your head.
"She's just finished her residency," Jack supplies with a proud smile.
"Oh wow," Ethel grins. "Congratulations!"
"Thank you," you say shyly.
Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "I'll be right back," Ethel says, spinning around to give your order to the kitchen.
Jack looks at you. "You wanna open your presents first or talk about the questions?"
Your eyes snap to his, unaware that he'd noticed how your mind was already spiralling.
"Go over them with me," he says. "I'm sure you did great."
He really is. And when he chooses the same answers as you did for all of the questions you remember, he knows you did great. With each confirmation, your shoulders go down minutely, until you're fully relaxed as the food arrives.
As you tear into your fries, Jack watches you across the table. Even tired and still slightly frazzled, you look gorgeous. He knows things have been weird, his fault really, but he hadn't expected you to bring up getting a divorce already. He thought he had more time. He clears his throat before the feeling can sit too long.
"Sorry to cut in," Ethel says as she walks by. In her hands, she holds a massive milkshake, whipped cream balancing precariously. "On the house. Congrats, sweetie."
"Oh wow," you exclaim. "Thank you so much." Your fingers curl around the glass, and you take a big sip.
"This is delicious," you say, lips still wrapped partly around the straw, words coming out jumbled. You push the glass toward him. "Wanna try?"
"Sure." He takes a sip and gives you an approving hum. He's not the biggest fan of milkshake, but when you offer it, it's his favourite drink in the world. "Now, I think it's time to open your presents."
You eye the boxes warily. "Does it matter which one I open first?"
He shakes his head and laughs when you go for the big one first. Exactly what he knew you would do.
You eagerly peel back the wrapping paper, and he can't help but grin when your eyes widen in disbelief. "No way." You rip off the rest of the paper, holding the box with your mouth slightly agape. "Jack—"
You turn it over, still in shock. It’s a Littmann stethoscope. Glancing back at him, you say, "This is way too much."
He shrugs, a smile spreading on his face. "You deserve the best," he replies, not at all concerned about the price when it comes to you.
"I can’t take this," you protest, still staring at the box.
"It would be rude not to," he teases gently. "It’s yours, honey. I doubt anyone else would want it with your initials on it."
"What?" You gulp, brows knitted as his words sink in. Your eyes begin to glisten. "Thank you."
He brushes it off, looking pleased. "Now, open the other one."
You carefully peel back the wrapping paper this time, revealing a velvet box tucked inside.
Jack suddenly regrets everything. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe Parker was wrong. Maybe getting something sentimental after weeks of distance was stupid.
As you gently open the box, the moon pendant on the necklace glimmers in the light of the diner.
"It’s the phase the moon was in when you switched to nights," Jack remarks, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. "I thought it was... kind of fitting, you know? With you being an attending on the night shift now."
For a moment, you’re silent, simply gazing at the pendant and then back at him. Your expression softens—vulnerable enough to tighten something in his chest painfully. "Jack…" you murmur softly.
Your fingers linger over the engraving of your nickname on the back as if you can’t help but keep touching it. Your mouth presses into something smaller, tighter. "You really didn’t have to do all this," you murmur, voice wavering around the edges.
He clears his throat. "I wanted to."
You nod a bit too quickly. "It’s really sweet," you say, already reaching for a smile that feels slightly too rehearsed. You look back down at the necklace again, thumb dragging over the pendant.
"I love it," you add quietly, almost to yourself. "Help me put it on?"
Jack swallows hard and nods.
You don’t mean to, but you nod off during the drive home, lulled into sleep by Jack’s soft humming. The adrenaline from earlier fizzled out during dinner, and now that you have food in your stomach, it’s harder to stay awake.
You stir awake as he pulls into the driveway, and with your eyes still half-closed, you stumble toward the front door. Jack unlocks it and motions for you to go in first. The house is dark and silent, the only noise coming from you as you hang up your jacket. Jack trails closely behind as you make your way to the living room. You don’t notice the tension radiating from him or how he’s practically holding his breath.
Just as you’re about to cross the threshold, the lights come on, and a loud chorus of voices erupts—
"SURPRISE!"
You yelp, stumbling backwards into Jack's chest. He catches you immediately, steadying you.
"Fuck," you gasp, one hand flying to your heart while laughter erupts around the room. Your eyes widen as you take in the scene: people crammed onto the couch, filling the kitchen and dining area—residents, nurses, and attendings, all grinning from ear to ear. Several phones point your way, capturing your shocked reaction.
Streamers hang askew from the ceiling, and a banner taped to the wall behind the couch reads, ‘CONGRATS!’
Parker cackles loudly at your face. "Told you she'd scream."
"You assholes," you breathe out. You turn to Jack with wide eyes. "Did you plan this?"
Suddenly, everything falls into place. The way he kept glancing at his watch and checking his phone before you left the diner.
He nods sheepishly. "Maybe."
Something warm spreads through you. He texted everyone, ensured your favourite people came, decorated, and made sure there’d be food and drinks so you wouldn’t spiral into anxiety alone. Your lip quivers slightly.
"Hey," Jack says softly. "Don't cry, sweetheart. You'll make everyone else cry, and then Shen'll start. Trust me, he’s an ugly crier."
"Hey!" Shen protests as people laugh.
You let out a laugh, blending the emotion bubbling inside you into something manageable. You grab Jack in a tight hug.
His arms wrap around you automatically.
"Thank you," you whisper into his shoulder.
His hand presses gently between your shoulder blades. "You deserve it," he murmurs into your hair.
You pull back to look at him, and you swear you see his eyes flicker down to your lips. The space between you feels charged, almost unbearable, but you turn away before you can dwell on it too long. You leap into the crowd, hugging and laughing your way through the congratulations.
Through it all, every conversation, every hug, every congratulation, you keep finding Jack.
He's mostly hanging back near the kitchen island, letting people have their moment with you. Directing gifts and cards to the foldable table he put up in the dining room. Occasionally, someone claps him on the shoulder, offering their congratulations.
After you've greeted everyone, it's been half an hour. Parker supplied you with a drink somewhere in the middle, and a light buzz has started to spread through you. You find your way back to Jack, bumping your shoulder against his.
"Tired?" he asks.
"A little."
