Gray

| 19 | 🏳️‍🌈 | They/She |

[abbotbunny]

GIRLS LIKE GIRLS

trinity santos x fem!abbot!reader

warnings: implied sexual content but no nsfw, yearning from both sides, usual stuff that’s in the pitt, pretty much everyone is a little ooc. i’ll add warnings on every chapter just in case.

reader is an r2 and started at the pitt at the same time as trinity, whittaker, javadi & mel. i will occasionally use inde navarrette as a face claim, but you can imagine reader as anyone you want to !!! reader has a chihuahua named mango and she is jack’s adopted daughter also :)

PARTS:

00. introductions

01. more than a feeling

02. night shift

03. gogo juice

04. no place like home

05. just like heaven

06. talk talk

[fxckingjo]

𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 🩺 (j. abbot)

In the spirit of democracy, this summer is going to be a DBF series double-header ;)

On a camping trip celebrating your father's fiftieth birthday party, you cross paths with Jack, his best friend and old military pal. What follows is a seventy-two-hour love affair that ends with his abrupt departure. No note, no calls. You don't even know how to find him - or if you want to.

Four years later, you begin your ER residency at PTMC. Your night shift attending? The same man who took your virginity, broke your heart, and then disappeared without a trace. But you're not the same wide-eyed girl he left behind, and you soon prove yourself as an impressive force of nature.

He’s a curse you can’t break. You are the temptation he can’t resist.

Coming soon to a Tumblr near you!

Weekly Updates starting Friday, April 17th. 12:00AM PST.

[In Progress] 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. (ongoing)

Read on AO3!

NOTE I do not have a taglist. Follow @notify-fxckingjo for all updates :))

UPDATE: The semi-official Crash Course soundtrack is here!!!

[keytomylockhart]

you shaved your bush

Jack Abbot x Reader

summary: In an attempt to seduce a past hookup, you accidentally send your attending, Jack Abbot, a lewd photo.

tags/warnings: MDNI 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), piv sex, pussy eating, fingering, pussy slapping, jack abbot certified bush lover, overstimulation, implied age gap (reader is a resident), medical inaccuracies (peritoneal lavages are rarely used nowadays, but who cares), no use of y/n, trauma scene based on an episode of ER teehee.

wc: 9.5k

a/n: okay this is fully like two weeks late to the trend but it was inspired by that “you shaved your bush” tiktok trend lol. I genuinely do not know how this got so long, It was supposed to be a cute little fic but i got carried away, oopsies! I hope you enjoy <3

credits: gif credits to @ho-ii !!

It was Friday afternoon and you were desperately, achingly horny. 

You’d tried your old faithful vibrator, which was doing the job fine, but you were desperate for some human connection. Your mind drifted through the mental rolodex of who you could call up for some casual fun. It was a short list, your demanding schedule not lending itself to a particularly vibrant social life. You’d only been on a handful of dates in the past year, most of which ended in disaster. 

Alex was out of the running because of his unfortunate odor problem. 

Sam was out due to a creepy doll collection he failed to disclose until you made your way to his apartment. 

And Daniel was out because, frankly, he was terrible at sex, which is kind of a sticking point for you right now. 

That left James, a guy you met on one of the apps and who was decent enough with his mouth that you’d seen him a handful of times. You didn’t hook up with him often, mostly because he was particular about your pubic hair. He preferred for it to be cleanly shaven, or at least heavily trimmed before he would consider going down on you. 

So despite the fact that he wasn’t much good at fucking, you tended to go back to him when you needed a release. Yes, your standards were abysmally low, but the truth of the matter was that residency didn’t really give you any time to get out and meet new, better hook-ups. So James it was. 

It had been a couple months since you’d hooked up, mostly due to this preference of his. Unfortunately, taking the time to take an ‘everything shower’ just to get your pussy eaten was a luxury that you were not often afforded due your residency schedule. 

But today you’d had the time, energy, and desire to get devoured, so you hopped in the shower to take care of everything. By the time you emerged your hair was double cleansed, you’d applied a hair mask, exfoliated, shaved your legs, applied moisturizer and body oil, and–most importantly–your pussy was cleanly shaven. 

You had a renewed pep in your step as you made your way over to your bed, ready to entice James. You maneuvered onto the bed and experimented with a few poses before landing on one that showed off your assets the best. You propped up your phone–timer set for 10 seconds–and you scrambled into position, perching back on your haunches and settling back on your feet, back arched a little uncomfortably. 

You heard the shutter of the camera going off and quickly extricated yourself from the uncomfortable position. Looking over the image, you were very impressed. 

The photo pictured your nude body from the chest down, beginning with the barest hint of the underside of your breasts showing, then the expanse of your stomach and curve of your hips. Lower, your fingers were on your pussy, parting your lips just enough to tease. It was a damn good nude, if you did say so yourself. James was lucky to receive it. 

It had been so long since you texted him that instead of scrolling through endless scam messages and bill reminders, you just typed in the first few letters of his name to pull up his contact. As soon as you typed ‘ja’ it popped up, and you quickly began composing your message. 

Gnawing at your thumbnail, you went back and forth on a few messages, trying to sound sexy, but playful. After five minutes of deliberation, you decided to just go with what you had. Honestly, it’s not like James was going to give it more than a second thought–if he wanted to fuck he wasn’t going to care about how sultry (or not) the message you sent him was.

You settled on: 

you: shaved just for you. want something sweet to eat? ;) 

You looked it over for a minute, nodding to yourself and hitting send before you could psych yourself out. 

What a mistake. 

Jack sat at the work station, mouth open and slackjawed, still staring at his phone screen. 

Not at the photo anymore–no, that had been quickly swiped away–but the image was still burned into his retinas, the after image projecting onto the back of his eyelids when he closed them. 

Why? 

Because three minutes ago he received a text message from one of the day shift residents. He was concerned, initially, because there was little reason for day shift residents to contact him as opposed to Robby. Which is why Jack opened the message as soon as he saw it come in, thinking it might be an emergency, especially because it was you. 

Instead, he was greeted with a sight he thought he’d never have the pleasure of seeing. 

You, stretched back on your heels, breasts barely visible, pussy on full display for him. Your fingers held you open, your folds glistening in the late summer light that was streaming in, your pretty little clit in the center, just begging to be sucked. It was, quite possibly, the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photo for a good 30 seconds, before the logical side of his brain kicked in and he remembered oh yeah, I’m at work and can’t be caught looking at my resident’s cunt. 

He wasn’t unfamiliar with you, even though you’d only worked a handful of shifts together. But he saw you every morning at handoff, and you two shared warm smiles and easy jokes, your sardonic wit matching his bar for bar. He knew you were smart, able to hold your own in a trauma, and compassionate and empathetic underneath it all. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were gorgeous either. 

And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of you in this sort of light before, either. Jack Abbot was not a proud man–he could admit that on more than one occasion, he’d stood in his shower fisting his cock to the image of you on your knees for him. 

It was especially bad when you did something impressive at work. Like the time you went toe-to-toe with a surgeon about whether a patient really needed surgery when you insisted that all they needed was a pericardiocentesis, and to prove your theory, you stuck the needle into the pericardium and extracted the fluid despite surgery’s objections. A ballsy move, one that would have been deeply problematic if you were wrong, but paid off. He’d had to rub one out in the bathroom that day. He apparently has a thing for competency. 

“You’re gonna catch flies, Abbot,” Ellis said, walking out of an exam room, IPad tucked under her arm and smirk wide on her face. Jack shook himself out of his reverie, trying desperately not to think of your photo (but failing miserably). 

He cleared his throat, “Sorry, what’ve you got for me?” he asked, still a bit dazed. Ellis looked at him skeptically–there wasn’t much that threw Dr. Jack Abbot–but proceeded to present her case anyway. 

Once he approved her plan of treatment, Jack returned to his phone. He sat there for a long moment, contemplating what to do. You hadn’t said anything else, no frantic “I’m so sorry, that obviously wasn’t meant for you,” texts that explained the situation. Jack was positive it wasn’t intended for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass you more than you were sure to be. 

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, dancing nervously as he typed out his reply.

You started getting ready after sending the text, anticipating that James would want to meet up tonight. You did your hair, applied a bit of light make up, and threw on a cute little sundress. 

It was about an hour later when you went to check your phone again, fully expecting to see a cheeky message from James inviting you over for some fun. 

What you saw made your stomach drop instead. You felt dizzy, nausea washing over you in roiling waves. The text thread you were looking at was addressed to Jack Abbot, not James. And staring back at you was your nude body, followed by a response from Dr. Abbot. 

Jack Abbot: I don’t think I’m the intended recipient for that photo. 

Jack Abbot: But for what it's worth, a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. Would prefer it, actually. 

Jack Abbot: Sorry, that was inappropriate. I’ve deleted this text thread, along with the photo. We can pretend this never happened. 

There’s no fucking way. Absolutely not. There is no possible way that you accidentally sent a nude photo of yourself to your fucking attending. Not just any attending either, but the one you'd had a big fat stupid crush on for the better part of a year. The one you’d spent endless nights fantasizing about with your fingers plunged deep into your cunt, whose visage you’d pictured hovering over you, fucking you hard and deep; the name you accidentally moaned when James was eating you out the last time you hooked up. 

Your mind refused to accept that this was reality, hoping against hope that this was some twisted fucking nightmare. 

Shame welled up inside you, your cheeks hot from embarrassment and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, mortification settling in earnest now. In addition to being humiliating, you also felt like a fucking creep. From his perspective, you just sent him a completely unsolicited nude photo. 

Even more so, you hated that this probably killed any chance you had with him, even if that chance had been slim to none to begin with. 

You paced your bedroom, thumbnail chewed raw as you tried to do damage control. What does one even say after they accidentally send a nude to their boss? After far too much deliberation, you decided to keep it simple, apologize, and crawl into your bed for the remainder of your two days off. 

You: Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about that!! I obviously didn’t mean to send that to you. 

You: I meant to send it to a James and must not have looked closely enough before I sent it. 

You: Thank you for deleting the photo, and I’m so sorry once again that you were subjected to seeing that. 

You threw your phone as far away from you as possible, recklessly disregarding its safety despite the fact that you most certainly could not afford to repair said phone if it was damaged, and flopped onto the bed, screaming into a pillow. Your throat was raw by the time you surfaced for air, your body limp and exhausted, mind shuffling through worst case scenarios. 

In the midst of your spiral, your brain drifted to the other part of his message: a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. That was, admittedly, inappropriate, but no more so than sending a nude to your superior, so you figured you were even. He probably just meant it to be supportive; to try and diffuse the awkward situation. 

But another part of you wondered if he meant something else. If he was signalling to you that he would eat it, bush or not. The thought was indulgent, if not utterly preposterous. He was an attending; you were a resident. There was no way he’d meant anything by it. But you couldn’t help thinking…  

Did he like the photo? Was he picturing you with a bush? Did he think about tasting you, about swirling his tongue around your clit or plunging it deep into you? 

A notification dinged, shaking you out of your daydream, and you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see what he said, if anything at all. Curiosity eventually won out, hands grappling for your phone and swiping open the notification. 

Jack Abbot: No worries. 👍 

It was a completely normal response, which almost made it worse. Part of you wished he would lash out, call you disgusting or a whore, at least you’d know what to do with that. Shame or disgust were easier to digest than nonchalance. 

You didn’t bother to send the photo to the correct person, your lust dampened, the fire doused with cold water, remnants pulverized to ash. Groaning, you burrowed into your bed with no intention of leaving for the next two days. 

You had no idea how you were going to face him Monday.

You woke up two days later and ran through your options. 

Flee the country and never return to Pittsburgh ever again (unrealistic, you’d devoted too much time to becoming a doctor, you weren’t giving up because of some catastrophically stupid mistake)

Arrive to work 20 minutes late, hopefully avoiding Jack Abbot by all costs (unlikely, the man worked more overtime than anyone except Robby. He was sure to still be there, and all you’d get was attendance point for your trouble) 

Be a mature adult, apologize, and forget this ever happened, like he suggested (undoubtedly the best choice, but could you really ever forget that your attending has seen your pussy? And, a far sicker thought, did you want him to forget?) 

Indecision weighed on you as you got ready, ultimately deciding on lucky number option 3. Your only saving grace was the fact that you were on day shift, and Abbot rarely worked days. The only interaction would be at handoff, and maybe if you could busied yourself enough getting a jump on patients, you could avoid him for as long as possible. 

That was your plan of action as you walked into chairs, head down as you scanned into the ED and approached the nurses station. You didn’t hear his voice, which was a good sign; typically, you could hear it as soon as you entered, steady barking out orders over the hum of the department. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and thinking for the first time since you sent that photo that things might be okay. 

