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⤷ fic i wrote that flopped | masterlist. (discontinued)
...... thats all for now :(
summary: jack had never thought you would be so passionate about prehistoric creature until he found you crying your eyes out about it
characters: jack abbot x chronically-online!reader
contents: no use of y/n, corny jokes, humor, TikTok trends (lol), allusion to sex, age gap (not specified) link to the tiktok
word count: 1,896
a/n: woah its been a while huh. do forgive me if its ass, its my first written fic. let me know what u think :)
The house remained largely silent, except for the faint volume of the sports commentator delivering live play-by-play commentary of the Pittsburgh Penguins getting the puck and snapping a beautiful shot into the back of the net, followed by the celebratory cheers from fans.
Jack was sitting comfortably on the sofa, one hand nursing a cold beer and the other gently fiddling with your hair over his lap. His attention was on the game, with sporadic glances towards you, lounging with your phone glued to your hands.
Given that you’re an overachieving, overworked R4 emergency resident on the verge of a crashout, and Jack is a chaos-driven man who rarely takes a day off voluntarily, and joins a SWAT team as a hobby–it’s a midlife crisis thing–it was a rare occasion for you both to be in the same house at the same time and day.
Dana, bless her soul, believed it was time for her to kick the two of you out to leave the Pitt for a day or two and enjoy life outside of the emergency department for once. Although much to Jack's and your dismay, both of you agreed not to argue with Dana and face her wrath. It would be nice to spend some quality time outside of work, you thought.
The light of your phone illuminates your face as you doomscroll on TikTok, occasionally liking videos that catch your interest, giggling at those you find funny, which adds to Jack’s confusion about your obsession with the app. He had his fair share of you begging to make a TikTok couples trend with him, and he couldn’t help but cringe at himself after you made fun of him for having a ‘millennial pause’ on each clip he recorded, in which you had to explain the meaning to him. After being continuously bullied by Santos and Matteo, he refuses to join you on another trend.
“That was a good shot,” he commented, happy that the Penguins were leading the game against the Flyers. He took another swig of his beer and put it down on the coffee table to readjust his left leg from the tingly feeling of paresthesia from you lying on it for a prolonged time. You grumbled at the abrupt loss of contact, but your gaze stayed fixed on the phone, allowing Jack to use his crutch to rise from the sofa and restore blood flow to his leg. “Sorry, baby. I’ll be quick.”
You hummed in response, briefly looking towards Jack as he left the living room to use the bathroom, before your gaze returned to your phone as Morgan Freeman’s deeply resonant baritone voice came up on your ‘for-you-page’, saying something about the extinction of a species. Curious, you pressed the increase volume button of your phone and replayed the video to watch it from the beginning.
___________
The muffled sound of the toilet flushing got louder as Jack opened the bathroom door and headed towards the kitchen to fill two glasses of iced water for both of you to freshen up, for him to get rid of the taste of beer on his tongue, and you, for being too occupied on your phone and not getting a sip of water for hours. He shook his head at the thought– you and that damn phone.
He stopped in his tracks of pouring water into a glass when he heard sniffling from the living room. Unsure if he was hearing correctly or if it was just in his head, but he was proven right when he heard it again the second time. His brows pulled into a frown at the sound, ditching the pitcher in his hand on the marble counter to see the source of the sniffles and soft sobs that were increasing in volume, enough to drown out the unfamiliar song with a voiceover by a man playing on your phone repeatedly … Is that Morgan Freeman?
“Babe?” he called out, but received no response from you. Weird…
Jack quickened his steps to reach you in the living room as fast as he could with his crutch, worrying that something had happened while he was gone. He knew that you could be clumsy sometimes, even when you had breathed right, something’s bound to happen to get yourself hurt either way. It’s either injuring yourself by tripping over his prosthetic leg last week, or nearly busting your head open on the corner of the fireplace while trying to light it up.
His heart dropped when he saw you lying face down on the cushions, curled into a fetal position, your body shaking with each sob you let out. Jack put his crutch leaning against the wall as he sank onto the cushions next to you and pulled you into his chest. His hand rubbed your back, and the other cupped the back of your head gently to soothe your weeping while whispering ‘it’s okay’ and ‘I’m here’ into your ears, hoping it would stop the tears.
“Hey, it’s alright, baby. I got you,” he kisses your head gently, rocking you back and forth. Letting out a soft breath of relief as your crying got quieter. “Y’wanna tell me what happened?”
He noticed the way your lips quivered when you pointed to your phone, face down, and the audio still playing at full volume. Eyes welling up again as you looked at your phone like it personally just kicked your dog and laughed in your face, and to Jack’s horror, you were crying again.
“They’re gone!” you wailed, hand clutched to his shirt like a vice.
“Who is gone?”
The confused frown on Jack’s eyebrows got deeper as he turned his head towards the device. Perhaps someone close to you had passed away unexpectedly? That would explain why you were devastated enough to be crying hard like this. Though he was confused as to why the same song and Morgan Freeman’s voice kept repeating themselves.
He picked the phone up and lowered the volume, squinting at the screen before him to understand the cause of your grievances, only to see an edit of a documentary of ‘The Dinosaurs’ narrated by Morgan Freeman, and paired with a song called ‘Drag Path’ by Twenty One Pilots. Why twenty one pilots? Why would there be twenty-one pilots? He thought to himself.
“Are you…?” he cleared his throat and paused for a moment, trying to find the right words to say without offending you. “Are you crying because of this?”
Dinosaurs. An edit of dinosaurs.
Jack immediately regretted the words that left his mouth, as he saw the way your lip trembled. He quickly exited the app and shut your phone off to prevent rubbing more salt into the wound, ditching the phone on the sofa as he closed the distance between both of you to peck you on the forehead, apologies muttered into the skin.
“Aw, baby. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”
“It’s not funny. You’re laughing at me,” you said wetly, your hand struck out to smack him on his arm as you saw the humor glinting in his eyes. “I can see it in your face, asshole.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you,”
“They were probably scared shitless,” you choked, dramatically putting your hand on your forehead, “and the tall ones had nowhere to go either!”
Jack let out an amused huff at your antics and made a pained noise when he felt you elbowing him in the ribs.
You rolled your teary eyes at him and crossed your arms over your chest, looking at the wall instead of him, and you huffed harder when you heard the chuckle reverberating in his chest. He’s clearly enjoying himself by annoying you, and it only cracks him up even harder when you whine at him to stop.
“Okay, okay,” he put his hands up into a ‘surrender’ gesture, smothering your face with kisses to make up for it. “I’m sorry for laughing. I just thought something bad had happened, like someone you know died or you were hurt while I was gone.”
Jack watched in amusement as you clutched your hands to your chest with a dramatic gasp at what he had said.
“Oh, so you think dinosaurs dying is not bad?” you said accusingly, eyes narrowed into slits as you waited for his answer.
“I obviously did not say that.”
“No, but you thought of it.”
“Honey, c’mon,” he said exasperatedly. “Birds! They exist.”
You gave him a doubtful look, seemingly a bit confused by what he meant by saying ‘bird’, and motioned with your hands as if to say ‘go on’, for him to elaborate on his previous statement.
“They’re one of the living descendants of dinosaurs that can fly,” he explained, “I mean, have you seen a shoebill before? Shit looks prehistoric.”
“Yeah, you would know a thing or two about being prehistoric,” you joked, poking fun at his age. You mentally high-fived yourself for the joke you came up with.
“Har, har,” he deadpanned, watching the way you failed miserably to hide the goofy grin plastered on your face, pursing your lips together to avoid laughing in his face. He also couldn’t help but smile at your obvious joy, happy that you’re no longer crying, and Jack would do everything in his bones to keep them permanent on your face.
“--With you being prehistoric and all,” you began, with a grin on your lips, “Were you there when the asteroid hit the Earth?”
“You think you’re funny, huh?”
“Oh, absolutely!”
Jack’s hand travelled to your side to tickle you into stopping your glee in making prehistoric jokes, and wincing when your shrill shriek hits his ears, begging him to get away from you. He stopped immediately after your laughter turned into gasping and a brief coughing fit.
Both of you then settled into a comfortable silence, arms holding on to each other as you lay your head on his shoulder, and he pressed a few kisses on the crown of your head. Enjoying each other’s presence and the peacefulness that comes with it, away from the chaos of the emergency department. It had felt nice, and neither of you could remember the last time you both had taken some time off to be together like this in the comfort of your own home.
“So…” you began, eyes set on his with a seriousness that got him straightening his back, “--how does it feel to be amongst the living at your prehistoric age?
Jack swore he almost saw his brain at the way he rolled his eyes hard at your lame joke about his age again. Not that he was mad at it, but he wished he wasn’t as entertained by it the same way you find it funny. It would only encourage you to make more jokes about it and share them with Santos, so you both could gang up on him. Much to his chagrin… he couldn’t be mad about it either.
You noticed the darkened look in his eyes as he trailed them from your face and down to your body. Your breath hitched as he leaned close to your ears to whisper something with his sinfully sultry voice that shook you to your core.
“Yeah? I’ll show you how this prehistoric thing makes you beg for it at night.”
summary: jack had never thought you would be so passionate about prehistoric creature until he found you crying your eyes out about it
characters: jack abbot x chronically-online!reader
contents: no use of y/n, corny jokes, humor, TikTok trends (lol), allusion to sex, age gap (not specified) link to the tiktok
word count: 1,896
a/n: woah its been a while huh. do forgive me if its ass, its my first written fic. let me know what u think :)
The house remained largely silent, except for the faint volume of the sports commentator delivering live play-by-play commentary of the Pittsburgh Penguins getting the puck and snapping a beautiful shot into the back of the net, followed by the celebratory cheers from fans.
Jack was sitting comfortably on the sofa, one hand nursing a cold beer and the other gently fiddling with your hair over his lap. His attention was on the game, with sporadic glances towards you, lounging with your phone glued to your hands.
Given that you’re an overachieving, overworked R4 emergency resident on the verge of a crashout, and Jack is a chaos-driven man who rarely takes a day off voluntarily, and joins a SWAT team as a hobby–it’s a midlife crisis thing–it was a rare occasion for you both to be in the same house at the same time and day.
Dana, bless her soul, believed it was time for her to kick the two of you out to leave the Pitt for a day or two and enjoy life outside of the emergency department for once. Although much to Jack's and your dismay, both of you agreed not to argue with Dana and face her wrath. It would be nice to spend some quality time outside of work, you thought.
The light of your phone illuminates your face as you doomscroll on TikTok, occasionally liking videos that catch your interest, giggling at those you find funny, which adds to Jack’s confusion about your obsession with the app. He had his fair share of you begging to make a TikTok couples trend with him, and he couldn’t help but cringe at himself after you made fun of him for having a ‘millennial pause’ on each clip he recorded, in which you had to explain the meaning to him. After being continuously bullied by Santos and Matteo, he refuses to join you on another trend.
“That was a good shot,” he commented, happy that the Penguins were leading the game against the Flyers. He took another swig of his beer and put it down on the coffee table to readjust his left leg from the tingly feeling of paresthesia from you lying on it for a prolonged time. You grumbled at the abrupt loss of contact, but your gaze stayed fixed on the phone, allowing Jack to use his crutch to rise from the sofa and restore blood flow to his leg. “Sorry, baby. I’ll be quick.”
You hummed in response, briefly looking towards Jack as he left the living room to use the bathroom, before your gaze returned to your phone as Morgan Freeman’s deeply resonant baritone voice came up on your ‘for-you-page’, saying something about the extinction of a species. Curious, you pressed the increase volume button of your phone and replayed the video to watch it from the beginning.
___________
The muffled sound of the toilet flushing got louder as Jack opened the bathroom door and headed towards the kitchen to fill two glasses of iced water for both of you to freshen up, for him to get rid of the taste of beer on his tongue, and you, for being too occupied on your phone and not getting a sip of water for hours. He shook his head at the thought– you and that damn phone.
He stopped in his tracks of pouring water into a glass when he heard sniffling from the living room. Unsure if he was hearing correctly or if it was just in his head, but he was proven right when he heard it again the second time. His brows pulled into a frown at the sound, ditching the pitcher in his hand on the marble counter to see the source of the sniffles and soft sobs that were increasing in volume, enough to drown out the unfamiliar song with a voiceover by a man playing on your phone repeatedly … Is that Morgan Freeman?
“Babe?” he called out, but received no response from you. Weird…
Jack quickened his steps to reach you in the living room as fast as he could with his crutch, worrying that something had happened while he was gone. He knew that you could be clumsy sometimes, even when you had breathed right, something’s bound to happen to get yourself hurt either way. It’s either injuring yourself by tripping over his prosthetic leg last week, or nearly busting your head open on the corner of the fireplace while trying to light it up.
His heart dropped when he saw you lying face down on the cushions, curled into a fetal position, your body shaking with each sob you let out. Jack put his crutch leaning against the wall as he sank onto the cushions next to you and pulled you into his chest. His hand rubbed your back, and the other cupped the back of your head gently to soothe your weeping while whispering ‘it’s okay’ and ‘I’m here’ into your ears, hoping it would stop the tears.
“Hey, it’s alright, baby. I got you,” he kisses your head gently, rocking you back and forth. Letting out a soft breath of relief as your crying got quieter. “Y’wanna tell me what happened?”
He noticed the way your lips quivered when you pointed to your phone, face down, and the audio still playing at full volume. Eyes welling up again as you looked at your phone like it personally just kicked your dog and laughed in your face, and to Jack’s horror, you were crying again.
“They’re gone!” you wailed, hand clutched to his shirt like a vice.
“Who is gone?”
The confused frown on Jack’s eyebrows got deeper as he turned his head towards the device. Perhaps someone close to you had passed away unexpectedly? That would explain why you were devastated enough to be crying hard like this. Though he was confused as to why the same song and Morgan Freeman’s voice kept repeating themselves.
He picked the phone up and lowered the volume, squinting at the screen before him to understand the cause of your grievances, only to see an edit of a documentary of ‘The Dinosaurs’ narrated by Morgan Freeman, and paired with a song called ‘Drag Path’ by Twenty One Pilots. Why twenty one pilots? Why would there be twenty-one pilots? He thought to himself.
“Are you…?” he cleared his throat and paused for a moment, trying to find the right words to say without offending you. “Are you crying because of this?”
Dinosaurs. An edit of dinosaurs.
Jack immediately regretted the words that left his mouth, as he saw the way your lip trembled. He quickly exited the app and shut your phone off to prevent rubbing more salt into the wound, ditching the phone on the sofa as he closed the distance between both of you to peck you on the forehead, apologies muttered into the skin.
“Aw, baby. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”
“It’s not funny. You’re laughing at me,” you said wetly, your hand struck out to smack him on his arm as you saw the humor glinting in his eyes. “I can see it in your face, asshole.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you,”
“They were probably scared shitless,” you choked, dramatically putting your hand on your forehead, “and the tall ones had nowhere to go either!”
Jack let out an amused huff at your antics and made a pained noise when he felt you elbowing him in the ribs.
You rolled your teary eyes at him and crossed your arms over your chest, looking at the wall instead of him, and you huffed harder when you heard the chuckle reverberating in his chest. He’s clearly enjoying himself by annoying you, and it only cracks him up even harder when you whine at him to stop.
“Okay, okay,” he put his hands up into a ‘surrender’ gesture, smothering your face with kisses to make up for it. “I’m sorry for laughing. I just thought something bad had happened, like someone you know died or you were hurt while I was gone.”
Jack watched in amusement as you clutched your hands to your chest with a dramatic gasp at what he had said.
“Oh, so you think dinosaurs dying is not bad?” you said accusingly, eyes narrowed into slits as you waited for his answer.
“I obviously did not say that.”
“No, but you thought of it.”
“Honey, c’mon,” he said exasperatedly. “Birds! They exist.”
You gave him a doubtful look, seemingly a bit confused by what he meant by saying ‘bird’, and motioned with your hands as if to say ‘go on’, for him to elaborate on his previous statement.
“They’re one of the living descendants of dinosaurs that can fly,” he explained, “I mean, have you seen a shoebill before? Shit looks prehistoric.”
“Yeah, you would know a thing or two about being prehistoric,” you joked, poking fun at his age. You mentally high-fived yourself for the joke you came up with.
“Har, har,” he deadpanned, watching the way you failed miserably to hide the goofy grin plastered on your face, pursing your lips together to avoid laughing in his face. He also couldn’t help but smile at your obvious joy, happy that you’re no longer crying, and Jack would do everything in his bones to keep them permanent on your face.
“--With you being prehistoric and all,” you began, with a grin on your lips, “Were you there when the asteroid hit the Earth?”
“You think you’re funny, huh?”
“Oh, absolutely!”
Jack’s hand travelled to your side to tickle you into stopping your glee in making prehistoric jokes, and wincing when your shrill shriek hits his ears, begging him to get away from you. He stopped immediately after your laughter turned into gasping and a brief coughing fit.
Both of you then settled into a comfortable silence, arms holding on to each other as you lay your head on his shoulder, and he pressed a few kisses on the crown of your head. Enjoying each other’s presence and the peacefulness that comes with it, away from the chaos of the emergency department. It had felt nice, and neither of you could remember the last time you both had taken some time off to be together like this in the comfort of your own home.
“So…” you began, eyes set on his with a seriousness that got him straightening his back, “--how does it feel to be amongst the living at your prehistoric age?
Jack swore he almost saw his brain at the way he rolled his eyes hard at your lame joke about his age again. Not that he was mad at it, but he wished he wasn’t as entertained by it the same way you find it funny. It would only encourage you to make more jokes about it and share them with Santos, so you both could gang up on him. Much to his chagrin… he couldn’t be mad about it either.
You noticed the darkened look in his eyes as he trailed them from your face and down to your body. Your breath hitched as he leaned close to your ears to whisper something with his sinfully sultry voice that shook you to your core.
“Yeah? I’ll show you how this prehistoric thing makes you beg for it at night.”
summary: jack had never thought you would be so passionate about prehistoric creature until he found you crying your eyes out about it
characters: jack abbot x chronically-online!reader
contents: no use of y/n, corny jokes, humor, TikTok trends (lol), allusion to sex, age gap (not specified) link to the tiktok
word count: 1,896
a/n: woah its been a while huh. do forgive me if its ass, its my first written fic. let me know what u think :)
The house remained largely silent, except for the faint volume of the sports commentator delivering live play-by-play commentary of the Pittsburgh Penguins getting the puck and snapping a beautiful shot into the back of the net, followed by the celebratory cheers from fans.
Jack was sitting comfortably on the sofa, one hand nursing a cold beer and the other gently fiddling with your hair over his lap. His attention was on the game, with sporadic glances towards you, lounging with your phone glued to your hands.
Given that you’re an overachieving, overworked R4 emergency resident on the verge of a crashout, and Jack is a chaos-driven man who rarely takes a day off voluntarily, and joins a SWAT team as a hobby–it’s a midlife crisis thing–it was a rare occasion for you both to be in the same house at the same time and day.
Dana, bless her soul, believed it was time for her to kick the two of you out to leave the Pitt for a day or two and enjoy life outside of the emergency department for once. Although much to Jack's and your dismay, both of you agreed not to argue with Dana and face her wrath. It would be nice to spend some quality time outside of work, you thought.
The light of your phone illuminates your face as you doomscroll on TikTok, occasionally liking videos that catch your interest, giggling at those you find funny, which adds to Jack’s confusion about your obsession with the app. He had his fair share of you begging to make a TikTok couples trend with him, and he couldn’t help but cringe at himself after you made fun of him for having a ‘millennial pause’ on each clip he recorded, in which you had to explain the meaning to him. After being continuously bullied by Santos and Matteo, he refuses to join you on another trend.
“That was a good shot,” he commented, happy that the Penguins were leading the game against the Flyers. He took another swig of his beer and put it down on the coffee table to readjust his left leg from the tingly feeling of paresthesia from you lying on it for a prolonged time. You grumbled at the abrupt loss of contact, but your gaze stayed fixed on the phone, allowing Jack to use his crutch to rise from the sofa and restore blood flow to his leg. “Sorry, baby. I’ll be quick.”
You hummed in response, briefly looking towards Jack as he left the living room to use the bathroom, before your gaze returned to your phone as Morgan Freeman’s deeply resonant baritone voice came up on your ‘for-you-page’, saying something about the extinction of a species. Curious, you pressed the increase volume button of your phone and replayed the video to watch it from the beginning.
