I enjoy writing stories about people. It’s a hobby. I like this shit y’ah know? Here’s your guide to my depths.I write for lots of things, mostly Marvel and John Wick. I don’t write for real people anymore, but people find comfort in those things so I keep them up you know? Asks are always open. Talk to me!
A/N: went to my cousins recital and this reached out and bit me. Takes place two years after the events of Formidable.
Warnings: AFAB mom! Reader, gendered pronouns, Park the Shark girl dad supremecy, big family truther, one
Mention of bodily fluids.
Summary: Park tackled his most grueling challenge yet, the dance recital.
Brendon park is a good father, no, a great father. He loves all his little ones fiercely and is kind and gentle where it counts, and firm only when needed. His girls love him more than anything, but there is one aspect of their lives he is clueless about, and that is dance.
Dance class started promptly for each girl at two years old.
Isla fell in love with the dance when you found an old Bella Dancerella dance mat set on eBay. (If you have never seen one of these they are absolutely adorable.) your one year old was entranced by it so much that at age two you signed her up for Misss Cindy’s dance studio.
You loved Miss Cindy with your whole heart, and she loved your girls. She had all boys, and desperately wanted to be a dance mom. Unfortunately for her, her boys were all interested in Baseball. Which was good of course, because dance was a fall/ winter/ spring thing, and Baseball is a summer sport. You got very close to her family and attended all of each other’s events. Dinners and play dates and birthday parties were a regular for your little friend group. Your kids fought and protected each other like siblings, Brendon even assistant coached the boys little league team with their father. So whenever you needed help with Dance, Miss Cindy was there.
First year of dance was easy stuff, one child, two dances, taxi! You only had one costume change and you got to spend the rest of the evening watching the other dancers with your absolutely star struck daughter and Brendon.
Then there was Pearl, she started at age two as well, about five years after her sister. This was a little harder, four routines four costume changes, two rowdy-ish children. Tough stuff. Brendon is still just a spectator in all of this though, his job is to attempt to film and take good photos of his girls. You however are dealing with buns, and tap shoes, and lipstick.
Then came the twins, Marina and Harbor, and this is their second year in ballet. Their first year was difficult, all your kids had a routine back to back so you really had to prioritize one at a time, and while the oldest two were helpful, they were a little too excited about preforming with their friends to really notice or attempt to keep the littles in check. Miss Cindy gave as much help as she could as well, but her balancing act was a bit more difficult than yours as she was meant to be mothering EVERY student, not just her favorite shiver of sharks.
Then came the argument.
“I feel like I’m gearing up for war.” You laugh, making sure you’re in black clothing, fanny pack full of Bobby pins, blush, and extra hair nets.
“You look like it, does this really require all that?” Brendon laughed, eyeing up your all black attire and tight ponytail.
“What do you mean?” You laugh, a little surprised.
“I just mean, it’s just six dances? They’re like 3 minutes tops. Why are you acting like it’s Normandy?” He laughed.
You crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow “Just six dances?”
“Well… yeah?” He scrunched his eyebrows and cocks his head in confusion. You look at his dumb oblivious face and get a little steamed.
“Well if it’s JUST six dances, you can do it right?” You say, grin so shark like he’s wondering how he got the nickname over you.
“Well I mean-“ he holds up his hands in surrender.
“No, no! I insist! Change into comfortable black clothing, I’ll give you the bags! Gives me a chance to try relaxing at one of these things! You can do it tough guy!”
Brendon, who normally sits and watches the dances and carries bouquets, looks at you befuddled as you smack the fanny pack you were wearing into his chest.
“I’ll go change! I can’t wait to take pictures!”
Brendon feels as if he might have just made a very grave mistake.
He changes clothing. All black, tennis shoes, fanny pack stretched across his chest. Then he waits for your instructions. You come out in a beautiful dress, clutching four separate bags. You plop the bags at his feet then turn around and brandish your neck, a silent sign that he needs to put on the necklace you drop on his open hand.
“So, each kid has three numbers, except for Isla who has four. First is the big opening number to be our guest. Then Isla is first.” You brandish a blue dance bag decorated with her initials and a little shark. “Isla has her acrobatic number first, which means she needs the tan shoes. She knows how to handle herself, she should do fine, but you’ll need to make sure to grab the props off stage when her number is done, so you’ll make sure Pearl is changed first.
Brendon nods, clueless and stunned.
“Next is Pearl,” next comes a teal bag with you guessed it, another shark. “Her Ballet number is first, so you need to make sure to tie her slippers for luck. She won’t tie them herself, and if they aren’t tied, she will trip. She’s also pretty good at handling changing, but her costume is a little too big, so you have to pin the belt around her tight so it doesn’t slip off. Safety pins are in the bag.”
You look at him as his eyes slowly start to widen further, and delight in his discomfort.
“Lastly, the twins. They cannot change themselves, they cannot tie their shoes, and you are wholly responsible for making sure they carry their flowers on stage so make sure you give them to them right one as they go on. Now this is very important. Marina has the pink flower, and Harbor had the purple flower. If you mix these up, they will cry. I do not know why, but they are two, and I don’t ask questions.”
You plop a purple bag and a pink bag at his feet.
“Last of all for everyone’s tap. Once you hit the tap number you’re done. Make sure everyone’s stuff ends up back In the proper bag, and you will have accomplished a recital. Then you can tell me how ‘easy’ this all is.” You pat his chest and go to apply perfume. “Break a leg big guy.”
You arrive at the recital, and immediately hug Miss Cindy, she compliments how gorgeous you look, then looks to Brendon, and when she sees him in practical all black clothing with your signature black lulu lemon fanny pack, she grins broadly.
“So, joining us backstage tonight are we?” You and Cindy have matching grins and again he wonders who the real shark is.
“Yes, yes I am.” He nods.
All of your girls have filled out of the van, all in their typical ballet uniforms and sneakers, they look absolutely precious and they all give Miss Cindy a massive hug.
“There are my star students!” She beams ushering everyone inside. “Now let’s see how daddy does tonight helping you all get ready! Are you so excited!?”
Isla looks skeptical at best, but responds with a weak “yeah!”
Pearl is looking absolutely distraught. “Will he tie my lucky ballet shoes?” She frowns looking at her dad from the corner of her eye.
“Yes Diva, I’ll tie them.” He scoffs a laugh.
“Then fine, he can help.” She nods, prancing over and grabbing his hand.
“Dada dance?” Marina looks up and smiles, hugging her dad’s leg, her much more reserved twin, Harbor, clinging to the opposite leg and nodding.
“Yes, Dada is doing dance.” Brendon smiles softly, brushing a hand over her hair.
“AHHT! Rule number one: No touching the hair after it’s been put in the bun.” You smack his hand away from her perfectly styled ballerina bun. (Or as perfect as you can get with the amount of hair kids have at two.)
He startles, looking at you with wild eyes, spluttering, “wh-what?”
“Rules, there are rules, you don’t know them yet, but you will!” Isla Crows, following after her mom.
Brendon walked into the building, Marina and Harbor wrapped around his legs, and carrying Pearl like a purse.
“Ok Daddy, it’s show time!” Pearl says, dropping down and skipping over to a chair that had a little star with her name above it.
“Their stuff goes in their chairs,” Cindy explains, plopping the girls bags into their chairs, “you stay with the stuff, unless you’re on stage to take off props. You are slated to help move the bed for Isla’s Peter and Wendy acrobatics number, which happens to be first after be our guest. For be our guest they are already dressed, they just have a prop to hold.” She points to the props, neatly labeled with their names.
Brendon looks for you, but you have already migrated to a group of other moms dressed like him, and he watches as they all huddle close, one or two heads popping up periodically to look at him and giggle. Whatever you’re saying must be hilarious… even if it is at his expense.
“Next is Pearl, she’s in the cute little Rainbow Connection number. You know about the lucky Ballet Shoe tie?” She looks at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah?” He replies, looking more like a confused puppy than a deadly sea creature.
“Good. Then it’s the twins, they’re in the Golden Afternoon number, then it’s back to Isla who has a Ballet number to Remember Me.” Brendon nods along to Cindy’s prompting.
“Then you get a 15 minute ‘break’ to make sure they are all changed for their rap numbers. First is Isla with a tap number to Friend Like Me. Then Pearl with A spoon full of sugar, then the twins to you’ve got a friend in me, then last but not least is the bows to when you wish upon a star. They stay in their costumes for the final bow, then you’re done!” She claps her hands and skips away.
“So,” you wander up, placing a hand on his chest, “think you got all that big guy?” You tip toe up to kiss his cheek.
“Yeah, can’t be any harder than surgery right?” He looks unsure, but he sounds confident… kinda.
“Sure buddy, you just tell yourself that.” You laugh, then go to take your seat in the audience with all the girls flowers.
“Daddy!” Isla runs up with a big bow for her hair. “You gotta pin my bow for me!”
Ok, easy enough, he thinks. He’s done hair before, he can do it again. He pins the bow above her bun and she runs away grinning. Then here comes Pearl in two untied ballet shoes, tripping slightly.
“Tie them daddy! Then we do a pinky hug for good luck.” He leans down and ties them, looping his pinky with hers as they both kiss the backs of their closed fists. He does this with all the seriousness of a surgeon preparing to scrub in.
Then the twins approach him with bags of goldfish.
“Dada can I eat them?” Marina asks holding up the bag. Harbor looks at her, then back at her dad, holding them up just like her sister.
“Yeah, sure.” He says shrugging and taking the goldfish from his baby girl to open them. Then they are suddenly plucked from his grip, another mom holding them up and wagging a finger.
“No eating in costume, it’s a rule.” She says, bustling away with her little one.
“Never mind pup, no fishies until after dance.” Marina huffs and Harbor shrugs like it was worth a shot.
Then Miss Cindy clapped and all the children gathered around her. He was handed a big box of dish props and told to hand them out to the little ones while each of the older kids (including Isla) were given plates.
“We’re about to start the show kiddos! So what are our rules?” Cindy says, tilting her head and tapping her chin as if she can’t remember.
“Quiet back stage, no peeking out the curtain, have fun!” Chant all the children, even Harbor whispers along.
“That’s right! Now then, everyone have their props? Prop check!” All the kids raised their prop or an empty hand, if it was empty, Brendon fills it along with all the other parents. “Great job everyone! Now then, I want a round of applause tonight, because it’s the little movers class and Mr. Brendon’s first show!” All the kids looked at him and clapped, including his own.
“Now everyone clap for Amy, Rene, Molly, and Bea, because it’s their last show!” A group of teary eyed older girls who looked to be high school seniors all smiled and bowed while all the students clapped. “Now because it’s their last show, they get to take us out! So everyone hands in!” Everyone put their hands in and Brendon backed up. Then he was promptly stared down by about 50 kids.
“Psst! Daddy! You gotta put a hand in!” Pearl said, tugging at his sleeve. He nods, a bit bewildered and puts a hand in.
“Alright everyone, dance it out on three!” One of the older girls says, and then all the older girls count “1,2,3!” And all fifty kids shout as loud as they can.
“DANCE IT OUT!” all fifty kids shout as loud as they can.
“Places!” Cindy shouts and Brendon marvels as all of those kids perfectly align themselves on stage behind the curtain and stand in perfect pose, even his little twins (who are normally little terrors) are standing holding a fork and a spoon with angelic little smiles.
Brendon is pulled back by the strap of his (your) fanny pack by another mother. “you can watch from here, but be ready with your bucket to catch props, they’ll ditch them on you as soon as the song is over, then Isla and Jenny’s son Callum will go change for ‘Second Star to the Right.’ When they come back you have to carry the bed on stage.” She points to the corner and sure enough, there’s a little prop bed ready to go out.
“Got it.” Brendon nods.
Miss Cindy goes put and makes opening remarks, talks about how they planned this all Disney themed show, and proceeds to quote beauty and the beast. As the curtain rises the song starts, and Brendon can’t help but grin as all the kids dance and sing along to the Disney classic. As the mother said, Isla and Callum are first off stage, only making it through one chorus as the sprint to change costumes. When they’re done, they rush back over and stand next to him, Isla reaches out and holds his hand, trembling a bit as they watch the others. Brendon crouches to her level.
“What’s wrong?” He whispers, swinging her arm back and forth with his own.
“It’s my first solo,” she shutters out a breath and Brendon squeezes her hand. “I’m nervous.”
Brendon nods, “it’s ok to be nervous,” he assures, “but what do we always say?”
They say it together. “Sharks never stop swimming.”
“That’s right, so while you’re a little scared, are you gonna stop swimming?” He asks.
“No, I’m a Park, and Parks never give up.” Isla says taking a fortifying breath and nodding at her dad. “I’m ready.”
The music stops and the lights go down an Brendon deftly picks up the prop bed In one go, placing it on the markers that another Dad points out. He places it down and Isla crawls on and he throws the blanket overtop of her. It’s funny, he’s tucking her in and she’s been ‘too old’ for that for about a year. Cute.
The adults clamber off stage and the lights go up and Brendon feels himself swell with pride as he watched his little girl, until there’s a tug on his sleeve.
“Daddy!” Pearl whisper yells, “I gotta get dressed, and Harbor has to pee!” Brendon scrambles to help both his girls, he swiftly remembers to safety pin the back of the dress and does so with the steady hands of a surgeon, not daring to prick his little princess and get blood on her all white outfit, then he rushes Harbor to the potty, and just barely makes it in time to lift the bed off stage and carry it away.
He barely takes five seconds to watch Pearl, when Cindy rushes him. “Go get the littles dressed! They’re next!” He rushes to Marina and Harbor and struggles for his life to put them in their little tights and flower hats. He ties their shoes and then remembers to hand the their flowers, but can’t for the life of him remember whose is whose.
“Silly dada,” Marina rolls her eyes with all of the sass of her mother and snatched her pink flower. Harbor gently plucks the purple one from him, patting g his cheek as if to say ‘it’s ok big guy, we all screw up sometimes.’ They go on, and then there’s Isla again, in her little outfit for her ballet number.
The next two hours go by in a rush of tulle, ballet slippers, and glitter, and by the end of it all Brendon is exhausted. The recital goes off without a hitch, but he’d rather do twelve knee replacements with his teeth than ever do that mess again.
They all wander outside to meet you, and when they see you, they all sprint into your open arms.
“Mommy! Did you see my solo? I was so scared but then daddy reminded me that sharks never stop swimming and I did it!” She squeals and takes her flowers from you.
“Good job baby! You were amazing! You nailed that head stand! I’m so proud of you!” You gush, kissing her hairspray covered head.
“Mommy! Daddy remembered to tie my shoes!” Pearl grins, practically gluing herself to your side and taking her flowers.
“Oh good! I was so worried!” You beam, rolling your eyes at him a little.
“Mommy, dada almost let me have goldfish.” Marina smiles like the shark that gobbled the fish. “But Miss Linda remembered him.”
“Reminded?” You gently correct, looking to Brendon with a raised brow. He throws his hands up in surrender.
Harbor then climbs you like a tree, and whispers something in your ear.
“Harbor is right, let’s all say thank you daddy!” You smile and it’s the prettiest sight he’s ever seen. He works every day just for one second of that smile, and he’s glad that after this harrowing experience he’s seeing it now.
His girls rush him, all yelling some form of thanks and then rush off to show their friends their pretty flowers.
You saunter up to Brendon then, hands sliding up his chest. “So what do you think big guy? You cut out to be a dance mom?”
“No way, I’d rather do 20 ligament reconstructions than ever do that again, you’re a super hero.” He chuckles, meeting you in an indulgent kiss.
“Well Shark man? It was nice to sit out for once, I took some pictures and videos, got a drink, gossiped with Marco and Kevin, it was a fun time, but I think I’m ready to be super mom again.” You grin.
No such thing part 3. When Brendon is knee deep in surgery and one of his nieces comes into the ER, Brendon has no choice but to call you for backup. Only problem is, you’ve never met his nieces before.
Brendon’s phone was ringing.
Which was abnormal for a surgery.
He usually put his phone on his usual DND setting when he was in the OR. And that setting had only a few overrides.
His sister, you, his nieces, and his mom. That was it. The 5 women he answered to in this life.
Which made him. Very. Very. Anxious.
“Grab it please.” He answered to the scrub tech who informed him.
“I think it’s your niece? It says Sophia.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Okay. Put her on speaker.” He answered worriedly.
And then Sophia’s voice filled the phone, with the sound of… a siren he swore, heart in his throat.
“Uncle Brendon?”
Wobbly.
“What’s wrong? Who’s hurt?” He nearly barked.
“Me.” Came Hayley, who was apparently also on speaker. “What happened? Are you in an ambulance? Who are you with?”
“It’s just us. We are. we told them to take us to PTMC- we’re supposed to do that right?”
“Yes, honey, you are. What happened to Hayley?”
His heart hammered. Bile in his throat.
“She fell down the steps at the park and really ate shit-“ “hey!-“ “and she like, really ripped her shin open. She totally needs stitches.” Sophia informed.
“Did you call your mom?” Brendon grilled.
“Not yet…”
For fuck sake.
The weekend his sister was in Michigan for work and the girls were with him this happened.
Damn it.
“For fuck sake Sophia. Call your mom.”
“Are we in trouble?”
He could see her little wobbly lip in her voice and it gutted him. Fuck.
“No, Princess. You’re not gonna be in trouble I promise.”
He heard her sigh in relief.
“Can you call her?” She asked softly.
“Are you kidding me? I’m in surgery, Sophie.” He sighed. Swore under his breath.
“Yes, I’ll call your mom. But it’s gonna be worse for you later and you know it.”
“Thank you!”
He shook his head. “Yeah yeah. You’re welcome. Look. When you get here, you’re gonna ask for Dr Robby. And you’re gonna say your uncle, Brendon Park told you to do that, okay. And tell them if anyone but him touches Hailes I’ll kill them.”
Sophie giggled.
“Not fucking around Soph.” He insisted.
“No hacks allowed. And tell them to page plastics for the stitches. Or else.”
Sophie winced.
“I don’t wanna be mean.”
“Sophia. It’s your little sisters health. You have to be mean.”
“Fine.” Sophia wavered.
“Are you gonna come down?” Hayley worried.
Brendon’s heart cracked.
“I’m in the middle of surgery, baby. Look. I will be there as soon as I can, I promise. But I just- I can’t right now and I’m so sorry. I- look. I’m gonna see if Y/N can come down to watch you guys. I know you’ve never met her but you can trust her.”
“We know.” Sophia swore.
See, Brendon had never let a girlfriend meet his girls before.
That was, as far as he was concerned, the most serious thing he could do.
So he was really hesitant to.
No one before you had gotten that close. That far. That serious and real.