You spot Ellis at a work station, and beeline to her to get the handover started. 

“Hey Ellis, how’d the night go? Any weird and wild cases?” you ask, 

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, “foreign body extractions, a couple MIs, an insomniac who overdosed on benadryl and swore that the hat man was after him for money,” she laughed, shaking her head.

“To be fair, the hat man could be after him for money,” you said solemnly, face straight for a second before you burst out laughing. 

Handover continued smoothly, Ellis updating you on which patients needed labs or imaging and which needed to be discharged. You almost made it through unscathed, your body turning to make your way to North 5 when you heard his voice calling to Ellis. 

Your shoulders tensed–body betraying you by freezing in place–and he was next to you before you could scuttle away. Resting his forearms on the counter next to you, he continued talking to Ellis–about what, you couldn’t say, static filling your ears as you remembered what you’d done. 

“Morning, Doc,” he said, startling you out of your daze.  

“G-good morning, Dr. Abbot,” you stuttered, eyes glancing briefly at him before settling on his chin, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second. 

He looked annoyingly normal, showing no sign that anything unseemly had occurred between you. You chanced another look at his eyes, the hazel orbs showing no hint of amusement or belittlement. But there was a look of acknowledgement, a steady one that should have reassured you that everything was okay, that you weren’t a laughingstock. The same look he’d give you in a trauma when things went sideways through no fault of your own. 

And In any other situation, it would be reassuring. But right now, all it did was remind you that he’d seen your most sensitive parts, that he’d commented on the state of your pubic hair (or lack thereof). Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to breakaway from his gaze. 

When you did manage to look away, it was, traitorously, to look down at his lips. They looked so soft, and for a split second you imagined yourself leaning in, capturing his lips with yours and kissing him into oblivion. You snapped back to reality half a second too late, seeing the edge of Abbot’s mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile. 

Clearing your throat, you quickly excused yourself to see a patient, all but running to the exam room. You managed to slow your breathing and compose yourself before you entered the room, squaring your shoulders and getting back to work. 

This was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated.

Jack was being honest when he told you he deleted the text thread with that photo in it, a fact he was coming to regret as he laid in bed post-shift, body tired but too wired to relax and fall asleep. He’d committed the photo to memory, though, losing himself in it as he dragged his hand up and down his cock, thinking about how soft you’d be, how sweet you’d taste, the sounds he’d pull from you as he fucked you with his tongue. He’d fallen into this routine an embarrassing amount of times since he received that photo, feeling like a pervy, dirty old man all the while, but doing nothing to stop himself either. 

His hand glided over his shaft once more, imagining that it was your warm, wet walls wrapped around him instead, and he was coming hard, painting his stomach with streaks of warm, wet goo. He sat there, breathing heavy, as a twitch of shame rolled over him. He shouldn’t be jerking it to the remembered image of a resident’s pussy, a woman at least 15 years younger than him, if not more. 

But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to put that photo behind him. It was all he could think about as soon as he saw you that first morning, the image looping in an endless projection in his mind. It was completely unprofessional, and frankly dishonest. He’d told you that you could both pretend it had never happened, but he wasn’t so sure that was possible anymore. 

And it was clear you hadn’t forgotten either. You were jumpy around him, the easy quips you used swap in the morning abandoned for stuttered greetings and awkward silences. He’d also caught you looking at his lips on more than one occasion and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it was true attraction, or just some morbid curiosity that was sparked by the unusual situation you two found yourselves in, but Jack wasn’t about to get his hopes up for the former. 

As difficult as it was to keep his head on straight after seeing that photo, the more troubling part was that he’d lost the 10 to 15 minutes he spent every morning talking to you, a small ritual he looked forward to every shift. He hadn’t realized how much those moments meant to him until they were gone. Even the worst nights were magically better when he was able to make you laugh at handoff, your smile making his chest swell with pride and head fuzzy with feelings he had no business feeling. 

Jack knew he had to do something to ease the tension, to get things back to normal. Or maybe a new normal, if he had anything to do with it.

The days passed in a similar fashion to that first day. Jack would greet you politely and attempt your typical banter, and you would awkwardly stutter out an adequate reply before making your escape as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why you weren’t able to be a fucking adult and put it behind you, but you just couldn’t. Every time you thought you had the courage to revert back to your typical routine with Abbot, you chickened out almost immediately, bumbling your wall through some moronic excuse. 

To make matters worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was worse than it ever had been before; what used to be an errant thought that would arise only in the throes of pleasure were now occurring during the most mundane tasks. You thought about what his full, silver curls would look like buried between your thighs while you were doing laundry; what his mouth would feel like on your breasts, teeth pulling at the pebbled skin of your nipples while you cooked dinner; how he would fuck you–would it be soft and slow, or hard and punishing?–while you cleaned the bathroom. 

Your luck ran out about a month after the incident, as you were calling it. For the most part, you were able to keep your interactions with Abbot brief, albeit awkward. But today he was scheduled on day shift, covering for Al-Hashimi while she was home sick with her son. You’d only found out when you walked in, seeing his name on the board despite the fact that he was off last night. 

You felt a wave of nausea wash over you; how were you supposed to go a whole day avoiding him? You managed pretty well for the first half of your shift, presenting exclusively to Robby, which wasn’t all that different from your normal routine. You avoided the traumas Abbot was running, hiding in exam rooms under the guise of checking vitals or reviewing scans. It was working fairly well until midday, when you were unfortunately in the vicinity of the ambulance bay when paramedics burst through. 

“Santos, Mohan,” Abbot paused, eyes flitting over to where you stood before calling your name as well, “with me!” he said, already moving into the trauma room and gowning up. You reluctantly followed, slipping on your own trauma gown. He was behind you before you could secure your gown, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he tied the strings for you. It shouldn’t have sent a thrill down your spine, but it did. You stuttered out a thank you as you moved to assess the patient. 

The paramedic was halfway through the bullet when you arrived at the bedside, hands moving to transfer them from the stretcher to the bed. “– multiple lacerations, bruises to the face, chest, and abdomen. Possible tib-fib and facial fracture.” You looked down at the patient, a teenage boy who couldn’t have been older than 15. 

“BP’s low, 70 palp; pulse ox is 85,” Princess called out.  

You slid the chestpiece of your stethoscope over the patient's chest, listening to the lungs. Unfortunately, your brain went blank when Abbot sidled up next to you, arm pressed tight against yours in the cramped trauma room. 

“What do you think, Doc?” he asked, listening with his own stethoscope now. 

You blinked, brain lagging as you tried to compose yourself; to try and save this boy’s life. 

“Uh-um good breath sounds?” you said, a question more than an answer, though you were certain about the breath sounds. “Airway is patent, no tracheal deviation, no blood in the canal,” you finished, regaining a bit of confidence as you averted your gaze from his. 

“Good,” he said, hand grasping your elbow and moving you down to the end of the bed. “What do we need to order?”

Santos, blessedly, answered before you could embarrass yourself further, “C-spine, chest and head CT.” 

“BP is down to 60!” 

“Alright people! What are we dealing with?” Abbot called out, eyebrow quirked at you.

Every differential evaporated from your mind. “He’s bleeding from somewhere,” was all you could come up with, though that was obvious. Instead of dwelling on that, you turned your attention to the boy, your eyes examining his body, searching for the source of bleeding. With Samira’s help you flipped the boy over, desperate to find a stab wound or gash, but coming up empty. 

“Must be the belly,” Santos said.

“Alright, lavage kit please!” Abbot said, turning to you, “you ever done one of these?” 

You shook your head. 

“Well, today’s your lucky day, then,” he said, handing you an 11-blade.

Despite your best efforts, your hand shook as you pressed the blade against the skin. 

“I-I can’t,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear. 

“You can,” he said, stepping behind you to steady your hand, guiding as you made the incision. He handed you the tubing next. “Make sure you’re into the peritoneum,” he whispered, lips right next to your ear. His hand was still on top of yours as you slid the tubing in, “I’m in, hook up the saline and extension tubing,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.  

Your relief was short-lived. The results of the lavage came back–negative. “Shit, nothing. It’s not the belly,” you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“What the fuck? Where the hell is this kid bleeding from?” Abbot cursed, pacing around the bed to see if anything was forgotten. “You check his back?” he asked. 

“Yes, nothing there. Maybe it’s a faulty blood pressure cuff?” you said, grasping at straws, but moving to flip the boy over and recheck his back again anyway. 

Abbot was next to you, eyes raking over systematically to find the source when suddenly Mohan pointed out a tiny mark on the boy’s lower right side, “What is that?” she asked. 

“That is a very small puncture wound. Probably an ice pick, if I had to guess,” Abbot answered.

Fuck. You should have caught that. You were standing right there, staring at the lower quadrant of the boy's back. You’d even seen the small mark, but dismissed it as a mole. You felt sick to your stomach, fear and shame welling up in you. You had never had a reaction like this in a trauma, not even on your first day as a med student. 

Garcia burst through the door just as Abbot was getting the patient ready to head up to the O.R. “Puncture wound, probably hit the kidney or renal artery,” he said, passing off the patient. She nodded, taking over from there. 

“Good pickup,” you congratulated Mohan weakly as you walked out of the trauma bay, hoping you could make it to the bathroom and wallow in self-pity for a few moments.

You heard him call your name shortly after you exited the trauma bay. Heart sinking, you turned to face him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. You weren’t sure you could handle being yelled at by him today. You’d never been one for tears at being reprimanded, but you could already feel the tell-tale prickling behind your eyes, and you were almost positive that the dam would burst at a harsh word from Abbot. 

“A word, please?” he asked, gesturing you to the stairwell, the only place with a semblance of privacy in the ED. You sullenly followed after him, bracing yourself for impact. 

You leaned back against the wall, fully expecting him to start yelling as soon as you were situated under the staircase, hidden well enough from passersby, but all you felt was a warm, heavy weight on your shoulder. 

“You have to settle down, okay?” he said, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder and the other grasping your chin between his fingers to direct your gaze to his. “Look, I know what you sent me was embarrassing, and we probably should’ve talked about it, but you can’t get this worked up over it when I’m on shift as your attending. It can’t affect your work, you're too good of a doctor to let something like this throw you,” he said earnestly, eyes sincere when you looked into them. 

You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Your mind still hadn’t fully caught up. “I… you didn’t bring me out here to yell at me?” you asked, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to. 

He shook his head, confused, “What? No, of course not. I barely noticed that puncture wound myself,” he said, alleviating your anxiety somewhat. 

“What I’m concerned about is how wound tight you are around me. I’m not saying you have to like me or anything, but you have to be comfortable working with me. You didn’t make an error in this trauma, but you could have. And I know it would eat you up if something like that happened,” he said, thumb gently sweeping over your chin. 

“I can’t let you jeopardize your education because you’re embarrassed about mistakenly sending me a revealing photo. It would kill me if you didn’t reach your full potential because of something like that, if I had any part of it,” he shook his head, a pained look on his face. 

Oh. You couldn’t breathe, your cheeks surely inflamed at this point. You were suddenly very aware of how close he’d gotten–and of his hand on your face. His fingers were warm against your face, skin rough, providing delicious friction as his hand repositioned, thumb stroking along your jaw as he subtly tilted your head back. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee, with a slight tang of antiseptic.

Your lips parted, ragged breaths falling from your lips. 

“Dr. Abbot–”

“Jack. Call me Jack,” he murmured, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. If you tipped your head up just a fraction, it would close the distance between you; would bring your lips flush together. Your eyes fluttered shut at the thought. 

“Jack, I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” you admitted quietly. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I can’t stop thinking about it, either.” 

“Really?” you looked up at him from under your eyelashes. 

He nodded, moving impossibly closer, lips ghosting against yours. He hesitated briefly, a look of doubt flashing across his face before his gaze steadied–a decision made; a line ready to be crossed. His grip tightened against your jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you spreading that pretty little pussy open, or about the prick who wanted you to shave before he’d think about going down on you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. 

“You know how many times I fucked my fist to the memory of that photo? How much I’ve thought about how you taste, what sounds you’d make when you cum?” he asked. 

A strangled moan escaped your lips at his words. You’d never seen this side of Jack Abbot before, and it was intoxicating. “I-i think about you when I touch myself too,” you whimpered, your admission seeming tame compared to his vulgar words, but you wanted him to know you were also going crazy over him; that this wasn’t one-sided.  

“Yeah, pretty girl? You think about me when you stuff that little cunt with your fingers? Wish it was my cock instead?” he asked, his other hand snaking down to your hip, fingers inching their way under your scrub top to caress the skin there. 