___________
The muffled sound of the toilet flushing got louder as Jack opened the bathroom door and headed towards the kitchen to fill two glasses of iced water for both of you to freshen up, for him to get rid of the taste of beer on his tongue, and you, for being too occupied on your phone and not getting a sip of water for hours. He shook his head at the thought– you and that damn phone.
He stopped in his tracks of pouring water into a glass when he heard sniffling from the living room. Unsure if he was hearing correctly or if it was just in his head, but he was proven right when he heard it again the second time. His brows pulled into a frown at the sound, ditching the pitcher in his hand on the marble counter to see the source of the sniffles and soft sobs that were increasing in volume, enough to drown out the unfamiliar song with a voiceover by a man playing on your phone repeatedly … Is that Morgan Freeman?
“Babe?” he called out, but received no response from you. Weird…
Jack quickened his steps to reach you in the living room as fast as he could with his crutch, worrying that something had happened while he was gone. He knew that you could be clumsy sometimes, even when you had breathed right, something’s bound to happen to get yourself hurt either way. It’s either injuring yourself by tripping over his prosthetic leg last week, or nearly busting your head open on the corner of the fireplace while trying to light it up.
His heart dropped when he saw you lying face down on the cushions, curled into a fetal position, your body shaking with each sob you let out. Jack put his crutch leaning against the wall as he sank onto the cushions next to you and pulled you into his chest. His hand rubbed your back, and the other cupped the back of your head gently to soothe your weeping while whispering ‘it’s okay’ and ‘I’m here’ into your ears, hoping it would stop the tears.
“Hey, it’s alright, baby. I got you,” he kisses your head gently, rocking you back and forth. Letting out a soft breath of relief as your crying got quieter. “Y’wanna tell me what happened?”
He noticed the way your lips quivered when you pointed to your phone, face down, and the audio still playing at full volume. Eyes welling up again as you looked at your phone like it personally just kicked your dog and laughed in your face, and to Jack’s horror, you were crying again.
“They’re gone!” you wailed, hand clutched to his shirt like a vice.
“Who is gone?”
The confused frown on Jack’s eyebrows got deeper as he turned his head towards the device. Perhaps someone close to you had passed away unexpectedly? That would explain why you were devastated enough to be crying hard like this. Though he was confused as to why the same song and Morgan Freeman’s voice kept repeating themselves.
He picked the phone up and lowered the volume, squinting at the screen before him to understand the cause of your grievances, only to see an edit of a documentary of ‘The Dinosaurs’ narrated by Morgan Freeman, and paired with a song called ‘Drag Path’ by Twenty One Pilots. Why twenty one pilots? Why would there be twenty-one pilots? He thought to himself.
“Are you…?” he cleared his throat and paused for a moment, trying to find the right words to say without offending you. “Are you crying because of this?”
Dinosaurs. An edit of dinosaurs.
Jack immediately regretted the words that left his mouth, as he saw the way your lip trembled. He quickly exited the app and shut your phone off to prevent rubbing more salt into the wound, ditching the phone on the sofa as he closed the distance between both of you to peck you on the forehead, apologies muttered into the skin.
“Aw, baby. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”
“It’s not funny. You’re laughing at me,” you said wetly, your hand struck out to smack him on his arm as you saw the humor glinting in his eyes. “I can see it in your face, asshole.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you,”
“They were probably scared shitless,” you choked, dramatically putting your hand on your forehead, “and the tall ones had nowhere to go either!”
Jack let out an amused huff at your antics and made a pained noise when he felt you elbowing him in the ribs.
You rolled your teary eyes at him and crossed your arms over your chest, looking at the wall instead of him, and you huffed harder when you heard the chuckle reverberating in his chest. He’s clearly enjoying himself by annoying you, and it only cracks him up even harder when you whine at him to stop.
“Okay, okay,” he put his hands up into a ‘surrender’ gesture, smothering your face with kisses to make up for it. “I’m sorry for laughing. I just thought something bad had happened, like someone you know died or you were hurt while I was gone.”
Jack watched in amusement as you clutched your hands to your chest with a dramatic gasp at what he had said.
“Oh, so you think dinosaurs dying is not bad?” you said accusingly, eyes narrowed into slits as you waited for his answer.
“I obviously did not say that.”
“No, but you thought of it.”
“Honey, c’mon,” he said exasperatedly. “Birds! They exist.”
You gave him a doubtful look, seemingly a bit confused by what he meant by saying ‘bird’, and motioned with your hands as if to say ‘go on’, for him to elaborate on his previous statement.
“They’re one of the living descendants of dinosaurs that can fly,” he explained, “I mean, have you seen a shoebill before? Shit looks prehistoric.”
“Yeah, you would know a thing or two about being prehistoric,” you joked, poking fun at his age. You mentally high-fived yourself for the joke you came up with.
“Har, har,” he deadpanned, watching the way you failed miserably to hide the goofy grin plastered on your face, pursing your lips together to avoid laughing in his face. He also couldn’t help but smile at your obvious joy, happy that you’re no longer crying, and Jack would do everything in his bones to keep them permanent on your face.
“--With you being prehistoric and all,” you began, with a grin on your lips, “Were you there when the asteroid hit the Earth?”
“You think you’re funny, huh?”
“Oh, absolutely!”
Jack’s hand travelled to your side to tickle you into stopping your glee in making prehistoric jokes, and wincing when your shrill shriek hits his ears, begging him to get away from you. He stopped immediately after your laughter turned into gasping and a brief coughing fit.
Both of you then settled into a comfortable silence, arms holding on to each other as you lay your head on his shoulder, and he pressed a few kisses on the crown of your head. Enjoying each other’s presence and the peacefulness that comes with it, away from the chaos of the emergency department. It had felt nice, and neither of you could remember the last time you both had taken some time off to be together like this in the comfort of your own home.
“So…” you began, eyes set on his with a seriousness that got him straightening his back, “--how does it feel to be amongst the living at your prehistoric age?
Jack swore he almost saw his brain at the way he rolled his eyes hard at your lame joke about his age again. Not that he was mad at it, but he wished he wasn’t as entertained by it the same way you find it funny. It would only encourage you to make more jokes about it and share them with Santos, so you both could gang up on him. Much to his chagrin… he couldn’t be mad about it either.
You noticed the darkened look in his eyes as he trailed them from your face and down to your body. Your breath hitched as he leaned close to your ears to whisper something with his sinfully sultry voice that shook you to your core.
“Yeah? I’ll show you how this prehistoric thing makes you beg for it at night.”
summary: jack had never thought you would be so passionate about prehistoric creature until he found you crying your eyes out about it
characters: jack abbot x chronically-online!reader
contents: no use of y/n, corny jokes, humor, TikTok trends (lol), allusion to sex, age gap (not specified) link to the tiktok
word count: 1,896
a/n: woah its been a while huh. do forgive me if its ass, its my first written fic. let me know what u think :)
The house remained largely silent, except for the faint volume of the sports commentator delivering live play-by-play commentary of the Pittsburgh Penguins getting the puck and snapping a beautiful shot into the back of the net, followed by the celebratory cheers from fans.
Jack was sitting comfortably on the sofa, one hand nursing a cold beer and the other gently fiddling with your hair over his lap. His attention was on the game, with sporadic glances towards you, lounging with your phone glued to your hands.
Given that you’re an overachieving, overworked R4 emergency resident on the verge of a crashout, and Jack is a chaos-driven man who rarely takes a day off voluntarily, and joins a SWAT team as a hobby–it’s a midlife crisis thing–it was a rare occasion for you both to be in the same house at the same time and day.
Dana, bless her soul, believed it was time for her to kick the two of you out to leave the Pitt for a day or two and enjoy life outside of the emergency department for once. Although much to Jack's and your dismay, both of you agreed not to argue with Dana and face her wrath. It would be nice to spend some quality time outside of work, you thought.
The light of your phone illuminates your face as you doomscroll on TikTok, occasionally liking videos that catch your interest, giggling at those you find funny, which adds to Jack’s confusion about your obsession with the app. He had his fair share of you begging to make a TikTok couples trend with him, and he couldn’t help but cringe at himself after you made fun of him for having a ‘millennial pause’ on each clip he recorded, in which you had to explain the meaning to him. After being continuously bullied by Santos and Matteo, he refuses to join you on another trend.
“That was a good shot,” he commented, happy that the Penguins were leading the game against the Flyers. He took another swig of his beer and put it down on the coffee table to readjust his left leg from the tingly feeling of paresthesia from you lying on it for a prolonged time. You grumbled at the abrupt loss of contact, but your gaze stayed fixed on the phone, allowing Jack to use his crutch to rise from the sofa and restore blood flow to his leg. “Sorry, baby. I’ll be quick.”
You hummed in response, briefly looking towards Jack as he left the living room to use the bathroom, before your gaze returned to your phone as Morgan Freeman’s deeply resonant baritone voice came up on your ‘for-you-page’, saying something about the extinction of a species. Curious, you pressed the increase volume button of your phone and replayed the video to watch it from the beginning.
___________
The muffled sound of the toilet flushing got louder as Jack opened the bathroom door and headed towards the kitchen to fill two glasses of iced water for both of you to freshen up, for him to get rid of the taste of beer on his tongue, and you, for being too occupied on your phone and not getting a sip of water for hours. He shook his head at the thought– you and that damn phone.
He stopped in his tracks of pouring water into a glass when he heard sniffling from the living room. Unsure if he was hearing correctly or if it was just in his head, but he was proven right when he heard it again the second time. His brows pulled into a frown at the sound, ditching the pitcher in his hand on the marble counter to see the source of the sniffles and soft sobs that were increasing in volume, enough to drown out the unfamiliar song with a voiceover by a man playing on your phone repeatedly … Is that Morgan Freeman?
“Babe?” he called out, but received no response from you. Weird…
Jack quickened his steps to reach you in the living room as fast as he could with his crutch, worrying that something had happened while he was gone. He knew that you could be clumsy sometimes, even when you had breathed right, something’s bound to happen to get yourself hurt either way. It’s either injuring yourself by tripping over his prosthetic leg last week, or nearly busting your head open on the corner of the fireplace while trying to light it up.
His heart dropped when he saw you lying face down on the cushions, curled into a fetal position, your body shaking with each sob you let out. Jack put his crutch leaning against the wall as he sank onto the cushions next to you and pulled you into his chest. His hand rubbed your back, and the other cupped the back of your head gently to soothe your weeping while whispering ‘it’s okay’ and ‘I’m here’ into your ears, hoping it would stop the tears.
“Hey, it’s alright, baby. I got you,” he kisses your head gently, rocking you back and forth. Letting out a soft breath of relief as your crying got quieter. “Y’wanna tell me what happened?”
He noticed the way your lips quivered when you pointed to your phone, face down, and the audio still playing at full volume. Eyes welling up again as you looked at your phone like it personally just kicked your dog and laughed in your face, and to Jack’s horror, you were crying again.
“They’re gone!” you wailed, hand clutched to his shirt like a vice.
“Who is gone?”
The confused frown on Jack’s eyebrows got deeper as he turned his head towards the device. Perhaps someone close to you had passed away unexpectedly? That would explain why you were devastated enough to be crying hard like this. Though he was confused as to why the same song and Morgan Freeman’s voice kept repeating themselves.
He picked the phone up and lowered the volume, squinting at the screen before him to understand the cause of your grievances, only to see an edit of a documentary of ‘The Dinosaurs’ narrated by Morgan Freeman, and paired with a song called ‘Drag Path’ by Twenty One Pilots. Why twenty one pilots? Why would there be twenty-one pilots? He thought to himself.
“Are you…?” he cleared his throat and paused for a moment, trying to find the right words to say without offending you. “Are you crying because of this?”
Dinosaurs. An edit of dinosaurs.
Jack immediately regretted the words that left his mouth, as he saw the way your lip trembled. He quickly exited the app and shut your phone off to prevent rubbing more salt into the wound, ditching the phone on the sofa as he closed the distance between both of you to peck you on the forehead, apologies muttered into the skin.
“Aw, baby. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”
“It’s not funny. You’re laughing at me,” you said wetly, your hand struck out to smack him on his arm as you saw the humor glinting in his eyes. “I can see it in your face, asshole.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you,”
“They were probably scared shitless,” you choked, dramatically putting your hand on your forehead, “and the tall ones had nowhere to go either!”
Jack let out an amused huff at your antics and made a pained noise when he felt you elbowing him in the ribs.
You rolled your teary eyes at him and crossed your arms over your chest, looking at the wall instead of him, and you huffed harder when you heard the chuckle reverberating in his chest. He’s clearly enjoying himself by annoying you, and it only cracks him up even harder when you whine at him to stop.
“Okay, okay,” he put his hands up into a ‘surrender’ gesture, smothering your face with kisses to make up for it. “I’m sorry for laughing. I just thought something bad had happened, like someone you know died or you were hurt while I was gone.”
Jack watched in amusement as you clutched your hands to your chest with a dramatic gasp at what he had said.
“Oh, so you think dinosaurs dying is not bad?” you said accusingly, eyes narrowed into slits as you waited for his answer.
“I obviously did not say that.”
“No, but you thought of it.”
“Honey, c’mon,” he said exasperatedly. “Birds! They exist.”
You gave him a doubtful look, seemingly a bit confused by what he meant by saying ‘bird’, and motioned with your hands as if to say ‘go on’, for him to elaborate on his previous statement.
“They’re one of the living descendants of dinosaurs that can fly,” he explained, “I mean, have you seen a shoebill before? Shit looks prehistoric.”
“Yeah, you would know a thing or two about being prehistoric,” you joked, poking fun at his age. You mentally high-fived yourself for the joke you came up with.
“Har, har,” he deadpanned, watching the way you failed miserably to hide the goofy grin plastered on your face, pursing your lips together to avoid laughing in his face. He also couldn’t help but smile at your obvious joy, happy that you’re no longer crying, and Jack would do everything in his bones to keep them permanent on your face.
“--With you being prehistoric and all,” you began, with a grin on your lips, “Were you there when the asteroid hit the Earth?”
“You think you’re funny, huh?”
“Oh, absolutely!”
Jack’s hand travelled to your side to tickle you into stopping your glee in making prehistoric jokes, and wincing when your shrill shriek hits his ears, begging him to get away from you. He stopped immediately after your laughter turned into gasping and a brief coughing fit.
Both of you then settled into a comfortable silence, arms holding on to each other as you lay your head on his shoulder, and he pressed a few kisses on the crown of your head. Enjoying each other’s presence and the peacefulness that comes with it, away from the chaos of the emergency department. It had felt nice, and neither of you could remember the last time you both had taken some time off to be together like this in the comfort of your own home.
“So…” you began, eyes set on his with a seriousness that got him straightening his back, “--how does it feel to be amongst the living at your prehistoric age?
Jack swore he almost saw his brain at the way he rolled his eyes hard at your lame joke about his age again. Not that he was mad at it, but he wished he wasn’t as entertained by it the same way you find it funny. It would only encourage you to make more jokes about it and share them with Santos, so you both could gang up on him. Much to his chagrin… he couldn’t be mad about it either.
You noticed the darkened look in his eyes as he trailed them from your face and down to your body. Your breath hitched as he leaned close to your ears to whisper something with his sinfully sultry voice that shook you to your core.
“Yeah? I’ll show you how this prehistoric thing makes you beg for it at night.”
jack once found a camcorder from his past in a box in the garage. over time, the records of these videos capture small moments, not the large ones.
content warnings: girldad!jack, wife!mom!reader, brief mentions of jack’s service, self-doubt, old school home videos, give dad jack a chance tumblr—you might love him, a lil bit of sad life angst,
[jack abbot x fem!reader wc: 4.2k ]
masterlist | other jack abbot fics
A shriek echoed from the garage on a Sunday afternoon.
The bright and sunny day suddenly became overcast by a cloud of fear that struck you like a lightning bolt. Its high voltage sending you rushing down the hallway, racing through the kitchen, and into the open doorway to where Jack had been working in the garage.
"Jack?" You shouted before you saw him.
There were no groans, no audible screams or sobs—just the pattering of your sock covered feet answering a reaction. But when you landed in the doorway and your hands flew to the wood that encased it, Jack was standing between boxes holding a camcorder from twenty years ago.
"Jack?" You called out to him from the small stoop. "Everything alright?"
"Baby, look." He held up the camcorder. "Isn't it cool?"
Holy shit. You married a child. An endearing, charming, horribly sexy manchild who couldn't help but be excited to find a device that had long been replaced by the video feature on his iPhone.
"I thought you died." Dropping your hands, you sighed heavy yet entered the garage anyway. "What's got your panties in a twist? I just got her to fall asleep."
"Hey," Jack looked at you with faux offense, "I wear briefs, not 'panties,' so I got my 'briefs' in a twist. And look at it?" He held it up again and out to you. "I thought I lost this thing years ago."
His fingers brushed yours gently as he passed it over and returned to digging in the box to find its cord.
"What's on it?" You asked. "A sex tape?"
Jack scoffed. "You wish."
“With another woman? No thank you.”
“It’s not a sex tape.”
You turned it over in your hands. “My conscious has been cleared.”
The camcorder's cords were plucked by his hands within seconds of searching. In the box labeled "apartment," an old basketball was littered atop old medical books and a ratty backpack with his name in bold across the back. You pressed into the buttons as if they would magically turn on the camera, but all it did was sound rapid clicking before Jack took it away from you.
"You're gonna break it."
"It's probably already broken," you chuckled. "It's ancient, a dinosaur."
"Then we're ancient too."
"Mhm," you hummed. "I think the last two years reminded us that we are."
Jack nodded absentmindedly as he stared down at the camera in his hands.
It felt like witnessing a portal into his past.
One before the trials of pain he thought were in the name of doing good. Jack wondered about the tapes that were sure to be buried in a box in his parent's attic states away. Packing it away had cemented a chapter in his life closing: young adulthood, a childlike demeanor shaken away forever.
He had never bothered to dig into boxes when he was with his parents. Each and every time he thought about it, he reminded himself that it was only clutter.
Jack, however, had a hard time ridding himself of the all the clutter. Yet as he held it, he wondered if there was a reason he had never let go. The life he lived now, at 50, was not the one he envisioned when he packed it away for the last time.
Maybe now was reason for its rediscovery.
Maybe her arrival to Earth was enough to signal that he had healed what he left behind.
"What if it works?" He questioned in a trance.
You glanced from Jack to the camcorder to him again and tipped your head softly to the side. "What about it?"
"Maybe we could use it, you know, to film our life here."
Oh God. Your heart just fucking exploded in your chest.
Jack never had to try very hard to make you feel… anything. It came naturally with his presence and it was a fragile reflection of the years you've spent searching and loving the man you called your husband. Now, well into a new chapter of your lives, it only seemed to deepen.
“Our life” was larger than the two of you now. It wasn’t something you had imagined happening at your age, nor after years of never finding the right person to see that future with. But when fate identified a deep misfortune in the circumstances in both yours and Jack’s lives, it gave you something you didn’t realize you needed.
And you called her Birdie.
Birdie.
A nickname with many meanings that you could see in the sheen of Jack's eyes. It was her, the girl asleep in her low toddler bed, that centered the focus of Jack's video dreams.
"We missed her first steps," Jack considered, "and we missed recording her first words."
"Yeah," you agreed. "But those are almost impossible to capture anyway."
"Think about it." A sudden burst of inspiration caught wind inside of him.
Jack didn't wait for you as he rushed back into the house and went straight for the first outlet he could see in the kitchen. He shoved the canister of cooking utensils out of the way and plugged in the charging cord and waited for the screen to illuminate. You followed behind him with less enthusiasm and careful consideration that it may not work.
"If I can film her in the playroom or when she throws her food on the floor, she can have those memories forever."
"And at her wedding, you're gonna be that dad who shows all of her friends the videos of her having a tantrum over halved grapes and cubed chicken, right?"
Jack nodded without registering the wary tone of your voice. He was too excited about the prospects.
"Exactly."
"What about just filming on your phone?" You asked. "You've got videos her already."
He did, you weren't lying. They were all in the shared folder labeled with her given name that just kept growing and growing every day for the last 700-odd days of her existence. And he frequented it, daily, to quell the stress of all that existed outside of your home.
Jack was at peace here. With the two girls he loved more than anything on the planet, and in the safety of their embraces for as long as he will be alive.
"This is different."
"How?" You pressed out of interest.
"It's… intentional, I don't know. These videos," he pointed to the camcorder, "are moments that I want to record. With our phones, it's too easy just to film anything."
