The silence in the apartment was a physical thing.
It lived with you, a third occupant in the space that was once filled with the easiness of shared laughter and loving kisses.
Now, it was a heavy, smothering blanket, and you both tiptoed around its edges, careful not to disturb it lest it avalanche and bury you completely.
From the kitchen archway, you watched Clark.
He was bent over his laptop at the dining table, the soft glow of the screen illuminating the concerned furrow in his brow. His glasses were slightly askew. He was writing an article, or pretending to. You’d lost the ability to tell the difference between his real focus and the performance he put on for your benefit.
His shoulders, usually so broad and capable of carrying the weight of the world, seemed stiffer these days, perpetually braced for impact.
You knew you were the source of that tension.
The weight you were putting on them was of a different, more insidious kind than any supervillain could muster.
It had been almost six years.
Six years of temperature charts, ovulation kits, and a special app on your phone that cheerfully notified you of your "most fertile window!" with a chirp that felt like a taunt.
Six years of hope so acute it was painful, followed by a crushing, soul-deep despair that arrived with a ruthless punctuality every twenty-eight days.
You didn't talk about your day anymore; you talked about cycles. You didn't make love; it was a ritual.
The desire for a child had started as a shared dream you had since you were young. Wanting at least three kids to fill your future home. You’d lie in bed in your first apartment, Clark’s arms around you, and paint the picture together.
"A little boy with your curls," you’d murmur, tracing his jaw.
"And a little girl with your smile," he’d counter, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "And maybe one more, just to keep them on their toes. We’ll need a big house with a yard. Somewhere they can run, maybe even fly without me having to worry."
"They’ll have your eyes,” you’d said with certainty. "All of them. I want them to have your kind eyes."
Now, that dream was a desperate, all-consuming need. It had eroded the foundations of your marriage, brick by painful brick.
The grief wasn't confined to the four walls of your home. It bled into everything.
It was the way you’d automatically drift toward the baby section in every store, your fingers brushing over impossibly small socks or a tiny onesie with a cartoon rocket on it. You’d stand there until the ache in your chest became a physical pain, then you’d flee, empty-handed and heartsick.
It was the way you’d had to stop babysitting for your friends. You used to love it. You’d be the first to offer to take little Sophie or baby Theo for the night, delighting in the temporary, borrowed joy.
Now, the sound of a child’s laughter in your quiet apartment was a torture. Handing them back to their parents felt like having a limb ripped off. The last time, you’d cried in your car for twenty minutes before you could drive home. You’d made up a flimsy excuse about a busy work schedule after that.
Your friends had stopped asking.
It was the way they asked, too. The constant, well-meaning, utterly devastating questions.
"You two are so good together," they’d say. "When are you going to start a family?"
"Clark would be such a great dad," another would sigh, as if you weren’t acutely, painfully aware of that fact every single day.
The worst was your friend Lena, complaining over brunch about her toddler’s tantrums, moaning, "Enjoy your sleep while you can! You’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with this!"
You’d had to excuse yourself to the bathroom, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle a sob. You would give anything, anything, to be woken up by a crying baby. You felt lucky about nothing.
It was the way Ma and Pa Kent looked at you with so much hope during your visits to Smallville. Last Thanksgiving, it had come to a head. The table was laden with food, the smell of pumpkin pie filling the warm, cozy farmhouse.
"This house is too quiet," Martha had said wistfully, passing Clark the mashed potatoes. "I can’t wait for the day there are little feet running around this table. It’s built for a big family."
Jonathan had nodded, smiling at you both. "Best to get started when you're younger ya know, you don't want to be old parents like us."
It was a gentle, loving nudge.
It was a dagger to your heart.
You’d frozen, your fork clattering loudly against your plate. The room swam. You mumbled an apology, pushed your chair back, and fled to the guest room, collapsing on the bed as silent, heaving sobs wracked your body.
Later that night, back in Metropolis, an argument ensued.
"You couldn’t just smile and change the subject?" you’d cried, the frustration and pain of the day finally erupting. "You just sat there!"
"What did you want me to do?" Clark had asked, his voice strained with his own pent-up hurt. "They don’t know. They’re not trying to be cruel."
"It feels cruel! Everything feels cruel! The whole world is just… rubbing it in my face!"
The argument had spiraled, touching on everything and nothing, until you’d both fallen into a exhausted, miserable silence.
The one that was the cruelest twist of all: seeing Superman with children. On the news, there he’d be, landing in a park, surrounded by a crowd of laughing, cheering kids. He’d kneel down, talking seriously to a little boy, or he’d let a little girl try on his cape. The love and patience on his face was so profound it was like a physical blow. He was a natural. He was born to be a father. And you were the one failing to give him that. You’d have to turn off the TV, your stomach churning with a sickening mix of pride and utter inadequacy.
Everything about the situation was just so deeply unfair. So many women and even teens got pregnant without even trying, and you, someone who wanted it the most couldn't even do that.
You and Clark had looked into IVF but it was far too expensive for any of your salaries. Adoption was another one, but you had gotten a minor criminal conviction when you were young, so most adoption agencies refused to accept you and Clark.
The hopelessness of it all had begun to curdle inside you, turning into a quiet, constant despair. It started to manifest in new, painful ways.
You began to avoid physical intimacy that wasn't for conception. Why would you?
It felt like a lie, a cruel parody of the connection you once shared. It only served to remind you of what you’d lost. The act of sex itself had become linked to failure and heartbreak. It was no longer about love or pleasure; it was a traumatic exercise that ended, without fail, in disappointment.
You’d started crying in the shower, the sound of the water masking the choked, ragged sobs that you couldn’t hold back any longer. It was your only private place to fall apart.
One evening, you’d come home early from a miserable, solo walk through the park. You’d heard his voice from the bedroom, low and somber. He was on the phone.
"...I know. I just... I don't know what to do anymore." A long pause. You stood frozen in the hallway, your hand pressed to your mouth. "She's hurting so much, I hear her cry in the showers. And I can't fix it. I can't give her what she wants... what we both want."
Another pause, and his voice cracked in a way that shattered your soul. "I'm just... devastated it hasn't happened yet."
You’d backed away silently, retreating to the living room before he could know you’d heard. Devastated. The word echoed in your skull. He was putting on a brave face for you, but inside, he was as broken as you were.
It all came to a head one night. The app had chirped. The window was open. You’d initiated the ritual, your body moving on autopilot, your heart a numb, cold stone in your chest.
Clark was trying. He was always trying. He kissed you with a tenderness that felt like a brand, his hands roaming over your skin, trying to coax a response, to find the woman he married buried under the layers of grief.
But you were miles away. You were thinking about cervical mucus and basal body temperatures. You were counting the days. You were already bracing for the fall.
Clark was inside you, but he felt your detachment. He always did. But this time, he stopped. He went completely still above you, his breathing ragged.
"Look at me," he whispered, his voice rough.
You forced your eyes open. The look on his face was one of pure, unadulterated anguish.
"You're not here," he said, the words not an accusation, but a statement of heartbreaking fact. "You're just... waiting for it to be over."
You didn't deny it. You couldn't.
A tear escaped from the corner of his eye, tracing a path down his temple. "I can't do this. Not like this."
He pumped inside of you a few more times, bringing himself to his edge and in a movement that was both gentle and filled with a terrible finality, he pulled out from you. Clark's come landed on your bare skin, far from the womb you needed it in the most. But Clark refused to finish what had become, for him, an act of profound loneliness.
The rejection was absolute.
It was the ultimate failure. You had failed to conceive, and now you had failed to even perform the act required for it.
A raw, wounded sound tore from your throat.
He flinched as if you’d struck him. "Sweetheart, no, that's not—"
But it was too late. You were already scrambling from the bed, weeping uncontrollably, grabbing your robe and fleeing to the bathroom. You locked the door and slid down against it, your body wracked with sobs of utter humiliation and loss. You heard him on the other side, his knuckles resting against the wood.
"Sweetheart, please. I'm sorry. I just... I need you. I need my wife. Not just her body."
You couldn't answer. The words were lost in your tears.
That night was a line of demarcation. After that, the already scarce intimacy ceased entirely.
A long, cold winter settled over your marriage. You slept on your sides, backs to each other, a canyon of grief stretching between you in the king-sized bed. The silence wasn't just heavy anymore; it was frozen solid.
Weeks bled into months. The chill began to terrify you. You were losing him. You were losing everything.
One night, desperate to bridge the gap, to feel something other than this icy despair, you initiated. You turned to him in the dark and kissed him. It was a clumsy, desperate kiss, born of fear rather than passion.
He responded, because he was Clark, and he would never outright reject you. But his response was hesitant, confused. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to check an imaginary clock.
You tried to lose yourself in the sensation, to remember what it felt like to want him for him, but your body wouldn't cooperate. It was unresponsive, frozen by months of trauma and grief. You were just going through the motions, a marionette with its strings cut.
He felt it. Of course he did. He stopped, pulling back to look at you, his face a mask of pain in the moonlight.
"Stop," he breathed, his voice hollow. "Just... stop."
"What?" you whispered, fear clawing at your throat.
"You're just going through the motions. It's like... Gosh, it feels like I'm making love to a corpse."
The words were like a physical blow.
They stole the air from your lungs. He hadn't meant them to be cruel; they were a confession, torn from a place of such deep hurt that it left you both bleeding.
You stared at him, your eyes wide with shock and a pain so acute it was blinding. You didn't say a word. You just slid out of bed, walked into the living room, and sat in the dark until the sun came up.
He didn't follow you.
━━━━━━━
Today was a new day though.
You awoke with that dreaded notification that today would be a great day to get pregnant. A part of you wanted to ignore it, but deep down you knew you couldn't when today could be the day, even if you knew it wasn't.
So you waited for Clark to get back home from work, for him to finish the dinner you prepared before you finally spoke up.
"Clark?" Your voice sounded foreign, too bright in the thick quiet.
He looked up immediately, his Superman-speed reflexes nothing compared to the instant, wary attention he gave you these days.
A flicker of hope darted across his face before it was shuttered, replaced by careful neutrality. He knew what that tone meant.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I want you." You didn't need to elaborate.
The neutrality on his face solidified into something that looked horribly like resignation. He nodded slowly, closing his laptop with a soft, definitive click. "Okay."
The journey to the bedroom was a silent funeral procession for the spontaneous, passionate love you used to share. Once inside, the routine was achingly familiar. You moved with a grim efficiency, shedding your clothes, getting into bed.
Clark followed, his movements gentle but devoid of the playful teasing, the worshipful touches that used to make you feel like the most precious thing on Earth.
He reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. For a glorious, heartbreaking second, it felt like it used to. Like he was seeing you. You saw the love in his eyes, fighting its way through the layers of grief.
But you couldn't let it in. You couldn't afford to get lost in him. This wasn't about connection. It was about results.
You turned your head, breaking the contact, and shifted into your back, pulling the sheet up to your chin. "I saw online that this new position is supposed to be-"
You started reciting the cold, clinical advice from a dozen online forums, your voice monotone.
Clark’s hand dropped from your face as if he’d been burned. The air in the room changed.
You closed your eyes, waiting. A minute passed. Then another. He hadn't moved.
Confused, you opened your eyes. He was just staring at you, and the look on his face finally, finally broke through the obsessive fog in your mind.
"Clark? What's wrong?"
He didn't speak at first. He just stared, and the devastation on his face deepened into something more profound: a heartbreak so complete it seemed to reshape the very air in the room. When he finally found his voice, it was low and rough, stripped of all its usual gentle warmth.
"You want me?" he repeated, the words laced with a pain that made you flinch. "Is that what this is? Because it doesn't feel like you want me."
He pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed, his large back to you. The muscles there were coiled tight, a statue of suppressed anguish.
"You don't… you don't even see me, do you? You see a means to an end that keeps failing."
Tears pricked your eyes, hot and immediate. "That's not true," you whispered, but the protest was weak, hollow. A lie you told yourself.
"Isn't it?" He stood abruptly pulling on his pant, pacing away from the bed, running a hand through his black curls in a gesture of pure frustration.
"You haven't touched me unless it's this… this calculated effort in months. You haven't looked at me like you actually see me. You look through me. And now you say you want me, and you follow it up with… with instructions?"
His voice broke on the last word, and the sound was more shattering than any roar of anger could have been.
"I just… I want to get it right," you pleaded, the tears starting to fall in earnest now. "I want to give us the best chance."
"Our best chance at what?" he asked, turning to face you. His own eyes were glistening. "A baby? Or us? Because I'm starting to think you've given up on us if the baby doesn't happen."
The accusation hung in the air, toxic and terrifyingly undeniable.
"That's not fair," you choked out, sitting up and pulling the sheet around you like armor. "I want this for us!"
"Do you?" The question was a whisper, but it hit you with the force of a physical blow. "Because it feels like you want it for you. And I'm just the body you're using to get it. You haven't asked about my day. You didn't care that I had to stop a bank robbery today where a hostage was nearly killed. The only thing that matters is this… this obsession. This obsession that's destroying my wife."
The pain and the guilt curdled into something defensive and ugly. "Oh, and you're perfect?" you shot back, the words sharp and brittle.
"You're never here! You're off saving the world, and I'm just here. Alone. In this empty apartment. Waiting. For you, for a baby, for my life to start! You think I don't see you? You're the one who's never really here!"
"You think I want to be anywhere else?" he raised his voice, and the windows rattled in their frames. He never lost control like that. He took a shuddering breath, forcing his volume down, though the pain in it was superhuman.
"You have no idea what it's like for me. To hear your heart rate spike with hope every morning when you take that test, and then to hear it… break. To hear it shatter into a million pieces, over and over again for years. I hear it. Every. Single. Time. I have to stand there and listen to my wife's heart break, and I can't stop it. I can lift anything, but I can't fix this for you. I can't give you the one thing you want."
You stared at him, your sobs caught in your throat. He was right. Somewhere during this journey, the one thing you wanted shifted from him, to a baby.
His voice dropped to a broken whisper. "And then, the worst part… when the hope is gone for the month, you look at me and avoid me like I'm the one who failed you. Like I'm defective."
The fight drained out of you, leaving nothing but a cold, hollow shell. This was the core of it. The unspoken truth you’d both been too terrified to voice.
"It's not you," you whispered, the words barely audible. "It's me. My body is the one that's broken. It's my fault."
Clark was at your side in an instant, kneeling by the bed, his hands coming up to frame your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. His own eyes were glistening.
"No. Don't you dare. Don't you ever say that. It's not a fault. It's not anyone's fault. It's just… life. It's hard, and it's cruel, and it's unfair. But it is not your fault."
He rested his forehead against yours, his breath hitching. "I miss you. Gosh, I just miss my wife. I miss us. I would rather live in this silence with just you for the rest of my life than have a dozen children if it meant not losing you to this… this grief. You are more important to me than any dream. You are the dream. You've always been the dream."
A sob wrenched itself from your chest, and you collapsed against him. He caught you, gathering you into his arms, holding you so tightly against his chest as you cried for all the lost months, the lost intimacy, the pain you'd inflicted on the kindest man in the universe.
"I'm sorry," you choked out against his neck, clinging to his shoulders. "Clark, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to… I just… I wanted…"
"I know," he murmured into your hair, his own voice thick with emotion. "I know, my love. I wanted it, too. But we've lost our way."
You cried until you had no tears left, until you were limp and exhausted in his arms. He held you through all of it, steadfast, patient, strong.
Eventually, he laid you back against the pillows and climbed in beside you, pulling you into the shelter of his body, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you. He held you not with desire, but with a profound, aching tenderness. He held you like you were something precious he'd almost lost.
"You're enough," he whispered into the dark, long after your breathing had evened out. "You have always been enough for me."
And for the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself believe him.
━━━━━━━
author's note: i'm so proud of this, should i make a part 2??
you're the one i love! you're the one i need! you're the only one i see! clark kent finally works up the courage to ask you to dinner; only to run behind on work with lois and completely stand you up. it's fine, you're three glasses of wine in and ready to rant at your friend lois' door, only to find the cause of tonight's rage sitting there on her sofa. now, clark has to find a way to tell you the truth; that this is all a misunderstanding and it's only ever been you. it will always be you.
pairing: clark kent x journalist fem reader (no use of yn)
themes: angst, fluff, implied cheating (more so accusation)
masterlist.
the voicemails started off polite, poised and then four missed calls later you were bordering into unhinged, murderous woman who had been stood up on her first date territory. which you were- so that take is completely true.
you've known clark kent for a few months since you joined the daily planet as a journalist for their women's health section. separated by the plastic wheels squeaking as his bumps his chair into yours and the sweet cups of coffee he starts your mornings with, it wasn't long between your smiles at him became softer. you let yourself look at him a little longer, hanging on to whatever slivers of himself he'd let sneak past his usual charming and boyish front.
he returned those feelings pretty quickly too, through the holding of hands under the desks, him learning a little over your shoulder purposefully to read over your work, the intensity of his closeness throwing you off- how when he'd speak it was as if he had reserved a separate tone just for you- one that felt a little more breathless, thoughtful, pooling heat in your stomach instantaneously and laced with a feeling a lot like love.
it took him weeks to work himself up to ask you on a date. your first date, you mused. clark kent was clearly a man who did things by the book and you had hoped that after tonight, he'd finally meet you in the middle of this strange dance you're stuck in and kiss you silly already.
you'd imagined it in your head a million times; so often that you had once unintentionally started typing out the scene like a true novella; how he'd wine and dine you at the little italian place a few blocks over, dance with you in the dark on the walk home and kiss the remenants of sweet dessert off your lips on your doorstep- instead of filling the column with your recent musings on the importance of gut health in retaining a balanceful mood. you had never smashed the backspace so hard in your life- the angry crushing of keys and the rosy pink flushing the tips of your ears and neck drawing attention to your best friend, lois who stared at you amused.
"he's obsessed with you," she assured with you once, the very first time he looked your way and sent you spiralling. it was the same day he asked you out, a casual question for dinner and maybe it was your fault for overthinking this. he gave you one look and you went running straight into his heart, demanding entrance and free rent.
"hey this is clark! leave your message and i'll try and get back to you-" and you can imagine his obnoxiously gorgeous face, slight chirp in his voice and suddenly the alcohol buzzing war in your veins is giving you the confidence.
"you know clark, if you wanted to just embarrass me you didn't have to take me out to dinner to do that," you grit between your teeth, "oh wait, you didn't even take me out to dinner! call me NEVER." the breath of anger is hot on your phone, steaming the screen. the phone hangs on by a thin thread of misplaced hope and largely embarrassment as it sits between your collarbone and ear.
it's a contrast to the chill air of the apartment stairwell that bites at your bare skin. the off white slip you paired with a soft knit cardigan that was a sweet butter yellow seemed incredible in the moment but right now, only the breeze- bordering wind territory is getting a treat of it tonight. your kitten heels clatter on the stairs up because your friend's stupid elevators are out of service. like mystery man, lois lane had also not returned your calls tonight. you figured she was going through her usual work phases, her perfectionism and hyperfixated need for the chase of a story stealing most of her time. you let her do her thing, its what she loved and you loved supporting her.
when you first moved to the daily planet she was the first to show you around and became the sister you never had; an instantaneous friendship that made the world spin a little slower for you to keep up.
and that's why tonight: three sweaty flights of stairs and two more voicemails that ended with the escape of sniffles has you knocking on your friend's door- in need of an ear to lift this heavy burden of embarrassment of your shoulder.
"lois!" you don't even knock, just throw the entirety of your body weight at her door. your figure is slumped against it when she opens it just by the smallest of inches and maybe if you were intoxicated less, that could've been the first sign.
"he stood me up," the tears stream and before you know it you're sobbing in her hallway- loud wails that widen her eyes comically in fear you're going to wake up the whole neighbourhood.
"i waited," you throw your arms around miserably, like a toddler having a tantrum, "and he never showed."
something instantly freezes in her and what looks like guilt flashes over the sympathetic smile she sends your way before she crushes you into a bone-bending hug. "oh honey," she soothes into your skin and you let the tears soak up her tank top and then you pull back.
"can i come in now?" your voice quiet and lois decided she'd rather the earth swallow her whole.
"i'm a little busy," she winces, trying to close the door a little bit more behind her but you peer through nonetheless anyways, blood freezing cold at the sight of soft black curls you know from the memorisation of how they've felt under your fingers.
"clark," you breathe. its not exactly a question, more so a snot fuelled statement of betrayal as your eyes flicker between him and your friend. you don't know which one to settle on, shift all your focus and blame on because you're so tired and the alcohol is making you drowsier as the minutes tick by.
"honey," he gets up from his spot on the sofa and tries to meet you at the door but the wrinkle in your brow and fury laced in your frown tells him to stop exactly where he is.
"don't you dare come near me," shame rises in your throat and you feel flushed as hell. the heats on the back of your neck, tinging your cheeks in a rosy fire of embarrassment. "god, how could i have been so fucking wrong?" your voice stretches out with a strain and you take a step back in defeat, "i knew i was in over my head," and then you decide no. this is not a pity party for one, you will not take the blame. you were stood up!
"yeah!" you shout with a growl and the two of them look between themselves in concern, unsure of how to approach you.
"honey, wait," a warm and heavy wrist reaches out to grab your arm as you make a sharp turn on your heel- ready to end this night of drunken shame and theatrics.
"oh i did!" you fight the empty laugh with a scoff, "for a whole hour, no texts no calls, nothing," your voice gets quieter, thudding in clark's chest like warning signals blaring disasterously. this is all on him, he thinks. he's fucked up majorly.
you shrug yourself out of his hold, throwing your small purse in the direction of the two of them and hobble away in a huff. the stiletto heels swelling at your ankles as you shift the weight. the air is heavy as you leave it and face the chill of the outside air swimming around you.
the walk back to your apartment isn't far- you live pretty close to lois and when you reach your door, you sigh heavily. leaning your head onto the wooden frame, and as the tears start to well up all over again you bite them back down. in your fit, throwing your purse at the two traitors you forgot that you left your phone and your keys in there. however, sober you is smarter and you use your excellently hidden spare key to unlock the door and crash inside.
it's safer in your home- no one can reach you here, you think. the kitten heels are abandoned at the entryway, and your body collapses straight onto the sofa, not even making it to your bed before sleep chases you and claims to you a life that was kinder to you, where you ate donuts for breakfast and didn't gain a pound, wrote about things that interested you instead of the latest shopping trends and where you could fall asleep in the arms of someone who let you in all the way and just liked you back enough to choose you first.