But…
The girls knew of you. They’d heard all about you.
3 months into your relationship Brendon told them he was dating someone. He never really did that. Nothing was ever that serious. He was never that serious about someone.
So they asked questions. And he answered them. They’d seen photos. They were sweet about it. He told stories. They knew you existed. They knew the broad strokes. But he hadn’t gotten the chance to formally introduce you.
And this was far from optimal. But.
Well. What else was he to do?
You heard stories too. Many.
You knew just how important Brendon’s girls were to him. They were his entire fucking world. You got that.
“I mean I was literally the one who brought Hayley home from the hospital” Brendon explained one day while telling a story, making a slight detour for context.
“Really?”
He nodded.
“Yeah. Erica and Craig got divorced when she was pregnant and he was already a useless sack of shit when Sophie was born, so I was there. They’re my girls.”
You understood. They were essentially his kids. So they mattered to you, simply on account of how much they mattered to them.
He’d called you in a panic a few weeks back, maybe 2 months now really, asking if you had pads at his place, that Sophia got her first period.
Your drawer in the bathroom, you informed him. You were pretty sure it was a full pack.
Which he yelled through the door.
“Do you… need help with it?” He asked, then, nervously, you overheard.
“No they show us in health!” You heard Sophia yell back.
He breathed in relief.
“Thank fuck” he mumbled to you.
“Thank you, you’re a lifesaver. I’ll restock if you just uh. Send me the details.”
“It’s fine” you swore.
“Is there anything else I should do?” He asked you shyly.
Cute. Cute cute 40 year old man.
“Not really. Tylenol or Motrin. Heating pad. You know.” You reminded him.
“Right. Right.” He nodded.
“She can have my good chocolates if they want.” You informed. “But those you have to restock.”
“You’re a lifesaver, baby. Thank you.” He sighed. “I gotta go.”
Is nausea normal? He texted you not long after.
You laughed.
Didn’t you go to med school?
Y/N please. Before I go to the ER just answer me.
Yes it’s normal. Unfortunately. She’s fine.
Thank you.
So is back pain, headaches, migraines, chills, soreness….
Ouch. Well. Thank you. Love u.
He turned his attention back to the girls.
“Y/N says the nausea is normal.”
Sophia barked out a laugh. “That’s what you were doing? Come on I could have told you that. Didn’t you go to med school?”
“Jesus do you two know eachother or something?” He shook his head.
So.
Yeah.
You were both familiar with the others existence.
This was just a final line that you hadn’t crossed yet.
“Page Y/N to the observation room if she’s available, please.” He sighed and asked his scrub again, bracing himself for impact.
You were there in 5 minutes, looking as gorgeous as you had that morning, looking worried through the glass.
“What’s wrong?” You asked immediately.
You were so good.
“I gotta ask you a huge favor. Hayley’s in the ER-“
“Our ER? Is she okay?”
Your concern for his niece’s mirrored his own, tugging on his chest.
“She sliced her leg open taking a fall. Sounds like she’s fine. Look I can’t get out of here. Can you-“
“Are you sure?”
You looked worried. “I know you have boundaries when it comes to them-“
“You’re different.” He swore quickly.
“You’re um- I wanted you to meet them soon anyway. This isn’t ideal but-“
Fuck, he hated having an audience for this.
But you nodded.
“Of corse I will. I’ll- I’ll keep you posted okay?”
He breathed in relief.
“Yes please. Thank you. You’re a saint, baby. Really.”
You nodded.
“I told Hayley that no one but Robby touches her, and to make sure he calls plastics. I don’t want her with a hack job scar, she’s a pretty girl she doesn’t need something to be self conscious of.”
You nodded in understanding.
“No clowns are touching my girl.” He reiterated.
You nodded.
“I’ll make sure. Does she have like allergies or anything I need to tell them-“
“Their PTMC charts are my Sistine Chappell” he informed.
You nodded.
“Okay. Uh, well. I’ll see you later right?”
You found your way to the ED circulation desk, to looks of surprise.
“If it isn’t Miss Y/N. Been a while. What can I do you for?” Dana grinned.
“I’m here on personal business I’m afraid.” You informed. She looked worries
“What’s the matter kiddo?”
“I’m here to check on my boyfriend’s nieces. It’s Hayley Park?”
You watched Princess’ eyes sparkle at the desk behind Dana.
There goes everything.
“Park huh. Jesus Christ kiddo good for you. C’mon I’ll bring you by.”
You stood outside a room, one of the few with a real door, a note on it stating who the patient was and who her uncle was, like a warning. Shark infested waters.
You understood the reputation Brendon had, but he’d always been so sweet to you. You presumed his nieces were equally oblivious to that reputation.
You knocked twice before opening the door.
“Hey, I’m-“
“You’re Y/N” Hayley confirmed instantly, looking you up and down.
“Yeah. I don’t know if your uncle told you, he can’t get out of surgery right now so he wanted me to come stay with you guys. How are you feeling?”
You sat on the family chair in the corner.
Terrified of making a bad impression.
She shrugged.
“I’m fine. It’s just a bad cut.”
You nodded.
“Has a doctor seen you yet?”
She nodded.
“But only for like. A second. He said he’d be back.”
“Dr Robby, right?” You confirmed.
Sophia nodded.
“Okay. Your uncle was very incessant on that. It’s just because he loves you” you insisted.
Despite your anxieties, the girls were so sweet. You got on so easily with them. Conversation flowed naturally. Some good natured jokes at Bren’s expense, some questions about music they liked and tv shows, and you were off to the races. The were so much like Brendon it almost hurt. You weren’t sure how similar Brendon and his sister looked, but the girls definitely took after the Park side of the family.
When Brendon finally got down to the pitt, he was exhausted and frankly, terrified.
He was worried. Really worried.
Not just about Hayley’s shin, but about you three meeting. He wasn’t there to referee if things went badly. wasn’t there to observe or monitor. He didn’t know how he’d cope with it if things went bad. He could never chose a woman over his nieces. And god, he really, really hoped he wouldn’t have to make that choice today.
So he’s surprised with the scene that greets him in Hayley’s room.
All three of you are in Hayley’s bed, whose leg appears stitched up neatly and cleaned well.
And your hands are in Hayley’s hair as Sophia explains the fucking Olivia situation to you- which Brendon has now heard 40 times, but is obviously new to you. And you’re listening with rapt attention, while you braid his fucking niece’s hair.
His heart is going to burst out of his chest.
“Hey” he breathed.
Eyes turned to him.
A smile broke out on your face.
“Hey baby.”
“Hi honey.”
He came over, greeting each of you with a kiss on the head which warmed your chest in a funny fuzzy way. Very domestic. It was almost like you belonged here.
“How was surgery?”
He made a dismissive gesture.
“Fine. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry. How are you feeling princess?” He worried, looking Hayley’s leg over.
“Fine.” She promised.
Brendon let himself into the charting station carelessly, looking over who’d seen her.
He grunted in approval.
“Okay. I like Walenski. He’s good.”
You couldn’t disagree.
“He said you’d met before. Told us some stories.” You winked.
“All bad I hope.” Brendon teased.
“Are they ever good?” You replied in jest.
He grinned.
“You two have no clue how much of an asshole I can be.” Brendon smiled. He joined the three of you on the edge of the bed, somehow fitting.
“They’ve both been very brave. You should be proud of them.” You insisted.
“Oh, I always am. Always. Was Soph mean like I told her to be?”
“No” Hayley giggled.
“We’ll get her there” Brendon smiled.
“You did good today. I am proud of you. Very brave.” He said softly to Sophia, squeezing her hand.
“Thanks.” She whispered.
“They ready to discharge?” Brendon asked you.
You shrugged. “No clue.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’ll go bust some heads.” He grunted, standing up to go back towards the hub.
You believed that he definitely would.
You’d driven with Brendon to work today, so the four of you piled back into his car after Hayley was discharged.
“We’re hungry” Hayley announced.
“We have food at home” Brendon scoffed.
The backseat groaned loudly.
Brendon groaned back. “Don’t give me that!”
“I bet you don’t subject Y/N to your boring healthy food” Hayley snarked.
No. Y/N, much like the 4 other women in Brendon’s life, has his fucking balls in a vice grip. Y/N gets whatever she wants. Y/N unlike his mother, sister, and nieces, though, lacks the Park name. Which suddenly strikes him as a problem.
“You’re such a spoiled little brat.” Brendon snapped, with no malaise taken from his harsh tone by two little girls who saw the shark as their harmless uncle. “Whose fault is that?” For fuck same. “What do you want-“
Brendon stopped looking at you.
“Is that okay? You were up early I don’t want to-“
“I’m okay with dinner.” You insisted, cheeks warm.
He nodded.
“Okay. So? What’s your price?”
Dinner was… fine. It was weird to see Brendon Park in a junk food filed, crap from a freezer cheap chain restaurant, but his girls wanted, so they got. Your standards weren’t as high as Brendon’s. Clearly, looking at the two do you that was obvious. You were more than happy to partake in boneless wings and mozzarella sticks too. Things flowed so easy with the three of you. Comfortable, like you’d known them their whole lives. You were easy and comfortable, laughing about some sudden inside joke made at the hospital. He could weep. He could just watch the scene for hours.
You kept catching Brendon’s eyes on you, this look in them that you couldn’t quite name. Something deeper than love. Something more he was figuring out. It made something deep in you shine, too.
“Need anything anywhere before I drop you off?” Brendon checked with you, in the car as he reversed out of the spot.
Becuase he had the girls at his place, you’d been spending the longest time apart that you had since you met. The longest time out of each others beds.
Which. Sucked. But was appropriate.
“You’re not coming home with us?”
Sophia sounded devastated.
You and Brendon froze.
“Uh-“
You froze too.
“I… do have work clothes at your place” you admitted.
Brendon pinkened. That was different.
“If… you girls want that” Brendon asked carefully.
They confirmed. Loudly and quickly as tweens do.
“Okay” you agreed.
“Yeah.”
And so you went back to Brendon’s.
You’d spent so much time at Brendon’s the last few months. But the place was so different with them here. Two gigantic Stanley’s on the kitchen island accompanied your water bottles now. Things were louder. School bags by the door, homework still on the coffee table, sneakers by the door untied and messily abandoned.
Things were lively. It wasn’t like his house lacked life when you were in it, but this was different. The energy of children.
You’d say in the living room watching the horrible reality show the girls had apparently suckered Brendon into the last few days for a while, leaned against his chest, pretty out of it as you enjoyed the feeling of his hands in your back, and his heartbeat under your ear.
“You sleepy, baby?” He checked. You confirmed. “Then go to bed.” He insisted. “I’ll be up in a few. Really. Go.” He insisted.
It made you feel a bit guilty. Leaving the party. “These two gotta get to bed soon to anyway, school in the morning. It’s fine. Go.” He insisted, and you finally got up on wobbly knees.
“I’ll wait up.” You instead to Brendon who would rather you didn’t. He just rolled his eyes. “Night girls, it was nice to meet you.” You told them genuinely, to a harmony of “goodnight y/n” and “it was nice to meet you too.”
Brendon’s heart leaped out of his chest when his bedroom door clicked closed and Hailey informed him “we like y/n”.
A relief he didn’t know he needed.
When Brendon slid into bed behind you, you fit against his body like a glove like always. You fit perfect. In his hands and in his life. His arm settled over your waist in a cozy snug hold, his lips to your cheek.
“Did I do okay today?” You croaked.
Still awake apparnelty.
He kissed your cheek again. “You did perfect. The girls fucking adore you.” He informed you. “They love you. And you took care of them and kept them safe for me today. Thank you. I love you so much, baby.” He whispered.
It wasn’t a proper thanks for the service you did him today. For how to soothed his wild mind. But it was a start. For now, Brendon’s girls were all under his roof where they belonged, and that was enough.
Park the shark fic rec!! Where him & his partner (married) have been together for a really long time, however they’ve had a lottt of ups & downs but not in a toxic way but in a right person wrong time type of way. So like they’re both physicians, and so it was hard for them to stay together with everything going on but then they finally end up together. Then the plot of the fic would be them preparing to go to one of their close friends weddings and they have a disagreement/argument so they go to the wedding upset with one another so they’re together but sorta ignoring each other in the tense type of silent treatment way. But when they’re at the wedding their song comes on & its “still into you” by paramore and they just cant help themselves but go on the dance floor and dance it out bc like “after all this time im still into you” & “let them wonder how we got this far cause i don’t really need to wonder at all” and yeah they can make up at the end. Sorta angsty but super fluffy at the end.
Still Into You 🦋
A/N: you got me by the GILLS with this one Anon!
Triggers: AFAB! Y/N, Pregnancy, puking, Illness, angst (ish, I’m bad with angst tbh.) I think that’s it? If there’s more you can always hit my inbox and I’ll add it.
Summary: cause after all this time…
You and Brendon had been snapping at each other all week. Wether it was due to a terrible work week, an onslaught of childhood sickness in the home, or just general exhaustion you didn’t know, but that morning was hell. Brendon slammed the door on his way out, and you cried in the shower. You don’t remember what you had been fighting about, but you knew it was gonna eat at your day.
Fighting was abnormal for the both of you. Twenty years later that’s still the case. You’re stuck like glue, everyday a new adventure with you and your gaggle of baby sharks.
An adventure like this weekend, a wedding for one of your closest friends. A chance for you to get all dressed up and celebrate the love between two people you love dearly, That is, if your husband would ever come home.
You’d planned this for weeks, a fancy wedding, a nice venue, hell, you were the Matron of Honor for Gods sake, you HAD to be there. But your husband did not receive the memo… apparently.
Brendon: I was pulled into a last minute emergency surgery. You’ll have to leave without me
Y/N: what do you mean? Garcia, Sanchez, and James are covering for you. There is literally no way they were all so engaged that you had to get involved.
B: Don’t start.
Now THAT pissed you off good. Don’t start? Really? You’d been fighting all morning, you’d fought all night last night, and you were apparently gonna keep fighting now.
Y: I’m sorry, what did you just say to me?
B: I’ll meet you there tomorrow. Plenty of time for the wedding. No need to be dramatic.
You promptly turned off your phone. That’s quite enough of that. You gathered your kids and got out the door, we’d just see what his mom thought of that.
As you drove you had a lot of time to think about the Brendon you fell in love with and just how far you’ve come. A little nostalgic, a little ‘how the hell did I get myself into a marriage with a man who tells me to not be dramatic?’
There was High school Brendon, the boy you were infatuated with and fell in love with immediately, his silent nature and cool bravado really made you weak in the knees. But to him you were competition. You didn’t realize this at first. To you, he was the sun, and to him, you were a nuisance. He constantly fought to take your place as top student, while constantly also vying for top athlete. (swim team if you could believe it. That Shark nickname started YOUNG.) You weren’t competition in athletics, not even in the slightest, but to his annoyance, you were competition in well… everything else. Star debate team student, star theatre student, star choir student, hell, you were class president for your grade four years running. It was annoying how brilliant you were on top of all that, while he just seemed to struggle his way through. It was infuriating, but he couldn’t help but admit you were amazing. Just a little.
All you wanted however, was to earn his friendship. You were a sweet, melodramatic teen and the more you chased the more he spurned, kinda Shakespearean no?
That was until Jr. prom. You were dressed to the nines, the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, and you stood there on porch, waiting for a boy who would never come. Park had planned on staying home, no need to beat around the bush, he was nominated for prom king, and you queen. Like hell was he gonna show up and be crowned alongside you, and have to do some kind of stuffy dance with you. You, infuriating, beautiful, mind boggling you. But he bought a ticket, just in case. He watched from his front porch for two hours. Your dinner reservation had passed and you were one hour out from the penultimate dance, and there you were, still sitting there. God, it was liken watching a kicked puppy.
He huffed, thats it, he’d handle it. Twenty minutes later, he had on a suit that he had only ever wore to his Grtandfather’s funeral this past fall. He had the top two buttons of the dress shirt un buttoned, and he put on his uncomfortable ass dress shoes, and he stomped across the lawn.
You watched, confused as Brendon marched across the lawn to you. You had just become fully convinced that your date wasn’t coming. Your eyes had started to water when Park started storming across the lawn.
“Come on.” He said, offering you a hand.
“W-what?” You looked up and carefully rubbed at your eyes so as not to disturb your makeup.
“We’re going. I’ll get you some dinner after, hope you wanted McDonalds.” He flourished his had again and you kept looking at it, cautiously. “Look, I’m an asshole, I’ve been a little mean to you, but I’ll be goddamned if I let you sit there, looking like that, on YOUR night, and don’t do something about it.”
You took his hand and called out to your mom. “momma! I’m leaving!” The pictures she took that night still hang in your office today.
After that fateful prom evening you and Brendon fell into an easy relationship, loving you was the simplest he ever did.
Brendon came home to a quiet house. You had clearly left for the wedding like he had asked, and after the 45 minute phone call he had where his mother reamed him out for ever speaking to the mother of his children that way, he arrived feeling like a spurned dog, heavy with guilt and dread knowing he shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. He had zero missed phone calls, zero texts, and clearly, zero people to come home to. He sighed, you’d decided on the silent treatment, and he deserved it.
Feeling like a dunce, He went to pack. The first thing he noticed was that you hadn’t touched ANY of his things when you left today. Normally you’d lay out the tie and dress shirt he needed to wear to match you, but this time there was nothing. Ok, fair enough, he deserved that. Then there was the suitcase. Normally, you and he would pack together, putting all your stuff in an old beat up bag that you bought coming home from your honeymoon in Greece. You had left that bag at the top of the closet. It was weird to be sentimental about a bag, but it seems as if you’d packed in a huff, and left him to his own devices. Which again, fair, he had talked to you terribly and you did have five kids to juggle on your way out the door, why pack for your mean ass husband.
He shot you a text with a picture of his outfit choice.
B: I’m sorry baby, I’m on my way. Hope this is good enough.
You left him on read.
You and Brendon worked hard all the way through High-school and started applying to colleges, each of you hoping to get into your dream school, John Hopkins University. You both wanted into their pre med college more than anything. You spent your whole year planning around it, dreaming about your lives in Baltimore. But that’s did not come to fruition.
Instead, you got into Duke and Harvard, and he got in to UC Berkeley and Stanford.
It was devastating. Both your options were across the country from each other. What were you gonna do.
“I can apply last minute to Duke? Hopefully the consider me for a swim scholarship?” Brendon says, petting your head as you cried silently into his chest. Youre laid out on his couch, waiting on his mom to call you both for dinner.
“No Brendon, you already have a full ride at Berkeley. Why give that up?” You sigh, wiping at your tears as Brendon pets your head.
