Hi, I'm Ali, also known as Jamie. I am a transgender (ftm) bisexual who's current obsession is Criminal Minds/The Pitt. (Trans/Queer BAU specifically) is my focus, but I would love to have some more ideas for writing! RPF, real person fiction, is one of my hard-no's for requests. I will mainly write for Criminal Minds/The Pitt characters, but if I see a different request and know the media well, I don't mind writing it! I am more than happy to write a triggering piece of media if I am able to do it justice, but please respect my limits.
Currently no posted works, please look for headcanons coming your way soon! My official tag will be #koko's writing if anyone wants to search for what I'll post in the future.
Hard-no list: non-con, fecal matter, urine, extreme BDSM (such as flogging or a permanent dominant/submissive lifestyle that is outside of sex), anal, bestiality. These limits are subject to change at any time.
(Musician!reader x Jack Abbot starting a Quinn Audios series, based on Shawn Hatosy's newest audio adventure. TW: graphic depictions of sex, extremely nosy fans, lowkey a stalker vibe occasionally.)
(Credits to whoever sent this ask, not to my account, but the screenshot cut off the user ID š)
Jack never should have seen you as his mother, at least, not in Aaron's eyes. But snapping and pushing you away was too far. Leaving was the best option you could muster, even if it hurt to think about.
(Nanny!reader x Aaron Hotchner, Jack calling reader mom and Aaron lashes out, you try to leave but he eventually understands. TW: Mentions of death of a spouse, angst, eventual happy ending.)
Daddy's Girl - Spencer Reid (š„)
(Anon request: soft dom, large age gap, and any emphasis on those beautiful hands, speaking of size difference kink (wanna know how far around my neck theyād reach lmao), possessive, praise kink, breeding kink, and just not professor and student, looking to shake it up from that could literally just be older coworker, best friends dad works too.)
Thinking about your dad's favorite protegĆØ felt wrong in the best way. The day he takes a wrong turn into your room while looking for the bathroom... Maybe your fantasies really have come to life.
(Hotch's daughter!reader x Spencer Reid. This request is gonna be followed to the T. TW: smut, age gap, dad's best friend trope, lowkey pervert x pervert, breeding kink, choking, praise kink, maybe a little extra for my favorite freaks!)
I genuinely do not understand this new, stupid accusation floating around the internet that using em dashes somehow makes your writing āunnaturalā or ānot human.ā
Likeā¦ are you kidding me? Em dashes have existed longer than half the people making that complaint have been alive. Theyāve been in literature, essays, newspapers, journals, letters, and basically every written medium since punctuation became a thing humans fought about.
And I actually tried to ignore this whole topic for the longest time. I told myself, āJust let people be wrong on the internet. Itās not worth the energy.ā But there comes a point where enough is enough, where the ignorance just gets so loud and so confidently stupid that you cannot stay silent anymore.
Iām truly, deeply sorry that I want to articulate my thoughts in a way that actually reflects how a human brain jumps, pivots, interrupts itself, and wanders. There is nothing āunnaturalā about that. That is literally how people think and speak.
And if you genuinely believe that em dashes are some proof of āinhuman writing,ā then my dear, you have never actually read a single book. Because ninety-nine percent of traditionally published authors use them. Classics. Fantasy authors. Romance authors. Literary authors. Modern authors. Old authors.
And sure, yes, obviously no one should use sixty em dashes in a 200-word paragraph. That looks like a punctuation stampede. But refusing to use them at all? Acting like they are some kind of forbidden, suspicious punctuation mark? Absolutely not.
I love em dashes. And Iām going to keep using them forever.
So stop accusing writers of āfakenessā because of punctuation.
Stop pretending your personal punctuation preferences are some moral high ground. Stop acting like youāre the gatekeeper of real writing when you clearly havenāt read widely enough to know how real writing actually looks.
And honestly, EVEN if someoneĀ doesĀ misuse punctuation, even if they sprinkle em dashes everywhere or barely know how a comma works, it is still NOT your business. Take care of your own stuff instead of policing someone elseās creativity.
Mind your own work. Because other peopleās punctuation choices are not (AND NEVER WILL BE) your job to fix.
hi jadey would you write a fic with spencer and reader who is touch starved? i love you and your writing lots
Spencer has been profiling you since the day you met. Tentative smiles prove a hesitancy in making new relationships that could point backward in time toward certain childhood traumas or poor relationship links. But the smile itself, thatās brave. Thatās you trying to reach out for something more.Ā
The way you shrug away from being touched initially had him thinking somebody hurt you. Itās a flinch response, not like his own reluctance to potentially come into germs, but it perseveres even now, three years with you on the team, part of their family. Hotch tries to give you a half-hug after your neck cracks and makes them all flinch in sympathy, but you wonāt let it linger. You say youāre fine and shrug away but Spencer saw it. He gets it now.Ā
āAt least weāre going home,ā you say to him, smiling against the wind blowing into the hangar as the airport workers load your luggage.Ā
āYou feeling okay?ā he asks.Ā
Your smile softens, threads of self admonishment at your mouth as you say, āYeah, Iām fine, it clicked funny ācos I donāt drink enough.āĀ
āI think thatās more to do with your plates,ā he says amicably.Ā
āSorry. Forgot you were a spine expert.āĀ
āIām an everything expert,ā he says.Ā
Most people wouldnāt realise he was kidding, but you do.Ā
You take a little step closer to him, perhaps to use him as a shield from the wind, your eyes drawn to the disaster of Spencerās hair blowing into his face. He rakes it out of his eyes.Ā
āSo, listen,ā he says.Ā
āDonāt like the sound of that.ā
āNo, really. I wanted to ask for something, and you donāt have to say yes. Honestly, if you want to say no then I want you to say no more than I want to ask.āĀ
āSpencer, what?ā you ask.Ā
āDo you think you could hug me?ā he asks. Hotch hugged your arm and you went stiff as a board, until. āI need one. You donāt have to, I know you donāt really like hugs.
āOh. Oh, sure!ā You cringe but quickly smile. He can see that is three quarters authentic and one quarter brave. āIf you need one, I donāt mind.āĀ
āYouāre sure?āĀ
āYeah, itās okay. Itās not that I donāt like themā itāsāā You duck your head shyly and open your arms.Ā
Spencerās gentle. He knows this is odd, asking suddenly and with the team barely five meters away waiting for the jet door to open. The wind tousles his hair into your face and he has to wipe it away before moving in, his fingers brushing your forehead carefully, in case he scares you off, and then dropping. He encourages your arms up swiftly, over his shoulders, his face finding the soft slope of your cheek and then further inward, the smell of your hair under his nose. He clutches you a little tighter than he means to and quickly gentles, tempted to move you from one side to another, but aware of how precarious this really is. You go stiff, so stiff, breath caught by his ear and your hands frozen behind his shoulders, until Spencer rubs your back, and you melt.Ā
Touch-starved. Thatās the problem. Thatās what heās been missing this whole time. You want to be touched so badly that your first instinct is to move away, to reject the sensation. But thereās no need for you to go without. You have a plane full of people who wouldnāt mind hugging you from time to time.Ā
āThank you,ā he murmurs, in no hurry to detangle himself from you.Ā
āYeahā¦ itās okay.āĀ
He squeezes his face to the side of your head, strange weight of a gaze on him. He peeks through his lashes and finds the BAU team staring at him, all in different shades of disbelief. Spencer lets his nose dip again into the soft place behind your ear before he pulls away, desperate hands lingering at your sides. āSorry,ā he says under his breath. āI feel better.āĀ
āYeah,ā you say, licking your lips, āme too.āĀ
He gives you a squinting, awkward, loving smile.Ā
āIf you ever want me to return the favour, you know, if you ever needāāĀ
āOkay,ā you say, turning on the spot to see the jet again, not ignoring him, only flustered. āYeah. Thank you.āĀ
āThank you,ā he mumbles.Ā
āItās almost hard to watch,ā Morgan whispers. Emily elbow him in the ribs.Ā
summary: you've been gunning for a spot at residency in the ptmc for two years. when another med student looks to steal your spot, you decide to conduct a little experiment in your final days. how does your attending feel about you?