You nodded, the proximity and dirty talk stealing your breath and leaving you unable to form an intelligible sentence. 

“Did he eat your pussy, sugar? You got all dolled up for him, did he at least treat you right?” he asked, breath fanning over your lips, stubble just barely grazing your sensitive skin. 

You shook your head, dazed. “I didn’t send it to him,” you said, a little bashful, “was too embarrassed after I sent it to you.” 

He groaned, forehead falling against yours, “poor baby, put in all that effort and didn’t even get to cum, did you?” he asked, just the slightest bit condescending. 

You let out a pathetic whine, shaking your head ‘no’ at his question. Heat pooled deep in your belly and you felt your panties quickly dampening.  

He tsked, “we’ll have to rectify that,” he said, “You shave again? Or you let her grow back natural?” he asked.

You bit your lip, still a bit shy despite all the filthy words that he’d spoken in the last 5 minutes. “I’m au naturelle,” you whispered, a slight smirk tugging at your lips. 

“Good fucking girl,” he growled before his mouth was on yours. His lips moved against yours with a ferocity you’d never experienced before. There was nothing uncertain about the kiss, his lips firm as he devoured you, tongue licking into your mouth and sliding against yours deliciously. One of your hands slid up the side of his neck to play with the curls at his nape while the other fisted in the fabric of his scrub top. 

His spit tasted like the stale breakroom coffee and the spearmint of his gum, and you couldn’t get enough. You suckled at his tongue, trying to keep up with his relentless pace, but eventually let him take the reins and kiss you silly. 

You were both panting when you pulled away, a string of spit drawn taut between your lips before snapping. Jack held your head between his hands, thumbs brushing softly over the apples of your cheeks. 

“Talk with me. Tonight. Come have dinner or a drink with me, and we can talk about it all,” he said, a borderline pleading look on his face. 

You nodded, still a little dumb from the kiss. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Okay,” you said, slowly extricating your hand from his scrub top. 

He let you go with a final squeeze to your jaw, moving to re-enter the ED before you. 

You stood there a moment longer, wiping your lips to get rid of your combined saliva and to lessen the kiss bitten look you were sure you were sporting before getting back to work.

The rest of the shift was painfully slow, the hours passing by like molasses. You couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way his lips molded against yours like it was their rightful place. You did make a concentrated effort not to let it impact your work, though. Jack was right about that; nothing could come between you and finishing your residency. 

It was just after 7:30 when you exited the hospital, and you immediately spotted Jack leaning against his truck waiting for you. You smiled as you approached him, nervous butterflies erupting in your stomach. Despite that breathtaking kiss, you still didn’t know where you stood. Was he just satisfying a sexual curiosity? Or was it possible that he also had feelings for you? 

He cleared his throat, “So I was thinking we could order something to my place and talk there. Unless you want to go somewhere else, to a restaurant or your place,” he rambled, nerves undercutting his typically confident energy. 

“Your place sounds good,” you nod, still a bit shy.

His hand was warm on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you step up into the cab. The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Some 90s alternative rock playlist hummed quietly in the background while you ordered pizza for the two of you–on his phone, with his card, he insisted. His hand rested lightly on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your scrubs.  

You arrived at a beautifully manicured house in a suburb far enough from the city to be peacefully quiet. It’s different from what you pictured, you realize as you walk in. You assumed that a man who worked as much as he did wouldn’t have the time or energy to put into making a house a home; you pictured a sterile kitchen and minimalist fixtures, white walls with abstract art. 

But it was homey. The walls were painted, photos scattered across them. The couch looked comfy, something picked out with intention, not the first option plucked from a furniture catalog. There were plants, beautiful, well taken care of ferns and pothos littered about. Warm light filtered through the kitchen, the island topped with butcher block and bracketed by two upholstered stools. 

“Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, beer?” he asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for himself. 

You focused your attention back on him, abandoning your pseudo-psychoanalysis of his house and drifting over to perch on a stool. “Wine would be nice,” you said, grateful for something to occupy your hands. He nods, pours you a modest glass of red–something French that probably costs ten times the amount of your shitty grocery store wine. 

The pizza arrives soon thereafter, and you sit down at the island to eat. Conversation is easy, and you feel more at ease with him now than you ever had before, a drastic 180 from this morning. You talk about your day, life, post-residency plans; he lets loose a few embarrassing stories from his own residency days, one featuring a very unfortunate Robby being pantsed by a 6 year old in the middle of the ED. Eventually, though, plates are cleared and glasses are downed, a natural lull falling over the conversation. 

“So,” he starts, head resting against his palm, arm propped up on the counter, “that photo…” He’s got that sly smirk on his face now, comfortable now to tease you about it. 

You groan, burying your head in your arms. He laughed, “you don’t have to explain yourself, but I am curious what series of events led to me receiving that photo,” he said… “a series of events for which I am very thankful for, by the way.”  

You turned, resting your head sideways on your arms, and started explaining all about James and his preferences, how he was your only real option for some skin-to-skin contact. Jack, for his part, listened quietly, offering little commentary until you finished your great tale. 

“So you’re telling me that this kid can’t even fuck you right, yet he demands you shave before he’ll go down on you?” he asks, a horrified look on his face. 

“Welcome to the joys of modern dating,” you joke, shooting him a halfhearted smile. 

He shook his head, “unacceptable,” he said before hooking his leg around your stool and pulling you closer. You gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh as you fight not to topple onto him completely. He was close now, one hand coming up to rest on the hollow of your neck while the other slid up your top, thumb strumming over your ribs. 

Jack didn’t hesitate this time. This kiss was different–no less searing, but a little more leisurely–like he wasn’t worried about scarcity anymore, confident that he had the time to take you apart and put you back together again before the night was over. His mouth was molten against yours, tongue delving deep in your mouth and swallowing up the steady stream of desperate whines escaping you. 

The hand on your neck coasted upward, tangling in your hair and angling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid under his shirt, groaning as they came to rest on his tummy. He was warm, the muscle firm under your hands as you lightly scraped your nails over his flesh. His chest rumbled under your touch, the hand in your hair tightening, the twinge of pain a welcome contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of his lips against yours. 

He barely broke the kiss to whisper into your mouth, “let me show you what its like to have a real man fuck you. Please, sugar,” he pulled away finally, resting his forehead against yours.

“Please fuck me, Jack,” you said, eyes hooded with lust. A moment later you were being scooped up from the stool and carried toward his bedroom. While Jack focused on not running into anything, you trailed open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck, sucking the skin between your teeth before soothing it over with your tongue. You nipped gently at his adam’s apple, smiling when he yelped at the contact. 

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he chuckled before dropping you down onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly before settling. He stood between your legs, face cradled between his meaty hands. “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he asked, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “I want to do so many filthy, obscene things to you tonight; want to fuck you into oblivion as many times as you’ll let me, but I want you to know that if you want to stop, at any point, you just say the word and we’re done. No questions asked. Understand?” 

You nodded once more, but that was insufficient for Jack. “need you to use your big girl words, okay, pretty? Tell me you understand,” he said. 

“I understand, Jack. If I want to stop, I’ll tell you,” you replied seriously, even though you knew there was no chance you’d want to stop. 

“Good. Now, I want you to take off your scrubs, scoot up to the headboard, and get comfortable while I take care of my leg, okay?” 

You did as he bade you, left only in a pair of pink cotton panties and bra. You hadn’t planned on being in this situation, but you were glad they were a matching set at the very least. Settling against his pillows, you watched as he shucked his pants off, the sleek metal of his prosthesis glinting in the low lamplight. 

He sat down at the edge of the bed, fingers undoing the mechanism with practiced motions, twisting the appendage off and setting it to the side. The skin looked a little chapped, but not raw, which was a good sign. 

“Is there anything I could do to make things more comfortable for you?” you asked. You wanted to make sure he knew you weren’t put off by his leg, wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to overcompensate because of it. 

“No, thank you, sugar. You’re doin’ plenty already,” he assured, turning around to face you. His eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze hungrily raking over your newly exposed skin. He moved to hover over you, forearms braced next to your head as kisses you again, this time a sweet press of his lips against yours before he began trailing his mouth along your jaw and down your neck, laving hot kisses all across your neck and collarbone. 

A gasp punches out of you when he sucks harshly at the spot just below the ear, the spot that turns your insides to putty. He grins against you, focusing his attention there until you’re a writhing, moaning mess under him. A hand reaches behind you to make quick work of your bra clasp, the flimsy material soon thrown across the room, forgotten immediately. His hands are on you in a flash, thumbs teasing along the underside of your tits. 

Whining, you claw at his shirt, desperately wanting to feel his bare chest against your nipples, and he obliges, one-handedly throwing the thing off. The fine silver hair on his chest scrapes against you, your nails digging into his back as you pull him flush to you. Jack groans, hips involuntarily rutting against you, his hard cock a delicious pressure against your aching cunt. Your hips cant up, chasing the friction and grinding yourself against him. 

“Careful, you keep doin’ that and this’ll be over before it even starts,” Jack warns, nipping at your bottom lip before continuing his maddening descent, mouth exploring your breasts–conveniently ignoring your painfully hard nipples. “Jaaaack,” you whine, thrusting your chest upward. He takes the hint, lips suctioning against a nipple and using his tongue to flick the pebbled flesh. Your hand fists in his curls, holding him there as his hand moves to tug at your other nipple. When he decides he’s given enough attention to one nipple, he switches sides, giving the other the same treatment. By the time he moves on, your tits are sure to be sore and red tomorrow, but you could not care less about that right now. 

He kissed down your stomach, lips lingering at your navel before pulling back, eyes travelling down between your legs. “Fuck sweetheart, is all this just from me playin’ with your pretty tits?” he asked, eyes fixated on the wet spot on your panties. You whimper in response, mind too fuzzy to form words. His fingers skate over your waistband, your tummy contracting in anticipation. Ever so slowly, he drags your panties down your legs, discarding them over his shoulder as he settles between your legs.

His pupils were blown wide, utterly entranced by your pussy. The attention made you want to shrink in on yourself, your legs subconsciously moving to close, but his wide shoulders and firm grip on your thighs stopped you. “Fuck, sugar, this is what she looks like with some curls on ‘er? And you let some boy convince you she needed to be bald?” He shook his head, a genuinely pained look on his face. 

He moved to spread you open for him, thumbs stroking up and down your lips as he took you in. Without warning, he surged forward, pressing a chase kiss against your clit before sitting back and continuing to admire your pussy. You squealed, hips twitching forward in search of more friction, the brief contact making you dizzy with need. It was slightly embarrassing, being watched like this, but you were growing impossibly wetter anyway. 

Jack’s hands moved back to your thighs as you squirmed, grip tightening, fingers sinking into your soft flesh just enough to ache, and spread you further open. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he said, pressing hot kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping right at the crease between your pussy and thigh, breath fanning over your puffy folds. Your clit was throbbing, your hips subtly shifting against nothing. 

“‘m gonna show you just how pretty this pussy is, not gonna stop until you feel it,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “you okay with that?” 

No sooner had you nodded than he was on you. He didn’t waste any time, swiping the flat of his tongue through your folds from entrance to clit in one long stroke. His tongue was hot against your cunt, the muscle firm as it lapped hungrily at your folds, exploring every inch of you. He groaned, nuzzling his face deeper into your pussy. “Fuck, you taste better than I could have ever imagined,” he moaned, tongue dipping into your hole to collect the slick gathering there. 

He didn’t surface for air, mouth working against you relentlessly; like he’d been deprived of something vital that had been restored to him, and he wasn’t about to let it go again. It was primal, almost animalistic the way he licked, sucked, and nipped at your cunt. Your back arched almost painfully off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets and moans slipping from your lips unbidden. 

He alternated between circling your clit in tight little circles with the tip of his tongue, and suckling on it, lips wrapped snug around the bundle of nerves. Your body was hot, your legs trembling as the coil in your core wound tighter. One hand moved to grip his curls, the hair soft between your fingers as you tugged at it. He moaned into your pussy, the vibrations bringing you right to the edge.  

“Fuck, right there, Jack,” you gasped, “I’m so close, so–”

“Cum for me, sugar, let me taste you,” he said quickly, head bowing back down to suck your clit harshly, teeth grazing it just the littlest bit.  

And you did, white hot pleasure coursing through you, body contorting, legs squeezing his head between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. You felt like a live wire, your nerves firing on all cylinders while Jack kept gentle pressure on your clit, drawing out your release as long as possible. Jack lapped up all your spend, not letting a drop go to waste. Boneless, you weakly pushed his head away, the overstimulation too much. 

He sat back a fraction, face dripping with your juices and his saliva. There was a gleam in his eye as his thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing soft circles against your clit. A high-pitched whine escaped you, your sensitive nub begging for reprieve. 