...
he softly places your purse on your desk infront of you, shifting his weight back and forth, rocking gently on his feet as he waits behind your chair. at 6'4, his height looms over your area, like a cool of shade on a warm summer day, you normally welcome his presence instantly. usually you notice him in a second, with a soft sweet smile in which your nose scrunches a "good morning" and clark kent knows the day is going to be a good one.
instead, he's met with silence.
pure, heavy, lonely silence.
you were thirty four minutes late this morning- he was absolutely counting as he watched the door open and close, hoping it'd be who'd pass in. and when you did you were quieter than usual, hair tied in a messy knot at the back of your head, glasses perched on the bridge of your nose and the same damn yellow cardigan wraps around your frame. only today it sits on top of a black satin slip that sways in the breeze as you take the furthest seat from him. he's instantly tortured with the memories of last night, how undeserving he was to see you in such a fragile but gorgeous state and he blew it completely.
your eyes narrow in on the purse to the side of your computer.
he watches carefully as you poke your tongue in your cheek in thought and prays like hell that you'll just say anything. instead what he soaks up is your snail- like movements who takes all the time in the world to open your purse, not bother checking whether all your things are still there but unlocking your phone.
"i charged it," he has to clear his throat but the earnest rumble still peeks through. you nod slowly, switching it off within a moment and letting it clutter on your desk with a gentle thud- a careless offhanded movement and he winces.
he still waits, hoping you'll throw another crumb his way. he tries not to let the fact that you've not touched the cup of coffee he left steaming at your desk this morning sting his chest like you've poured gasoline over his heart and are just waiting to set it alight.
"not hungry?" he asks, fighting back a stutter. you look over to the muffin he left by the side of your mug and then back at him, a bored expression on your face and clark wishes he could make this whole thing right again. it was a misunderstanding- hard to explain to someone who's drunk- not that he'd ever blame you. it was his fault for getting caught up in his interview with lois he didn't realise the time. he planned this date, he knew about it, scheduled it weeks in advance and he had let it all go to shit because there was someone out there who knew him. and that changed everything, scared him more than anything.
but seeing you so detached, god that's got to top the list for sure.
"no thanks," you deliver flatly, turning your attention back to the screen. your fingers hover lazily over the keyboard and in the reflection of your glasses, clark can still see his reflection fading to the background.
"listen, about last night-" he starts the story he's practises over and over again with great precision but the nerves in his stomach threaten to rip him open still.
"i said no thanks," you repeat more firmly, "look i get it, you're not interested and it's my fault for dragging this on but for the love of god, please don't make this any more awkward for me i will actually die," you don't take your eyes off the screen once but your fingers are frozen. no words typed out but everything said in the open.
"that's so far from the truth-" he begins and you cut him off with a glare sent with pure edge. he stands firm and watches the ice melt with a softened stare. he thinks he has you for a moment and then all the light fades from his eyes when you give him a reassuring nod.
"clark, it's okay. please just go now," and just like that, your focus is taken back to your computer screen and clark is frozen behind you. he stands for a couple more seconds before jimmy places two hands at his broad shoulders and diverts him away.
"i don't know what you did kent, but it's best to wait this out maybe?" he suggests but clark's mind screams the opposite. he has to fix this and quick or the best thing to happen to his life is going to disappear- and he would've just let it all happen.
...
lois gives him a nod across the room and he delivers one exactly the same. at his side, jimmy crosses his fingers and says a prayer which clark thanks him quietly before getting up and walking with such stealth a few feet behind you.
it's lunch time- later than you usually take it but you've grabbed your work bag and have it slunched over your shoulder and make way to the elevator. clark keeps his steps purposefully measured- slower than yours but quick enough to keep up with your momentum. he stops at your side and presses the button to call for the elevator and feels you still beside him.
it's comical how statue-eque you've transformed that clark has to look extra closely to check the rise and fall of your chest to make sure you're breathing.
"hey, do you wanna grab a bite fro-" he can hardly get the question out before you've darted in the direction of the stairwell, taking off at such an incredible speed that clark has to beg for a few huffs of breaths to keep going.
"honey!" he calls out and growls lowly when you do not pause for a single second, jumping down the flights of stairs like each step is burnt straight from hell. clark uses the last of his strength and ounce of caffeine to pull through getting slighter ahead of you and knocks you against the wall.
his hand shoots out in a razor sharp reflex, cushioning your head from where it was moments from meeting the wall as the other pushes itself gently into your abdomen, holding you still.
"stop running from me please," his voice is dangerously low, a plead heavy in the subtle vibrations
"oh," you whisper stupidly at the hand placement, heating pooling in your stomach at the sudden proximity. you hate yourself for how easy it is for him to break your stony resolve. you planned to give him a whole day's worth of the silent treatment but had already broken your pact by charging your stupid phone like a nice human being. ugh.
he stumbles out an apology and pulls back gently, enough to give you some more room to breathe. his hand covering your stomach travels to the side of your hip instead and squeezes it gently in comfort.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, hanging his head low. "lois and i got paired for a new article and we just ran over time. it was my fault, i thought i'd make it to you on time but as we got deeper in the work i forgot to even call or text and," he breathes out slower, "i'm worried i've blown this all because i'm fucking stupid."
his breaths are heavy, slicing the air as it settles thicker with emotions and regrets of last night.
"so you and lois are not?" you can't get the words out and he shakes his head immediately.
"no," he firmly puts, "god, no," theres more emphasis this time, "she's amazing but she's not you. there's only ever been you- there will only ever be you and it fucking kills me that you thought i wasn't interested anymore. honey you hang the stars in my sky and rotate the damn earth, it could never not be you," he whispers again and you nod, staring straight into those gentle eyes.
"i got all pretty for you," your voice cracks, the shards worming its way and seeping through clark's heart. he watches how your eyes glass with a fresh batch of tears and he reaches out to catch the strays intimately, fingers cupping your jaw and he presses his forehead against yours.
"i know baby, and god i'll be sorry till i die,"
"bit dramatic," you ease to break the tension and he huffs out a laugh, "but i appreciate it nonetheless."
"let me make it up to you?" he asks hopeful and you bite your lip, the insecurity and fear of being left behind still making its way into your bones. he can feel that you're inside your own head and curses himself for making you feel this way.
"i don't know clark," you get out honestly, "i felt real stupid sitting there, you also owe me fifty bucks for all that wine," you face the floor, unable to keep eye contact.
he uses a finger to hook under your chin and lift your eyes to him, "i broke your trust," he speaks gently, as if being any louder might scare you away, "i'm so sorry for making you feel forgotten and alone last night, you are important to me more than anything and i'll show it to you. i'll prove it to you, i'm here," he pleads and you sigh, resting your head into his chest and he melts under your touch.
"one chance," your voice heats at his heart. "as long as you promise to delete all those voicemails- i went a little bit overboard," and you flush with sniffle of embarrassment once more. he promises with a chuckle and soft kiss to your temple, holding you in the stairwell for moments that stretch into an eternity.
you don't know that clark cried so hard to each voicemail, he threw his phone in anger, almost breaking it. that he followed you home last night from a distance to make sure you made it back home safe even though he was probably the last person you'd have wanted to see. you don't know that now as you stand in his arms, every bit of honour he has to fight and hang on to desperately when he wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss you stupidly.
he wants forever with you.
and he'll spend the rest of his life working towards it- one dinner, three glasses of wine and eight raging voicemails at a time.
note: i think im just a hardcore david corenswet girl im ngl the press run hes been on lawddddd - 2k on this is crazy!!!!!!! tysm i love u & have posted some clark fluff to celebrate that- but also make up for the angst, i love u!!!! 💘💘
cause now i'm half of myself here without you. you're the best in my life and i lost you. it was one-sided hate how i hurt you. (by gracie abrams!) you don't know where he disappears to- there's always excuses: he's caught up at work, stuck in traffic, some stupid alien attack cut him up on his commute. but now more than ever when you need him to show up at a family dinner where you planned to introduce him to your parents, he still comes in pieces and enough is enough.
pairing: clark kent x fem reader (no use of yn)
themes: angst, break up, no happy ending
masterlist.
he's not coming.
you smile sheepishly at your mother who sends you a small smile and she begins to start serving the mains. you've made it past appertisers, skipped out on the drinks and small talk, catching them up on work and laughing over memories- now you're entering dangerous uncertain territory and all you could do is sit and stare at the clock as the minutes passed by.
fourty three minutes have passed by.
your father tried not to shoot you a disapproving glance- it had taken so much work to warm him up to clark. don't trust those journalists, he said with that gruff tone in the same way he had told you to keep playing a sport even after graduating university or when he had changed the tires on your car- you don't blame him for worrying. you've never brought a guy home before so the bar was low.
lower than fourty three minutes late.
"i'm sure, he just got caught up late with work," you try though the words feel stale and your mother reaches out to place a hand on yours in comfort. its eight pm, you think. should the offices be closed by now? you have no idea.
"you are more than welcome to take some back for him," and your heart soars at the kind offer. though a thank you might cement the fact that he's stood you up on your own family dinner.
"he's coming, i'm sure. in fact, i'll just ring and see where he is," you stand shakily, embarrassment creeping up on your neck as you make your way to the stairs. and just as you suspect, he does not answer like he hadn't the past four times. a sigh escapes you and you know that after tonight, you won't have to keep feeling this way.
you and clark have been dating for six months- he occupies the apartment opposite yours and that's how you met. through laundry days and dinner dates, the two of you had started something slow and sweet at the beginning. it was like having sleepovers every single night and when you'd fall asleep in his big strong arms, nothing in the world seemed to matter anymore. you probably spend more time in his than you do your own.
then the lies started to creep in; it started as an offhanded excuse for traffic, then he started "forgetting" date nights- being caught up at work. you knew nothing about the journalism world so gave him the grace he needed and it was so easy to fall back into routine, the small comfortable world you built when you weren't pushing an arguement. and the thing with clark was- he never played nasty, never said things he didn't mean in the heat of the moment. he was thoughtful, patient, let you get it all out then apologises- promising you're the centre of his attention, a sad cycle you've trapped yourself in.
the phone is warm in your hand, like a subtle burn to let you know its still there and you close your eyes. this dinner was important to you- its not often you visit your parents and tell them about the supposed love of your life to which they actually return interest. tonight they were supposed to be getting to know him, to love him the same way you had. if only he could show up.
the door knocks with heavy taps you'd know in any lifetime and you open it wearily.
"hey," comes his breathless greeting, a grin laced on his features, stretching his cheeks as he takes a step forward. he lands a kiss on your cheek sloppily and you don't find yourself leaning into it anymore. it comes and it goes as quickly as it did.
"hey," he loops a finger under your chin to bring your gaze to his. "i am so sorry, this alien attack thing redirected my route like four times- i tried to get here as soon as possible," the words come out in a hurried breath and you furrow your brows, wondering if he's rehearsed this on the way here.
"doesn't matter, thank you for coming," you speak though theres no bite or tone in your voice, just weariness and fatigue of someone who's been let down too many times.
"wait, honey," and you don't grace him an actual reply, just a faint "not here," before tugging his hand in yours as you make your way to the dining room. you've hardly interlocked his fingers in yours, emptily holding his palm and letting go of it as soo as you meet your parents again.
your parents are mid laughter when they stop and spot clark, instantly rising to their feets to greet him. clark's bigger than most humans, instantly filling up the room with his body and his heart and he charms the pants off your parents.
he talks politics with your father, plays into your mothers gossip, tells jokes like all the times he's ran away it's to play stand up comedian and you hate how it just feels so perfect. "wow" your mother mouths across the room, sending you and exaggerated swoony smile and it does make you laugh softly. as if on reaction, clark's ears perk up at the sound, sending you a gentle smile and wrapping his hand under the table around yours.
you lean into his shoulder after the meal, needing to balance the weight before deciding to help your mother clear the table. the dishes you carry are swiped clear, clark clearly a fan of your mother's food and when you land them in the sink with a gentle thud, you feel your mother's hands at your shoulders from behind you.
"darling," she murmurs and its ever so gentle that you can feel the tears gloss over your eyes. "i don't mean to judge but he seems incredible and all but," and you knew the but was coming, "what good can come from a man who loves you in pieces," her whisper cracks open your heart and lays it bare bloodied and bruised.
"mom," you whimper softly in her hold and she's instantly shushing you gently, rocking you back and forth in hug that holds you together firmly. it's not something you didn't know, it's just the first time someone has said it aloud to you and it hurts all the same
"i love him," you breathe, "and i know he loves me," you try.
"and sometimes it's not enough," she strokes your back in comfort and you look up to the ceiling, trying to force those tears back down.
"i know," you clear your throat and she lets you stay like that a little longer. when you return to the living room to find clark's heavy eyes on your figure and dinner wrapped up, you don't meet his gaze.
you kiss your mother and father on the cheek as clark shakes their hand firmly, wrapping your mother in a hug. they wave goodbye to you from the doorstep and watch you get into his car as clark shuts the door behind you.
the engine starts with a soft purr before he pulls out and starts the drive home. the quiet of the night entering your car as you both work your way around the elephant in the room.
he tells you about work to which you reply with nods and one liners and clark senses the shift like it's in the air suffocating him. he parks up on the side and you look around in confusion- this isn't the way home. you look over at him and for once in your life you don't actually know what to think about him.
"do you wanna tell me whats on your mind?" he speaks softly. too softly that it blurs the edges of the cuts he's left on you before and you almost faulter.
"nothing," you get out, because you don't actually know where to start.
"its not nothing if it's got you upset like this, baby," and when he sees you flinch at the pet name you used to adore his heart stills, missing a beat thundering in moment.
"it's you," and the beats stop entirely as he's stuck to the seat. you watch his expression, eyes begging him to just anything but he's stunned into a careful silence.
"it's me?" he asks slowly and you nod, the lump in your throat tightening your voice.
"i can't do this anymore, clark," and the first teardrop glistens in the dark as it falls. "there's only so much i can do, i've tried to hard to be patient- i, i, ah," you groan feel the rush of emotions overwhelm you, "i stretch myself to new limite to make room for all your lies and secrets and i'm breaking clark."
you look up from your lap, years wetting your lashes to face him honestly- he needs to know the damage he's done, "you don't even know what you do to me and it's unfair clark, it hurts," you try and wipe away the tears that fall but a new fresh batch that form and drop and before you know it, the mascara streaks a messy river down your face and you can't stop this.
he doesn't say anything for a moment, focusing on the heavy rise and fall of his chest. he should've known that he was breaking you apart, that he hadn't given you the trust that this relationship needs to work but he's harbouring a secret that could put you in so much more danger if you knew.
but still he tries, "honey, we can fix this," comes an honest admission of stern determination and you pull back, recoiling in anger.
"there is no we, clark," you jab a finger at his chest, "we haven't been on the same team for a while, you've left me on a one vs one each time you disappear with some lame excuse and i have to convince myself that you're not lying or hiding that it's all okay- we," you repeat back to him in a scoff, "i've tried to fix this so don't demean me and dog me down with a 'we'." there's no room for clark to carry on before you're ranting again.
"you were late to family dinner," your voice lowers an octave in defeat- letting him know that tonight was the final straw. "you know how important this was to me, you're the first guy i've brought home and you made me look stupid- then you play happy home pretend like it's nothing and you make me feel stupid too- what kind of asshole does that?" you ask him. he gave you a glimpse of what the future could've looked like if he just let you all the way in and you hate him immensely for it.
"i'll cut back on work, we can spend more time together- i can fix this," he pleads but you shake your head softly.
"i'm done, clark. i think it's time we call it," you nod to yourself more than anything.
his reply comes as quick as it is stubborn, laced with firmness and the fear of letting the best thing happen to him go, "i dont want to."
"i need to." comes your desperate whine.
"but i love you-" and you wince because on any other night it's what would've made smile, laugh and melt into his embrace. now it stands outside the cage you're trapped in, molted into the key that's so close within your grip.
"and its not enough," you counteract, "not when its also determined through actions- when it doesnt come whole- when i get bits of you when you decide to show up like youre superman saving the day," you list off your fingers and clark momentarily stumbles at your comparison. you use it ironically and it being the cause of his relationship failing pricks at his heart, he can feel the migraine coming in already- the you sized hole he's unable to fill.
"relationships arent perfect they dont-" he stumbles and its clearly the wrong thing to say when you cackle loudly in irony.
"oh god i know! ours is far from perfect!" your voice grows a little quieter and settles an air of finality, "love isnt always easy clark, but it shouldnt have to be so fucking hard."
"im calling it now, before we lose more time to this and we wake up so miserable one day suddenly i don't know ten years down the line tethering ourselves to a feeling we thought was enough and i hate both you and me for staying. i'm not happy clark and i cant live like that- i refuse to live like that," you beg and he sighs in defeat.
"im sorry," he murmurs, unsure of what he could say. nothing can change your mind. he's fucked this up and there's no way out of this for him.
"thats nice to hear," you accept, unwilling to forgive him just right now when the feelings are still raw, fresh and tug at the seams of your mind. your fingers find your temples to massage the growing aches and you face the window- looking anywhere other than your doomed lover, "please take me home."
no words are spoken for the remainder of the journey back to your apartment complex. the faint murmurs of billy joel's "piano man" hum alongside the engine and for once it feels like the universe is on your side- there's no traffic for miles, green lights ahead and you get home within minutes. clark however, still gets out the car at lightning speed before you, almost knocking you over to open your door and walks a few steps behind your pace to make sure you get up to the level of your apartments okay.
the final nail in his coffin is when you turn the key to your own apartment door instead of his like you would usually do almost every night and shut it without so much as a look behind. he stands there, pressing his forehead to the cool wooden panel of your door and breathes in heavily.
"fuck," he sighs, the feelings of tonight weighing his body down that he stays there for a couple of minutes before heaving himself up and heading into his own. he however does take one look back behind him only to find nothing changed- the door still shut on him and the sounds of light switches clicking off.
he doesn't blame you one ounce for ending things- you're stronger than he is by miles but that doesn't mean he isn't going to miss you any less.
riya saying hi: REDEEMING MYSELF AFTER THE LAST ONE GUYS ‼️ this one goes out to @velovicy here's a real break up / unhappy ending - no grovelling however because i do fear this one may be unfixable but i love me a bad ending sometimes and hope you liked it too - let me know what you all think! 💘 i love hearing what you guys have to say x
summary: jack won’t let you ruin your health with something as stupid as vaping.
cw: intoxication (reader), vaping, argument with jack :( but it’s just cause he caressss
wc: 1.1k
a/n: guess who quit vaping 30 days ago?? me!!!!! it feels really fucking great—I still miss it, but I’ve saved so much fucking money, and I feel so much better already. the first few days, I cried every single day and annoyed all my friends, I think, but now it’s better. I still have the occasional cigarette, but that’s something I’m working on.
Jack looks upset when he comes to pick you up from your night out with your friends. You’re drunk, but not so drunk that you don’t see the furrow between his brows and the way his jaw clicks.
To his credit, he is right to be unhappy.
His car pulls up to the curb you and your friends are sitting on, glittery skirts reflecting his headlights. You’re the one who’s currently holding the vape.
Scratch that—you’re not just holding it.
The taste of strawberry ice fills your mouth and lungs, settling there like a heart attack waiting to happen. Jack frowns at you as he shuts the car door with more vigor than necessary.
“Hey, baby,” he greets you, then nods at your friends.
Your sheepish smile tells him everything he needs to know.
Despite his anger, his hand finds yours with the gentleness you’re used to as he helps you up from the floor.
“You ladies got rides home?” he asks your friends. All of them nod, a mix of shy and giddy expressions all around. Your girls are almost as infatuated with Jack as you are, your handsome older boyfriend, who always shows them—and you, of course—the utmost respect, despite the gap in age, experience, and, well, everything.
He looks at you, then at the vape in your hand.
“You wanna give that back to whomever it belongs to?” he questions sternly.
“It’s mine. I bought it,” you reply.
His face shifts for a second. It’s not exactly disappointment that flickers across his face, but something eerily similar.
Shit. Maybe you should’ve lied. Drunk-you tends to get you in trouble.
Jack wrinkles his nose, then takes a deep breath.
“Time to go home, sweetheart,” he mutters.
His hand tugs on your own, leading you to the passenger side of the car. He opens your door and shuts it for you the moment you sit down.
As he rounds the car and drops into the seat behind the wheel, his jaw ticks again.
“Put your seatbelt on,” he grumbles.
The drive back is tense—you feel sick to your stomach, and it has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol in your system.
Jack keeps his eyes on the road at all times, not sparing you a single one of the tender glances he usually bestows upon you. He adores you drunk, when you get all cuddly and sweet, but right now, you feel like he’d prefer it if you had gone to your own place.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.
He simply holds up his hand.
“Not now, sweetheart,” he mumbles. “Just… let’s just get home first, okay?”
You know it’s not punishment that he withholds communication, but rather him sorting through his thoughts, but, intoxicated, you feel like you’re being reprimanded for something almost everyone does at some point in their life.
“It’s just a vape,” you mutter, a little sharper than you intended.
Jack’s head snaps to you.
“Baby, I mean it, not now. Okay? We’ll talk about this at home.”
When the car pulls up into his driveway, you undo your seatbelt and open the door. As you storm inside, a little wobbly on your feet, Jack follows you quickly.
You do something you haven’t done since you were a teenager: you slam the front door loud enough that Jack’s neighbors probably heard it, and disappear into the kitchen.
Outside, Jack stands on the welcome mat and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“God-fucking-dammit,” he whispers to himself, then pushes the door open.
When he steps inside, he finds you leaning on the kitchen counter, balancing on one foot and trying to get the strappy heel off of your other one. You give him a sour glance before you pull at the clasp below your ankle again.
“Hey,” he calls out. “You have no reason to be mad at me. I’m the one who’s fucking pissed.”
He walks towards you, then grabs your hips to stabilize you.
“Stop that,” he adds. “I’ll do it.”
Jack hoists you onto the counter with practiced ease. For a moment, being lifted so suddenly steals your breath, and your fingers dig into his shoulders. You're a little too drunk for such acrobatics. He doesn’t mention it.
Instead, he just drops to his knee and starts unhooking the clip of your shoe, first the left, then the right.
The moment you’re freed, you exhale deeply.
Jack stands back up and walks to the sink, where he fills two glasses with water. He silently passes you one, then puts the other one down next to you.
“You know how I feel about smoking,” he says grimly. “I see what it does to people every fucking day.”
You nod quietly.
“I don’t care if it’s a cigarette or a vape or- or that snus stuff. It’s really fucking bad for you. And I don’t want you showing up in my ER any time in the future, or ever, because of something as avoidable as this shit.”
His voice quivers slightly, and your eyes snap up to meet his. The anger has left and instead bled into pure concern.
“I know,” you reply timidly.
“Do you?” he asks.
“Yes.”
The word comes out firmer than you meant, and you quickly cover his hand with yours.
“Yes,” you repeat, softer. “I was just… being an idiot. I didn't think it mattered that much, but... I know it’s bad for me. I won’t do it again.”
“No, you won’t,” he agrees, then nods to the untouched glass next to you.
You breathe in deeply, then feel for the vape in your purse. Jack watches, his eyes not leaving you for even one second, as you hold it in your hand.
“You know what to do,” he encourages gently.
For a second, dread fills your chest like a vice around your lungs. Then you drop the vape into the water, watching as the bubbles rise to the top. A tiny cloud of grey smoke swirls around before the vape dies.