“For you? Is that not a good enough reason?” He says, as if this were a non Sequitur.
“No, I’m afraid not.” You sigh. “I can apply for Berkeley? Maybe I’ll get in? My scholarship funds are mostly transferable, and I can get a job to pay for the rest?”
“With a full ride to Duke already on the table? I don’t think so sweetie.” He groans, pulling you up to a sitting position.
“We just crush the long distance thing. We see each other on holidays, we make visits whenever we can, and you and I just… do our best.” He says, shrugging as if it’s simple.
“Sure babe, do our best.” But deep down, you know what you had to do.
You spent the summer together, went in every vacation together, worked summer jobs at the pool together, did your summer readings together, did orientations together, and of course, you got into a little trouble as all teens do. When it came time to leave for school though, you helped each other pack. You slipped in little reminders for him to stay focused, you made sure all of his things were in the right order, just like he liked, and you made sure that he packed little reminders of home, even when he says he doesn’t need them. Everything seemed fine, then the day you were supposed to leave, Brendon woke up to a nasty surprise.
“Dear Brendon,
If you’re reading this, I’ve already left for school. Now I know what you’re thinking, how could I abandon you like this? But the answer is simple but devastating. It’s because it’s time for you to shine on your own.
We’ve spent our whole lives orbiting each other, and I’ve spent all of my teen years hopelessly in love with you. Now it’s time for us to do our own thing.
I will always love you, please do not think that this is because I don’t love you. I just want you to be free to peruse all life has for you in California without me hanging over your head. I love you so much, know that.
Thank you for everything.
Love always,
Y/N”
He sighed, at least you hadn’t left a note, that was good. Now he just had to remember what color your dress was, hope he could pull off the matching thing, and get his ass on the road, he had a wife to apologize to.
You made it to the wedding, and it was as beautiful as you thought it would be. Your friends Heather and Martin had great taste, Heather was there for all four of your College years where you pined for Brendon, and she put up with your nearly Nun-ish behavior. That is, until thanksgiving your senior year.
“That’s it, you can’t avoid it forever!” Heather threw up her hands and flopped down on your bed.
“Pick something at home.” She sighs, “then maybe you can correct the biggest mistake of your life, and marry Brendon. That will at least get you out of the house!”
You bite your nails and look at the options for medical school over and over again, worrying about the best choice until you were blue in the face.
“But what if he picks California? What if found another woman on the beach and wifed her up and had little surfer babies? What if he doesn’t want me anymore?” You fret, tearing at a nasty hangnail drawing blood.
“Stop worrying so much. I swear to you it will be fine.” Heather sighs, pulling your poor fingers from further torment. “If he did move on, that’s a sign that it’s time for you to move on too.”
You nodded and clicked submit on your med school application. Better to try and fail than never try at all.
With all the important things submitted, you packed up and left for thanksgiving, headed home for what felt like the first time in forever.
You spent the first two days of your break blissfully unaware that across the street Brendon had struggled with the same turmoil as you and had eventually chosen something close to California. It was a nightmare all over again and you were both none the wiser. Until…
“Honey could you get the door?” Your mother called, and you hopped up in the middle of watching ‘Planes, Trains, and Automobiles’ with your father to probably answer the third grocery order this hour. You grabbed your wallet onto the poor delivery person who tracked their way out in the freezing Pittsburgh November in order to deliver pie shells or something as equally unserious for your thanksgiving feast tomorrow.
“Hey! Thanks for coming out, take thi-“
There he was, Brendon, and the years had been kind. He had filled out even more, his shoulders and pecs and everything looking perfectly structured and welcoming. His arms were cordoned with muscle and you were practically salivating. Then you noticed what was in his hands.
“O-oh! I guess my mom asked for- from your mom and- you’re here for… oh.” You gestured wildly between him and the kitchen and his house. He still remained perfectly still, perfectly composed. The sun had done him good, perfectly tan and beautiful, and totally not yours.
You went to speak again and he held up the hand not holding a cup of sugar.
“Stop.” He said, still as stoic and unwavering as he ever was. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
You answered, flustered, “No.”
“Are you still going to medical school?” He asked.
“Yes, hopefully somewhere close to home.”
“Then you, me, dinner, Friday. No shitty platitudes, no excuses, no more running. We’re gonna talk, we’re gonna fight, then we’re gonna make up. That’s it.” He closed your gaping mouth with two fingers and handed you the sugar. “Friday. That’s it.” He closed the door behind him and you whirled around to see your parents staring as if this was the best soap opera they had ever seen.
“Wha- what do I do with that!” You cry.
“You go to dinner!” Both your parents say vehemently.
Friday comes and you can’t figure out what to do with yourself. You dress up, you dress down, you can’t figure out how to do your hair? You’re a nightmare. You can’t keep it together even a little. In fact, you’re still in your pajamas when Brendon arrives. Your mother must have let him in, because there he is, staring at you dressed in a pair of sweat pants and his old high school swimming sweatshirt. He walks up to you, steady as ever, and starts thumbing at the hem of the sweatshirt.
He’s dressed in slacks and a button down, looking like a million bucks, and there you are, looking like a slob.
“I’m sorry I’m not ready! I didn’t know where we were going or how I should dress and my eyelashes were clumping and-“
Brendon just shakes his head, pulling you into him. “Stop worrying. I don’t like you worrying.”
“But I am worried B! You’re here and you want to hash this out, and I don’t know how to tell you I’m so sorry! How much I’ve regretted not being with you for the last four years! I’m just so tired of pretending I’m happy without you there! It’s so much!”
“It’s fine. I forgive you.” He said nodding, “You were right. There were some things I had to work out in California all on my own. I decided my specialty, I’m done swimming, I took the time to focus on me. I won’t say I was perfect, I tried other women, I tried to forget you, but every single decision I made, every sunny day, hell, every dog I passed on the street I couldn’t help but think to myself how much you would love what I was doing, and I missed you. That’s what this is all about baby, I missed you. I want you, and I won’t settle for anything less than you.”
“But you could have so much better than me!” You cry, and Brendon crushed you to his chest.
“Honestly? No I can’t. I’ve seen what I could be getting and I really can honestly say none of them beat you.” He kisses your head and breathes in deep, “ I was miserable without you, nobody puts up with me like you do.”
“So was I B, so was I.”
So you got back together, and this time you really did make the long distance thing work for you. You called all the time, visited when you could, and made plans to attempt to be matched at the same hospital for residency.
It was in your last year of clinicals that a surprise happened.
“Daddy!” Your youngest squealed into the phone, ready to throw herself through it if she could,
“Hey Cove baby, what’s going on?”
“I tied nummy gween beans!” The three year old beamed, making him chuckle. “You tell Mama?
“You did? wow, brave girl! I’ll tell Mama. ” He says, nodding along to her toddler babbling, “can I talk to sissy?”
“Yesh.” She says and practically flings his mother’s phone at her un suspecting sister.
“Hey dad!” His eldest child, Saylor, answers with a subdued smile much like his own. “I read to chapter ten of Ender’s game, can I have the sequel when I finish? Mommy says it’s her favorite book.”
“Of course, there’s a copy on Nana’s book shelf, but I can get you your own?” If there is one rule you strictly enforce in the Park house, it’s that reading time has no limitation, and money can always be spared for books.
“No, Nanna’s is fine, that means you and mommy have read that copy before?” She says, a curious and sentimental child at heart.
“Yeah, your mommy bought that copy for me special.” He nods.
“I’ll take that one then, it’s more special that way. Do you wanna talk to Capri and Caspian?”
“Yes please, I’d love to see them as well then we can all say goodnight.” He nods waiting patiently as his eldest passes the phone to his twins. He props his phone on the steering wheel and frees up his hands, his twins were born with significant hearing loss.
“Hi dad!” They sign simultaneously.
“Hello little fish. How was your day?” He smiles and signs back.
“We watched Nemo! That’s Mama’s favorite! Nana made us banana bread!” Capri smiled brightly as she signed.
“I got to feed Papa’s fish! He says we can go deep sea fishing when we go see Aunt Isabella!” Caspian beams, referencing Brendon’s older sister who lives with her partner in Florida. “Do you think Mama would want to go fishing?”
“I’m glad you had fun! I’m sure Mama would want to go fishing.” He signs back. “Let’s all say goodnight.”
Brendon grins as all of his children squish in and smile wide singing and saying goodnight in one big virtual hug. Brendon hangs up and remembers how excited and scared he was to be a father. How he was worried he wouldn’t be a good dad, but he was always confident you would be a good mother.
B: The kids all a talked about you tonight, we said goodnight. I miss you.
Left on read again.
After that fateful thanksgiving you and Brendon you settled into your long distance relationship ship. When you first felt off, you hadn’t seen Brendon in a month and a half. You had of course been talking, you talked almost every day, you had done your clinical in Pittsburg and he in California, and it was hard, no lying there, but you had done it, next was residency and you liked it where you were. You felt like you needed to be home, and Brendon was doing all that he could to get himself back home when it was time to match for Residency.
Then came the vomiting. It was consistent, and it was daily, you were vomiting so often in fact, that you kept banana bagging yourself at every opportunity. You had yet to tell Brendon, not wanting to worry him, and when you told your other physician friends, they were really pushing for blood tests, none of you workaholic bone heads thinking of the obvious….
“PREGNANT!?” You cried, staring at the results directly from your attending.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Pregnant.” She said, plopping down next to you on the stretcher you currently occupied in a stupor.
“But- it’s been- and I can’t- oh God!” You were really working yourself up here and the awkward attending was just carefully patting your shoulder in solidarity.
“No need to panic, you still have time to figure things out.” She sighs, finally dropping her arm back to her side, but why don’t you call someone and have them come get you, and you can figure the rest out tomorrow. Keep the scary for today and give the clarity to tomorrow.”
You nod dumbly and get up to go call your mom, Brendon’s mom, a psych ward, anyone. But your stupid fucking fingers instantly dial the one person you needed most in this moment.
“Baby? What’s wrong? Aren’t you supposed to be working?” He sounds so calm and assured, you wish he was here right now.
“Y- yeah? But I’m-“ you were gonna blurt it out right then! Ninja how are you just BAM! Baby!
“You’re what? Anything you say isn’t gonna upset me half as much as you lying, so come on and tell me.” Brendon’s calm and assuring tone works wonders on your stuck tongue.
“I’m pregnant…” you whisper.
Deafening silence on the other end of the phone.
“I’m moving home.” Brendon says with formality.
“What!? Babe, you have a month left before you match for Residency, just wait it out.” You laugh a hysterical laugh.
“None of that is as important as you.” He says with finality, “or our baby.”
That strikes you right where it’s meant to.
“Baby!? How the hell can I have a baby right now! I’m just finishing clinicals! I can’t be pregnant! But I want this baby so bad! What are we gonna DO!” You whisper yell, sobbing into the other end of the phone.
Brendon feels like he’s a million miles away, he’s never felt more useless in his entire life. All he wants, is to cradle you in his arms and reassure you that everything will be ok, you’ll make it, you’ll do it together, but all he can do is whisper platitudes from across the country while you break down in a supply closet.
“It’s all gonna be ok. I’ve messaged my mom, she’s bringing your mom and they’re coming to get you. I’m on the next plane out, I swear, we’re gonna be fine.” He says with finality.
His certainty, and the promise of him coming as fast as he can relaxes you significantly. At least enough to get you out of the supply closet, and waiting in the parking lot for two of the most important women in your life to come and pick you up.
It took Brendon about seven hours to finally get to you, and when he did you were in a restless sleep in his childhood bed, clinging to one of his pillows and wearing his old sweatshirt. His heart clenched as he tucked a stray hair out of your face. He slid into bed and took the place of that pillow you clutched and kissed your head.
“Brendon?” You wake a little.
“Yeah baby, I’m here, go to sleep, we will figure it all out in the morning I promise.”
And figure it out you did, your pregnancy was rough. Especially as the first month or so Brendon was still stuck in California, unable to find a good placement in Pittsburgh until it was time to match for residency. Thankfully, you both matched at PTMC in your second trimester. You started working in Pedes and Brendon in Ortho, while both of you watched your baby grow with fascination. Your reputations of being the best of the best in your programs rose steadily, and Brendon started to grow a fierce reputation as Brendon ‘The Shark’ Park once more. Though it took quite a different tone than it had in High school.
On the day your daughter was born, as a push present, Brendon presented you with an engagement ring. You were married at the court house not three weeks later, a little baby Saylor tucked in between you. Thankfully by that time you had both proven without a shadow of a doubt that PTMC was the place for you, and as Saylor grew up, you both became attendings in your respective fields.
Now you were four kids deep into your marriage of ten years and stronger than ever… except when your husband pulls a stunt like this.
You slept in the bridesmaid suite with all of your friends and the bride to be. Originally you were meant to be sleeping with Brendon, but he had made his choice so you would make yours. Yo read and re read all of his texts, wanting to say something, but not knowing what.
Brendon slept like shit when he was alone, he’d been sleeping with someone next to him for the better part of 15 years, why would that change? Well, he would have been sleeping next to someone last night if he wasn’t such an ass, he’d have the chance to apologize tonight.
The evening started with the beautiful wedding at sunset, Brendon watched you walk down the aisle in near tears, you were always beautiful, but this wave of sentimentality brought on by your little tiff had made him abnormally emotional.
You watched your friends take their vows, and couldn’t help but tear up at the beauty of it, the magic enhanced by the setting sun on a beautiful day. You grinned and clapped along with the crowd as you headed back down the aisle, catching the eyes of your husband with a sad smile.
Brendon sat through the dinner alone. You had been made to sit at the bridal party table with the rest of your friends, and as he watched you drink and eat and chuckle, he couldn’t help but notice how much you have dimmed in the proceedings due to this little silent treatment you were engaged in. His dinner tasted like sand.
The father of the bride gave a speech, and the groom gave a speech, but all other speeches were forbidden. Heather was not a sappy sentimental type. She wanted to eat, and she wanted to party. So you ate with them and laughed, but it all felt hollow without Brendon.
Eventually, the first dance was through and the dance floor opened. And suddenly you heard it, your song.
You first heard it when you were pregnant with the twins. the sentiment of it had made you cry and when you played it for Brendon he had beamed.
“Baby, this is our song.”
So ever since, any argument, bad day, any good day, always ended with the song. It was like waving a white flag.
Then a hand entered your periphery, and there was Brendon, holding out a hand, and you took it.
“Can't count the years on one hand that we've been together
I need the other one to hold you, make you feel, make you feel better
It's not a walk in the park to love each other
But when our fingers interlock, can't deny, can't deny you're worth it.”
It’s starts with a little shoulder shimmy, Brendon emphatically mouthing the words to you as he encourages you to dance. Then you really start to dance in earnest.
“I should be over all the butterflies
But I'm into you (I'm into you)
And baby even on our worst nights
I'm into you (I'm into you)
Let 'em wonder how we got this far
'Cause I don't really need to wonder at all
Yeah, after all this time
I'm still into you.”
You end up in each others arms, smiling and breathless.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
me when other Pitt fic writers (who’s stories I love and adore) like and reblog mine. like hey bestie!! Your stories belong at the Louvre whilst mine belong in the trash cans at the back of the museum but thank you!!!
If I write a park the Shark fic detailing his experience with each of readers pregnancies yall gonna read it or should I stfu…
OR!
A reluctant Park secretly asking Dana for baby advice
A/n: Ya’ll voting on this and not liking it is gagging me because I didn’t know y’all were voting? I thought it would notify me when someone votes bro! 😭 someone who actually knows how to use this app tell me how this shit workssssss.
A/N: I’m back on my Brendon Park BS. I love this man who had zero screen time and that’s on mental illness.
Triggers:none? Hopefully? Lmk if I’m wrong.
Summary: Brendon meets a mouse and can’t help himself.
Brendon Park was not a man that… scurried. Each step had purpose, and each and every step had confidence. However, the first day you met, he saw you… scurry. You were an IT professional for the hospital, and the first way he thought of describing you was… mousy. Not in a bad way per say, just in a nervous way, like you were unsure of your place here, unsure of your steps, constantly trying to dodge all of the chaos all around you 24/7. He noticed with everything you did, you tried to make yourself small.
He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that one bit.
He especially didn’t like it, because every time he saw you, you seemed to be doing something brilliant, and people just seemed to pass it by. Let it go without acknowledging the fact that this extremely delicate piece of equipment was suddenly working because you took one look at it and were able to fix it in a matter of seconds. He was in awe, you must be on call for every minute of everyday when you were on shift. Brendon Park was not a man who reveled in wasted intelligence, nor was he a fan of letting intelligence go in noticed. Such was the curse of surgeons and their massive egos.
The first time he saw you, you were crawling into a piece of paneling that honestly? He didn’t know could be removed. You crawled into the space, messed around with some wiring he swore to god he saw you strip with your teeth, and suddenly-
“Oh fuck yeah! The WiFi is back up! No more hand charting folks, we’re back in Buissness!” He heard a nurse (probably Donnie) exclaim, and in the moment he looked away from you, you were gone, the panel was replaced, and apparently, the whole network was up and running like new.
The second time Brendon saw you, you were in the corner of a room, carefully fixing a piece of equipment that cost more than a small country. It was constantly throwing error messages, and you were looking pretty frustrated with the whole thing. A piece of the equipment seemed to be loose, some sort of wiring panel that wouldn’t stay in place. And suddenly, after carefully looking around to see if anyone was watching, (and totally missing him standing there,) you wacked it with a wrench. It started back up again and you gave the most maniacal laugh he had ever heard. “Percussive trouble shooting, works every time.”
The third time Brendon saw you, he knew he had to do something about it. He had been thinking about you every day since that stunt with the wrench, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. That’s what startled him most, normally when he found himself smitten with such frivolities, he could push it aside, focus on work, and keep it pushing. This time, it was like every time he entered the hospital, he found himself checking the darkest little corners and strange maintenance hallways to see if he could catch a glimpse of the person, he was now certain, was meant to be his, his little mouse.
“What are you doing over there?” A deep voice suddenly felt as if it reached out and grabbed you. When you whirled around, the most beautiful man with thick dark hair and shocking blue eyes stared back at you.
“Oh! Uh-“ you look around, carefully brandishing your screwdriver as if to explain, “I’m fixing this ventilator?” You said it as a question, Brendon knew it was a fact.
“So you’re brilliant.” He deadpans, looking you up and down.
“No! No, I’m just a normal emergency medical equipment specialist and IT person… guy… thing.” You exclaim throwing up both hands.
“That’s a shame, I like brilliant People, and IT medical equipment specialist guy thingies sound pretty brilliant to me, but if you say so-“ he goes to walk away, and as he is probably the prettiest man you have ever seen in your whole entire life, you go to stop him.