“You can give me another one, can’t you pretty girl?” he asked, voice brooking no argument. 

“I d-don’t–fuck–I don’t know,” you blabbered, the painful overstimulation quickly giving way to pleasure, your hips canting forward against his thumb. 

“I think you can,” he murmured, swiping a thick finger through your folds before sinking it in and curling lazily against that sweet spot on your front wall. “Fuck, Jack, feels so good,” you moaned, moving you hips in time with his finger.  Before you knew it he was adding another finger, a slight sting accompanying the stretch. All you could do was whimper, his fingers switching between slow and deep, and fast and hard strokes. 

Your second orgasm hit you without warning, pleasure reverberating through your body from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, your toes curling as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Jack’s fingers kept moving, wringing every last after shock from your body. You were panting now, trying to catch your breath but failing miserably. 

And yet, Jack’s fingers were still moving, scissoring you open now. It was too much, the sensations bordered more on pain than pleasure. “I can’t–can’t do a-another one like this,” you stuttered out.

Jack looked at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Tell me you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, fingers slowing a fraction as he waited for you to answer, gaze leveled directly at you.  

You whined, face heating at the order, “J-Jack, please, just wanna cum on your cock,” you said, hoping it would break his resolve. 

“I’ll fuck you as soon as you say it, sugar. Say you have the prettiest pussy.” 

You squirmed, cheeks hot as you whimpered, “I can’t–I’m not–” was all you managed to get out before a sharp slap landed on your pussy. You gasped, the pain shocking but not unwelcome. 

“If you want to cum on my cock, you have to be a good girl,” he said, face severe as he continued curling his fingers against your sweet spot. “and good girls do what they’re told. So, I want you to say, ‘Jack, I have the prettiest, sweetest pussy’ okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?” he asked, thumb circling your clit. 

You huffed, trying to catch your breath. “Ja-aack, fuck, I-I have, hng, I have the p-prettiest, sweet–ah–sweetest pussy,” you stammered out. 

“Knew you could do it for me,” he praised, fingers leaving your cunt to pull off his boxers. His cock sprang out, curving slightly and resting against his abdomen. It stole the breath from your lungs–It was obnoxiously thick and decently lengthy, tip flushed red and leaking precum steadily. Your hand reached out to feel him, maybe jerk him off a little before he fucked you, but Jack stopped you, pinning  your wrist down on the bed. You whined, lip jutting out in a not-so-faux pout. 

“I’m trying not to cum in 5 seconds like a teenager, sugar, and if you put your soft hands on me right now I’m not gonna be able to last,” he said, reaching over to his bedside table to grab a condom. He stroked his cock a few times before rolling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance, neither one of you interested in teasing anymore. 

He eased the tip in, your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. Your legs spread open wider for him as he settled between your hips, pushing the rest of his length in slowly until he was flush against your hips, his pelvic bone rubbing your clit just right. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering and clenching harshly at the intrusion. Your hips wiggled slightly, trying to get used to the twinge of pain from the sheer size of him. 

Jack hovered over you, one arm resting next to your head while the other gripped your hip tight. His face was twisted, almost painful looking. “You gotta relax for me, sugar, you’re gripping me like a fuckin’ vise,” he grit out, head falling into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses there, trying to loosen you up. You tried, willing your muscles to relax around him.  

A few moments passed before Jack was able to move, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in harshly, setting a brutal pace. You moaned, Jack’s hips snapping hard against you, cock dragging through your walls exquisitely. You tried to keep up with his pace, your hips meeting each thrust, cunt greedily sucking him back in each time. 

Your back was arched, hair splayed out across the pillow as you took what Jack gave you. 

“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” he said, sitting back on his haunches, “my perfect little pussy.” He grabbed at your thighs, pushing them up toward your chest, knees nearly at your ears. The new angle forced him deeper than before, his thrusts fucking you into the mattress. You were entranced by the view of him fucking you, curls dripping and chest glistening with sweat as he pounded into your pussy. 

The room sounded obscene between the slapping skin, your combined moans, and your squelching cunt. Moans were falling from your lips at a near constant rate, and Jack was louder than you’d expected, throaty groans and grunts reverberating like music to your ears.

You’re honestly not sure you’ve ever come more than twice in a night, but it didn’t take as long as you thought for your third orgasm to build, the waves cresting fast. The only thing you could think about was Jack’s cock hammering into your pussy. 

“I think I’m gonna, gonna cum again,” you breathed, “don’t stop, Jack, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease,” you keened.  

Jack’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss him sloppily, “cum for me, baby, let me feel you milk my cock,” he said, thrusts growing more uncoordinated as he neared his orgasm. 

It only took a few more deep, punishing trusts before you were coming undone around his cock. You held eye contact with Jack as your orgasm washed over you, your mouth parted wide, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You felt so full, your walls pulsing mercilessly around him. 

Jack gripped your hips in both hands, his trusts faster and harder than before as he chased his release. “wanna feel you cum in me Jack,” you croaked, throat raw, hands reaching out to paw at any skin you could. 

Jack groaned, hips stuttering a few more times before thrusting deep into you once last time and cumming. He ground his hips into yours, milking every last drop from his cock. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom, your cunt clenching again at the feeling, your mind already flashing forward to imagine him fucking you raw–you let about another garbled moan at the thought. 

Spent, Jack collapsed into you, cock softening inside your still pulsing cunt. His weight on top of you was comforting, grounding you back to earth. You were content to lay there, coming down and catching your breath. 

Eventually Jack rolled off of you, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few wet wipes from his nightstand to clean you both up. 

He pulled you against his side, big hand petting your hair, “You okay, sugar? Was that too much?” he asked, voice hoarse. 

“no, was so good, Jackie,” you mumbled, feeling floaty and sated. 

“Good,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses onto your hairline.  

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat a comforting thrum in your ear. One large hand ran up and down the smooth expanse of your back while the other held your hand against his chest, fingers intertwined together. 

“I hope you know this isn’t just a one time thing,” he said suddenly, his arm tightening its hold around you. 

“No?” you asked, trying to keep the hopeful edge out of your voice. 

“Uh-uh, you’re mine,” he says possessively, hand snaking down to cup your sensitive mound, “this is my pussy now.” 

You want to be offended, want to point out that you’re more than your cunt. But you know Jack knows that, and more than anything your head grows warm and fuzzy at the thought of being someone’s. Of being Jack’s. 

“Yeah, ‘s all yours, Jackie,” you mumble, falling asleep against the gentle rise and fall of his chest, happier than you’ve been in a long time.

a/n: whew that was a lot!! thank you if you made it all the way through!!

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

Guys when did charlie slimsicle get hot?

[iggykoopa666]

[whycantiuseunderscore]

[kosmogrl]

[langdonsbracelets]

Summary: The Pitt's quietest nurse is pregnant, and no one can figure out who the baby's father is. Fluffy and short.

A/N: I wrote this half awake at 3 in the morning. Maybe a little ooc for everyone considering I know the Pitt gossip goes crazy and this would have been figured out in two seconds, but my tired brain was going wild thinking of this so here it is.

Paternity

You were a fairly private person. 

You never really spoke about your life outside of the hospital. You were friends with your fellow nurses, certainly, but you had that ability to have conversations without revealing too much about yourself that infuriated your colleagues, (Princess and Perlah especially) and that was how you liked it. You didn’t need everyone to know your business. 

So when you revealed your pregnancy, whispers flew around the hospital. Who was the father? Were you even seeing someone? Was this a one night stand situation? 

When Princess finally asked the question on everyone’s lips, tentatively, trying not to offend you, “who’s the father?” And you answered with a simple “Dr. Robby”, like it was the most obvious thing ever, no one believed you. 

You were joking, obviously. Dr. Robby. 

Sure, you and Robby got along well, just like any other colleagues in the hospital. But there was no way he was the father of your baby. No way the two of you were dating, or even just hooking up. You were never anything but professional with each other in the ER. 

So when you went into labour earlier than expected, gripping the counter of the central hub with white knuckles as a contraction washed over you, no one thought anything of it when Robby hurried over, helping you into a wheelchair and into a room. He was just being Dr. Robby, the good doctor they all knew him to be. They had seen him take off running multiple times when one of their own was injured on the job; of course he would stay with you while an OBGYN team came down to check you out. 

And when the baby was born, and everyone came to visit the Pitt crew’s newest addition, maybe there was some surprise to see Robby holding your baby in his large hands, cradled against his bare chest, a blanket over one shoulder. But it made sense, you clearly didn’t have anyone else in the picture — you were doing this on your own — why wouldn’t he give your baby some skin to skin while you rested? You were all family in the Pitt, at the end of the day. 

And when Robby told everyone you and your baby were settling in nicely at home, everyone was happy to hear it. They were happy for you and the baby, and why wouldn’t Robby know how well you were doing? They had all watched him wheel you out of the hospital, knew he helped place the carseat in the back of your car. He had even driven you home. 

It wasn’t until you came to visit nearly a year later, carrying your baby, when everyone realized that maybe, they had misunderstood the situation. 

You stood with Dana and Perlah at the central hub, smiling as your round faced, happy looking baby waved a chubby hand at Jesse juggling for them, when Robby turned the corner, stopping short. 

“My favourite person in the world” Robby crowed happily, and you watched as your baby’s face lit up at the sound of his voice. You set them down, letting them waddle as fast as they could over to Robby, who crouched low to catch them. 

And it was only when Robby stood up, holding your baby close in his arms that everyone came to a very sudden realization. 

Robby and your baby had the same brown eyes, the same nose, the same tilt of the head when someone spoke to them. But it was only when your baby scrubbed their tiny hand down their face the same way Robby did on particularly rough days and there was an incoming trauma, that Perlah shot a look at Princess, who looked at Dana, who looked at Jesse, who looked at Mateo.

Thankfully, the only thing incoming was nap time. 

“It’s about that time” Robby said quietly, glancing at his watch. 

“We should get going” you said, reaching out to take your baby back, but they stubbornly held on to Robby. 

“I’ll come to the car” Robby said, and with a happy wave, you said goodbye to everyone in the Pitt, following along as Robby led the way outside. Your baby rested their head on his shoulder, their brown hair the same shade as his. 

Your colleagues watched you all walk away, an awkward silence hanging over them before slowly turning to the security office. 

“Who won the paternity bet?” 

[p1stach-io]

almost home: masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x reader

series summary: after seventeen years of marriage, one teenage daughter, and a relationship slowly worn thin by exhaustion and grief, you and your husband finally let each other go.

except divorce doesn’t really mean separation when there’s still school pickups, shared calendars, and a daughter determined to keep both her parents stitched into the same orbit.

almost home - when your daughter gets suspended at school, you end up in the er asking your estranged husband to talk some sense into her. (1.3k)

almost home: two - your daughter’s suspension lands you and jack in a meeting with her school principal. (2.3k)

almost home: three - when you return to work, your colleagues encourage you to move on—using a dating app you already regret downloading. (3.5k)

almost home: four - an uncomfortable conversation threatens to throw the temporary peace you and jack have built away. (3.8k)

almost home: five - months later at chase’s science fair jack finally meets daniel. and the between you and him begins to fracture. (4.4k)

almost home: six

i was really going to keep this as a one shot but it’s grown beyond that single draft so i’ll give it its own little masterlist. !! thank you all for reading so far 🫀

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

Y’all I got hit with ableist comments from a fellow disabled person wtf

She said my disabilities didn’t count because hers was visible and mine weren’t

Hearing something like that from a fellow disabled person hurt a thousand times worse than if an able bodied person had said it

[hudpits]

“we’ve all had a tiny crush on whitaker” who the fuck is WE

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

The only thing I’ve gotten from Whitaker is gender envy

[dearwalker]

Poppy

❀ Baby Jane Abbot Series ❀

Pairing: Jack Abbot x wife!reader Word Count: 2.5k

Description: Years after adopting baby Jane Doe, you get a call from Robby telling you about another abandoned child at PTMC. The news brings the past painfully close, and your daughter starts questioning you about her own story.

Part 2 of Baby Jane Abbot, but can be read as a standalone.

Tags/Warnings: wife!reader, older Jane Doe, angst if you squint but mostly fluff and once again Jack being the softest dad ever.

Note: Based on this ask 🤍 Enjoy 🫶🏼

Masterlist

Poppy Abbot, formerly known as baby Jane Doe, grew up to be a sweet, bright and kind seven year old. 

She knew she was adopted. You and Jack were very clear about it once you felt she was old enough to understand what it meant. Poppy took it very maturely, and surprisingly didn’t want to pry more about her biological parents, saying she felt her life was already complete with the two of you. 