“Good girl,” Jack mumbles.
He squeezes your hand and leans in to kiss your forehead.
“Didn’t mean to ruin your night,” he says quietly, his breath ghosting over your brow bone. “But I won’t let you do shit like that, you hear me?”
You nod again.
“You didn’t ruin my night,” you reply. “And I know you’re right. It just sucks that all the fun things are bad for you.”
“That’s hardly true,” Jack answers.
A small smirk plays around his lips.
“I can think of a million fun things that aren’t bad for you. Some of them might even satisfy that desire of yours to have something in your mouth.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
summary: almost caught having a steamy makeout session with your older not-so-boyfriend boyfriend in the middle of the emergency department by a certain pretty Dr. Mohan, getting ushered out of the room to deal with a violent patient. Jack thinks he's doing what's best for you. (2.3k) (PART 2)
Characters: Jack Abbot x fem reader, x platonic! dennis Whittaker, x samira mohan (love her, mother) part 1
Content: 18+, established relationship, jealousy, angst, mentions of bleeding and getting punched, Jack Abbott lowkey an emotionally unavailable asshole, no spoilers for s2!, mentions of wounds and medical treatment. Part 3 will be coming! MDNI
Trinity’s delicate hands swiftly tie the light blue isolation gown over your black scrubs, her fingertips grazing the back of your neck. Which usually would have sent shivers down your spine.
But now your spine feels heavy and tired, it aches as though it’s struggling to hold up your head that’s burdened by the millions of insecure thoughts rushing through it.
“ you okay bumble?” She questions, her hands tying the lower back strings to the gown into a knot. Ensuring that no matter how aggressive or antsy the patient is, the gown will stay on.
You move your head, side to side. Trying to show that ‘yea nothings wrong, it’s not like I want to crumble into a ball on the floor and cry my heart out. I’m totally chill.’ Lifting the corner of your lips to put on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your melancholy eyes.
“ When are you going to stop calling me that?” You say letting out a loud sigh, interlocking both of your hands together and stretching them over your head. Your knuckles crack, the sound vibrating through the air, allowing for an illicit groan to slip from your lips. One you immediately pretend didn’t happen.
Trinity smiles, taking a step forward, finally facing you. Giving you less room to try to hide the hurt on your face, it was easier when she was behind you tying the gown which now feels a bit too tight. Trying to straighten your posture, you feel the pressure from the two little knots in the back restrict your failed attempts at good posture. “ Hey I think you tied it too tight-“
You feel two hands grip your shoulders, no doubt belonging to Trinity. “ Why the long face bumble?” She asks pulling the ends of the stethoscope hanging around her neck down, a habit of hers she does whenever she’s standing on business.
“ There is no long face Trin-“ your annoyed tone gets abruptly interrupted by god on her own two feet. You don’t even have to look to know who it is.
“ Jesus peach, somebody pee in your lucky charms this mornin?” Glossy blonde hair twisted into a little bun appears in your peripheral vision, dark grey scrubs coming into view as soon as she steps beside you.
“ there’s nothing wrong with me Dana! I’m totally normal! What..Are you guys suggesting my wrinkles are already that visible?” You stammer, voice raising an octave thanks to your nerves and inability to lie. It was never really your strong suit. Damn your stupidly transparent face.
Trinity hands you two pairs of blue surgical gloves, “ you’re gonna need two.” She says patting you on the back with a sly smile on her face. Just then, you feel the itchy latex come in contact with your warm cheeks.
“ Do you not put on the sunscreen my mom brought from the Philippines? Yeah..your wrinkles are realllyyyyy showing.”
Trinity says squishing your cheeks with her hands, as though you were a grumpy little child and not someone who’s a month older than her.
“ Knock it off you two! You’re hurting my heart if you think L/N here has some deep wrinkles. I must be the babadook then.” Dana jokes as she slips on a pair of gloves over her manicured fingers.
You two immediately stand up straight, truly like two little children getting scolded by their mom. Trinity leans in towards your ear, her pink plush lips graze your earlobe. “ Seriously why the stick up your ass?” She questions as quietly as she can, which is frankly not quietly considering its Trinity Santos.
“ I said knock it off you two!” Dana grabs one of the newly introduced patient ‘passports’, courtesy of Dr.Al-Hashimi’s efforts to improve the pitts numbers in the patient score satisfaction, and whacks Trinity on the shoulder.
A figure steps into the room, one hand on the door and one hand holding a black tablet, he peeks his head in.
“ We’re ready for you.” Donnie says pressing his lips into a tight line, trying to hide the joy and utter satisfaction that he won’t be the one suffering the wrath of the kraken.
It’s gonna be you…yayyyy…
Sucking in a deep breath with your eyes closed shut; hands starting to grow sweaty beneath the two layers of gloves and the tightness of the disposable gown just continues to rub against your skin in a manner which is so provoking it’s driving you insane in the brain.
Walking through the busy hospital hallways while Trinity and Dana discuss the possible reasons as to why ‘ you’re not giving Gods joy’ right now.
You try to tune their voices out, o to push them away to the back of your already self-destructive mind where they can dissolve like static.
You know how sometimes you can find comfort in static? Because it’s steady. predictable. Almost soothing in its consistency? Not this time. It’s not comfortable at all as you spot him with her.
He stands tall next to her, rugged face displaying softness and warmth as she throws her head back laughing at whatever he just whispered in her ear. How the light illuminates from her dimples and eyes, the little sparkle in her brown eyes.
Her eyes weren’t just brown, they were honey caught in shadow, glowing when the hospital light touched them. Who the hell looks this majestic underneath the annoyingly bright hospital lights?
You take note of how his hand rests on her lower back as he points at the large chart displayed over the hospital work area. A gesture he never makes with you. A sense of comfort he’s never offered you. Not in public at-least.
In private, it’s different. Completely different. You have to shove his wandering hands off of your body, even though he just catches both of your hands with just one of his and presses small, scattered kisses along your skin.
Even after rough cases, after you’ve felt your patients life slip underneath as you push your body to the edge trying to perform chest compressions. How the death rattle breathing slips from their mouths, silencing the last sign of life and soul inside the now empty vessel. Leaving behind the stillness of something that was once alive.
He still doesn’t offer you this comfort. Not after the countless times you’ve dragged your tired weak legs after him, covered with the blood of someone’s child, hoping for even a sliver of reassurance, like a child chasing after someone who wants nothing to do with their antics.
He would just press his lips into a tight-line and pat your back. The same way he comforts Whittaker, Langdon, Santos, Robinavitch, and Javadi. Like you were just one of them. And not someone who sits on the other end of the table with smudged lipstick.
You don’t notice the hands on your back pushing you towards the guarded ER room, you also fail to notice the man lunging at you.
You attempt to raise your elbows up to block your face, a hand-to-hand combat tip you learnt from the same man who’s responsible for your lack of attention and the fist now connecting to the middle of your face.
Your head snaps back, your body following along with it. The harsh concrete floor connects with your back and head, sending a wave of piercing agonising pain through your body.
You arch your spine instinctively as the pain settles into a dull, throbbing pain behind your eyes. You clench your teeth, trapping the whimper trying to crawl out of your throat.
Blood spills from your nose, warm and metallic, tracing a dark crimson path down your neck, staining your skin the colour of deep wine.
The smell of iron floods your senses, it that was even possible considering the blood pouring out of both of your nostrils. Does your noise even work now? Your hand shakes as you try to touch your nose, instead met with warm liquid
The room ascends into commotion and chaos, ahmed pushes past the doctors and nurses grabbing the kraken tightly and pushing him against the bed. Trying to restrain his wild, thrashing movements. If only that was the end of this horrible situation.
A stream of bodily fluids sprays you on you, instinctively tilting your head to the side to prevent it from reaching your probably broken nose.
More nurses and doctors begin to flood the loud room. You can’t tell if it was loud from the shouting, which you were very much used to in the ER which leads you to believe it was loud because of the ringing in your ears drowning everything else out.
A pair of hands wrap around your shoulders, trying to lift you up and lead you out of room.
You don’t notice the group of people surrounding you, asking if you’re okay. Or you do and just don’t care. The searing pain from your nose and the warm fluid trailing out of your nostrils are the only things keeping you from losing consciousness. Or you might just let it take you.
—
distant shouting and sharp, ragged breaths make you scrunch your nose, the noise dragging back the throbbing ache in your head to the surface. The same pain before everything went black. You passed out?
“ W-what happened?” You whisper, voice hoarse and raspy probably from the lack of water consumed within the past 10 hours of your shift.
“ Oh god L/N…”
His voice momentarily pulls you out of the gnawing pain in your head. Only to sharpen the stabbing pressure behind your eyes.
He stands there, calloused hands gripping the fabric of his black scrub pants as he tries to wipe the sweat and panic clinging to his palms, as though scrubbing them so furiously would erase what happened earlier.
“ Are you okay? How’s your nose? Your head?” His is husky and smoky sending shivers down your aching spine. His gaze settled low and steady on your confused face, eyes a deep storm-blue, carrying the restless weight of a storm pressing against the surface of a restrained ocean.
You notice how the veins in his arms protrude underneath his skin, a clear sign of his distress and panic that he’s trying to contain infront of you.
“ how are your sutures?” You whisper softly as your fingers graze the tip of your nose, biting your lower lip in pain.
“ Christ Y/N..”
Jack groans, burying his face in his hands as his fingers press against the aching throb inside his head. He stands in-front of you, hands dropping down to his sides. Gripping the black scrubs with his sweaty hands.
He looks like a kicked puppy, afraid to speak to you or even look at you. “ I uhm..” he coughs once. “ Your nose isn’t broken..”.
“ yeah I assumed. I’m not in excruciating pain.” You bluntly say in a monotone voice, not finding it in you to speak sweetly to the older man who’s know kneeling infront of you.
You watch him press his lips together into a tight line, tilting your head quizzically. Is he..upset? Oh god no.
Scooting to the edge of the hospital bed with your fingers tightly gripping the white paper sheet beneath you, watching it crinkle with your movements.
“ Hold on hold on careful peach-“ his hands grab a firm hold on your knees.
You narrow your eyes at him, “ Jesus! I’m okay Jack!” you say, scoffing and rolling your eyes.
How dare he? Oh right, the curtains to the hospital room are drawn shut. No one else is in the room, and no one stands from the outside either. Because here, behind the curtains, it’s allowed to exist.
“ I can’t believe you right now.” pushing yourself off the bed, hands steadily grabbing the wall for support. Vision starts to grow cloudy and hazy, the edges of your sight blurring and swaying as if the world was moving underwater.
His hands brace your jaggy rocking, “ What did I do? Come on just sit down peach-“ his eyes keep bouncing between the bottom of the curtain to spot if a pair of feet is approaching and you.
Even now, he’s just so afraid to be seen with you. When you’re clearly so riddled with fear and pain from whatever the hell happened in that hospital room. You’re still a burden to be seen with.
“ I can’t believe you right now.” the situation so funny to the point where you’re laughing and covering your mouth, a loud wince spilling out of your mouth from your fingertips accidentally nudging your injured nose.
“ Would you drop the attitude peach-“
“ You’re such an ass!”
“ Y/N” he warns.
“ Dr. Mohan,” you warn back.
You watch the way his head shoots back and the large step he takes back from you, hands falling down to his sides. You scoff.
“ You’re unbelievable, Dr. Abbott”
His face disappears in his hands, “ I told you not to get too close to me.” He says through his fingers, fingers that want to so badly reach for you but stay where they are, held back by something he’s too afraid to name.
Ilya finds an odd picture of Shane in a photo album at one point. He's maybe three, he's sitting on the massive purple sofa that Ilya has discovered the Hollanders owned when Shane was born. He's frowning, red-cheeked and he's got a strange plastic case on his thumb.
"Yuna," he says, shifting his elbows on the table to point at it. "What is this on his hand? Was broken?"
Shane's head snaps up from across the table, where he's pretending that Photo Album Time is very boring to him and not worth paying attention to. He hasn't scrolled on the article he's pretending to read for over five minutes.
"I never broke a bone as a kid," he says, brows furrowed. "Not until U13, when that fucking kid from Guelph--"
Yuna and Shane both inhale quickly through their noses in what Ilya has learned to recognize as a moderative measure, lest they start yelling about something that everyone else on Earth has forgotten about.
"No," Yuna says, once her face looks a little less intense. "No, it wasn't broken. It was this...contraption that the dentist gave us to correct his thumb-sucking. He was so mad about it, we only put it on him a few times."
"Oh, Jesus," Shane mutters, eyes going back to his phone.
"Aw," Ilya says. "Poor baby Shane." He taps his finger against one little red cheek and laughs. "You really do look so mad, sweetheart. How did you make him stop?"
"Hmm...you know, I don't remember," Yuna sighs, tilting her head. "I guess he just stopped by himself eventually. Do you remember, Shane?"
"No," Shane says, shortly.
"Of course, that didn't get rid of the oral fixation," Yuna sighs, adjusting her reading glasses as she flips the page. "The things you used to chew on, Shane. Pens and straws and--"
"Mom," Shane snaps, while Ilya vibrates beside him. "Can we not?"
"I was afraid to give him popsicles because I thought he would gnaw on the sticks until he got a splinter in his stomach."
"Mom!"
"Well, honey, it's true! And you did outgrow it eventually, so it's not as if you have to be embarrassed."
"Mm. Excuse me." Ilya stands from the table and sweeps out onto the back porch, though the sliding door does nothing to prevent the sound of his guffaws from floating back into the kitchen.
"You know," Yuna says, "I'm just going to assume that this is some kind of language barrier thing--"
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Pairing: Jack Abbot x ex wife!reader Word count: 9.6k
Description: After Jack learns about a tumor in your head that could’ve been the reason your marriage fell apart years ago, all the old bitterness of your separation stops mattering. Now he’s chasing surgeons across the country as he watches the woman he still loves slip further away. But what terrifies him the most, is the relentless, exhausting, yet beautiful war of choosing you everyday, even when you keep unintentionally hurting him.
Part 2 of The Great War but it can be read as a standalone.
Tags/warnings: ANGST, hurt/comfort, terminal illness. lots of caretaking from jack, arguments, reader can be a bit rude sometimes but it’s meant to show the way the illness influences behaviors, jack has a mild panic attack, vulnerable talks, bittersweet moments and allusions to smut. It also has a little Grey’s anatomy crossover, so watch out for that <3
Note: After more angsty thoughts invaded me at 2 am, I couldn’t let this story go unfinished!! I think it’s one of the most emotional things I’ve written so I really hope you enjoy it 🤍 I promise this time things get better, trust! Pretty dividers by @bhavihelps 🫶🏼
Masterlist
I vowed not to cry anymore, if we survived the Great War
It’s been three months since Jack learned about your condition, and how it may’ve been the reason your marriage had ended on such bad terms.
He kept his word, and requested a sabbatical the next day you showed up at PTMC telling him there was a timebomb inside your head. He even fought to get four months instead of the three attendings usually get…yet time is still running out.
The truck he rented moves across the streets of New York, driving away from what is the seventh–or the eight? Neurosurgeon rejection from the contacts he’s pulled. Could be the ninth. You’ve lost count somewhere between California and Washington, between hospitals and surgeons with expensive watches reviewing your case without an actual intention of acting upon it.
You watch Jack’s stiff posture from the passenger seat. There are new lines in his face now, his curly silver hair is slightly longer than he usually keeps it, and his stubble has become a proper salt and pepper beard, because taking care of himself has dropped several places on his list of priorities. He looks older than he did a few months ago and even more tired than when he was working at the ED.
He’d been quiet ever since you’d stepped out of the last consult. You’d watched his back as he’d walked several steps ahead. Usually he stays beside you, with a hand on your back, or around your waist, matching his pace to yours even when he can barely contain the emotions inside him. He always asks if your head is bad, if you’re dizzy, or if you need to sit down for a minute before the car.
But not this time, and you can’t really blame him for it. You went through all of this already, alone, your consult count was higher than the one you currently have with him. You had “made peace with it” so why does it hurt so much more now?
Because now it feels like Jack is sick too.
Sick with carrying an illness that doesn't belong to him, but is dragging him down just as brutally. So you’d kept quiet as you followed behind, because you know he needs his space too. Which is why it surprises you when he’s the one to break the silence.
“I shouldn’t have walked off,” he says, eyes still on the traffic ahead. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“You were mad, it’s okay,” you say immediately, forcing a smile. Because the truth is, his kindness, one you still don’t feel worthy of after your messy separation, hurts more than everything going on.
“I’m always mad,” he says, still avoiding your gaze, but his tense shoulders have dropped a little. “That’s still no excuse.”
You sigh, reaching out to caress the curls falling over the back of his neck. “I forgive you, Jack. I’m fine, really.”
The words taste bitter in your mouth, not because you don’t mean them, but because there’s nothing you have to forgive him about. He’s doing everything, he’s been nothing but understanding and supportive, and guilt suffocates you. And as much as you want your mind to be strong, your body betrays you.
“Do you mind if we pull over for a second?” You ask, trying to keep a steady voice, but Jack notices the strain on it.
He finally turns to look at you, and sees that little grimace you make when your head starts feeling too heavy. He slows down and finds a spot to stop the car, undoing his belt to fully turn to you and cup your face in his hands.
“Hey, honey,” he says softly, “Dizzy?”
“A little,” you say, closing your eyes.
“I should’ve–”
“Stop,” you cut him off, “I don’t want you to feel worse. Just hold me, please,” you mumble, already reaching for him.
Jack doesn't hesitate to undo your belt too so he can pull you closer. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, the other cradles the back of your head so gently it makes you melt into his chest. As he feels you relax in his embrace, a million thoughts swarm inside his head.
I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.
The words of the last doctor echo again and again. At this point he can recite what they always say. He knows neurosurgeons protect their numbers and their success rates. He knows that every “I’m sorry” is not actually about you, but about not letting their name get attached to the possibility of failure.
Jack hates it, of course, because he’s an ED doctor. Reputation means absolutely nothing there, even when they’re the ones who stand between the patient dying or getting to an OR. No matter what they do, they get blamed for everything anyway. They get cursed at by the surgeons upstairs, second guessed by the hospital’s higher ups, and let’s not forget about the occasional malpractice claim.
Fuck that.
After years of therapy, Jack has gotten better at facing the unfairness of life, but these days it just keeps getting harder and harder. Because if there’s something med school didn’t cover, it was how to watch the person you love disappear everyday. There is nowhere to put all that hurt and helplessness, except into making more plans. Thinking about the next city, the next doctor, the next sliver of hope. To keep moving, to never stop.
If this is a war, then he’s going to fight it.
Which is why, once you’re back at the hotel room, Jack doesn’t even bother taking his coat off. He just walks toward the chair in the corner and goes straight for the laptop. This has become the routine anyways. Every spare second, on planes, in hotel rooms, between appointments, at three in the morning when he thinks you’re asleep, Jack is on that laptop.
Looking for more research, case studies, new trials. At some point, it stopped being just reputable sources, now it’s everything he can find. Testimonials on Facebook, Reddit posts, even TikTok when he remembered someone mentioning Dr. J’s successful influencer career.
He knew he hit rock bottom the night he asked AI what to do. Fucking AI.
Desperate times.
You close the door behind you with a sigh and slip off your coat and shoes, knowing it’s gonna be hard to get Jack’s attention back from that screen. Still, you pad across the room until you’re standing behind his chair. Your hands find his tense shoulders, using what’s left of your day’s strength to bring him some kind of relief. His left hand rises to absentmindedly caress yours, but his eyes stay on the laptop.
“Jack…” you call softly, but he doesn’t acknowledge you.
You look over his head, to see some article on a recent study made by a neurosurgeon in Seattle. You don’t even bother reading when you recognize the name, and look away from the screen because you are so, so tired.
“We can keep trying tomorrow,” you say, fingers still moving. “We’re in New York. The last time we were here together we were young and stupid,” you chuckle, “now we’re still stupid, but we’re not that young anymore.”
Still nothing.
You drop your hands and round him until you’re standing in front of him. That gets his attention, at least, his eyes shift up to your face, but only for a second before they drop back to the screen. You place a hand on the laptop lid.
“Please.”
He exhales, looking up again. “Honey, I’m reading something important.”
“It’s not gonna go anywhere,” you argue softly. “Let’s just drop it for one day.”
He wants to refuse, and he’s going to, but before he can open his mouth you beat him to it.
“I really think a walk would make me feel better,” you add, in a quieter voice. It’s emotional blackmail, you know it, but sometimes it’s justified.
Jack also knows he’s not one to resist his sick wife’s requests. He knows that with a clarity that hurts, but he also knows that the only way he can survive this, is if he splits you into two categories: wife and patient. He can’t be your husband right now. He can’t coddle you, he has to triage you instead.
You’re like an urgent, critical, first priority case. There’s a red tag on your arm that tells him he needs to act soon or you’ll be gone. That he has to keep fighting, even if everyone keeps mistaking your red tag for a black one.
So his eyes drop back to the article.
You stand there, clearly ignored, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. Fine. Your hand slips off the laptop as you sigh again, turning away from him before he can see how much it stings.
“I’m going to take a shower,” you announce, heading to the bathroom.
“Okay,” he says distractedly.
That’s all. No ‘let me help you.’ No ‘be careful, honey.’ No usual reflex to follow and make sure the water isn’t too cold, or to press a kiss to your shoulder before you step inside. It’s probably better that way, so once the bathroom door is closed behind you, you lock it.
Jack hears it and his hands still over the keyboard. His eyes land on the bathroom door, and frowns. Because despite everything, you never lock the door with him. Not when you shower, not when you change, not even when you need a moment to cry where he can’t see. He still gives you space when you ask for it, but you always keep the door open for him.
He continues reading his article when he hears the water running, but he’s not calm until–half an hour later–you walk out of the bathroom in a hotel bathrobe. He watches as you stomp over your side of the bed, yanking the sheets up and fluffing the pillows violently. The shower had done absolutely nothing to calm you down. If anything, it seems to have brought all the anger in you right to the surface.
Jack finally closes the laptop and stands up hesitantly, clearing his throat as his hands go to his jean’s pockets. He has taken off his coat by now, and his luscious hair looks like he’s ran his hand through it way too many times.
“We are going to Seattle tomorrow,” he announces, making you chuckle bitterly.
“Oh, are we?”
Jack looks at you and the poor bedding getting bullied, but keeps a straight face. “Yes. We need to be at the airport at 9 a.m–”
“I’m not going,” is all you say, once your side of the bed looks comfortable enough, but you don’t sit yet.
For a moment he doesn't know what to say. Because in all these months, you have gone to every appointment he has arranged. Every consult, every long shot recommendation. Every humiliating rejection. You’ve had your doubts yes, but you've never flat out refused before.
Come on Jack, breathe.
“Honey, I already made an appointment,” he explains softly, but there’s nothing soft about your reaction.