"Try to turn it on," you suggested quietly. "Don't scream this time, okay? Don't wake her up."
Jack glared at you comically and pressed the button. His fingers tapped the counter impatiently and you put a soothing hand on his back.
"Hey," you whispered. "It's only a camera."
Jack bit down on the side of his cheek and shook his head. He didn't speak, only adverted his gaze away from the camcorder and into the backsplash you picked out years ago.
"Jack?"
"I don't think I've turned this on since…" The gap in his words was filled by the heavy silence of what it left.
It had been sitting in a box, dead, since the spring of 2002.
Whatever life existed in the memory of the device was as foreign as the feeling in his chest. He thought of the repetitive motion of your hand instead of the flood from his subconscious. Jack didn't want to remember what that life looked like—he had mourned it, for years, before coming to terms with the fact it was never going to be his again.
"Where'd you go?" You asked him quietly. "Come on back, honey. We've got you."
The camera screen turned on and nothing but settings appeared. No proof, no other videos to haunt him. Jack sighed, audibly, before shaking his head and closing the camera so it could charge. He turned enough to wrap his arm around you and pull you close. His lips settled on your forehead before resting his cheek atop your head.
"I'm fine," he assured. "It's stupid."
"No, it's not."
"No," he agreed instead of fighting it further. "It's not."
"Let it charge up and then when she wakes up from her nap, the first video on the card will be of her smiling at you because she loves you so much."
Jack's cheek pulled against your hair. He loved that little girl like it was his lifeline. Yes, of course, he adored you just as much but he never knew he could love as deeply as he did until she was born out of surprise. A risky pregnancy was rewarded with what he could only be described as perfection.
Even if she grew up into a teenager who would resent him for not letting her drive past 8 or go to a high school party, Jack would love her forever.
He hoped she would too.
"And I love you too," you reminded him. "Don't forget it, okay? I don't deal with all of your shit like screaming bloody murder over a camcorder for nothing."
"I'll shout like a mouse next time."
"That's more like it."
The first video logged on the new SD card was filmed by you standing in the small gap of Birdie's bedroom door as Jack woke her up from her nap.
A tan bunny curled into her chest while the sheets of her toddler bed were askew in a million directions. Her room looked like a tornado tumbled through it: toys laid everywhere and a dresser drawer stuffed with clothes. The chair in the corner of the room that had once been reserved for rocking a baby back to sleep was filled with books—but Birdie only ever wanted to hear Jack read Goodnight Moon over and over and over again.
You tried getting her to love Kipper.
She still only wanted to hear Goodnight Moon.
As Birdie woke from her nap, she tossed and turned as Jack rubbed a warm hand along her side. Her feet kicked at her blankets, voice whining from being awakened from a dream about fairies and mythical forests.
"Birdie, baby," Jack cooed. "You gotta get up now."
As always, when the girl heard Jack's voice as she woke, her eyes opened an instant. Her bunny went flying over his shoulder and she scrambled to her knees on her mattress.
You zoomed in the camera to capture her glow. There was little that made your heart as full compared to watching the product of love embrace it in return. A weight lifted from Jack's shoulders as she hugged him like a monkey. Her entire body seemed to cling to Jack the moment his arms wrapped around her and he fell back onto his heels.
"Woah there," Jack laughed. "Nice to see you too."
Birdie dug her head into the crux of Jack's shoulder and neck. You couldn't help but grin at the sight.
She fused the cracks underneath his surface that could only be mended by fate. The tiny hands of a child unbothered by the world made his heart ache as much as it healed. Jack didn't want to imagine the cruelty she was sure to experience as she grew up—even if he tried to protect her the best he knew how.
One day, she wouldn't need him. She wouldn't need you.
And one day, neither of you would be there for her when she needed you most.
But he held onto her tightly in the moment. As you filmed the quiet seconds between a father and his daughter, it felt necessary to continue. Every moment captured on the device tucked into your fist was a snapshot of her childhood. It would contain the scenes of a life well loved and cared for, especially in the years that made her understand what love was.
She would see it in the way you both looked at each other. In the scent of meals she'd eat for her lifetime; the patterns on china that only came out during the holiday seasons. She'd recall it in the tears Jack shed when she'd graduate elementary school, then middle, high, and college. And while she'd pretend to be embarrassed by sharing a knowing gaze with you, her adoration would only grow thicker.
When she sat beside Jack in the hospital as he cradled your hand to his lips, Birdie would hope one day someone would love her as much.
And when all of Jack's surviving friends, colleagues, and servicemen lined up to tell her what a selfless man he had been, she'd never wish to have known anyone else as her father.
Jack felt it all in her embrace.
Birdie babbled a few words he couldn't decipher and wiggled out of his grasp. She ran out of bed, to the door, and into your legs. It had become a habit to cling to her parents with every ounce of her body. A safety thing, her pediatrician had informed when you asked if it was normal.
You turned the camera down to your legs but didn't bother checking the focus. Instead, you looked to Jack and matched the dazed, loving stare he gave. He mouthed a distinct "I love you" with a wink before sniffing away the intensity of his sentiment and rising to his feet with a low groan.
"Dada." Birdie let go of you and pattered back to Jack with her hand outstretched. "Outside."
"You wanna go outside?" He asked her. She nodded ferociously, gripping onto his hand and guiding him toward you and the door.
You held up the camera, letting it focus on Jack as Birdie dragged him closer and closer until he was filling the frame with his face and pretended to knock his head into it.
"Ow, Birdie," he wailed dramatically. "Did you see that? Momma's trying to take me down!"
Jack's hand slipped from hers as he crowded you against the door in ignorance of your pleas to not be attacked. Birdie's giggles transformed the room. The sound carried while Jack pulled you into it, wrestling to the floor and the camera with it tilted on its side to capture a frame of a husband and wife being overly dramatic for the sake of their daughter.
Birdie rushed back into the room with vocal objections before Jack playfully wrapped himself around her, pushing into your arms on the floor, and made the canvas of the room full of color.
When one SD card filled itself, Jack kept the suppliers in business.
Every visit to the zoo, the park, the YMCA, or Dana Evans’ yard, it was recorded on his 2002 camcorder. The recollections of what filled the camera’s view before slowly reduced. Jack stopped feeling like he was erasing the past but instead shaping the future.
But Jack had trouble being in front of the camera after the first instance. It wasn’t that he hated the sound of his voice or disliked the way he looked, Jack simply cared more about capturing the moment rather than being in them.
And after a few months, that started to eat away at you.
The intent was for Birdie to carry these videos with her forever. Now, Jack was only really in a fraction of them physically. A side glimpse, a low voice, the first day, and when she started pushing her little tykes vehicle down the driveway with his help. The rest were of you and her—so, you devised a plan.
“Hold my hand.”
You held out your splayed hand for five small fingers to grab. You repeated it, almost like asking a dog to eat a treat, before Birdie actually took the bait.
“We’re gonna go surprise, dada, okay? Don’t yell for him. We have to be really quiet.”
“Okay, mama,” her light, high voice replied as an ambulance pulled out of the bay.
“It might be loud in there. If you want to cover your ears, you can do that.”
Her body molded into your legs. Birdie’s auburn curls bounced with every step, shyly turning away from the few staff lingering in the corridor as the automatic doors hissed open.
“You’re okay,” you reminded her. Her fingers squeezed yours.
“Uh oh,” Dana’s thickened accent nearly shouted from the hub. “Big trouble is here!”
Birdie’s cheeks grew round with a grin. In her blue Jean overalls and ruffle trim socks, she looked up at you and swayed her body before planting her feet in the middle of the walkway.
“Little Birdie isn’t scared now, is she?” Dana removed her stethoscope from her neck and stepped out of the hub. “What are we doing? Filming a documentary? I didn’t put the right makeup on today.”
“No,” you laughed, “this one here wanted to surprise her dad with a birthday lunch.”
“Isn’t that sweet?”
Dana knelt down in front of Birdie and poked the appliqué butterfly in the center pocked on her chest. “How are you Ms. Birdie? I’ve missed ya, haven’t seen you in a little while.”
“Hi,” Birdie replied shyly, covering her face with your entwined hands.
Dana’s eyes crinkled at the sides. She observed your daughter with a kindness she always reserved for children. That nervous, uncertain energy that came with the early years of interaction was irresistible. It reminded her of her own kids who were far too old now to understand what she missed so much about being a parent of a young kid.
“She’s lookin’ more like Jack everyday,” Dana sighed your name like it was a problem. “You gotta start telling your genes to fight back.”
You ran your hands over Birdie’s curls. Fondly, you liked that she was taking after him.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Doin’ some teaching for our very fine residents in Trauma 2. Should be done soon.”
You nodded. “Think we can sit down?” You motioned to Birdie with your head. “She kept asking about the ‘spinny chairs’ in the car.”
“Oh yeah,” Dana acknowledged conspiratorially. “I think I’ve got just the chair.”
The hub was as you recalled it from the last time you visited the Pitt. Visiting Jack at work was never something you sought out—a few sporadic lunches over the years but nothing concrete to make those in the building, other than those he considered to be friends, recognize you. It was his job. His job. Spouses didn’t frequent one another’s places of employment often and with both of your schedules, especially now with Birdie, it happened less and less.
But the memories Jack had been compiling for the last few months were making his life all that much brighter.
He was right about the whole thing.
It was intentional. It was more significant.
And the camera in your hand became another piece of the Abbot’s daily routine.
Dana spun Birdie in a chair beside a computer as a few residents escaped from Trauma 2 and returned to their previously occupied places. As one logged into the computer, the other focused her attention on Birdie.
“Who do you have there, Dana? Isn’t she a cutie.”
“This is my little pal Birdie,” she said jovially, smiling at Birdie’s giggles that only seemed to echo louder and louder the longer they went on. “Santos, you’ve never met Birdie before?”
“I don’t think so.” Santos kneeled beside the chair. “Hi Birdie, my name is Trinity.”
“Hi,” Birdie replied as her initial nervousness subsided. In her broken 2 year old language, she urged Dana to keep going.
“Is she with a patient?” Trinity asked.
“She’s mine,” you voiced diagonal from her. A tote bag on the floor, she clocked the camcorder in your hand and her brows furrowed before letting up. “We’re just visiting.”
“Well she’s adorable.” Trinity watched Birdie spin and the way her hair flew. “Are you looking for someone?”
“Dada,” Birdie shouted as the spinning stopped. “Dada’s birthday is today.” Though, birthday came out to be more like ‘burfday,’ the reason was noted.
The young man behind Trinity logged out of the computer and joined the conversation.
“Whose birthday is it?”
Dana helped Birdie off the chair as the girl went running into your knees. You made a sound of fake harm before scooping her up and setting her back against your chest.
“Dr. Abbot’s.” Dana stood. “Santos, Whitaker, meet the Abbot’s. Abbot’s, meet two of our residents: Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker.”
“Dr. Abbot’s…” Dennis trailed off. His eyes bounded between Trinity, Dana, Birdie, and yours quickly. “Family?”
“Dr. Abbot has a child? A literal child? Like this cute little girl is Dr. Abbot’s kid?” Trinity asked aghast. "He spawned cuteness?"
“Well it takes two to tango,” you informed and she could have gagged. Goddamn.
“I didn’t need that imagine put into my head,” Trinity gasped dramatically.
“You say that like Dr. Abbot isn’t handsome,” Dana defended as she resumed her position in the hub, putting her stethoscope back on. “Didn’t you hear that old lady who came in last week with the broken hip? Jack the snack.”
“Maybe I’d feel differently if I liked men, Evans.” Trinity rolled her eyes.
“Are they almost done in 2?” Dana diverted the conversation. “Can’t have little Ms. Birdie see all the bad that comes in through those doors.”
“The break room is right over here,” Dennis suggested kindly. “I can help carry your stuff.”
“No,” you shook your head, “it’s fine. I have to film this anyway.”
“But what if a pait—”
“Dr. Whitaker, I might not be a doctor but I am aware HIPPA exists.”
The man blushed profusely. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you assured. “Not everyone knows the rules.”
“They’re almost done,” Trinity cut in. “Crash was stitching up and missed a whole gap so he’s supervising it until she ties it off—speak of the devil.”
Crash, or Victoria Javadi walked out with eyes so vacant she could have seen a ghost.
“I’m never doing that again.”
“You live and you learn,” Dana said.
She approached you, motioning with her hand for the camera. “I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure?” Birdie’s head bumped into your chin as she sought to wiggle out of your grasp and to the floor.
“You’ve got your hands full, Mama. I promise I won’t miss it.”
A smile of thanks flashed on your face before helping Birdie off the chair. You held her hand as the doors to Trauma 2 pushed open again and the whizz of the hand sanitizer dumped itself into Jack’s palm.
“Dana,” he called out to her but watched the patient bed roll out of the room in turn. “T2 is headed up with Walsh now. What else you got for—”
Birdie’s head peaked around the side of the hub. Jack’s eyes found her immediately, stopping him in his tracks. He pointed at her with a skeptical finger.
“Is that my child?”
“I think you’d know your own baby, Jack.” He noticed now that Dana was holding up the camcorder and you were ducking unsuccessfully in a chair beside her.
“Oh I’d know her with my eyes plucked out.”
“A vision,” she panned.
You pulled Birdie back as Jack regained his motor skills and made for the hub. Whispering a secret into her ear, you sent her out again to meet Jack halfway. She beckoned him down to her and he bent without argument.
“Whipped,” Dana mumbled loud enough to catch on camera.
“What’s goin’ on, sweetie?” Jack asked her. “I thought I left you fast asleep this morning.”
She continued to motion for him to draw closer. When she felt he was within reach, she stood on her tip toes and cupped her hands to his ear.
For Jack’s ears only, Birdie whispered a less than articulated manner:
“Happy birthday, Dada.”
"Thank you," he said softly back. His eyes bloomed into hearts big enough to cure the grinch of his cruelty.
"Would you look at that," Trinity huffed. "Jack Abbot's a girl dad."
Years later, the woman who once went by the name of Birdie found a camcorder in the box of her parent’s attic.
Boxes lined the hallways and the rooms that used to have an abundance of sunshine. As she passed her childhood room, she thought of how different it looked when the rain muddled the skies and the slats on the blinds wrote sad poems on the floor.
The woman plugged in the camera with hope that it would turn on. It’s ancient, she considered as the minutes surpassed with no reward.
But then the screen illuminated.
And an SD card was already input into it.
When she pressed play on the first file, she saw a shaky hand pan over the emergency department where her father once worked. She saw faces of people she don’t know scattered amongst the few she did, and watched as her mother brushed a hand through unruly curls on her head.
Yet behind her, across from her mother as she sat on a chair, was the man in scrubs she still felt she could smell in her sleep.
This was the last video Jack Abbot had watched on the camcorder.
His birthday. So many years ago.
With a girl he called Birdie in focus for it all.
A/N: small little glimpse into how I see dad jack. and I couldn’t help but make it a little melancholic.
Reblogs, comments, and likes keep writers writing! Thank you!
Summary : What if Jack Abbott ends up with a rich wife instead of being the provider?
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 7,560
A/N: This is supposed to be a headcanon idea, but it ended up turning into a long paragraph.
More Jack Abbot stories :2nd Masterlist
The night shift at the Pitt was in its usual state of surreal chaos. Mateo was busy de-escalating a patient who believed he was a sentient radio, while Shen worked on a local mime who refused to break character, even while getting stitches. It was the kind of unpredictable atmosphere where the staff expected the weird—but they didn't expect the arrogant.
The double doors hissed open as a man swept in, draped in an expensive charcoal suit that was just wrinkled enough to suggest a long lunch that had devolved into several rounds of scotch. The scent of high-end whiskey trailed behind him like a physical wake, clashing sharply with the sterile, antiseptic air. He didn’t wait to be called; he marched straight to the triage desk, his lip curling at the sight of the linoleum floors.
“I’ve been waiting ten minutes,” he snapped, his voice booming across the quiet area. He adjusted his silk tie with a sneer. “Do you know who I am?”
Ellis didn’t look up from her monitor. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency as she reached for a blood pressure cuff. “I don’t,” she said, her voice flat. “But I do know your blood alcohol content is likely higher than your IQ right now. Arm, please.”
He scoffed, yanking his arm back. “I don’t sit in waiting rooms with... these people. Move me to the front of the line. One call from me, and I can personally ensure the massive donation my company is about to make to this hospital disappears. I am from Ardentis Holdings.”
Ellis paused. Just for a second. She finally looked up, her eyebrows migrating toward her hairline. “Ardentis Holdings? Really?”
“Does that name sound familiar now?” he sneered. “I suggest you start acting faster.”
Ellis didn't look intimidated. If anything, she looked like she’d just found a very interesting bug on the sidewalk. She turned toward the doorway and called out, “Jack, could you come here for a second? We have a... VIP.”
Jack stepped into the room, his expression the picture of clinical boredom. He scanned the chart briefly before his eyes settled on the drunk man in the expensive suit. “Problem?”
“This gentleman is asking for priority treatment,” Ellis said, a small, dangerous smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “He says he’s from Ardentis Holdings.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, but it wasn't the groveling respect the patient was looking for. It was more like mild amusement.
“Oh,” Jack said, tilting his head. “My wife works there.”
The man let out a short, bark-like laugh. He looked Jack up and down—from his sensible shoes to his stethoscope—with pure disdain. “Your wife? What does she do, handle the filing? Clean the breakroom?”
Jack didn't flinch. “Y/N,” he said simply. “Do you know her?”
The man snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Know her? She’s the CEO of Ardentis Holdings. She’s the most powerful woman in the sector. And you’re telling me you’re married to her?” He laughed again, a wet, arrogant sound. “Please. In what universe?”
Without a word, Jack pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen once and set it on the counter, angling it toward the man. The call connected almost instantly.
“Yeah?” Your voice came through the speaker—crisp, authoritative, and clearly focused on a dozen other things.
Jack leaned against the counter, looking completely relaxed. “Hey. Quick question. Do you happen to know a manager who is currently in my ER?”
There was a brief, sharp silence on the other end. “I know which one isn't at the board meeting he's supposed to be at,” you said, your voice dropping an octave. “He told my assistant he had a family emergency. Why?”
Jack turned the phone slightly, the camera capturing the man’s face.
The man went from flushed red to a ghostly, sickly white in three seconds flat. The smugness evaporated, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror. He was looking straight at his boss—and she was looking back.
“Oh,” you said quietly. It wasn't a shout. It was worse. It was the sound of a closing door. “Did you forget this meeting only happened because of your mistakes?”
“Ma’am,” he stammered, his voice cracking as he tried to straighten his wrinkled suit. “Ma’am, there’s been a massive misunderstanding—”
“He also mentioned,” Ellis piped up from the corner, “that he could cancel the company’s donation if we didn't give him special treatment.”
“Did he?” you asked. The air in the room seemed to turn to ice. “Be in HR at nine a.m. tomorrow. Don't bother bringing your briefcase.”
The man sat paralyzed, his world crumbling into the glowing screen. Before Jack could pull the phone away, your voice drifted through the speaker one last time.
“Oh, and Jack?”
Jack brought the phone back to his face, his expression softening instantly. “Yup.”
“Since I’ve already found someone to take the blame,” you said, your tone losing its icy edge for something warm and intimate, “I’m coming home as soon as I can.”
A rare, genuine smile broke across Jack’s face. “Can’t wait,” he murmured, ending the call.
The man stared, breathless. He had seen you dismantle boardrooms with a single glance, but he had never heard the "shark" speak with such gentleness—let alone to an E.R. doctor.
The call ended with a definitive click.
Jack slipped the phone into his pocket, his face returning to clinical boredom as he clicked his pen. “Let’s finish your vitals.”
“Well,” Ellis said, breaking the quiet with a satisfied sigh. “That solved triage. You’re back to being a ‘Level 4’ priority. Sit tight.”
The man didn’t argue. He sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on the floor, while Jack checked his vitals with methodical precision.
“…How did you even meet her?” he muttered after several minutes, his voice small and defeated. “She’s a shark. She’s always working. No one gets close to her.”
Jack paused for a fraction of a second, his pen hovering over the paper. “She’s stubborn,” Jack said quietly. “A workaholic.”
He clicked his pen.
“So am I.”
********
Flashback
The first time Jack met you.
The ER was unusually quiet. Jack was at the station, flipping through charts, when a nurse waved him over. "Got a walk-in. Abdominal pain," she noted. Jack nodded and stepped into the exam room.