“Wait!” He stops, “Maybe I’m pretty smart?” You wince, not used to giving or receiving compliments, ever.
“Oh? Well then, Brendon Park, nice to meet you.” He reached out a hand and you took it, smiling all the while but somehow shrinking down while you did it.
“I know who you are,” you admit, shrinking further, “You’re Park the Shark.” He groans at this.
“I was hoping you were the one person in this hospital who didn’t know that idiotic nickname.” He smirked, trying to open his body language up more, make himself seem more open, shielding you from the rest of the ED.
“Oh no, I’m afraid your reputation proceeds you.” You giggle slightly, opening up a bit at his attempt to create a smaller space for you to dwell in, almost like you were scared of the open air. “But I like the nickname, what’s not to love about Sharks?”
“I don’t know mouse, what’s there to love about sharks?” He softens even more at the comfort you seem to be deriving from his shielding, trying to keep you from closing back off and shrinking back down.
“Oh! So many things! Did you know?” You proceeded to tell him fun facts about sharks for five whole minutes, each minute endearing him to you further.
“But anyway, I’ve been rambling, there’s no need for you to know all that.” You wave your hand and shrink back in on yourself all of a sudden and it breaks his heart a bit.
“I like rambling. I’m not a talker myself, so it’s nice to have someone fill the void, how about this,” Brendon steps into your bubble and you look up at him with the most perfect puppy dog eyes he had ever seen. “You save up some more fun facts, come up to my office, and use my fancy coffee maker until someone calls you or me for some other emergency, and we can chat a bit more about sharks, or machines, or little mice like you.” How could you ever say no to that?
You took the walk up the stairs with Brendon to the office suites, and the whole time you walked, he asked questions about your work, where you got your degrees (a double major and a double masters degree), your friends at work, (Mel King was the only one who ever took an interest in you after you fixed the printer by slamming the drawer shut three times and blowing into the slot.), you even got down to what type of mouse you’d be if you really were a mouse. (African Pygmy mouse apparently.) Then he really did make you a fancy coffee in his fancy office, his was minimalistic, a coffee cart in the corner for him and Garcia (their offices share a door), a big scary supervillain desk (your words not his), and big open widows showing off the city below. You were saddened to find no pictures, no screen savers, no tchotchkes, nothing. You weren’t completely surprised though either.
“So, mouse, what do you like in your coffee?” He asks, pulling out two mugs and starting the pot.
“Oh, cream and sugar? anything will do?” You ask it like a question, and he gives you the serious eyes until you make a statement and ask for some of Garcia’s fancy vanilla oat milk creamer.
“Why do you call me mouse?” You say, settling into the surprisingly comfy chair at the front of his desk while he settles behind it.
“Because, the first time I ever saw you you scurried across my path, and crawled into this little side panel, fixed the WiFi in the out, and scurried off before anyone could thank you or acknowledge your hard work.” He sips his coffee and raises his eyebrows at you. “Kind of like a…”
“Mouse,” you nod, “kinda like a mouse.”
“Right, now mouse, why don’t you tell me all about yourself, I’ll tell you some more about me, and if all goes well, I’ll take you to dinner when we get off shift.”
“Okay?” He hit you with a look when it comes out more like a question again. “Ok,” you say with more confidence, “I like pasta and tiramisu.”
“That’s more like it mouse.”
Three months after Brendon got you that pasta and a piece of the best tiramisu in the city, you kept seeing each other. With every date, you opened up more and more until Brendon’s presence became a staple in your every day life, and his confidence in your brilliance started to make you feel more like maybe you were as brilliant as he knew you to be. With his confidence in you, you started to branch out a little more, I mean, if one unexpected interaction could lead you to the love of your life, maybe more could lead you to something else spectacular.
Pretty soon, mouse the mechanic was a staple in the Pitt, and a most necessary part of their team. You often had park beers with the crew, participated openly in the night crawler chant, (even though you rarely ever worked nights, you just like being apart of the fun), and you even started weekly Karaoke nights with the pittlings.
The best part of this new found boldness was your relationship with Brendon, he bolstered your courage, and you tempered his harshness. Everyone noticed the difference in him the longer you dated. Pretty soon, it was weird to see Brendon WITHOUT his little mouse trailing behind him, and that was just the way he liked it.
Hello!! May I request a Frank Castle fanfic with a young reader (preferably female, please)?
Thank you! <3
Glitter All Around
A/N: I hope this was what you’re looking for! 🤞🏻 it’s not very long, but it’s what I had kicking around up here in dream land!
Triggers: Age gap! Reader (Frank is 40 reader is 25?) , AFAB! Reader (mentions of reader wearing heels, she her pronouns.), I think that covers it?
Summary: you have Frank questioning if he’s too old to love someone as young and sweet as you. He is wrong.
He notices the bag first. It’s covered in little charms and patches and things. Little animals, a hand sanitizer that looks like those ugly foam shoes, a patch with a song quote. It’s not exactly practical at all times, though whenever he needs something (an Advil, a bandaid, a lighter, a knife.) she seems to have it, so maybe practicality cannot be judged by outward appearance, but it’s difficult not to all the same. Where to him things are tactical, to her things are… personal. A piece of her given up freely for anyone who cares to look and see. It’s unsettling to him. He lives in a world where giving of one’s self can equal death, but she’s just… so giving.
Then there’s the pictures. Pictures of his hands, pictures of her lunch, pictures of them on dates, pictures of a particularly pretty sunset, pictures of celebrities, pictures of her purse. Pictures, pictures, pictures. All the time pictures. He doesn’t know why she takes them. She’s constantly capturing moments of her life that seem so mundane and costly to him. When he was her age, photos were reserved for the real thing usually, moments you can’t help but wish to keep, to him her constant barrage of photos both by her and sent to her seems so frivolous. Then one day he looks on her phone to see an album labeled ‘Frankie.’ He clicks it out of curiosity and finds hundreds of photos of their lives together. Frank holding a kitten she found two months ago, Frank fastening her ridiculous pink heels, Frank at a gun range when he forced her to learn to shoot, Frank holding one of her little trinkets. (a snookie? A smishki? Whatever.) All kinds of little moments that he wouldn’t think to capture, all labeled, all there, and all cherished.
She also talks to strangers on the street. He finds this to be particularly concerning, because who she speaks with is always something he concerns himself with, but she opens up so freely to anyone who would listen. Especially if their dog is cute. How many pictures has Frank received of his girl with a stranger’s dog? Innumerable. Frank had never in his life thought to take a picture with anyone’s anything without knowing them for years. He supposes it’s just because she feels so… young?
He can’t put his finger on it. Yes, she’s 15 years his junior, yes she is young, but he’s never felt more old.
He feels jaded, sure. Life has a funny way of picking Frank up and spitting him out as fast and brutal as it can. But old? Eh, maybe. He can’t help but feel old though, like he can never fit in her little pink sparkle world. But there she is, reminding him every day that even when he thinks he’s too old, too jaded, too out of touch with her life, she’s there to remind him he is right where he belongs.
——————three days ago————————
“What you looking at, killer?” He calls her killer, not because she’s especially strong, or mean, or scary, but mostly because when provoked his little sweet girl could be vicious.
“Just taking a picture Frank, you look extra hot today building that coffee table.” She smiles broadly, nodding at his work. Frank playfully rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, well why take em if you can’t post em, Sweets?” He says, cocking an eyebrow, “wouldn’t you be better off with someone a little more young? A little less criminal?”
“Frank Castle you take that back!” She gasps, outraged. “I am perfectly happy with my grumpy old man thank you SO very much!”
Frank scoffs in disbelief, tossing down his screwdriver and giving her his pouty stare, the one that means buissness. “Sure thing honey, being with me is such a walk in the park.”
“Now I never said it was easy!” She laughs, “but it also is t hard to love you. You constantly think about my safety, always making sure I’m back home, always walking on the side closest to the street, always double checking the apartment before I go in.” She starts, tossing her phone away on the other couch. “You always take care of me, ask me if I’ve eaten, taken my medicine, always making sure I drink enough water.” She starts crawling toward him. “You don’t laugh at all my silly little trinkets, or my TikTok addiction, you always let me take my silly little photos.” She reached h and placed herself gently on his lap. “You may be older than me Frank Castle, but you are never ever an inconvenience, or shameful, or too old. True, you may be a criminal, and I may never get to have a quote-un-quote ‘normal life’ with you, but you have all the things I need. You have wisdom, you have kindness, you have love to give. You’ve been through things, sure, but all of those things have culminated in the man I adore and cherish.” You end your tirade with a smacking kiss on his chin, snuggling into his warmth. “Besides, if we’re judging things based on age and relevance, you and Karen Page would make a lovely couple.” He goes to cut you off, “I’m just saying!”
“No baby, nobody could ever replace you,” Frank sighs, “Maybe I needed a young thing like you to bring a little light back into my life.”
Summary: Park the Shark is a scary man, but maybe under all that shark like hunger, is a squishy soft heart.
Warnings: puke mentions, medical inaccuracies, babies being ill, children being ill,Breast feeding, AFAB reader, female identifying reader, probably white reader coded (sorry, I’m normally better about that.), if there are more message me and I’ll add them but these are all I could think of atm.
A/N: I’m a Park the Shark girl dad big family truther. This man had barely any screen time and yet? Here we are.
Formidable: inspiring fear, respect, or dread due to someone or something's size, strength, or excellence. The definition of formidable can be found in all of its glory in a single man at the PTMC. That man was Brendon “The Shark” Park. Known for his brutish mannerisms and cutting wit, there were not many men who could step toe to toe with the Shark of Ortho. His cadence was that of a prowling shark, his name deriving from the way he circled a patient to get the whole picture, and his razor-sharp tongue. When he was near, the ED held its breath.
Nobody knew if his home life, where most co workers talked about the trappings of their domestic lives, Park seemed to live off orthopedic surgery, gym routines, and the tears of R4s. This mystery only added to the effect; the Shark’s reputation still being held up by the hospital’s complete ignorance of what went on in his life went on behind closed doors.
Then there was the incident. A trauma had been called, and an Ortho consult had been ordered. Park was just coming out of a multi-hour Posterior spinal fusion, where he had to correct the mistakes of an incompetent baby surgeon who wouldn’t know what a good bone graft looked like if it were spitting in his eye. Needless to say, the man was already on edge, but when he was called for the consult, he went, only stopping to put all of his jewelry back on from where he had removed it for the surgery in question, leaving one big detail of his personal life dangling from his neck.
Robby was stood stick straight and silent as he entered the room, waiting carefully to see what questions Park would request, and which of his poor residents he would offer up to the slaughter today. Mohan, Javadi, Whitaker, and Santos all mirrored his postures, waiting and watching as the Shark circled the patient with those eyes that knew how to cut a man to his quick. Then their eyes caught. A flash of silver, dangling from a chain usually neatly tucked under a scrub top. They were all so stunned by the presence of the wedding band that when Park barked out an order for someone to present, they all flinched as they directed their attention to Robby, who ultimately nodded for Santos to present.
From that day forward, while many murmured theories followed him wherever he went, the biggest and baddest of them all was the question of who could possibly be on the other end of that wedding ring.
About three months after the wedding ring incident, a woman entered the ED. She was surrounded by dark-haired babies with blue eyes, and was handling the fevers, sniffles, and coughs with grace. She wandered in with her herd around 6:30, stating issues with a lethargic infant with a fever of 100.4 and a three-year-old with a fever of 102. The three-year-old wasn’t necessarily a medical emergency, but the infant was. Paired with fewer wet diapers and the lethargy, she had come to the right spot and was quickly ushered in by Lupe and Dana on the relatively slow evening.
Dana observed the calm woman and the drive of sick children with a maternal sense of wonder. Here you were with a set of twins no more than a month old, a toddler, and a five-year-old, all with a terrible cough and fever, and yet? You remained calm and unwavering, two babies strapped to your chest, and both hands occupied by little girls with shockingly familiar blue eyes. She watched as you dried tears, wiped snotty noses, handed out water bottles, and even caught vomit, without flinching, and without pausing in your efforts to fill out insurance information. She was impressed.
Robby had come and gone from the room while observing Whitaker. Santos had made a fly-by, Langdon Mel, and Mohan each gave interest to the small family, and Javadi even went so far as to approach with stickers and graham crackers, and each doctor had asked Dana whether or not the children looked familiar to her. Each time she nodded and shrugged her shoulders, completely at a loss as to who the little mystery family could be. Well, until she was handed the chart, and it all clicked. Then she knew she had to make a page, with haste.
You were sat up in the hospital bed, railings all pulled to their highest extent. Your hair was messy and frizzy from sleep, and little strands had fallen from your messy hairstyle where the first of the small children you cradled had tugged on it while eating. You fed the first of the twins, Marina, on your right breast, the baby lazily sucking, eyes half-hooded in satisfaction from what you presumed was a great meal. Then there was Pearl, your three-year-old, tucked into the side not occupied by her sister, playing with the fabric of your shirt, little arm hooked into an IV. She was gently dosing in and out of sleep, her little head drooping and snapping back up like she was struck by lightning. Her cheeks were pink and her hair was beginning to stick to her face with sweat, and the poor thing was rattling out breaths in a way that worried the tenured nurse. The other twin, Harbor, lay across your lap hooked up to IV fluids, and watched the ceiling with the great interest only babies can give to lighting fixtures, patiently waiting for her turn on the boob. This child’s cheeks were also pink, and that same startling cough rattled from her little chest, your free hand splays across her and your brows crease with worry, but you’re confident that she will get the best care here. The final child, Isla, age five, was sprawled across the end of the bed, slowly swinging her legs back and forth, arms folded across her chest as she coughed and hacked in tune with her sisters.
Robby and Abbot were quietly chatting in the corner when he stormed down the stairs. Park, looking for all the world like a shark who had just caught a whiff of blood. The whole floor was at a standstill as he stormed through the ED with purpose, an amused and bewildered Dana behind him. Abbot and Robby shrugged and followed after their old friend who was rapidly waving them towards the room with the mystery family, hot on the shark’s fins.
Park ripped back the curtain to the Pedes unit, and to his astonishment, there they all were. Just as Dana had said.
“Daddy!” Cried Isla, throwing herself at him immediately. The sweet girl showing more enthusiasm for him than she had shown all day from where she lounged sadly watching Nemo from the comfort of your couch.
“DADA! DAD! DAD! DAD!” Chanted little Pearl, eyes twinkling out of her rosy face as she struggled to toddle from your side to her dad’s. Brendon scooped her up as well, careful of the IV in her little arm, eyes roving over each of his girls to check for any sign of major injury. He was relieved to find none. His eyes immediately flicked to you, checking you over as well, before finally squatting down to check over his twins. When he was finally satisfied that all was relatively well, he took to comforting his girls.
“Hello little baby sharks, what are you doing swimming in my waters, hm?” His face to the vast majority seems like it hadn’t changed from its normal stoicism, but to his family, they could see the softness in his eyes, and they took comfort in his steady, unwavering nature.
“Here! They poke me Dada!” Pearl gave an indignant little cry and brandished her IV to her father, and he nodded sagely, kissing her forehead and lingering to gauge temperature, and to comfort the little miss who was definitely over this little hospital stint. Thankfully, whatever fever had brought her here had broken.
“Oh no! My princess!” Park huffed out a laugh, hugging her tightly without tugging on any tubing.
“I cried Dada.” Pearl said, looking at him with the world’s saddest puppy dog eyes, letting them well up again at the memory of this most egregious misfortune that had befallen her. “And I frowed up in the hall, but Mama got me a trash can.”
“That’s okay, we are allowed to cry when we’re scared, that doesn’t make us any less brave.” Park nodded wisely, letting the little girl tuck herself back under his chin. “And I’m glad your mommy was there, she did a good job.”
“What about you, Isla girl? You okay?” He asked, turning to his other daughter, who finally seemed to be giving into her exhaustion from all the excitement from being here in the hospital.
“I’m fine, Mommy said that Harbor and Pearl were sick, so we had to come and visit you at work.” She yawned and pulled herself closer to the smell of her dad’s expensive cologne and steady breathing. “Mommy called you and you didn’t answer.”
Brendon looks up at you at that with a guilty frown. “I know, Daddy’s phone isn’t allowed in the room where he works, so Mrs. Dana came and got me.” You nod in understanding, knowing that he wouldn’t have purposefully ignored your call while his children were so sick. “Now then, why don’t you two go sit with Mommy so I can check on the twins, yeah?” The girls nod and Park gently lowers them back to their original spots.
You’re finished feeding Marina, and hand her off to Brendon, and immediately he lifts the child to his face, cooing softly at the baby and watches as the barely awake child pulls both hands to her face and nuzzles in in that way newborns do. He has one hand supporting her head and the other supporting her butt as he lifts her to his line of sight and watches the little soft spot on her head thrum with her heartbeat. Thankfully, it’s not sunken in any way, so she’s hydrated enough, he pulls her close again and nuzzles at her stomach with his nose, satisfied that she’s okay.
“What happened?” He asks softly, eyes flicking to you as he takes a seat next to Isla, who immediately rests her head on his knee. He holds Marina close and starts to stroke little Harbor’s cheek as she begins to feed.
“Miss Harbor spiked a nasty fever, one I couldn’t ignore. She was lethargic, and I noticed fewer wet diapers. Then I took a look at her soft spot, and it looked a little off. So I brought them in. Pearl was at 102. I didn’t like that either, and she was puking. But that was more of a choking on her coughs kind of thing? But it happened enough that I was afraid of dehydration, so they gave her some fluids as well.” You sigh, readjusting the baby again and wrapping your free arm around a now definitely sleeping Pearl. Brendon hums his approval.
“You did the right thing. Now it seems like everyone is a little better.” He nods solemnly, pulling his family as close as he could in the hospital bed. “How about we go home? I’ll wrap everything up with doctor Robby, and we can get these little shark pups back to bed.” Everyone who was currently awake and verbal agreed to that sentiment, and Brendon stood to go find their doctor, but when he turned around, he found the ED already staring back at him.
Dana, Robby, and Abbot were a respectable foot away from the entrance to Pedes, but they were still there, gawking. They watched as Brendon rolled his eyes and stalked toward them, still cradling an infant.
“Do you all have nothing better to do?” He groused, watching as Dana and Abbot and the rest of the ED scampered away to go back to whatever they were supposed to be doing before they witnessed this little meeting of the Sharks. That left him with just the senior attending. “If you are done gawking, I’d like to take my family home now.”
“Oh yeah! Sure! I’ll just gather the uh— you know!” And Robby scampered off to discharge the patients and obviously gossip about the gaggle of nautical children he just met.