Which of course, got a few sniffles from Jack who’d claimed it was just seasonal allergies. 

Sure, honey. 

But watching him become a father as the grey in his hair turned to white over the years, was a privilege you never took for granted. He’d stepped into the role terrified to never be enough, only to show you everyday he was made to be a girl dad. 

From learning how to nail hairstyles and intricate braids with those skilled hands, to teaching her how valuable she was as a human being and how to never ever let anyone walk over her, Jack had taught you many things in the process too. 

“Never be so kind, you forget to be clever, P.”

“Never be so clever, you forget to be polite, kiddo.” 

Were some of the things you’d hear him say when you’d walk past her room before bedtime. 

For how much of an easy kid she was growing up, she was also endlessly curious. Being the child of two doctors–even if not related by blood–she’d taken after your need to always know more. You’d find her eyeing the books from your home library; thick tomes on her lap “just for the pictures, mom,” she’d say. 

She’d memorize the pictures.. 

The intricate names she would ask about during dinner on weekends. Jack, ever the teacher, was always happy to explain it in a way she’d understand. But he’d also always reassure her she’d never have to follow that path if she didn’t want to. 

To think that this had become your life after someone decided to abandon a perfectly healthy baby in a bathroom all those years ago, was crazy. You resented the person who did it for a long time, but as the years passed you felt actually grateful that it had led Poppy into your arms. It wasn’t easy to learn how to take care of her, but once you figured it out, your life had never been more fulfilled. 

But old wounds are better left untouched. 

Which is why, nine years later, when you get a call from Robby saying someone abandoned a baby at the ER entrance, your whole body tenses up next to Jack. 

“Honey?” He asks when he notices, stepping away from the lunch bag he’d been prepping for you before leaving to start your shifts at the hospital. “What happened?”

You don’t answer, you only stare ahead at no point in particular. You can hear Robby going ‘Hello?’ on the other side of the line, but all you can do is focus on the fridge in front of you, where dozens of pictures of your little family of three are held by magnets. 

“Robby, talk to me,” Jack says once he got the phone from you and put it on speaker. 

Robby exhales before speaking. “Somebody left a baby at the ER entrance.”

Jack turns to you immediately, but you’re still lost inside your head. 

“Is uh–is the baby okay? How old?” He asks. 

“She has a high fever, and hasn’t stopped crying since Princess found her. We’re running checks on her. We think she might be…around five months old…Whitaker is with her right now,” he explains, his voice goes a little distant which makes you think he might be peeking into Pedes to get a look on her. “I’m calling you because there was a leak in my neighborhood, and I need to go check on my house. I won’t be here for the shift handover, can you take care of baby Jane Doe for me, please?” 

Baby Jane Doe. Baby Jane Doe.

The name echoes and echoes inside your head. You called your daughter that for months, unsure if you should name her before handling all the paperwork and she was legally yours. It was mostly fear, that she’d be taken away from you when you were already too attached, and giving her a name would only make it worse. 

It was the day you’d finally gotten her custody, that Dana had sent you the most beautiful arrangement of flowers you’d ever seen. 

Poppies. 

Dozens of fresh, vibrant, gorgeous poppies. It only felt right to give your girl such a sweet name. 

But now there’s another nameless girl at PTMC. Scared. Sick. History repeating itself. Why?

You don’t listen to the rest of their call, you only notice it ends when Jack sets your phone next to the lunchbag and guides you carefully to sit down on the nearest couch. He sits next to you, placing his big hand over yours.  

“Honey, I need to know what’s going on in your head,” he says gently, rubbing soothing circles on your skin. 

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, because why on earth is this affecting you so much? Your girl is safe in her room, probably reading the comics Jack bought her last week, waiting for her nanny Annie to arrive before you leave for work. 

But what if she wasn’t? What if you’d never told Jack to take her home? What if she was lonely and scared in a foster home? Is that going to happen to the baby at PTMC? Can you help her? Jack is getting old and you’re not far behind, another baby wouldn’t be responsible–

“Hey,” Jack cuts your train of thoughts. It crashes against those worried hazel eyes of his. “She’s not Poppy,” he says, already knowing where your head is going. 

“But that’s the thing, Jack. Who’s going to help her?” You finally speak, barely keeping your voice from breaking. “What if she stays Jane Doe for the rest of her life?” 

Jack only nods in understanding, shifting closer so your knees are together and his hand can run up and down your spine. 

“We don’t know anything about her yet. Maybe the person who left her there will come back, you never know,” he reassures. “Best thing we can do for her is make sure she gets the best care possible.” 

“But–“

“I know this is personal honey, I know it better than everyone,” he says, smiling sadly. “But we gotta do it for the kiddo. We would’ve wanted someone to be there for our daughter too, wouldn’t we?” 

You stare at him in silence for a few seconds, before nudging him with your shoulder weakly. 

“I hate it when you make sense.”

Jack snorts and shakes his head, standing up from the couch with a groan. He extends his hand to you, but something catches the corner of his eye first. 

“P?” He calls out, narrowing his eyes at the floral shorts barely peeking out from the hallway. “What are you doing there, kid?” 

The girl in question steps out of her hiding spot. For how clever she usually is, she’s actually a terrible liar. So she just stands with her hands behind her back with guilt written all over her face. It would usually make you bite back a smile while Jack reminds her it’s not polite to eavesdrop, but the topic of the conversation raises a red flag in your mind. 

How much of that did she hear? 

“Did something happen at the hospital?” Poppy asks, pretending to be casual about it. Once again, it’s not her strongest skill to be smooth about it. 

“Nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart,” you say immediately. “Annie is almost here, dad and I are heading out soon.”

She nods, her face does the cute thing where she pouts and her eyes go up and around when she’s not satisfied with the answer. 

“But I heard there was something about a baby,” she confesses, making Jack lift an eyebrow in disapproval. “I was just coming for a snack, dad, and then…I heard Uncle Robby’s voice.” 

So she heard all of it. Great. She knows she’s adopted, yes, but you never told her someone had abandoned her in some bathroom. 

Before you can panic, Jack sighs, putting his hands on his hips. 

“Uncle Robby wants us to check on a baby that was left at the ED,” he explains. “Sometimes things like this can happen, kid. But like mom said it’s nothing you need to worry about, we got it.” 

Dad Abbot. Always reassuring. Always letting her know she never needs to worry about our adult problems. 

But she worries, you can see it in her face. How she scrunches her eyebrows. You know she’s fiddling with her fingers behind her back even if you can’t see her hands. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the thing she asks next. 

“Is that how it happened with me?” 

You hope the years you’ve spent working at the ED give you the grace of having a poker face, even if your heart is about to pound its way out of your chest. Jack seems to be holding up very well on his own. 

“What–“ Nevermind. He just cleared his throat when his voice came out too high. “What makes you think that, sweetheart?” He asks, now in his normal raspy tone. 

But you know he’s fighting for his life as much as you’re right now. 

Poppy contemplates for a second before answering, but by the way she keeps shifting on her feet too anxiously, and her hands keep fiddling behind her back, you realize she’s hiding something. 

“Honey, what do you have there?” You ask. 

It doesn’t take long for Poppy to break. She brings one hand to the front, where she’s holding a pink hospital bracelet. Her hospital bracelet. 

You both frown at it when you recognize what it is. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen it. 

“Where did you find that?” You ask, but she doesn’t say anything. “Poppy…” you say in a more stern tone. 

“Mom is asking you something, P,” Jack adds. 

The girl sighs, dropping her hand to drag her feet all the way past Jack and toward the couch you’re sitting on. She plops down defeated, and cups the little bracelet with both hands. Jack walks closer, and sits down next to her, so that she’s in the middle of you two. 

Baby Jane Doe. 4th of July, 2026. The pink band reads. 

“Remember you asked me to help you find dad’s passport last month?” She starts, and you nod. “I–this was in the drawer I was looking through. I saw the date and I was curious about it because it’s the year I was born in, so I always kept it in my pocket. I didn’t know what it meant, Baby Jane Doe…until I heard uncle Robby say it.” 

Jack looks between you and her, but you keep your eyes locked on your daughter. 

“You never told me how I was found, but I’m a big girl now. I can take it,” she says, moving further back on the couch so she can look at both of you. She got the intense eye contact thing from Jack. “Did someone just…leave me there too?” 

This time you do look at Jack, because he’s always been your rock in situations like this. He gives you a reassuring look, before turning his undivided attention to her. He takes her small hand in his calloused, wrinkled one, covering the hospital bracelet she’s holding.  

“We told you the part that mattered when you were little. That you were adopted and that we chose you,” he starts, talking very softly to her. “You were found alone at the hospital that day, yes, but that only led you to find us, P.”  

Poppy’s lower lip wobbles, so she takes her eyes away from her dad to look at you for comfort. You give her a soft smile, putting your hand over Jack’s so now you’re both holding her. 

“Dana was the one fighting to get you a safe home that day. She told me you just needed a place until social services came for you,” you explain, recalling how crazy it’d been to arrive at the chaos of that day and finding out there was an abandoned baby on top of it all. “I went to see you and…I just knew we had to be the ones to bring you home.” 

Jack nods, remembering how nervous you’d been that day to tell him you wanted to foster a random baby. 

“Were you scared?” She asks. 

“I was terrified,” you chuckle. “I didn’t know how it was gonna work with us being on the night shift. We decided it was better if I stayed home with you for a while.”

“You stopped going to the hospital?” She asks surprised. 

“Just until you were old enough to have a nanny. We only ever wanted you to feel safe, P. To know you always had us there for you,” you explain. “And your dad he…he was the best person I could start that journey with.” 

Jack smiles, leaning over Poppy so he can place a kiss on your forehead, then to hers. 

“You were found, P, and after that you were never alone again. That’s what matters,” he says, caressing the back of her hair. “And you will never be if we can help it.”

Poppy sniffles, pushing away from Jack’s embrace just enough to wipe the tears that had spilled from her eyes. 

“I never thanked you,” she says, but you’re quick to shake your head. 

“Poppy Abbot, you never have to thank us for loving you,” you say firmly. “We should be the ones thanking you for letting us be your parents. Even if our lives are…a little bit different.” 

“Yeah, kid. I know our schedules are not easy,” Jack adds with a tired chuckle. “Our clock is upside down, but we try our best to let you have a normal life. I hope it feels that way for you.”

That’s when Poppy realizes you’ve both spent her entire childhood trying to be worthy of her, when all along she’d been growing up thinking she had the coolest parents in the world. 

“But I never wanted normal, we’re the weirdest and the wildest of them all!” she says Jack’s motto, getting a shaky laugh from both of you. “And I love it. I love you. I really love our family,” she confesses, extending her arms like when she was five years old and needed a cuddle with her favorite people. 

Jack waits until you get your arms around her to wrap his arms around you, holding both of his girls like nothing else matters in the world. Poppy lets out a precious laugh when Jack tickles her, and your cuteness aggression tells you to squish her with all your strength so she stops growing up so fast. 

You miss when she was just a tiny bundle, drooling on Jack’s bare chest and you didn’t have to share her with the world. But she will always be yours. She’s no longer baby Jane Doe and she’ll never be again. 

Not while she has you and Jack. 

And you’ll do everything in your power to make sure the Jane Doe at the hospital right now gets her forever home too, just like Dana did all those years ago.

Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always appreciated 🤍 I don’t know if there’ll be more to this but she has a name now!! I’m loving Dad!Jack and his family of three 🫶🏼

Dividers by @anitalenia

Tag: @syraxnyra

[autistobrat]

this too shall pass but the fuck was that for

[disgustinggf]

[when-you-fail-again]

[ceecil]

if you are ASEXUAL, you do not experience SEXUAL ATTRACTION.

if you are AROMANTIC, you do not experience ROMANTIC ATTRACTION.

if you are AROMATIC, you have a PLEASANT AND DISTINCTIVE SMELL.

[edcynic-deactivated20150419]

And if you are AUTOMATIC, SYSTEMATIC, and HYDROMATIC, why then you’re GREASED LIGHTENINGGGGG

[beatingsofabesottedheart2]

[pimento-playing-hopscotch]

@hellsite-hall-of-fame

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Hi!!! I've been reading your work for a while and I absolutely love it!! I've read both the loving and obsessive characters and they're my absolute favorite!

Could I request a lovingly obsessive jack abbot or dr. Robby with a chronic pain partner? Like maybe they work together and they get supper worried?

I hope you have a good day!

Hi, Anon! Thank you so much for this request. As someone with a chronic pain disability, this was something I could do. It became a little bit more of what I feel on a day-to-day basis and I'm sorry if it's not as relatable. I know everyone's pain is unique so I had to use what I know.