You were sitting on the bed, one hand pressed lightly against your stomach. Your posture remained rigid, as if you were refusing to acknowledge the discomfort. Jack glanced from your face to the clipboard. "What do we have here?"
"Stomachache," you replied, exhaling slowly. "Probably gastric. I don’t have medicine at home."
"Probably?" he echoed, snapping on his gloves. He stepped into your personal space, calm and focused. "When did it start?"
"A few days ago."
"Pain level?"
"Manageable."
He raised a brow. "That’s not a number."
You gave him a dry look. "Fine. Five."
Jack didn’t push, but his hands were already moving. "Any nausea? Vomiting?"
"A little nausea. No vomiting."
He pressed lightly on your abdomen. "Tell me if it hurts."
It did. Your fingers tightened against the bedsheet, but you didn't make a sound. Jack’s eyes flicked to your hands—he noticed. He always noticed. "You work?" he asked, continuing the exam.
"Yeah. Office work."
"Hours?"
"Flexible."
He glanced up, meeting your eyes. "That usually means long."
A small, weary smile touched your lips. "I work better at night."
Jack let out a quiet breath, a faint smile mirroring yours. "Same. Night shift."
The ease of the gesture caught you off guard. "...So you get it," you murmured.
"I do." He stepped back, pulling off his gloves. "And you rest during the day?"
"Yes," you answered, perhaps a second too fast.
Jack didn’t call you out. He just looked at you for a moment longer than necessary—not judging, just noting the truth you were hiding. "Alright. Sounds like gastritis, maybe an early ulcer. It can be serious if you keep ignoring it."
He began writing on a prescription pad. "I’ll give you something to reduce the acid. But you need to eat regularly. And actually rest."
"I'll try," you said, though the words felt hollow.
"You don't sound convincing," Jack remarked, handing you the paper.
You looked at him properly then, curious. "Are you always like this with your patients?"
"Only when I think they’ll come back," he replied.
A beat of silence passed between you. You slid off the bed slowly, smoothing your clothes. "I won't."
"Hope you're right."
You reached for the prescription, your fingers brushing his for a brief, unintentional second. The air in the small room suddenly felt heavy.
"Thanks, doctor," you said, stepping toward the door.
"Abbott," he corrected quietly. "Jack Abbott."
After you left. He never thought this first meeting could lead to another.
The second time Jack met you
Same week. Different day.
Jack stepped into the exam room and stopped for half a second, the chart already in his hand. “You again.”
You were already sitting on the bed, one hand pressed to your stomach, your posture still stubbornly straight. “Don’t sound too excited, doctor.”
“I told you to follow the plan,” he said, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative register.
“I did.”
Jack gave you a long, skeptical look as he pulled on fresh gloves. “No, you didn’t.”
You exhaled, shifting slightly to get comfortable. The movement cost you—a sharp flicker of discomfort that made your breath hitch—and he caught it. He always did.
“When did the pain get worse?” he asked, moving into your personal space.
“Last night.”
“Pain level.”
You hesitated, looking at the sterile white tiles of the floor. “…Seven.”
He didn’t comment, but his jaw tightened. “Lie back.”
You did as you were told. He pressed gently along your abdomen, his touch clinical yet oddly grounding. You flinched this time—not a subtle movement—and his hands paused for a fraction of a second before continuing.
“Still eating irregularly?” he asked, his focus entirely on the exam.
“Yes.”
“Sleeping?”
“A little.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound of quiet frustration. He straightened up, snapping his gloves off. The movement pulled the fabric of his scrubs tight across his chest and forearms, revealing the quiet strength in his veins. It was annoyingly noticeable. You found yourself looking away first, clearing your throat.
“You need labs and imaging,” Jack said. “Blood work, and I want a CT scan. Now.”
You frowned. “That sounds excessive for a stomachache.”
“It’s not,” he replied calmly. “Your symptoms are progressing, and I’m not interested in guessing.”
“I just need stronger meds.”
He crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. The posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp. “Is your boss the problem? We see a lot of patients who are scared to take time off because of a demanding superior.”
Shen, passing by the open door, leaned in with a helpful nod. “We can advocate for you if that’s the case. No job is worth a perforated gut.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the genuine concern. “Oh—no. It’s not like that. It’s… complicated.”
Jack didn’t move. “Complicated how?”
You exhaled, the weight of the company and the board meetings suddenly feeling very heavy. “…Family business.”
Something shifted in Jack’s expression. It wasn’t sympathy—he didn't seem like the type to offer pity—but it was a cold, hard understanding that this wasn't just about a paycheck.
Time passed in a blur of needles and the sterile hum of the CT machine. When Jack finally returned with the results, he didn't sit down. He didn't soften the blow.
“You have a peptic ulcer,” he said. “And it’s worsening. If this continues, it will bleed or perforate.”
A beat of heavy silence followed.
“You need surgery.”
You shook your head immediately, the instinct to protect your position at the firm overriding the pain. “Not now.”
Jack’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. “It’s not optional.”
“I can’t,” you said, your voice firmer, your eyes locking onto his. “I can’t risk my position. Not this week.”
Jack studied you, his gaze tracing the lines of exhaustion and defiance on your face. “If you delay this, it gets worse. The recovery gets longer. The risk gets higher.”
The irritation rose in your chest because he was right, and you hated being managed. “I’ll hold it,” you said, your voice tight. “Dr. Jack Abbott.”
That made him pause. Not because of the refusal, but because of the way his name sounded coming from you—a mix of a challenge and an acknowledgement.
Jack nodded once. “Then you’ll be back,” he said.
You didn't rebuke him. You couldn't, because deep down, you felt the truth in his words.
As you walked out of the Pitt, clutching your side, Shen watched your retreating figure. He turned to Jack, scratching his head. “Where does she even work? I wonder what kind of evil boss she has to be that terrified of taking a sick day.”
Jack didn’t answer. He just watched the doors close behind you, his thumb tracing the edge of your chart. “The worst kind,” he murmured to himself. “The kind that doesn't know when to stop.”
The third time Jack met you
A sharp screech of tires shredded the night. Inside the pit, Mateo and Shen sprinted toward the sound while Jack stayed focused, his hands moving with surgical precision over a teenager’s arm.
Outside, a sleek black sedan was skewed across the ambulance bay. Your assistant, Greg, scrambled out and threw open the rear door. "Please, help her!"
You were slumped against the leather, knuckles white as you clutched your abdomen. When Shen reached for you, your eyes flickered open, hazy with pain. "Just... an injection," you whispered, the words strained. "I need to get back."
"You again?" Shen muttered, recognizing you. Mateo shook his head, already pulling out a wheelchair. "We can’t treat you in a car. Let's move."
Inside, the ER hummed to life. Vitals were taken, IVs started. Shen palpated your stomach, his expression darkening. "Pain level, one to ten?"
"Ten," you choked out, your usual composure shattered.
"We need a CT scan immediately," Shen said.
You looked up, eyes wide with genuine fear. "How long? I... I have a meeting. I just need to stop the hurting." You weren't barking orders anymore; you were desperate. "Please, just tell me if I can leave."
Greg hovered at the curtain, his voice trembling. "Boss, the paracetamol didn't work. You can't just keep going like this."
You didn’t look at either of them. Your gaze was fixed on the ceiling, your voice low and dangerously clear. “If I don’t get the results fast,” you said, “I will drive that car out of here myself.” A heavy pause hung in the air. Then, your eyes flicked to Greg. “And I’ll fire you before I hit the exit.”
There was an awkward moment. Shen didn’t waste time and went outside. “Abbott, I need you.”
Jack peeled off his gloves, his expression neutral. “What’s up?”
“Your gastritis patient is back,” Shen said, already mid-stride toward the trauma bay. “Same one. Still stubborn, still refusing surgery.”
Jack exhaled, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. Of course it was you. He followed, but Shen glanced back, a strange look in his eye. “I think you’ll be surprised by who she actually is.”
They reached the door where Mateo stood waiting, tapping a video on his phone. He held it up—a TikTok clip of fast cuts and aggressive headlines featuring your face. “The one percent,” Mateo said. “Executive Director of Ardentis Holdings.”
“Now I get the stress,” Shen muttered.
“It’s not just the job,” Mateo added, lowering his voice. “Succession rumors. Apparently, her father wants to hand the empire to his mistress.”
“It’s not a rumor,” a voice cut in. Greg stepped forward, looking frayed. “It’s happening. That’s why she won't stop.”
Jack remained silent, absorbing the information. He wasn't looking at the headlines; he was looking at the clinical reality. “Does she eat?”
Greg let out a dry, hollow breath. “Crackers and coffee. Maybe once a day if I’m lucky.”
“Sleep?”
“Barely.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. The damage finally made sense—it wasn't just an illness; it was a slow-motion collapse.
“Please talk to her, Doctor,” Greg pleaded. “I practically had to kidnap her to get her here.”
“Didn’t she just threaten to fire you?” Shen asked, raising a brow.
“She says that every Tuesday,” Greg waved it off. “I’m the only one who can deal with her.”
Ellis approached then, the CT results gripped in her hand. She handed the films to Jack. He scanned them once, then again, his focus narrowing until the rest of the room faded away.
“Yeah,” Jack said, his voice dropping into a grave, final register. “She needs surgery. Right now.”
A heavy silence fell over the group.
“Who’s telling her?” Shen asked, looking around.
No one spoke. They all just looked at Jack. He handed the chart back to Ellis, his expression hardening into the one he used when a patient’s life was on the line.
“Of course,” he said.
He reached out and pushed the door open.
*******
Jack stepped into the trauma bay. You were lying back now, looking smaller than you had in the car. You were paler than before, a light sheen of sweat across your temples. One hand was still clamped over your abdomen, your knuckles white with tension.
You looked at him immediately, your gaze sharp even through the haze of agony. “What’s the result, doc?”
Jack didn't tower over you. He pulled a chair closer and sat down—not rushed, not distant. Just steady. “You need surgery,” he said. “Appendectomy. Today.”
“I’ll accept the surgery,” you said, your breath coming in tight hitches. “But can it be postponed until next week? There’s a project I need to finish. A board meeting I can't miss.”
Jack leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “Look,” he said calmly, “I know about the internal conflict in your company.”
Your eyes narrowed. “My noisy assistant.”
“You need this surgery now,” Jack continued, ignoring the deflection. “If you delay it, it will rupture. Then recovery won’t be one week of light work.”
You held his gaze, trying to find a loophole. “How long?”
“Up to three months,” he said. “Especially considering you haven’t been eating properly or sleeping. Your body is running on fumes.”
You let out a quiet scoff, though the movement clearly cost you. “Eight hours of sleep is for weaklings,” you rasped. “I can’t lose everything to that mistress. If I’m not there, she wins.”
On the monitor, your heart rate spiked. The beeping picked up pace, a frantic rhythm echoing your internal panic. Your grip on your abdomen tightened as another wave of pain hit, sharper and more demanding than the last.
Jack moved immediately. “Alright,” he said, his voice dropping into a soothing, authoritative register. “Easy.”
He reached for the IV line, his hands moving with practiced grace. He adjusted the flow and added a medication to the line—controlled, precise. “A small dose of morphine,” he said. “This will take the edge off.”
As the drug entered your system, the world seemed to soften at the edges. You exhaled slowly, your shoulders finally dropping an inch. Silence settled between you for a long second.
Then, Jack spoke again.
“He’s an idiot.”
You blinked, the morphine making the words feel like they were coming from far away. “…Who?”
“Your dad,” Jack said, as matter-of-factly as if he were reading a lab report. “You’re clearly the better choice for the company. Safer than whoever he’s trying to put in. Any doctor can see you’ve put your life into that place.”
“Huh…”The comment caught you completely off guard. No hesitation. No platitudes. Just the truth, delivered by a man who didn't even know who your father was. Ruthless and heartless even to his own daughter.
For the first time, the corporate mask cracked. It wasn't weakness that showed through, but a raw, startled realization. You almost laughed, but the movement pulled at your side, so you stopped, your breath catching in your throat.
“…Thanks,” you whispered instead, a small, genuine smile forming despite the circumstances.
Jack’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Yeah. Does she have the same mind for it that you do?” Jack asked, his tone casual, though his eyes remained sharp. “The mistress. Is she as smart as you?”
You let out a sharp, derisive scoff, “Yeah, right. The only way she made it into the executive suite was because she slept her way through the board. Strategy isn't exactly her forte.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. You have the brain. She doesn't.” he assured you that weirdly work on you “You could win the battle with your eyes closed.”
“I suppose you’re right,” you murmured, your voice losing its defensive edge.
He straightened up, returning to his professional posture. “So, for the surgery—I need your consent. Do you want to proceed?”
You looked at him. Really looked this time. Not at the white coat or the stethoscope, but at the steady man sitting in the plastic chair.
“Fix me up, doctor.” you kinda dragging the doctor because you want to know his name. “I trust you.”
That words was enough. Jack stood up, checked the monitors one last time, and stepped out of the room.
Greg was waiting right outside the door, pacing a hole into the floor. He stopped the moment Jack appeared. “Did she... did she agree? Did she want the surgery?”
Jack didn't stop walking toward the scrub sinks, but he gave a single, definitive nod. “Yup.”
Greg let out a breath so long it sounded like a deflating balloon. “Thank goodness.”
The fourth time Jack met you
By the time Jack made his way upstairs, the chaos of the ER had faded into the quieter rhythm of recovery floors. He hadn’t planned to come, or at least that’s what he told himself, but he still stopped outside your room.
The door wasn’t fully closed, and your voice slipped through, steady but impatient. “Greg, give me the laptop.”
“No,” Greg said, unusually firm. “Post-op orders. You just had surgery. You’re not working.”
A brief silence followed, the kind that meant you were deciding whether to argue or override him. Jack pushed the door open before you could.
You were propped up against the pillows, pale but composed, IV line taped to your arm. Even after surgery, you looked like you were still in control. Your eyes shifted to him, and for a second, you said nothing.
“You should be resting,” Jack said, glancing at the monitor, then back at you. “Eat, sleep, repeat. That’s how you recover faster.”
You went quiet.
Greg blinked. “See? I told you.”
Jack ignored him. His focus stayed on you. “You pushed too far,” he said, calm but firm. “Ulcers don’t get that bad overnight. Next time, you stop earlier.”
“There won’t be a next time,” you replied.
“Good.”
A pause settled between you.
“And don’t lose,” he added.
Your brows knit slightly. “Lose to what?”
“The pressure. Your father. The mistress.” His gaze stayed steady. “I put my bet on you.”
That caught you off guard.
“A bet?”
“Are you going to win or not?”
You leaned back, studying him. “Is this a challenge?”
He didn’t answer. Just checked his watch.
“My shift’s over. Focus on recovering.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t like losing bets.”
He walked out like it was nothing.
The room felt quieter after he left. Greg lingered nearby, watching you like he was waiting for you to snap back and ask for the laptop again.
You didn’t.
You stayed where you were, one hand resting lightly over the bandage, your eyes still on the door he had just walked through.
A bet.
You let out a slow breath, then finally glanced at Greg. “Did he just challenge me?”
Greg gave a small shrug. “I guess?”
A faint smile pulled at your lips, almost against your will. “Oh, I’m going to show him.”
You adjusted your blanket to go back to sleep. "Send gifts to the doctors who handled my case in the ER," you commanded, your professional tone back in place.
Greg nodded, tapping into his tablet. "Yes, boss. Of course. All of them?"
You didn't look at him. "All of them."
A beat of silence followed. "And make sure it’s appropriate," you added. "Nothing over the top, but let them know the quality of care was... noted."
"Understood." Greg hesitated, his stylus hovering over the screen. "...Do you want to include Dr. Abbott separately? Maybe something personal?"
"No," you said, your voice steady. "Make it the same as the others."
Few days later, the discharge papers were signed. The hospital room, once a sanctuary of quiet, now felt too small, too restrictive. You stood by the window, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that felt like armor. You straightened your sleeves, the familiar weight of your old life settling back onto your shoulders.
"Can I leave tonight instead?" you asked, checking your watch. "The evening air is better for travel."
Greg checked the itinerary. "If we want to land in Sweden and get ahead of her before the morning session, we really need to be on the afternoon flight."
You hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, your fingers brushed the edge of the hospital bed—the place where you’d actually found a moment of peace.
"...Fine," you conceded.
Greg glanced at you, then added with a mischievous tilt of his head, "You know, if you want... I could probably get his number. For follow-up questions. Medical ones."
You turned your head sharply, your eyes narrowing. "Shut up, Greg."
"Yes, boss." But there was a hint of a smile he couldn't quite hide as he grabbed your bags.
As you stepped out of the room and headed toward the elevator, you didn't look back at the trauma bay or the quiet halls. But as you walked, your pace slowed—just a fraction. You weren't rushing. You weren't vibrating with the need to be somewhere else.
For the first time in a very long while, you weren't thinking about the company. Not entirely. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a steady, low voice lingered, grounding you.
Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
Back in the ER, the frantic energy of the night shift had smoothed out into the steady, mechanical rhythm of a Tuesday morning. The monitors hummed, footsteps squeaked against the polished linoleum, and the air smelled of fresh floor wax and stale coffee.
Shen looked up from a clipboard as Jack walked in, shrugging off his heavy jacket to reveal his scrub top.
“Your patient got discharged this morning,” Shen said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.
Jack paused, one arm still caught in his sleeve. He hesitated for only half a second before continuing. “Hmm?”
“The princess of Ardentis Holdings,” Shen smirked, leaning back against the nurse's station. “Left in a motorcade about two hours ago.”
Jack let out a quiet breath, finally draping his jacket over the back of a chair and reaching for the chart rack. “She’s not a princess,” he muttered, his voice low and distracted.
Shen didn’t bother to argue the technicality; the smirk remained firmly in place.
“We got really good food the whole time she was here,” Ellis chimed in, leaning her elbows on the counter. There was a faint, satisfied look on her face. “Catering from places I can’t even afford to look at. The day shift was absolutely jealous of us.”
Mateo nodded in fervent agreement. “I had a lobster roll for a ‘snack’ at 3:00 a.m. I don’t think I can go back to vending machine granola bars, Jack.”
Jack flipped through a chart, his expression entirely unimpressed. “So that’s what you took from this case. A refined palate for seafood?”
Ellis shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying. High-standard patient, high-standard perks.”
“Don’t tell me you guys are hoping she comes back,” Jack said, glancing up briefly from his paperwork, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Ellis and Mateo exchanged a quick, knowing look before both letting out a chuckle.
“Not like that, doc,” Mateo said, holding up his hands in mock surrender as he began to back away toward a trauma bay.
“Relax, Doctor Abbott,” Ellis added with a wink, heading off to check on a fresh admission. “The drama was just a nice break from the usual drunks.”
Shen, however, stayed. He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice so it didn't carry across the pit.
“…Don’t you?” Shen asked.
Jack looked at him, one brow slowly crawling toward his hairline. “Don’t I what?”
Before Jack could press him, Mateo suddenly reappeared, his phone already out and glowing. “There’s an update,” he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Next week will be the decision. Swedish investors. Board control. It’s all going down right now.”
Jack frowned slightly, his pen pausing over a prescription pad. “How do you even know all of this, Mateo? Don't you have patients?”
Mateo rolled his eyes, as if the answer were obvious. “I follow an account. ‘The 0.1%.’ They track people like her—the moves, the scandals, the power shifts. It’s better than any soap opera.”
Jack didn’t comment. He just picked up his pen again, tapping it rhythmically once, twice against the edge of the metal clipboard. He looked back down at his work, his face a mask of clinical indifference.
“…So?” Jack asked quietly.
Mateo looked up, surprised by the prompt. Jack met his eyes, his expression as calm and steady as the day they’d met.
“Tell me when it’s decided,” Jack said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ER.
A small, stunned pause followed. Mateo blinked once, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Tell me who wins,” Jack added.
Mateo’s grin widened into a triumphant beam. “Yes, sir.”
The fifth time Jack met you
A few months later, the room was bathed in the glow of a hundred crystal chandeliers.
Soft gold lighting bounced off champagne flutes and silk gowns. It was a sea of people dressed in the kind of tailored luxury that signaled true power. Conversations were layered, voices kept to a practiced, elegant hum over the quiet swell of a string quartet. This wasn’t just a victory party; it was a statement.
The war was over. The board was yours, and the mistress had been removed—cleanly, efficiently, and without a single drop of blood spilled on the corporate carpet.
You stood at the center of the room, a glass of vintage sparkling water in your hand. You were calm, composed, and entirely untouchable.