Brendon sighed. This was going to be a long week, because the whole hospital was about to know that maybe this formidable great white was simply a whale shark.
Summary: After a pediatric patient panics during an IV start, you end up in the ED with a dislocated shoulder, a lot of pain meds, and absolutely no filter. The day shift learns three things very quickly: Jack Abbot is your husband, you picked that one, and apparently, his forearms are medically relevant.
Warnings: established relationship, married Jack and reader, injury, shoulder dislocation, medical procedure/reduction, pain medication/loopy reader, swearing, suggestive humor, sexual jokes, Jack being hot as a clinical intervention, Robby being Robby, fluff, crack treated seriously, hospital setting, peds nurse reader, very unserious wedding lore
Author’s Note: This is very much the sister fic in spirit to Where Is My Husband? Same deeply married chaos, same loopy wife energy, same Jack Abbot being forced to endure public affection against his will. Except this time, Robby discovers that “sexy doctor husband” is not just a title — it is, unfortunately for Jack, a clinically useful intervention. This one is ridiculous, soft, unhinged, and honestly exactly the kind of nonsense I love putting these two through. Jack is trying so hard to be a serious, worried husband; Robby is having the best shift of his life; Dana is quietly enabling chaos under the guise of professionalism; and Reader is simply telling the truth. Loudly. On medication.
You’re welcome.
Xoxo, Del
The first rule of pediatrics was that fear moved faster than pain. You had learned that early.
Pain made kids cry. Fear made them bolt.
Eli Mereiter had been trying very hard not to do either for almost twenty minutes.
He sat in the center of the peds exam bed with his knees tucked under the thin blanket, his left wrist cradled against his chest, his cheeks blotchy from the effort of pretending he was fine. His mother stood near the head of the bed, one hand on his shoulder and the other twisting the strap of her purse so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
“You’re doing great,” you told him.
Eli looked at the IV tray and swallowed. “No, I’m not.”
You crouched beside the bed so you were closer to eye level.
“You are. Great doesn’t mean you aren’t scared. It means you’re still here with me even though you are.”
His eyes flicked to yours.
The honesty helped. It usually did. Kids could smell a lie faster than adults could dress one up.
“It’s gonna hurt,” he said.
You nodded.
“It’s going to pinch. I won’t call it nothing.” You rested one hand on the mattress, close but not touching him without warning. “But it’ll be fast, and you don’t have to watch.”
His mouth trembled once before he pressed it flat. “I don’t want it.”
“I know.” You gave him a serious nod. “That’s fair. We can hate it together.”
Eli looked at you like that was suspicious. “You hate it?”
“I hate it when kids have to do scary things,” you said. “But I like when they get through them and realize they were braver than they thought.”
His mom made a quiet sound behind him.
You glanced up at her and gave a small, reassuring smile before looking back at Eli.
“How about this,” you said. “You pick where you look. Mom’s face, the ceiling tile that kind of looks like a potato, or me.”
Eli’s brows pinched together. “The ceiling tile doesn’t look like a potato.”
You looked up. “It absolutely does.”
He glanced up despite himself. For one second, his attention shifted. Not enough to make him calm, but enough to give him somewhere else to put the fear.
“That one?” he asked.
You nodded. “Very potato.” His mom gave a wet little laugh.
The nurse beside you finished prepping the IV with practiced quiet. You saw Eli clock the movement anyway. His eyes cut to the tourniquet. Then the alcohol wipe. Then the catheter.
His breathing changed. You leaned in slightly. “Eli. Look at me.” His gaze snapped back to yours.
You kept your voice low and even. “Can you breathe in with me?”
He tried. His breath caught halfway.
“That’s okay,” you said. “Again. Smaller this time.”
The nurse reached for his arm. Eli saw the flash of the needle. Fear got there first.
“No,” he said.
His mother tightened her hand on his shoulder. “Eli—”
“No!” He jerked backward, fast and hard, trying to get away from the tray, from the nurse, from the whole room.
“Hey, hey.” You moved with him. “You’re okay.”
But he was already twisting. His sneaker slid against the paper sheet. His hip caught the edge of the mattress. The bed rail was down on your side because you had been sitting there with him, and his small body tipped toward the open space between the bed and the floor.
You moved before thought could catch up.
Your hand caught the back of his gown. Your other arm shot across his chest, bracing him before he could fall.
For half a second, you had him. Then his weight hit your shoulder wrong. Something shifted. Not cracked. Not snapped.
Slipped.
White-hot pain tore through your shoulder and down your arm so violently that the room went gray at the edges. You made a sound you did not recognize.
Someone grabbed Eli from the other side.
“I’ve got him,” the other nurse said. “I’ve got him.”
Good, you thought. That was good.
You went down hard on one knee, your right arm hanging wrong, breath gone from your chest.
Eli was crying now. Not the scared kind. The guilty kind.
“I hurt her,” he sobbed.
You tried to lift your head. Bad idea. Pain slammed up the side of your neck and behind your teeth.
“No,” you forced out. Your voice sounded thin. Far away. “No, honey. You didn’t.”
A hand touched your back. “Don’t move,” someone said.
You tried to breathe through your nose. “Is he okay?”
“He’s okay,” she repeated, firmer this time. “We have him.”
Eli’s mother had him against her now, both arms wrapped around his shaking body. His face was turned toward you, wet and horrified.
You managed to focus on him. “Eli.”
His crying hitched. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” You swallowed down nausea. “I know you didn’t. You got scared. That’s different.”
His face crumpled harder. You looked at his mom. “Tell him I’m not mad.”
“We will,” she said quickly.
You closed your eyes for half a second. “Please tell him.”
“We will,” the nurse said beside you. “But right now, we need to get you downstairs.”
You opened your eyes. “No, he needs—”
“He has his mom,” she said gently. “And he has Megan. We’ve got him.”
You wanted to argue. Your shoulder pulsed once, deep and sickening, and the rest of the sentence disappeared. Someone called down to the ED before they moved you. You heard pieces of it through the pain and the blood rushing in your ears.
“Staff injury coming down from peds.”
“Likely right shoulder dislocation.”
“Caught a pediatric patient who panicked during IV prep.”
“Vitals stable.”
“Severe pain.”
Nobody said your name. Or maybe they did, and it got swallowed somewhere between the exam room and the elevator. Either way, by the time they got you into a wheelchair, your scrubs were damp at the collar, your vision kept narrowing at the corners, and your arm had become a separate, terrible country you refused to look at.
You hated being the patient.
You hated it so much you almost missed the part where you were terrified. Almost.
The elevator ride downstairs felt both too fast and too slow. Someone kept telling you to breathe. Someone else kept asking your pain number. You gave a number that was probably too low because saying the real one made it feel more real.
The ED doors opened.
The familiar noise hit first. Monitors. Shoes. Voices. The distant roll of a cart.
Robby was already at the mouth of a bay when they wheeled you in, tablet in hand, chief-of-the-ER face on. Dana stood beside him with gloves already pulled on, calm and unsmiling in the way that meant she had already cleared the room in her head. Santos hovered just behind her like she could smell a procedure from three bays away. Princess was at the computer, and Javadi stood near the supply cart, trying very hard to look like someone who was not internally rehearsing every step of a shoulder reduction.
“Peds called down,” Robby said. “Likely right shoulder disloca—”
Then he saw your face. The chief of the ER expression dropped clean off.
For one second, he was not chief of anything. He was just your friend. “What the fuck, dude?”
You tried to glare at him. “Great bedside manner.”
Robby was already moving. He came to your side, one hand bracing the wheelchair arm, his eyes sweeping over your face.
“Look at me,” he said. “You with me?”
You blinked at him through the pain. “No, Robby, I thought I’d dissociate recreationally.”
His jaw tightened. “Answer me like less of a pain in my ass.”
You sighed. “I’m with you.”
“Good.” He glanced at the peds nurse behind your chair. “They called down a peds nurse. They did not say it was you.”
“Would that have changed your medical plan?” you asked.
“No.” His eyes flicked to your shoulder, and the doctor came back into him all at once. “It would have given me thirty more seconds to emotionally prepare for both my friend being injured and Jack killing me.”
“Jack is not going to kill you,” you replied.
Dana made a quiet sound. Robby pointed at her without looking. “Do not contribute.”
Dana lifted both gloved hands. “I said nothing.”
“You thought loudly.”
Santos leaned slightly to see your arm better. “Is it anterior?”
You swallowed through the pain. “Is Eli okay?”
Robby’s attention snapped back to you. Then he looked to the peds nurse. “Eli is the kid?”
The peds nurse nodded quickly. “Eight-year-old. Wrist injury. He’s okay. Megan stayed with him and his mom.”
Your eyes closed. “Did someone tell him I’m not mad?”
Robby went still for half a beat. His expression changed again. Softer this time. Worried in a way he could not hide behind sarcasm fast enough.
“Yeah,” he said. “They told him.”
“He won’t believe them,” you murmured.
Robby looked at you. “He might.”
“He’s eight.” Your voice thinned around the pain. “Eight-year-olds think everything is their fault.”
Robby looked at you for one second too long. Then he nodded once, like he was putting that away for later. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to get you on the bed. Slow. Dana, support the arm. Javadi, do not look terrified.”
Javadi straightened. “I’m not terrified.” Robby looked at her.
You hated the careful hands and the count of three and the way pain still broke through your teeth when they moved you.
You hated that Robby’s face stayed calm. That meant it looked bad.
Once you were on the bed, Dana slid a pillow under your arm with the clean precision of a woman who did not waste motion. Princess clipped a monitor to your finger. Javadi asked about allergies, her voice only a little too bright. Santos hovered at the foot of the bed, watching your shoulder with open interest until Dana glanced at her.
Santos lifted her hands. “I’m not touching anything.”
“Correct,” Dana said.
Robby looked up from your shoulder. “Pain number.” You hesitated.
He gave you a look. “Do not make me ask like I don’t know you.” You told the truth.
Robby’s mouth tightened. “Thank you for not lying to me twice.”
“I lied once,” you admitted.
Robby shook his head. “You lied badly once.” Your breathing hitched. “Did someone tell Eli?”
The peds nurse, still lingering near the curtain, nodded. “Megan did. His mom did too.”
“But did he believe them?” you pushed.
Robby braced one hand lightly on the bed rail. “Do not try to sit up.”
You looked at him. “I wasn’t.”
“You thought about it,” Robby replied.
Your eyes narrowed. “You can’t prove that.”
“I’m chief of emergency medicine,” he said. “I can prove anything if I chart creatively.”
A laugh tried to escape you. It did not make it past the pain. Robby saw that too. His voice shifted.
“IV, x-ray, then pain meds before we reduce it,” he said. “Let’s get films and make sure we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
“Love being discussed like a broken chair,” you muttered.
Robby leaned over you, penlight in hand. “I have never met a chair this mouthy.”
Princess found a vein in your good arm. You looked away while she taped the line down. That felt ridiculous, considering you had started hundreds of IVs yourself, but today your body had decided to be dramatic, and you were not giving it more material.
Robby watched your face. “You okay?”
“No,” you answered honestly.
Robby almost smiled. “Good answer.”
Princess glanced up from your IV. “Do you want us to call someone?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
Robby’s eyes narrowed like he already knew where this was going.
Princess kept her hands near the computer. “Who should we call?”
“Jack Abbot.”
The room did not stop. Not yet. Princess typed, then paused.
Her eyes moved from the screen to you. “Dr. Abbot?”
You breathed through your teeth. “Yes.”
The room went a little too quiet. You opened one eye. “What?”
Santos looked from you to Robby. “Night-shift Abbot?”
“How many Jack Abbots do you know?” you asked.
Javadi made the mistake of whispering, “Dr. Abbot is her emergency contact?”
“He’s my husband,” you said, like that explained the entire universe.
It did, actually. Just not to the room. Santos stared.
Javadi looked like someone had changed the laws of physics in front of her.
Princess’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Dana, somehow, did not move at all.
Then her eyes narrowed. “The sandwich.” You closed your eyes. “Dana.”
Santos looked at her. “What sandwich?”
Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “Shift change. Three weeks ago. Abbot was coming off nights. She was passing the desk with a stack of peds charts.”
Princess leaned around Javadi. “I remember that.”
“He had half a sandwich in his hand,” Dana said. “Tore the crust off without breaking conversation, held it up, and she took it on the way by.”
You breathed carefully through your teeth. “I was hungry.”
“You said thanks,” Dana added.
Santos blinked. “That’s it?” Dana finally looked up.
“That’s the point.” A beat passed.
Then Princess pointed toward you. “Wait. The parking lot.”
You opened one eye. “Please don’t.”
“I saw you two by the employee parking last month,” Princess said. “He switched sides with you near the cars.”
Javadi blinked. “Switched sides?” Princess looked at her like this was obvious. “The sidewalk rule.”
Javadi’s brows pulled together. “The what?”
“When the guy walks closer to the street,” Princess said. “Protective thing. Old-school. Very romantic if he’s hot.”
Santos made a face. “That sounds fake.”
Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord. “It’s not fake.”
Princess pointed at Dana. “Thank you.”
You stared at the ceiling. “Can we not analyze my husband’s walking patterns while my shoulder is in another fucking zip code?”
“And he had your bag,” Princess added.
“It was heavy,” you said.
She looked at you. “It had little strawberries on it.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Jack carried a strawberry bag?”
You gave him the best glare you could manage while lying flat with your arm attempting secession. “You are supposed to be my doctor.”
Santos’s face changed. “Oh, my god. The fire alarm drill.”
“No,” you said.
“You had his jacket,” she said.
“It was cold.”
“No.” Santos pointed, too delighted to stop herself. “He put it around your shoulders before you asked.”
Dana’s gaze sharpened with recognition.
Santos nodded hard. “And took your clipboard so you could get your arms through the sleeves.”
Princess looked at Robby. “You knew?”
Robby held up one hand. “I was at the wedding.”
The room shifted again. Javadi whispered, “There was a wedding?”
You stared at the ceiling. “I’m starting to think day shift needs hobbies.”
Robby looked at you, and this time his humor was gentle around the edges. “You married a night-shift attending and then wandered around this hospital accepting crustless sandwich halves like that was normal.”
“It is normal,” you replied.
“For married people,” Dana said.
Santos looked personally offended. “I am usually very good at noticing things.”
You swallowed through another pulse of pain. “Sorry my marriage was inconvenient for your brand.”
Robby pointed at you. “Pain has not made her less mean. Excellent prognostic sign.”
Princess was still looking at you like she had discovered treasure. “So Dr. Abbot is your husband.”
“Yes.”
“And he brings you coffee,” Princess added.
You inhaled. “Yes.”
“And the sandwich,” she continued.
“Yes.”
Princess’s eyebrows rose. “And the parking lot.” You closed your eyes. “I would like drugs now.”
Robby’s smile faded enough for his concern to show again. “Soon,” he said. “We’re moving.”
Then he held out his hand toward Princess. “I’ll call him.”
You looked at him. “You don’t have to.”
“I do, actually,” Robby replied.
“Why?”
Robby’s face softened around the edges, just enough that your chest hurt for reasons that had nothing to do with your shoulder.
“Because he’s going to be worried,” he said. “And if a stranger calls him, he’s going to scare somebody.”
You sighed. “Jack doesn’t scare people.”
“No,” Robby said. “But when he’s worried about you, he gets very concise.”
Dana hummed. “That’s true.”
You closed your eyes. “Tell him not to speed.”
Robby shook his head. “I’m not promising that.”
“Robby,” you said, trying to sound reasonable.
He sighed. “I’ll suggest moderation.”
Robby stepped a few feet away from the bed and tapped Jack’s contact. You watched him through the pain, sweat cooling at the back of your neck. He pointed at you without lowering the phone. “Try not to dislocate anything else while I’m gone.” The call rang once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, Jack answered.
His voice came rough with sleep and irritation. “What, Robby?”
Robby glanced back at you. You were pale on the bed, jaw tight, your good hand fisted in the sheet while Dana adjusted the monitor.
“Your wife is in the ED,” Robby said. “She’s fine. I’ve got her.”
The line went silent. Then Jack’s voice came back low and awake. “What happened?”
“Right shoulder dislocation,” Robby said. “Peds incident. She caught a kid before he fell and took the force the wrong way. She’s conscious, stable, and pissed off, which I’m taking as a good sign.”
Another pause. Jack breathed out once, sharply. “Of course she caught the kid.”
“Yeah,” Robby said, softer. “That was my reaction too.”
You lifted your head an inch off the pillow. “Tell him not to speed.”
Robby looked over his shoulder. You stared back, sweaty and serious.
“She says not to speed.”
Jack was already moving. Robby could hear it through the phone: sheets, a drawer, something hitting the floor. “Tell her I’m coming.”
“Jack,” Robby said carefully.
“I heard her,” Jack said sharply.
Robby nodded once. “Good.”
“Thanks, brother. I’m on my way,” Jack replied.
Robby’s mouth softened. “Yeah,” he said.
He ended the call and came back to the side of the bed. “He’s coming.”
You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Good.” The word came out smaller than you meant it to. Robby heard that too. For a second, he was quiet.
Then he nodded to Princess. “Now give her the good stuff before she remembers she’s trying to be reasonable.”
Princess pushed medication into your IV. Warmth moved up your arm a few seconds later, strange and soft. The pain did not vanish, but the edges of the room began to loosen. The lights blurred a little. The monitor beep sounded farther away.
You blinked. “Wow.”
Santos leaned closer. “How’s that?”
You turned your head toward her slowly. “You have two faces.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Better?”
You inhaled. “I can still feel my skeleton making bad choices.”
“So, somewhat.” Robby grinned.
You looked toward the curtain. “Did someone tell Eli I’m not mad?”
Robby exhaled. “Yes.”
“I’m not mad,” you repeated.
“I know.”
You blinked hard. “No, but he needs to know.”
“He knows,” Robby replied gently.
You frowned. “You’re just saying that.”
“I am saying many things,” Robby said. “This one happens to be true.”
You tried to sit up. Every person in the room reacted.
Dana touched your good shoulder. “Nope. Stay back.”
“I should tell him,” you told her.
“You should keep your shoulder still,” Robby said.
You frowned at him. “You’re being bossy.” Robby shrugged. “It’s on the mug.”
“Jack has a mug that says World’s Sexiest Doctor,” you replied without thinking. The pain meds were softening things too much now. Words had started wandering into places you had not invited them.
Robby slowly turned his head. “I’m sorry. He has a what?”
You winced. “It was a joke. I got it for him when we were dating.”
Princess looked delighted. “And he kept it?”
You breathed through another pulse of pain. “He drinks out of it every morning.”