“With the one from the article? That great neurosurgeon from Seattle?”
“Yes...”
You take a moment to reply, but realize you have to confess eventually. “He already said no to me.”
“What?” he asks, confused. “You gave me a list of all the doctors you talked to before you came to me, he wasn’t there.”
You sigh, “I reached out weeks ago.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“Well, now I’m telling you,” your voice is weaker than it needs to be, considering how angry you feel inside. “I wanted to get ahead, maybe get us a real shot since I’ve read good things about him, only to reach the same dead end. My email got politely declined, I didn’t even get the chance to have an appointment. I don’t know how you got through.”
Jack takes in your words for a moment, realizing right now is really not the time to talk your ear off about keeping things from him.
“Well, it’s different because he heard it from me. This doctor operated on one of the guys from my unit a few years ago. Saved his life when everybody else turned him down.”
“Right, of course,” you scoff before you can help yourself.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he looks at you with raised eyebrows to continue, and you can’t fight the venom on your tongue.
“It means I’m not a man and I’m not a vet, Jack! Maybe I should’ve gone to war first. Maybe then people would notice me long enough not to reject me.”
Jack just stares at you, standing there with a prosthetic that cost him more than just bone under his pants.
He waits for you to take it back, but you seem to be blinded by something beyond anger. That’s when his eyes drop to your hands, and sees the unmistakable shake of them. He’s been noticing more of this sharpness the last few weeks, an unwilling cruelty that arrives out of nowhere, then leaves you wrecked after.
Tumor talking.
His eyes search for your medicine on the dresser, and the bottle looks untouched from how you left it this morning. You were supposed to take it before your shower, but he was too busy ignoring you to remind you of it. He sighs as realization washes over his body, but instead of scolding you he chooses patience.
Again.
When his gaze lands on you again, you’ve closed your eyes with a frown, rubbing your temples with a trembling hand. Jack reaches for the medicine, walking toward you cautiously.
“Honey, I’m gonna need you to sit down.”
“I don’t need to sit down,” you say sharply, stopping him in his tracks.
Jack glances at the meds in his hand, then back to your still scrunched face. He decides to wait.
“Okay, then…what do you need?”
You finally open your eyes, thinking about it. It doesn’t take long before you straighten up abruptly, as if a lightbulb just turned on over your head like when a cartoon character gets an idea.
“I need to go home,” you say decidedly, forgetting about the anger and tightening your robe tie to walk with determination toward your suitcase on the floor.
“What?” Jack follows behind, watching you gather your clothes from the bed and throw them messily into the suitcase.
“I’m done,” you mumble. “I’m going back home.”
“Let’s slow down–”
“No.”
“Just listen to me–”
“I am listening,” you say, not even looking at him as you keep throwing inside everything you can find. “That’s the problem. I’ve been listening to you for months.”
Jack closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, he’s calm by some miracle. This is just like the ED. Slow is steady and steady is fast.
“Seattle is worth a try,” he insists, but his voice has gone softer. “I need to talk to this doctor in person. This may be the last city–”
“You say that about every city!” You snap, groaning when you bend down to try to zip the suitcase, but everything inside is so crammed that you don’t even get halfway through.
Jack places the meds back on the dresser, and softly peels you away from the suitcase. He lifts it from the ground to place it on the bed, taking out the miserable bunches of clothes out. Before you can protest, he starts folding your sweaters with infuriating neatness and placing them in the suitcase properly.
“Okay. You want to go home? We can talk about that.”
You frown, because it doesn’t sound angry or like he’s fighting you, more like he’s helping you survive the moment. Even if he disagrees with every word coming out of your mouth.
“Yes. I’m not going to Seattle,” you insist, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Okay,” he says simply, reaching out for your boots on the floor to put them on a shoe bag and pack them too.
Lastly, you watch him step into the bathroom and come out with your toiletry bag you’d completely forgotten about and places it inside. Then he starts closing the suitcase properly, pressing down the overstuffed center to make it easier.
You frown, trying to blink through the fog and the pain clouding your head, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. Jack looks at you once the suitcase is ready, and takes it off the bed to place it vertically on the floor.
“Come sit down, honey,” he says, patting the free spot.
“No,” you shake your head.
He nods, reaching for a water bottle from the mini fridge and holds it up as an offering. “Want to drink a little?”
You shake your head again, avoiding his gaze.
“Then at least take these,” he says gently, picking up the pill bottle. “Please?”
“I said no.”
“Okay, honey.”
His tone has no fight in it. He’s not being condescending. He’s being calm and patient, just being…Jack. Something about that makes you want to claw out your skin. Why does not fighting feel worse than doing it?
“Stop saying okay. And don’t call me honey right now,” you say firmly.
“Okay–”
“Oh my god,” you groan, pacing around in your spot because you don’t know what the hell is wrong with you and Jack just makes you feel more guilty about it. “Would you stop agreeing with me for a second?”
That catches him off guard.
“Tell me something back,” you insist, “God, Jack, just–just say something. Yell at me if you want.”
Jack watches you carefully, because you’re not making any sense. If you’d had this fight the last months you were still together, he would’ve done exactly that. Match your fire with his. He’s not proud of it, but it was back when none of you understood why you always prompted a fight with him, poking him until his infinite patience ran thin. Back when the thing in your head didn’t have a name.
But he knows better now.
“I’m not yelling at you, that's not going to help you,” he says quietly.
Because he did it once already, years ago, and he’s spent every day since wishing he had understood sooner. Because you are in pain and terrified and your own brain is turning against you and he will not make this worse just because that part of you is begging him to.
Your lower lip wobbles, and you hide it by covering your face with your hands. It doesn’t take long before your shoulders start to shake, and Jack sees the crash he expects after every outburst.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Jack says, reaching out to hold your sobbing figure.
The adrenaline is gone. What’s left is the crash and that horrible shame that always comes after.
“I don’t feel good,” you whisper.
“I know, sweetheart. Come on, sit down for me.”
This time, you don’t argue when he wraps his arm around your waist and helps you settle carefully onto the edge of the bed, then kneels in front of you despite the discomfort it sends through his leg.
“How are you feeling?” he says, cupping your cheeks as he studies your face.
“So tired…”
“Can you take the meds now?” He asks, still not scolding. You nod, so he half turns to reach for them and the water bottle again. “Alright, here honey, slow…”
He puts the pills in your hand and holds the water for you. Once you’re done, he sets everything aside, then goes back to placing his hands on your knees.
“Can you please look at me?”
There weren’t many things you could dislike about your husband, if anything it was the opposite, but one thing that had always stressed you out was how intense he could be about eye contact. Not because his hazel eyes weren’t beautiful, no, but because they were impossible not to give in to.
“Come on…” he begs, searching for your eyes but you tilt your face away. “It’s okay, my love. We are okay.”
“No we’re not, please stop playing nice,” you cry out.
“I’m not playing,” he says firmly. “I’m always going to be nice to you when you’re hurting.”
That almost kills you.
“This keeps happening,” you sniffle, blinking back the tears. “Is this all I am to you know? This horrible broken thing?”
It’s the first time in the whole argument he actually looks offended by something you said. He shakes his head, wiping your tears with his thumbs as if he’s brushing the bad thoughts away.
“You are my wife,” he says with a certainty that makes your chest hurt. “You never signed the papers, remember? So that means you’re still the one I chose for life.”
With that he pulls his body up to sit beside you, bringing you completely to his chest. He reaches behind him for your blanket and drapes it over you both. Then, he lets you cry it out, caressing your back and whispering sweet nothings as he waits for your meds to take over.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper after your tears subside. “I didn’t mean what I said about being a vet…or maybe I did, I don’t know anymore.”
He presses a kiss to your temple, shushing you. The truth is, he can’t really blame you for that comment. He’s been milking the vet card to get you every single consult you’ve been to, so you weren’t exactly wrong. Maybe you meant it, but he knows you didn’t mean it to hurt him.
You’re still facing a war, he thinks.
“I know, honey, I know,” is all he says, holding you impossibly closer. “Don’t worry about it, I got you…”
Your shoulders sag as you cling to him for dear life, his leftover cologne soothing your senses. The last thing you see before your eyes close is the sunset washing the city behind the tall windows, and one last thought comes out of your lips in a whisper.
“I’m still not going to Seattle…”
The elevator doors slide open, and you let out a deep breath as Jack guides you into the surgical wing of the Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital.
Yes, in Seattle.
This morning, you woke up clear from the fog after your little hotel crashout, and Jack was able to talk you into taking the flight and giving this hospital a chance. So, after a six hour flight and a late lunch at the new hotel, you’ve made it just in time for your 7p.m appointment with Dr. Derek Shepherd. The one he squeezed in at such short notice, for a vet’s wife.
Jack’s arm stays wrapped across your waist as the two of you walk, supporting part of your weight even if you don’t expect him to. Even when his own gait has gotten worse lately from all the travel, all the rushing and all the restless sleep. He never mentions the pain in his prosthetic unless you catch him on a very bad day. He just shifts his legs a little more frequently, and keeps going.
This is just like the ED, he keeps telling himself.
You watch as Jack leans over a nurse station and asks which direction to go. You smile when he emphasizes the “Dr.” in his name. It’s not something he used to do before, but he knows it opens doors faster lately, and he’s willing to use every advantage he has.
“Alright Dr. Abbot, if you head toward…”
The sound of a pair of sneakers squeaking on the floor as someone makes an abrupt stop next to you catches your attention. You let go of Jack as he keeps talking to the nurse, and turn around to find a woman in baby blue scrubs and a white coat, brunette hair pulled back in a ponytail, staring at you with wide eyes.
“Abbot? As in…” She says your full name, catching you by surprise.
Before you can answer, Jack had already turned around at the mention of your name, “Yes, she’s my wife,” he says protectively.
“Oh, yeah–sorry,” she laughs softly, extending her hand toward you. “I’m Dr. Jo Wilson.”
You take it, a little confused but still smiling politely. Jack takes her hand too, but his expression stays suspicious.
“Dr. Shepherd didn’t know you were coming here today, but she will be thrilled to meet you,” Dr. Wilson says.
She?
“But I made an appointment last night, he knows we’re coming,” Jack says, narrowing his eyes.
Dr. Wilson frowns, and Jack gets scared for a second thinking his appointment got cancelled, but then realization washes over her features.
“Ohhh, you’re probably here to see her brother,” she explains easily. “There are two Shepherd neurosurgeons working here. Brother and sister.”
Jack nods, knowing he made an appointment with the one who rejected you already, but before he could ask why his sister would be thrilled to meet you, she spots someone rounding the corner and her eyes light up. The next thing you know, Dr. Wilson is snagging a doctor in dark blue scrubs and a surgical cap by her arm, throwing her into the conversation with no warning.
“Dr. Wilson–” The woman complains, startled, but she cuts her off.
“This is Mrs. Abbot,” she says giddily pointing at you, once again reciting your government name like it’s some kind of secret code between them.
The brightest blue eyes, ones you think could compete with Langdon’s, land on you as the new woman snaps her head in your direction.
“I’m Dr. Amelia Shepherd,” she introduces herself with a smile.
At this point, Jack is over the interaction. Not irritated, but definitely wondering why the hell two random doctors seem way too happy to see you standing in the surgical wing like this is some meet and greet. He clears his throat, and wraps his arm protectively around you before smiling politely.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Shepherd. I have an appointment with your brother, so we better get going.”
Just as he prompts you to walk in the direction the nurse told him and get past her, Dr.Shepherd clears her throat, and says:
“I think I can take your tumor out.”
This time it’s your boots scraping against the floor as you both come to an abrupt halt. You turn back to her, thinking it’s some kind of hallucination, but there’s a glint in her eye you haven’t seen on any doctor you’ve talked to for the past year of your life.
As she sees your faces, she seems to realize, about one second too late, that she just blurted out such a strong statement normal doctors usually build up to.
“Okay, that came out a little intense,” she says, chuckling awkwardly.
“A little?” Dr. Wilson mutters under her breath, but Amelia ignores her.
She steps closer and stirs the group a little to the side, away from the nurses station, and takes a deep breath as she starts to explain.
“I was looking through some of the hospital’s rejected cases, and came across yours,” she says, “I’ve been studying it the past weeks.”
Dr. Wilson nods, she’s been clearly part of the whole thing too.
“Why?” You ask, because no one had spared a second glance at your case.
“There’s something about it that doesn’t let me agree with the no,” she says simply, and you notice her smile is nothing but genuine.
That catches Jack’s attention like nothing else.
“Why haven’t you reached me, then?” You pry, somehow still trying to keep your hopes locked down.
She sighs, “I’ve been researching a lot for it, but what I’m considering is extremely experimental. I’ve been mapping out every possibility, and I was hoping to have a plan by the end of the month before I–”
“What do you need, Dr?” Jack steps forward immediately, the fire in his eyes matching Amelia’s.
“I can show you what I have so far,” she says excitedly, turning to Dr. Wilson. “Can you go ahead and pull everything from my lab? The scans and the model?”
The model. She built a model for you and she didn't even know you beyond some scans and consult notes forgotten in a pile of rejected cases.
“On it,” Dr. Wilson says, leaving hurriedly with her ponytail swaying behind her.
Jack notices the way you go still by his side, clutching his bicep like your legs are about to give out. He turns and searches for your eyes, and this time you don’t deny him. Because you want him to see the hesitation in them. How you’re not sure if you can handle this if it won’t have a good outcome. But his say something different.
You haven’t seen hope in his eyes for a long, long time. Please, he begs silently. So you swallow your fears and nod. He exhales in relief, turning to Dr. Shepherd, sister.
“We’d like to see.”
She smiles, big, bright, and promising. “Come this way.”
You’ve been pacing across the hotel room since you got back from the hospital, trying to sort out everything Dr. Amelia said earlier after skipping the appointment with her brother entirely. You’d even zoned out halfway through the presentation due to a headache, deciding Jack should be the one to absorb the information anyways since your retention ability kept deteriorating. He’s currently sitting on the edge of the bed, watching carefully in case you start getting dizzy.
“So…how experimental are we exactly talking about?” You ask, stopping out of nowhere, making Jack straighten up slightly on his spot.
“It’s a 100% experimental,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “She doesn’t have the full plan yet but…it has never been done before.”
“Right…” you nod, calmly, before pacing again.
“Everything she said made sense to me,” he adds, and you know he’s being honest, but you can’t keep yourself from side-eyeing him.
“You’re not a neurosurgeon.”
Jack could get offended, but he chuckles instead. “With the amount I’ve researched, I might be turning into one.”
You chuckle back, but when you turn to look at him to add another remark, he’s looking at his hands on his lap with a frown on his face. You stop the pacing again.
“I would if I could, you know,” he says quietly, lifting his gaze to meet yours. “If you had the time for me to go get all that education and fix it with my own hands…I would.”
“Jack…” you sigh, but he’s on his feet before you can finish.
He reaches you and cups your face with his hands, giving you a smile that doesn’t reach his glistening eyes.
“I might not be able to do that, but what I can do is get you the best doctor for it. And after today, I trust Amelia.”
“Already on a first name basis?” you tease. Your way of coping with the uncertainty burning in your chest. He chuckles.
“She wants to save my wife, I’d pay for her next holiday for all I know.”
That makes you laugh softly, before concern takes over your features again. “I know you trust her, and from what I saw she knows what she’s doing, but…what if she gets there and realizes she can’t actually do it? What’s the point of getting my hopes up just to–”
His lips on yours make the words die halfway through. His hands cradle your head, kissing you softly until your stiff body relaxes and all you can do is melt into his body. A million butterflies flutter in your stomach like you’re just reaching first base with him, but since it’s been so long since his mouth was on yours, it might as well be.
Your hands run through his long curls instinctively, kissing him like his lips are the only thing you need to heal. Once your lungs scream for air you finally tear apart, but Jack keeps you pressed onto him with a mischievous glint on his hazel eyes. You blink a few times in shock at what just happened, chest rising and falling quickly.
“Why would you–”
“Try to believe for now,” he says, cutting you off with another desperate peck on your lips. “Please, honey…trust me to fix it,” he whispers against your lips.
How can you refuse?
You stay like that for a moment, foreheads together, eyes closed, his breath mingling with yours. How have you survived this long without him?
“Once her plan is ready the choice is yours, always. If she comes up with something you don’t want, if it doesn’t feel right, if you decide your answer is no…then it’s no. I mean that.”
This time it’s you who leans forward and steals a quick kiss.
“Okay, love,” you say, making Jack nibble your lower lip playfully at the endearment. “I trust you.”
Three weeks later, Jack Abbot walks through the doors of the Grey Sloan Memorial alone.
Dr. Amelia Shepherd frowns when she sees him step into the conference room, because over the course of the last weeks he’s had you tucked under his arm for every meeting she has arranged for updates. This is the most important and final one, where she’s meant to show the plan she has carefully crafted, so it surprises her when Jack walks in with very little enthusiasm.
She swears he looks older every time she sees him.
Amelia stands from where she’d been going over some notes, glancing past him to see if maybe you’re just a few steps behind, but you’re nowhere in sight.
“Where is she?” She asks immediately, masking her worry with that polite smile of hers.
“She didn’t feel good this morning,” is all Jack says, before plopping onto a chair with a little groan. “She wanted to stay at the hotel.”
Dr. Derek Shepherd, watches the interaction with a frown on his face from the corner of the room. The second time you’d gone to the hospital for a few extra scans Amelia’d requested for, her brother had introduced himself and apologized to you for rejecting your case in the first place, and told you he’d be joining forces with her to tackle your case.
“Dr. Abbot, it’s very important she hears this. We need her consent,” Derek explains politely.
Jack sighs and runs a hand through his face, finally lifting his gaze to meet two worried pairs of blue eyes. Jesus. They’d really be tied with Langdon in the ‘who has the brightest eyes’ contest.
“I know. I tried to get her here but…she’s having a bad day,” Jack shrugs, like it’s not eating him alive to not have you by his side.
With that his answer is final, just like yours was when he tried to convince you to come. The doctors give him an understanding look. Having experienced your sharp mood swings in person, they don’t really need to pry more. They’re only here to fix it.
“I’ll do my best to explain it to her later, and I’ll bring her in as soon as I can,” Jack adds as a promise, even when he’s unsure if he’d be able to make you sit down and listen today.
“Okay, then let’s walk through it,” Amelia says with a confident smile.
For the next hour both neurosurgeons explain their plan. The list of risks, the outcomes they cannot promise but are hopeful for, what to expect through recovery if achieved. Not to forget the dozen forms you’ll need to sign.
Despite everything they say having a warning label that should make Jack run the other way around…he chooses to believe, so he asks questions. Lots of technical questions to understand every single part of the process.
He realizes halfway through he has to read some books to catch up.
His phone has been on top of the conference table the whole time, waiting for a message from you saying you needed him after this morning’s outburst. He’d hated leaving you there, but after you’d kicked him out the room in a fit of anger, there wasn’t much he could do.
So he went to face the hope you were too scared to look in the eyes.
Once the meeting was over, Jack had barely gotten the words out to thank them. He knew nothing was set in stone, but it’s the first time after three difficult months where he feels like there’s someone else beside him fighting for your life. He wasn’t sure if you were on his side either, but at least two world class surgeons were.
He walked out of that conference room with misty eyes and a hand over his chest. He felt like something was burning inside, so he knew he needed some fresh air, but he didn’t make it very far before his lungs told him to stop walking.
He ended up in a big space that connected two wings of the hospital, placing both hands over the railing of a suspended indoor bridge that faced the huge windows of the entrance. He begins his breathing exercises as his chest heaves, trying to pinpoint the feeling causing his panic attack.
It’s not fear. It’s not sadness or anger…it’s relief.
It’s also the safety of knowing he’s alone–well, if he ignores the occasional doctors and patients walking past him–to break, without you there to see him. Normally he’s the one comforting you, letting you lean all the weight of the day on him.
He finds it freeing being able to finally cry it out.
Once his breathing has evened out slightly, he looks for five things he can see on the floor below the bridge to ground himself.
A kid giggling as he runs towards the arms of his father.
A blonde doctor gossiping with another one with dark curly hair like their lives depended on it.
Near the entrance, someone who looks uncannily familiar to you–wait. He does a sharp double take, wiping the tears away from his face so he can see more clearly.
That’s not someone. That’s you.
Looking lost and overwhelmed as you wrap your arms around yourself, probably due to the fact that you weren’t wearing a coat, or even a scarf, just the lounge clothes you’d been wearing that morning. Jack recognizes the hazed look on your eyes immediately.
“Shit.”
He practically bolts to the elevator by the end of the bridge, pushing the buttons frantically. Come on. Come on. He’s so desperate to get to your side that he doesn’t even notice the way people look at him. That’s not important.
Once he’s at the low level he weaves through people muttering distracted apologies, his eyes dart all around frantically, until they finally land on you. You haven’t moved far from where he saw you, thank God.
“Honey?” He calls out as he reaches you, out of breath and ignoring the pain shooting through his leg. “What are you doing here–how did you even get here? Jesus–you are freezing.”
He doesn’t waste time to shrug off his coat and drape it over your shoulders, grateful that you’re letting him without protest, closing it around you when you don’t lift your hands to do it yourself. His eyes search for yours, but you’re still looking around like he’s not even in front of you.
“Hey, do you know where you are?” He asks, using his best calm voice so he doesn’t frighten you any longer.
“The hospital,” you reply instantly, eyes still lost. He nods encouragingly. “I remembered the name, and I knew I had to be here today so I took a cab…but I’m not–I’m not sure why…”
Jack takes a deep breath, clearing his throat so he sounds sure instead of scared.
“We had an appointment today, remember? You…weren’t feeling well this morning,” he explains softly.
Jack decides to not mention the screaming, the pillows thrown at him, or the “Get out!” you’d sent him off with. He can see the effort it’s taking you to process it, and how your eyes keep darting across the loud lobby, and it’s starting to scare him.
“Did you understand what I just said?”
It could sound condescending, but it doesn’t. Especially when you give him a puzzled look that tells him your mind is further gone than he initially thought.
Stay calm. Stay calm. Try something different.
“My name is Jack,” he says softly, shifting his body so he’s finally blocking your view. “I’m your husband. Remember that?”
The second he says his name, your eyes snap back to his. It clears the fog enough for you to slowly put some pieces together until…recognition takes over your features. Your eyes go wide as you nod feverishly and finally reach out to place your hands on his forearms.
“Yes, yes. Of course I do, Jack. I’m sorry, I’m sorry–“
“It’s okay–“
“No but seriously, I do, I know who you are. I was just a little confused–“
He doesn’t think a kiss is going to help you this time, so instead he pulls you into him, cradling your head against his shoulder.
“I know, I know you do,” he reassures, rocking you slightly in the middle of the lobby like no one else exists. “I know you know who I am even if sometimes it takes a second.”
“No, Jack–”
“Shh, it’s alright…”
Jack holds your shaking body as you keep trying to fight the guilt and the confusion and the haze, even if your hands are digging into his arms.