pairing: jack abbot x infj!reader
tags: 18+!! mdni!! afab reader, age gap mentioned, power imbalance mentioned, r described as wearing a skirt & make-up, alcohol consumption, reader drunkeness, a lot of reader & santos friendshipism, sensual leg touching, r gets mostly naked in front of jack, crush confession!!
word count: 6.5k
glossary: the jack abbot experiment masterlist.
notes: i love these two so much. i might write another part for match day, but for now this is the end of our small little series. yay!
meet infj!reader !! check out my masterlist !!
There are many scientific studies behind crushes. Chemicals such as dopamine, norepinephrine and phenylethylamine release in your brain to give you both a reward and stress factor, extremely similar to your automatic fight or flight response. They are rumored to be caused by five different components: physical attractiveness, proximity, similarity, reciprocity, and familiarity. Humans are also often attracted to those we deem as safe, such as people they think would like them back or they spend a bunch of positive time around.
Despite knowing this science, your crush on Jack Abbot feels similar to your stress dreams. The embarrassment and dread that crawls over you is equivalent to your subconscious tricking you into believing that youāre standing in front of a crowd in just your underwear. Terrible, terrible, terrible.
Most people enjoyed their days off. The days where they could finally catch up on that show theyāve been meaning to watch or actually sit and enjoy their food rather than scarfing it down in the miniscule amount of time they had before someone swept them away to do one task or another. The feeling of sinking into their couch and losing time staring blankly at their television screen or their phone, only reminded by the sunset peeking in through open blinds.
You do not. Especially not now, when your day off means that you can sit and ponder these newfound feelings you suddenly have for your boss.
When you had woken up for your shift the night before, he had been gone. The only evidence of his presence in your bed and in your home had been a slight dip in the comforter from where he had sat perched atop it and the smell of his cologne lingering on your sheets, something that had startled you out of your drowsy state when you had rolled over that afternoon.Ā
Cue laying in bed, groaning aloud out of pure mental anguish, for way longer than appropriate.
During your shift, you had talked to him only in a professional manner. Not necessarily avoiding him, or even conducting your experiment, but as a way to put some distance and dodge the automatic nerves that came with realization. Your silly little crush had never been in the tight-set plans you had arranged for what would most likely be your final week at the PTMC and so the best thing you could do was rid yourself of the distraction.
Of course, Jack had sensed the change. He had leaned down to catch your focus when you hadnāt given him eye contact while answering his commands or questions, expression changing a smidgen when you kept as passive as ever. There was a persistence to talk to you that hadnāt been there before, which would be useful towards your experiment if you werenāt so irritated by the fact that he seemed to be around every corner.
In two days, on Monday, youād find out if you matched anywhere. Four days later, on Friday, youād find out if the PTMC was where youād lay your head, or if they had chosen other med students instead. A highly likely probability, as much as it pained you to realize.
A day off was always different for you. Rather than starting early in the morning when the sun was just peeking over the horizon, it started when evening traffic was at its highest and many citygoers were on their way home from work. Their dinner was your breakfast and a lot of places closed before you even got ready for the day, but that wasnāt foreign to you.
Your apartment is eerily quiet when you pull yourself out of bed, draped in darkness from the lack of evening light spilling through your blackout curtains. You push them open and allow the sunset to spill into your apartment, the golden glow a welcome sight when it doesnāt mean youāre going into the hospital a few hours later.
As youāre enjoying your breakfast and the sun dips lower, your phone pings from where it sits face-down on your dining room table. Flipping it over, you see that itās from an unknown number.
UNKNOWN: Itās Trinity. Can I call you?
In the world of medicine, receiving a message from a fellow doctor on your day off is jarring, especially if it includes asking if youāre available for a call. It often means that either a patient youāve been caring for is decompensating and they canāt read your chart or you need to come in out of nowhere, both of which do not sound appealing to you at this moment.
Without answering the text, you immediately press the call button.
āHey.ā Santos speaks before you can even open your mouth, rustling coming from her side of the line. āWhat are you doing right now?ā
Bad. Bad, bad, bad.
You place your elbow on the table, raising your free hand to pinch the bridge of your nose. āIf you ask me to come in, Santos, I might cry.ā Pure honesty, which is all anyone could ever expect from a conversation between the two of you.
She lets out a dry chuckle. āNo, no, Iām about to leave work myself.ā She takes a deep breath like the next thing to come out of her mouth was going to be painful. āListen, Iāve had the shittiest and most boring day at work and youāre one of the only people I can stand ever. Would you want to go and maybe get a drink or something?ā
Your eyebrows raise, glancing down at your pajama-clad body and then at your breakfast. āI just woke up.ā
āCrazy, hustler, because I donāt remember asking,ā she deadpans, her huff crackling in the microphone. āAre you in or not? I get off in an hour and can meet at the bar directly after.ā
Glancing around your apartment at everything you had wanted to take care of that day, your mouth stays agape for a moment. When Santos clears her throat to rouse you out of your silent decision making, you sigh, leaning back in your chair. āFine, okay.ā
Thereās not any sound from her that reveals any type of excitement. Instead, she just quickly tells you to save her number so that you knew who was texting before hanging up, leaving you alone in your apartment with an hour to get ready to, in your mental timeline, daydrink.
After clearing your breakfast, you meander over to your closet. The one thing about bars is that you could wear whatever you wanted and no one would care. Jeans and a hoodie? Sure, youāre still getting drinks. A mini skirt and a top-fitting shirt? A make-out with a stranger is basically guaranteed.Ā
Unfortunately, that made picking out an outfit so much harder.
Your fingers brush over every article of clothing in your closet, mouth twisting as you debate. You didnāt get a lot of opportunities to dress up due to your work, and overall living, schedule. You debate the time and effort itād take to get dolled up for the first time in forever before finally plucking your outfit out, turning and disappearing into your bathroom.
Exactly an hour later, youāve managed to make yourself look like a real person. A skirt that ends in the middle of your thigh, revealing a good amount of freshly-shaved and vanilla-scented skin, and a top that accuentated every part worth looking at. Gloss smeared across your lips despite knowing itād dissipate in moments on straws and shots, mascara curling your eyelashes into something to stare at.