"But happy?" he watches your face carefully, like he's ready to throw everyone out if you ask.
You glance around the room, taking in the lively residents engaged in playful banter, one nurse wrestling with Parker to keep her from popping open champagne indoors, and the precariously hanging banner. You turn to Jack, feeling the warmth radiating off him, and step a little closer.
"Yeah," you smile softly. "Really happy."
Jack beams in return, visibly relieved. "Good."
"Did I miss Robby, somehow?" you ask, taking a sip as you scan the room.
"He's not here yet," Jack replies, something almost boyishly excited in his tone.
Your eyebrows furrow, but before you can question him further, you’re swept into another wave of congratulations as more day shift staff arrive.
The front door opens after a little while. The sound barely carries over the music and chatter, but you’ve been wondering what Jack and Robby are up to since your conversation with Jack. Without hesitation, you step out into the hallway.
Robby steps in first, his tall frame ducking slightly as he walks through the doorway, even though it’s more than high enough for him. The moment he spots you, a grin spreads across his face.
"Robby!" you grin, swaying slightly as you step forward. "You made it!"
"Of course, I did," he replies, opening his arms just in time for you to collide into him. "My best resident's an attending now. And soon enough, board-certified, too. Wouldn't miss it for the world!"
"Best resident?" Trinity says as she passes by, squeezing your shoulder. "Rude."
"Talk to me when you stop falling asleep while charting," he shoots back.
"Make it more exciting then," she replies, leaving before he can answer.
There's a light tap on your shoulder. "Do I get a hug too, or are you too good for us ordinary folks now?"
Your body stills as you recognise the familiar cadence. "No way," you breathe, turning to face her.
Olivia grins at you when you nearly smack into her.
"Liv!" you squeal, wrapping your arms around her tightly. The two of you bounce in place, laughing together as Robby squeezes past with an amused chuckle.
"Oh my god," you gasp. "Oh my god, you're here!"
"I am," she laughs.
"How? What? When?" you pull back, but grab her hands immediately.
She laughs. "Jack called me. Paid for my ticket, too."
Your head snaps to the living room, where Jack stands with a beer bottle, watching the entire scene unfold with quiet amusement. "He did?" you ask, still looking at him.
Jack shrugs one shoulder, like flying your best friend into town isn't a big deal.
Olivia squeezes your hands. Because she knows better than you what's going through your head. You have nowhere to put the feeling, so you squeeze back hard.
"Oh no," she says playfully. "You’re not going to start crying, are you? Because then I’ll cry too."
"I'm not," you reassure her, sniffling a little.
"Mm," she huffs, smiling at you.
You laugh shakily and pull her into another hug. "I'm just so happy you're here."
"I’m really proud of you," she whispers in your ear. "Now, enough of the mushy stuff," she says, pulling back and quickly wiping her eyes. "Let’s get wasted!"
After introductions have been made and you've thanked Jack once again, Olivia pulls you out on the terrace. It's a little quieter outside, music humming faintly through the half-open door and laughter drifting out every few minutes.
Someone—likely Jack—has strung warm lights along the fence, casting a gentle glow around the edges of the yard. A few people linger in the far corner, drinks in hand, deeply engaged in conversation. They smile at you but don’t pay much attention otherwise.
As you sink into the lounger, it creaks softly beneath you, and a wave of exhaustion washes over you now that no one is tugging at your attention. The weight of the last few weeks—filled with the adrenaline and stress of the exam, along with all the emotions you’ve been avoiding—settles heavily in your bones.
Olivia sits down beside you, curling one leg beneath her. For a while, you both sit in silence, taking in the pink and gold sky above. You hadn't realised how badly you needed her here until she was.
She nudges your knee with hers. "You good?"
The automatic answer almost comes out. Yeah. Fine. Tired. But since it’s Liv asking, you look down at your drink instead and reply, "…Maybe."
Inside, silhouettes move through the house, and you catch a glimpse of Shen animatedly telling a story, Parker wearing a disbelieving frown nearby. And then there’s Jack—he’s half-listening to someone while refilling bowls and checking if the fridge is stocked. He laughs, his gaze drifting until he finally spots you outside. Something in his shoulders eases when he does.
As his gaze shifts back to whoever he’s talking to, Olivia watches you quietly. "Can I ask you something?"
You turn to her again. "That depends."
A tiny smile flickers across her face. "Are you actually sure," she asks carefully, "that the two of you are having the same conversation?"
You frown at her.
She shrugs. "I know what you said, but from where I'm standing…" Her eyes flick briefly to the window again. "…he doesn't exactly look emotionally detached."
You sigh, fingers tightening around your cup. "That's just Jack."
"He flew me across the country." She bumps her shoulder into yours as she leans back. "He called me, like… three? Maybe four weeks ago?"
"Really?"
"Mm," she hums. "Told me he was planning a surprise and that he wanted me there. He thought it wouldn’t feel right if I wasn’t."
Something warm and painful settles low in your chest.
"And," she adds, "he made Robby pick me up because he said if he left to get me, there was too high a chance that you'd notice something weird."
You blink.
"I'm just saying," she says, "that's a lot of effort."
"He likes taking care of people," you reply with a forced shrug.
"Sure. But this?" She gestures vaguely toward the house. "This feels a little above average."
You fall silent.
"You didn't hear the conversation," you say quietly instead. Heat creeps into your face. You hate it when she says things like that. Because you can't help but wonder if she's on to something.
Olivia’s expression softens. "Okay. But from where I’m sitting?" Her gaze drifts back to Jack, who’s already checking the window again. "That man doesn’t look like someone trying to leave."
Your chest tightens, and your head spins, caught at a crossroads. You want to believe her so badly. You really do. But hope is what led you here in the first place.
"Just..." she nudges your knee again. "Don't make permanent decisions based on assumptions."
The party grows louder as the night settles in. Music drifts through the house beneath the constant hum of overlapping conversations. Empty bottles and half-finished drinks crowd the coffee table and kitchen counters.
You’re standing near the kitchen island with Olivia, laughing at something Robby has just said, when the sharp clink of glass cuts through the chatter. Conversations begin to fade one by one.
Jack stands by the dining table, a beer bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other, looking somewhat embarrassed by the sudden focus on him.