Santos stared. “Abbot drinks coffee out of a World’s Sexiest Doctor mug?”
Dana, dry as dust, added, “That explains more than I wanted it to.”
Robby pressed his fingers to his mouth like he was trying to hold in actual joy.
You glared at him. “You’re supposed to be my doctor.”
“I am,” Robby said. “And this is healing me.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. The ED lights drifted above you. Your body felt heavy against the bed, but your mind kept circling the same places. Eli crying. Your shoulder slipping. Jack coming. You blinked slowly. “Did someone tell Eli?”
Dana adjusted the blanket around your legs. “Yes.”
“Did someone tell Jack?” you asked.
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Yes.” You nodded, satisfied for exactly one second.
Then you frowned. “Which one is coming to see me?”
Robby stared at you. “What?”
“Eli or Jack?” you asked.
Princess turned toward the computer with suspicious speed. Santos looked openly delighted. Robby’s expression brightened with pure, terrible affection.
“Oh,” he said softly. “This is going to be a great drug for you.”
You frowned. “Don’t be weird.”
Robby patted the bed rail. “Try not to say anything incriminating before your husband gets here.”
Your eyes closed, but you could still hear the smile in his voice. “Jack already knows everything.”
Robby made a thoughtful sound. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s test that.”
Robby stayed beside the bed after Princess pushed the medication. One hand rested on the rail. His eyes moved from your face to the monitor, then to your shoulder, then back to your face again. He was not joking as much now.
You hated that. “Stop looking worried,” you said.
His mouth twitched, but it did not quite become a smile. “Stop giving me reasons.”
You blinked at him, the lights blurring softly around the edges. “Rude.”
“Consistent,” Robby said.
Dana adjusted the blanket over your legs, brisk yet careful. “That’s one word for it.”
The medication had made the room strange. Softer, but not kinder. The monitors sounded farther away, and the overhead lights had started to bloom at the edges. Your shoulder still hurts. Not as sharply as before, maybe, but it was there under everything, pulsing and wrong. You tried to shift away from it. Your body disagreed. “Bad,” you muttered.
Robby leaned in a fraction. “Pain?”
You shook your head. “Existence.”
He nodded once. “Fair.”
Dana checked the line of your IV, then glanced at him.
Robby’s eyes returned to yours, and something in his face softened. “Hey,” he said. “World’s Sexiest Doctor.”
You frowned. “What?”
“The mug,” Robby said, voice lighter on purpose. “You said he drinks out of it every morning.”
Your face softened before you could stop it. “He does.” Princess turned from the computer with immediate interest. Santos, who had been pretending not to hover near the foot of the bed, stopped pretending. Dana’s expression did not change, but her eyes flicked toward you.
Robby leaned one forearm against the rail. “Still can’t believe he committed to the bit.”
“It’s not a bit,” you said.
Robby’s eyebrows lifted. “No?”
You looked at him like he was missing the obvious. “It’s true.”
Santos’s mouth curved. Dana looked down at the monitor. Princess pressed her lips together like she was holding something very large behind her teeth. You blinked at the ceiling, dreamy and annoyed all at once. “He is the sexiest doctor.”
Robby drew back like you had slapped him. “Rude.”
You turned your head toward him slowly. “You’re right.”
His expression softened. “Thank you.”
“Ellis is pretty hot, too,” you murmured happily.
Robby froze. Princess made a sound and turned sharply toward the computer. Santos whispered, “Wow.”
Dana closed her eyes. Robby stared at you. “That was not the correction I was requesting.”
You considered him through the pleasant fog around your thoughts. “You have nice hair.”
Robby’s hand went to his chest. “That was devastatingly lukewarm.”
“It is nice.”
“Nice hair,” he repeated, wounded. “That’s what I get after years of friendship.”
“You’re my friend,” you said.
His expression shifted. For one second, the joke left his face. “I know.”
You watched him through the blur. “You’re a good doctor.”
Robby’s hand tightened slightly on the rail. “You’re on excellent medication.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” he said, quieter.
Dana looked away first. Santos suddenly found the supply tray very interesting. Robby cleared his throat and straightened. “Okay,” he said, his voice returning to a steady tone. “Let’s get ready.”
The words landed wrong. Your smile faded. The room shifted back into medicine too quickly. Gloves. Positioning. Dana adjusting the bed. Santos watching Robby’s hands intently. Javadi standing too still by the supplies, trying to look prepared. Your stomach dropped through the medication. “Wait.” Robby looked back at you. “Yeah?”
Your good hand tightened in the sheet. “You’re doing it now?” His expression softened. “Soon.”
“No.”
Dana’s hand settled lightly near your good shoulder. Not holding you down. Just there.
Robby stepped closer. “I know.”
“No, Robby.” Your voice stayed even, but barely. “I don’t want to do it.”
Robby did not flinch. “I know you don’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you mean it.”
You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. “I don’t want it to hurt.”
Robby’s face changed again, not much, just enough to show you he hated this part too. “I’m going to be as gentle as I can.”
You frowned. “That’s what people say before they do stuff that sucks.” Santos muttered, “Accurate.”
Dana looked at her. Santos lifted both hands. “I’m validating.”
Robby ignored her and kept his eyes on you. “It is going to suck,” he said. “But the longer it stays out, the worse it’s going to feel. I want to get it back where it belongs.”
Your breathing went shallow. The medication had made everything loose except the fear. That stayed sharp. Clear. Mean. You looked toward the hallway. “Fine.” Robby waited. You glared at him, sweaty and medicated and angry enough to hide behind it. “I’ll do it if Jack is my doctor.”
The room paused. Dana looked at Robby. Princess looked at the hallway. Javadi looked like she had just realized this was not covered in any textbook.
Robby let out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “That’s not how this works.”
You frowned at him. “He’s a doctor.”
“He is.” Dana’s voice stayed calm beside you. “He’s also your husband.”
You looked at her like she had helped your case. “Exactly.” Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.
Before he could answer, Jack’s voice cut through the department. “Where is she?”
Your head turned. Completely. All the thoughts in your brain scattered like startled birds. Jack was halfway down the hall, moving fast and trying not to look like he was moving fast, a hoodie under his unzipped jacket. His hair was sleep-rough on one side. His jaw was tight, his eyes already searching, already locked on the room. The second he saw you, his pace changed.
Your good hand lifted off the sheet. “That one.”
Robby followed your gaze. For the first time since the reduction tray came out, true humor broke through his worry. “Oh,” he said softly. “Okay.”
Jack stepped into the bay. You pointed at him, certain now. “I want that one.”
Jack froze for half a second. His eyes moved over you. Face. IV. Monitor. Shoulder. Robby. Dana. Back to your face.
Then he was at your side. “Baby.”
The word hit the room like a dropped instrument. Santos stared very hard at the floor. Princess pressed her lips together. Javadi’s eyes went wide, then wider, like she was watching hospital folklore become sentient.
You smiled up at him. “Hi.”
Jack took your good hand, his palm warm and familiar around yours. “Hi.”
His thumb moved once over your knuckles. You exhaled. You felt it happen before you could stop it. Your shoulders did not relax, not really, but your breathing changed. Your grip loosened from the sheet. The sharp edge of panic moved back by an inch.
Robby saw it. His eyes flicked to the monitor, then to Jack’s hand. “Interesting.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”
“I’m observing.”
“You observe too loudly.”
Robby’s mouth curved. “I am her physician.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “You are enjoying being her physician too much.”
“I was worried,” Robby said.
The joke thinned for a second. Jack looked up. Robby held his gaze. “Still am.”
Jack’s face shifted.
You squeezed his hand. “Don’t do serious faces.”
Jack looked back down at you. His thumb moved again. “Sorry.”
You studied him, hazy and affectionate. “You came.”
“Of course I came.”
You turned your head toward Dana, solemn and proud. “I picked that one.”
Dana’s mouth twitched. “So I’m hearing.”
Jack closed his eyes. “What did you give her?”
“Pain control,” Robby said. “Not enough to explain all of this.”
You tugged lightly on Jack’s hand. “He’s being rude.”
Jack looked at Robby. “Stop being rude.”
Robby pointed at him. “You weren’t even here.”
“I believe my wife.”
Princess turned toward the computer again, but not fast enough to hide her smile.
Santos murmured, “That was hot.”
Dana said, “Santos.”
“What? It was,” Santos replied with a shrug.
Jack ignored all of them and leaned closer to you. “How bad?”
“Bad.”
His face softened. “Yeah?”
You nodded, then regretted it. “Don’t let me do head stuff.”
“I won’t,” Jack promised.
You frowned. “Having a head is bad.”
“I’ll make a note,” Jack said with a soft smile.
Robby stepped closer to your injured side. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to try Cunningham.”
“No.” Your response was immediate.
Jack’s hand tightened around yours. Robby did not react like the word surprised him. “I know.”
“No, I don’t want Cunningham. It sounds smug,” you told him.
Robby’s brow raised. “It’s a reduction technique, not a man at a country club.”
You frowned at him. “Still smug.”
Jack’s thumb brushed your knuckles. “Look at me.”
You turned your eyes back to him. “No.”
Jack’s eyes softened. “You’re already doing it.”
You glared. “That’s annoying.”
His mouth almost smiled. “I know.”
Robby looked between you and Jack. Then his eyes moved to the monitor again. A thought entered his face.
Jack saw it immediately. “No.”
Robby blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”
Dana adjusted the bed so you were sitting up more, angled slightly back against the raised mattress. The movement sent a pain-sparking sensation down your arm. “Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, this is worse than my fucking IUD insertion.”
The room went silent. Jack’s thumb stilled against your hand. “Okay,” he said carefully.
You opened your eyes and glared at the ceiling. “I thought I knew pain. I was wrong.”
Dana’s mouth twitched near the monitor. Princess turned very deliberately toward the computer.
Jack leaned closer. “Baby.”
“No.” You turned your glare on him. “This is your fault.”
His brows pulled together. “My fault?”
“Yes.”
Jack blinked once. “How is this my fault?”
“Because,” you said, furious and medicated, “if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know this was worse.”
Robby looked up. Jack did not move.
“I was doing fine,” you continued. “I was in my celibate phase. I was at peace.”
Jack’s face changed by exactly one dangerous millimeter. “You were not at peace.”
“I was close.” Your eyes narrowed. “Then you came along with your stupid handsome face and your stupid arms, and then I got the stupid IUD, and I thought that was pain. But no.”
Robby nodded slowly. “That is a clinically fascinating chain of blame.”
Jack did not look away from you. “So your shoulder hurts because I’m handsome.”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.” Your face softened immediately.
Jack noticed. His eyes dropped back to yours, something warm cutting through the mortification. “What?”
You blinked up at him, drug-soft and suddenly pleased. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah, baby.”
A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”
Robby looked from you to Dana. Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “What?”
“You’re enjoying this,” Robby said.
“I am maintaining room discipline.”
“You called her Mrs. Abbot.”
Dana’s mouth barely moved. “That is her name.” Your smile widened.
Jack looked at Dana, then back at you, and his face softened despite himself. Dana glanced at the monitor. “See? Therapeutic.” Robby’s eyes dropped to Jack’s sleeve.
Jack saw it happen. “No.”
Robby smiled. “I didn’t say anything.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You looked at my sleeve.”
“Clinically,” Robby replied.
Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
You blinked up at Jack, still angry, still hazy, still betrayed by the entire medical system. “He does have nice forearms.”
Jack stared at the ceiling. Robby nodded toward Jack’s arm. “Roll up your sleeve.”
Jack looked at him. “Excuse me?”
“She’s tensing.”
Jack gave Robby a look. “You want me to roll up my sleeves.”
“I want patient compliance,” Robby corrected.
Jack looked at Dana. Dana glanced at the monitor, then at you. “It would probably help.”
Jack’s face went flat. “Not you too.”
Dana shrugged. “I’m practical.”
Robby looked delighted. “See? Medicine.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, then dragged one sleeve of his hoodie up his forearm. Your eyes followed the movement immediately. You hated yourself a little. Not enough to look away. His forearm flexed as he pushed the fabric past his elbow, tendons shifting under skin, the veins at his wrist standing out when his fingers curled once around the bed rail. Your mouth went soft.
Robby pointed at you. “There.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him. “Do not point at my wife while she’s objectifying me.”
“I am pointing at a response to treatment,” Robby replied with glee.
You looked at Jack’s arm. “Treatment is good.”
Princess made a strangled sound. Javadi stared straight ahead like a resident determined to survive rounds with her soul intact.
Jack leaned closer to you. “You are making this very difficult.”
You blinked. “Me?”
“You.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Very stubborn. Very pretty. Extremely bad at being a patient.”
The giggle came before you could stop it. Soft. Helpless. Embarrassing. Jack’s eyes warmed. Robby looked like he had just discovered a new antibiotic. “Oh, that’s excellent.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Ignore him.”
“You think I’m pretty,” you said.
“I married you,” Jack replied.
“That’s not an answer.”
His mouth curved. “Yes, baby. I think you’re pretty.”
You melted. Completely. It was humiliating. It was also his fault. Robby adjusted your injured arm, careful and slow, guiding your hand toward his shoulder. The position made pain spark hot and immediate. “No.” You tried to pull back. “No, fuck this.”
Jack’s face sharpened. Robby’s tone stayed calm. “I need thirty seconds.”
“I don’t want thirty seconds,” you said, frowning.
Robby’s expression softened, “I know.”
“No, I want that one to do it,” you said, looking from Robby to Jack.
Jack leaned closer. “You have that one.”
“I want that one to doctor me.” Your lower lip jutted out.
Robby, far too cheerful, said, “We’ve covered the conflict of interest.”
You frowned at him. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack looked at Robby. “Fix her shoulder.”
Robby looked at Jack’s hoodie. Jack saw it. His whole body went still. “No.”
Robby lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.” Jack stared at him.
Robby smiled. “She responded well to forearm.”
“Forearm is not a drug,” Jack shot back.
Robby shrugged. “It is today.”
Jack dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck me.”
You, who had been blinking hazily at the ceiling, turned your head with alarming speed. “Yes.”
The room stopped. Completely. Jack’s hand froze halfway down his face. “No.”
You frowned, offended. “Rude.”
Princess turned toward the computer with the focus of a woman fighting for her life. Santos stared at the floor, shoulders shaking.
Dana checked the monitor. “Heart rate response noted.”
Jack looked at her. “Dana.”
She did not look up. “I report data.”
Robby pressed his lips together. “For the record, that was the fastest she’s oriented to verbal stimulus since the medication.”
You reached weakly for Jack’s hand. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack looked down at you. Your eyes were glassy from medication and pain, your good hand tight around his, your face still trying so hard to stay mad because scared was too vulnerable, and both of you knew it. His irritation lost some of its shape. “Fine,” he muttered. Robby brightened. Jack glared at him. “Don’t look so happy.”
“I’m a scientist observing results,” Robby replied, delighted.
Jack stood beside the bed and reached back, fingers catching the sweatshirt at the back of his neck. Your eyes locked onto the movement. He pulled it over his head in one smooth drag, the hem catching for half a second on the white T-shirt underneath. The shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders when he lifted his arms. His biceps shifted under the fabric. His forearms flexed as he dragged the sweatshirt free.
The room went very quiet. You stared. Completely gone. Jack paused with the sweatshirt in one hand. Just for a second. Long enough to let you look. His mouth tilted, barely. “Better?”
You nodded slowly. “Wow.”
Robby made a sound that might have been spiritual.
Jack dropped back into the chair beside you and took your hand again. “Eyes on me.”
You obeyed immediately. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”
Robby looked at the monitor, then at Jack. “That was outstanding.”
Robby grinned. “You removed clothing, and her heart rate stabilized.”
“That is not what happened,” Jack replied with a sigh.
Dana glanced at the monitor. “It sort of is.” J
ack looked betrayed. “Dana.”
She shrugged. “I report data.”
Robby gestured toward you, far too pleased with the entire clinical situation. “Magic Mike: ED Edition.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “No.”
Robby’s grin spread slowly. “I don’t know, brother. You danced at your wedding. Pretty risky, if memory serves.”
Jack’s stare went flat. “Robby.”
“There was a certain Eminem song involved,” Robby continued.
Your head turned on the pillow. “Shake That.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Do not help him.”
Robby pointed at you, delighted. “That’s the one.”
Dana looked up from the monitor. “You danced to ‘Shake That’ at your wedding?”
“No,” Jack said immediately.
You turned toward him with surprising speed. “Jack.”
His eyes opened. “Baby.”
Your brow furrowed, “Don’t you dare deny that.”
Princess pressed both lips together and turned toward the computer as if it had suddenly become fascinating. Santos stared between you and Jack, openly thrilled. You lifted your good hand as much as the IV allowed and pointed at him. “That moment changed my brain chemistry.”
Jack looked toward the ceiling. “Good Lord.”
Robby nodded solemnly. “For the record, I was there. It changed several people’s brain chemistry.”
Jack’s head turned slowly. “You cried during the father-daughter dance.”
“You and your wife offended decent people everywhere with that dance,” Robby said.
You nodded, glassy-eyed and completely unashamed. “Yep. My grandma left.”
Jack looked down at you, horror flickering across his face. “Your grandmother left?”
You blinked up at him. “You didn’t know that?”
“No,” Jack said. “I did not know that.”
“She came back for cake,” you added.
Jack looked at you. “That does not make it better.”
Robby’s grin widened. “I’m just saying. It was a lot of wedding.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him. “You ended that night with half your shirt unbuttoned because a bridesmaid took your tie off with her teeth.”
Santos’s head snapped up. “With her teeth?”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat wedding lore.”
Princess turned from the computer, delighted. “Did he go home with her?”
Robby pointed sharply at your shoulder. “We have a patient.”
Jack’s mouth curved, barely. “He did.”
Robby stared at him. “Betrayal.”
Jack shrugged. “You started this.”
“I started a medical discussion,” Robby defended.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “You called me Magic Mike.”
Robby frowned. “In a medical context.”
You looked between them, soft and dreamy now, the medication turning the memory warm around the edges. “It was perfect.”
Jack’s expression shifted. “Our wedding?”
You nodded. “You danced. I danced. Robby got slutty.”
Robby pointed at you. “For the record, ‘Robby got slutty’ is not medically relevant.”
Your eyes drifted back to Jack. You studied him for one long, medicated second. “You got slutty.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “I did not.”
You gave him a look. “Tell that to your hips.” You kept looking at Jack, still dreamy and deeply serious. “And hands.”
Jack closed his eyes again.
Santos made a tiny sound. “He got slutty.”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Your face softened immediately. Jack noticed. Of course, he noticed. His thumb moved once over your hand. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
“I heard,” Jack said, quieter now.