A lovely change compared to scrubs, a messy ponytail and too much Chapstick to combat the dry hospital air.
Just as youāre putting finishing touches on your outfit and twirling in the mirror to ensure youāre not giving anyone a sneak peek at the flesh of your ass unwillingly, a text comes through on your phone. A simple three words.Ā
SANTOS: On my way!
And then, another.
SANTOS: Stupid autocorrect. Omw
You snort and react to the message. After a few more moments of rummaging around your room to confirm that you had everything you needed in your purse, you finally order your ride to the bar.
As youāre settled in the back of the car, staring out the window as you debate how much youāll regret this tomorrow, your phone pings again. Assuming itās Santos again, you pluck it out of your purse, only for the screen to light up with a name unexpected.
ABBOT: Are you feeling okay today?
Your brow furrows in confusion. Had you sent him a telepathic signal that told him the opposite?
YOU: yeah? iām going out with trinity
ABBOT: Just asking. You seemed off yesterday.
YOU: worried about me, boss?
ABBOT: Making sure youāre good for work tomorrow.
The snort that leaves you is so abrupt that your driver glances in the rearview mirror at you, but you choose to ignore the curious look. In the distraction of Santosā invitation, youāve had a welcome excuse to not think about Jack Abbot. Now, with a couple nonchalant texts, heās invaded every thought again.
Maybe you needed these drinks afterall.
Due to being closer to the bar, Trinity is already there when you finally step through the doors. Sheās donned in a different outfit than her scrubs, something that shows off everything good about her. Itās weird to see her outside of work like this, but a welcome sight to see with everything thatās currently happening inside of your head.
āHustler!ā She hollers the minute she sees you, one arm raising. āMy savior of the day.ā
You laugh softly, setting your bag down on the bar counter before leaning your elbow against it. āPlease tell me the first one is on you. Especially since Iām drinking only a couple hours after I woke up.ā
Trinity gives you a look, pointing over to the bartender. āHeās serving up two shots right now.ā
About an hour later, the resident has gotten you well drunk. Apparently, her version of āhaving a drinkā was enough shots to make the room blurry and enough drinks to keep your vocal cords hydrated for multiple rounds of karaoke. The bar is pretty barren for a Saturday night, due to it being earlier in the day, which means the both of you have free reign to the microphone and the DJ.
A fit of giggles leaves you as you skip off the stage, dropping off the microphone to the guy at the booth before prancing over to the bar. The final notes of Are You Gonna Be My Girl by Jet play out as you sidle up beside Trinity, two fingers pinching the straw to your drink and bringing it to your mouth.
āWho knew you were a popstar?ā She teases. āMight have to change your nickname.ā
You swallow the gulp you had taken before groaning, shaking your head. āDonāt need everyone asking to hear me sing, Trin.ā Your palm flattens on the bar as you lift yourself into a barstool, knees slotting between hers as you lean in. āEspecially not Jack.ā
Her eyebrows raise at that. āJack? You mean Abbot?ā When you donāt respond, she playfully punches at your bicep, eyes widening more than youāve ever seen him. āHoly shit. Holy shit! Somethingās happening! I knew it!ā
Almost immediately, you scramble to hush her, hands batting at her. āShut up, shut up, shut up! Nothingās happening.ā You hiss, eyes darting around like anyone around you would know what you were talking about. āHeās just ā I donāt know, heās just there all the time.ā
āYou work together,ā she deadpans.
Your head tilts from one side to the other, teeth gnawing on your bottom lip. You run over everything in your mind for just a moment before you sigh, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of your nose. āOkay. If I tell you something, do you promise not to gossip? I know thatās a crazy thing to ask of you, but I need your sworn oath, Santos.ā
She grins. āWow, the last name. Must be really serious.ā Her fingers enclose around her glass, bringing her straw to her lips and sipping until her drink is nothing but ice. āOkay. Iām ready. Go.ā
Emboldened by the alcohol flooding through you and the ability to finally talk about things youāve been keeping in, you move into the whole spiel. The experiment and everything thatās come after it. The way you think Jack Abbot will never do what you expect, and then he tends to go beyond your expectations. The horrific realization that youāve become just another medical student that has a crush on her attending.
How Greyās Anatomy of you.
The more you speak, the more Trinityās face turns into one of surprise and pure glee. Sheās obviously eating up every single word that falls off your lips, not even glancing at the bartender when he passes her another drink and she grabs it to take a sip.
After youāre done talking, she slowly sets down her glass, giving a small nod. Her fingers intertwine before she sets them on her lap, leveling you with a look. āI still think he wants to bang you.ā
āTrinity!ā You scold, heat rushing to your cheeks. āHe does not!ā
A laugh echoes out of her mouth, head shaking. Once she comes down from her laughing fit, she gestures towards your lap. āText him, then.ā
Now itās your turn to wear a shocked expression. āWhat?ā
āText him,ā she repeats. Trinity leans forward to grab your bag, plucking your phone out and placing it in your palm. She forcibly closes your fingers around it as she speaks again. āText him and tell him youāre too drunk to get home and you need a ride. You never finished your experiment, right?ā
You open your mouth before closing it again, pressing your lips together tightly. Sighing, you shake your head, placing your phone on the bar. āI canāt do that. What if heās busy?ā
She groans in frustration, running one hand through her hair. Before you can blink, she reaches out to grab your phone. In a split second, she holds it up to your face to unlock it, opening your messages.Ā
As you scramble to pull at her arms and whine out your refusals, she turns her body, thumbs tapping away at your screen. Finally, she turns around and hands you your phone. āOkay, okay! I texted him. Now you donāt have to worry about worrying.ā
āWhat?ā You squeak, turning your phone over to read whatever her twisted mind had conjured up.
Luckily, she hadnāt typed up much. Nothing too embarrassing or incriminating.
YOU: jjjjjaaaaaackkkkkkk
YOU: iām drunk
Despite how breezy the texts may seem, you groan, placing your forehead against the bar. āFuck. Heās gonna see these and then Iāll have to see him at work and I wonāt be able to look him in the eyes and heās gonna know.ā
Before Trinity can answer you, your phone lights up on the counter. You swipe it away, turning your back to her so you can read it without her seeing.
JACK: Is this what going out with Dr. Santos entails?
JACK: Getting drunk and texting your attending?
JACK: Surely thereās better ways to spend your day off, sweetheart.
Embarrassment crawls over you, body heating up from more than just a hotflash due to the alcohol. This was worse than any situation you could conjure up in your mind, especially with the knowledge that youāll see him in less than 24 hours.
āBanging! He means by banging!ā Trinity has stood up on the bars of her stool, leering over your shoulder to peer at your phone screen. Her voice is more than a decibel too high, startling the bar patrons next to her, although she doesnāt notice.
Your hand whips back to pat the back of your hand against her stomach. āSit down, Trinity, shush!ā Your voice is a plea as much as it is a scolding, narrowing your eyes at her. Youāre about to continue to chide when your phone buzzes again ā a call this time.
