what the night does ˙⋆✮ j. abbot
summary: eight months of keeping it professional. one friday night, one bar, one dark jacket. you never stood a chance really.
warnings: some use of medical terms (kind of), no use of y/n, afab, alcohol consumption, hucklerobby crumbs, age gap, reader is mid20s, power dynamic, attending and resident, mild angst, NSFW 18+, porn with some plot, car sex, oral sex (f receiving), minors dni
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the problem with living with javadi is that she has opinions about everything, delivered without warning, usually while you're in the middle of something else entirely. six months of shared space and you've learnt to brace for impact somewhere around the second the second week of living together. tonight she's perched on the edge of your bed while you dig through your wardrobe, feet tucked underneath her, watching you with extreme focus.
"the green one," she says.
"i can tell what you were thinking."
you pull out the green one anyway because she's right and you both know it, the dress is fitted, simple, and does numbers for your figure, you hold it up and she makes a noise of approval she would absolutely deny making if pressed.
"we're going to a bar," you say. "not a club."
"you can look good at a bar."
"i always look good, javadi." you tease.
"you look tired at work."
"i'm always tired at work, we work in a trauma centre."
she grins, shifting on your duvet. javadi off-duty is a different creature from javadi in the pitt. she's looser, funnier, more willing to let things slide. you love both versions but the off-duty one is easier on a friday night when the week had wrung you both out completely. you pull the dress over your head and she makes the noise again and you let yourself feel good about it for a few seconds before she's checking her phone.
"santos and whitaker are already there."
"santos is always early for the bar."
"girls night!" javadi singsongs, sliding off the bed. "exactly what we need."
"exactly what we need," you agree.
you grab your jacket and your keys and you're already smiling before you're out the door.
the night is cold in pittsburgh, not brutal yet, just sharp enough to remind you that winter's on its way. you and javadi walk the two blocks with your hands in your pockets, falling into the easy rhythm you've developed with each other.
santos and whitaker have, as predicted, claimed the best table in the place, corner booth near the bae, good lighting and they already have drinks in hand. santos waves you over with complete ease of being in her element. you slide in across from her and steal one of her fries before you've even taken your jacket off.
"long week?" whitaker says.
"when isn't it," you say.
you order a drink and settle in and for a while it's exactly what you needed, the four of you falling into comfortable conversation of people who've seen each other through enough bad shifts.
this. this is what gets you through.
santos is mid-story about something that happened in the car park on tuesday, when she pauses, looks over your shoulder, and gets a very specific expression on her face. the one she gets when she's clocked something.
you know that expression. that expression has never once meant anything good for you.
"don't," you say, before she can speak.
"i haven't said anything."
robby and abbot have just waked in.
robby you see first because robby is impossible to not see. grey henley, dark jeans, he spots the table within about four seconds and his whole face changes.
and then your eyes move the way they always do, without permission.
abbot in civilian clothes is an image you were not prepared to see on a friday night after two (quite strong) drinks.
dark worn down jacket, plain shirt underneath, hands in his pockets while he's assessing the bar. same jaw. same stillness. he looks, honestly, so unfairly good that you experience a brief moment of genuine annoyance about it, and all of a sudden you become extremely interested in your drink.
"and there it is," santos says quietly, from directly across the table.
"you go very still and focus on something irrelevant." she tilts her head. "you literally told me months ago in the break room that he was the most attractive man you have ever seen."
"i was having a rough day."
"you were extremely adamant about it," santos says. "it was almost touching."
"you also told javadi," whitaker says, helpfully.
you look at him. "whose side are you on?"
"i'm just here," whitaker says, with absolutely no innocence.
javadi, beside you, has gone slightly still. not the way you go still, hers is more like someone trying to act unbothered. "they come here sometimes," she says, very casually. "it's fine."
"it's completely fine," you agree.
you are both lying about slightly different things.
robby makes his way over with ease as he assumes he'll be welcome, pulling a chair from an empty table nearby.
"hey, you guys are here!" he says a little too happy. his eyes do a pass around the table, santos, javadi, you, and then they land on whitaker. "whitaker."
"robby," whitaker says, his voice completely even. his hand moves to his glass and stays there.
abbot appears at the edge of the table a seat behind robby, unhurried. he takes the group in with one sweep and his eyes land on you.
"santos, whitaker, javadi." a nod. his gaze comes back to you "hey."