“Your hands are like ice,” he mumbles against your hair.
“I’m sorry,” you sniffle.
“Don’t apologize,” he scolds softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “We need to get you back to the hotel and then have a warm bath. That’ll help you feel better, how does that sound?”
He looks at you with a tenderness that hurts. You shake your head.
“Tell me about today first,” you say, recalling the important meeting you were supposed to attend this morning before your brain said no. “I’m sorry I missed it. I’m sorry I treated you that way–“
“Stop apologizing,” he repeats, firmer this time. “None of that is relevant right now,” he says, guiding you to stand by his side so he can guide you toward the parking lot. “Bath first.”
You slide your body lower into the warm water, and tilt your head to rest it on the edge of the tub, but your skin never touches the cold surface. Jack, who’s sitting on the floor next to the bath so he can keep an eye on you, slips his hand just in time for your cheek to land on his warm hand instead, so you have something softer to rest on.
You smile with your eyes closed, shifting just enough to place a brief kiss on the bottom of his palm. That alone makes the weird angle he’s in worth it, even if his wrist aches and his leg is not thrilled about any of this, your comfort has become his comfort.
After a long silence and your breathing slowing down, Jack thinks you might’ve fallen asleep, and he reminds himself to check on the water before it gets too cold for you. But before he can dip his free hand in, he feels something wet on the one beneath your cheek.
There, a single tear has slipped from your closed eyes. His brows furrow and he opens his mouth, but you beat him to it.
“I didn’t call you when I first found out I was sick…because I was afraid of this,” you whisper, finding it easier to confess when you don’t see his face.
“Afraid of what?” he asks just as quietly.
“Of this,” you say with a tired sigh, eyes still closed. “Of you dropping everything to take care of me, even when you were already better without me. I never…I never wanted you to stop your life just because mine is running out.”
Your words hit him right in the center of his chest. They hurt him. They offend him. The thought of you telling yourself that you couldn’t reach out to him makes him want to rip his skin off.
“I didn’t stop my life,” he says firmly. “You are my life.”
Your eyes finally snap open at that, and you make an effort to lift your head from his hand to look at him more clearly. There is no hesitation in his face. He’s not even trying to be romantic. It’s a statement he’s trying to drill into your head.
You don’t know why it’s so hard to accept it. He’s your entire universe too.
“What was your plan?” He asks, a little mad but never raising his voice. “Just…never telling me? Who was going to take care of you, then?”
Shame makes you stay quiet for a few seconds, until you swallow the lump in your throat.
“…I had a couple of assisted living options.”
Assisted living.
Some facility, some cold room, some stranger helping you into bed, or a bath, or through the pain while he was oblivious and dead set on trying to hate you after your separation. He has to take a few deep breaths before answering.
“Listen to me,” he says, scooting forward so his face is very close to yours. “When I married you, I stood there and promised to love you in sickness and in health. I meant it then, and I mean it now.
“This is not fair for you–”
“This isn't fair for anyone,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “So if this is the hard part, then it's exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Your heart is fighting between jumping out of your chest or tearing itself apart. Jack has always been so good to you, always knows what to say to tear your walls down, and the only thing you can do is look away so you don’t completely fall apart.
“I made my vows too, but I don’t feel like I’ve fulfilled them,” you admit.
“Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”
The determination in his eyes never wavers, as he scoots even closer.
“That’s what loving someone is. That’s what my vows were for. I didn’t sign in just for the easy, happy years,” he reassures, before chuckling dryly. “And I wouldn’t even call them easy years, because you dealt with all my darkness when I lost a part of me after serving. But what I can say is that despite it all, they were happy. Because you made it that way. You did fulfill your vows then, let me do it now, please.”
There’s something about the way Jack says ‘please’ that makes your heart clench. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, and you’re not sure you can keep yourself from falling apart anymore.
“Okay…” you whisper after a moment, letting him catch you completely.
“Okay,” he smiles against your skin. “We have a real chance. It’s a long shot…a hail mary, but at least we have something,” he says and you nod, trusting him with your life. Literally.
He pulls back to push a strand of hair out of your face, as his other hand slides inside the tub to lace it with yours under the water.
“Hun?” you call out, a smile tugging the corner of your mouth as his thumb rubs your knuckles.
“Yes, sweetheart?” he says.
“Can you tell me the story of how we met again?” you ask softly, “Please? I never want to forget that one.”
Jack looks at you with quiet devastation, and he can only nod, forcing himself to swallow the lump in his throat to tell the story again. He’d do it over and over if that’s what it takes for you to feel a little better. With a hum of content from your part, he shifts his hand back under your head, pillowing your cheek once more.
You settle into his palm without protest, and your eyes drift shut again with a small smile as he starts talking about how you stole the breath out of his lungs the first time he saw you.
And Jack, with his hand getting numb, leg aching, and heart burning worst of all as he recalls the day that changed his life, can only hope that the long shot, the hail mary, the Shepherd all star team…saves the rest of the memories he’s still to make with you.
I vowed not to fight anymore, if we survived the Great War
Six months later.
The smell of garlic and tomatoes fills your nostrils as you step out of the bedroom, padding barefoot toward the villa’s living room. The faint breeze slipping through the open balcony doors brushes your skin as you rub your eyes to focus on the ocean’s crashing waves against the shore. You smile at the dreamy beach of some corner in Spain, but that’s not the best view in the room.
That would be the shirtless man standing in the open kitchen with his back to you, stirring something on the stove.
Jack.
You stop a second to admire him shamelessly. His broad shoulders, the constellation of freckles scattered across his back, those dark beach shorts hanging too low on his hips, and the thickness of his thighs as he shifts from one leg to another.
Sigh. That body has been giving you heaven lately.
Repeatedly.
You pad toward him in silence and wrap your arms around his chest from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades before kissing his back.
Jack smiles immediately. His free arm curls behind his back to grab you, pressing you tighter against him while he keeps stirring the sauce.
“Morning,” he says in that raspy, heavenly voice of his.
“Morning,” you say back, still a little sleepy, but he can hear the smile on your face.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Mhm.”
Now your brain needs more hours of rest than he does, and your body demands consistent food to help your low energy, so it’s not unusual for him to get up earlier to make something delicious for you.
“Pasta for breakfast? You’re spoiling me too much. I don’t know what I’m gonna do when you go back to work,” you chuckle against his skin, but instead of laughing back, Jack goes a little stiff in your arms.
You feel the shift immediately, but let him gather his thoughts as he slows the stirring.
“But what if…I don’t go back?” he asks after a moment, so quietly it’s barely audible.
The words take you aback.
Jack’s original four month sabbatical had stretched and stretched until you got the date for your surgery. He’d even thought about retiring completely for your recovery, but Robby’d told him that if he ever wanted to come back, his spot was always going to be there.
So six months after Seattle, with your recovery nowhere near as easy but miraculously successful, Jack was meant to go back next month. Thus, the little sunny holiday he’d decided to spoil you with before he went back to his old routine.
Jack feels the way your grip loosened slightly, so he sets down the spoon to turn around and face you. He brings you closer again, and you find your breath hitching at the sight of him.
He’d ditched the full beard, but he never really went back from having longer hair, trimming it only occasionally just so it didn’t get too crazy. There’s so much more gray in it than there used to be, salt taking over the pepper in glorious strands of white, framing his face so beautifully it makes you want to cry and kiss him at the same time.
Your hair, however, it’s in an awkward growing out stage. You’ve gotten a little less self conscious about it, since it’s so much better than the buzzcut for the surgery, but all the salt water from the ocean seems to have given it the right to do whatever it wants. A few rebellious strands stick out in every direction, but Jack smiles at them like they are the most endearing thing he’s ever seen. He lifts a hand to brush them away from your forehead.
You ignore the butterflies that still show up every time he looks at you like that, and focus on what he just said.
“But…the plan was for you to go back next month,” you say, frowning a little.
“I know,” he says, biting back a smile when a strand he’d pushed falls back out of place.
“And you love your job,” you add.
His hands slide to cup your face, looking at you with an intensity you’re sure you’re never ever getting used to. “But I love you more.”
“Jack…” you whine, already melting like a lovesick teenager.
“I’m serious. The more I think about it, the less I want to go back,” he insists. “And I…I don’t want to waste a single second apart from you.”
You know he’s not lying. The man has been monitoring you like you were a baby, but after almost losing you on that table, you can’t really blame him. Sometimes he still has nightmares about it.
“We can get used to this life, you know? You and me, here or wherever you want me to take you. That’s how I’d like to spend the rest of our days,” he adds, and you realize how much you love the way hope sounds in his voice. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
There’s nothing more you could ever want. But old habits die hard, and guilt is a horrible feeling to let go of.
“I would but…are you sure you want to give up that part of you?” You ask hesitantly.
“I’m not giving up on anything,” he shakes his head. “I’ve done my part, and I’m ready to retire.”
You wait for that tug to fight back to take over you. That old nagging want of destroying everything soft he gave you with cruel words and unreasonable anger. But no matter how many times you still braced for it, that feeling had been cut away by a scalpel a long time ago.
The little frown on your face is still something you’re working on, though, but you’ll get there. Jack bites back a smile, keeping his hands from smoothing it himself.
“Honey, I meant it when I said you were my life,” he reassures, pressing two fingers playfully on your forehead. “And I’ll say it as many times as it takes to get it through that thick head of yours.”
“Hey!” you protest, swatting his hand away. “This thick head has gone through a lot lately.”
That makes him laugh. He slides his hand to cradle the back of your head instead, fingers brushing the scar hidden beneath your hair. “Yeah, it has…you’re one hell of a survivor...”
This time you hug him to hide your face on his neck, smiling against it helplessly, and completely gone for Jack Abbot.
“I shouldn’t be so happy you’re retiring,” you say.
“But you are.”
“Yeah. Because now you’re all mine,” you say all cheesy. “I will miss the SWAT uniform, though,” you add with a dramatic sigh, because happiness sometimes comes at a great cost.
“I could still wear it around for you…” he offers, and you contemplate for a second, not sure if he’s teasing.
“...Really?”
His laugh vibrates from his chest to yours, shaking his head fondly as he turns you both so he can check on the food. You lean against the counter as you watch him open a bag of pasta and pour it on a pot with water, and you can’t help your eyes but wander lower and lower. The uniform is nice, but what’s under…
Jack catches you mid ogling with the corner of his eye, and gives you a raised eyebrow.
Your face heats immediately and you hate that this still happens.
He chuckles, and the look he gives you is nothing but trouble, as he puts a lid over the sauce pot and cleans his hands on a towel.
“Pasta needs ten minutes,” he announces, toying with the hem of his shorts as he backs toward the balcony with a smirk. “You up for some yoga?”
Your shirt is off before you even say yes.
You send it flying across the room and sprint toward him with a giggle, throwing yourself at your cheeky husband. Jack almost trips over his prosthetic, catching you just in time with a huff but gracefully slipping his arms under your thighs. You cling to him and pepper his clean shaved face with kisses, both of you laughing as the sun shines down your bodies.
This is it.
The morning glory after the horrible war the two of you had to drag yourselves through.
There’s only sunlight instead of cold white lights. There’s endless laughter instead of screaming and crying. There’s Jack kissing you breathless and the sound of crashing waves muffling the sounds escaping your lips.
Yes. You could get used to this life.
I vowed I would always be yours
Cause we survived the Great War
Uh-huh, I would always be yours…
Thank you so much for reading 🥹🤍 feedback is always appreciated!
Taglist for those who were interested in a part 2: @thegirlwhowaited5everok, @b0ysenberry2010, @idkkkkkkkk777, @xemi1yxx, @pear-1206, @michasia24, @tvshipsaddict, @lilac13, @stoodinlineforlove, @lyviabenvenuti.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x ex wife!reader Word Count: 5.1k
Description: Years after your separation, life throws you back into Jack Abbot’s orbit in the worst way possible, carrying a devastating diagnosis that could be the reason your marriage fell apart in the first place: a tumor that may had erased the part of you that fell in love with him all those years back. And he’s not ready to lose you twice.
Tags/Warnings: Ex!wife reader, no specific age but they were together many years, ANGST, hurt/comfort (trust), talks about divorce, reader has big ex wifey energy, resulting in a bitter Jack, mentions of a tumor in the head and seizures but the medical aspect is very superficial, bad prognosis, suggestive comments and couple’s banter.
Note: This is the result of angsty thoughts invading my head at 2 am, so enjoy (it gets better trust) 🤍
Part 2 - Masterlist
My hand was the one you reached for all throughout The Great War.
There was a time where you believed you were tied to Jack Abbot by an invisible string.
Despite the crazy life he’d chosen, the long hours, the abrupt calls that took him away from you, the terrors of nightmares and traumas you couldn’t take away from him, you’d managed to love him through it all.
You loved him through the military years, and the consequences he carried home. Through the transition of losing a part of himself, and made sure that what was left wasn’t damaged by it. Loved him through the process of going back to emergency medicine. Through the night shifts and the missed holidays and anniversaries.
You loved him when his haircolor changed like the seasons. You loved the man in uniform and the man in scrubs and the man who sometimes came home too tired to even speak.
You loved and loved and loved him until…something snapped.
You…started calling him out more. For the hours and the absence and for the way he could be right there and still feel a thousand miles away. And Jack, who had spent most of his life learning how to stay calm under pressure, tried to be patient. Tried to love you through the sharpness, just like you’d loved him through his, even if he didn’t understand where yours was coming from.
He tried and tried and tried until…the invisible string between you snapped in pieces he couldn’t tie back together.
Time passed, and none of you survived the war you’d started in your own home. So you left. Sent out divorce papers that you never signed. You didn’t understand why back then, but now…you kind of do.
You take a deep breath as the ambulance bay doors slide open in front of you. People who take this entrance are usually bleeding, or screaming, or being rolled in on a stretcher, but you walk in with your head high and a pep on your step. Cashmere coat on, boots clicking the floor, a purse perched on your shoulder.
Seeing the ED after all these years hits you like a deja vu. From bringing Jack something he forgot in the middle of the night, to showing up at the ass crack of dawn still half asleep but smiling, waiting for him to finish charting so you could eat something together. Your memories are a little fuzzy these days, but there was a time where you knew this place almost as well as he did.
You reach the nurse’s station with a small smile on your face, only for it to widen when the face behind is not the one you expected.
“Well, what do we have here?” You say, coming to stop in front of her.
Dana looks up from the papers she’s holding, and her eyes go wide for a second. The look of surprise gets quickly replaced by one of her signature smirks, placing one hand on her hip.
“Well, I could ask the same damn thing, darling,” she says, amused.
That makes you laugh, and Dana’s face lightens up. Because despite everything, despite the years, despite the absence, you always had a soft spot for each other.
“I thought Lena was on the night shift,” you tease. Dana sets the papers down and huffs, looking at you through her glasses.
“Please. It’s not weird to see me covering someone for the right price,” she says, not being subtle about looking up and down at you. “Now what is strange as hell, is seeing you walk in here after all this time.”
“Why? I’m just here to see my hubby,” you say casually. “Is it a quiet night, or do I have to wait like the good old days?” You ask, feigning innocence with a single shoulder shrug.
“Oh, don’t you start! don’t you jinx my shift like that,” she says, almost offended, making you laugh harder. She narrows her eyes at you playfully, shaking her head. “You evil, evil woman.”
“So I’ve been told,” you snicker, checking something on your nails. “It’s good to see you, Dana,” you add after a moment, and she pretends not to notice the way you pick on the skin of your thumb.
“You too, hun,” she says fondly, trying to search for your eyes. “Now, are you going to tell me what brings you to my ED or do I have to waterboard it out of you?”
Before you can think of a way to evade the question, you hear a voice behind you that makes everything inside you stop.
“Let me know when the labs are back, Mateo.”
You turn to the source, and for a moment you can’t control the look on your face when your eyes land on him. Jack Abbot is walking out of Trauma Two with a nurse, too focused on pulling off his gloves to realize you’re standing frozen by the nurse’s station. You clear your throat and straighten up quickly, putting on that nonchalance mask back on again as Dana just smiles to herself.
Jack’s head finally snaps up and his mouth opens, probably ready to tell something to Dana, but stops dead in his tracks when he sees you there. He doesn't have a good time controlling his emotions either. He blinks a few times to make sure he’s seeing right, and that you’re not a cruel product of his imagination. It’s too early in the shift for that.
But you’re there. You are there. Wait–you’re there?
The confusion quickly gets replaced by anger. It’s been a long time. Three years of nothing, and this is how you show up? Looking polished, composed, infuriatingly beautiful, like you didn’t leave a hole in his chest he was never able to stitch back together.
“Are you lost?” The words coming out his mouth are sharper than he expected, but the coldness is familiar to you.
“Jack,” you say, forcing a plastic smile and tilting your head. “Is that the way to greet your wife?”
“My wife…” Jack mutters with an incredulous laugh.
He looks at Dana all scandalized, offended. She just shrugs unimpressed, not interested in getting involved in whatever messy drama is about to unfold.
She will totally watch, though.
“If you’re here to tell me you finally signed the papers, then you wasted a whole trip. You could've just mailed them,” he says sharply, too blinded to notice the way your smile faltered at that.
“I’m not here for that,” you say, holding tighter to the bag on your shoulder. “There’s-”
“You know you’re not supposed to walk in through the ambulance bay unless you’re dying,” he continues, before giving you a head to toe assessing look that ends with a bitter huff. “And by the looks of it, seems like the devil has taken care of his own.”
You chuckle, because it’s the only thing you can do at this point. Because if anyone in the world has earned the right to call you a devil, it’s Jack.
For the last year of your marriage. For every sharp word, every time you didn’t want to listen, every fight that left him standing there wondering when loving each other had become something exhausting instead of home. For the way you ended things. For how you walked away and never came back.
“Dr.Abbot?” A male voice coming from the trauma room breaks the tense moment between you.
You look at the doctor, one you remember seeing last as a first year resident, trailing behind your husband with a notepad and an iced coffee in hand. You can’t recall his name, but he looks like he got his attending position after all.
Jack turns to him, “I’ll be there in a second, Shen,” he says gently, then back to you, more impatient, “I’m busy. So if you’re done making your little grand entrance, you can leave the same way you came in. You seem to be pretty good at it.”
The way he talks to you shouldn't hurt this much. You deserve it, for how unkind you were with him in the first place. For how badly you hurt him. For how you ran his endless patience thin. Now, in hindsight, there are many things you wish were different.
But wishing won’t make the medical records in your purse change. And even though you’ve earned every blow he throws at you, you still square your shoulders. Shrug it off like it doesn't matter. Because it doesn't matter.
“I’m not leaving until I speak to you…privately,” you say, turning back to Dana with a smile. “Break room’s still the same way, right?”
“Down the hall to the left, sweetheart,” she says, shaking her head with a chuckle.
You blow her a playful kiss as gratitude, one she pretends to dodge, rolling her eyes playfully as she walks away to continue with her duties. You round the nurse’s station, and walk straight past Jack, close enough that the heavy fabric of your coat almost brushes his arm, but it’s your scent that hits him like a punch to the stomach.
Your perfume. The perfume. The one you wore to all your dates, the one you married him with, and the one he had to scrub off his clothes like a toxic chemical when he talked himself into getting you out of his head after you left.
Dammit.
He sees you stroll to the break room with that sway of your hips that used to keep him up at night, trying to gather the courage to invite you out when you first met. Fucking dammit. You ruined his life. You keep doing it.
“Dr. Abbot!” Shen calls again, a little sharper even for him.
Jack sighs deeply, turning defeated to the trauma room, as the same question pounds his head over and over again.
What on earth could you possibly want?
The second you shut the door of the break room and you’re alone again, your shoulders sag and the mask slips right off. The exhaustion in your bones makes you take a seat as soon as you see it, placing your bag on the chair next to you and pulling out the black folder you’ve been carrying around for months. You place it on the table, and look away as if that would change the contents of it.
Your eyes meet your reflection on the microwave sitting on the counter, and you can’t help the sigh that leaves your lips. You did well making yourself look like the ex wife who’s thriving and has her life together.
What a joke.
You slump back into your chair, and wait.
Jack makes you wait a long time. You figure it’s his petty way of getting back at you somehow, or maybe he’s just trying to ease off his anger before he walks in. But hey, at least you were able to reassemble yourself. By the time he walks in, you’re sitting at the table with your legs crossed neatly, coat still on, folder placed in front of you. Composed enough to make him think that this is still some kind of performance.
You hate that your brain keeps telling you to push more. To make him snap. The string has been broken for a while. Why do you still feel the need to pull?
Jack doesn’t sit, even if his leg would thank him for it, he just stands with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at you impatiently.
“What, you’re not joining me?” You tease, pushing open the chair across from you with your boot.
“I’m not staying long,” he says flatly, ignoring the seat. “So whatever this is, start talking.”
You hum in feign amusement, leaning back a little. “Why? Seems like a quiet night for me.”
Jack closes his eyes, shaking his head, thinking about every single self regulation method his therapist had taught him. Five things you can see, four things you can–
“Relax,” you say.
Wow. How didn’t he think of that? Could've saved him thousands in therapy.
He realizes the only way to get this over with, is getting it over with. So he opens his eyes, and this time they land straight on the folder in front of you. Whatever restraint he was trying to hold on to, spills out in a humorless laugh.
“What is that?” He nods to it, “A list of what you want to keep?”
“Jack, that’s not–”
“I already told my lawyer you can keep everything,” he says anyways, letting the words spill, because he’s been bleeding over this for years and he’s sure as hell not stopping now. “The house. The cars. Even the goddamn bedsheets. You can keep it all, I don’t want any of it,” he says calmly, like he isn't still losing sleep over it every day. “I moved out a while ago anyway, it doesn’t mean anything to me.”
It gets harder to keep your resolve, especially with the sharp pain throbbing in your head. But of course he doesn’t want it. Why would he want the remnants of a home you poisoned? A marriage you turned sharp and miserable and impossible to hold together?
A lump forms in the back of your throat, but you swallow it down like every bad news you’ve heard over the course of the last months.
“It’s not about the divorce, I already told you that,” you say quietly.
Jack just stares at you, exasperated. Every second you’re in front of him burns his insides. Every second you share the same oxygen he can’t breathe. Every second of your presence is just a reminder of the greatest thing he’s fucked up in his life.
You just pick up the folder and hold it out to him. He hesitates at first, but you have no bitchy remarks left on you. The faster you get it over with, the faster it will all be over, so you shake it for him to take it, until he finally does.
Your gaze stays on him as he flips through the papers inside; lab results, endless consult notes, imaging reports. The annoyance doesn’t disappear right away, but his salt and pepper brows furrow together as his brain catches up with what he’s reading. He digs for the actual CT, and comes across a series of images that back up everything the reports say.
He instinctively steps closer to the chair, eyes still fixed on the papers, sitting down mindlessly as he spreads everything on the table. The only thing he can focus on is your name printed on every paper. Abbot here, Abbot there. When he finally looks up at you, all the color has drained from his face.