Another surprised noise leaves your lips, jumping up out of your stool. In your scramble, you drop your bag on the ground and send the ice in your finished drink scattered across the counter, quickly trying to gather everything back together before skittering towards the front door of the bar.
Once the cool air of the night hits you, you hurriedly answer the call before it drops. āHello?ā You fight to keep your voice steady, trying not to give away just how unsteady on your feet you are.
āGlad to hear youāre alive.ā Jackās voice rumbles through the phone, amusement lacing every word. Then, he adds, voice trailing off into something sweeter. āYou didnāt answer me so I wanted to make sure you were okay.āĀ
You knock the back of your heel against the curb as you step down, stumbling with an audible whoosh of air before slowly lowering yourself to sit on it. āUhm, no. I mean, yes, I am fine.ā You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to will the world to stop spinning and making nausea rise in your throat. āThink I went a bit too hard.ā
He laughs, the sound filling your ear. You hang onto it for a moment, letting yourself embellish in the fact that his laugh was your very own siren song. āIād say so,ā he agrees. āYou only tend to contact me if youāre stressing out or drunk.ā
āThat makes me sound horrible, Jack.ā You whine, bottom lip pushing out into a pout despite the fact that he canāt see you. Your thumb runs along the hem of your skirt, brushing against the goosebumps that have formed in the cool wind. āYou know I like your company.ā
āI do?ā He asks, teasing. āI donāt think Iāve ever heard you say that, trouble.ā
You squeeze your eyes closed tightly, teeth digging into your bottom lip at the same time. āYouāre trying to take advantage of my drunkenness,ā you grumble. āTryinā to get me to spill all of my secrets.ā
Jack laughs again, only letting you enjoy it for a split second before speaking again. āIf I wanted your secrets, sweetheart, Iād have other ways to get it out of you, I promise.āĀ
He doesnāt let you dwell on that fact for too long, immediately switching the subject. āDo you have a ride home? Someone thatāll get you home safe.ā
Youāre too quick to answer. āNot particularly. I Uberād here, so Iāll probably just grab another one back.ā
āNot happening.ā Heās too quick to respond. āAre you at the bar near the hospital? I know thatās where Dr. Santos tends to frequent after her shifts.ā
Now itās your turn to laugh. āAnd how do you know that?ā
He scoffs into the microphone. āIām middle-aged, sweetheart, not deaf and unaware. I know everything that happens inside of my hospital. Like how you always convince Shen to do the very dirty work for you by just batting your eyelashes, or how hard certain attendings stare at certain residents.ā
That makes you giggle, trying to stiffen the drunken noise by covering your mouth with your hand. When you pull it away, you frown at the lack of gloss on your lips, placing your phone in the crook between your shoulder and ear as you dig in your bag.
āStill with me?ā Jack asks as you smear lipgloss on your lips, fingers wiping around your mouth to ensure you didnāt accidentally smear any all over your face.
You give him a confirming hum before grabbing your phone again. āYes, sorry, I was fixing my lips.ā
Soft crackles echo through the microphone, followed by a soft grunt. āNo need. Nobodyās seeing āem in about fifteen minutes.ā
āWhat?ā Your eyebrows raise, taking a look around. āIām too drunk for riddles, Jack.ā
The sound of an engine rumbling answers your question before he can. āNope. Not happening. Jack, please turn your car off. There is absolutely no reason for you to come pick me up when I can very well just get an Uber. If it makes you feel better, Iāll even share with Santos and only get driven alone for a little bit.ā The words tumble off your tongue, stumbling to your feet and grunting at the pain in the arch of your feet from the heels.
āToo late. Carās already started. Gonna hang up now before I drive distracted.ā Jack clears his throat, sounding more nonchalant than stern. āKeep your pretty ass inside of that bar until I get there. Make sure Santos has a way home, or I can drop her off, too.ā
He hangs up before you have any chance to rebuttal, leaving you to pettily stomp your foot into the concrete with a sharp clack. After a few moments of angrily staring at your phone, you storm back into the bar.Ā
Pretty, pretty, pretty. Jack Abbot had called you pretty. As much as you wanted to be angry about his whole prince-charming shtick, that was the only fact that stuck in your brain like a nagging earworm.
As he promised, he shows up exactly fifteen minutes later, waltzing through the front door of the bar with his shoulders back and his chin up. He only takes a couple steps inside before he stops, looking around the room before stopping his scan at the sight of you and Trinity at the bar.
As Jack makes his way closer, Trinity nudges you with her foot until you return the gesture by jabbing your finger into her side. āHi, Abbot,ā she coos when he gets closer.
āSantos,ā he greets politely. Then, his eyes slide over to you, half draped over the bar and eyelids drooping. He reaches out to brush his fingertips along your skin, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear as he says your name.Ā
āMind if I take her?ā He asks Trinity. āYou have a ride?ā
The resident grins as she sips her drink, nodding. āIām all good, Dr. Abbot. Please feel free. My rideāll be here soon.ā
Jack gives her a low noise that means that he knows whoās taking her home before nodding. His hand slides behind your back, fingertips pressing near your spine to urge you to your feet. āHave a good night, Santos,ā he politely says.
You stand up, finding your footing on your heels. Without thinking, your arm wraps around his waist, palm flattening between his shoulder blades to keep yourself steady. Your final drink has hit you in the fifteen minutes itās taken for him to get the bar, ensuring that you were definitely nice and drunk by the time he leads you out into the parking lot.
āIām sorry,ā you whine as you lean into him. His arm wraps around you to keep you upright, palm flattening on your rib cage in case he needs to manhandle you back onto your feet. āI really didnāt mean to interrupt your day off, Jack.ā
He chuckles softly, letting you slope into his side as he unlocks his car and opens the passenger door. āIām not complaining, sweetheart,ā he reassures. āYou had a good time, right?ā
You slip off your heels before settling yourself into the passenger seat, letting your shoes drop into the footwell as your entire body relaxes. āI did. I was very happy to hang out with Trinity outside of work, you know? Feel like I donāt make many friends with my schooling and all,ā you mumble.
The door closes the minute Jack ensures that your entire body is safely in the cab of his car. A couple of moments later, the driverās side door opens before he slides himself into his own seat. āI think weāre friends, honey. Donāt you?ā
Despite speaking to you, his eyes donāt find you once, plucking his keys out of his pocket and sliding it into the ignition. Gentle fingers turn down the radio, silencing the cab until heās able to hear your murmurs over the hum of the engine.
āI think weāre friends, Jack,ā you answer. You reach out to run your finger along the sleeve of his t-shirt, not stopping when you reach the end of the fabric, tracing the outline of his bicep. His fingers tighten on the wheel before he remembers that he needs to drive, pulling out of his parking space to head towards your apartment. āI like being your friend.ā
Your fingers finally end up tracing the dip in the muscles of his fingers on the back of his hand, feeling them move as his grip on the steering wheel changes periodically. Your focus goes from blurry to clear as you attempt to focus on the side of his face, watching as his jaw clenches and relaxes, as his eyes flick from here to there.