A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.” Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it.
Robby looked from you to Dana. “You’re enjoying this.”
Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “I am maintaining room discipline.”
Jack looked at you slowly. He looked down at you, and something in his expression changed. Not embarrassed now. Worse. Amused. “You know, baby,” he said, voice low, “I didn’t hear you complaining that night.”
Your mouth parted. For one blessed second, the medication actually managed to quiet you.
Robby looked delighted. “Oh, that worked.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”
You blinked up at Jack, soft and glassy-eyed and deeply sincere. “I was thoroughly enjoying it.”
Dana closed her eyes. Princess turned fully toward the computer.
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “That is a lot of marriage for a workplace.”
Jack’s jaw flexed, but his thumb moved over your hand again. “Trouble.”
You smiled faintly. “You started it.”
Robby pointed at Jack. “She’s right.”
Jack looked at him. “You started it.” Robby nodded. “Also true. Still worth it.”
Dana adjusted the bed, then looked at both of them. “Shoulder now. Wedding crimes later.”
You frowned. “They’re not crimes if everyone had fun.”
“Your grandmother left,” Jack said.
“She came back for cake.”
Robby nodded. “Strong recovery.”
Jack looked at him. “You are done.”
Robby smiled. “Brother, I have barely begun.”
Dana’s voice cut through, calm and final. “Robby.”
Robby lifted both hands. “Shoulder now.”
Jack leaned closer to you, resigned and soft all at once. “Eyes on me, trouble.”
You looked at his white T-shirt, then his face. “I am looking,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
For half a second, he looked like he might say something that would make the entire situation worse.
Robby must have seen it coming, because he clapped once, sharp and quiet. “Okay,” he said. “Shoulder.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You heard the man.”
You frowned at him. “I don’t like the man.”
Robby adjusted his gloves at your injured side. “The man is hurt by that.”
Dana moved closer to the bed, one hand resting near your good shoulder. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, calm and even. “We’re going to sit you up a little more.”
Your face softened immediately. Jack saw it again. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You like that.”
You blinked at him. “Like what?”
His voice went quieter. “Mrs. Abbot.”
A small, helpless smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”
Jack’s expression changed. Not enough for anyone else to call him out on it, maybe, but enough for you to feel warmer than the medication could explain. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “That’s you.”
Robby looked at Dana. Dana kept her face neutral. “Therapeutic,” she said.
Jack did not look away from you. “Do not note that.”
Robby shrugged. “I have a whole mental chart now.”
“Delete it,” Jack shot back.
Robby grinned. “HIPAA doesn’t apply to my thoughts.”
Dana raised the bed before Jack could answer. The motion sent your shoulder into a hot, mean pulse. Your good hand tightened around Jack’s. “Nope.”
Jack stepped in closer immediately. “I’ve got you.”
“Nope,” you said again, sharper this time. “I changed my mind.”
Robby’s voice stayed steady from your side. “You can hate it.”
“I do hate it. I hate the concept. I hate whoever invented Cunningham,” you groaned.
Robby nodded once. “Probably fair.” You went on, “I hate that his name is Cunningham.”
“It is a useful medical procedure,” Robby replied.
You turned your glare on him. “Don’t defend Cunningham to me right now.”
Jack leaned into your line of sight. “Look at me.”
You looked at him. Mostly because he was very close. Also, because the T-shirt was still doing hateful things across his chest. Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly, like he knew exactly where your attention had gone.
“My face,” he said.
You sighed. “Your face is also a problem.”
Robby glanced at the monitor. “Problem appears effective.” Jack turned his head a fraction. “Robby.”
“Data,” Dana said.
Jack gave her a betrayed look. Dana’s brows lifted. “I report it.”
Robby slid your injured hand carefully toward his shoulder. The second your arm shifted, pain sparked bright and fast down your side.
“Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “No, no, no, fuck that.”
Jack’s free hand came to your cheek. Warm palm. Steady fingers. No pressure, just contact. “Hey.”
You shook your head. “No, Jack, I really don’t—”
“I know.”
Robby paused, his hands still supporting your arm.
Jack’s thumb moved once beneath your cheekbone. “I know, sweetheart.”
You opened your eyes. His face was right there. Close enough to blur at the edges. Worried in that contained way that made your chest hurt. Soft in the places no one else knew to look.
“I don’t want it to hurt,” you whispered.
Jack’s expression gentled. “I know.” Your throat tightened. “I’m being so stupid.”
“No,” he said immediately.
Robby’s voice came from your side, quieter now. “You’re not.”
Dana’s hand stayed light near your shoulder. “You are allowed to be in pain, Mrs. Abbot.”
Your mouth trembled. That was rude of her, honestly. Using the name like that.
Jack watched your face, and something in him settled. “Be mad,” he said softly. “Swear at Robby. Insult Cunningham.”
Robby lifted one hand. “I would like to opt out of one third of that.”
Jack ignored him. “But keep looking at me.” You swallowed. “You’re bossy.”
“I know.” Jack smiled softly.
You narrowed your eyes. “You like being bossy.” His mouth curved, barely. “With you?”
Your eyes widened a little. Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek. “Yeah.”
The room went dangerously still. Robby’s face brightened. “Oh, that was good.”
Jack’s eyes cut toward him. “Do not grade me.”
“I’m not grading. I’m appreciating the technique.”
Dana looked at the monitor. “Heart rate improved.” Jack exhaled through his nose. “Good Lord.”
You stared at him, caught between pain and medication and the unfair fact of him. “Sexy doctor husband.”
His jaw flexed. “Apparently.” Robby moved your elbow another careful inch. You tensed immediately.
Jack’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Eyes on me.”
You tried. You really did. Your gaze dropped to his mouth first.
Jack noticed. His mouth twitched. “My eyes, trouble.”
“I’m trying,” you groaned.
He smirked. “You’re doing terrible.” You made a small, offended sound.
Jack’s thumb stroked lightly at the base of your skull. “But you’re very pretty while you do it.”
A giggle escaped you before you could stop it. It came out wet, shaky, and ridiculous.
Robby froze. Dana glanced at the monitor. Princess made a tiny sound near the computer.
Santos looked like she might need to sit down. Jack’s eyes softened. “There she is.”
You frowned at him. “You’re flirting medically again.”
“I am not,” Jack replied.
Robby adjusted his grip on your elbow. “You are.”
Jack kept his face angled toward you. “No one asked you.”
“I did,” you said.
Jack looked back at you. “You did not.”
“I spiritually asked,” you said with a sigh.
Robby pointed at you. “She gets me.”
Jack’s hand tightened carefully at the back of your head. “That is what worries me.”
The laugh that tried to leave you broke into a gasp when Robby began working at the muscles around your shoulder.
Pain rose again, deep and threatening. “No,” you said, voice thin now.
Jack’s teasing vanished. Just gone. His face steadied. “Breathe with me.”
“I don’t want to breathe.”
He raised a brow. “Do it anyway.” You frowned. “That’s mean.”
“I know,” Jack agreed.
“Fuck, Jack.”
His eyes held yours. “I’ve got you.”
Robby’s voice came low and focused. “Good. Just like that. Try not to fight me.”
You turned your eyes toward him in outrage. “Try not to fight you?”
Jack’s hand at the back of your head guided you back. “Me.”
You sucked in a breath. “Robby is saying stupid things.”
“I know.” Jack nodded.
“I can hear you,” Robby said.
Jack’s thumb swept once under your eye. “Ignore him.”
“He’s touching my shoulder,” you said, miserable.
Jack tilted his head closer to you. “Because he’s fixing it.”
“I don’t like him,” you said with a frown.
Jack smiled softly at you. “You love him.”
“Not right now,” you said, brows furrowed.
Robby nodded without looking up. “Temporary friendship suspension. Accepted.”
Dana looked at you. “Hold still, Mrs. Abbot.”
The name hit exactly where it had before. Your breathing hitched, but this time it hitched softer.
Jack saw it. Robby saw it. Dana absolutely saw it. Robby looked at Dana. “You’re good.”
Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “I know.” Jack leaned closer. “You’re doing good.”
You stared at him. “I am?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
Your eyes burned. “I’m making this difficult.” Jack nodded once. “You’re scared.”
“I’m swearing,” you continued.
He shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.”
“I told everyone about our wedding crimes.” Your lower lip wobbled.
His mouth moved like he was fighting a smile. “That one we’ll discuss later.”
“You got slutty.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Not now.” Robby’s shoulders shook once.
Jack’s eyes opened. “Do not laugh during my wife’s reduction.”
Robby’s expression snapped back into focus. “Guilty.”
Pain flared again, sharper this time, and your whole body tried to pull away.
Jack’s hand held steady at the back of your head. Not forcing you. Keeping you with him. “Look at me.”
You blinked away tears. “I am.”
“No.” His voice dropped. “Really look.”
You did.
His eyes were dark and close and worried. His thumb moved against your cheek, slow and sure.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Stay right there.”
Your breath shook. “This fucking sucks.”
“I know,” Jack murmured.
You went on. “Cunningham is a bad man.”
“Probably.” Jack nodded with a soft smile.
Robby glanced up. “Cunningham did not personally do this to you.”
You glared at him through tears. “He knows what he did.” Robby nodded. “I’ll allow it.”
Jack’s mouth brushed the edge of a smile.
You caught it. Even through pain. Even through fear. Even through the medication making the room swim around the edges. “You’re laughing.”
“I’m not,” Jack replied.
You glared at him. “You are.”
“Only because you’re mean on drugs,” he said, smiling softly at you.
You inhaled sharply. “I’m allowed to be mean right now.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, impossibly soft. “You are.”
Robby’s hands shifted. The pressure changed. Your body knew before your brain did.
You went rigid. “No.” Jack’s face sharpened. “Baby.”
“No, no, no, I don’t want—” You shook your head despite the pain.
His hand cupped your face more firmly. “Look at me.” Your eyes found his. “I am looking.”
“Good,” Jack said, his voice low and steady.
Your eyes burned as you stared up at him. “Jack.”
His hand stayed firm at the back of your head, fingers threaded carefully into your hair. “I’ve got you.”
You swallowed hard, trying not to pull away from Robby’s hands. “I hate this.”
“I know.” Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek.
Your breath hitched, half pain and half panic. “I hate your stupid face for helping.”
His mouth curved just enough to ruin you. “Use it.”
“What?”
“My stupid face.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “Look at it instead of your shoulder.”
You stared at him. “I hate that that works.”
“I know,” Jack murmured.
You glared at him. “Your face is medically annoying.” Robby murmured, “Groundbreaking terminology.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Not now.”
Robby’s hands shifted again. You felt the pressure build. Slow, careful, awful.
Jack saw you brace. Of course he did. His voice dropped. “Be good for me.”
Your face went soft immediately. “Oh, that’s unfair.”
Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I know.”
“You’re cheating.” You tried to glare at him, but the medication and his hand in your hair made it a weak attempt.
His mouth curved, barely there and deeply unrepentant. “I know.”
Robby, without missing a beat, said, “Cheating is medically allowed right now.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “Do it now.”
For one suspended second, there was only Jack’s face, his hand in your hair, his thumb on your cheek, and Robby’s steady pressure on your arm.
Then the joint shifted. Not violently. Not with a dramatic crack.
Just a deep, sickening slide, followed by sudden release. You gasped.
The wrongness vanished all at once. Your whole body folded toward Jack on a broken little sob.
He caught you carefully, one hand still cradling your head, the other braced at your good shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he said immediately. “I’ve got you.”
Robby exhaled. “Shoulder’s back.”
You breathed hard against Jack’s white T-shirt, your face pressed into the warmth of his chest, tears leaking more from relief than pain now. “Holy shit.”
Jack’s mouth brushed your hair before he seemed to remember there were witnesses. “Yeah.”
“That was awful,” you breathed, tears falling.
Jack kissed your head. “I know.” You turned your face enough to look up at him. “You were helpful.”
His expression softened. “Yeah?”
You nodded, still floating, still furious, still very much on drugs. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Robby pulled off his gloves with great satisfaction. “For the record, Cunningham with targeted husband exposure: wildly effective.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Document that and die.”
Robby smiled. “Brother, this is medicine now.”
You blinked up at Jack, wet-eyed and dazed. “I picked that one.”
The room went quiet around the softness in your voice. Jack’s thumb moved once along your cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”
You stared at him for another long, drug-soft second. “I picked good.”
His face changed. Not a lot. Enough. “Yeah, baby,” he said quietly. “You did.”
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “I need everyone to know I am handling this with incredible maturity.”
Dana looked at him. “You are not.”
“No,” Robby agreed. “But I almost did.”
Jack’s hand stayed against the side of your face for another second before he seemed to remember the rest of the room existed.
“Post-reduction films?” he asked, glancing toward Robby.
Robby pulled his gloves off and dropped them into the trash. “Already ordered.” Jack nodded once.
Robby gave him a look as he stepped back to your injured side. “Neurovascular was intact before. Checking again now.”
“I know you are,” Jack said.
Robby lifted his brows. “Do you?” Jack’s mouth flattened. “I’m standing right here.”
“Great,” Robby said. “Then stand there husbandly and let me be her doctor.”
You turned your head slowly against Jack’s palm. “You’re both doctors.”
Robby leaned closer, careful as he checked your hand. “Only one of us is currently allowed to practice medicine on you.”
You looked at Jack. “I vote that one.” Jack closed his eyes. “Baby.”
Robby did not look up from your fingers. “Your vote has been received and rejected by the ethics committee.”
You frowned at him. “I don’t like the ethics committee.”
“The ethics committee is me,” Robby said.
You blinked at him. “That tracks.”
Santos made a tiny sound near the foot of the bed. Dana glanced at her. Santos pressed her lips together and looked at the floor.
Robby touched your fingers gently. “Can you wiggle these for me?” You wiggled them.
Robby nodded. “Good. Any numbness or tingling?”
You stared at him, still dazed. “Just in my dignity.”
“That is not innervated by the axillary nerve,” Robby said.
You blinked. “Show-off.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your cheek again. The motion was small. Your body noticed anyway.
Robby saw that too, because of course he did, but for once he did not comment.
Dana adjusted the sling on the tray beside the bed. “We’ll get her immobilized once Robby’s done checking you,” she said. Jack’s attention shifted to the sling. His jaw tightened by a fraction.
You saw it even through the medication. “You’re doing the face.”
Jack looked back down at you. “What face?”
“The face,” you said.
Robby glanced over. “Oh, I know the face.” Jack did not look at him. “No one asked you.”
Robby’s voice stayed light, but not careless. “It’s the face he makes when he wishes he could make it easier for you.”
Jack went quiet. So did you. Your fingers tightened around his. “You did,” you said.
Jack looked down at you. “What?” Your smile was small and drug-soft. “You made it easier.”
His thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah?”
You nodded, eyes glassy and sincere. “Yeah. Because you’re hot. And a doctor. And smart. And sexy. And my husband. And I love you.”
The room went very still. Jack’s face softened all at once.
Then you added, very seriously, “And you’re hot.”
Robby’s mouth opened. Dana looked at the monitor like it had become essential to her survival.
Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Is that all?”
You blinked up at him, exhausted and earnest. “No.” His mouth curved. “No?”
You shook your head once, barely. “But I’m tired and drugged.”
Jack’s expression warmed into something painfully fond. “Okay, baby.”
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. You swallowed, the edges of the room still warm and watery.
“And Eli?”
Robby’s expression gentled before the joke could get there.
“Megan called down while we were getting the films ordered. He’s okay.”
You stared at him. “She told him?”
“She told him,” Robby said. “His mom told him. He knows you’re not mad.”
You blinked hard. Jack’s hand tightened around yours.
Robby leaned a hip lightly against the counter, his voice quieter now. “He drew you a picture.”
Your throat closed. “He did?”
“Apparently it’s you with a cape,” Robby said.
Princess smiled from the computer. “And a very large arm.”
You made a sound that tried to be a laugh and almost became something else. “Is it anatomically correct?”
Robby looked at Princess. Princess shook her head. “Not even close.” You closed your eyes. “Good.”
Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles.
Your eyes burned again, but softer this time. “He doesn’t think I’m mad?”
Robby shook his head. “He thinks you’re a superhero.”
You went very still. Jack felt your hand tighten around his. Then your face crumpled. “Oh, no.”
Jack leaned in immediately. “Baby?” Your eyes filled too fast for you to stop them. “I’m leaking.”
Jack’s expression softened all at once. “You’re crying.”
“I know.” Your mouth trembled. “I don’t want to.”
“That’s okay,” he murmured.
You shook your head. “It’s embarrassing.”
“No, it isn’t,” Jack replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
You sniffled. “It is in front of the day shift.”
Robby’s face softened from the counter. “Day shift can handle feelings.”
Santos looked suspiciously focused on the floor. Princess turned toward the computer, blinking too much.
Dana adjusted the sling on the tray without looking up. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said evenly, “day shift has seen worse.”
Your smile wobbled through the tears. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear before it reached your cheek. “Yeah, baby.”
You looked up at him, wet-eyed and overwhelmed. “He thinks I’m a superhero.”
Jack’s face changed. Not a lot. Enough to make you cry harder. “He’s right.”
Your chin trembled. “Jack.”
“He is,” Jack said, voice low. “You protected him.”
A tear slipped hot down your cheek. “I scared him.”
“You helped him.”
The words landed so gently that they hurt. You made a broken little sound and tried to wipe your face with your good hand, but Jack caught your fingers before you could tug at the IV.
“I’ve got it.” He brushed another tear away with his thumb.
You sniffed. “I’m leaking a lot.”
His mouth softened. “I know.”
You exhaled. “I hate this drug.”
“No, you don’t.” He smiled gently.
You thought about it, tears still sliding down your cheeks. “I kind of love this drug.”
Robby nodded from the counter. “There she is.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Let her leak.”
Dana smiled gently. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, crisp and even, “I’m going to help support your arm while we get this situated.”
Your eyes opened the rest of the way. A smile pulled at your mouth immediately, even through the tears.
Jack looked down at you. “There it is.” You blinked at him. “What?”
He brushed one knuckle lightly along your jaw. “That smile.”
You looked toward Dana, pleased and hazy. “She called me Mrs. Abbot again.”
Dana did not look up from the sling. “That is your name.”
Robby pointed at her. “You’re doing it on purpose.” Dana kept her hands steady. “I am doing my job.”
“You are weaponizing legal marriage,” Robby said.
Dana fitted the strap carefully behind your neck. “I am supporting patient cooperation.”
You sighed happily. “It is working.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Clearly.”
Dana adjusted the sling around your injured arm. “This may pull a little.” Your smile vanished.
Jack saw it instantly. “Hey.”
“Nope,” you said.