Lilly, your closest friend and director of marketing, looped her arm through yours, a triumphant grin on her face. “You really did it. You actually pulled it off.”
You took a slow, deliberate sip. “Of course I did.”
Lilly laughed, ready to make a toast, but suddenly her posture stiffened. Her hand dropped to her stomach, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric of her dress.
“…Okay,” she whispered, her face draining of color. “That’s not good.”
You turned immediately, your focus shifting from the room to her in a heartbeat. “What’s wrong?”
She forced a tight smile, though her grip on your arm was becoming a vice. “Probably just the new diet. It’s brutal.”
You weren’t convinced. You had seen this look before—the pale sweat, the shallow breathing. You were already shaking your head. “We’re going to the ER.”
“What? No—this is your night,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “The things we do for beauty, right?”
“Greg,” you called out, your voice low but carrying that unmistakable edge of command. “Prepare the car.”
“I have medicine in my bag—” Lilly started.
“No,” you cut her off, already guiding her toward the side exit. “We’re going. Now.”
Greg, who had been hovering nearby with a watchful eye, squinted at Lilly. He looked from her to you, a slow, knowing expression crossing his face. “…Suspicious,” he muttered under his breath.
“Shut up, Greg,” Lilly groaned, leaning heavily into you as the pain spiked.
“Yeah,” you added, pushing through the heavy oak doors. “Shut up, Greg.”
The ER doors hissed open with that familiar, pneumatic sound.
The smell was the same—antiseptic and floor wax. The lighting was the same—stark and uncompromising. But this time, the reason was different.
Shen looked up from the nurse's station and immediately a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh. The queen is back.”
You frowned, not missing the irony. “What?”
“I’m dying here,” Lilly groaned beside you, her head lolling against your shoulder.
You pointed at her without a moment’s hesitation. “Stomach pain. High stress. New diet. Fix her.”
Shen was already moving, grabbing a wheelchair. “Of course it is. It’s always the diet.”
The machinery of the hospital picked up speed around you. Vitals were taken, questions were barked out, and Lilly was whisked toward a trauma bay. Then, the curtains parted, and Jack stepped in.
He looked exactly as he had months ago—sleeves rolled up, stethoscope around his neck, an expression of unshakable, quiet focus. He didn't react to your designer gown or the fact that you looked like you’d just stepped off a magazine cover. To him, you were just a person in a room.
“Ellis, IV line. Matteo, get me labs. Let’s not assume it’s the diet until we see the blood work,” Jack said, his hands already moving to assess Lilly’s condition.
“Yes, doctor,” Ellis replied.
Within seconds, the team had Lilly stabilized and moving toward imaging. The chaos receded, the curtains were pulled, and suddenly, the room felt much larger.
It was just you and him.
Jack pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin with a flick of his wrist. He turned to you properly, leaning back against the metal counter. A brief, quiet pause stretched between you.
“You look great,” he said. It wasn't a line. It was a clinical observation, delivered with a hint of genuine warmth.
You held his gaze, feeling the tension of the last few months finally start to ebb away. “Thank you.”
Another beat passed.
“Oh,” Jack added, as if it had just occurred to him. “And congrats. You won the battle.”
You tilted your head slightly, a flicker of amusement in your eyes as you remembered. “Right. So that means you won the bet too?”
“Yup.”
A real smile almost formed. “Glad I didn’t make you lose.” You paused, then added, “How did you even know?”
Jack shrugged lightly, leaning one shoulder against the counter, completely at ease. “Hard to miss,” he said, his voice dropping into that steady tone you remembered.
“After all… you were my patient.”
With a small nod, he pushed himself off the counter and walked toward the trauma bay, already shifting his focus to the next case.
You stayed where you were, silk gown catching the harsh fluorescent light, watching him leave. His movements were calm, unhurried, like none of the chaos around him mattered. Like your world didn’t touch his at all.
Without thinking, you caught your lower lip between your teeth, your gaze lingering on the doorway long after he disappeared.
Across the room, Lilly, still half-sprawled on the bed but far more awake now, exchanged a slow, knowing look with Greg.
They nodded at the same time.
“Yeah,” Lilly muttered, voice weak but satisfied. “I knew it.”
Greg adjusted his glasses, completely in agreement. “Exactly.”
The sixth time Jack met you
A few weeks later, the ER felt different.
It was cooler. Literally. Even the patients were shocked and unprepared with the coldness.
Mateo walked through the double doors, froze directly under a ceiling vent, and closed his eyes. He looked like a man who had just found religion.
“Is that... actual air conditioning?” he breathed, the faint hum of a powerful, brand-new HVAC system purring above him.
Ellis didn’t even bother to look up from her paperwork, though the lack of sweat on her brow spoke volumes. “Don’t question a miracle, Mateo. Just enjoy the fact that we aren't melting into our scrubs anymore.”
Shen leaned back in his chair, a rare, relaxed posture for a Tuesday afternoon. “The waiting room, too. Finally, No more broken chairs or flickering lights.”
Robby walked in, hands shoved deep into his pockets, glancing around at the subtle but expensive upgrades. The walls were freshly painted, the floors gleamed with a high-grade finish, and the equipment at the triage station was top-of-the-line.
“Donations came through,” Robby said casually, though his eyes were dancing with a certain knowing light.
Mateo smirked, finally stepping away from the vent. “Yeah. We know who.”
No one said your name. They didn’t need to. The precision of the renovation, the efficiency of the delivery, and the sheer quality of the materials had your signature written all over it.
Robby’s gaze shifted across the room, landing on Jack. As usual, Jack was leaning against the counter, focused on a chart as if the world hadn't just been upgraded around him.
Robby walked over and leaned against the opposite side of the desk. “We should thank her.”
Jack didn’t look up. “You’re the Head of E.R, Robby. You can.”
Robby shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “No. It’s you who should thank her.”
That made Jack pause. Just for a second. The pen in his hand stilled over the paper. He slowly raised his head, his expression as unreadable as ever. “…Why me?”
Robby gave him a long, pointed look. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Jack.”
Jack closed the chart. Slowly. Methodically. “I don’t.”
Robby let out a quiet breath, a sound somewhere between amusement and exhaustion. “Yeah,” he said, tapping the counter before walking away. “You do.”
Later that night, a rare, quiet moment descended upon the pit. The rush of the evening had bled out into a midnight lull.
Jack stepped out into the crisp night air to clear his head, but his gaze was immediately pulled to the parking lot. The black luxury sedan was back, and Greg was leaning against the hood. Greg caught Jack’s eye and gave a small, meaningful nod toward the hospital lobby.
He headed back inside, his boots echoing on the newly polished floors. He found you standing in the center of the lobby, head tilted back as you oversaw the progress of the renovation you had funded.
He approached, his steps unhurried and steady. “You’re doing inspections now?”
You turned toward him, showing no surprise at his sudden appearance. “Just making sure it works.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the new vents above—the ones currently pumping perfectly chilled, sterile air into the wing—then settled back on you. “It does.”
A beat of silence followed, the kind that usually felt awkward in a hospital but felt different between the two of you. “You didn’t have to do this,” he added, his voice a low rumble.
You held his gaze, your expression as calm and unreadable as ever. “It’s called gratitude, Dr. Abbott.”
Gosh. Every time his name slipped from your lips, it sent a sharp, electric tingle racing down his spine. He cleared his throat. “For the hospital?”
“For the people in it,” you corrected him. You took a half-step closer, the professional distance beginning to blur. “You helped me. And you helped my friend. Consider this a closing of the account.”
Jack studied you for a long second, his head tilted slightly as if he were deciding whether to accept that answer or look for the one you weren't saying. The silence that settled between you wasn't empty; it was close, heavy with the shared history of that frantic night in the ER.
“You’ve been eating properly?” he asked suddenly, falling back into the role of the doctor, though his eyes suggested he was looking for more than just a medical update.
You exhaled a light, weary breath. Of course he would bring it back to that. “Yes. Greg is a professional micromanager.”
“And sleeping?”
The question caused a pause. You shifted your weight slightly, your gaze drifting toward the darkened windows for a fraction of a second before returning to his steady, unblinking eyes. The air between you tightened, the hum of the new AC the only sound in the quiet lobby.
“I have trouble sleeping,” you said.
That got his attention. Jack’s eyes lifted from the chart, settling on you with quiet, undivided focus. “Since when?”
“Since a long time ago.” You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Probably because my bed is too cold. Maybe you could fix that.”
Something in his expression shifted. He wasn't surprised or even particularly amused; he was just suddenly, intensely aware. “Cold bed,” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. His gaze didn’t leave yours. “You're saying that’s the problem?”
“It’s one of them.” Your chin lifted a fraction, meeting his scrutiny.
He studied you for a long second, then gave a small nod, accepting the answer without pushing. “You don’t look like someone who waits around for problems to fix themselves,” he noted.
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Instead, it seemed to tighten the space between you, pulling the air taut. You crossed your arms slowly, the movement deliberate this time. “Then what would you suggest, doctor?”
Jack didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, steady and measuring, as if calculating a dose. “Warm shower,” he said finally. “Magnesium. No phone thirty minutes before bed.”
Your brow lifted. “That’s it?”
“That’s what works.”
You tilted your head, still watching him, refusing to let him off the hook. “And if I’m still not tired?”
There was a brief, heavy pause. His gaze dropped for a second, tracing the line of your throat before returning to your face. “You should have someone who makes you stop,” he said, his voice calm and certain. “Someone who drags you to bed.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. You felt it in the sudden hitch of your pulse. “Do you give that advice to all your patients?” you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper.
He shook his head once. “No.” He let the word hang there for a beat. “Just you.”
He turned slightly, acting as if he were done, as if the line had already been crossed and he wasn’t going to linger on the edge. “If it’s still a problem,” he added almost casually, “you know who to call.”
You watched him, the sharp edges of your corporate persona shifting into something softer, more intrigued. “I didn’t know you had this in you.”
That made him glance back, looking just over his shoulder. “You don’t know much about me yet.” He paused, his eyes dark. “But you could.”
Now he turned fully, stepping closer. He wasn't near enough to touch, but he was close enough to change the atmosphere between you. “There’s a bar down the street,” he said. “If you want to fix the sleep issue properly.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face. “You’re skipping your shift?”
His mouth curved, just a little. “I’m stepping out.” He took another step, his voice dropping into a low, private register. “I’m not letting the biggest donor of this hospital go home alone and pretend she’s fine.”
It wasn’t a tease. It was a statement of pure intention. You held his gaze for a second longer, the weight of the night and the hospital falling away, before letting a small smile slip through.
“Lead the way, Dr. Abbott.”
Since that night, it didn’t stay just one night.
What started as something simple turned into a pattern neither of you questioned. You showed up after his shifts. He started expecting you there. Some nights you waited in the car, some nights you walked straight into the ER like you belonged there.
People noticed. The quiet way you stood near him. The way he always looked up when you entered, even in the middle of work.
You stopped going home alone. He stopped leaving without you.
Summary: You grew up with the Danforths; your father was Chester Danforth’s right hand man. When he passes, his twins Titus and Ursula inherit the hotel and casino resort empire, but the chair of the High Council goes to Titus. There’s one rule for Titus to claim it: he must be married. And his bride… is you.
Words: 4235
Warning: Age Gap (No specified), Arranged Marriage/Marriage of Convenience, Dark Romance, Swearing, Implied/Referenced Consummation of Marriage, Sexual Tension
Author's Note: Alright I caved lol. I seriously debated if I wanted to write for Titus… but here we are. Should I be starting another series? Absolutely not when I have seven others already in progress LMFAO. This will be a mini series probably five parts. It doesn’t fully follow the Ready or Not storyline/lore. Some details have been changed. Enjoy! - Ryn
TILL DEATH | MASTERLIST
Your father served as the right hand man for Chester Danforth, business tycoon. You practically grew up at Danforth Hotel and Casino Resort. It was never just a place. It was practically your second home. Its marble floors, glittering chandeliers, and endless hallways became your playground growing up.
You were raised alongside Chester Danforth’s twins, Titus and Ursula. Older than you, they were very much a product of their upbringing and wealth.
Ursula took to you easily, making you feel like an equal. Titus, however, made sure you never forgot your place as the help’s daughter. As a child, he teased you relentlessly, picking at every weakness. What seemed like playful behavior at first carried a sharper edge, one that lingered as you grew older.
When Chester Danforth had passed, your father had summoned you to the hotel.
You step into Mr. Danforth’s office and find the twins and your father seated at the table: Ursula to the left, your father to the right, and Titus at the head.
All three of them rise as you enter.
“Ursula—” you cross the room without hesitation, wrapping your arms around her. “I’m so sorry about your father.”
She holds onto you tightly, her grip lingering like she doesn’t want to let go just yet.
When you finally pull back, your eyes lift and lock with Titus’s.
Neither of you speak. In a wordless exchange, you both acknowledge each other.
You move to your father. You give him a quick hug before he gestures toward the empty seat at the far end of the table directly across from Titus.
“There’s something we need to discuss,” your father says carefully. “Mr. Danforth’s final wishes.”
You frown. “Why am I here? Shouldn’t this be between Titus and Ursula?”
“Well…this involves you,” he replies.
You shift, not yet grasping the weight of his words.
“Mr. Danforth made it clear that when he passed, everything would be shared between Titus and Ursula…the estate, the business.” He pauses.
“But the chair of the high council…that goes to Titus.”
“However,” he continues, almost casually, “there’s a rule.”
His eyes flick back to you.
“Whoever holds the chair…whoever wears Mr. Le Bail’s ring must be married.” He states
You blink, still not connecting the dots.
“Mr. Danforth and I agreed that if Titus remained unmarried at the time of his death…” your father exhales slowly, “…an arranged marriage would be made.”
A soft slide of something on polished wood breaks the silence. Titus flicks a small velvet box across the table toward you.
You pick it up and lift the lid. Inside, a diamond ring sparkles in the light.
Recognition hits. You’ve seen this ring before. On Mrs. Danforth’s hand.
And then it clicks.
You lift your gaze slowly, meeting Titus’s eyes. His expression’s unreadable.
“An arranged marriage… to you.”
You don’t move. You sit frozen, the velvet box heavy in your hands.
You glance at Ursula, eyebrows lifting as if to ask if you heard your father right. She gives you a quiet, knowing look. Sympathetic, almost tinged with pity.
Then to your father. He remains steady, unwavering, as if delivering this news is simply another duty.
A laugh of disbelief bursts from you, sharp and shaky. “W-what… you… what?!”
“You’ll be marrying Titus,” your father says calmly.
“Like hell I am!” You snap the box shut, your hands trembling with anger. “No! I’m not doing this!” You push yourself to your feet. You feel blindsided, trapped in something you have no control over.
“When was this agreement even made?!”
“In your adolescence—”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Your voice rises, disbelief cutting through each word.
Your attention turns to Titus and Ursula “D-did you two know about this?!”
Ursula answers for them, her tone calm. “We found out not long before you arrived.”
You look at Titus again. He’s quieter than you’ve ever seen him. He says nothing, only watches you, jaw tightening slightly as his fingers drum on the table. He isn’t agreeing or denying, just processing. He was as blindsided by this arranged marriage as you are.
And yet, you know without a doubt that he will marry you, even if he despises you. His inheritance, his family’s legacy all depend on it.
You shake your head, voice rising. “We’re talking about Titus and me! You’ve seen how we’ve acted around each other growing up, how he treated me… how he still treats me! He doesn’t even like me! We barely tolerate each other as it is, and you expect us to marry?! Our marriage is never going to work!”
Your father’s tone is cold, almost clinical. “It doesn’t need to work. It only needs to happen. This union benefits everyone.”
“Benefits who?!” you snap, the words ripping out of you. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t benefit me! I have my own life, and you expect me to throw it all away for a spoiled little brat of a manchild to rule some stupid, devil worshiping cult?!”
Your father stands hand slamming against the table which causes you to jump “Chester Danforth has given us everything! He gave me a job, a place for us to live, he paid for your schooling. He’s been generous to our family, and this is how we repay him?! With defiance?!”
He rushes over to you.
“We are loyal to the Danforths,” he says, voice stern. “You will marry Titus so the Danforth name continues to hold the chair of the High Council!”
His gaze hardens.
“You will become a Danforth yourself. Married into everything you grew up alongside. You will be secure for the rest of your life,” he continues, his tone unwavering.
“Well I don’t want it!”
“This is not up to debate! You’re doing this whether you like it or not! This is final!”
The room falls silent.
Your father takes a deep breath to calm himself. “The wedding will be tonight.”
Mr. Danforth hasn’t even been dead for twenty-four hours. He’s not even six feet under.
“T–tonight? Married tonight?” you stammer “Mr. Danforth just… passed! He didn’t even have a funeral and you expect us—”
“There was a private ceremony earlier. Everything was handled, but tonight, you and Titus will be married in front of members of the high council. There’s a very specific time frame—we need to act fast. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have calls to make.”
Your father leaves, and suddenly you’re alone with the twins. You study them carefully. Ursula is grieving, you can see it, but she’s shoved it down. Refusing to let it overshadow the urgency of this wedding.
Titus seems completely unphased. He’s already on his feet, moving to the small bar in the room and pouring himself a drink.
“Tonight, huh.” His voice is flat with no hint of humor. “I get to marry my favorite nuisance. Lucky me.”
He lifts the glass and tosses back the amber liquid in one smooth motion, eyes locked on you the entire time.
“You know,” he says quietly, almost dispassionately, “resisting this… it won’t help. Not tonight. Not ever. So… don’t bother trying to fight it. Save yourself the trouble.”
“I’m not marrying you, Titus.” The words come out steadier than you feel.
He doesn’t react right away. Just sets his glass down with a soft click. Then he moves until he’s standing directly in front of you. Too close.
You have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. He looks down at you like he’s already decided how this ends.
“You are,” he says matter of factly.
His eyes hold yours, unblinking. “You’re going to marry me,” he repeats.
“And if you don’t…”
Suddenly, his hand clamps around your face. His fingers pressing into your cheeks with a force that leaves you gasping. You’re trapped, unable to move or look away.
“Titus,” Ursula snaps, her voice cutting through the tension.
He ignores her.
“If you decide to be reckless… if you fucking ruin this for me—” His voice drops, sharp and lethal, slicing deeper than any shout ever could, “your father dies first.”
His eyes remain locked on you. “And then,” he says, almost offhandedly, “so will you. Slowly… painfully… I’ll torment you until you’re begging me to finish it—for me to end you.”
Your chest heaves, each breath shallow. You try to pull back, but his hold tightens just enough to remind you that resistance is useless.
He tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his.
“Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes,” you mumble.
He holds your gaze a moment longer, searching for any hint of a lie, but he knows you too well. He knows you’re telling the truth. That you’re going to obey and follow through.
Then, for his own amusement, he toys with you before finally letting go.
“Yes… what, Pip?” he asks, low and breathy.
Your jaw tightens, fury sparking in your eyes as you glare at him. Pip… short for Pipsqueak. That ridiculous nickname he’s been tormenting you with since you were kids.
“Say it” he prompts, calm but commanding.
“Yes… Titus,” you gitt out, the words barely there, but edged with something sharper than submission.
A quiet chuckle slips from him. “Good girl.” He finally releases you.
You rub your jaw, lingering on the sensation of his fingers still ghosting over your skin.
Titus reaches for the small velvet box. He flips it open, his gaze lingering on his mother’s ring for just a moment.
He plucks it out, then grabs your arm, yanking your hand upward.
“Hold still,” he mutters. He forces the ring onto your finger.
Your hand trembles in his. You stare at the diamond, how it catches the light—simple, classic, timeless.
You’d admire Mrs. Danforth’s ring growing up, and now it rests on your finger. You can’t believe it’s yours. That you’re going to be the new Mrs. Danforth.
You didn’t want this. Your hand falls to your side as tears fill your eyes. You back away from Titus. Without another word, you turn and rush out of the office.
Behind you, his voice cuts through. “Well, I think that went well.”
“Oh, shut up, Titus,” Ursula snaps, already moving past him to follow after you.
—-
“We’re finally going to be sisters,” Ursula says, a small smile passing over her face as she adjusts the last strands of your hair. She lets it cascade naturally over your shoulders. You sit in a room in the Danforth manor, the quiet tension of the wedding pressing in around you.
The last several hours have been a blur of tears. Your cheeks streaked and swollen from crying, yet Ursula had managed to get you ready through it all.