He clears his throat, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel with his free hand. The other turns over to grab your fingers, reaching over to place them back on your lap, but only after squeezing them gently, calloused fingertips brushing over your knuckle. āEasy, girl. Gotta focus on the road.ā
You chuckle softly, pulling your hand back and letting your head loll the other way to stare out the window. āOkay, okay.ā
After tracing the line where the door met the window for what seemed like hours, youāre finally met with the sight of your apartment building. You scramble to put your phone in your bag, kicking your feet as you wait for him to finally shift the gear.
āAlright. Get inside and get some water, okay?ā Jack balances one hand on the steering wheel, peering down to watch you as you climb out of the car.
Youāre emboldened. Youāre tired of pretending. Jack Abbot looks so damn good.Ā
And so you pout, placing a hand on the top of his car and leaning down to look at him. āYouāre not coming inside?ā You ask, playing up the innocence in your tone as much as you could.
He raises his brows in surprise. Leaning back into his seat, he crosses his arms over his chest. The muscle of his bicep flexes with the action, your eyes fluttering to look at it for just a moment before back at his face. āDonāt think thatās a good idea, sweetheart.ā
āAnd why not?ā You sway slightly on your heels, the hand propped on his car keeping you steady.
Jack finally graces you with a smile, a cocky little thing that says he knows all of your secrets. āBecause youāre looking at me like you wanna eat me, and I know better than to step directly into a lionās den. Especially when Iād gladly do it when the little lion is sober.ā
Your heart flutters in your chest, butterflies spilling out of your lips in the form of giggles. āOkay, but what if I trip up some stairs? Forget to take off my makeup?ā You gasp dramatically. āDonāt eat?ā
He shakes his head, amused despite the deadpan expression he tries to keep. After staring out the windshield for a moment, contemplating, before he finally sighs and pulls the key out of the ignition. Hearing your squeal of delight as he steps out of the car, he turns and points at you. āJust until you get into bed, trouble. Not another sleepover.ā
You frown as he rounds the car, making sure youāre out of the way as he shuts the passenger door. āNo fun, Jack.ā
āIām lots of fun,ā he responds breezily. He keeps a good distance from you as you lead the way to your apartment, both close enough to catch you if you stumble and yet far enough that he doesn't accidentally grab you without reason. āHeaps of it, actually.ā
Once youāre inside the confines of your apartment, Jack locking your front door the second the door shuts, you immediately flop down on the couch. The arm of the couch presses into the back of your knees as your feet dangle, a groan leaving your lips. āWhyād you let me go out tonight?ā You accuse, pressing your legs together so your attending doesnāt accidentally get a show. āMy feet hurt like hell.ā
Jack hovers next to the couch, staring down at you as your hair plumes over the cushions. His hands are shoved into his pockets, the perfect picture of restraint. āI didnāt let you do anything. I sure as hell wouldnāt be able to not let you do anything either.āĀ
He crouches in front of your feet, a large hand wrapping around your ankle. āGive it here,ā he mumbles.Ā
You lift your foot up to prop your shoe up on his thigh, careful to not accidentally injure him with the heel. His fingertips brush against the bare skin of your leg as one hand slides up, closing around the muscle of your calf for stability while the other works at undoing the clasp. A shudder runs up your spine at the gentle touches, body suddenly very hot.
āJack.ā His name leaves your lips as a whisper as he slides your shoe off, gently lowering your foot back down to the ground.Ā
He doesnāt answer. Just simply grabs the other ankle, propping your other foot up and continuing the process again.
Thereās no reason for his hands to travel so much. For his palm to skirt across smooth skin, for his fingers to trace the curve of your knee and close around the back of it. He looks up at you as he takes off the second shoe, eyes inquisitive.Ā
Suddenly, you feel like the test subject, being pushed to see what you would let happen and what you wouldnāt, or your reaction to certain things. Right now, you wouldnāt stop him from doing anything. Heat rushes through you, making your cheeks pink and your lips part upon unsaid words, shivers travelling up your back and goosebumps blossoming on your thighs.
āAll good.ā He finally says as he sets your foot down, still crouched and holding the back of your knee. You attempt to part your legs further, make room for his body to come up and bend over yours, but he just shakes his head and holds your knee where it is. āNone of that.ā
You let out a petulant noise as he finally places your foot back down on the floor and stands up. His response is a playful knock of his knuckle against the bottom of your chin, shaking his head again. āBe good. Get up and go to your room. Change into something comfortable, then come out here to eat.āĀ
His commands make you give him a pettish glare, digging your palms into the couch as you try to find a retort. Finally, you concede and stand up, grumpily stomping your way into your bedroom.
When you step back out into the living room, Jack lets out a pained noise. āJesus Christ, trouble. That is not what I meant by getting comfortable.ā His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose before his hand drags along his jaw, fixing you with a leveled stare.Ā
Bare feet press into the cold hardwood floor as you move into the kitchen, the cold air of the AC blowing straight through the scraps of lace covering your breasts and the apex of your thighs. You press on your tiptoes to reach into your cabinet and grab a glass, hiding your smile when you hear the sharp intake of breath from behind you.
āThese are my pajamas,ā you explain innocently. Despite the slight discomfort that spreads across your body at how much is showing, you do your best to be the poster child for nonchalance, filling up your glass with the pitcher from the fridge. As you sip, you find his eyes over the cup, eyebrows raised too high.
Jack presses his hip into the kitchen counter, looming in the doorway. His nostrils flare as he fights to keep his gaze on your face, hands tucked into his pockets again. āWe both know thatās not true.ā He lets out a pained sigh, giving in and letting his eyes scan over you. āIām trying to be a gentleman and youāre being unfair.ā
āThe only person thatās being unfair here is you, Jack.ā You set your glass down slowly to ensure it doesnāt tilt over, stepping over to press your pointer finger into his chest. āThe way you treat me. The sleepovers and the nicknames. The evidence,ā you press.Ā
Each point is punctuated by another jab of your finger into the hard muscle covering his sternum. āYou like me. You care for me more than someone thatās just my attending should. But you wonāt kiss me, or touch me, or anything. Youāll just flirt and flirt until your tongue falls off and I go crazy.ā
His hand closes around the finger pushing into his chest, holding it tight even as you attempt to wrench it out of his grip. āCāmon, youāre still not playing fair,ā he murmurs. āYou know I canāt do any of that.ā
āWhy not?ā You argue. Itās foolish, the way you sit and beg for his attention like a neglected puppy, but youāre fired up and desperate. This stupid crush has you acting in ways that youād never even fathom a year ago, standing almost-naked in your kitchen and way too close to your attending. āWhy can you get so close to it, then?ā
Jack lets his hand enclose around yours, holding it to his chest. His heartbeat thrums beneath the touch, steady and calm despite the way yours races. āNever been too good at stoppinā myself from doing dangerous things,ā he admits. His other hand raises to cup your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eyes. āEspecially not with pretty little things like you.ā
Youāre rendered speechless. Instead, you settle with a playful furrow of your brow. āThereās other pretty little things? Do they flaunt in front of you half-naked, too?ā You fight the urge to step back and do a little twirl, too busy being comfortable in the warm press of his body against yours.