"Oh no," you murmur immediately.
"Speech! Speech! Speech!" the crowd chants in unison.
"Don’t encourage him," you warn, shooting them all a firm look.
Jack rolls his eyes, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders as he glances around the room. Public speaking has never bothered him—he can run the Pitt without blinking—but this is different. This is personal.
His gaze finds yours and softens. The room quiets completely.
Jack clears his throat, "Okay. I wanna say a few words about my incredible wife."
Your breath catches a little at how easily he says those words.
The room collectively lets out an exaggerated chorus of 'awws'.
"Shut up, "Jack retorts flatly, though a smile breaks through. "She took her written boards today—which, for the record, I know she passed." He blinks at you, ignoring your head shake, and speaks directly to you. "You’re the hardest-working person I’ve ever met," he says quietly, "—and the most stubborn."
"You can't say that in a toast," you protest, laughing.
"I absolutely can," he replies confidently. "I’ve watched you spend years becoming the doctor people trust on their worst days." His mouth curves slightly. "I've also seen you survive residency fuelled by caffeine, spite and terrifying levels of determination."
Laughter erupts around the room.
"You care more than anyone I know,” Jack continues once it settles down. "About your patients. About your coworkers. About doing things right. The Pitt is better with you in it." He pauses, looking around the room. People eagerly lift their glasses, cheering their approval.
Jack shifts his weight, turning back to you. "And now it looks like I have to work with you as an attending."
"Don't say it like it's a burden," you call out.
"It is," he says dryly. "Because you're gonna show us all up."
"Damn right she is," Parker shouts, and the room cheers, prompting a soft laugh from Jack.
"I can’t wait for you to join nights again," he says, directing a pointed look at Robby, "—where you belong—"
You laugh at the grimace on Robby's face.
Jack continues, "—even if you're gonna steal all my favourite nurses."
"They already like me better," you say automatically, letting the alcohol drown any thoughts of Lily.
"See?" he tells the room, "Nightmare coworker."
Laughter fills the space again, but his eyes remain locked on yours. Then, speaking more softly, he says, "I’m really proud of you." He exhales quietly. "I know today was tough. I’m aware of the pressure you put on yourself. But I need you to understand," —his voice drops lower— "you earned this. You’re an amazing doctor."
The tears you had managed to hold back threaten to spill over. Liv subtly hands you a napkin. Your fingers find the moon pendant at your throat without thinking.
Jack's expression softens when he sees your face. And then he says the words he won't ever say in private. "I love you." His eyes don't leave yours. Something in his expression shifts—softer, almost wary.
The room melts around you. You wish, just for a second, that you could believe him. Maybe you would have—if this had been private. If he hadn’t said it with people watching. If it hadn’t come wrapped inside a toast and soft laughter, and the role you've trapped him inside.
He's your husband. Of course, he says I love you. What else is he supposed to say?
Jack looks at you for a second longer before clearing his throat roughly and turning back to everyone else. He lifts his bottle into the air. "To Trouble!"
The room echoes his sentiment. You manage a shaky smile through teary eyes, feeling Liv squeeze your hand.
"Okay, enough of the sappy stuff," he announces. "There’s cake in the kitchen and more drinks in the fridge. Have fun!"
He stops to add, "Oh—and if anybody starts discussing actual medicine tonight, I'm kicking you out!"
The room instantly bursts into noise and movement. You catch Jack’s arm as he walks past you.
"Thank you," you murmur, then step back, reaching for another drink. Jack catches your hand, like he wants to stop you from walking away.
Then he drops your hand again.
A little while later, you've been sent to the kitchen for more drinks by Parker and Trinity. Mel asked you more nicely.
Jack is already there, half inside the fridge, shifting bottles around. "What do you need?" he asks, without turning around.
"Two seltzers and two beers."
"All out of seltzers," he says without looking at you. "I'll go get some more." He shuts the fridge with his shoulder.
You don’t move right away. Neither does he. It stretches for a second too long before he nods toward the door. "You coming?"
You pretend to think about it, grinning slightly. "Do I have to?"
"No," he says, shrugging like it doesn't mean anything to him.
You follow him out anyway and pretend not to notice the smile on his face when you do.
Jack flips the garage light on and steps inside first. There are cases stacked against the wall, a half-open box of cups, and some random folding chairs shoved into the corner. It's cluttered in a lived-in way.
You reach for a case at the same time he does, your fingers brushing against each other.
"I’ve got it," he says, pulling away slowly. He adjusts his grip on the case, then shifts slightly so you can reach the cups.
"Thanks." You grab a sleeve, and when you straighten up, he’s already holding the door open for you. You pass him, close enough that your shoulder almost catches his chest.
Later in the evening, you find yourself sitting sideways on the couch, your head resting against the cushion as you half-listen to the radiologist whom Lily has been seeing. He'd brought a sweet card from her, giving you her apologies for having to work. Parker's vetted him earlier, and after about five minutes of questioning, you also deem him acceptable. He’s nice, sporting a bright smile that rivals Lily's in its brilliance, and he’s funny too—though maybe that’s just the alcohol coursing through your veins. As he recounts a story about misreading a scan, you chuckle into your cup.
"Hey, can I steal you for a second?" Jack’s voice cuts through your laughter, low and tense. His hand lands on your shoulder and slides down to grasp your hand, and before you can respond, he pulls you up and away. Your drink sloshes against your palm.
You glance back at the radiologist, whose name escapes you, offering an apologetic smile, but he waves you off with a smile.
As Jack pulls you through people toward his room, you twist your arm. "What's going on?"
He doesn't answer. He pushes the door open and pulls you inside, shutting it with more force than necessary. For a heartbeat, he stands there with his back to you, breathing heavily.
You wipe your hand on your pants and set the drink down on the dresser. "Jack?"
He turns around, his attempt at restraint already unravelling. His eyes are stormy, darker than usual. "You having fun?"
"Yeah?"
"It looked that way."
You frown at him.
"I know you've already decided how this ends—" he says, voice low and tense, "But don't do that in front of me."
Your brows shoot up. "Do what?"
"Least of all in my house," he continues, taking a step forward.
"What are you talking about?"
He exhales sharply, clearly struggling to rein in his emotions. "You know."