Your wedding dress is black elegant and simple. If you had to get married, you’d decided it would at least be on your terms. The gown members of the High Council had chosen was flawless and grand, very over the top, but it wasn’t you. This one is. This one is yours.
“Yeah… but at what cost?” you murmur to yourself, the words bitter. Giving up your life, your freedom, your chance at true love, just so Titus could hold onto everything he’s been promised.
You feel your lips start to quiver as tears well up in your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time today.
“No—no, you’re going to ruin your makeup again!” Ursula says, fanning your face with her hand.
She quickly grabs a tissue and presses it into your palm as you dab at the corners of your eyes.
You take a deep, shaky breath.
“Urs, I can’t marry him… I just… I can’t do this.”
“I know,” she says gently. “This isn’t ideal. It’s not what you want. But at least you’re not marrying a stranger. Think of it as… marrying a childhood friend.”
“He’s not my friend,” you snap.
“Okay, okay,” she says quickly. “I know you two have never gotten along, but… at least it’s someone you know. Someone familiar. That has to count for something, right?”
You shake your head, frustration and fear warring inside you. “Familiar doesn’t mean… I can’t stand him, Urs. He… he makes me feel small, like I don’t matter at all. He always has.”
Ursula sighs softly, “I know he’s… difficult. And yes, he can be cruel. But you’ve survived worse, haven’t you? You’re stronger than you think.”
You bite your lip, staring at your reflection. Strong? You barely recognize the person looking back dressed for a wedding you never wanted, facing a life you didn’t choose.
“I hate that it’s come to this. But whatever happens… you’ll get through it. And the sacrifice you’re making…marrying Titus to protect our family legacy, to secure the chair…means more than you realize.”
A knock echoes on the door. It’s your father. Dressed in a cloak, he remains standing in the doorway.
“It’s time,” he says
Your face tightens, lips trembling as you scrunch it up, desperate to hold back the tears. Ursula’s hand grabs your and squeezes it tight.
“Everything will be okay,” she murmurs, though even as the words leave her lips, you can feel the tremor of doubt beneath them. She doesn’t know for certain, and neither do you.
—-
Everyone is in hooded cloaks. They fill the ritual room that’s beneath the basement of the hotel. Your father walks you down the aisle, each step echoing softly against the stone floor.
At the altar, the Lawyer waits, watchful. Ursula lingers just to his side.
Titus stands perfectly still, eyes locked on you. His usual smirk is gone, replaced by a calm, softer expression, a look you’re not used to. He can tell you’ve been crying, but instead of his usual callousness, something else stirs: awe. You look breathtaking, more fragile and real than he’s ever allowed himself to see.
As you approach, he extends his hand. You take a steadying breath and place yours in his, feeling the quiet strength in his grip. His touch guides you toward the altar. While his gaze lingers on you, you remain unaware of just how captivated he is, lost in the moment, lost in you.
The union begins. You and Titus follow the Lawyer’s instructions, cutting your hands and letting your blood mingle in the golden goblet. Each of you signs your name in blood in the ancient book.
Vows are exchanged. You repeat the words the Lawyer commands. Your words are steady but hollow, reciting them because that’s what’s expected.
When Titus speaks, his voice cuts through the quiet of the ritual room. And yet… as he says his vows, his eyes don’t hold their usual cold, icy edge.
“In the eyes of the High Council, from this day forward, I, Titus Danforth, swear to protect you with every breath I have. My loyalty is yours. You have all of me. Every thought, every heartbeat. I am yours completely. I honor you, now and always..Till death do us part”
You know he’s good at selling it. Neither of you will ever take these vows seriously. You aren’t in love. This marriage is nothing but convenience, mainly for him. The words may sound beautiful, but they’re meaningless.
Rings are exchanged, sliding onto each other's fingers with ease.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Titus steps closer.
He lifts the veil over your face, you swallow hard as your eyes meet his.
You flinch instinctively, your eyes shutting as his hand brushes your face. You keep your eyes closed. You expected the roughness like earlier in the day. He pauses before he lets his thumb caress your cheek.
He studies your reaction for a moment, before leaning in.
When he kisses you, it’s just a soft peck at first. His lips brushing yours so gently you think that’s all it will be.
But then he kisses you again.
His arms slide around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pulling you closer until your chests press together. The kiss lingers this time, slowly deepening with each passing second.
It isn’t forceful. It isn’t rushed. It’s slow. Intentional. Almost… tender. And that’s what unsettles you.
Because Titus doesn’t ask, he takes. He always has. Yet this doesn’t feel like that. The softness of it, the way he draws it out, makes it feel like something more than just a touch.
It feels like a claim.
You feel yourself dissolving into him, the edges of the world blurring until there’s nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the steady pull of his hold.
When you finally part, it’s not abrupt. Your foreheads rest together, breaths uneven, shared between you.
You pull back just enough to look up at him, and for a moment, neither of you speak. You’re both caught in the quiet intensity of what just passed.
The council cheers and claps erupt around you. Titus’s expression shifts instantly. The softness vanishes, replaced by the familiar, confident smirk that always seems to settle on his face. Normal Titus is back.
They present him with Mr. Le Bail’s ring, a symbol of the chair secured once more. He accepts it effortlessly, and the room bows in unison, a quiet acknowledgment of power restored.
“I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Danforth, head of the high council!”
—-
You’re alone in the manor, standing in Titus’s bedroom. Your bedroom now, too.
Titus had gone to meet with the lawyer, already handling things as the new head of the chair. You didn’t follow. You came back here instead wanting to decompress from a whirlwind of a day.
You slip into the bathroom and tug your wedding dress loose, fingers clumsy for a moment before the weight of it finally gives. It slides down your body and pools at your feet.
You pick it up and walk to the walk-in closet that is attached. You push the door open and step inside, only to stop short.
Everything is already done.
One side is Titus’s. Lined with dark suits and crisp shirts, spaced evenly. The other side is yours.
Your clothes are hung, folded, sorted. Shoes placed neatly beneath. Even the smaller things, accessories, personal items are tucked away like someone took their time making sure it all fit perfectly.
You thought you’d have your own room. Considering what this marriage is… it would’ve made sense. But this is your role now.
Mrs. Danforth.
You took a shower and now stand at the sink, wearing the silk nightgown you picked out, carefully going through your skincare routine.
You hear footsteps.
Your gaze moves toward the bathroom doorway and freezes when you see Titus.
He’s loosening his ascot, his movements slowing, almost stopping the second his eyes land on you. For a moment, you just stare at each other. Then he looks away first, continuing past you.
He starts undressing without a word.
You turn back to the mirror quickly, pretending to focus on your skincare, even as your movements lose their rhythm. You keep your eyes forward, fixed on your reflection.
But you’re aware of him. Every shift, every sound. Your reflection becomes something to hide behind.
Still… you catch it.
Just a glimpse of his bare back as he steps into the glass shower. Broad shoulders, toned arms, muscles shifting under his skin. Faint freckles scatter across him.
The water starts, cascading over him, and he turns. His eyes catching yours in the mirror as he slicks back his salt and pepper curls under the stream.
It’s all you see. Your angle spares you from everything else below.
“Sneaking a peek?” he says, voice threaded with amusement.
You focus on your reflection, forcing yourself to stand a little taller. “No,” you snap, voice sharper than you intended.
He tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, really?” His voice cuts through the sound of the water, “Because it looked an awful lot like you did, Pip”
You grit your teeth, shaking your head. “I wasn’t” you insist.
He just laughs, the sound echoes off the tiles. He turns, letting the water spray across his back, muscles flexing under the stream.
“Sure,” he murmurs, “Keep telling yourself that.”
You swallow hard, cheeks warming, and force your eyes back to your own reflection, even though you know he’s still watching.
You finish your skincare routine and make your way back to the bedroom.
Unsure what to do with yourself, you drift toward his bookshelves. You stand in front of them, fingers lightly brushing over the spines, tracing the titles almost absentmindedly. Your gaze flies to the small knick knacks he’s collected.
You don’t hear him approach at first. He doesn’t rush. His presence settles at your back, and you feel the lingering warmth of his damp skin, fresh from the shower. Your body tenses, startled. One hand lifts, brushing your hair aside, exposing the line of your neck.
His fingers rest on your shoulder, making your breath hitch, then slide down your arm slowly. His hands settle at your hips, thumbs grazing your sides, rubbing lightly.
“You know what happens next, right?” he murmurs against your ear.
You squeeze your eyes shut, willing your nerves to stay hidden. You know the tradition consummating the marriage but it feels outdated, like something that should’ve been left behind centuries ago. This is the 21st century. Some couples are intimate on their wedding night; others aren’t.
At the very least, you tell yourself, you’re spared the worst of it. There’s no room full of people… no one waiting outside the door. No witnesses. You’re grateful that part of it has died with time.
You knew it would come eventually, that you and Titus would have to be intimate, to produce an heir, the next generation of Danforth, but you hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly.
Your breath comes a little uneven, chest rising and falling as the silence stretches.
“Get on the bed”
“Titus–” you turn to face him.
He’s shirtless, standing there in nothing but boxers.
His gaze hardened, “I said, get on the bed.” his voice dropping lower firmer this time, leaving no room for hesitation.
You move, climbing onto the bed and settling in the middle.
“Lay down.”
You obey, lowering yourself onto the mattress, your pulse loud in your ears.
Titus moves to the foot of the bed and climbs on, settling above you. His hands press down on either side of your head, holding you in place.
Your heart races, breaths shallow, every nerve alive to his closeness.
He dips his head, teasing the idea of a kiss. You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers clutching the sheets… and then his lips brush past your ear instead.
“I sleep on the right side,” he whispers.
Your eyes snap open.
He reaches past you, grabs the extra pillow from your side, before settling into his spot on the right side of the bed.
“What?” you whisper, part of you relieved… but another part still reeling, heart thudding as the shock settles in.
He doesn’t say anything. He shifts slightly, making himself comfortable under the covers. Arms propped behind his head, eyes closed.
“What are you doing?” you say sitting up in bed.
“Going to sleep. What does it look like I’m doing?” he replies, eyes still closed.
“I thought… Are we.. are we not…?” You word trail off.
“That’s the last thing on my mind right now,” he says, voice steady, unflinching. He knows exactly what you were thinking, that he wanted to consummate your ‘marriage.’ Every moment since the bookshelves was deliberate, each action calculated to make you squirm with anticipation, all for his quiet entertainment.
“If you were hoping for anything else, you’re shit out of luck, Pip”
“Unless…” His voice drifts, letting the word hang between you like a spark.
“No!” you blurt. “No, I’d rather not.”
He snickers, “Yeah, thought so.” He lets out a low, heavy sigh that seems to carry the weight of the day. “I’ve had a day. My father’s dead, I’m married to you, of all people, and I just want this night to end and to fucking sleep. I’m not in the mood to deal with anything else tonight, least of all you.”
You stare at him, blinking, caught somewhere between disbelief and relief. “So we're really not not?”
“We’re not,” he repeats.
“You swear on the name of Mr. Le Bail?” You need to know he’s being completely serious and not just fucking with your head with his games.
Without missing a beat, he shoots back, “I swear on the name of Mr. Le Bail.”
“Now that that’s settled…” he mutters, voice low and final, “go the fuck to sleep and stay on your side.”
He rolls on his side, his back to you, not sparing another glance. Silently dismissing both you and the conversation for the rest of the night.
You slip under the covers, leaving space between you. Your eyes catch the rings on your finger. Blood, vows, and gold. They hold the undeniable truth: you were his, and he was yours. Anger, fear, resentment… none of it mattered. It couldn’t undo what had been done. Neither of you wanted it, but this was the way things were now. There was no turning back.
With that, you turn off the light on the nights stand. Like Titus, you roll onto your side, letting sleep take over, eager for the day to finally end.
im trying to cook up a jack abbot fic after YEARS of not writing anything. would people be interested in that? im scared it will flop cuz i genuinely suck at writing and just typing out of my ass right now lol
AO3 Skin based on @reignpage jjk fanfic "Crash Landing On That D!ck!" MDNI
A '(Guest)' pfp! I tried to put an image for account without pfp too but it broke my coding lmao
╰┈➤ thank you nan11 they had been helping me throughout the last touch working on this skin, if not then i don't think the skin would be as polished as this(they spend approximately 2 days patiently guide me).
╰┈➤ Disclaimers : This is my first AO3 skin so the coding are unorganized, first time attempted coding too, kinda nervous. I don't take request. pngs & icons are from Pinterest and Tumblr, no AI used on this skin. All fics mentioned does not belong to me, nor the beautiful dividers that i used on this post, credit to @andromeda-graphics for the dividers. I made this skin on mobile, so if other versions(iPad, laptop, etc.) are messed up, i can't help you with that😔 i'm broke. I followed this css in the beginning of my coding.
・✿ i include all 5 love interests main colors, most are more hidden, except To-Ji his color is green the same as the masterlist aesthetic so he automatically more prominent than others. There's a few easter eggs thrown around in this skin that CLOTD readers might notice.
my ao3 skins masterlist
Tutorial how to activate the skin :
Copy the code i provided in this GitHub, there is a copy button at the top right(•••) of the code box. And here if you prefer Google doc.
Sign to your AO3 account, after that go to "Dashboard".
On your "Dashboard", tap on a section called "Skins".
On the "Skins" page, tap on the button labelled "Create Site Skin".
Give your site skin a unique title, i usually use 2-4 word for the skins that i saved, for example i named this CLOTD skin "EdenX Pheromones"(don't ask😹). IF YOUR SKIN NAME IS NOT UNIQUE, YOU CAN'T SAVE THE SKIN.
Paste the codes you copied from my GitHub into the "CSS" box.
When you're done, scroll to the bottom of the page and click a button labelled "Submit". This will save your site skin and take you to a new page where you can see the title of your skin as well as all of the code.
Click "My Site Skin" and you can see the skin are added, press "Use" to activate it.
summary: you like to give abbot an extra grey hair with your flirting and barely suppressed sex jokes, and he likes to put a little extra in your swear jar. it's a win-win shift.
warnings: grumpy!abbot x sunshine!reader, also lowkey sugar!daddy!abbot, suggestive jokes, tension, flirting, one swear word, abbot trying to pretend sooo hard he’s not in love w reader ᝰ.ᐟ
wc: 2.4k (alina finally learnt how to stfu!! yay!)
You’d have the absolute audacity—and likely the entirety of your medical license—smacked clean out of you if you ever said the next thought out loud, but…it’s 4 a.m., and the night shift has settled into something almost resembling quiet.
Well, as quiet as it can get between drunk driving accidents and chest pains that turn out to be something worse than indigestion. It's like the ER is easing up on you, just for a second. Which is exactly why your brain has decided to fixate on something entirely unhelpful.
Why has Abbot been in a grump.
He’s had that small scowl all night, not quite fully formed, like it’s still deciding where to land and how hard. You’ve been watching it develop with a level of focus you would absolutely deny under oath.
In fact…you kind of hope it lands on you.
Not for any good reason. Not even a logical one. Just the same instinct that makes people watch storms roll in from too close, curious about the exact moment it tips from interesting into dangerous.
“I’m telling you,” you murmur, not looking away from your screen as you type, “it’s going to be something stupid. Like the printer.”
Diaz glances over his shoulder, checking if the subject of discussion is still there, then turns back, scribbling something down. “Nah, too easy. He’d fix the printer before he’d let it piss him off that much.”
You hum, lips pursing as you click through another tab, the system lagging enough to irritate you. “Okay, fine. Then a person. But not a big thing. Something small.”
“You, then.”
“Uh—” You pause, looking up at him, mildly offended. “Rude. He’d never snap on me.”
“No, but he gets all stiff and weird whenever you flirt with him like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so it’s close enough.”
You cock your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “I do not flirt with him.”
Diaz just raises his brows.
You glance back at your screen, suddenly very interested in whatever half-finished note is sitting there. “I’m just…friendly.”
“Sure,” he drags out smugly.
“I am.”
“Right.” He nods, entirely unconvinced, tapping his pen against the paper. “That thing you did earlier? With the ‘thank you, doctor’ and the smile?”
You frown. “That was polite.”
“That was not polite.”
“It was,” you insist, even as your fingers hover uselessly over the keyboard again. “It’s called good bedside manner.”
“Yeah,” Diaz mutters, “for the patients.”
You open your mouth to argue—fully prepared, actually—but it dies halfway out when you catch sight of Abbot heading towards the nurses’ station.
The scowl is still there.
Diaz follows your line of sight, takes one look, and immediately exhales like he’s just remembered somewhere else he absolutely needs to be. He shakes his head, already gathering his things.
“You coward,” you scoff.
“I’m not doing this.” He holds his hands up, backing away like this is a hazardous situation.
“Huh. You would if Javadi was here,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, but when Diaz pauses, you can’t help the slick little grin that melts onto your face.
“What was that?”
You don’t look at him. Just mime zipping your mouth shut, tossing the invisible key over your shoulder.
“You’re annoying.”
“I’m not annoying,” you argue easily. “Right, Dr Abbot?” you add, just as Abbot comes to a stop at the counter in front of you, earning a very clear middle finger from Diaz on his way out.
You have to tilt your head up a little to see him properly, his scowl edging into view above your monitor.
“…Am I?” you press, because apparently self-preservation is optional, ignoring the small, bright fizz of something that bubbles up every time you decide to push him just to see where the line actually is.
“Annoying?” he repeats, flipping through paperwork in his hands.
You nod once. He glances at you long enough to catch it.
"Jury's still out,” he mumbles, turning the page.
“I know you don’t mean that,” you whisper, leaning in. “It’s okay, Mateo’s gone—you don’t have to hide that I’m your favourite nurse now. No witnesses, no morale casualties.” You wave a hand airily, then reach for your hand sanitiser, squeezing a few pumps.
“Morale casualties?”
“Yup,” you reply, tilting your head like you’re weighing the gravity of the situation. “Could bring the whole floor down if they found out I’m your favourite. Women swoon for you, Doctor.” You smear the sanitiser into your hands. “Men too, I’m sure.”
He snorts, shaking his head as he walks over to the printer, feeding the documents in. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But not annoying.” You point at him, arching a brow.
“How many times have you written the same sentence?” he asks, fussing with the printer, hands gripping the edges as he looks to one side of the machine then the other.
You roll your eyes and glance back at your screen, skimming your notes, only for your stomach to dip when you realise you have, in fact, written patient’s BP is normal three separate times.
“Okay, well, in my defense—”
“You don’t have one.”
“I was just making it very clear that the patient's BP was normal,” you shrug. “Robby likes details.”
Abbot gives the printer a light smack when the paper still doesn’t budge. “Robby’s not here, and I like legible charting.”
You blink up at him slowly. “So you’re saying I should put your preferences and needs over everyone else's?" You do your very best to lace the question with something sultry, though at four in the morning you’re fairly sure the effect is somewhat dampened by the fact your concealer has absolutely creased beneath your eyes and your hair could probably be redone. You commit anyway.
Abbot chooses to ignore your attempt, his hands hovering over the printer. “Do you know how to work this fucking thing?”
“Of course I know how to work a printer, Doctor. I’m not incompetent.” You swivel in your chair to face him fully, smile widening. “...Just admit I’m your favourite.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Well, in that case, I think my charting could do with a little improving,” you say, turning back to your computer, smacking your gum a little louder as your finger clicks on the mouse repeatedly. “Might rewrite that blood pressure note a fourth time. Maybe fifth. Really flesh it out.”
There’s a moment of silence behind you, followed by an exhale long enough to extinguish a line of candles.
“Okay. Fine.”
You freeze mid-click, slowly pivoting your chair back to him, the gum between your teeth suddenly tasting a little too sweet.
Abbot is staring at you with an exhausted expression. The one of a man who knows exactly how negotiations should go, having probably run more tense situations than you can imagine, but who also knows he’ll cave if it comes to the right thing. Maybe he’s just good at giving in when he wants to, like a soldier choosing his battles.
“Please. You little terrorist. You’re my favourite and I need these scanned to radiology. Now.”
You grin at him, pushing yourself up from your chair with a spring in your step as you approach the printer. “Fine, fine. Scanning, coming right up.”
He moves to the side, letting you take over.
“So all you have to do is give them a little push,” you murmur, dragging out the syllables, “just enough so they fit snug. And then you make sure the frames are squeezed tight…tight enough to keep everything in place, so nothing slips out.”
He clears his throat, eyes darting around like you’ve said something scandalous, and not just given him a briefing on how to use the scanning function of the printer.
“The paper, Doctor. Get your mind out of the gutter,” you chirp, nudging the papers in and watching the machine whirl to life.