āThereās no other pretty little things,ā he reassures with a soft chuckle. āAnd they definitely donāt flaunt around like you do.ā
He finally lets go of you, fingertips finding your hip to nudge you backwards. āGo get some actual pajamas on and then we can talk. Like adults do, yeah?āĀ
With a sheepish chuckle, you nod, finally turning. You give a little skip as soon as you breach the doorway into your bedroom, warmth blooming at the masculine laugh that echoes behind you.
Once youāve changed into some actual clothes, a baggy t-shirt and some loose shorts, you come out to find Jack lounging on your couch. One leg propped up on the couch while the other sits on the ground, one arm draped over the back of it and the other on the arm. He looks handsome like this, all tranquil in your space.
When you get closer, he grabs your hand, sitting you down on the couch between his legs. āHi,ā he greets.
āHello,ā you respond.Ā
Now that youāre sitting here, about to have an adult conversation that reveals deep secrets and every emotion Jack Abbot has ever elicited from you, your nerves run rampant. Your fingers entangle with themselves, tugging until your joints pop.
āYou seem a bit nervous,ā he remarks. He leans to grab your hands, unfurling the fists youāve made and pressing his thumbs into the center of your palms to ensure theyāll relax. āSo Iāll start.ā
Unlike you, Jack is calm. Decades of experience before you were even born has taught him how to keep a cool composure, how to articulate himself in a way that got his point across in the way he wanted it to. He holds eye contact even when you look anywhere else, focusing solely on you.
āI like you, sweetheart,ā he starts. āWhich sounds foolish enough coming out of my old mouth, but itās the truth. Thatās why I flirt with you and why I care for you more than I definitely should.āĀ
His hand raises, twirling a strand of your hair around his index finger and giving a soft tug. āI donāt kiss or touch you because you are still a medical student. Match week is right around the corner and I donāt want anyone thinkinā that you match or donāt match because your attending has taken a liking to you.ā
He gets quieter, scanning your face to ensure that no part of you feels uncomfortable or unsteady. āI want you to achieve things of your own merit, baby, and I wholeheartedly believe you can do that. I donāt know how easy itād be if you were involved with someone that helps make some of the decisions.ā He pinches your chin between the pads of his fingers. āEspecially someone whoās so easily swayed by this pretty face.ā
A blush spreads across your cheekbones, rolling your eyes as you swat his hand away. āReally laying it on thick now, huh? If I knew all it took was a bra and some underwear, I wouldāve stripped a long time ago,ā you tease. Unfortunately, you lacked the ability to sit in an emotional moment without cracking some type of joke.
Jack scoffs, as unphased as ever. āCute.ā He pinches your chin again before finally letting his hand sit in his lap.
You run everything through your mind as you stare at him, tucking your knees up towards your chest and curling your arms around them. He just watches you, giving you the space that you need to process everything.
āThank you,ā you murmur. āForā¦ for thinking about me. It feels nice to know you believed in me enough to put whatever this is on pause in order for me to succeed. It really means a lot to me.ā
He nods, adjusting his posture to make himself more comfortable. āOf course, sweetheart. I think youāre an excellent doctor above anything else.ā
Your smile spreads at his words, shaking your head in disbelief at just how fast he can make those butterflies sprout again. Finally, you reach out, intertwining your fingers with his. āDoes this mean you wonāt kiss me until I find out if I matched or not?ā
Jack laughs, shaking his head. āI will not. Iāll also be spending the night at my own apartment tonight. I have to keep you waiting for something, donāt I?āĀ
With that, he stands up, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. His lips linger against your skin for a moment before he sits up, running his fingers through your hair quickly. āGoodnight, trouble. Weāll talk again after Match Day.ā
You watch longingly as he leaves your apartment, smiling even after the door closes behind him, cheeks aching from how long you smile. When you finally settle into bed, itās with a girlish giggle, staring at the ceiling like some lovesick teenager in a movie.
It only gets worse when you receive a text just as your eyes shut.
āI want you to achieve things of your own merit, baby, and I wholeheartedly believe you can do that. I donāt know how easy itād be if you were involved with someone that helps make some of the decisions.ā He pinches your chin between the pads of his fingers. āEspecially someone whoās so easily swayed by this pretty face.ā
oh he is soooooooo š¬š¬š¬š¬š¬š¬š¬š¬š¬š¬ literal definition of prince charming by da way i want to kill him and kiss him in equal measurements!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! heās just so in love with us itās CRAZZYYYYYY
summary ļ¹ Spencer is overwhelmed by work until a fellow BAU agent and close friend takes him out to unwind, leading to laughter, confessions, and a sweet first kiss. What begins as a casual night at the pub becomes the start of something much more.
cw ļ¹ short fluff fic!!! gn!reader. workplace stress. emotional exhaustion. gentle romantic tension. mutual pining. hand-holding. first kiss between coworkers.
reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!!!
Quantico's fluorescent lights were unforgiving.
They hummed above Spencerās head as he sat at his desk, hunched over a mountain of paperwork; his brow furrowed, eyes scanning line after line of typed reports with a mechanical rhythm. The rest of the bullpen had quieted down for the day, the team's chatter replaced by the soft buzz of computers and distant footsteps.
You watched him from across the room, your own desk long abandoned. Youād finished your reports hours ago, but something kept you hanging around. Wellā¦ someone.
Spencer hadnāt moved in over an hour. He pushed his glasses up his nose, muttering something under his breath that you couldn't quite catch. You stood, stretching, and crossed the room with soft footsteps. āYou know itās past nine, right?ā you said gently, leaning on the edge of his desk. Spencer startled slightly, blinking up at you as though coming out of a daze. āIs it really?ā
You nodded. āYouāve been working all day, didnāt even stop for dinner. Are you trying to burn out?ā
āNo, I justā¦ā he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. āThereās a lot to get through. I figured if I could finish tonight, tomorrow could beā¦ easier.ā
You tilted your head at him, heart tugging a little. His tie was loose, shirt wrinkled, and the bags under his eyes had gotten darker over the last few weeks. The last case had been roughāgruesome, personal. Youād all felt it, but Spencer had taken it especially hard.
āYouāre not a robot, Spence,ā you said. āYouāre allowed to unplug. In fact, I think Iām making it my personal mission to help you do that tonight.ā He blinked again. āWhat do you mean?ā
You grinned. āIām taking you out. There's a pub down the road. Dart boards, fries, maybe even karaoke, if I can talk you into it.ā His lips quirked in amusement. āKaraoke?ā
āYep. Non-negotiable because you need a reset. Come on, it'll be fun.ā
Spencer hesitated, fiddling with his pen. He didnāt like loud places or unfamiliar environments, but you smiled at him again; bright and encouraging, somehow soft just for him and that did something he couldnāt quite explain. āā¦Okay,ā he said, quietly. You beamed at the answer. āReally?ā
āYeah, okay. Just let me grab my coat.ā
The pub you picked was small, warm, and comfortably noisy, not too packed, but alive with the kind of background chatter that gave the illusion of anonymity. A local band was playing soft indie rock in the corner. It was a place you knew he might tolerate, with dim lighting and rustic wooden beams, and a dartboard tucked away in the back. Spencer looked around cautiously as you slid into a booth with two beers in hand.