Irritation flares in your chest. "No? Because from where I was standing, I was having a normal conversation until you dragged me in here like I did something wrong."
His voice rises, filled with frustration. "You were all over him."
You step forward defiantly. "I was talking to him."
"You were laughing with him," Jack says, stepping closer. "For forty-five minutes."
"That's how conversations work, Jack. And it wasn’t even that long."
He scoffs, crossing his arms. "You could at least show some decency."
Your brows furrow, incredulous. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, "Decency? You're lecturing me about decency? That's rich."
His expression hardens. He’s close enough now that you can smell the beer and cake on his breath. "I don't understand what your problem is. You know what you're doing."
"My problem?" You take another step forward, refusing to back down. "My problem is you pulling me in here like I did something wrong while you’ve been flirting in front of me for weeks."
He blinks, his brows furrowing. "What? I haven't flirted with anyone."
You stare at him, crossing your arms. "Right. So, I've just been imagining things?"
He stares back at you, searching your face, then his nostrils flare. "Are you just trying to change the subject?"
"Are you?" you retort. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, mere inches apart now.
His breath hitches, and his eyes flicker down for a moment. "Jesus, what don't you get? You know I lo—"
Then the doorknob rattles
Your eyes widen as panic rushes across both your faces—the thought of someone walking in would be disastrous. Questions, rumours, explanations that neither of you can manage right now.
But beneath that panic lies something else: the way he stands too close, the jealousy lacing his voice, the realisation that for one fleeting moment, he sounded like he cared. Like he was hurt.
Without thinking, you react.
It's not gentle. Nothing about it is careful. It's frustration, anger, and heat colliding in a motion too fast to stop.
Jack freezes for half a heartbeat, maybe less, as if he can’t believe this is happening. Then something in him gives way. His hand wraps around your waist firmly, pulling you closer, while the other winds into your hair, tilting your head back as he kisses you deeply.
He turns you without breaking the kiss, and you feel your back hit the dresser. Woods digs into your hips, but you don't care. You try to swallow a moan as he licks into your mouth, but it still comes out broken.
Jack groans at the sound.
The door opens behind you—
"Oh shit—sorry!" a voice giggles, and then the door shuts again.
You move to pull back, but Jack simply follows. He crowds you closer, one hand gliding down your thigh and lifting you in one smooth move onto the edge of the dresser. You don't even register it properly—just the shift, the heat, the closeness of him. Your legs part to make room for him.
The kiss is still intense, angry, loaded with everything neither of you has said aloud for weeks. The anger burns hot at first. Weeks of hurt. Silences. Jealousy. Frustration.
It tastes sharp.
But somewhere between one breath and the next, it changes. Not softer. Like neither of you wants to stop long enough to remember why you should.
You let it go on longer than you should have, fingers gliding through the hair at the nape of his neck, brushing against the slight stubble on his cheeks, and then trailing down to his chest again. You soak in the sounds he makes, the softness of his lips, and the faint taste of beer lingering on him.
He mutters against your lips, "Please don’t make this harder—" but the rest fades away as reality crashes back in. You break the kiss, barely pulling away, your breath uneven, your foreheads nearly touching.
"Jack…" you murmur. "We…We shouldn't." You force yourself to resist the urge to lean in again, reminding yourself he’s drunk, and this isn’t what he truly wants.
Jack stills immediately. The air between you, once heated, cools instantly. He pulls back, looking at you with blown pupils, and whatever he sees there makes him falter.
He nods and retreats quickly, like he’s been burned. The sudden gap between you feels worse than if he had stayed angry. "No, you’re right."
"I—" you say as you watch the gap between you grow back again, heart pounding painfully behind your ribs. "Jack—"
"Hey, can I come in?" Olivia's voice floats through the door, slightly muffled and slurred. "I've got beer all over me—I need a shower before I start fermenting."
Jack watches you silently, like he's begging you not to answer.
You wet your lips, forcing your voice to work. "…Yeah."
The door swings open, and she halts mid-step, taking in the scene before her. Her eyes dart from you to Jack. "Should I—" she begins, stepping back.
"I'll go," Jack interrupts and brushes past her.
She stares down the hallway for a moment before closing the door behind her and locking it. "What was that about?"
You gaze at the floor, shrugging awkwardly. "…We kissed."
Her expression shifts immediately. "What?" she asks sharply.
Your stomach twists. "It—" you swallow, trying to push the ache down. "I don't know—" Your voice cracks at the end despite your best effort to remain steady.
"Oh, honey," she says, crossing the room to sit beside you on the dresser without hesitation, pulling you into her non-beer-soaked side. "Hey, hey—look at me."
At first, you can’t. She nudges you gently, then pinches your side until you meet her gaze.
"Everything's fucked," you tell her with a wet laugh.
She doesn’t respond, nor does she try to convince you otherwise. Instead, she pulls you closer, letting you cry it out.
Once your breathing slows, she leans her head against yours. "Did he kiss you back?"
You laugh wetly. "That’s not exactly the problem."
Olivia studies you. “Okay. We’re unpacking this tomorrow when you're not drunk."
For a while, neither of you says anything. Then Olivia heads into the bathroom. The shower runs softly while you shift to sit on the edge of the bed. Laughter and music drift faintly through the door.
Your chest aches in that dull, exhausted way heartbreak settles after it's done tearing through you. You don’t know what tonight meant, what the kiss signified, or what he meant by, “please don’t make it harder…”
You wipe at your face roughly, feeling humiliated.
Olivia peeks out from behind the shower curtain, her face partially visible through the cracked door.
"...Okay," she says cautiously. "I have gossip."
You blink. "What?"
Her mouth twitches. "Important gossip."
Despite yourself, a tired laugh escapes. "Liv, what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything," she says quickly. "Someone else did something."
"…Who?"
She's silent.
"No way."
She tries very hard to maintain her composure and fails immediately, breaking into a grin. "He spilt his beer on me and then—"
"You kissed Robby?" you gasp in disbelief.
Her grin only widens. "Don’t be mad."
You blink at her in disbelief, once, twice. "Oh my god," you laugh. "I can’t believe you."
"Are you mad?" she asks, biting her lip nervously.