“What is this?” He asks. Because what the fuck kind of bad joke is this.
“Well,” you clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest, “you did say I shouldn’t walk in through the ambulance bay if I wasn’t dying.”
“This isn’t funny,” he says, frustrated. God, you forgot how intense his eye contact was. “What is this? How–when did this happen?”
You play with your fingers on your lap, and sigh, “Ten months ago, I…I had a seizure at work,” you say softly, forcing yourself to keep going. “They did the scans, and it–it didn’t take long to find it.”
It.
Jack stares at it on the CT, then his eyes drift to the reports. Mass. Tumor. Inoperable. Terms that have always been technical to him, medical, now seem like the cruelest words ever written by man.
“I’ve seen a couple of neurosurgeons,” you continue, “and they all came to the same conclusion–”
“No.”
“Jack, they said they can’t take it out–”
“No,” he cuts you off sharply, shaking his head. “That’s not–I don’t agree.”
“You don’t have to agree,” you don’t raise your voice, just smile sadly. It’s something you’ve been telling yourself over and over. “Guess the devil doesn’t look after their own in the end.”
“Stop, don’t…” Jack sighs, dropping the papers just to run his hands roughly across his face. “I didn’t mean that–fuck. I didn’t mean any of that–”
You haven’t even gotten through the worst of it, and you’re already exhausted. God, these timebombs suck your energy right off. You reach for the water bottle on your purse, and drink away the premature grief building in your throat.
Jack watches you carefully, and for the first time since he saw you again, he allows himself to see past the veil of hate he’d tried to see you through. He sees the crack in your smile, the shadows under your eyes, the real strain and exhaustion you can’t quite dress up with a fancy coat.
He sees he wasn’t there to hold you through it.
“Why didn't you call me?” He asks, and you fear it’s the most devastated you’ve ever heard him.
You sigh, and set the bottle down. Because how do you even explain that? What even was it? Pride? Shame? Guilt? Love?
Fear.
How do you tell the man you wrecked that you did think of him first? That even after years apart, even after every awful thing, he was the first person you needed when the ground fell out from under your feet?
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admit.
I was scared.
“Bother me?”
“After everything that happened, I thought…I thought I should solve it on my own,” you shrug.
I didn’t think I deserved your help.
“You didn’t think that your husband, a doctor, would want to ‘solve it’??” he snaps. Offended, yes. Furious, yes. But underneath all of it…it’s the hurt that speaks.
“You’re not a neurosurgeon,” you laugh bitterly, more defensive than you want to. “Your opinion is not gonna change–”
“It’s not just my opinion!” He says, standing up because his frustration is going to make him burst if he stays still. “It’s–it’s me being there. You went through all of this alone.”
The only sounds in the room are both your heavy breaths. You keep your rigid posture, even if every part inside of you is breaking. Jack runs his hand through his curls, once, twice, then tugs a little on the third time.
“Jack…” you call out softly, but he doesn’t look at you. His gaze darts to other five things he can see, hands on his hips as he grounds himself. “I’m not here to fight. And I’m not here for you to solve it…there’s just something I wanted to talk about.”
He finishes his little exercise and looks at you again, bracing himself for an impact he’s not sure if he can take. You know he can’t. So you take another deep breath before speaking.
“The doctors said the tumor is in an area that affects behavior. Like my moods and personality. They said it may have been growing for years.”
There’s a tremble in Jack’s lower lip that makes you hesitate, you know he already knows what it means, yet you keep going.
“They think it might explain why I was so…particular these last few years,” you let out a broken little laugh, shaking your head quickly to try to fight the tears prickling your eyes. “I know it’s not an excuse, maybe it wasn’t that,” you sniffle, wiping your cheeks angrily. “Maybe I was just a bitch.”
“Hey–no, honey, don’t say that,” he says, the endearment falling out of his lips so naturally.
Jack doesn’t think twice to step closer and drop to one knee in front of you, groaning at this prosthetic but still reaching for your hands on your lap. You try to retreat back so fast your chair screeches against the floor, but he doesn’t let you pull back, instead he interlocks his fingers with yours, almost hissing at how cold you are.
You shake your head, tears flooding your cheeks now. “Don’t–don’t speak to me like that, you can still be mad at me,” you sob, but he keeps his warm grip firm. “You have every right to be, I was so mean to you, Jack. I snapped at you for everything. I made you feel like you were always doing something wrong. I turned our house into somewhere awful and I knew you were trying, and I kept pushing anyway.”
He has tears in his eyes now too, but he lets you get it out of your system. Lets the years of regret spill out of you all at once, god knows his therapist has heard him many times.
“Jack you’d come home exhausted and I’d always find something else to pick apart. Something else to be angry about. And you looked at me like you didn’t recognize me anymore, and I hated it because I thought you were wrong. Even then. I knew I was hurting you and I kept doing it. I made you carry all of it. So maybe now I deserve to carry all of this alone.”
There it is. Jack breaks completely at your confession. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, catching the tears that won’t stop coming.
“Sweetheart…you should’ve called me,” he says again, but he’s not angry this time. He’s grieving. “You should’ve called me.”
“I know.”
“You should not have done this by yourself.”
“I know,” you cry out, he just keeps caressing your cheek with his thumb. “My–my memory is not the best now and I just…I needed to tell you I was sorry while I still could.”
You try to smile through the tears, you really do, but he looks so frightened. So wrecked. Your hands fly to his wrists now, clinging instead of pulling away.
“I’m scared, Jack,” you confess.
He remembers you saying that on a holiday when he hauled you up deep into the sea, just so he could hold you in his arms. He remembers you saying that when he put on a horror movie just so you could hide behind his biceps. He remembers you saying that before trying a new dish at your favorite diner instead of the usual you ordered.
All those times were said with a laugh, or a cheeky smile. But this? This is pure, unadulterated fear. He is scared. He’s terrified. So he does what he always did best: hold you.
He lifts himself up just enough to wrap his arms around you. You let yourself go instinctively, realizing how much you’ve needed this the past few months. He holds you so tight, so desperate, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing your back. You bury your face in his neck and sob. You feel the way Jack shifts, pressing his lips to your hair while he whispers sweet nothings.
“I’m here. I’m here, honey. I got you.”
“I don’t–”
“Don’t tell me what you deserve right now.”
That makes you cry harder. He rocks you a few times, just like he used to on the worst nights. Just like he always vowed to.
“I loved you through all of it,” he confesses. “Even when I was angry. Even when I thought you hated me. I never stopped. I never stopped.”
“I’m so sorry,” you sniffle.
“I know, honey, I know.”
“I loved you the whole time too, I swear,” you keep going. “That’s why–that’s why I never signed the papers. My heart didn’t want to let you go. It never did.”
“It’s okay–“
“No it’s not.”
“But it is,” he insists. Firm and honest. “You were sick, and I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something–“
“No. Don’t blame yourself for this too,” pulling yourself apart from him enough to look into those beautiful hazel eyes. “Leave the regretting to me.”
“Sweetheart–“
“Jack.” You narrow your eyes at him, and it brings him back to all those times you won even the most pointless of arguments with just one look.
He huffs a teary laugh, dropping his head in defeat. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he says, lifting his head again. There’s a new spark in his eye trying to make its way past the previous devastation. “Then you leave the rest to me.”
You look at him, eyebrows furrowed, but he just pushes a strand of hair from your face.
“I’m getting you admitted here,” he says, you immediately tense, but he speaks before you can refuse. “No, listen to me. We have some of the best neurosurgeons in the country connected to this hospital. I am going to pull every string I have, call in every favor I can, and get every set of eyes possible on this.”
“I can’t do this again,” you shake your head.
“Yes, you can.”
“I’ve already seen so many people, Jack. I’ve heard it all. I’ve made peace with it.”
“No you haven’t, and that’s okay. You came here because some part of you knew I would never let this go. So don’t ask me to. It’s offensive, honey.”
Well shit. Seems like your husband of years seems to actually know you better than you know yourself.
“I’ve accepted it, Jack. Memento mori.”
Liar liar pants on fire.
He grins. “Then I guess we’re both liars.”
You look at him confused, but he just sighs.
“I told you I moved out…but I didn’t,” he admits. “I still live in the house I built for you. I still sleep in our bed, on my side of course, cause I know you never liked the way I dipped your side of the mattress,” he laughs at the memory, making you smile. “Your books are still on the nightstand. I never moved them.”
You imagine all the things he never brought himself to move. The way time stopped running in a house that was once filled with laughter and love. So much love. Jack just does a helpless shrug.
“You left…but you never really left me.”
Yeah. That’ll do it. You’re crying again before you even realize it. Your hands go to cover your face, but he intercepts them midway.
“No, no, honey. No more hiding from me,” he says, so softly it doesn’t exactly help your situation. “We’re in this together now.”
You nod, his thumbs reach out to dry your tears.
“I know I’m not the type of surgeon you need. I know I can’t fix this with my own hands. But I’m still a doctor,” he explains softly. “And most importantly…I’m still your husband. So I will be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to figure this out. We are going to try. Oh honey we are going to ask questions. We are going to make the smartest people in every room look at this until they are sick of seeing my face.”
That makes you laugh. He delights at the sound.
“Jack…”
“I know you’re tired, my love,” he continues, his voice turning even softer. “I know you’re scared. I know you’ve been carrying this by yourself for too long and the idea of starting over with new doctors makes you want to crawl out of your skin. But you do not get to give up before I even get a chance to fight for you.”
The weight in your chest that has been dragging you down lately eases, if only a little, letting you breathe. Maybe he’s right. Maybe all of this would’ve been easier if he’d known from the start. Maybe it can be easier now. Even if he can’t solve it…you’ll let him try.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay,” he nods. “You’re coming home with me tonight, and we’ll deal with this in the morning. We’ll start here, and if it doesn’t work there’s always New York, I can cash a few favors in Washington too–“
“But your job–“
“Can wait,” he states without hesitation. “Sweetheart, I've been here for a long time, and I’m going to use that to my advantage. Maybe it’s time for my sabbatical, yeah? That way I can take you everywhere you need to be. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“…a sabbatical.”
“Robby took one,” he shrugs. “Three months away and it didn’t kill him. I’m willing to take whatever time they allow me.”
“What about SWAT duty?” You push. He lets out a chuckle.
“I know you might miss the uniform–“
You slap his arm weakly.
“Alright, alright,” he throws his hands up in defeat. “Just–don’t worry about it, okay? I meant it when I said I got you, honey.”
You sigh, but it’s more out of relief than anything. How you needed to hear those words. How you needed him.
“And in the meantime, you can tell me your favorite memories of us…so I can keep them safe for you while we figure this out.”
Jesus Christ. How could you have ever walked away from this man? At this point you’re gonna have to sign the papers just to marry him again.
“Jack…”
“Come on, from the hip, give me one,” he says playfully, and you know he’s not letting this go.
You tap your chin and glance away, pretending to think. Your eyes light up when a very specific memory pops into your head.
“I remember our naked yoga sessions very fondly,” you say, completely serious, but it manages to get a genuine surprised laugh from him.
“Of course you do,” he laughs, throwing his head back at the memory. He still does it, at sunrise when he’s not working, with your mat still next to his. “You always ended up bouncing on me.”
“Jack!!” You say, heat creeping up your face in a way it hasn’t in a long time.
You both laugh about it for a moment, then fall into a quiet that could never be described as awkward. Not between you. Not anymore.
“I missed this,” he says quietly, those intense hazel eyes piercing into yours. You loved those eyes. You still do. “I missed you.”
You smile sadly, cupping his face with your hands. “You missed nice me.”
“I missed my wife.”
Your heart skips a beat at that. So many years he’d called you that, until you threw it all away. Or, well, the thing in your head did? Whatever. It is what it is.
Your eyes travel all over his face. Damp lashes, tension in his jaw even if he tries to hide it with a cheeky grin, all the wrinkles time has carved into him while you were apart.
“I missed my husband,” you finally say, just as soft.
He smiles at that. You loved that smile, you still do.
“Then let me take care of you, honey.”
We can plant a memory garden
Say a solemn prayer, place a poppy in my hair
There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair
And we will never go back to that bloodshed
Part 2 - Morning Glory.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated 💋
Sleepy baking a cake for Jack for his birthday with black coffee and grumpy Jack doodles in icing but then she’s carrying the cake to show him and overhears him talking to Robby or somebody about how childish and unprofessional it is for her to be bringing brownies from home for Shen and putting stickers all over her badge and workstation (jealous because he wants her sunshine all to himself) so she throws the cake in the trash and cries in the bathroom while Jack turns a corner and sees his heartfelt birthday cake smushed down in the trash
BIRTHDAY BLUES (ja x reader drabble)
You can barely handle your excitement to give Jack his birthday cake...until you overhear him complaining about your all too peppy behavior to Robby.
WC: 3.1K // If y'all get too mad at crash!Jack, in this, you can treat this like a writing exercise lol. I'm being serious, I luv non canon stuff // Mean!Jack, possessive!Jack, mentallyill!Jack, Jack when the therapy isn't working // suicidal behavior, angst, reader cries and gets her feelings hurt BAD // Health issues (Jack's going through stuff at the sight of you in distress // this is sooooo unrealistic and DRAMATIC but I will greys anatomify the Pitt you watch!!! MASTERLIST //
The cake’s ridiculous. You know it, too.
It’s crooked and perfect and smothered in blue and grey icing. As much as you love to bake, cake decorating isn’t your expertise. The little doodles you piped on top of it look more like angry blobs than Jack Abbot scowling in various poses.
Still, you’re quite proud of doodle Jack’s scrubs if you do say so yourself.
“Not too bad.”
You bite your lip, thrilled and embarrassed by how earnest you feel over your lopsided cake. You…you just want him to feel celebrated, is all. Everyone should feel celebrated on their birthdays, even when they feel the need to stop at the first sight of a head full of gray hair.
You wouldn’t have him any other way but silver and lined with wrinkles and a hard-eyed stare—
Oh God. You’re as ridiculous as the damn cake. You wouldn’t be doing yourself any favors if you didn’t admit that it’s mostly because you want to be the one to make him smile when he tries not to.
But hey, you’re selfish enough to know that the cake will help with that.
“Listen, Jack—”
You practice what you’ll say.
“It’s stupid. I know, I know. You don’t have to eat it. I just want to make something.”
You mixed black coffee into the batter because you know he likes things bitter, but you added cinnamon and vanilla and vanilla because you know he secretly likes sweet things more.
In a tiny icing scrawl, you wrote:
“Happy almost-50th birthday, ER cowboy.” Just over the pose where you drew him with a silly cowboy hat.
And now, you’re holding the cake that sits carefully in its box, hands trembling like this is the most nerve-racking thing you’ve ever done, as if you didn’t start your shift helping Dr. Shen remove a small vase out of someone’s ass without it breaking. Maybe Jack should be flattered.
You’re rounding the corner, a dreadful rendition of Happy Birthday settled inside your high breath, smile stupidly wide.
“It’s unprofessional.”
You freeze at Jack’s voice, internally perking at his beautiful rasp. It’s not aggressive, but frustrated. Oo. Gossip. What happened to keeping it to yourselves, sir?
“So that’s who has you all pinched up tonight? Sunshine?”
Your brows furrow at Robby’s voice.
…Oh.
You can’t stop your heart from sinking.
What have you done?
“She’s…doing too much, Robby. You know it. You don’t have to lessen the issue because she’s resentfully peachy and perfect in every other aspect of her job.”
From the corner where you’re made invisible, you can see what’s almost a sigh on Robby’s face. His shoulders shift in a half-shrug.
“Too much what? Being nice. Maybe a little more peppier than usual? Boosting morale when the rest of us are…fatigued gremlins?”
“You’re looking at me like I’m saying she’s not a good nurse. I’m not. She’s one of the best we’ve got. I just—” Jack crosses his arms, head leaning in as he searches, probably gazing into Robby and obviously so defensive of his criticism of you with stiffly gestured hands. “I just wish she’d…tone it down.”
You swallow fire, and that’s how you find out you’re already holding a burning throat.
You take a glance at your cake—Jack’s cake, and you wonder why your brightness, sometimes curated for the sake of resilience but always genuine, is something he could hate.
…No, no. You get it. You’re a little much sometimes, and you’re guessing it’s getting to him, maybe in the way it gets to everyone. He’s just so fucking brave to admit it.
Your lip quivers as you watch the back of his broad shoulders roll.
“Tone what down, Jack?”
Jack gestures vaguely again, as if annoyed at himself for even trying. Like Robby’s ridiculous and in denial as he defends you, and maybe if Jack sounds so truthful, maybe he is.
You wish it wasn’t so easy to agree with his reasons that are turning your stomach over with tightly wounded, stupidly sudden wounds. But he’s Jack, and for how ridiculous he can be sometimes, he’s always right, and you always believe him. And if you believe him in his assurances and praises—
Why wouldn’t you believe it when he says you’re unprofessional? And too much?
“You don’t—” Jack’s voice goes high in his rasp as he stops himself, head jerking off to the hall before focusing on Robby again. “You don’t think her behavior can be perceived as childish?”
Your breath catches, shaking in its death.
And childish, apparently.
You watch Robby’s mouth thinning, blinking slowly. “She’s just being herself, Abbot. It doesn’t interfere with anything. Hell, I’d say that patient and staff benefit from it most of the time.” He shakes his head. “You of all people—”
“Me of all people—”
“Yes, Jack. You of all people.”
Robby says it nearly casually, and in its humor, it doesn’t matter. You can’t even revel in the exposing tease at your heart cracking.
“She doesn’t need to be doing all that.”
You grip the cakebox, the birth of another breath just as shaky as the first, and third.
He’s not joking. He’s not teasing.
“And that is what, pep—”
He’s simply irritated at the mere thought of you.
“It’s distraction, Robby.” Jack drops his bold-bone arms, neck working. “You of all people would know.”
It’s nearly a graveled whisper of something you don’t get, and Robby doesn’t either. You know that in his slow blink.
“...Excuse me—”
“She brings brownies and lemon bars from home like she’s at a damn bake sale. She puts stickers all over her badge like she’s a child. And—”
He crosses his arms again, leaning even closer to Robby as if he’s about to actually whisper. And yeah, he does, voice sharp and questioning as ever.
“What is with the stars she keeps putting on Shen’s clipboard?”
…You do that to him, too. Jack doesn’t like your stars?
Your heart drums against your chest with a heavy, tightly wound beat. Your eyes widen at the burn behind them. No. You can’t cry now, not when he’s being cruel and right at the same time.
Through the blur, you can hear Robby scoffing, and see him nodding—as if he’s suddenly has an answer to why Jack’s taken his birthday to be mean at the thought of you.
“Okay. Now I know that this entire conversation is pointless. I’m surprised we got this far.”
“...What? No. We’re in an ER, not a middle school birthday party—”
“Jack. You’re great, man, but if you can look at the last thing you said, you’re gonna find that you don’t even believe what you say, and nothing you can say after will convince me that you do or that I should.”
When Jack still goes through with his argument, already having your body pulsing with nerves and your eyes wet to the brim, he’s quieter.
Maybe he’s scowling the way you like, that scowl that finds its way to your inner thighs. Now, it would find its way to your chest like a knife.
“She’s a professional. An adult. I don’t…I do not want the team looking at her like she’s a child.”
Well.
You feel that word like a knife.
Child.
“Jack…I’m going to pretend this never happened—
“She’s better than making people look at her differently and think that she’s something that she’s not. Naïve. Juvenile. If her pep can be mistaken for childish behavior, then it’s something…I don’t know.” Jack sighs low.
You tremble.
“She just needs to stop giving people a reason to see her as anything other than a good nurse. I want her to act like the professional she is. That’s it. Yeah, maybe I took too long to get to the point, but I’m allowed to be pinched about it.”
You can’t think about how awful Jack has made you feel with this supposed, exposed truth, you just feel it in the burning of your cheeks and chest, caving inward.
You take a shaky step back, ready to disappear.
Your shoes squeak.
Jack’s head slices toward you.
His brows furrow deep into the strong lines of his face.
He calls you out by name in graveled surprise.
You flee.
Head down, you find your way to the break room. You set the cake on the counter, and you can’t help how your breath becomes shallow as you stare at it.
You lift the lid and see the cowboy hat drawn by frosting on the cake you spent two hours on.
You pick it up and push it down until the frosting Jack doodles smear into nothing, trembling fingers all the way down.
You manage to make it to the bathroom without crying, but once you lock the door, the tears come quickly and harshly.
The sobs would be silent if it weren’t for the hiccups, and they nearly hurt almost as much as the grip that you brace on the sink. When you look in the mirror, you see red eyes full of humiliation.
How am I not something he wants? How, after this, can he still be something I need?”
You had made him a birthday cake. You stayed up late. You decorated it with him and him and silly little hims.
But to him? The whole, real Jack Abbot? You were childish. Embarrassing.
“Stupid. God, I’m so fucking stupid.”
You press your fist to your mouth until it aches.
“You are twenty-four years old. You’re a nurse. Stop being silly. Stop being silly. He—he…he’s right. He’s right.”
Your knuckles muffle your sobs.
Jack’s gait is heavier than the gun he wants to kill himself with. An M110 SASS. They’re usually 16lbs. It could take him out easily.
Where did you go, kiddo? He didn’t mean it. Robby was right. He never means anything he thinks or says because he just means to be fucking cruel in the face of his jealousy. He can admit that. He’s okay with admitting that and receiving any punishment from whatever God exists if it means you’re okay. If means you can forgive him for being a filthy fucking idiot. God doesn’t need a gun to put him down.
Where’d you go, sleepy? Don’t go without punishing him.
Jack’s jaw and neck work with all the force in the world as he stalks down the hall. He turns a corner into the breakroom.
He stops dead.
The trash can’s open, and a cake—the cake you were holding—is smashed inside.
That’s right. It’s his birthday.
And you remembered.
…You fucking idiot.
Jack’s nose flares at the coffee-scented crumbs, and he lifts the lid to a doodle—your signature artwork.
Little doodles of him, smeared and ruined.
You made him a birthday cake. For him. A bright surprise that, of course, you would have ready for him, because you’re you, and he’d have it no other way. He promises. He swears that’s the truth, it’s just—god, he doesn’t know what happens, he doesn’t know what takes over him. He’s sorry. He’s fucked in every way he can be because he doesn’t know what to do with everything you’ve shoved inside him—
No. Don’t you fucking blame her. Open your safe and find the trigger before you blame her, shit for a mind.
His throat closes as he makes his way to the bathroom. His heart lurches is a throbbing pulse–and he’s sure it’s his blood curating that sick, choking panic that’s washing over him right now.
He doesn’t have to knock on the bathroom door when it clicks open softly. He’s come just in time to see you slip, head down, and eyes swollen.
You jump at the sight of him, and in the seconds after, Jack watches your face fall apart, eyes drooping. Mouth quivering.