āI promise,ā you said, pushing one toward him, āno drunk singing unless you want to.ā
āI donāt drink much,ā he said, inspecting the beer. You hummed at him. āI know, just sip. Weāre here to de-stress, not get wild.ā
He gave you a sheepish half-smile. āThanks for dragging me out.ā
āYou needed it.ā
He took a sip and let the cool bitterness ground him. For a moment, you both just sat there, watching the room, then he glanced sideways at you. āYouā¦ always know what I need.ā You looked over at him, surprised by the softness in his voice. āWell, youāre kind of easy to read. When you look like you havenāt slept in three days, thatās my cue.ā
He laughed; a real, warm laugh that made your chest swell. āIām that obvious?ā
āOnly to me,ā you teased.
He didnāt say anything at first, but he didnāt look away either. His gaze lingered on you: on the curve of your smile, the gentle way you leaned toward him when you spoke. Youād been friends since you joined the BAU, and somewhere along the line, that friendship had tangled into something messier in his chest, something he didnāt know how to say out loud.
āHey,ā you nudged his knee under the table. āDonāt go all introspective on me now. Youāre out, you're relaxing. Let yourself have a little fun.ā
āI am having fun,ā he said, a bit too quickly and you raised an eyebrow. āThen letās see it. Darts?ā He gave you a doubtful look. āYouāll destroy me.ā
āIām counting on it.ā
You werenāt lying: you did destroy him, but he didnāt mind.
You laughed with every bullseye, tossing back your hair and pointing at his stunned expression. Spencer was terrible at darts, but he played anyway, content to watch you smile and tease him. You didnāt make fun, just poked, prodded, kept things light. Kept him laughing. At one point, between throws, you leaned close and whispered, āYou look better when youāre not worrying.ā He turned red, flustered, and missed the board completely on his next turn.
You cackled and high-fived a stranger nearby, and Spencer just buried his face in his hands. āIām never living this down, am I?ā
āNot a chance, Doc.ā
But underneath the jokes, you were watching him, too. Noticing how the lines on his forehead had smoothed out, how his shoulders sat a little lower. You liked seeing him like this; unguarded, laughing, a little shy. He didnāt notice you staring, or maybe he did.
An hour later, you were back in the booth, sharing a plate of greasy fries. Your knees were touching under the table now, and neither of you moved away. āYou know,ā you said, chewing thoughtfully, āfor someone whoās got three PhDs and an IQ higher than my rent, youāre really bad at darts.ā Spencer wiped his hands on a napkin. āThereās very little overlap between deductive reasoning and hand-eye coordination.ā
āStill, very disappointing. I thought youād be my secret weapon in bar games.ā
āIām good at trivia,ā he offered, trying to salvage some dignity. āOh yeah?ā you grinned. āThen riddle me this, genius: why havenāt you asked me out yet?ā
You meant it as a joke, harmless little tease to keep the mood light but the color drained from his face. Spencer froze, eyes wide behind his glasses. āWhat?ā You blinked, suddenly uncertain. āI... sorry, I didnāt mean to make it weird, I was just...ā
āNo, no,ā he rushed, waving his hands. āItās not weird. I justā¦ I didnāt know youā¦ noticed.ā You tilted your head, studying him. āYouāve got the biggest crush face Iāve ever seen, Spence. I figured it out months ago.ā He looked like he might combust. āIām so sorry, I wasnāt trying to make you uncomfortable. I didnāt want to ruin anything.ā
āYou didnāt,ā you said softly. He blinked and you smiled again, gentler this time. āItās kind of sweet, actually. Watching you fumble over coffee orders when Iām around or he way you always sit next to me on the jet, but never too close.ā
His voice was barely a whisper. āI didnāt think you felt the same.ā Your heart fluttered. āWell, I do.ā
There was a long pause, full of new tension, not quite awkward, just fragile. Spencer sat very still. āWhat happens now?ā You slid your hand across the table, lacing your fingers with his. āThat depends,ā you said, voice low. āDo you want to go on a date with me, Doctor Reid?ā
He stared at your hand in his, then looked up, and you saw something melt behind his eyes. The tension that had lived there for years; fear of rejection, the need to always be in control, it all slipped away.
āYes,ā he said, quietly but firmly. āI really do.ā
It was late when you stepped outside, the chill of night brushing your skin, the sky above was soft and dark, stars peeking between clouds. You stood beside him on the sidewalk, hand still tucked into his like it belonged there.
Spencer was quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet now. It was comfortable and kind of sweet. āYou did good tonight,ā you said. āActually had fun.ā He smiled. āI did, because of you.ā
āYouāre welcome.ā He turned toward you, eyes bright behind his glasses. āIām really lucky you noticed me.ā
āI always noticed you, Spence,ā you whispered.
And then you leaned in and kissed him. It was soft, brief even, just your mouth on his, warm and sure. You pulled away before he could even process it fully. His face was pink, his smile dazed. You nudged his side. āWalk me to my car, genius?ā He nodded, still smiling, still holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
As you walked together under the soft glow of streetlamps, Spencer thought that maybe, just maybe, life wasnāt so heavy with you beside him.
summary: you've been gunning for a spot at residency in the ptmc for two years. when another med student looks to steal your spot, you decide to conduct a little experiment in your final days. how does your attending feel about you?
pairing: jack abbot x medical student!reader
tags: afab reader, age gap mentioned [reader is late 20s, abbot is early 50s], power imbalance mentioned, r described as having a ponytail, flirty tension guarantee, a lot of off-topic ER stuff, pittlings mention, michael robinavitch is a dick to reader, lots of medical jargon & situations [asthma attack, deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary embolism & atelectasis], r stresses out over small interactions/mistakes, alcohol mention, jack abbot is an angel, hurt-comfort, pre-marital sharing of a bed
word count: 6.9k
glossary: the jack abbot experiment masterlist.
notes: i wish jack abbot was real. also there's a lot of filler here but it's important i SWEARR
Flirting is described as an art. Itās a dainty little dance of ensuring youāre showing interest, making someone feel special and seen. If done correctly, it can bring out confidence in both the subject flirting and the subject flirting with, alongside genuine happiness. Even if a subject does not know they are being flirted with, they will often still feel the positive benefits that come from the interaction.
Humans thrive on attention. Even those that tend to shy away from the limelight or from compliments will still perk up or brighten whenever faced with someone who actually sees them. Everyone wants to be seen. Flirting tends to do the trick. Body language and certain words that draws your subject closer, letting them know youāre interested without being too forward or making them uncomfortable.
Today was the full first day of your experiment. You had already gathered a few points of evidence to fully set up your hypothesis, but now you needed to support it with personal experiences.
Based on what had played out this morning in your apartment, it was only right that you continued along the flirty route for your experiment. A full day of sweet smiles, playful banter, lingering touches when there didnāt need to be. Itād be easy, if you played your cards right, especially because Jack Abbot flirted as easily as he breathed. Youād seen it multiple times with patients and other doctors, although he tended to use it as a form of diffusion rather than an actual intent at showing interest.