"No!" you immediately reassure her. You're really not. "I just...didn't realise that was a thing."
"Well, to be fair," she laughs, stepping back under the water. "Neither did I until about half an hour ago."
The party thins out a little after midnight. Jack and you cross paths a few times, but he doesn't really look at you, no matter how hard you're trying to catch his eye. You didn't realise how much you'd depended on it before.
For the last few hours, you’ve been drifting through the evening, going through the motions without really being present. You smile through well-wishes, laugh at the appropriate moments without any real feeling, and hum along to the music without actually listening. Even through the blur of everything with Jack, you catch the few lingering looks from Robby in Olivia’s direction, like something has shifted slightly.
It's the only good thing you have to hold on to right now,
You guide a very drunk Olivia into your bed while Jack and Robby are busy clearing bottles off the terrace after saying goodbye to the last few guests. As you head to the kitchen for a glass of water, your steps slow when you hear their voices coming from the hallway. You find yourself pausing near the counter, unable to help it.
"You good?" Robby asks.
There’s a pause—a long one for such a simple question.
"Yeah," Jack finally answers. "I'm fine."
"That's not what it looks like," Robby says.
You hear Jack exhale. "It’s nothing," he says. "I just… I should’ve handled things differently."
You hear the jingle of keys. Robby doesn't respond right away, letting the silence prompt Jack to continue.
"I thought I had more control over it. That I could keep it contained."
"But you can’t," Robby states, not posing it as a question.
Jack emits a broken laugh. "No. I should’ve never agreed to this."
You bite your lip harshly.
"Brother," Robby says, shifting slightly, "That's not true—"
"It's gone too far now and I—"
You hold your breath. A chill spreads through your chest at his words. Gone too far. Deep down, you knew he regretted this. Now, you have it in plain words.
You don’t wait for him to finish. You step back before your body even catches up with the words, pulse roaring in your ears. Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, it feels like everything is about to break open.
But it doesn’t.
Whatever was building just… stalls out. You blink once, then again, waiting for the tears to catch up. They don’t. There's just a dull pressure behind your eyes that never quite turns into anything.
a/n: don't hate me too much! i know you're all gonna scream at me for this ending but the angst is almost over!! promise <333 and thank you everyone who sent in ideas for jack's gift to trouble! i already had the stethoscope idea planned and i'm very happy so many of you agreed!!
summary: as a way to relieve stress from being a resident in the PTMC, you sleep around. over the years, you’ve managed to keep it uncomplicated by following one strict principle: never sleep with coworkers. however, unbeknownst to you, your attending physician, Jack Abbot, wants to be an exception to that principle.
this was based on an idea that i posted weeks ago!
chapter 1, chapter 2
wc: 4.5k
warnings/tags: +18 mdni, jack abbot x reader, resident!reader, sex positive!reader who sleeps around just for stress relief, jealous!jack abbot, jack is a little toxic and an ass to reader, switch!reader, implied switch!jack, yearning jack, one-sided yearning (maybe or maybe not), masturbation, jack feels guilty for jerking off to his resident lol, ellis is reader's bestfriend, may be a lil ooc
a/n: first time writing smut so im saying sorry in advance, i kinda went a lil crazy writing this one so i decided to make it two chapters dsahjahjs (i worked on this for almost a month sdhjshjadshad but i hope i fixed this enough after reading thru it many times. i may need a beta reader for the next chapter) also wanna put it out there that i heavily fw characters thinking to themselves a lot so sorry hjsdahjas
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Surrounded by busy healthcare workers, patients, and their concerned significant loved ones, Ellis was the first one who noticed how you're in such a great mood despite being surrounded by such chaos and uncertainty if things are gonna go well in the ER.
She has known you for the entire time you started working here, immediately clocking it the moment you step out of the locker area, still adjusting your scrubs, eyes already scanning the board.
She takes a step beside you, looking at the same board.
"You got laid?" Ellis asks casually.
"Mhmm," you confirm, almost absentmindedly, a stupid grin on your face. Jesus, you're in bliss.
"How was it?" she asks, with a neutral face.
"I almost passed out," you grin slyly, giving her a summary of how the guy you met from the bar gave you a really, really good time in his apartment.
She breaks, laughing shortly, impressed, "Damn. So I'm assuming you're gonna see him again?"
"Yep," you pop the last letter.
"Oh, now I'm intrigued," she now looks at you, arms crossed, "So, are you gonna give me some details?"
"Of course, anything for my favorite doctor," you chuckle, already expecting this question as you pull your phone out of your scrubs to show her the guy's picture.
"It's a good thing he works at night shift like me, so we can bang after work and—"
You stop when you hear someone clearing his throat, a familiar one. You already know who it is, from how deliberate he's being.
You turn around, lowering your phone.
"Apologies, did I interrupt something more important than saving people?" Jack says almost innocently, the kind of tone he uses to make you feel worse. He looks at you with his shoulders squared up and his hands on his back.
"Oh uh.. No, sorry…" you say softly, unable to meet his eyes as you put your phone back into your pocket, keeping it in mind for later. Your attention drops briefly to the floor before you straighten again.
Beside you, Ellis shifts her weight, keeping her face neutral and unaffected by the intrusion, but she straightens up her posture in front of the attending as well.
Jack tilts his head, as if he's trying to figure out what your business was before he approached you.
He doesn't reply for a moment, keeping you on your toes.
"Save the girls' talk when we're not getting swarmed by patients, okay?" he says, almost sternly but not quite.
"Okay," you answer, making yourself feel small.
"Good, now come along. I need more hands on this patient," Jack nods towards trauma room 3, and walks ahead of you, not waiting to see if you follow, because he already knows you will.
─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────
Jack Abbot liked it more when you came into the ED with a frown on your face.
Sure, he's not fond of his favorite resident being in an awful mood. That's not something he would ever admit, because it sounds wrong the moment it’s put into words, especially coming from an attending physician. It's obviously selfish and petty, completely out of character with the kind of person he’s always been.
He is a very generous man, and the man who has gone out of his way to provide the help, comfort, and care anyone needs. He doesn't like it when people he cares for aren't happy.
But seeing you displeased—unsatisfied —also meant that whoever you chose, whoever you gave your time and attention to, that version of yourself he never gets to see didn't give you what you wanted. Which means you're still free, that no one has gotten a hold of you yet.