"hey," you say, and your voice comes out completely normal, which you are thankful for.
he takes the remaining chair, diagonal from you. which is somehow worse than sitting across or beside. you order another drink, the only acceptable response.
by your third drink once finished you were properly yourself, laughing a little too loud and saying what you want with zero filter. you've always been like this after a few drinks. your friends know and it and they find it mostly entertaining.
"okay but the music in this place always sucks," you're saying, gesturing in a way that requires whitaker to shift his glass out of range. "is a genuine flop, they play 80s, fine we love the 80s, and then they just skip straight to all the recent stuff and theres just this void in between-"
"every time," javadi says to the table, fondly.
"she has a whole thing about the music," whitaker says, to robby specifically.
"it's not a thing, it's constructive criticism-"
"eight months," santos says. "same speech, every visit."
"because they can't pick good music-"
"you're something," abbot says, and you stop.
he's got something at the corner off his mouth that isn't quite a smile but is so close to one, and your brain does something it absolutely not be doing at a table full of colleagues.
"was that a compliment?" you say.
"right, yeah, of course, very clinical."
he looks at you for a second. "still a doctor."
"that's either very dedicated or very sad," you say, and clock santos' expression across the table, eyebrows raised, mouth pressed together. you redirect your attention back to your drink before you have to deal with her comments.
by the fourth round the table had reorganised itself, conversations splitting and regrouping. you've ended up at abbot's end with a gap between you that you don't remember closing, dangerously aware of him.
he's not a big talker, which you already knew from work. but he listens so intently, there's something about that quality of attention he's giving you that makes you want to climb him like a tree. this has to be a psychological phenomenon. it also is a personal problem you have been trying to manage for several months.
"how long have you been at PTMC?"
you look away from him, feeling the heat crawl up your neck.
"thanks," you say. then, because the drinks have loosened your filter: "you've never said that on shift."
"i said it once. hendrick's case. where you caught that bleed."
you blink. that once nearly four months ago. "you remember that?"
he looks at you with an expression you can't read. "i remember everything you do."
the bar is far too warm and too loud and he's close enough that you'd have to deliberately move to create more distance, and for a few seconds you are just staring at the line of his jaw and the way his hand holds his glass and the fact you have to walk into the same building as this man on monday.
"robby talks about you," he says.
"robby talks about everyone."
you study him, trying to figure out what he's thinking, and he holds your gaze in the level way he does, and you feel seventeen again and it's profoundly inconvenient.
"i should get another drink," you say.
"probably," he says, like he knows exactly what you're doing.
you get up and santos is at your elbow at the bar like she's been waiting for this moment.
"he's been watching you all night," she says. "that is genuinely all i am saying."
you put your elbows on the bar. "he's our attending."
"on shift. right now he's a man in a very good jacket in a bar and you look like that." she leans in closer to you. "you told me in the break room months ago the he was the most attractive person you'd ever seen."
"sincerely, you need to fuck him." she pauses. "you also told javadi."
"because it's written all over you," she says, not unkindly. "every time he walk into a room you get focused on whatever's nearest to hand." she demonstrates. it is accurate enough to be embarrassing. "it's subtle except for how it isn't at all."
you accept your drink. "this is a nightmare."
"or it's a friday night and you look incredible and he's not your attending right now." she bumps her shoulder against yours. "i'm just sayingggg," she sings.
you look back at the table. abbot has his phone out, but as if he felt your attention he looks up, and across the noise and the warm low light your eyes meet, and neither of you look away first.
you have no clear memory between that moment and everything that followed. you remember the night getting longer and easier. you remember robby getting a round in, you remember santos making a face at you from across the table. you remember dragging her to the dj and winning the argument about what to play.
you remember coming back to find the table quieter, the night coming close to an end.
you remember sitting back down and abbot sliding your drink toward you without a word and saying thanks and him saying you picked good about whatever was playing, and turning to look at him like, you know this song? and him saying, flatly, i'm not completely dead. and you laughing. and him watching you laugh with that expression you still couldn't name.
you remember needing air because the bar had gotten genuinely too warm, stepping outside into the cold with you arms folded. the door opening behind you.
he comes to stand beside you. not close, not far, a reasonable distance. the street has gone quiet, the city asleep, orange light on dark pavement.
"you don't smoke," he says.
he nods. doesn't push. this is something you've always appreciated, he doesn't push you.