Jack’s pulse thuds violently in his neck, and the sight of you?
“We need to talk, hey—look at me, I’m not—”
It’s pressing on him like the weight of the sun. And it’s suffocating. It’s cutting into the softest part of him.
Good.
He feels the muscles of his chest tighten a burn around his heart. His throat bobs as he stops you from rushing past him.
He glances down at your badge.
You’ve picked off the stickers. The little sunflowers, the cat one. The holographic stars.
You’re such a good man, aren’t you, Jack? You’re so wildly fucking amazing and moral, that you’d make the best person in the world feel like she’s wrong for being herself. All that attraction and attachment and feeling of your chest breaking apart at the muscle when she tries to leave you, and you smother the light. You’re a fucking hero.
He steps closer, eyes gazing into where you don’t look at him. He tries to make his voice soft.
“Can we talk, kiddo?”
You shake your head without lifting your gaze.
“I have to prep a—”
“You don’t.” He downs his head to try and make you look at him, cause every second that goes by where you don’t makes his chest squeeze harder, and as much as he asked for punishment, Jack doesn’t think he’ll be able to speak in the next ten seconds if his heart keeps on being smothered. “Sleepy…please.”
You go still. Jack inches closer by a fraction. He watches you press your lips tightly together, and he’ll take your silence as acceptance. He has to.
“It was…what I said. What you heard—” He doesn’t breathe. “It wasn’t fair. Or true. Or anything close to how I actually feel.”
Jack’s throat bobs again when you burrow your head down furrow to look at your shoes, and your uneven breathing. He needs you breathing. He’s so, so sorry—he needs you to know how fucked he is, even if you never think of him the same again.
That’s terrifying. That’s a punishment.
“You meant it.”
Jack nearly flinches at the small of your voice.
He shakes his head immediately.
No. No. No. No. No. He needs you to be the wrong one here, just this once.
Your name falls out of his mouth, firm.
“No. No, I didn’t. I was frustrated and—and stupid. And I said what I said because…”
His nose flares, and he blinks hard before he doesn’t blink at all in the next ten seconds.
“You said I act like a kid—”
“I was trying to make it about professionalism. And that’s not what was going on. At all. I need you to understand that. Do you understand that—that I—”
…He can’t breathe. Why in the hell can’t he breathe? That makes it harder to tell you how fucking wrong he is.
“No one, and I mean no one, thinks you’re childish. They think you’re…you make patients feel seen and residents feel more confident. You aid like you’re riding a bike. You are so easy in your talent, and you—”
His voice tightens.
“You make me and everyone better at our jobs.”
Your breath trembles. You swallow. He swallows.
He thinks he might be dying from his skull pulsing when you still refuse to look up.
“None of that means I’m juvenile.”
He swallows thickly. He holds his palm over his heart.
Fuck.
“Sleepy—”
“No, you’re right—”
“I am not. Do not think that.”
It’s when his voice rises at the point of making you flinch. He swallows once more.
Breathe. Fucking breathe, Abbot. You’re not the one who’s been insulted because of pathetic jealousy and the inability to be good.
“You make this place less of everything that hurts. You do that by just being you. So don’t think that the fucked things I say are right. I don’t know why I said that, I don’t. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
His voice is genuine in its rasp. He knows that much, at least.
“Sleepy…look at me?”
The question is nearly high-pitched in his voice. As high as a voice like his could go.
You don’t.
“...Happy birthday, Jack.”
You rush past him, your shoulder brushing him. Not like the way you bumped into him at the start of the shift. No. That’s you bright. That’s you like the yellow in the sun. Why the hell, why the hell would he deserve you like that?
He doesn’t, but he can’t stop his heart from throbbing against his ribs at the idea of having you distant, leaving him.
…He can’t—he really can’t breathe.
He manages to make his way to a supply closet, the door clicking shut behind him. He leans against the shelves, shallow with the air he can take in.
The metal rack he holds onto rattles out.
His pulse hammers in his throat. You probably see it.
“Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.”
He doesn’t blink, he merely gazes into the tile, hearing your voice quiet like you were apologizing for existing.
He whispers to himself.
“How about you kill yourself? How about you splatter your fucking brains out, Abbot? Just take your gun and—”
You need to forgive him, kiddo. He’s not going to make it to his next therapy session. He’s not going to make it through the next ten minutes if he can’t get his heart to settle. You need to…you have to because you still hurting—he just can’t.
Jack presses a hand to his forehead. The pain behind his eyes spikes sharply enough to make his vision pulse white.Come on, Abbot. Breathe. Not now. Not here.
He knows what this is, the suffocating, clamping band of a panic spike. Maybe an actual anxiety attack, and maybe that would be ridiculous to have somewhere in the minutes or days or months before with you. But like that matters, like that stops his breath from getting stuck halfway in.
He coughs on it.
She wouldn’t even look at you. She wouldn’t even try to sit in your apology.
“One in, one out. One in, one out…one in, one out. One in, one out…”
Jack presses a hand to his sternum, continuing to count his breath, but in the silence of the supply closet, one thought—one stupidly ironic thought doesn’t help him a single bit.
“Happy birthday, Jack.”
…For the first time since you arrived at the Pitt and came to him?
“One in, one out. One in, one out.”
That’s the only time you’ve truly sounded like a kid.
summary - you know jack isn't looking for anything serious, so what do you do when you find yourself with a very permanent problem?
cw - pregnancy, unrequited feelings (or are they)
a/n - first jack post! hope y'all like it. guys jack abbot may be a flirt but he's a romantic at heart <333
---
When you were a kid, you dreamed of your soulmate. Your prince charming, your other half.
For about ten years, that is. Ten, blissful years, when you believed that there was a person out there for you, who was perfect for you, and who would love you forever.
Then, in the sixth grade, your parents got divorced. In hindsight, it was well overdue. As a child, a brighteyed, bushy-tailed romantic, it was a shock. They didn’t yell, or slam doors. They took you and your siblings out places together as a family. You didn’t quite realize that not fighting didn’t mean anything good when there was no talking at all.
You didn’t understand why they had decided to part ways. You watched them cry, and struggle, and turn gray and dull in the face of exhaustion. Lawyer fees, mortgage payments, and unemployment moved your father back in with his parents. You hardly saw him after your mom moved you and your siblings halfway across the country to Chicago.
It was nice there, but an adjustment. After spending the first decade of your life in sunny California, the windy city was a rough transition. Still, ever the optimist, you let the city life make up for the harsh winters.
As a teen, you got crushes. Allconsuming, heart-obliterating ones that took up your whole life. Each time, you convinced yourself that Justin, or Tyler, or Will, was that person you had always hoped was out there. Of course, being adolescent boys, they were often more worried about what was in your shirt than what was in your mind.
You had to learn how to play the game. No matter how much you liked a guy, you couldn’t let him know. You perfected your technique over the years, how much to let on and how much to hide. Boys only wanted you infatuated enough to not get attached. The second you asked for anything real, they were out the door.
It took a toll on you after a while. You hardened, and convinced yourself that that was what love was. If you didn’t want to be alone, there were certain guidelines to follow. Still, that hope was never quite extinguished. Even when your boyfriend of almost a year fucked another girl in your shared bed. You needed to get away, totally away. You had wasted away your twenties falling for guys that didn’t give two shits about you.
You got a nursing job at an ER in Pittsburgh. It was far from your failed relationships, your parents, from everything you knew.
By the time you walked into the Pitt, you were not bright-eyed, or bushy-tailed, but deep down, still a romantic.
When you met Jack Abbot, you believed that more than ever.
When you found out he was formerly married, you tried to convince yourself you weren’t.
The thing about Jack was, he was kind, and generous, and considerate, and he didn’t act anything like all the boys you’d dated before. He was a man. He never lost his cool and snapped. You never even heard him raise his voice. He went to therapy, and was self aware, mature.
So when you saw the ring on his finger, you were disappointed, but not surprised. It was almost easier keeping your distance then, before you went sticking your nose where it shouldn’t have been and found out that his wife had died several years prior. You didn’t ask how, you didn’t want to know.
The two of you grew close. You never asked about his wife, but you were sure that with his wearing the ring, he wasn’t exactly looking to meet someone. And it wasn’t like you couldn’t both use a friend. You helped each other through difficult shifts, hard losses, and complicated traumas. Working nights meant a lot of drunk driving incidents, overdoses, stomach pumping, bar fights. It could get dark, and you leaned on each other.
Emotional intimacy was a powerful thing. And trauma brought people closer together.
That was what you told yourself the night you woke up in his bed.
You hadn’t worked nights at your old job in Chicago. It felt weird to drink during the day, sleep during the day, so Jack had been helping you acclimate. He helped set up some heavy duty blackout blinds in your room. You’d go over to his place after work. You were friends.
Until that day you came over and had a movie “night” with some wine, and the lines blurred. He hadn’t been with anyone since his wife passed. You were lonely, in a new city with barely any friends.
You hadn’t spent too much time in his bedroom, but you recognized it about five seconds after your eyes opened. You shot up straight, and the sheet fell down into your lap, exposing your bare boobs.
“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself, glancing around.
Jack was a military man, very neat, so the clothes strewn messily about the floor stuck out like a sore thumb. The door to his room was still wide open. The picture frame above his dresser was tilted, and you vaguely remembered knocking your head against it as he hoisted you up. Yes, there — the lamp shade was almost completely upside down.
Steeling yourself, you finally let your gaze fall to the man beside you. He was shirtless as well, laying on his stomach with his head facing away from you. You let yourself admire his back muscles, before he let out a grunt in his sleep that jolted you back into reality.
You felt under the sheet, and you were completely naked. Your panties were tossed down at the foot of the bed. Jack had ripped them off in favor of his warm mouth. You shivered. You needed to focus.
Sliding out of bed as quietly as you could, you kept low to the ground and hurried your underpants up your legs, quickly followed by your scrub bottoms and your bra. Your shirt seemed to have vanished, so you stole a white t from Jack’s neatly folded pile in his dresser. As you were pulling on your socks, he stirred.
You froze, one foot in the air like a flamingo, and watched him. He was waking up. You hesitated by the door, unsure if you wanted to stay, or bolt and never speak to him again.
The idea of the latter option had your chest aching, so you finished putting on your second sock and padded a few steps toward him. He sensed you there and flipped onto his side to get a better look at you.
It couldn’t have been pretty. What little makeup you put on the night before was certainly smudged, and you weren’t sure what the sleep had done to your hair. You hadn’t even cleaned the crust from your eyes, but Jack was looking up at you with something akin to awe.
He must have had more wine than you.
“Hey, I didn’t wake you, did I?” you said, still hushed for no real reason.
He rubbed a hand down his face.
“No, you’re good,” he rasped.
Good lord, his gravelly morning voice went straight to your core. His eyes scanning you up and down didn’t help either. You were about to speak again when he got there first.
“Is that my shirt?”
You looked down, heat tinting your cheeks.
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” you said, clearing your throat. “I couldn’t find mine.”
He pushed himself up to a sitting position, and you took an automatic step back. His shoulders cracked as he stretched his arms above his head.
“I think it’s in the living room.”
Ah, yes, now you remembered. You’d gotten some good work done in there before he’d carried you to the bed.
“Right,” you said, chewing your lip. “Yeah, I’ll go change.”
You turned, but he grabbed your wrist in a feather light grip.
“No,” he said. “I mean… you don’t have to. You can keep it. Looks good on you.”
You weren’t sure what to say. Any other day those words would have sent you reeling, but all you could focus on was his hand. His left hand, still holding your wrist, with no wedding ring on it. You thought back. Surely you would have noticed if it wasn’t on when you arrived, almost 12 hours previous. You had worked the night before, and he hadn’t. Maybe he was cleaning it.
He dropped his hold on you, and your eyes snapped back to his. The soft hazel pulled you in.
“Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll just go get it. Our shift starts in two hours by the way.”
You heard him cursing and stumbling out of bed as you retrieved your long sleeve t-shirt from the floor by the TV. You took your scrub top off when you came in, you remembered that. It was probably in your bag.
As you gathered everything into it and started pulling on your shoes, Jack came back out, regretfully dressed, in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt almost exactly matching yours. His brow furrowed.
“Where’re you going?”
You straightened up, one shoe tied.
“I gotta go home and shower, and everything,” you said.
“You can shower here,” he said, gesturing behind him. “And I can drive you into work with me. Let me make you breakfast.”
You glanced at your watch, then at the door, then at Abbot. You couldn’t figure out his angle. Most likely his ring was being cleaned, but maybe he felt guilty wearing it, thinking of his poor dead wife while fucking another woman in what should have been her bed.
It was all far too complicated. With difficulty, you shook your head.
“My car is here, I’d have to drive it back anyways,” you said. “Plus, I need to feed my cat. He’ll be grumpy.”
You prayed you’d never mentioned the timed feeder to him before. His shoulders fell slightly, and he cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit of his. You shared it.
You hated this. You hadn’t been drunk last night, tipsy, but not enough to even give you a real headache. No, you’d been quite clear-minded last night as you tore all his clothes off, and you felt confident he had been as well. But now you were standing there staring at each other, unsure of what to say. You couldn’t have even imagined the turmoil he was going through.
You walked towards him and put your hands on his strong shoulders, sliding them up to link behind his neck. He was too pretty. With his gray curls and kind eyes. You hoped he couldn’t hear your heart pounding.
“I had a really good time last night,” you said, letting your mask slip for one second. “And I know, I know you’re not looking for anything serious. That’s okay, really. Neither am I.”
Lies, lies, lies. You were nearing the end of your thirties, you thought about settling down most days. All you wanted was a man like Jack — couldn’t you hold onto him for a little while, and still be on the lookout for Mr. Right?
It was wishful thinking. You knew, as his rough hands landed tenderly on your forearms, that the second you got a taste, he would become Mr. Right. But you weren’t quite ready to let go yet.
So, you gave him a peck goodbye, and told him to call you. He did. And that was how it started.
The first time he called, he’d just worked a double, covering for Robby, and he somehow couldn’t sleep. You’d been at his door within 20 minutes, with open arms, and open legs. It was usually times like that, when he was tired, worn down, sad, lonely. And it wasn’t just him.
After your less than ideal shift, in which a patient spat on you, ripped out his IV, and tried to make a break for it, you were banging down his door.
It was nice, you told yourself. Really, it was. He was warm and strong, and could take you in his arms and wash away the day's troubles. You didn’t have a shared bank account, but the sex was mindblowing. You didn’t pick out wedding china, but you had a growing collection of each other’s clothes at your apartments. He might not have been your husband, but he still hadn’t put his wedding ring back on.
As the October rain turned into November flurries, and then true December snowfall, you found yourself spending more and more time at Jack’s apartment. That was what made it difficult to keep your head. You weren’t together but you had a toothbrush in the holder next to his. You weren’t together, but he went out of his way to get the scent beads you liked for your laundry. You definitely weren’t together, but you had a side of the bed, and the corresponding nightstand was being overridden by your contacts, vitamins, water cups, and books.
And at bedtime, when you were in a post-sex haze and wrapped up in his arms, that was the hardest. Your cheek would rest against his steady heart, and his hands would run through your hair, and you felt the safest you ever had. But you weren’t together.
“I think it’s kinda sweet,” said Princess, when you confided in her at the biannual nurses night. “Like, two lost souls, finding each other. Comforting each other. Boning.”
“No,” said Dana, “it’s stupid. I mean you’re totally in love with the guy, and you let him use you for sex? Have some pride!”
You scoffed, fiddling with the mini umbrella in your Dirty Shirley. It was the first time you were in fancy clothes, not scrubs, in months, and you were still talking about fucking Abbot.
“He is not using me,” you clarified, and Dana made a face. “He’s not! I mean, if he’s using me, then I’m using him, too.”
Jesse interjected.
“I think just sex is fine,” he said. “But with the way your feelings are involved, sooner or later it’ll blow up in your face.”
Dana hummed in agreement, Princess took another shot, and gripped your shoulder.
“Don’t listen to them,” she said, surprisingly coherent. “You have needs. Get yours!”
You were certainly getting something, you thought, as you left his house in the dark again.
Romeo, your fat little kitty, was growing resentful at the time you were spending away from home. He stopped sleeping in your bed with you, and you started feeling guilty.
To his credit, Jack did try to treat you nicely. He always offered to make you breakfast in the evenings, always offered rides, even got your preferred brand of shampoo just in case you’d get caught needing a shower at his place. And each time, your heart clenched painfully.
You appreciated it more than he’d know, but you couldn’t ever accept. The more time you spent imitating domesticity with him, the harder it became to keep clear boundaries on what the whole “relationship” even was. You longed for the closeness, but you knew the more you got, the harder it would be when this inevitably ended. It wasn’t fair to either of you to get invested in something that would never be.
So when you missed your period, and started getting nauseous in the morning, and sleepy halfway through the day, you begged the universe it wasn’t what you thought. You begged to not be tied to something so painful.
But your wishes were ignored, as you stared at two little pink lines. On all five of the pregnancy tests you took.
You cried that morning, chest heaving with grief, and overwhelm, and fear most of all. What were you going to do? You weren’t out of the fertile window, but you weren’t a spring chicken either. You always wanted children, although ideally with a husband to go with them. Maybe it was time to accept that that type of relationship wasn’t in the cards for you.
It was a deeply saddening thought. You were absent minded your whole next shift, minds consumed not with labs or charts, like usual, but with birth plans, cribs, and preschool costs.
“Hey, you okay?” Jack finally cornered you to ask.
You had been avoiding him for 12 hours, and you could tell he was getting increasingly worried. You looked into his creased eyes. You knew he had to find out at some point, you weren’t so bitter that you’d keep his own child from him. You just couldn’t bring yourself to upend his life like that quite yet.
“I’m fine,” you said with a quiet smile. “Just tired.”
He nodded like he didn’t believe you. It wasn’t your most convincing performance, but hey, you really were tired.
“Well, do you want to come over?” he said, lowering his voice. “I swear you’ll sleep better at my place than on your rickety ass mattress.”
You chuckled weakly.
“I have to pass,” you said. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
He pressed a hand to your forehead.
“You do feel a little warm,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over? I can make you some soup, run you a bath… I promise I’ll be good.”
He was smiling so tenderly, so hopefully, you almost said yes. But you took a step back instead, a polite smile on your face.
“Really, I should get home,” you said. “Romeo gets mad at me when I’m away for too long.”
He smiled stiffly, like he knew you would turn him down in the end.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Well get home safe, alright? Text me when you get there.”
You said you would, and you did. Then you turned your phone off and got into bed. You had to make a decision, you knew, you were running out of time. But maybe, deep down, you had already made one.
You were filled with great sadness at the prospect of not being with Jack. However, you were also filled with excitement and joy at the prospect of a little baby. Even if you didn’t have the perfect man, or the perfect house in the suburbs, did that mean you couldn’t have a happy life just you and the baby? You didn’t think so.
When you woke in the evening, you called your friend Jill to make an intake appointment. Though emergency was your calling, you’d always had a soft spot for maternity. You had become somewhat close after working together on a couple cases. The next few days, you found yourself perusing strollers online, and thinking of names. On your way home from work, you stopped at your local bookstore and picked up some heavy volumes on pregnancy and motherhood.
You did feel guilty when you saw hurt in Jack’s eyes, each time you not so subtly blew him off, or sent other nurses to work his cases. You just weren’t ready to face him yet. Maybe that was immature, but you were trying to be gentle with yourself.
So when your fellow nurse Jamie mentioned wanting a switch to the night shift, you took the opportunity. It would be more practical anyways, you told yourself, once the baby arrived. You’d need to be home at night, for feeding and changing.
It still didn’t feel real until you saw the little baby with your own eyes.
You sat in a gown, an uncomfortable probe stuck up your vagina, and wishing you had someone to share the moment with. But the second you saw the little blob that was the body, everything else fell away.
“There they are,” said Jill with a comforting smile. “I’d say you’re about six weeks along, and measuring well. Now I’ll capture the heart beat —”
You had to take a sharp breath in when the steady, quick wooshing filled the room. Tears filled your eyes at once. Not just at the pure love for the little gray smudge on the screen, but because Jack should have been there with you. You knew he’d want to be, if he was at all interested in being part of the baby’s life.
Jill placed a soothing hand on your shoulder as you cried.
“The father doesn’t know,” you admitted after a while. “We’re not exactly together, I don’t — I just don’t know how he’ll react, or what —”
“That’s okay,” she said kindly, rubbing up and down your arm. “I’m not here to judge. This is your baby, and your pregnancy — you need to do what makes you feel most comfortable. And you will never be alone, okay?”
You nodded, smiling tearfully in gratitude. You had no doubt your friends and coworkers would rally around you even if Jack didn’t.
“Although, if I were you,” said Jill, conspiratorally, “I’d tell him to at least get the child support check.”
You let out a wet laugh, but you knew what you had to do. After your next shift with Jack, you’d go to his apartment and tell him. You got extra copies of the ultrasound in case he wanted any. You knew in your heart that he was a stand up guy, and that he’d support you best he could. What you were really afraid of was what he’d think of you.
You weren’t trying to baby trap him, you wanted him to know that. You didn’t want him desperately enough to think that that was a good idea. You didn’t want to be with him if he didn’t really want to be with you.
You were shaking as you got ready that evening. You had just one more shift on nights, before switching to the day. You’d miss Ellis and Shen, Bridget, but you were happy to be seeing more of Dana and those guys. Jack was another matter entirely.
You rehearsed your monologue as you started morning rounds, so caught up that you didn’t notice Jack’s eyes burning into you. Around 8:00 pm, he seemed to snap, and your carefully laid out plan was thrown in the garbage.
“We need to talk,” he said, appearing suddenly at your shoulder as you returned unused meds to the cart.
You jumped. It was the hardest his voice had ever been with you, and you swallowed nervously. It looked like this was happening, now, whether you were ready or not.
You followed him up to the roof, knees feeling weak, nausea back, and you were unsure if it was pregnancy or Jack that was causing it. He stormed to the safety railing at the edge, then turned around to face you. His features were as hard as his voice, mouth set in a straight line. You stopped in front of him, unsure whether to speak or to let him.
Eventually, it was he who broke the silence.
“I understand if you want to break this off,” he said, gesturing between the two of you. “I know you never wanted anything serious. But you don’t have to give excuses. If you want to end it —” he broke off, pain twisting his features.
You weren’t sure how to proceed. You couldn't be honest, and tell him that all you wanted was something serious. It wasn’t what he wanted, and you were already about to complicate this so much further. He took a deep breath.
“You didn’t have to switch to the day shift just to get away from me,” he said, a hint of frustration in his tense voice. “I mean, just talk to me! Is it so hard?”
You shook your head, stinging behind your eyes telling you tears were soon to come. You twisted your fingers together.
“Jack, I…” you struggled to speak for a lump in your throat.