It sounds disgusting when he puts it that way, but he can't help it.
You are known to be that one resident who has a pretty active dating life, maybe more accurately, just a very active sex life.
Surprisingly, the people in the department didn't find it scandalous. They knew that this part of your personal life was something that you do to relieve stress. Nothing more, nothing deeper. It just so happens that this is how you cope with the stressful environment you willingly chose to be in the moment you decided to pursue this specialty.
It's not like you're reckless as well, you're… well, safe and careful. Hell, some of your co-workers approach you for advice. Some nurses and residents would approach you, trying to be discreet when asking you for your input or a tip when they're dealing with something related to their sex lives.
You were oddly respected for being that resident who, well, to put it simply, sleeps around.
Because you don’t let it interfere with your work in the PTMC.
You still show up promptly. You still work well with your peers and handle patients with the utmost care and knowledge that you have. Your charts are well-written, your decisions well-thought-out, and your hands steady even when your work environment isn’t. There’s no sloppiness to pin on you, no mistake anyone can trace back to a distraction or a bad decision the night before.
And of course, Jack knows about your reputation and, to be blunt, he's not a fan of it.
Not that he thinks it's shameful. Jack Abbot is sex positive! He doesn't care what the hell people do when they're horny as long as they're doing it safely and no one is getting hurt.
The issue is that it's you.
He doesn't think less of you because of it. God, he'd never do that. He understands coping mechanisms. He respects boundaries.
Everyone finds their own way to cope with the pressure, the exhaustion, the constant emotional whiplash that comes with this job.
Yours just happens to look like fleeting relationships and temporary release.
Over the time you have been working in his department, it took him a while to notice your pattern— whether you had a good fuck or not. Your work was consistent, which is impressive— but your mood, mannerisms, and body language are big indicators.
When you’re lighter, looser, almost amused by everything, he knows that the person you got to bed with was good and you'll probably see them again. When you’re sharp-edged, antsy, and just a little more reckless with your words, especially with stubborn patients, he knows that you just wasted your time with an asshole who is all talk but no fucking bite and that you probably already ghosted them.
He hates himself for taking note of it. It's none of his business. It has never been his business.
He knows to himself that it is creepy. It's almost cruel. Why would an attending physician even take note of something that isn't connected to their work at all?
Still, he finds himself watching you more closely on those nights when the frown lingers. Not out of concern alone, though that’s the excuse he tells himself—but because there’s something much more selfish in it. A selfish, fleeting satisfaction that settles in his chest when you seem to be in a bad mood, unimpressed, when whatever—or whoever—you gave your time to failed to meet your standards.
He knows better than to insert himself into something that is, by all accounts, none of his business. But despite understanding all that, it doesn't really help the gnawing feeling that haunts him every day.
It doesn't stop the jealousy that burns in his chest every time he overhears another story, another name, another reminder that people who barely know you get the parts of you he secretly wants too.
And another thing that he isn't a fan of is that you are a woman of discipline in your sex life. You are so stuck up on this rule of yours:
"Sorry, it's part of my principles not to sleep with co-workers."
That exact line is what you always say when someone from the hospital tries to hit on you—fellow residents, nurses, people from other departments.
Jack has heard it enough times to anticipate it before you even open your mouth. He’s watched it land on different people; some laugh it off, some push, some look almost insulted, but you never waver. He loves and hates how firm you are.
It is surprising and somehow irritating that you managed to uphold that stupid principle of yours for almost three years.
You would rationalize this rule of yours as the inevitability of ruining the rapport you have built with the people in the workplace. You have no plans of adding to the already messed-up environment in the emergency room.
The inevitable fallout between your co-workers seems small. But you just don't want to deal with what happens after. The day after. The shift after.
You don't want to have any friction with the people you work with. And in the ED? Friction might cause someone's life.
But Jack, the selfish man that he has become ever since you came to his department, wants to be an exception to that.
Although, he sees why you're so ironclad with that rule. Some people in the ED, of course, let their curiosities and genitals get the best of them, which resulted in a very awkward and tense working environment springing up from time to time. Witnessing what happened with Robby and Collins, along with Santos and Garcia, was enough for you to decide it isn’t worth it.
Jack can see the logic. He can respect it. He can even agree with it in the abstract.
And still, it doesn’t sit right with him that he is automatically included in the same category as everyone else. But he knows that being your attending physician? That is absolutely off-limits for you.
Being your co-worker and your superior. He definitely doesn't have a chance. The imbalance alone is enough to shut the door before it ever even opens.
But you have no idea how much he is willing to put in line to have you.
How much he wants you, and how much this want and need haunts him every fucking day.
─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────
Jack finds himself absolutely fuming when he still hears about your latest boy toy a few weeks later. You have been seeing him for weeks now, specifically 20 days—not that he's counting, and not that he would admit, of course.
Apparently, his name is Jake. A typical name for a douchebag, Jack thinks.
If you change the last two letters of that douchebag's name, it could've been his name instead.
The fact that this one hasn’t faded out the way the others usually do. That’s new. That’s… irritating.
The longest one before him lasted almost a week.
*
Jack is sitting in front of a compter at the nurse's station, looking at the records of the patients that he admitted earlier and the patients the shift before, when he hears you and Ellis talking on the other side.
"That must be a record," Ellis teases, looking over your shoulder as you send a text back to Jake.
"What?" You lock your phone, putting it back in your pocket
"Aren't you guys technically in a relationship?" She raises an eyebrow.
"Jesus, it's not that serious," you roll your eyes.
If it's not that serious, not even deep. Then why the hell is this guy still in your life?
"What's so special about this guy?" she nudged your shoulder.
"He's good, I already told you," you shrug.
"That absolutely tells me everything and nothing at once," she scoffs
"What do you even want to know?" you sigh in exasperation.
"Juicy stuff. Come on, why are you weirdly discreet now? Is he special?" Ellis probes
"Oh my god, since when have you been nosy?"
"Can you even blame me?"
"Fine, well. He's really good. He knows what he's doing, with his hands, his mouth..." you say in a hushed tone, continuing to tell Ellis the juicy stuff but keeping it vague to not further expose yourself.