I hope you still love it!

Let Me Carry the Weight, Love

Jack Abbot x chronic pain!fem!reader TW: detailed descriptions of pain, Jack is so perfect that it hurts.

You know pain. It is the banal reality of your existence, the fabric from which you are formed. It is everything and everyone and every bit of you. You feel like the molecules in your body are stitched together with pain, all sorts, never ending. 

            You know pain. You know the way it feels when it burns, when it tears, when it strikes over and over and over. You know how it feels when it is unrelenting and all you want to do is end it all just to make it stop. Just stop. You know pain, it’s why you became a doctor in the first place, understand what most doctors don’t, won’t. Haven’t experienced. 

            You know pain and you know that people aren’t listened to. You know what it’s like to go into an ER and say your condition and be met with disregard and disbelief and even what is that? You know what it’s like to be accused of faking it when in reality it’s a miracle that you’re still fucking going. 

            You want to fix that, to give people a voice in a world that still doubts them and that is what landed you in PTMC ED as an R2, on the dreaded night shift. Your drive and passion and refusal to quit at anything because you know what it’s like to keep going even when everything feels too much, too bad, landed you on the night shift rotation, under one Dr. Jack Abbot. 

            A person so like you it scared you the first time you met. 

            Because you could see he knew what you did. 

            Pain. 

***

            “You’re limping,” Abbot calls out to you, stepping forwards, his eyebrows arched, gaze on your foot, the one burning and tingling and crying and searing. The one that’s reminding you the cost of being you, of being on your feet, the joint already stiff. “What happened? It’s not my idea of a good time to fill out Worker’s Comp forms.”

            “I’m disabled, Dr. Abbot,” you reply, tone dry and measured, gauging his reaction. “I have a chronic pain disorder, should have been in my file.”

            “I never read them,” he tells you, walking closer, eyes taking in all of you, every last bit like he’s memorizing you. “How long?”

            “A long time,” you tell him, pausing, rocking onto the foot that hurts less, the foot that’s less vocal at the moment, relieving your other, Lena hovering in the background, waiting for what you don’t know. 

            “I get it,” he tells you and then he lifts the leg of his scrub pant, revealing his prosthetic, the way it melds from metal and plastic to flesh almost seamlessly. “Don’t have what you have exactly, but phantom pain is no joke.”

            “Nice,” you say, one corner of your lip curving up in a sardonic smile as you begin to walk around him, leg still dragging slightly, refusing to bend properly. “We’ll have to compare pains stories some time, Dr. Abbot.” And then you limp into a patient bay, leaving Abbot behind, leaving him staring after you with a slightly slack-jawed look. 

            “Close your mouth before you drool on my floor, Abbot,” Lena calls out and he startles, shaking his head just slightly as he turns to her, mind still on you, on the way you spoke about the pain like it’s just part of existing. “And get my girl out of your head. I don’t need you distracting her with all of…you.”

            “I can’t help it, Lena,” he counters, patting her on the shoulder once as he heads towards an incoming trauma. “I’m just that irresistible.”

***

            Jack Abbot is a man who understands many things, but you are the one thing in his life that he has never truly understood because from the moment he saw you, he was gone. It was your first shirt and you’d walked in, ducking into the locker room wearing a bright purple Olivia Rodrigo shirt and a pair of what looked like pajama pants and you had this look in your eyes like someone who had walked through Hell and came out on the other side, not unscathed but survived. 

            He understood that, but he didn’t understand you and he wanted to. He wanted to from the moment he saw, from the moment you told him you were disabled, chronic pain. He wanted to from the moment you walked away from him. He wanted you and he tried and tried to get you, Lena constantly berating him saying things like, she’s my girl, leave her alone, Abbot and you hurt her, I end you, Abbot. 

            He didn’t understand and it drove him insane. Even more so when you would laugh and joke with Ellis, tease Shen, have deep conversations with Lena. Everyone except him. 

            It drove him insane until six months into your work when he finally confronted you, pleading with you for an answer.

            And what you gave him was everything. 

***

            “Why do you talk to everybody but me?” he says, watching as you turn around from your locker, a Starbucks cup in your hands containing far too much coffee than any one person needs. 

            “I don’t understand, Dr. Abbot,” you reply and he sighs, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes for just a moment. He has survived combat and war and SWAT operations. He has survived losing his wife, the first person he had ever loved. He has survived losing his leg, becoming a doctor, learning the harshness of the world and yet he is undone by a twenty-something year old resident with an unhealthy caffeine addiction and chronic pain. Life is cruel. 

            “Neither do I,” he answers, crossing the threshold into the break room and closing the door, flipping the lock and stepping closer to you, his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight and taut. Ever the soldier. “Neither do I, kid, which is why we’re here. So, why do you talk to everyone but me?” You sigh and lift the cup to your lips, tipping it back and swallowing far too much at once and he feels so wrong and disgusting for watching the movement of your throat, wanting to trace the pattern with his tongue. 

            “I talk to everyone else because they don’t make me feel like you do and I find it hard to talk to someone who…makes me feel what you make me feel,” you answer and he can see the change in your face, that hint of embarrassment on your cheeks, the darkening and he can feel something inside of himself, that twinge and he’s crossing the room his hands finding your waist—HR be damned. 

            “What do I make you feel?” You look up at him with your beautiful, perfect eyes, pupil blown and desirous as you shift your weight, no doubt in pain which leads to him lifting you up just slightly so your weight is entirely off the ground and turning setting you atop the table. 

            “Things I shouldn’t feel for my boss,” you answer, voice low and Abbot cannot help the stirring in his pants at your words, the way he feels right now with your eyes looking at him with that hell-survived hardening glimmering with desire and emotions that he doesn’t understand. Not yet. 

            But he thinks you’re going to let him. 

            “I won’t tell HR if you won’t,” he whispers, lips curving up in a smile and you shake your head, arching one brow up and crossing your arms, wincing just slightly at the movement and Jack’s stomach bottoms out because he understands two things in that moment. 

            One) he loves you. 

            Two) he wants to take away your pain and even take it in himself and he can’t. And he doesn’t know what to do with that. 

            “I confessed,” you reply, “your turn.”

            “Oh, hellfire,” he whispers, the nickname slipping out of its own accord, your fire and unrelenting nature and strength and the way you survived hell, are surviving hell forming the nickname that makes you smile. “I love you and have since you walked in on your first shift. If you want me, HR can go fuck themselves.”

            “They can fuck themselves and you can fuck me,” you whisper and he’s a goner. He thought he was already gone before, but he most certainly is now and it’s why he groans, just once, fast and then presses his lips to yours in a kiss that is both needy and desperate, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before you push him away. 

            And he looks at you with puppy dog eyes. 

            “People need us, Jack,” you tell him and he nearly loses it at the way you say his name because until you said it, he didn’t realize how much he needed you too. 

            God, he’s obsessed. 

            And he wouldn’t have it any other way with the way you stare at him right back. 

***

            Which leads us to now.

            Loving someone with chronic pain is never easy. It’s that stock of whether today is a good day, a bad day or a really bad day. If it’s a day where miraculously the pain is not so bad, or if it’s one where it hurts and you hate it but can keep pushing forwards no problem or if it’s a day when you want to end it all just to make it stop. 

            Jack has learned in the years since that day he confronted you, the silent language of your pain. He’s had to learn because you don’t talk about it, all you do is box it up and shove it on a shelf, ignoring it until you can’t. Ignoring it until you lose it in the shower, crying and he hears and then he’s there, holding you as you tell him that you hate it. 

            You hate that your body hates you. 

            And he tells you, every time that he loves you, he loves your body and he loves your pain because it’s a part of you but if he could take it, he would. If he could take the pain from you, he would just to see you smile for once without the weight behind it, the weight of always hurting, always burning, always searing. The weight of having a body that can give out on you at any time because the pain is so bad. 

            All the time. 

            He’s learned the silent language of your pain because he has too, because he wants to. Because he loves you. 

            Because you’re everything. 

            He fell in love with you, his hellfire, because of the way you just keep going, placing everyone before yourself and he saw that in your beautiful, hardened, iron eyes and he wanted to be the one to put you first. 

            And he does. 

            He will. Always. It’s what he what he vowed when he married you, Robby officiating with that sardonic grin. It’s what he vowed, looking at you and your white pantsuit, the one designed to be light enough, movable enough that it wouldn’t hurt you more. The one the two of you designed together. It’s what he vowed the moment he saw you because in that moment he was done. 

            And he wouldn’t have it any other way because you’re everything. You’re the world and the sky and the ocean and the whole damn universe. 

            And you deserve it all. 

            And today…today is a really bad day. He can tell because you go stiff in his arms, your body rigid before you wiggle from him, sitting up so slowly that he fears you think you might break when really you’re unbreakable. 

            “Honey?” he calls out, voice soft and he watches as you turn your head to him, those iron eyes locked tight, rigid and unmoving, nothing showing beneath. “1-10, give me a number.”

            “I don’t play number games, babe,” you tell him, a smile formed of gritted teeth on your face as you stand, limping, holding to the walls, the bed posts, the dresser and the ensuite door, your body threatening to give. 

            It’s what gets him up, hooking his leg on, and following after you, his hands there to brace your body as he holds you. He holds you through everything, there as your support, no questions asked because that’s what he vowed to. 

            He vowed to you everything. Everything he is, was and could be. 

            “I hate this,” you whisper as he sets you gently on the bed, going to the closet and grabbing scrubs for both of you. He looks back as you look down at your hands, folded on your lap, tears lining those beautiful, iron-fire eyes. “I hate…me.”

            “No,” he whispers, falling to his knees before you, hands reaching up to cup your face, tilting your head up to face him, eyes fierce as he stares at you, the first person he has ever loved in this way. This complete, entire way where you don’t exist if the other person doesn’t. 

            Where the other person is your everything—your life, your world, your whole damn universe. 

            “No, Hellfire,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours, wiping your tears as you fall. “You can’t hate yourself when you’re my everything.”

            “What does that have to do with it?” you whisper and he lets out a broken, breathy chuckle. 

            “Do you hate me?” he asks you and he hears you sigh, can feel it, the force of it, can smell the toothpaste on your breath when you do. 

            “No,” you answer and he smiles just slightly at you, that crooked, boyish grin that really has only gotten better as he’s aged. “I love you.”

            “And I love you, with all that I am, Hellfire,” he replies. “You’re my everything, my world and the whole damn universe, which means you can’t hate you because then you hate me.” And he’s delighted when you laugh. 

            When you laugh through the tears and let him dress you in your scrubs and hand you your walker, guiding you to his truck, lifting you in, pausing when you grab his wrist, fingers light and yet electric on his skin. 

            “Thank you, Jackie,” you whisper and he looks at you with all that he feels, the awe and the worry and the fear and the love and the helplessness. 

            “You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. The kind of kiss that lingers. “I would do anything for you.”

***

            Jack Abbot is worried. Granted, he worries about you every shift, but today is different because today is a really bad day and he wants nothing more than to wrap you in bubble wrap and drive you home. Not watch you drain four Dunkin’s iced coffees, beating Shen’s record while popping your nerve pain pills every four hours. 

            He hates this, watching you dart into trauma rooms, arguing for patient care, yelling for nonaddictive forms of pain medication, arguing that morphine isn’t good except on the worst patients, give them something else. 

            He hates watching you do your job, knowing how much pain you’re in. How much pain you’re carrying alone because he just hasn’t figured out how to take it from you. 

            He hates watching you excel because he knows what the cost of it is. And he’s worried because today…he doesn’t know how much more of this you can take. He doesn’t know how much more stress and being on your feet your body can take before you go down. 

            Before your nerves say fuck the meds and your body says fuck the caffeine. 

            Before you go down like London Bridge in that nursery rhyme. 

            “You’re worrying, Jack,” Lena says, her voice a sing-song, but a warning all the same. 

            “I’m allowed to worry about my wife, Lena,” he snaps, watching as you carry a walker while limping, pausing to lean against the wall for a moment before continuing on to hand it to the little girl, coaching her through using it. 

            “She’s lived it with it a lot longer than she’s lived with you. You have to remember that she knows what she’s doing, Jack,” Lena says, standing from her chair, handing an iPad to one of the other nurses with a whispered order. 

            “She’s pushed through to her breaking point for years,” he counters, watching as you just keep going, never stopping, never resting. 

            “When are you going to realize,” Lena muses, patting Jack on the back twice, “that your girl doesn’t have a breaking point?”

***

            It’s the end of the shift when Jack finds you at your locker, holding tight to the metal, your legs buckling and he scoops you up in his arms, taking your bag on the same shoulder as his, bridal carrying you through the ER. 