"you were good this week," he says.
"the wednesday trauma. you held it together well."
you look at him sideways. "are you checking in on me?"
he looks sideways back. "i'm your attending."
that gets it, a real half smile, brief, and you feel like it was something physical. you look back at the street.
"i'm fine," you say. "it was a hard night but i'm fine. talked to javadi. went for a run. cried in the shower a little, which i'm going to deny."
"i know it is." a beat. "did you always know that?"
he's quiet for a second. "no. someone had to tell me."
"years ago." a pause. "he's been telling me things for a long time."
"he's good," you say. "robby."
"yeah," he says, quiet and certain, no performance to it.
he turns to look at you. you turn to look at him. the distance between you seems less reasonable than it did a few minutes ago. the streetlight is doing something completely unfair for his face.
"you should go back in," he says. "you'll get cold."
"that might be the most abbot sentence you've ever said."
he looks at you. you look at him. and something shifts, you don't know which of you moves first, maybe both, maybe neither, and his hand comes up and tucks a piece of your hair back from your face with a quiet percision that is entirely unfair, and you stop breathing.
"this is a bad idea," he says. his voice is level. his hand hasn't moved.
then he closes the distance.
his mouth on yours was careful at first, lips firm, tasting of whiskey and the mint he'd popped earlier, a gentleman's habit. your breath caught, hands fisting his jacket, shy shock melting into the heat blooming low in your belly. the streetlight hummed above, orange glow haloing you as you pressed closer, green dress against his shirt. his bicep flexed under your tentative grip, solid power you'd fixated on during shifts, and you squeezed instinctively, obsessed already, the buzz of your drinks urging you bolder.
jack pulled back a fraction, eyes dark and steady, thumb brushing your jaw. "we should go." voice level, no push, but his hand lingered, flirty warmth in the feeling.
you nodded, cheeks flushed, heart hammering. "your car?"
a brief smile. he guided you across the street, arm not quite around you, but close, jacket creaking as he opened the passenger door. you slid in, leather cool against your thighs, his scent enveloping you. the engine rumbled low, headlights cutting the dark as he eased out.
you texted javadi from the car, heading out, don't wait up, i'll tell you tomorrow, and her response is a single emoji.
as he parked up, he turned towards you, leaning in for another kiss, steamier now, heavy and unhurried. tongues tangled deep, your shy moan swallowed by his mouth, whiskey tang mixing with your lingering vodka. hands roamed: yours shoving his jacket open, nails tracing biceps through his thin shirt; his cupping your face, then sliding down slowly to your waist, arms bulging as he lifted you effortlessly across the centre console onto his lap. dress hiked high, panties grinding against his thickening cock, the heat through the denim making you whimper into the kiss.
the kisses turned messy, teeth grazing lip, breaths hot and ragged, steam fogging up the windows. he tugged your dress straps down, exposing your breasts, palms covering them gently, thumbs circling your nipples, his faint callused hands scraping feels electric. you arched into him, hands locked onto his arms, muscles jumping under your touch as he broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down your neck, leaving little marks with little restraint.
"jack..." a shy breath, your thighs trembling when he shifted, reclining the passenger seat, arms moving to set you back down on the passenger seat, he crawls over settling down between your legs.
he pushes your panties to the side, his breath ghosting your pussy, the heat contrasting the chill air seeping through the seals.
you froze shyly, cheeks on fire, thighs twitching too close and exposed. "wait- i-" voice small, hand hovering.
he paused, eyes lifting to yours, patient, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh, flirty reassurance in the graze of his stubble. then his tongue parted your folds, slow lick up your slit, tasting your arousal fully. shyness shattered into gasps, fingers knotting in his hair as he settled in, sucking your clit with tender suction, wet noises filling the car, nose nudging your swollen nub. arms held your thighs open, his tongue delved deeper, fucking rhythmic, vibrations humming through your core, stubble rubbing against your sensitive skin.