But of course, Jack can still hear it. His hearing is weirdly good when he's around you, despite his age.
Ellis lets out a sharp laugh, immediately catching on. “Oh, that kind of good.”
"Crazy stamina too," you giggle.
God, you sound so cute when you giggle, but he hates what provoked you to make that noise.
"It's nice that our schedules are aligned. Makes things convenient. Helps me loosen up a lo—"
Jack couldn't listen anymore and stops browsing through the records. He walks up behind you two, clearing his throat.
He sees you stop still for a moment.
Fuck. You thought to yourself.
"Done with your charts, Doc?" Jack raises an eyebrow, his tone gentle and polite as ever.
"Uh.. I only have one to finish—"
"Then you should be finishing it, chop chop," he interrupts you.
Jack’s gaze lingers on you for half a second longer than necessary—making you feel exposed and ashamed of what you were just talking about.
He shifts his attention towards the floor, patients already filling the room.
“Trauma’s filling up,” he adds,“I expect you both ready.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, already stepping back slightly, slipping your phone deeper into your pocket as Jack turns to the other way.
─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────
This feels very demeaning, Jack thinks to himself as he pulls down his pants along with his briefs.
Whatever this is, it feels humiliating but it's enough to get him off. He can settle with this: to think of you in times of his need and, when he's done, momentarily get you off his mind.
He feels like a teenager, holding back his stiff cock until he gets home. He always gets riled up when he's around you. This is almost a daily routine for him every after shift.
He sits down on the edge of his bed as he fully discards his pants, and hurriedly removes his prosthetic so he can lie down on his bed—a bed too spacious for him, but would fit if he's with a certain resident he's about to jerk off to.
The moment he got rid of what he needs to be comfortable, he lies down, head resting on his pillows as he starts palming himself, closing his eyes.
He likes to start thinking about kissing you. How your lips would feel on his, how soft and warm it would be pressed on his. He has always liked looking at your lips, and he struggles not to especially when you're presenting a case because if he indulges himself too much, you'll see through him.
He wraps his rough hand around his cock, slowly stroking it, his breaths getting heavier as he focuses on thinking about his pretty doctor.
Jack likes to think that it's him you spend your intimate moments with, instead of whoever the fuck you chose to be with that day. He wishes to be the one on top or under you, whatever you prefer. He'd do anything you'll ask him to do; he's flexible like that.
If his hypothesis is correct, supported by the stories he has overheard, you like being a sub and dom— a switch, as Santos would define it, when she and Whitaker were talking about you while they were gossiping instead of doing charts.
Sometimes he likes to imagine himself taking charge of you. He loves thinking of himself right on top of you, and there you are, lying on your back with your legs spread and glistening, every pretty part of you in front of him.
He groans softly, hand slowly pumping his hard shaft to relieve himself.
'Fuck yeah,' he whispers, picturing you asking for it, begging for it. You were always so polite when you would ask him for help with your cases, how you would sweetly ask, "Doctor Abbot, can I get your opinion?"
But you were always so polite, always so professional.
Jack can't help but wonder what you would sound like when you're not polite and professional anymore. Would you be needy? stubborn? or just bratty? Would you give in or put up a fight when he's being rough?
But then he is also very curious of letting you take charge. Just like how you would use your strict tone on him, the same tone you use on stubborn patients, younger residents and interns.
You never used it on him though, how unfortunate. You respect him too much as your superior, and he wishes that you didn't.
He imagines you telling him what to do to please you. Hovering over him, looking down on him like he's some pervert who is under your mercy. He has heard how you have taken care of people you dominate in bed. It's nothing really explicit but he can imagine you being on top of them, grinding your core on theirs with a menacing smile as you take in every bit of reaction you get out of them as you move your hips.
He moves his hand faster now, collecting the precum leaking on his tip to spread all over his throbbing member, making it easier for him to pick up his pace. He keeps tugging himself, breathy moans filling the silent room.
God, he wishes it was him. He always does, everytime you're in a good mood after a night out, he wishes that he was the reason why.
It's selfish to think of you like this and he shouldn't entertain it. That's what he always tells himself before and after he jerks himself off, but never during. It's a painful cycle, a painful ethical dilemma that he's been struggling with.
He shouldn't be thinking of a senior resident like this. The power balance is tricky. But how can't he?
You're— everything he respects, first. You're smart and unshakably competent. You always know what you're doing in the emergency room.
You are so gorgeous too, with or without even trying. You are just so exceptional and Jack cannot get over how you plague his brain so much when he's alone on his bed.
Because there is so much of you that he doesn't know, what you're like outside of the department.
He moves his hand faster, relieving himself all of the tension and warmth building up in his cock. God, he wishes you would just let him take care of you so you wouldn't have to go through that awful cycle of hookups.
He hates how it twists in his gut, this need clawing at him, making him stroke harder, the slick sound of pre-cum easing the friction. It's pathetic, really, jerking off to the thought of you while trying to push you away, to erase the way your voice echoes in his head, the way your body radiates heat when you're close, and the way your pretty face looks at him when you're listening to his instructions intently.
Sweat beads on his forehead as he pumps his fist, He shakes his head, biting his lip to stifle a groan. He wants to forget about you, because this is just so complicated to be in.
Everytime he gets too deep into this, he spirals. All the want, need, lust turns into this ugly anger that he feels guilty for.
Not angry at you, of course. But at himself.
Anger for feeling this way for his resident. Anger for not being the one you spend your time with outside of the ED.
He couldn't stop the spiral, the way his mind twisted the envy into something vicious. Jack's hand tightened around his cock, veins bulging under his grip as he thrust into his fist, imagining it was you around him instead—tight, slick, pulling him deeper with every roll of your hips.
The stories you'd shared in the break room, casual as if discussing shift schedules, replayed in his head:
Fuck, why them? Why not him? Jack's breath hitched, his free hand clawing at the sheets as he pictured himself instead of the people you slept with.
His thumb swiped over the head of his cock, smearing the leaking pre-cum, and he groaned low, the sound ragged in the empty room.
Jealousy burned hot in his chest, mixing with the building pressure in his balls.