            He knows it’s bad when you’re not even protesting, just turning in his arms, curling into him and his strength and the safety he provides. He carries you through the parking lot to the truck, setting you in and buckling you up, tossing the bags in the back before hopping in the front, driving off to home—the house the two of you bought specifically because it was large enough for a family with a single story and a basement, limited stairs for you. 

            He pulls into the driveway, his heart hammering because he’s listened to your sighs and whimpers, your entire body no doubt on fire and he doesn’t even care about the bags because nothing in them needs to be brought in right now and he doesn’t even care if something does. 

            All he does is scoop you up into his arms, carrying you up into the house (pausing to lock the door, of course) and into the bedroom, laying you on the bed and gingerly, tenderly changing you into pajamas, cleaning up as you would on a decent day. 

            You try to protest but he silences your protests every time before finally tucking the two of you into bed, his arms holding you tight but not too tight. 

            “I love you, Jack Abbot,” you whisper and he presses a delicate kiss to your neck. 

            “And I love you, Hellfire,” he whispers. “And right now, today, tomorrow? Any day the pain is bad?...Just let me carry the weight, love. Alright?”

            “Alright,” you whisper and the two of you fall asleep in each other’s embrace. 

            Ready for the cycle to start tomorrow. 

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

This gave me hope as someone with chronic pain that I could find someone who loves me someday

[dearwalker]

The Great War

Pairing: Jack Abbot x ex wife!reader Word Count: 5.1k

Description: Years after your separation, life throws you back into Jack Abbot’s orbit in the worst way possible, carrying a devastating diagnosis that could be the reason your marriage fell apart in the first place: a tumor that may had erased the part of you that fell in love with him all those years back. And he’s not ready to lose you twice.

Tags/Warnings: Ex!wife reader, no specific age, ANGST, hurt/comfort (trust), talks about divorce, reader has big ex wifey energy, resulting in a bitter Jack, mentions of a tumor in the head and seizures but the medical aspect is very superficial, bad prognosis, suggestive comments and couple’s banter.

Note: This is the result of angsty thoughts invading my head at 2 am, so enjoy (it gets better trust) 🤍

Masterlist

My hand was the one you reached for all throughout The Great War.

There was a time where you believed you were tied to Jack Abbot by an invisible string. 

Despite the crazy life he’d chosen, the long hours, the abrupt calls that took him away from you, the terrors of nightmares and traumas you couldn’t take away from him, you’d managed to love him through it all. 

You loved him through the military years, and the consequences he carried home. Through the transition of losing a part of himself, and made sure that what was left wasn’t damaged by it. Loved him through the process of going back to emergency medicine. Through the night shifts and the missed holidays and anniversaries.

You loved him when his haircolor changed like the seasons. You loved the man in uniform and the man in scrubs and the man who sometimes came home too tired to even speak. 

You loved and loved and loved him until…something snapped. 

You…started calling him out more. For the hours and the absence and for the way he could be right there and still feel a thousand miles away. And Jack, who had spent most of his life learning how to stay calm under pressure, tried to be patient. Tried to love you through the sharpness, just like you’d loved him through his, even if he didn’t understand where yours was coming from.

He tried and tried and tried until…the invisible string between you snapped in pieces he couldn’t tie back together. 

Time passed, and none of you survived the war you’d started in your own home. So you left. Sent out divorce papers that you never signed. You didn’t understand why back then, but now…you kind of do. 

You take a deep breath as the ambulance bay doors slide open in front of you. People who take this entrance are usually bleeding, or screaming, or being rolled in on a stretcher, but you walk in with your head high and a pep on your step. Cashmere coat on, boots clicking the floor, a purse perched on your shoulder.  

Seeing the ED after all these years hits you like a deja vu. From bringing Jack something he forgot in the middle of the night, to showing up at the ass crack of dawn still half asleep but smiling, waiting for him to finish charting so you could eat something together. Your memories are a little fuzzy these days, but there was a time where you knew this place almost as well as he did. 

You reach the nurse’s station with a small smile on your face, only for it to widen when the face behind is not the one you expected.

“Well, what do we have here?” You say, coming to stop in front of her. 

Dana looks up from the papers she’s holding, and her eyes go wide for a second. The look of surprise gets quickly replaced by one of her signature smirks, placing one hand on her hip. 

“Well, I could ask the same damn thing, darling,” she says, amused. 

That makes you laugh, and Dana’s face lightens up. Because despite everything, despite the years, despite the absence, you always had a soft spot for each other. 

“I thought Lena was on the night shift,” you tease. Dana sets the papers down and huffs, looking at you through her glasses. 

“Please. It’s not weird to see me covering someone for the right price,” she says, not being subtle about looking up and down at you. “Now what is strange as hell, is seeing you walk in here after all this time.”

“Why? I’m just here to see my hubby,” you say casually. “Is it a quiet night, or do I have to wait like the good old days?” You ask, feigning innocence with a single shoulder shrug. 

“Oh, don’t you start! don’t you jinx my shift like that,” she says, almost offended, making you laugh harder. She narrows her eyes at you playfully, shaking her head. “You evil, evil woman.”

“So I’ve been told,” you snicker, checking something on your nails. “It’s good to see you, Dana,” you add after a moment, and she pretends not to notice the way you pick on the skin of your thumb. 

“You too, hun,” she says fondly, trying to search for your eyes. “Now, are you going to tell me what brings you to my ED or do I have to waterboard it out of you?” 

Before you can think of a way to evade the question, you hear a voice behind you that makes everything inside you stop. 

“Let me know when the labs are back, Mateo.”

You turn to the source, and for a moment you can’t control the look on your face when your eyes land on him. Jack Abbot is walking out of Trauma Two with a nurse, too focused on pulling off his gloves to realize you’re standing frozen by the nurse’s station. You clear your throat and straighten up quickly, putting on that nonchalance mask back on again as Dana just smiles to herself. 

Jack’s head finally snaps up and his mouth opens, probably ready to tell something to Dana, but stops dead in his tracks when he sees you there. He doesn't have a good time controlling his emotions either. He blinks a few times to make sure he’s seeing right, and that you’re not a cruel product of his imagination. It’s too early in the shift for that. 

But you’re there. You are there. Wait–you’re there? 

The confusion quickly gets replaced by anger. It’s been a long time. Three years of nothing, and this is how you show up? Looking polished, composed, infuriatingly beautiful, like you didn’t leave a hole in his chest he was never able to stitch back together. 

“Are you lost?” The words coming out his mouth are sharper than he expected, but the coldness is familiar to you. 

“Jack,” you say, forcing a plastic smile and tilting your head. “Is that the way to greet your wife?” 

“My wife…” Jack mutters with an incredulous laugh.

He looks at Dana all scandalized, offended. She just shrugs unimpressed, not interested in getting involved in whatever messy drama is about to unfold. 

She will totally watch, though.

“If you’re here to tell me you finally signed the papers, then you wasted a whole trip. You could've just mailed them,” he says sharply, too blinded to notice the way your smile faltered at that. 

“I’m not here for that,” you say, holding tighter to the bag on your shoulder. “There’s-”

“You know you’re not supposed to walk in through the ambulance bay unless you’re dying,” he continues, before giving you a head to toe assessing look that ends with a bitter huff. “And by the looks of it, seems like the devil has taken care of his own.” 

You chuckle, because it’s the only thing you can do at this point. Because if anyone in the world has earned the right to call you a devil, it’s Jack.

For the last year of your marriage. For every sharp word, every time you didn’t want to listen, every fight that left him standing there wondering when loving each other had become something exhausting instead of home. For the way you ended things. For how you walked away and never came back.

“Dr.Abbot?” A male voice coming from the trauma room breaks the tense moment between you. 

You look at the doctor, one you remember seeing last as a first year resident, trailing behind your husband with a notepad and an iced coffee in hand. You can’t recall his name, but he looks like he got his attending position after all.

Jack turns to him, “I’ll be there in a second, Shen,” he says gently, then back to you, more impatient, “I’m busy. So if you’re done making your little grand entrance, you can leave the same way you came in. You seem to be pretty good at it.”

The way he talks to you shouldn't hurt this much. You deserve it, for how unkind you were with him in the first place. For how badly you hurt him. For how you ran his endless patience thin. Now, in hindsight, there are many things you wish were different. 

But wishing won’t make the medical records in your purse change. And even though you’ve earned every blow he throws at you, you still square your shoulders. Shrug it off like it doesn't matter. Because it doesn't matter. 

“I’m not leaving until I speak to you…privately,” you say, turning back to Dana with a smile. “Break room’s still the same way, right?”

“Down the hall to the left, sweetheart,” she says, shaking her head with a chuckle.

You blow her a playful kiss as gratitude, one she pretends to dodge, rolling her eyes playfully as she walks away to continue with her duties. You round the nurse’s station, and walk straight past Jack, close enough that the heavy fabric of your coat almost brushes his arm, but it’s your scent that hits him like a punch to the stomach. 

Your perfume. The perfume. The one you wore to all your dates, the one you married him with, and the one he had to scrub off his clothes like a toxic chemical when he talked himself into getting you out of his head after you left. 

Dammit. 

He sees you stroll to the break room with that sway of your hips that used to keep him up at night, trying to gather the courage to invite you out when you first met. Fucking dammit. You ruined his life. You keep doing it. 

“Dr. Abbot!” Shen calls again, a little sharper even for him. 

Jack sighs deeply, turning undefeated to the trauma room, as the same question pounds his head over and over again. 

What on earth could you possibly want?

The second you shut the door of the break room and you’re alone again, your shoulders sag and the mask slips right off. The exhaustion in your bones makes you take a seat as soon as you see it, placing your bag on the chair next to you and pulling out the black folder you’ve been carrying around for months. You place it on the table, and look away as if that would change the contents of it. 

Your eyes meet your reflection on the microwave sitting on the counter, and you can’t help the sigh that leaves your lips. You did well making yourself look like the ex wife who’s thriving and has her life together.

What a joke. 

You slump back into your chair, and wait. 

Jack makes you wait a long time. You figure it’s his petty way of getting back at you somehow, or maybe he’s just trying to ease off his anger before he walks in. But hey, at least you were able to reassemble yourself. By the time he walks in, you’re sitting at the table with your legs crossed neatly, coat still on, folder placed in front of you. Composed enough to make him think that this is still some kind of performance.

You hate that your brain keeps telling you to push more. To make him snap. The string has been broken for a while. Why do you still feel the need to pull? 

Jack doesn’t sit, even if his leg would thank him for it, he just stands with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at you impatiently. 

“What, you’re not joining me?” You tease, pushing open the chair across from you with your boot. 

“I’m not staying long,” he says flatly, ignoring the seat. “So whatever this is, start talking.”

You hum in feign amusement, leaning back a little. “Why? Seems like a quiet night for me.”

Jack closes his eyes, shaking his head, thinking about every single self regulation method his therapist had taught him. Five things you can see, four things you can–

“Relax,” you say.

Wow. How didn’t he think of that? Could've saved him thousands in therapy.

He realizes the only way to get this over with, is getting it over with. So he opens his eyes, and this time they land straight on the folder in front of you. Whatever restraint he was trying to hold on to, spills out in a humorless laugh.

“What is that?” He nods to it, “A list of what you want to keep?”

“Jack, that’s not–”

“I already told my lawyer you can keep everything,” he says anyways, letting the words spill, because he’s been bleeding over this for years and he’s sure as hell not stopping now. “The house. The cars. Even the goddamn bedsheets. You can keep it all, I don’t want any of it,” he says calmly, like he isn't still losing sleep over it every day. “I moved out a while ago anyway, it doesn’t mean anything to me.”

It gets harder to keep your resolve, especially with the sharp pain throbbing in your head. But of course he doesn’t want it. Why would he want the remnants of a home you poisoned? A marriage you turned sharp and miserable and impossible to hold together?

A lump forms in the back of your throat, but you swallow it down like every bad news you’ve heard over the course of the last months. 

“It’s not about the divorce, I already told you that,” you say quietly. 

Jack just stares at you, exasperated. Every second you’re in front of him burns his insides. Every second you share the same oxygen he can’t breathe. Every second of your presence is just a reminder of the greatest thing he’s fucked up in his life.

You just pick up the folder and hold it out to him. He hesitates at first, but you have no bitchy remarks left on you. The faster you get it over with, the faster it will all be over, so you shake it for him to take it, until he finally does. 

Your gaze stays on him as he flips through the papers inside; lab results, endless consult notes, imaging reports. The annoyance doesn’t disappear right away, but his salt and pepper brows furrow together as his brain catches up with what he’s reading. He digs for the actual CT, and comes across a series of images that back up everything the reports say. 