"fuck jack, you feel so good." you whispered, your nails digging ridges as pleasure coiled tight. orgasm hit so suddenly, pussy spasming, flooding his mouth, which he lapped softly until you were quivering.
he held you there, until your thighs went slack and your moans turned into soft sighs. you could feel your second climax wash over you, less explosive, more profound, a deep warmth that left your body feeling liquid and boneless. jack's tongue gentled, lapping at you softly, savouring the aftershocks as the rippled through you. he calloused hands stroked your inner thighs, soothing the tremours.
when he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, hot against your damp skin. he pressed his forehead against your thigh, and you felt the tension in his own body, a vibrating line of need. his jeans were a tight, strained prison against the seat, and he shifted his weight with a low, rough sound.
he didn't move back to his seat. instead, he stayed there, kneeling between your legs, his face still buried against your thigh. one of his hands left your leg and fumbled at his own pants, a clumsy urgent movement. you watched dazed, as he stroked himself in front of you. his hips jerked, a shallow, frustrated thrust into his own grip.
"fuck," he breathed, the word muffled against your skin.
his other arm slid under your leg, lifting it, hooking it over his shoulder to open you wider, to keep you close. the position was intimate, exposing, but you felt no shyness now, only a heavy, post-orgasm haze and a curious, swelling fascination with his desperation. you reached a hand down, your fingers brushing the sweaty hair at his temple.
he groaned again, deeper, and his hand worked faster against himself. the sound was a raw, masculine thing, a deep, muffled groan against your thigh that vibrated straight into your core. you could smell his sweat, your own scent on his lips.
his movements become more rhythmic, more focused. he was chasing it now, that finale release. his hips pistoned in short, sharp bursts into his palm. you felt the heat radiating from him, the dampness of his cock under your fingertips when you dared to touch him. it was impossibly hard.
his breathing hitched, turning into sharp, ragged gasps that he tried to stifle against your flesh, the muscles in his back and shoulders locking into a rigid line. you saw the tension in his jaw, clenched tight.
a final, shuddering thrust of his hips, a choked, guttural groan that he couldn't muffle completely. it spilled out, hot and rough, as his body convulsed. you felt the hot, sudden wetness dampen your stomach. he collapsed forward, his weight sinking against you, his face pressing hard into your thigh. his breath came in heavy, exhausted waves, his body slackening against yours.
for a long minute, there was only the sound of his breathing and the faint, open mouthed kiss to your thigh. the windows were still fogged, the world outside erased. inside, there was only the smell of sex and release, the heat of two bodies and the intimacy of his finish against your skin.
he finally lifted his head. his eyes were dark, satisfied, a little hazy. a slow, tired smile touched his lips. he leaned up and licked his own mess up from your stomach, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your stomach.
"christ," he whispered, his vouce rough with use.
he stayed there for another moment, just looking at you, your dress still rucked up, your body open and spent beneath him. then, with a careful movement, he eased your leg from his shoulder and lowered it back down. he straightened your dress straps, his touch slow and deliberate. he buttoned his own jeans back up as he crawled back over the centre console, collapsing heavily into his own seat.
he reached out, his hand finding yours, fingers lacing together. he didn't speak. he just held your hand, his thumb stroking your palm, while the engine ticked quietly in the cold night outside.
you wake up at 5.47am because your body has been conditioned into this shape by eight months of early shifts and apparently that applies on saturdays too now. your own ceiling. your own room. javadi's television low through the wall.
you lie there for a moment and think about the street outside callahan's and the way his hand felt at your face and what followed after.
you think about this for approximately ten minutes.
then you get up and make coffee.
javadi is already on the sofa when you come through, feet tucked up, mug in hand, television on low. she looks at you with the expression of someone who has been patient for several hours and is done.
you sit beside her. she hands you her coffee without being asked. you drink half of it.
"we have to work together on monday."
"this was genuinely so stupid."
"probably." she takes her coffee back, "are you okay?"
"i'm fine." you lean your head back against the cushions. "we kissed, and then he drove me home."
javadi is quiet for a second. "that's it?"
"are you okay?" she asks again, differently this time.
"i think so. i don't know what it was. i don't know what it is."
"you don't have to know yet."
you stare at the ceiling. the television murmurs.
"he waited until i was inside," you say. "i looked back and he was still there."
javadi says nothing. she just reaches over and presses her shoulder against yours for a second, and that's enough.
santos sends three voice memos that afternoon, none under ninety seconds. by the end of the third you're laughing into your pillow.
robby, santos reports, walked out of the bar at the same time as whitaker. she watched them through the window because she is santos and that is simply who she is. they stood on the pavement for a while before they went anywhere.
whitaker, santos reports, got home later than expected.
you put your phone face down on the duvet and look at the ceiling for a long time.
everything from monday stays exactly as before.
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