It's always like this when Jack masturbates to the thought of you. All the want, the need, the ugly guilt, jealousy and anger mixed up in his body. He always puts himself through this, willingly too as much as he's afraid to admit. Because he just can't get you out of his head and his heart.
He hated how you laughed off the exhaustion of the ER, turning to strangers for release while he watched from the sidelines, pulse racing every time you brushed past him in the hallway.
He has been working with you for years and yet he knows so little about you.
Yes, he wants you, bad. But it’s about the fact that you keep choosing people who don’t see you the way he does.
People who don’t know how your mind works, how sharp you are under pressure, how steady your hands stay when everything else is falling apart.
Yet, they're the ones you go to.
They’re the ones you let in, even if only temporarily.
How can a beautiful person settle with people who don't even know how to actually take care of you?
Jack's hips bucked involuntarily, fucking his hand faster, the wet schlick echoing in shame.
He wants to be the one who makes you feel good. To outdo them all, to be the best one you have ever had, to make you come so hard you'd shatter, and you wouldn't seek this relief from anyone else because he would be always there for you. There for you to use, to go to either for comfort, for release, and even for love.
His abs clenched, sweat trickling down his temple as the fantasy peaked. He imagined how your face would be all hazed and gorgeous, as he pleases you. How you would say his name, so vulnerable under him.
With a choked curse, Jack came, ropes of hot cum spilling over his knuckles, splattering his stomach. But even as the aftershocks faded, the emptiness hit harder, his need for you, and his shame tied with it, lingering like a bruise.
─────────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───────────
You take the rare silence in the ED as your opportunity to catch up on your charts. You settle on one of the computers easily, typing away on the keyboard when you hear a chair slide next to you.
"Someone's awfully quiet," she breaks the silence.
"I'm working," you mutter, eyes on the screen.
After another moment of silence, Ellis moves closer to you.
“By this time you’d be talking about what your cat just did,” Ellis continues, nudging your arm lightly, “or whatever random thing you watched last night, or which fictional character you’re currently obsessed with—honestly, I can go on.”
You huff out a quiet breath, eyes still fixed on the screen. “I'm just not in the mood, Ellis."
"I'm guessing something happened," she slides her chair closer to you.
"Can't I just focus on work?"
"Nope."
"Whatever."
"How are you and your boytoy by the way?" she asks out of curiosity, not that she's looking for anything juicy, but you've been seeing this guy for more than a month already as far as Ellis knows.
"He ended things," you answer, a little abruptly, and a little too flatly.
“What?” she turns fully now, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to read past your tone. “Wait—what do you mean he ended things?”
You shrug, too quickly, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t bother you. "It's whatever. It was bound to happen."
“Oh no,” she mutters, stepping closer, arms crossing. “Absolutely not. You don’t get to drop that and then act like it’s nothing. What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” you insist, already turning back to your chart, hoping that’ll be the end of it.
“Uh-uh,” Ellis leans in slightly, lowering her voice but sharpening it at the same time. “Spill.”
You hesitate, filling out one section before stopping, taking a deep breath.
"It sounds weird."
"We deal with weird shit all the time, I can take it."
"Stop it."
"Come on"
"Ellis."
Ellis says your name, with a pleading tone. You sigh and remove your hands from the keyboard.
"I uh.."
"Hmm?"
"Well.."
"Just spill it out!"
"Okay!" you huff, getting annoyed by her persistence.
You take a deep breath, closing your eyes monetarily.
"When we.. when we were well, doing it..I may have said another name," you say quietly.
"But! I genuinely misspoke!" you follow up a little too quickly.
Ellis raises an eyebrow.
"Whats his name again?" she tilts her head.
"Jake."
"And you misspoke how?" she emphasizes the last word.
You gaze away, feeling your head about to explode from embarrassment.
"Come on, don't tease me."
"Well it's…" you trail off.
"What?" Ellis pushes it.
"Jack" you say softly, almost a whisper.
"I'm sorry what?" Ellis asks again, thinking she may have misheard.
"I may have said Jack instead of Jake," you say in a harsh whisper
Ellis's jaw drops, "Oh my fucking god. You mean our attending?"
"It was an accident! I—"
“An accident?” she repeats, incredulous. “You accidentally said your attending’s name—your attending’s name—in the middle of—”
You smack her arm to shut her up, your face heating up so badly now.
“I know,” you cut in quickly, dragging a hand down your face. “I know, okay? That’s why he ended things.”
“Yeah, no shit he ended things,” Ellis mutters, still staring at you like she’s trying to process it. “I would’ve ended things too!”
“It wasn’t like that,” you insist, though your voice lacks the conviction you want it to have. “It just slipped out.”
Ellis narrows her eyes at you.
“Mm-hmm.”
You glare at her. “Don’t.”
“I’m not saying anything,” she says, holding her hands up in mock surrender—but the look on her face says otherwise.
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking a lot of things.”
“Ellis—”
"What?"
"God, just leave me alone."
Ellis just chuckles, messing with your hair.
"You know I can see through you right?"
"And what the fuck does that mean?" you grumble.
"Jesus, getting hostile?"
You huff, rolling your eyes.
"I'm sure it's not obvious to anyone but, you've kind of had a thing for Jack for a while, haven't you?" she says in a low voice that you can only hear.
“That’s insane,” you say, too fast.
Ellis doesn’t react to the speed. Just watch you settle back into pretending this conversation isn’t happening.
“Is it?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Mhm.”
The sound is infuriatingly calm, you just turn to the computer again.
You click through the chart harder than necessary, eyes locked on the screen.
“This is not a thing,” you add.
"Oh come on, I'm not gonna tell anyone"
"Ellis."
"And I mean, I've seen how you looked at him and—"
"Stop."
"You dont have to stick with that rule of—"
"Ellis, please stop."
"I’m not even judging you! I’m just saying maybe there’s a reason you accidentally said his na—"
"Will you please shut the fuck up!" you say a little too loudly.
The sound cuts through the low hum of the ED just enough that a couple of heads subtly shift in your direction.
You let out an exasperated sigh, grounding yourself from how that conversation rattled you a little more than you expected.
"I.. Sorry everyone. I need a break," you excuse yourself, walking straight outside the ER.
You didn't even notice that Jack has been sitting just a few feet away from you this whole time, watching you walk out of the floor.
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