He instinctively steps closer to the chair, eyes still fixed on the papers, sitting down mindlessly as he spreads everything on the table. The only thing he can focus on is your name printed on every paper. Abbot here, Abbot there. When he finally looks up at you, all the color has drained from his face. 

“What is this?” He asks. Because what the fuck kind of bad joke is this. 

“Well,” you clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest, “you did say I shouldn’t walk in through the ambulance bay if I wasn’t dying.”

“This isn’t funny,” he says, frustrated. God, you forgot how intense his eye contact was. “What is this? How–when did this happen?”

You play with your fingers on your lap, and sigh, “Ten months ago, I…I had a seizure at work,” you say softly, forcing yourself to keep going. “They did the scans, and it–it didn’t take long to find it.”

It. 

Jack stares at it on the CT, then his eyes drift to the reports. Mass. Tumor. Inoperable. Terms that have always been technical to him, medical, now seem like the cruelest words ever written by man. 

“I’ve seen a couple of neurosurgeons,” you continue, “and they all came to the same conclusion–”

“No.” 

“Jack, they said they can’t take it out–”

“No,” he cuts you off sharply, shaking his head. “That’s not–I don’t agree.”

“You don’t have to agree,” you don’t raise your voice, just smile sadly. It’s something you’ve been telling yourself over and over. “Guess the devil doesn’t look after their own in the end.”

“Stop, don’t…” Jack sighs, dropping the papers just to run his hands roughly across his face. “I didn’t mean that–fuck. I didn’t mean any of that–” 

You haven’t even gotten through the worst of it, and you’re already exhausted. God, these timebombs suck your energy right off. You reach for the water bottle on your purse, and drink away the premature grief building in your throat. 

Jack watches you carefully, and for the first time since he saw you again, he allows himself to see past the veil of hate he’d tried to see you through. He sees the crack in your smile, the shadows under your eyes, the real strain and exhaustion you can’t quite dress up with a fancy coat.

He sees he wasn’t there to hold you through it. 

“Why didn't you call me?” He asks, and you fear it’s the most devastated you’ve ever heard him.

You sigh, and set the bottle down. Because how do you even explain that? What even was it? Pride? Shame? Guilt? Love?

Fear.

How do you tell the man you wrecked that you did think of him first? That even after years apart, even after every awful thing, he was the first person you needed when the ground fell out from under your feet? 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admit.

I was scared. 

“Bother me?” 

“After everything that happened, I thought…I thought I should solve it on my own,” you shrug.

I didn’t think I deserved your help.

“You didn’t think that your husband, a doctor, would want to ‘solve it’??” he snaps. Offended, yes. Furious, yes. But underneath all of it…it’s the hurt that speaks. 

“You’re not a neurosurgeon,” you laugh bitterly, more defensive than you want to. “Your opinion is not gonna change–”

“It’s not just my opinion!” He says, standing up because his frustration is going to make him burst if he stays still. “It’s–it’s me being there. You went through all of this alone.”

The only sounds in the room are both your heavy breaths. You keep your rigid posture, even if every part inside of you is breaking. Jack runs his hand through his curls, once, twice, then tugs a little on the third time.

“Jack…” you call out softly, but he doesn’t look at you. His gaze darts to other five things he can see, hands on his hips as he grounds himself. “I’m not here to fight. And I’m not here for you to solve it…there’s just something I wanted to talk about.”

He finishes his little exercise and looks at you again, bracing himself for an impact he’s not sure if he can take. You know he can’t. So you take another deep breath before speaking.

“The doctors said the tumor is in an area that affects behavior. Like my moods and personality. They said it may have been growing for years.”

There’s a tremble in Jack’s lower lip that makes you hesitate, you know he already knows what it means, yet you keep going. 

“They think it might explain why I was so…particular these last few years,” you let out a broken little laugh, shaking your head quickly to try to fight the tears prickling your eyes. “I know it’s not an excuse, maybe it wasn’t that,” you sniffle, wiping your cheeks angrily. “Maybe I was just a bitch.”

“Hey–no, honey, don’t say that,” he says, the endearment falling out of his lips so naturally. 

Jack doesn’t think twice to step closer and drop to one knee in front of you, groaning at this prosthetic but still reaching for your hands on your lap. You try to retreat back so fast your chair screeches against the floor, but he doesn’t let you pull back, instead he interlocks his fingers with yours, almost hissing at how cold you are. 

You shake your head, tears flooding your cheeks now. “Don’t–don’t speak to me like that, you can still be mad at me,” you sob, but he keeps his warm grip firm. “You have every right to be, I was so mean to you, Jack. I snapped at you for everything. I made you feel like you were always doing something wrong. I turned our house into somewhere awful and I knew you were trying, and I kept pushing anyway.” 

He has tears in his eyes now too, but he lets you get it out of your system. Lets the years of regret spill out of you all at once, god knows his therapist has heard him many times. 

“Jack you’d come home exhausted and I’d always find something else to pick apart. Something else to be angry about. And you looked at me like you didn’t recognize me anymore, and I hated it because I thought you were wrong. Even then. I knew I was hurting you and I kept doing it. I made you carry all of it. So maybe now I deserve to carry all of this alone.” 

There it is. Jack breaks completely at your confession. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, catching the tears that won’t stop coming. 

“Sweetheart…you should’ve called me,” he says again, but he’s not angry this time. He’s grieving. “You should’ve called me.”

“I know.” 

“You should not have done this by yourself.”

“I know,” you cry out, he just keeps caressing your cheek with his thumb. “My–my memory is not the best now and I just…I needed to tell you I was sorry while I still could.”

You try to smile through the tears, you really do, but he looks so frightened. So wrecked. Your hands fly to his wrists now, clinging instead of pulling away. 

“I’m scared, Jack,” you confess. 

He remembers you saying that on a holiday when he hauled you up deep into the sea, just so he could hold you in his arms. He remembers you saying that when he put on a horror movie just so you could hide behind his biceps. He remembers you saying that before trying a new dish at your favorite diner instead of the usual you ordered. 

All those times were said with a laugh, or a cheeky smile. But this? This is pure, unadulterated fear. He is scared. He’s terrified. So he does what he always did best: hold you. 

He lifts himself up just enough to wrap his arms around you. You let yourself go instinctively, realizing how much you’ve needed this the past few months. He holds you so tight, so desperate, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing your back. You bury your face in his neck and sob. You feel the way Jack shifts, pressing his lips to your hair while he whispers sweet nothings. 

“I’m here. I’m here, honey. I got you.”

“I don’t–”

“Don’t tell me what you deserve right now.”

That makes you cry harder. He rocks you a few times, just like he used to on the worst nights. Just like he always vowed to. 

“I loved you through all of it,” he confesses. “Even when I was angry. Even when I thought you hated me. I never stopped. I never stopped.”

“I’m so sorry,” you sniffle. 

“I know, honey, I know.”

“I loved you the whole time too, I swear,” you keep going. “That’s why–that’s why I never signed the papers. My heart didn’t want to let you go. It never did.” 

“It’s okay–“

“No it’s not.”

“But it is,” he insists. Firm and honest. “You were sick, and I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something–“

“No. Don’t blame yourself for this too,” pulling yourself apart from him enough to look into those beautiful hazel eyes. “Leave the regretting to me.” 

“Sweetheart–“

“Jack.” You narrow your eyes at him, and it brings him back to all those times you won even the most pointless of arguments with just one look. 

He huffs a teary laugh, dropping his head in defeat. “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

“Okay,” he says, lifting his head again. There’s a new spark in his eye trying to make its way past the previous devastation. “Then you leave the rest to me.” 

You look at him, eyebrows furrowed, but he just pushes a strand of hair from your face. 

“I’m getting you admitted here,” he says, you immediately tense, but he speaks before you can refuse. “No, listen to me. We have some of the best neurosurgeons in the country connected to this hospital. I am going to pull every string I have, call in every favor I can, and get every set of eyes possible on this.”

“I can’t do this again,” you shake your head. 

“Yes, you can.”

“I’ve already seen so many people, Jack. I’ve heard it all. I’ve made peace with it.”

“No you haven’t, and that’s okay. You came here because some part of you knew I would never let this go. So don’t ask me to. It’s offensive, honey.”

Well shit. Seems like your husband of years seems to actually know you better than you know yourself. 

“I’ve accepted it, Jack. Memento mori.” 

Liar liar pants on fire. 

He grins. “Then I guess we’re both liars.”

You look at him confused, but he just sighs. 

“I told you I moved out…but I didn’t,” he admits. “I still live in the house I built for you. I still sleep in our bed, on my side of course, cause I know you never liked the way I dipped your side of the mattress,” he laughs at the memory, making you smile. “Your books are still on the nightstand. I never moved them.” 

You imagine all the things he never brought himself to move. The way time stopped running in a house that was once filled with laughter and love. So much love. Jack just does a helpless shrug. 

“You left…but you never really left me.”

Yeah. That’ll do it. You’re crying again before you even realize it. Your hands go to cover your face, but he intercepts them midway. 

“No, no, honey. No more hiding from me,” he says, so softly it doesn’t exactly help your situation. “We’re in this together now.” 

You nod, his thumbs reach out to dry your tears. 

“I know I’m not the type of surgeon you need. I know I can’t fix this with my own hands. But I’m still a doctor,” he explains softly. “And most importantly…I’m still your husband. So I will be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to figure this out. We are going to try. Oh honey we are going to ask questions. We are going to make the smartest people in every room look at this until they are sick of seeing my face.”

That makes you laugh. He delights at the sound. 

“Jack…”

“I know you’re tired, my love,” he continues, his voice turning even softer. “I know you’re scared. I know you’ve been carrying this by yourself for too long and the idea of starting over with new doctors makes you want to crawl out of your skin. But you do not get to give up before I even get a chance to fight for you.”

The weight in your chest that has been dragging you down lately eases, if only a little, letting you breathe. Maybe he’s right. Maybe all of this would’ve been easier if he’d known from the start. Maybe it can be easier now. Even if he can’t solve it…you’ll let him try. 

“Okay,” you whisper. 

“Okay,” he nods. “You’re coming home with me tonight, and we’ll deal with this in the morning. We’ll start here, and if it doesn’t work there’s always New York, I can cash a few favors in Washington too–“

“But your job–“

“Can wait,” he states without hesitation. “Sweetheart, I've been here for a long time, and I’m going to use that to my advantage. Maybe it’s time for my sabbatical, yeah? That way I can take you everywhere you need to be. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“…a sabbatical.”

“Robby took one,” he shrugs. “Three months away and it didn’t kill him. I’m willing to take whatever time they allow me.”

“What about SWAT duty?” You push. He lets out a chuckle. 

“I know you might miss the uniform–“

You slap his arm weakly. 

“Alright, alright,” he throws his hands up in defeat. “Just–don’t worry about it, okay? I meant it when I said I got you, honey.”

You sigh, but it’s more out of relief than anything. How you needed to hear those words. How you needed him. 

“And in the meantime, you can tell me your favorite memories of us…so I can keep them safe for you while we figure this out.”

Jesus Christ. How could you have ever walked away from this man? At this point you’re gonna have to sign the papers just to marry him again. 

“Jack…”

“Come on, from the hip, give me one,” he says playfully, and you know he’s not letting this go. 

You tap your chin and glance away, pretending to think. Your eyes light up when a very specific memory pops into your head. 

“I remember our naked yoga sessions very fondly,” you say, completely serious, but it manages to get a genuine surprised laugh from him. 

“Of course you do,” he laughs, throwing his head back at the memory. He still does it, at sunrise when he’s not working, with your mat still next to his. “You always ended up bouncing on me.”

“Jack!!” You say, heat creeping up your face in a way it hasn’t in a long time. 

You both laugh about it for a moment, then fall into a quiet that could never be described as awkward. Not between you. Not anymore. 

“I missed this,” he says quietly, those intense hazel eyes piercing into yours. You loved those eyes. You still do. “I missed you.”

You smile sadly, cupping his face with your hands. “You missed nice me.”

“I missed my wife.”

Your heart skips a beat at that. So many years he’d called you that, until you threw it all away. Or, well, the thing in your head did? Whatever. It is what it is. 

Your eyes travel all over his face. Damp lashes, tension in his jaw even if he tries to hide it with a cheeky grin, all the wrinkles time has carved into him while you were apart. 

“I missed my husband,” you finally say, just as soft. 

He smiles at that. You loved that smile, you still do. 

“Then let me take care of you, honey.” 

We can plant a memory garden

Say a solemn prayer, place a poppy in my hair

There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair

And we will never go back to that bloodshed

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated 💋

[sarcasm-and-stiles]

Need 10 more of these bitches