“My mind’s not in the gutter.”
“No?” You glance up at him prettily. “Oh, then you must just be deeply impressed by my ability to handle old things with such ease and efficiency.”
He shakes his head, already looking tired of you in a way that suggests he is not nearly tired enough. “You are unbelievably committed to making HR a recurring issue for me.”
“Thank you for showing me how to use a simple piece of equipment is a sufficient enough reply.”
His mouth twitches before he reins it in. “Radiology. Now. You can shred the original once it’s saved on the system.” He taps the printer once before backing away.
“Aht, aht,” you call after him, snatching the documents and setting them on the counter before rounding it and dropping back into your chair. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you with immediate suspicion. “What now?”
You stare at him expectantly. He stares back. Then scoffs like he cannot believe he is indulging this.
“Thank you for showing me how to use a simple piece of equipment,” he repeats flatly.
“That’s very cute. I’m glad you can follow instructions. But—” You hold up one finger before bending beneath the desk and emerging with a very sparkly jar covered in rhinestones, the label aggressively pink and handwritten in looping glitter pen. “You need to pay for the f-bomb you dropped earlier.”
“We have a swear jar?”
“I have a swear jar,” you correct, giving it a proud little shake so the coins inside rattle merrily, loud and obnoxious, “and everyone in my presence has to contribute when they slip up.”
He scoffs again, folding his arms. “And who decided that?”
“Me, obviously.”
“Of course.” He nods once, like that answer somehow tells him everything he needs to know. “Lena know you’re scamming the entire ER?”
“She helped me decorate the jar,” you beam, unscrewing the cap. “Pay up, Doctor.”
He just stares at you. Then at the jar. Then back at you again like he is genuinely trying to work out whether sleep deprivation has finally pushed him into a hallucination.
“This is insane.”
“No,” you say sweetly, wiggling the jar in his direction, “this is discipline. We cannot have you running around the ER with a foul mouth, dropping f-bombs in front of vulnerable patients.” You lower your voice like you’re explaining something terribly serious to a child. “Honestly, I’m doing you a favour. Driving patient satisfaction rates up one dollar at a time.”
“Stop talking.”
“Well either pay up or give me something better to do with my mouth.”
The silence that follows is almost impressive.
Abbot looks like every thought in his head has cartoonishly slammed into the wall. His face doesn’t change, not really, but his whole body seems to lock for half a second like his brain is still trying to peel every single thought back off the surface where they’ve all just splattered at once.
You blink at him.
Then your own words catch up to you.
You like to flirt, yes—lightly, strategically, with plausible deniability. Not…whatever the hell that was. Not the sort of thing that sounds like you are actively trying to plant deeply inappropriate mental images in the mind of a man you have to see professionally every single day.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, eyes widening in horror. “I totally did not mean to say that out loud.”
His eyes are still on you, and your mouth has still not gotten the memo.
“Delete it. Delete the last ten seconds from your memory.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Well try harder. Please. I am literally begging.”
His mouth twitches. Not enough to count as a smile, but enough to let you know he is finding your humiliation far more entertaining than is medically ethical. “You’re assuming that I want to forget it.”
“Oh, that is not the correct thing to say to me right now.”
His jaw tightens imperceptibly, and it seems to hit him a fraction too late what exactly he has implied. “That came out wrong.”
“Did it?” you ask, already grinning despite your mortification, because embarrassment is temporary but the opportunity to harass him is forever. “Interesting. Because from where I’m sitting, it came out kind of perfect.”
“It didn’t.”
“It really did.” You stand back up and lean forward over the desk, placing the jar next to you. “So just to clarify, you’d actually like to keep thinking about my mouth?”
“You seem very committed,” he mutters, reaching into the pocket of his scrubs, “to seeing exactly how far you can push this before it becomes a problem for you.”
Oh.
Oh.
That shuts you up entirely.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound. Not one single clever thing. Your brain, usually so eager to produce nonsense at record speed, has apparently packed its bags and fled the premises.
He watches the whole thing happen with far too much satisfaction before pulling out his wallet and flipping it open. “There,” he says, smug enough to make your eye twitch. “Peace at last.” Then he pulls out two fifty-dollar bills, folds them, and places them into your jar.
You’re silenced once again as you try to process exactly what he’s done.
“What the hell?” you blurt. “A hundred dollars? Really? Are you insane?”
His brow lifts. “You want more?”
“No. Absolutely not. I want less, actually.”
“Thank you for overpaying my swear jar after I’ve spent ten minutes sexually harassing you beside a printer is a sufficient enough answer,” he mocks dryly.
“I don’t see you complaining to HR. Matter of fact, this—“ you nod to the jar, “—looks a lot like you rewarding my behaviour.”
“Trust me, if I were rewarding your behaviour, you’d know.”
Your stomach does a humiliating somersault so violent it should probably be documented in your own chart.
He watches your face change and immediately looks far too pleased with himself. “That shut you up quicker than the money did.”
You scramble to recover, cocking your head to the side. “And what kind of behaviour would you lean towards rewarding? You know…for research purposes.”
“Getting those documents to radiology. Ensuring charting is done to the proper standard. No scheming during work hours.”
You roll your eyes and stick a finger in your mouth, mock-gagging. “Ugh, boring!”
“You asked.”
“True,” you concede, plopping back in your chair. “But I have a feeling there’s probably a much less professional answer rattling around in there that you’re not sharing.”
“I’m going to go now, okay?” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Enjoy your earnings.”
“Don’t act like you won’t be back later,” you call after him, twisting your lips as your eyes follow his retreating figure.
Of course you're not wrong, because he's back exactly thirty minutes later.
hello!! lol I’m back 😭 but I have another request! I don’t know if you have done this already but a Jack Abbot x EMT/paramedic reader! It can be either jacks first time seeing EMT reader when she comes in with a patient and Jack is like shocked because he’s never seen her before and tries to flirt with her or whatever take you want to take with it! Another would be same thing but EMT reader is everyone’s favorite EMT person because she always gives them what they need and basically “helps” the ER if that makes sense, and everything she comes in Jack always tries to her! Again or whatever take you want to do!
Thinking about Jack and his fave EMT...
The thing about the Pitt is that it has a rhythm.
Not a gentle one not the kind you settle into easily or carry home without noticing. It's the rhythm of a place that runs on controlled urgency, on the particular cadence of people who have learned to move fast without looking like they're moving fast, who have learned to hold hard things in their hands without dropping them and come back the next day and do it again. You compared it to whatever rhythym Queen were composing when writing Bohemian Rhapsody. It is not a rhythm for everyone.
You had learned it from the outside.
Which was, you had always thought, its own kind of education.
You ran to the Pitt the way you ran to all the hospitals on your route, efficiently, professionally, with the handoff delivered clean and the paperwork tight and the patient transferred in the best possible condition given whatever the last twenty minutes had looked like. You were good at your job. You had always been good at your job. But the Pitt was different from the other stops on your route in a way that had taken you a little while to identify and that you had eventually put down to this: the people there treated you like you were part of it.
Not a visitor. Not a courier. Part of it.
Dana had been the first, because Dana was always the first — she had taken your handoff on your third run to the Pitt, eighteen months ago, listened to your report with the focused attention of someone who respected the information being given to her, and then said, at the end of it, good catch on the BP drop, and gone to work. Two words. But the right two words, said in the right way, by the right person, and something had clicked into place.
After that, the nurses learned your name. Then the residents. Then Robby, who had a way of making everyone feel like they mattered to the floor.
You had a drawer at the nurses' station.
This was Dana's doing. A small drawer, third from the left, which contained a spare pair of gloves in your size, a granola bar, and a phone charger, and which had appeared one day without explanation or ceremony. You had looked at it and then at Dana and she had looked back at you with the expression she wore when she had done something kind and considered the matter closed.
You had not argued.
You were not entirely sure anyone argued with Dana Evans and won.
The Jack thing had developed slowly, the way things do when both people involved are very good at not acknowledging them.
You had been aware of him before he was aware of you, which was not how you would have predicted it going. He was not the kind of man who was easy to miss, the particular steadiness of him filling whatever space he was in without him trying. But he had a focused quality about him on the floor that meant his attention went to the work first and everything else second, and for the first several months of your runs to the Pitt you had been, to Jack Abbott, simply part of the procedural background of the ambulance bay.
And then one Monday in August you had come in with a forty-year-old cardiac arrest, done the handoff to Robby, given your report clean and fast, and were turning to go when Jack had said, without looking up from the chart: Good call on the epi timing.
You had stopped.
He had still not looked up.
Thank you, you had said.
He had nodded, once, and gone back to the chart.
You had walked back to your rig thinking about it for longer than was strictly proportionate, which was the first sign that something was happening that you were not going to be able to manage as easily as you would have liked.
After that, he always came out.
Not always immediately. Sometimes he was mid-case and sent someone else, the way it should work, the way the system was designed, but when he was available, when the floor allowed it, he was at the bay doors when your rig pulled in. You noticed it before you said anything about it. You filed it and let it sit and watched to see if it was real or if you were making something out of nothing.
It was real.
He met your rigs. He listened to your handoffs with the particular focused attention he gave everything, and occasionally, occasionally, not always, not in a way that could be pointed to easily, he asked you something that wasn't strictly necessary for the clinical handoff. How far out were you when the vitals dropped? or Did she say anything before she went under? or, once, in a way that had no clinical justification whatsoever: You eaten today?
You had stared at him.
It's a long shift, he had said, with perfect composure.
I had something at the station, you had said.
He had looked at you in a way that suggested he found this answer inadequate and had decided not to pursue it, and gone back inside, and you had stood in the ambulance bay for a moment afterward doing absolutely nothing useful.
The nurses knew.
You became aware of this gradually, through the accumulation of small evidence — the way Donnie smiled at something above your head whenever you and Jack were in the same vicinity, which was the smile of someone watching something they found entertaining. The way Princess had once said, completely unprompted, he's always like that with you, and then walked away before you could ask what she meant. The way Perlah had handed you a coffee one morning and said from the drawer and then looked very specifically at the middle distance.
Dana, when you had finally looked at her directly and raised an eyebrow, had simply said: He's not very subtle, in the tone of someone delivering a medical opinion.
He's not doing anything, you had said.
No, Dana had agreed. He's not. That's the point.
You had thought about that for a while.
The shift that broke it open was a Thursday.
You had been running since six in the morning and it was now past seven in the evening and the last call had been, well, hard. Not the hardest you'd ever had, because you had a collection of those and you kept them in a specific part of yourself that you didn't open too often, but hard enough. A kid. Eight years old. Bike accident, head injury, the particular helplessness of a case where you do everything right and it still might not be enough and you won't know the outcome because you hand off at the bay and go back to the rig and that's the nature of the job, that's just what the job is.
You knew that.
You had always known that.
It didn't always help.
You did the handoff to Robby, clean and fast, all the right information in the right order, your voice steady because your voice was always steady at handoff, that was a professional requirement and you met your professional requirements. And then the bay doors closed and you were standing in the ambulance bay in the cooling evening air and your partner was restocking the rig and you were supposed to be helping and instead you were standing very still with your hands at your sides doing absolutely nothing.
You heard the bay door.
Footsteps.
You didn't turn around because you were fairly sure if you turned around your face would do something you couldn't take back, and you were in a professional space, and there were standards.
"Hey."
Jack. Low and quiet.
"Hey," you said, to the parking lot.
He came to stand beside you. Not close enough to crowd. Just beside you, in the way he stood beside people when he had assessed that proximity was what was needed and words were secondary.
The evening was doing its thing — the sky going orange and grey over the rooftops, the city carrying on the way it always did.
"The kid," you said, because apparently you were going to say something after all.
"He's in surgery," Jack said. "Neurosurg got there fast. It's, the odds are reasonable."
You nodded.
Reasonable was not good, and you both knew it, and neither of you dressed it up.
"He was eight," you said.
"I know."
"He had a Spiderman helmet on. It was — the helmet was—" You stopped. Pressed your lips together. "It was cracked. Which means it did its job. Which means it could have been worse. Which I know." You exhaled. "I know all of that."
"Yes," Jack said. "You do."
"Knowing it doesn't always—"
"No," he said. "It doesn't."
You stood there for a moment, the both of you, in the ambulance bay in the cooling evening with the city behind you and the Pitt behind you and the particular weight of a Thursday that had asked a lot sitting between you like something that needed to be acknowledged before it could be set down.
And then Jack did something unexpected.
He didn't say anything. He didn't offer the clinical reframe or the professional perspective or any of the things that were available to him and that would have been — fine, would have been appropriate, would have been enough. Instead he simply turned slightly toward you and put his hand on your back, flat and warm between your shoulder blades, and left it there.
Just the weight of it.
You closed your eyes for a second.
"I'm fine," you said, quietly.
"I know you are," he said. "You're allowed to be fine and still need a minute."
You looked at him then, properly, turning your head to find him already looking at you, and his face was doing the open thing, the real thing, and it was so — it was so there, so completely present and uncomplicated, that something in you that had been very tightly held for the last several months just quietly, completely gave.
"Jack," you said.
"Yeah," he said, like he already knew.
"I think you—" You stopped. Started again. "I think you've been— for a while now you've been—"
"Yes," he said, simply.
You looked at him.
"Yes?" you said.
"Yes," he said again, in the same even tone, the tone of a man who has decided to stop being managed about something and is finding it surprisingly uncomplicated. "For a while."
"You could have said something."
"So could you."
That was, that was fair, actually. That was entirely fair.
"I run to twelve hospitals," you said, and you weren't entirely sure where you were going with this.
"I know," he said.
"I'm not here every day."
"I know that too."
"This is—" You gestured, slightly. "This is not a simple—"
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
"So what are you—"
"I'm telling you yes," he said, patiently. "You were getting there and I'm telling you yes. We can figure the rest out."
You stared at him.
At this man who had been meeting your rigs for months and asking unnecessary questions and checking whether you'd eaten and putting his hand on your back in an ambulance bay on a Thursday evening, and who had just reduced the entire complicated architecture of whatever this was to yes and we can figure the rest out as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.
"Dana knew," you said.
"Dana knows everything."
"The nurses—"
"Yes."
"How long have they—"
"A while," he said, and the corner of his mouth did its thing, the small tucked-away almost-smile. "Donnie had a timeline."
"Donnie had a timeline?"
"I've chosen not to know the details."
You looked at him for one more second, this impossible steady man in the evening light, and felt something that had been complicated become, suddenly and without fanfare, very simple.
"Okay," you said.
His hand was still on your back.
"Okay," he said.
Behind you, the bay doors opened and Donnie Donahue appeared, looked at the two of you, looked at Jack's hand, looked back at the Pitt interior, and said loudly enough to be heard, it happened, before the doors swung shut again.
You closed your eyes.
Jack exhaled through his nose.
"We should probably—" you started.
"Yes," he said. "Probably."
Neither of you moved for another moment.
The city kept going beyond the parking lot, indifferent and alive, and the evening kept doing its orange and grey thing over the rooftops, and somewhere inside the Pitt a small boy with a cracked Spiderman helmet was in surgery with reasonable odds, and out here in the ambulance bay two people who had been not-saying-something for a very long time had finally, quietly, said it.
Your partner appeared around the side of the rig, clocked the situation in approximately half a second, and turned straight back around.
"Take your time!" he called, from somewhere he could no longer be seen.
Jack looked at the space where your partner had been.
"I like him," he said.
"He's going to be insufferable about this," you said.
"So is everyone inside."
"I know."
"Worth it," he said, simply, and his hand was still warm on your back, and the evening was still doing what evenings do, and you decided, without a great deal of further deliberation, that he was right.
We all have weird hobbies, right? Jack finds out about what you’re doing outside of work
menace!jack x menace!resident!reader | prev ⋆ masterlist ⋆ next
"Jesus fucking Christ," you hiss as you snap the curtain close. "Talk about indecent exposure, gonna give Robby a heart attack flaunting those around."
Jack is stunned into silence, his muscles contracting as your voice processes through the leftover adrenaline coursing through his body. He's contorted awkwardly, trying to clean a wound on his back that he clearly can't reach.
He doesn't chuckle at your joke, doesn't do more than shyly try to cover himself up a little, as if hiding away something that he broke after being explicitly told he shouldn't touch it.
He's honestly half expecting you to yell at him, invalidate his feelings and tell him what he's doing exposing himself to the line of fire is stupid or reckless.
But you don't?
"Gimme that," you hold out your now gloved hand.
He hands over the q-tip begrudgingly, body slightly relaxing as you step around him and roll the tip in the ointment jar again.
"You're not mad?" his voice is uncharacteristically soft.
Your brow scrunches in confusion. "Why would I be mad someone shot at you?"
There's a tinge of anger in your voice, and he can almost convince himself that it's directed at whoever dared try to hurt him.
He shrugs, as much as the purpling on his back will allow. "It's not exactly a...safe hobby."
You chuckle. "Yeah well, we all have weird hobbies, who am I to judge?"
Your nonchalance starts to scare him but the prospect of a new morsel of information that he can pick at takes precedence.
"We do?"
You still for a split second and he simply knows he pulled correctly.
"Y-yeah..." you clear your throat. "Shen collects Pokemon cards, Ellis runs marathons, Dana’s really into WWE, Robby…he's practically married to that stupid bike, you volunteer to get shot at—”
“And you?”
You smile, heart beating a million miles per second.
“I…am a perfectly well adjusted adult that likes to order takeout and watch trash tv after a long shift.”
He scoffs. “Yeah right."
You chuckle, setting the q-tip down and picking up a piece of gauze and scissors.
"Don’t worry, I’ll find out on my own.”
Now it’s your turn to laugh. “I mean, there’s nothing to find out, so…”
“Sure there isn’t.”
You don’t dignify that with a response, securing the gauze to his back before discarding your gloves.
You really shouldn’t have poked the bear, should’ve given him some lame, fake hobby that way he would not have spent the last two weeks hounding every single person that knew you just a little bit better than him for information.
Luckily, no one bit. And he was offering a lot of money for even the smallest morsel of information.
Fortunately for him, he wouldn’t have to work so hard to find it. Unfortunately for you, you really should’ve taken him seriously.
It happens at shift change three weeks later.
You’re there earlier than him, all of the student doctors huddled around you conspiratorially at the hub as you all whisper in hushed tones.
He pretends he doesn’t see it, gives you space and instead walks over to leave his bag in his locker, waiting for them to come to him.
And like a grizzly bear in the middle of a river patiently waiting for jumping fish, they all come to him in a swarm.
At first it's the usual chatter, excited to go home, running a bubble bath, nothing out of the ordinary.
But then he sees it.
Tucked and hidden beneath the arms of every single woman you know, and Whitaker, there’s a book.
It looks normal enough. Maybe you started a book club, hell knows Walsh tried that a few years back with zero success.
But then he notices something stranger.
None of the books have cover art. Only a title and an author name.
Jack knows nothing about books but even that’s weird to him.
So he waits patiently, saying hello, pretending to check his messages until one of them puts their copy down and he's able to take a quick picture of it.
Bingo.
You're already working the floor when he returns, unfortunately, which only gives him more time for the snowball to turn into a full blown avalanche.
He's actually giddy all through handoffs with Robby, the satisfaction of knowledge so close he can practically taste it.
The adrenaline from it keeps him going until the early hours of the morning when he finally has the chance to sit down and open up google.
Whatever he's already imagining is nothing compared to the sweetness that is connecting the dots.
At first he thinks he's projecting, maybe you're just working with the author, nothing major. You've never mentioned writing before, at least not directly to him or in passing.
But then he finds a TikTok from Dr. J where she's promoting a novel and it's enough for him to know.
He doesn't pounce right away with this information, however.
Instead he waits, patient and calculated, all the way until the launch of book one a month later.
He's not invited, obviously, but he doesn't need to be.
He preorders his copy and it arrives the day before the party, which you’ve taken off so you can go.
Meanwhile, he spends the entire shift reading, obviously disguising the cover with a sleeve from another book, one of Robby’s adventure ones.
To say he’s hooked would be an understatement.
Who knew you were this good? He certainly would’ve never guessed that you would be the one to write a book. He always guessed Javadi.
It isn’t until he gets to the first turning point that he’s introduced to the main love interest.
And boy does he let out a loud and boisterous laugh that has the entire ED coming to a stop.
He makes his move the next afternoon.
You're gonna be taking off for two weeks on a national tour, nine cities. And of course you’re starting it in Pittsburg.