His hand found your good one again. “Look at me.”
You frowned. “I already did that.”
“Do it again.”
You looked at him.
His eyes stayed steady on yours while Dana adjusted the last strap. There was a brief tug, a hot little spark of discomfort, and then your arm was held against you, supported and still.
You exhaled shakily. Jack’s thumb brushed once over your hand. “There you go.”
You swallowed. “I swore a lot.”
Jack’s mouth softened. “You were allowed.”
You leaned and whispered poorly. “In front of Dana.”
Dana stepped back from the sling. “I’ve heard worse, Mrs. Abbot.” Your smile came back immediately.
Jack glanced at Dana. “Therapeutic.”
Dana picked up the chart. “Accurate.”
Robby checked the sling with a quick glance, then nodded to Dana. “Looks good.”
Dana stepped back. “It’ll do until ortho tells her the same thing in a more expensive voice.”
Princess laughed under her breath. Santos rocked back on her heels.
“So she’s going home?” Santos asked.
Jack looked at Robby before Robby could answer, the same question reflected in his eyes
Robby lifted his brows. “You asking as her husband or as the night attending who has forgotten he is not on shift?”
Jack stared at him. “Husband.”
Robby smiled. “Good choice.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “Robby.”
“We’ll watch her a bit after the follow-up films, make sure pain is controlled, then yes,” Robby said. “Home. Ice. Sling. Ortho follow-up. No lifting. No heroic catching of children for a while.”
You frowned at him. “That feels targeted.”
“It is,” Robby confirmed.
Your frown deepened. “Eli was falling.”
“And you caught him,” Robby said. “And now your shoulder is in a sling.”
You looked away. Jack’s voice softened. “You did good.”
You looked back up at him. “I broke myself.”
Jack shook his head. “You protected him.”
You pressed your lips together. “That sounds like something you say when I broke myself.”
Jack held your gaze. “It can be both.”
You considered him through the medication. “You’re very pretty when you’re reasonable.”
Robby made a wounded sound. “Not this again.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Thank you.”
Your smile went soft. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack lowered his head for half a second like he was gathering strength.
Dana picked up the chart. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Santos closed her mouth so fast her teeth clicked.
Princess turned toward the computer, shoulders shaking. Robby looked between Dana and the monitor.
“Therapeutic and preventative.”
Dana’s eyes flicked to him. “Exactly.”
Jack gave her a long look. “I don’t know whether to thank you or be concerned.”
“Both is usually safest,” Dana said.
A little while later, after the films confirmed what Robby already knew, after Princess brought discharge paperwork, after Santos was banished from asking any more questions about the wedding, the room finally thinned out.
Dana left with one last check of your sling and one more calm, devastating, “Take it easy, Mrs. Abbot.”
You smiled so hard your eyes closed.
Jack watched Dana go, then looked down at you. “She did that on purpose.”
You leaned into the pillow. “She likes me.”
“She likes making me suffer,” Jack said.
You nodded solemnly. “People contain multitudes.” Jack huffed a quiet laugh.
Robby came back with the discharge papers and a pen. “Okay,” he said. “Because apparently I am the only person in this room still committed to medicine.”
Jack was sitting beside your bed now, his sweatshirt back on but unzipped, one hand wrapped around yours. “You loved every second of this.”
Robby held up the paperwork. “I loved several medically relevant seconds of this.”
“You called me Magic Mike,” Jack said.
Robby nodded. “In a medically relevant context.”
“You threatened to chart targeted husband exposure,” Jack added.
“I still might,” Robby said.
Jack stared at him. Robby smiled. “I won’t.”
“You better not,” Jack warned.
“I’ll save it for the group chat,” Robby said with a shrug.
Jack’s expression went blank. “There is no group chat.”
Robby looked at you. “He thinks there’s no group chat.”
You turned to Jack, horrified. “You think there’s no group chat?”
Jack looked between you and Robby. “I hate this family.”
Your smile went dreamy. “You said family.”
Robby’s expression softened before he covered it with a cough.
Jack looked down at your joined hands. “I did.”
The air warmed around that. For one second, nobody ruined it.
Then Robby clicked the pen. “Anyway,” he said. “Sling stays on. Ice twenty minutes at a time. Pain meds as prescribed, not as creatively interpreted by the patient. Ortho follow-up within the week. No work until cleared.”
You opened your eyes. “No work?” Jack’s hand tightened.
Robby looked at you. “No work.”
“But peds is short,” you replied.
“Peds will survive,” Robby said.
You frowned. “You don’t know that.”
Robby leaned closer, his sarcasm gone soft around the edges. “I know you cannot care for children with a freshly reduced shoulder.”
You looked at Jack for backup. Jack shook his head. “No.”
“You didn’t even let me ask,” you said, brows furrowed.
Jack just gave you a look. “I know where you were going.”
“You always know where I’m going,” you sighed.
Jack shrugged. “Usually because it’s somewhere you shouldn’t.” Robby nodded. “Marriage.”
You sighed again and let your head fall back against the pillow. “This is oppressive.”
“This is discharge planning,” Robby said.
“Oppressive discharge planning,” you mumbled.
Jack stood slowly, keeping hold of your hand. You looked up at him. “We’re leaving?”
He nodded. “Soon.”
“Are you taking me home?” you asked, hopefully.
His expression softened. “Yeah, baby.”
Your whole face relaxed. “Good. I want that one.”
Robby pressed the paperwork to his chest. “She’s still doing it.”
Jack took the papers from him. “She’s on medication.”
He folded the paperwork and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Robby watched him for a moment, the humor easing out of his face. “You good to get her home?”
Jack looked at you. You were blinking slowly, exhausted now, the adrenaline finally draining out of your body.
His voice gentled. “Yeah.”
Robby nodded. “Call me if anything changes.”
Jack met his eyes. “I will.”
The two men looked at each other for half a second longer than the words required.
You noticed even through the fog. “You two are having feelings.”
Robby looked down at you. “We are absolutely not.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “No feelings.”
“Lies,” you murmured.
Robby pointed at you. “Pain meds have made her too powerful.”
Jack helped you sit up carefully. The room tilted as soon as you moved. You made a small sound and grabbed for him with your good hand.
He was already there. One arm came around your waist, careful not to jostle the sling, his body solid beside yours. “I’ve got you.”
You leaned into him. “I know.”
That seemed to hit him somewhere. His hand spread warm at your side. Robby stepped closer, but Jack had you steady.
“Slow,” Jack said.
“I am slow,” you grumbled.
The room tilted. You caught Jack’s shirt with your good hand, and his arm came around your waist before you could wobble any farther.
His mouth twitched. “That’s why I said go slow.”
You rolled your eyes. “Smartass.”
Robby nodded from beside the bed. “Fair assessment.” Jack shot him a look.
“Supportive environment,” Robby said.
Jack eased you carefully off the bed. Your knees felt uncertain, and the room stayed too bright, but his arm held you steady.
Dana reappeared at the curtain like she had sensed movement. “You good?”
Jack nodded. “I’ve got her.”
Dana looked at you. “Mrs. Abbot?”
Your smile came back, sleepy and immediate.
“I’m good.”
Dana’s mouth barely moved. “Clearly.”
Robby narrowed his eyes at her. “You did it again.”
Dana checked the hallway. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You absolutely do.”
Jack adjusted his hold at your waist. “Can we leave before anyone learns anything else about my wedding?”
Princess, still at the computer, lifted one finger. “I have follow-up questions.”
“No,” Jack said.
Santos leaned against the counter. “I have several.”
Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
Robby grinned. “I have photos.”
Jack went still. You gasped softly. “You have photos?”
Robby’s grin widened. “And videos.”
Jack pointed at him. “Delete them.”
“Never,” Robby responded immediately.
“You have videos of the dance?” you asked, unable to contain your excitement.
Robby gave you a look. “You think I would witness neurological history and not document it?”
Your eyes went glassy again. “Can you send them to me?”
Jack looked down at you. “Baby.”
“What? I was there. I should have them,” you defended yourself.
Robby tapped his phone. “Already sent.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”
Your phone buzzed somewhere in the plastic belongings bag.
You looked up at Jack, delighted. “Brain chemistry.”
Dana held up one hand before Santos could speak. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Santos sighed. “I didn’t even say it.”
Dana looked at her. “You thought loudly.”
Jack shook his head and started guiding you toward the hallway. “We’re going home.”
You leaned into him, warm and sore and still floating enough that the ED lights looked like stars smeared across glass. “Home with you?”
Jack glanced down. His face softened. “Yeah.”
You smiled. “I picked good.”
This time, there were no monitors beeping too loud, no hands at your shoulder, no room full of witnesses waiting for the next outrageous thing you might say.
Just Jack’s hand at your waist, his body steady beside yours, his voice low near your ear.
Summary: Park the Shark is a scary man, but maybe under all that shark like hunger, is a squishy soft heart.
Warnings: puke mentions, medical inaccuracies, babies being ill, children being ill,Breast feeding, AFAB reader, female identifying reader, probably white reader coded (sorry, I’m normally better about that.), if there are more message me and I’ll add them but these are all I could think of atm.
A/N: I’m a Park the Shark girl dad big family truther. This man had barely any screen time and yet? Here we are.
Formidable: inspiring fear, respect, or dread due to someone or something's size, strength, or excellence. The definition of formidable can be found in all of its glory in a single man at the PTMC. That man was Brendon “The Shark” Park. Known for his brutish mannerisms and cutting wit, there were not many men who could step toe to toe with the Shark of Ortho. His cadence was that of a prowling shark, his name deriving from the way he circled a patient to get the whole picture, and his razor-sharp tongue. When he was near, the ED held its breath.
Nobody knew if his home life, where most co workers talked about the trappings of their domestic lives, Park seemed to live off orthopedic surgery, gym routines, and the tears of R4s. This mystery only added to the effect; the Shark’s reputation still being held up by the hospital’s complete ignorance of what went on in his life went on behind closed doors.
Then there was the incident. A trauma had been called, and an Ortho consult had been ordered. Park was just coming out of a multi-hour Posterior spinal fusion, where he had to correct the mistakes of an incompetent baby surgeon who wouldn’t know what a good bone graft looked like if it were spitting in his eye. Needless to say, the man was already on edge, but when he was called for the consult, he went, only stopping to put all of his jewelry back on from where he had removed it for the surgery in question, leaving one big detail of his personal life dangling from his neck.
Robby was stood stick straight and silent as he entered the room, waiting carefully to see what questions Park would request, and which of his poor residents he would offer up to the slaughter today. Mohan, Javadi, Whitaker, and Santos all mirrored his postures, waiting and watching as the Shark circled the patient with those eyes that knew how to cut a man to his quick. Then their eyes caught. A flash of silver, dangling from a chain usually neatly tucked under a scrub top. They were all so stunned by the presence of the wedding band that when Park barked out an order for someone to present, they all flinched as they directed their attention to Robby, who ultimately nodded for Santos to present.
From that day forward, while many murmured theories followed him wherever he went, the biggest and baddest of them all was the question of who could possibly be on the other end of that wedding ring.
About three months after the wedding ring incident, a woman entered the ED. She was surrounded by dark-haired babies with blue eyes, and was handling the fevers, sniffles, and coughs with grace. She wandered in with her herd around 6:30, stating issues with a lethargic infant with a fever of 100.4 and a three-year-old with a fever of 102. The three-year-old wasn’t necessarily a medical emergency, but the infant was. Paired with fewer wet diapers and the lethargy, she had come to the right spot and was quickly ushered in by Lupe and Dana on the relatively slow evening.
Dana observed the calm woman and the drove of sick children with a maternal sense of wonder. Here you were with a set of twins no more than a month old, a toddler, and a five-year-old, all with a terrible cough and fever, and yet? You remained calm and unwavering, two babies strapped to your chest, and both hands occupied by little girls with shockingly familiar blue eyes. She watched as you dried tears, wiped snotty noses, handed out water bottles, and even caught vomit, without flinching, and without pausing in your efforts to fill out insurance information. She was impressed.
Robby had come and gone from the room while observing Whitaker. Santos had made a fly-by, Langdon Mel, and Mohan each gave interest to the small family, and Javadi even went so far as to approach with stickers and graham crackers, and each doctor had asked Dana whether or not the children looked familiar to her. Each time she nodded and shrugged her shoulders, completely at a loss as to who the little mystery family could be. Well, until she was handed the chart, and it all clicked. Then she knew she had to make a page, with haste.
You were sat up in the hospital bed, railings all pulled to their highest extent. Your hair was messy and frizzy from sleep, and little strands had fallen from your messy hairstyle where the first of the small children you cradled had tugged on it while eating. You fed the first of the twins, Marina, on your right breast, the baby lazily sucking, eyes half-hooded in satisfaction from what you presumed was a great meal. Then there was Pearl, your three-year-old, tucked into the side not occupied by her sister, playing with the fabric of your shirt, little arm hooked into an IV. She was gently dosing in and out of sleep, her little head drooping and snapping back up like she was struck by lightning. Her cheeks were pink and her hair was beginning to stick to her face with sweat, and the poor thing was rattling out breaths in a way that would worry even the most tenured of nurses. The other twin, Harbor, lay across your lap hooked up to IV fluids, and watched the ceiling with the great interest only babies can give to lighting fixtures, patiently waiting for her turn on the boob. This child’s cheeks were also pink, and that same startling cough rattled from her little chest, your free hand splays across her and your brows crease with worry, but you’re confident that she will get the best care here. The final child, Isla, age five, was sprawled across the end of the bed, slowly swinging her legs back and forth, arms folded across her chest as she coughed and hacked in tune with her sisters.
Robby and Abbot were quietly chatting in the corner when he stormed down the stairs. Park, looking for all the world like a shark who had just caught a whiff of blood. The whole floor was at a standstill as he stormed through the ED with purpose, an amused and bewildered Dana behind him. Abbot and Robby shrugged and followed after their old friend who was rapidly waving them towards the room with the mystery family, hot on the shark’s fins.
Park ripped back the curtain to the Pedes unit, and to his astonishment, there they all were. Just as Dana had said.
“Daddy!” Cried Isla, throwing herself at him immediately. The sweet girl showing more enthusiasm for him than she had shown all day from where she lounged sadly watching Nemo from the comfort of your couch.
“DADA! DAD! DAD! DAD!” Chanted little Pearl, eyes twinkling out of her rosy face as she struggled to toddle from your side to her dad’s. Brendon scooped her up as well, careful of the IV in her little arm, eyes roving over each of his girls to check for any sign of major injury. He was relieved to find none. His eyes immediately flicked to you, checking you over as well, before finally squatting down to check over his twins. When he was finally satisfied that all was relatively well, he took to comforting his girls.
“Hello little baby sharks, what are you doing swimming in my waters, hm?” His face to the vast majority seems like it hadn’t changed from its normal stoicism, but to his family, they could see the softness in his eyes, and they took comfort in his steady, unwavering nature.
“Here! They poke me Dada!” Pearl gave an indignant little cry and brandished her IV to her father, and he nodded sagely, kissing her forehead and lingering to gauge temperature, and to comfort the little miss who was definitely over this little hospital stint. Thankfully, whatever fever had brought her here had broken.
“Oh no! My princess!” Park huffed out a laugh, hugging her tightly without tugging on any tubing.
“I cried Dada.” Pearl said, looking at him with the world’s saddest puppy dog eyes, letting them well up again at the memory of this most egregious misfortune that had befallen her. “And I frowed up in the hall, but Mama got me a trash can.”
“That’s okay, we are allowed to cry when we’re scared, that doesn’t make us any less brave.” Park nodded wisely, letting the little girl tuck herself back under his chin. “And I’m glad your mommy was there, she did a good job.”
“What about you, Isla girl? You okay?” He asked, turning to his other daughter, who finally seemed to be giving into her exhaustion from all the excitement from being here in the hospital.
“I’m fine, Mommy said that Harbor and Pearl were sick, so we had to come and visit you at work.” She yawned and pulled herself closer to the smell of her dad’s expensive cologne and steady breathing. “Mommy called you and you didn’t answer.”
Brendon looks up at you at that with a guilty frown. “I know, Daddy’s phone isn’t allowed in the room where he works, so Mrs. Dana came and got me.” You nod in understanding, knowing that he wouldn’t have purposefully ignored your call while his children were so sick. “Now then, why don’t you two go sit with Mommy so I can check on the twins, yeah?” The girls nod and Park gently lowers them back to their original spots.
You’re finished feeding Marina, and hand her off to Brendon, and immediately he lifts the child to his face, cooing softly at the baby and watches as the barely awake child pulls both hands to her face and nuzzles in in that way newborns do. He has one hand supporting her head and the other supporting her butt as he lifts her to his line of sight and watches the little soft spot on her head thrum with her heartbeat. Thankfully, it’s not sunken in any way, so she’s hydrated enough, he pulls her close again and nuzzles at her stomach with his nose, satisfied that she’s okay.
“What happened?” He asks softly, eyes flicking to you as he takes a seat next to Isla, who immediately rests her head on his knee. He holds Marina close and starts to stroke little Harbor’s cheek as she begins to feed.
“Miss Harbor spiked a nasty fever, one I couldn’t ignore. She was lethargic, and I noticed fewer wet diapers. Then I took a look at her soft spot, and it looked a little off. So I brought them in. Pearl was at 102. I didn’t like that either, and she was puking. But that was more of a choking on her coughs kind of thing? But it happened enough that I was afraid of dehydration, so they gave her some fluids as well.” You sigh, readjusting the baby again and wrapping your free arm around a now definitely sleeping Pearl. Brendon hums his approval.
“You did the right thing. Now it seems like everyone is a little better.” He nods solemnly, pulling his family as close as he could in the hospital bed. “How about we go home? I’ll wrap everything up with doctor Robby, and we can get these little shark pups back to bed.” Everyone who was currently awake and verbal agreed to that sentiment, and Brendon stood to go find their doctor, but when he turned around, he found the ED already staring back at him.
Dana, Robby, and Abbot were a respectable foot away from the entrance to Pedes, but they were still there, gawking. They watched as Brendon rolled his eyes and stalked toward them, still cradling an infant.
“Do you all have nothing better to do?” He groused, watching as Dana and Abbot and the rest of the ED scampered away to go back to whatever they were supposed to be doing before they witnessed this little meeting of the Sharks. That left him with just the senior attending. “If you are done gawking, I’d like to take my family home now.”
“Oh yeah! Sure! I’ll just gather the uh— you know!” And Robby scampered off to discharge the patients and obviously gossip about the gaggle of nautical children he just met.
Brendon sighed. This was going to be a long week, because the whole hospital was about to know that maybe this formidable great white was simply a whale shark.