He placed his hands on his hips. It seemed you had gotten closer to him these past few months than you realized, because you saw through his angry front to the heartbroken man too easily. Your eyes darted to the ground.
“You what,” he said.
You just kept shaking your head, trying to find the words. His anger was breaking fast.
“What?” he said desperately. “Just say it.”
You took a deep breath.
“I’m pregnant.”
That obviously wasn’t what he was expecting you to say. His anguished face fell into one of pure shock instantly. His mouth opened and closed, finally settling on a sort of grimace. His hands dropped from his hips, reached towards you, then hesitated, and fell back to his sides. You crossed your arms protectively over your stomach, braced against the cold wind.
“How — what —” he finally croaked out.
“I’ve known for about a week,” you said. “I was planning on telling you, today, really. I just wanted to figure out what to do first.”
His throat bobbed nervously. You blinked hard, trying to keep the tears at bay for as long as possible.
“You — you’re gonna…” he said
“I’m keeping it,” you said, and he let out a breath. “I want kids, I always have. I understand if you don’t want to be part of this. I know you weren’t looking for something long term like this —”
“I never said that,” he said quietly.
You looked into his eyes for the first time. Yours were shining with unshed tears.
“What?”
“I never said I wasn’t looking for something serious,” he said, voice wavering himself. “You did. Just… I had been wanting that, with you, for so long, and then you said you weren’t looking for anything real, and I just — went along with it.” He rubbed his brow tiredly. “I figured it would be better than not having you at all.”
The tears started falling. You clearly were misunderstanding something.
“Your wife —”
“Died ten years ago,” he said. “I loved her, and some part of me will always love her, but… I also know she’d want me to be happy. And you… I’m sorry, but you make me happy.”
You turned your face away from him for a second, wiping your tears futilely. You were having trouble comprehending that this man, this sweet, gorgeous, amazing man before you, who you’d been pining after for the better part of a year, felt the same way you did.
“I make you happy?” you asked in a whisper.
“So happy,” he said, taking a tentative step forward. “Honey, you're the first thing I think of when I wake up. I can’t sleep when you’re not there, I — I get up just to see your face.”
His hands are itching to touch you, but hesitant. When you opened your arms to him, he fell to his knee, wrapped around your waist.
“I want nothing more than to have this baby with you,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your belly. “If you’ll let me.”
You crouched in front of him, hands in his hair, and kissed him. It was different from all the other kisses, shared in passion and heat. This one was slow and soft, one hand moving from your stomach to cup your cheek oh so gently. Your spit and tears intermingled as you pressed impossibly closer.
When you finally broke apart, you gripped his curls hard and looked into his eyes.
“I think I love you,” you said, too wrapped up in him to really feel the implications of a statement like that.
His smile was ear to ear.
“I know I love you,” he said, kissing your cheeks.
You let him feel you, really feel you, more than he had ever dared to when you were sleeping together. He ran his hands up your back, through your hair, and especially over your belly.
“I can’t believe we’re having a baby,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
“Oh, I forgot!” you said, pulling back and wiping your face on your sleeve. “Here, I brought this for you.”
Out of your pocket you pulled the strip of ultrasound pictures from your appointment. It seemed to be the only thing that could have had his hands leaving you. He took the pictures in his shaky hands and stared like he’d never seen anything so wonderful.
You rolled back to sit on your butt to save your aching knees, and it was the grunt you let out that drew his eyes away from the sonogram. He placed it safely in his scrub pocket, before winding his arms around you, furrow in his brow.
“Are you okay?” he asked anxiously. “Oh my god, you don’t have a jacket! It’s fucking February, what’s wrong with me?”
“Stop worrying,” you said. “My hot flashes take care of the cold.”
“You’re having hot flashes,” he noted. “Not uncommon, although less so in the first trimester. What about nausea? Dizzy spells? Pain? Have you been monitoring your blood pressure?”
“This is what it’s gonna be like for the whole pregnancy, isn’t it?” you said.
“Yes,” he said, helping you to your feet. “But Honey, really, blood pressure?”
As you buried your face in the crook of his neck, you knew. You had found your prince.
“If you spend another day sleeping in that on-call room I am divorcing you!” You yell from the guest room of Robby’s apartment.
“You can’t divorce me, we are not married!” was the only response your boyfriend gave from the bathroom, “And it's easier to be there while on call.”
“But you’re not on call!”
“Yes I am, I told you yesterday.”
“Well I asked Robby and he said you weren’t!”
“What?”
Jack leaned against the bathroom door, “You spoke to Robby about my shift?”
You just smiled back at him as you folded the laundry on the blow up mattress that was your current bed situation.
It had been only a couple of weeks since your rental had finished, and a week since Jacks, which is how you had found yourselves living in Robby’s spare bedroom, with a blow up mattress because when the original plan was to stay a couple of nights it didn’t seem like a good idea to carry a mattress up eight flights of stairs.
But after seven nights, and no end in sight, you were both being too stubborn to admit that that had been a bad plan.
“Robby told me he was on call so we had the apartment to ourselves tonight.”
Suddenly Jack's brow was less furrowed and a smile danced on his lips.
“Oh, well that changes my lie completely.”
“How many times have you lied about being on shift!”
He just smiled before dropping down on the uncomfortable mattress, almost sending you flying off, his lips found yours before you could curse him, “I love you, but god damn we need to get our own place.”
It takes you two more days to get back to the hospital.
Two days of phone calls with doctors and specialists with more abbreviations behind their names then you could even remember.
All confirming what Robby had told you that first day.
We have to wait and see.
Which was easy for the people on the phone to say, they didn’t have mounting hospital bills, a house half ripped up and a boyfriend sitting in a room telling you he doesn’t know you.
You were fine staying away, the look of disgust on Jack's face was enough to keep you at home but you couldn’t ignore the problem forever.
Especially as Robby had messaged asking for you to bring some of Jack's clothes.
So you packed two carry-on suitcases , one with his clothes and one with his spare prosthetics. The one he had worn to brunch had been mangled in the accident and even if it hadn’t, you knew just by looking at him that he had lost a lot of weight while in the coma so it wouldn’t have fitted anyway.
Hey I’m in the hallway you message Robby, patiently waiting for him to confirm he could take the clothes and you could slink off home to retreat under your blanket on the couch.
Sorry Kid, had to go to the Pit, just take it in was the response you hadn’t wanted to receive and you swore under your breath.
You hand shook as you pushed open the door and you sighed with relief as you took in the darkened room.
Jack was sleeping.
You lifted both bags, scared that the wheels on the lino would wake him.
“I’m awake.”
You almost drop the bags in fright as the bedside lamp switches on and suddenly the room is alight with the warm yellow glow.
“Shit!” you curse as you try to compose yourself.
“Sorry, I thought you were Robby.”
“He’s in the pit.” you say suddenly flustered and unsure of what to do with yourself, holding the suitcases awkwardly in front of you.
“Do you want to put those down?” Jack asked playfully, a smile playing on his lips as he took you in. Which makes you even more flustered, it's a look he would normally give you almost daily, as you did something awkward or doing something that makes it harder for yourself for no apparent reason. You used to think it was a look of adoration but seeing it now it felt less like he enjoyed it and more like he thought you were a jester performing for his amusement.
You wanted to dump the suitcases and run but you knew how fragile the prosthetics were so you gently placed it on the window sill and opened it up so Jack could see from the bed what was in it.
“You brought me my spare legs?”
“Your favourite was mangled in the accident and since you’ve lost weight in the coma I brought some of the older ones as well just in case they fit better-” you’re rambling, “There are socks and padding in the other case, and I called Dr George, he’s your ‘leg guy’ and he is going to send someone soon to see what would work for you-”
Jack says your name and you stop immediately, god you missed how he says it.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” you mutter before trying to make your escape.
“Can you stay?”
Three little words and your whole body freezes up.
“Of course.”
He gestured for the chair by the bed and you slink into it, suddenly aware of all your limbs and unsure on what to do with them, you fold your arms, then rest them on the chairs arms, cross and uncross your legs over and over again.
“Are you always this awkward?”
It’s such a Jack question that it pulls you back to yourself and you settle into the chair.
“How are you?” A loaded question that you almost immediately regretted, but Jack only looks at you and then away as he answers.
“I’m okay, I’m getting bits and pieces of stuff back, I remember meeting Robby and I remember Renee’s funeral.”
“I’m sorry you remember that.” you say earnestly, your hand reaching out to grab him in comfort before immediately pulling it back into your lap.
“It’s not like the movies, I don’t suddenly get pulled into a flashback, it’s just one moment it's not there and then the next it's there.”
“Do you remember-”
“You? No.”
You nod, shaking away the tiny tendril of hope that had slithered down your spine.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”
“It’s okay.”
A silence fell between you and you itched for something to do with your hands, getting your phone out would be rude, clicking your nails on the arm of the chair would be the same and your shirt is tucked into your jeans so you can’t even play with the hem.
“Robby mentioned we bought a house.” Jack finally said, “He showed me a picture of it. It's a bit-”
“Shit?”
Jack laughed, “Yeah, why did we buy that?”
“You might not know this but the rental market is currently bullshit, the housing market is just as bullshit and both our leases ended and the increase on rent was so astronomical we decided to buy instead of rent.”
“And we bought a house that is barely holding it together because?”
“Because you said that if you buy the shittest house in the nicest neighbourhood we are laughing all the way to a great resell price.”
“That does not sound like a good plan?”
“It was not, we had put in about thirteen offers on established houses before this one came on the market and by that point we would take anything to get off Robby's blow up mattress.”
“That makes more sense.”
You laughed, “You got off easy, you were working nights and during the day would sleep in an on-call room most of the time. I was the one showing up to work with a hunch back and spending a third of our down payment on a physio!"
Jack laughed again and you wanted to bottle up the sound and keep it tucked into your chest forever.
“I feel like I should apologise for that?” He said, still smiling at you.
“You don’t,” you say looking back at him, “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
The words hung between you both, and Jack smiled at you, slowly and with a little bit of sadness as he fiddled with the blanket.
“Were we all sunshine and rainbows?”
It was your turn to laugh at him as you shook your head, "Absolutely not! We were awkward silences and fumbling hands for about six months, then the next six months were kind of terrible. You kept me a secret from your friends and I was spiraling at my job and we almost broke up about six times.”
“But we made it work?”
“We made it work, we put the time in, we yelled at each other a lot. You did therapy, I came along sometimes and we worked through it.”
“But in the end we were good?”
The end.
Had you reached an end, had you reached the finale of your relationship before you had even had a moment to realise.
“We were good,” you agreed but then hesitated, “We were not at the end though, I think we had barely made it to the intermission.”
Jack raised a brow and his hands wrung against the paperlike hospital bed.
Your name on his lips has you almost crumbling and you clung to the arm of the chair.
“I think you are a wonderful person-”
But I’m not Renee, you finish his sentence.
“But I’m not the person that bought a house with you, or who you fought with, and I don’t think I can ever be that person again.”
“You don’t even want to try?” you say, cringing at your own pathetic words.
“I don’t think it's a good idea, for me or for you.”
The end.
This was the end, no intermission and no curtain call.
Just the end.
“I’ll talk to Robby about taking over as your Guardian and Attorney, he is probably better at it anyway.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’ll pack up the rest of your things, most of it is in a storage unit so I'll sort that out.”
“Thank you.”
You wanted to shove his thank you down his throat. You wanted to scream and cry and you knew tears were building but he wouldn’t see you cry.
Not after the weeks, you had spent mourning him as he laid in the coma.
“Don’t worry about the house, I will get the basics in place and then put it on the market and we can split it.”
“You don’t need to sell-”
“We bought it together, it’s a family home. Not the place for one person. I’ll get it sorted and send the details to Robby.”
Jack held out his hand, and grabbed yours. You tried not to lean into the touch, begging your fingers not to wrap hungerily around him as you memorised the last time you would touch.
“We can still be friends-” he tried to say and you laughed.
The sound so unfamiliar to your ears you took a step back and he released your hand.
“I can’t be your friend Jack,” you said, gathering your bag and heading to the door, “I couldn’t survive that.”
The question hung between you and Jack as you sat on his kitchen island, the older man cooking around you as he stole kisses between adding ingredients to the pot.
“Brain aneurysm, she got up one morning, went to work and never came home.”
You could tell he didn’t like where this conversation was going, his shoulders had hunched as he stood with his back to you stirring the pot.
“I’m so sorry Jack.” Your voice broke as you slid off the counter and wrapped your arms around his waist.
“She was a school teacher, and loved her work and the kids.”
“She sounds like a wonderful person.”
Jack turned in your arms and rested his head on yours.
“She was wonderful, she would have loved you.”
You smiled into his chest and then retorted, “I mean I am sleeping with her husband so she might not.”
Jack had laughed at the thought before smacking you on the ass and shooing you from the stove.
---------------------------------------
“Where is Renee?”
Jack's question echoed around the room as he asked it again.
You wobble on your feet and fall against the door frame.
Robby is still doing his checks while hitting the nurse button over and over again to get the attention of someone who didn’t have a personal stake in this whole shit-show.
“Jack-Baby-” you breathed out, drawing his attention. But those big sad eyes held no recognition as they fell on you, they held nothing but confusion.
“You were in an accident.” Robby said, pulling his friend back onto the bed and forcing his attention, “You’ve been in a coma for over a month. Everything is a little confusing right now.”
Jack looked at his friend and your heart broke all over again, he had no idea who the taller man was.
Jack and Robby had met after Renee had passed, he moved to Pittsburgh after the funeral, needing a fresh start, that was five years ago on the brink of the Covid pandemic.
“Do you know who I am?” Robby asked slowly, searching his face for something, anything that wouldn’t confirm the theory you were both formulating.
Jack just shook his head, then something sparked in his eyes as he caught sight of Dana in the doorway, her handbag held against her as she too stood dumb-struck.
“Dana! Do you know where Renee is?”
Dana and Jack went back years, from some conference or another back when he was a resident in the Army, they had maintained a friendship over the years, and she had been the main reason he had headed to Pittsburgh after Renee.
“Oh Sweetheart,” Dana started, moving into the room, “What year is it?”
You had watched enough medical dramas to know this was a question coma patients were routinely asked but you felt your heart in your throat as you waited for the man you love to respond.
“It’s 2019, last I remember it was April.”
And just like that, any attempt at holding yourself together was gone and you removed yourself from the room, your knees buckling with every step until you collapsed into a chair in the hallway.
At the end of November 2019, Jack lost his wife. He had been at work in Boston when he had received the call and had rushed to the other side of the city to be told that it had been instant, one moment she had been standing in front of her kids explaining fractions and the next she had been gone.
He had never had a chance to say goodbye or to hold her hand.
In the dark of the night, he had told you of his regrets regarding her, regretting how long he spent away from her in the army, of not kissing her goodbye as she left that morning, or not noticing if something could have been noticeably wrong (it hadn’t, you had asked Robby to tell you everything about brain aneurysms and their symptoms and he had explained that for Renee there was nothing anyone could have done).
“You okay Kid?”
Robby makes you jump as he settles his long body in the tiny chair next to you, his long legs stretched out.
“He’s lost over five years.” A statement not a question.
“Yeah, five really heavy years.”
“I can’t go back in there,” you finally admit after a few moments of tense silence, you could hear Jack and Dana talking softly in the room behind you but couldn’t make out the words, “I can’t go into that room and tell him that Renee is dead and I’m his girlfriend.”
“Kid-”
“No, don’t kid me! He is going to look at me with disgust! Every issue and problem we have spent the last two years working through, all the work we put into our relationship, everything is just gone! It took him months to get over the fact I was in my thirties and it took six months before he thought he could tell anyone and that doesn’t include the fact that he knew his wife was dead!”
“But he’s alive.”
Alive.
Jack was alive and awake.
No matter what confusing thoughts were going around and around in your mind. Ten minutes ago you had been crying onto his chest letting him go.
And now he was awake.
So if this is the string that came from this miracle, you would take it.
Because Jack being alive is the only thing that matters.
“He’s alive!” you repeated those words over and over again as you watched Jack's Doctor walk down the corridor, her own smile tense as she stopped in front of you both.
“I hear we have a miracle.” she said, nodding to the open door and Robby nodded, his hands raking through his hair and beard as he too tried to pull himself together.
“He’s lost the last five years.” you say with a surprising amount of calm, “Dana is in with him now but it appears other than the memory loss he is okay.”
The doctor nodded along before ushering you both back into the room.
Jack was sitting up now, moving his arms up and above his head at Dana’s instructions. He was still looking towards the door as if Renee was going to step towards it.
“Hello Doctor Abbott, my name is Doctor Stein, and I am very happy to see you awake.” Her fake bubbly voice was grating and you almost smiled as Jack threw her a pathetic look of ‘lets move this along’.
“When can I leave?” Was his only response, still looking towards the door.
"We need to run some more tests, see how everything is going with the bruising and swelling you had and then there is the memory loss. I am not comfortable sending you home alone without a better understanding of where you are at.”
“I won’t be home alone, I'll have Renee.” he said sitting further up, “She was a nurse before she was a teacher,” you cringed remembering just how fantastic Jack's dead wife had been, “She will look after me.”
A pin could have dropped in the room and someone down the hall would have heard it.
No one wanted to blurt out when needed to be said, Dana had gone white as a ghost and Robby was staring at the wall as if the off white plaster had all the answers.
A fat lot of good you two are, you thought to them before stepping forward.
Jack watched as you walked up, his eyes tracking you as you dragged a chair closer to the bed and sat down. You didn’t dare reach across the bed and grasp his fingers, fingers you knew better than your own.
“Jack, do you know who I am?” Your voice was low and calm, as if you were talking to a child and you cringed as he just glared back at you.
“No, are you a social worker?”
“No Jack, my name is-” and you barely croaked it out before tears threatened to fall and you took a moment, leaning back in the chair and blinking away tears, now wasn’t the time for you to lose it again.
“There was an incident and -”
“Dana just told me about the accident.”
“Not the accident that brought you here. With Renee, she had a brain aneurysm in 2019, and she passed away.”
You wish you had the words to tell him more gently, more time to hold him in your arms and nurse him through the grief he had already experienced.
“She died?” Jack was still, his voice was so low you almost hadn’t heard him but you nodded and an apology fell from your lips.
“How?”
“A brain aneurysm,” you said again, “She was in class, she stood up in front of the white board and collapsed. You told me, and Robby confirmed, that she felt no pain, she would have not even known it had happened. One moment she was there and the next she-”
“Was dead.”
“Yes.”
You looked behind you at Dana and Robby, Dana had moved to hold on tight to Robby's arm and the older man was clinging to the nurse as if they were each keeping the other standing.
Every emotion ran across Jack's face, from disbelief to anger and then a calm that you had only seen when he had gotten home from a really bad shift and he was packing the emotions away into a little box until he was ready to deal with them.
“Who are you?”
Your brow crinkled and you looked back at the doctors, had Jack just forgotten what you had just said. Was his short term memory loss as bad as his long term?
“My name is-”
“Yes I have your name, but who are you? Why are you in this room?”
It wasn’t malice in his voice, or anger, but curiosity, he was putting all the pieces together and you were the odd one out.
“I’m a friend of yours.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No.”
“Army?”
“No.”
“Medical professional?”
“No Jack, we met outside of your work.”
“Where?”
“A cafe, you interrupted me working to make fun of my spelling.”
“Why?”
“Because I really can’t spell-”
“No, why are we friends?”
“Jack maybe we shelf this-” Robby tried to say, his large hand gripping your shoulder as you had tense up, the line of questioning setting you on edge.
“You are a doctor right?”
“Yes, I work with you in the ER and I like to think we are friends.”
“Yes, that makes sense, and Dana makes sense. We are friends. But she doesn’t make sense.”
You nod and get up from the chair, your whole body shaking as you try not to scream.
You did make sense, the two of you worked. It just took time to get here, time that was now all gone.
“I should go,” you hear yourself saying, gathering your bag and your jacket before making for the door, “Robby, I’ll call you later.” you try to promise but Doctor Stein cuts you off.
“You can’t leave, you are his Attorney and Guardian. While he is not compos mentis you are in charge of all decisions.”
Oh Shit!
“She’s my medical proxy?”
“Can I give it to Robby?” you both spoke at the same time, then turned to look at each other. Jack’s face is filled with confusion and you blink away tears.
“You’re my girlfriend?”
“Jack-”
“It's the only way I would give a stranger my proxy-” he said musing to himself, once again trying to get himself out of the bed before giving up as you saw him fighting off the exhaustion that he must be feeling.
“Please stay in bed-” you try to say as he cuts you off, looking at you with disgust.
“I am dating a child!”
“I’m thirty three! I’m not a child Jack! Jesus!” You yell forgetting that you are currently in the middle of the coma ward, “I need to go-” you say to everyone else, throwing one last look at Jack before rushing from the door ignoring everyone's protests.
-----------------
You don’t think of anything as you catch the three buses form the hospital back to your house.
You don’t even realise until you put the key in the lock that you had driven to the hospital and your car was now an hour away.
Fuck
Fuck
Fuck
You just let yourself in before sliding to the floor of your hallway.
You can’t get the look of Jack in that hospital bed. He looked so much older sitting up with all the grief of his wife etched onto every crinkle and wrinkle.
You had left home today prepared for another day of waiting, and then you had said your goodbye, told him to go.
You can go Jack- Renee is waiting
The words are an echo you can’t unhear.
You should be happy, you should have stayed in that hospital room and calmingly explained the situation. You should have shown him pictures of the life you had together.
Had together
Even your own subconscious had put your relationship in the past tense.
You let yourself wallow in your grief, your heart ripping in your chest as you smacked your head back against the wooden door.
You want to fall against the cold concrete of your entryway, the floors still not done in this part of the house.
Your phone ringing in your bag pulls you from your despair and on autopilot you bring it to your ear, your voice unable to provide a greeting.
“You okay Kid?” It's Robby and you let out a sob.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Did-” you hiccup, “Did the doctor say if this is permanent?”
There is a pause and through the phone you can hear Robby leave the room he’s in and close a door.
“Kid- Dana’s with me now. We spoke with his doctor-”
“He’s not going to remember is he?”
“We got the scans a few moments ago, and there are shadows in the hippocampus, that's the part of the brain where mem-”
“I didn’t completely fail human biology!” you snapped and then immediately apologised to Dana.
“It's okay, this is a very stressful time,” the older lady said over the phone and you swallowed more tears. How much more could you cry before your body just dried into a husk.
“The shadow could just be a shadow, or it could be bruising, or dead cells. We won’t know for some time but they told us not to hold our breath.”
You nod, forgetting it's a phone call and then gasp out an acknowledgement.
“Robby?”
“Yeah Kid?”
“What do you think we should do?”
There is a pause and you could almost see it, the look between Dana and Robby as they search for the right answer.
“I think we just give this time, and you do what you need to do.”
“I need Jack.” you say before even realising and you can’t pull the words back, every word laced with pain and grief that you can’t unsay.
“Me too, Kid, me too.”
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