The day shift has been posting stories congratulating you all day, which he knows because Trinity did him a solid a few months ago and introduced him to the joyous world of “fake” Instagram accounts.
He knows exactly where to go. Makes sure to be last in line before it gets cut off.
He’s in line for a total of twenty minutes. He can feel you visibly relax as you notice there’s only one more person left.
“Hi, who should I make this out to…”
Your voice trails off as your gaze lifts to meet his Cheshire smile.
“Motherfucker.”
“That’s no way to treat your fans,” he smirks, holding out his copy for you to sign.
Your eyes narrow, annoyance overflowing. You snatch the book from him, focusing on the blank page and start signing it.
“You know, when you said you had a weird hobby,” he starts, teasing and slick. “I never thought it was attached to a five figure deal.”
You scoff. “You make just as much working with SWAT.”
He chuckles. Touché.
You slam the cover shut, handing him the book back.
He grabs it but you don’t let go. You stay there, taunting the other for what feels like a short eternity.
Until Jack brings forward his other arm that had been hiding behind his back.
A bouquet of lilies, pink and white, your favorite.
You stammer, your grip faltering enough so that he can take the book from you and tuck it under his arm as if it’s an afterthought.
He steps forward, pressing the flowers forward until you finally snap out of your haze and grab them.
Tears swell in your eyes as you hold them close to your chest.
“Congratulations, sweetheart.”
You beam, cheeks heating up at the pet name.
“Thank you Jackie.”
“Do you want go get dinner?” He asks, suddenly timid. “Officially.”
The smile you give him is so bright it could rival the sun.
“I would love to.”
He waits while you say goodbye to the event organizer, take pictures with staff and literally take the time to thank every single person still standing.
By the time you’re done, he wraps an arm around your waist and walks you out of the little independent bookstore where the event was held.
“So…” he starts, pulling you closer into him. “This Jackson character—”
“Oh my god shut up!” You shove him, hard, but neither of you can help the burst of laughter that escapes you, your bodies drifting back to each other as you keep walking, hands interlaced together as he continues to tease.
summary: it's well known across the ptmc that park the shark doesn't like anyone, except for a younger resident he calls 'crybaby,' who also happens to be jack abbot's secret girlfriend. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / sunshine!fem!reader, mentor!brendon park, whitaker & evil whitaker
contents: secret relationship, jealousy, age gap, humor, insecure!jack, not proofread cw for medical inaccuracies, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI), and r getting turned out that jack takes viagra
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Crybaby.
Dr. Park was the first to call you by that name — or Park the Shark, they called him, on account of his strong features, and the fact that he looked like he could swallow you whole without blinking.
It was your first rotation at the PTMC, when you screwed up a simple tibia plate fixation. The reduction looked clean, in your defense, straight and stable. “You got it?” the attending had asked. And you’d nodded as you adjusted your grip on the patient’s broken leg — only slightly.
The imaging still looked clear from your angle, as the drill went into the bone. But then you looked down, realizing you had forgotten to account for rotation, and found the patient’s foot slightly turned. Your heart dropped to your stomach, and then to your ass at the look Dr. Park gave you when his screw went in off-axis.
“Everyone take a good look!” he’d announced to the crowd of interns and med students watching after the fact. “If anyone here was wondering how to invent a new way to misalign a fracture, congratulations— You just got a live demonstration.”
Your eyes stung with tears, until your attempt to blink them back had failed.
“If this is all it takes to rile you up, wait until something actually goes wrong,” Dr. Park had scolded. “Now do you want me to go easy on you, or do you wanna get better, Crybaby?”
You stayed. And he made you better. But the nickname stuck.
Crybaby became a term of endearment, a symbol of how far you’d come since your interning days, and was shortened to Baby somewhere down the line. “Baby, take this patient down to CT for me, will you?” and “Cut me an ET tube, Baby, six millimeters,” and—
“Good luck getting that consult, baby,” Jack Abbot says from the opposite side of the exam room, with his strong arms crossed over his chest. The nickname sounds different spilling from his lips. It always has. “The OR’s backed up with Westbridge patients. It could be hours before we get a room booked.”
“She doesn’t have hours…” you murmur under your breath, squeezing past Whitaker and Ogilvie as you part from your unconscious patient. “Excuse me…”
“W-What are you doing?” the former boy stammers.
“Getting us a consult…” you say, half-distracted, as you reach for the red telephone on the wall. You press the cool plastic to your ear and dial the ortho extension.
Jack watches attentively from the sidelines as you make the call upstairs.
“You already sound like you’re gonna say no, so I’m just gonna ask quickly,” you say. “I know, I know— Terrible timing. But we both know I’m your favorite, so just hear me out.”
“Favorite…?” Ogilvie murmurs. “Wait— Who is she calling?”
“Park the Shark,” Whitaker answers solemnly.
“Or as I like to call him— Doctor Dick,” Jack says with a cynical smile. “On account of him being a dick.”
Whitaker nods in concurrence. “To everyone but her.”
You hang up the phone and return to your spot at the patient’s bedside. “Ortho consult’s on its way,” you tell them, half-distracted, as you check the ketamine levels in her IV drip.
“How’d you do that?” Ogilivie squints.
“I asked nicely,” you shrug.
Brendon Park comes into the emergency department barely five minutes later, and brings a tense air in with him that matches the unsmiling look on his narrow face. The way his dark blue eyes lock on you the second he walks in can only be described as sharklike.
“What do we got, Baby?” he asks you, and only you, utterly ignoring the other bodies in the room as he makes a beeline to your side. He smells of sea salt and sandalwood when he towers just behind you, standing several inches taller.
Jack swallows down the anger that swells suddenly in his throat like bile.
“Ten-foot fall onto a metal fence,” you tell him. “Tib-fib amputation— Pretty clean cut.”
“Sliced right through the bone like a guillotine,” Whitaker adds.
Park turns slowly, dark eyes zeroing in on the mulleted boy. “Was I talking to you?”
The boy’s cheeks flare red. He clears his throat. “Uh— No. No, sir.”
“Let me see the X-ray,” the attending says to you, much softer in comparison, and follows you the short distance to the bulky machine in the corner.
“See?” you hum. “Not too bad, right?”
His eyes flit from the x-ray to your hopeful gaze. The corner of his mouth flickers faintly upward as he nods once in response. “Yeah. Should be pretty fun— Where’s the leg?”
“Double bagged on ice.” You motion across the room.
Whitaker watches the older man walk past him with an unblinking gaze. “I didn’t know he smiled…” he whispers incredulously under his breath.
“Yeah, me neither, kid,” Jack mumbles, swaying softly in place, as he keeps his eyes locked on the two of you.
His jealousy is misplaced, but inevitable. Everyone had a certain soft spot for you, but he couldn’t quite stand it from Park — the man who didn’t seem to like anyone or anything but his work and you. Jack knows it makes a part of you feel special, you are special, but he wants to be the only one making you feel that way.
“Tell him how we prepped the limb, Ogilivie,” you tell the MS3.
“Oh, please, not me,” the curly-haired boy mumbles under his breath, looking instinctively to Whitaker for assistance. He swallows hard when Brendon’s dark eyes snap to his. “Uh— Sterile saline in the inner bag, ice water in the outer bag. No direct ice to skin contact.”
Park nods and turns away, unwrapping the severed leg on the table below. “Good…”
“Thank you.”
“I wasn’t talking about you,” the attending snaps. His eyes soften the second he turns to you. “Let me guess— You wrapped this?”
“How’d you know?” you grin.
“Because it’s neat,” Park quips drily as he pulls the bluing limb from the plastic. “And I don’t think Abbot suddenly developed fine motor skills.”
“Stop flirting with me, Shark,” Jack monotones.
“Antibiotics?” the man squints.
“Cefazolin and gent,” you answer. “And we’re already cleared her chest, abdomen, and pelvis.”
Park nods to himself, examining the severed leg with his gloved hands. “Clean wound… No rush injury… Rapid transport time…” he mumbles to himself, visibly pleased in a way that makes your stomach do a backflip. “Replantation is a go. I’ll go ahead and book an OR, get it taken care of for you.”
“Thanks…” you say, smiling a little wider than you realize. Because ever since the day he embarrassed you in front of all your coworkers, you’ve made it your personal mission to impress him.
“What’s the catch?” Jack quips from across the room. “You already got a packed OR so… What? You’re just doing us a favor out of the kindness of your heart?”
“Hell, no,” Brendon scoffs. “Baby’s gonna scrub in with me.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. You’re not sure whether to be happy or horrified, ‘cause you haven’t done a surgery with him since you were an intern.
“Holy shit— Really?”
“Yeah. As long as you promise not to fuck up again,” Park deadpans, though there’s something distinctly soft in his eyes as he quips, “And if you can keep your guard dog on a leash for a few hours.”
Your eyes turn instinctively to Jack. You find his features slightly hardened but mostly emotionless. He shrugs despite the distant searing in his chest.
“She doesn’t need my permission.”
“Then why are you glaring like I’m about to steal your favorite toy, old man?” Brendon scoffs.
Jack’s eyes widen. His head swivels slowly over his shoulder, as if he were looking for someone standing behind him. “I know you’re not talking about me,” he quips drily.
“I would love the opportunity to scrub in, Dr. Shark— I mean, Park,” you stammer.
“Alright, then. Let’s go,” he nods, pulling off his gloves with a low pop as he storms back towards the door. “The rest of you, irrigate the hell out of this with three liters.”
“Wait— three liters?” Whitaker blurts.
Park glares. “Of saline, genius.”
“I… I knew you meant saline…”
You stop short in the doorway with Jack at your side, right before you turn to follow Park into the elevator. You flash him a wide-eyed look full of hope and distant worry, “You’re not mad at me, are you? For doing this with Shark?”
“I couldn’t be,” Jack scoffs.
“Well, then, I’ll let you know how it goes later?” you murmur sheepishly, shifting on your feet like a shy child. “Over dinner?”
“Sure,” he nods. “I’ll take you somewhere nice. You know, to celebrate.”
He gives you a soft smile that fades the second you’ve turned the corner. He feels the weight of his own insecurity sitting heavy on his chest. The notion that he’s much too old for you tends to follow him like a shadow, but it rears its mean, green, ugly head a little extra now.
“Hey…” Robby greets, then slows his stride when he walks past the tree men leaving the exam room. “What’s the long faces for?”
Abbot flashes him an unamused gaze. “Shark attack,” he deadpans.
Robby nods sympathetically. “Yeah, that’ll do it…”
The familiar chaos of the ED wraps around you like a blanket when you come down from the OR — the beeping monitors, the rolling stretchers, the hundred different conversations. It feels welcoming, in a strange sort of way; it fuels you in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time. It feels less like you’re surviving your shift now, and more like you could solve every medical inquiry in this hospital if someone asked you to.
You feel ten feet tall and lighter than air as you weave your way through the crowded emergency department. Jack can see it from where he watches you at the workstation with an eagle-eyed stare. Your scrubs are creased from your hours in the OR; your eyes are as wild as the distant smile sitting crooked on the very edges of your mouth.
You plant yourself at the computer next to his, and Abbot pretends like he hasn’t been waiting for you this whole time.
“How’d it go?” he asks distantly, trying to be casual.
“Great,” you nod with a proud smile. “Like really great. There was a twisted artery, and I was the only one who caught it. I got to reroute it all on my own— It was crazy.”
Jack feels himself smiling despite himself, basking in the rays of your sunshine disposition.
“Really?” he hums, nodding once. “Good job, baby.”
You couldn’t possibly count how many times you hear that nickname on a daily basis, but it’s different coming from Jack. It’s warmer, more familiar — makes your stomach do backflips like it’s the first time you’re hearing the word from his mouth. You go dizzy accordingly, as your fingers flit across the keyboard below.
“I’m just glad I didn’t make a total fool of myself like I did the first time,” you scoff.
“Yeah, me too,” a familiar voice quips from behind you.
You glance over your shoulder and catch a glimpse of Dr. Park as he appears suddenly behind you, dropping a file on the desk next to you mid-stride. His sea salt cologne pervades your senses instantly, clashing with Jack’s softer, muskier scent.
“I thought I heard the Jaws theme playing…” the older man quips in a dry monotone.
“You should be proud, Abbot— Your resident was a star in surgery today,” Park says with a knowing smirk hinting at the very corners of his mouth, so subtle it’s barely there. “Can’t wait for her to be my protégé in the OR someday.”
Jack’s frown deepens when the man claps him hard on the shoulder as he walks back for the elevator, though not without tossing a “let me know when you need a letter of rec for that fellowship, Baby,” over his shoulder as he goes.
He watches the younger attending until he turns the corner, and looks back at you with his jaw clenched a little tighter than before. His chest sears at the distant smile on your face, as the flames of his jealousy burn white-hot behind his ribcage
“Well,” Jack hums drily after a beat of silence. “You guys are getting awfully close, aren’t you?”
You scoff like it’s funny to you, because the thought of Park the Shark liking anyone is funny to you.
“What? No,” you laugh, then shrug at the unconvinced look Jack gives you in response. “He’s just nice to me. That’s all.”
Jack lets out a sharp exhale through his nose in place of a laugh. He turns back to his computer and deadpans, “Yeah. Because he likes you.”
You open your mouth to argue.
Jack beats you to the punch.
“And I don’t blame him, either. I think it’d make me a hypocrite if I did.”
Your face flares as a red-hot heat crawls up your neck. Your adrenaline-induced confidence fades into something softer as you struggle suddenly to meet the older man’s gaze. You glance down at the chart Park left, unable to hide the small smile on your mouth when you peer at Jack again from beneath your lashes.
“Where are we going for dinner after this again?” you wonder, half-sheepish.
The expression on his scruffy face shifts slightly, less tense but mischievous still. “We aren’t,” he says and logs out of the computer.
Your eyes narrow into a suspicious squint as you watch the man round the front desk. “What happened to ‘I’ll take you somewhere nice?’”
“Yeah…” Jack nods slowly, huffing sympathetically, as his hands curl around either end of his stethoscope. “I think we’re gonna miss that reservation, baby.”
Your stomach does a backflip.
By the time you make it to Jack’s place, the adrenaline has worn off just enough to leave you pleasantly exhausted.
He can feel it in your kiss, as you straddle him on his sunken couch in the middle of his dim living room — so quiet compared to the ER that it feels like stepping into a completely different world. You prop yourself over his lap with your palms cradling his silver scruff and lick into his parted mouth in slow, languid motions.
You’ve been at it for a while now. So long that Jack can feel your spit down to his chin. You could kiss him for hours and hours and never get bored — a testament to your youth, perhaps, because Jack doesn’t think he’s made out with someone this long since he was in college.
But, for you, he keeps his head tipped back against the sofa and his mouth obediently parted, letting you kiss him however you want — for however long you want. His wide hands fidget with anticipation on either side of your bare thighs, from where your shirt rides up to your hips.
You’d changed immediately into one of his old tees when you arrived, after a shower your body had been craving all day. You smell like his body wash and lotion as you sit on his lap, running your hands down his clothed chest like soft drops of summer rain.
Your fingers brush the tie in his dark navy sweatpants, and he tenses on instinct. You don’t seem to notice, though, as you leave a trail of wet kisses down his scruffy neck.
“Are you gonna fuck me tonight?” you mumble into his pulse. “’S why we didn’t go out for dinner tonight, isn’t it? ‘Cause I’ve been thinking about it all day…”
Jack goes dizzy at your words — at the otherwise innocent mouth they spill from. His stomach warms, and he jerks back from you before he means to; his mouth wet and rosy from the intensity of your kisses.
“Yeah, fuck— Yeah, I just…” he trails off, though it’s more of a dismissal than a true affirmative. “I just gotta go to the bathroom real quick, yeah?”
“Okay,” you smile politely, unaware of his subdued panic that he’s learned to keep well-hidden. You slide off his lap and onto the other side of the couch. “Sure.”
Jack rises from the sunken sofa with a low grunt in the back of his throat. There’s a slight limp in his step from where the long day has taken a toll on his prosthetic. “Feel free to make yourself at home while I’m gone,” he tosses mindlessly over his shoulder, before he disappears down the dim hallway, making an immediate beeline for his lamplit bedroom.
There’s a bottle of sildenafil in his nightstand drawer, with only one pill taken out of it — which he thinks is somehow even more embarrassing. He’d only taken it to masturbate once, after his SSRIs plummeted his libido and he was itching for a release after a long day.
The small orange bottle feels strangely heavy in his hands now, as he tips his head back to shake one of the tiny blue pills into his mouth before he can talk himself out of it. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows it dry. The pills rattle faintly when he sets the bottle down beside him again.
He drops onto the edge of his bed, mattress squeaking under his weight. He rests his elbows on his knees and hunches over to dig his palms into his eyes. He tries to will himself hard for you, even though he knows that isn’t exactly how that works.
He thinks of you — all young and pretty and waiting for him out there — wasting your youth on an old man who can’t get hard to save his life. It leads to a cycle of self-hatred that prevents him from getting turned on at all. And it’s maddening.
The ajar door creaks quietly as you push it open without knocking.
You slink inside the dim bedroom and freeze at the sight of the man on the bed, like you weren’t expecting to find him there. Jack’s head whips to your form across the room and spins when he finds your underwear peeking out from the bottom of his shirt — a soft orange color patterned with dark black bats, several months out of season.
“What are you doing?” he squints teasingly, blanketed half by shadow and half by golden lamplight.
“What are you doing?” you retort. “I’ve been waiting out there forever.”
“It’s only been five minutes,” Jack scoffs.
“Yeah, tell me about it…”
You’re all but skipping to his side then, bare feet padding along the thin carpet as you go. The thin fabric of his shirt swishes around your thighs when you walk to stand between his. When you wrap your arms loosely around his neck and duck down to kiss him, Jack tips his chin back and opens his mouth to welcome you — until the open drawer beside you catches your attention, as well as the orange pill bottle sitting on the corner of the nightstand, as if he’d just pulled it out of there.
“What’s that—?”
“Nothing,” Jack answers, a little too quickly, and reaches less than casually around you to chuck the bottle into the drawer again. The pills rattle loudly in the quiet bedroom when he shoves it shut a second later.
He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’ve already gotten a glimpse of the label. Your gaze is soft with sympathy and glittering with something wild that he can’t quite place.
Jack says nothing for several long moments, and instead waits for your response.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed…” you murmur when you catch his scruffy cheeks flaring a soft pink.
“I’m not embarrassed,” he blurts, less than convincingly, eyes shifting away and back again. “I’m just… selectively unthrilled with this timing…”
Your nose scrunches at the shy smile you give him. His warm hands settle again on your waist while your fingers twist in the silver curls at the nape of his neck. Your eyes soften with something tender when you wonder shyly, “Is that why… Is that why you haven’t wanted to… you know?”
“No,” Jack answers instantly, then tilts his head to think for a moment. “Well, I mean— a little, I guess, but… I only take ‘em ‘cause of my SSRIs, you know? It’s not… It’s not because of you or anything.”
“Okay…” you nod and struggle to meet his gaze when you ask, “Do you know, like, how long it takes to kick in… or whatever?”
“Last time I tried, it took about twenty minutes—”
“Last time?” you echo with raised brows.
“I was just trying it out!” Jack defends with a crooked smile, slightly egged on by your misplaced jealousy after stewing in his own all day. “I was by myself when I took it, if that makes you feel any better.”
“It does make me feel better, actually…”
Jack’s light eyes narrow. “What’s that look for, huh?”
“Nothin’…” you lilt quietly, with a poorly hidden smile. “I just… I think it’s kinda hot… That’s all…”
His expression flickers in an instant — surprise first, suspicion second, then something darker third. A white-hot desire threads through the distant embarrassment still swimming in his stomach.
“Yeah?” he presses lowly, with a voice like honey.
“Yeah…” you nod once, unable to take your eyes off his prying stare.
He studies you for another beat, before huffing a quiet laugh of disbelief.
“You’re somethin’ else, baby, you know that?” he mumbles with a shake of his head, smoothing his calloused palms slowly up your bare thighs until they disappear under his shirt.
“I know…” you mutter on bated breath, trying and failing to be casual when you ask, “What do you wanna do then, huh? You know, for the next twenty minutes, anyway?”
You fight back a shiver when his thumb brushes over the center of the delicate mound peeking beneath the hem of your t-shirt, concealed by the thin cotton panties you wear.
Jack hears your breath catch in his throat. His darkened gaze flits from your Halloween-patterned underwear to your heavy eyes, now glazed over with a layer of honeyed desire.