After standing in the same spot Jack had left you in for a couple minutes to regain your composure, you had showered and crawled back into bed. It seemed like you had tossed and turned for hours, running his words and looks and the feel of the air between you through your mind over and over again, before you had finally fallen asleep. After waking up, you had taken your time to get ready, admittedly putting a bit more effort into your appearance than normal.
DR. ABBOT [5:31PM]: Outside.
YOU [5:33PM]: Asleep.
DR. ABBOT [5:35PM]: I have a key.
You walk out of your front door a couple minutes later, donned in your black scrubs with a lunch box over one arm and your backpack over the other. Despite the shit-eating grin on your face, Jack doesnāt smile when he sees you, just gives you a small raise of his eyebrow and a tilt of his head towards the passenger seat.
Other than a soft greeting in the sleepy haze of two adults who got barely any sleep and a quick inquiry from Jack about how you slept, the car ride is quiet. You get dropped off at the entrance with an order to start getting intel from day shift before rounds, already so professional before youāve even breached the doorway of the hospital.
Thatās fine. You werenāt necessarily known for giving up.
Javadi greets you with a small smile and a loose wave when you finally step into the hubbub of the emergency department, one that shows that the day shift had been nothing but weary. Even Mel, who seemed to have the energy level of a young puppy, seems deflated as she finishes up on her charting, eyelids heavy behind her glasses.
After dropping your bag off in your locker and grabbing your stethoscope, you meet up with Santos, whoās staring up at the patient board like it had wronged her. āHard shift? You all look dead on your feet,ā you comment as you sidle up next to her.
āPile-up on the freeway,ā is the tired response she gives you, head rolling to glance at your face. āBurns. Pnuemothoraxes. One case of compartment syndrome. Blood and guts galore.ā The final words take on a sarcastic note, one that puts a grin onto your lips.
āYou say that like you didnāt enjoy it.ā You nudge her with your elbow, causing her to look down at your arm with a quirked brow. āYou complain when you donāt get anything good.ā
Now, you and Trinity were not friends. She wouldnāt describe your relationship beneath that label, and neither would you. You didnāt have any of her personal contacts, you only spoke to her at work or the rare moments away from the hospital where everyone hung together and you both actually chose to go, and you guys only knew sparse bits of personal information about each other.Ā
There was no intent to go beyond that. Santos had her own set of walls up, obvious by her brash behavior and the treatment she gave her own roommate, and you had always told yourself that you would worry about being personable once you had gotten into the PTMC. You were both okay with being friends within these walls and strangers outside of them.
But you had to admit to yourself that it was nice to find a comrade in arms. While many probably wouldnāt expect your camaraderie, with her blunt and teasing nature and the inability to find it in you to entertain her taunting, it was nice to have someone who didnāt expect anything from you but quick quips and sarcastic comments.
She gives you a quick glance that tells you everything you need to know before she subtly points through the throng of people. āSpoken to Dr. Abbot yet today?ā
The question makes your lips part in slight surprise, glancing over to where she had gestured. Jack has finally made his way inside, effortlessly strolling past the clusters of patients and doctors alike to beeline for the staff lockers so that he could set his bag down and immediately get into the action.Ā
He hadnāt told you to keep your whole morning escapade as a secret. In reality, thereās no reason it should be. An attending offering to drive his exhausted med student home isnāt an HR break, but a courtesy. Did staying in her apartment a bit longer than necessary because she was sleeping toe the line? Maybe, but you werenāt sure if that was laid out in the handbooks or seminars.
Santos had been the one to bring up the idea of Jack feeling anything for you, though. Telling her any more details about your connection to your attending would no doubt result in gossip and taunts that you couldnāt afford right now, not with match week, not with your experiment.
āNope,ā you answer. The word falls off your tongue so easily that you could probably convince yourself it was true. āBut I should probably check in with him and Shen before we start rounds. See you later.ā
Your feet carry you towards Jack easily, keeping a cool facade as you head over, only to be stopped by the sound of your name. Dana, still finishing up on charts before she heads out, gestures towards the sliding doors. āPedestrian versus car. Mind taking it?ā
The charge nurse poses it as a question, however you know that thereās not a choice there. You jog to the side of the gurney, hands closing on the rails as you help the paramedics push the gurney into one of the trauma rooms. Your gaze flickers up to find Robby joining you on the other side, also wearing the exhausted scars of the morning shift.
As usual, the trauma is run in a blur. Robby mostly assists by just slipping in questions and orders while you and the nurses carefully dip and dive between each other. For the situation, the patient isnāt too bad. A few lacerations here and there, a possible break in his wrist, but awake and cognitive. Send off for a CT to look at the wrist and then come back for a saline wash and stitches.
After the nurses come to take the patient away to wait in line for radiology, you step out of the trauma room. Rounds are now in full-swing, if the cluster of doctors hanging out outside of South 12 tell you anything. With one final glance back at the trauma room, you join everyone else.
Jack gives you a glance as he steps out of South 12, chin tilting up slightly. āNice of you to join us.ā
āI was just getting one step ahead,ā you reply. A breezy smile and a slight sway on your heels is paired with the retort, causing him to give a tiny shake of his head before continuing on.
The day (or rather, night) continues on with a soft drone of smaller traumas and odd injuries. The night shift was always a coin flip on how itād be. Way too busy and filled with critical traumas that are amplified by the night, such as assaults or drunk driving accidents, or slow with only easy cases coming in, like illnesses, āaccidental fallsā on odd objects, fight bites from drunken brawls.
Tonight was slower, though you wouldnāt admit it out loud. There were a few more opportunities to sit down and chart than normal, which made you feel almost uneasy. The calm before the storm was always a horrible place to find yourself in.
Your elbows are currently balanced on the nurseās station, staring up at the patient board with a knitted brow as you slide an empty energy drink can between both hands. All of your patients are stable and okay for now, leading you to wait for someone else to come back from chairs that wouldnāt go to Shen or Ellis first.
āIām sure thereās something you could be doing other than lowering your heart health.ā Jackās voice verberates from behind you, fingers closing around the can youāve been swishing around. He plucks it up easily, silencing the grating sound of metal against countertop.
You glance up at him with a bored look, although a smile pulls at your lips. āDo you have any suggestions, Doctor?ā It drips off of your lips in a purr, propping your chin up on the heel of your palm. If this went wrong, at least you could blame the exhaustion.
Jack crosses his arms over his chest, lifting his chin as he rolls his shoulders back. Heās silent for a long moment, contemplative, not even twitching. āA 55-year old woman comes in with shortness of breath. Sheās 2 days post-op from an emergent appendectomy. What are we doing?ā
Well, that wasnāt what you were expecting, but not unwelcome. Flirting with knowledge was your forte.
āCheck the incision site and check for a fever. Sepsis.ā You straighten your spine, matching him by crossing your arms.Ā
He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. āAfebrile and a clean incision site. Next step.ā
Thereās a pause as you think, fingers reaching up to run your index finger along your bottom lip. Jackās eyes flutter down to watch the motion before going straight back into direct eye contact. Thereās a subtle twitch that tells you to go on, barely noticeable to an untrained eye.
Your voice wavers a bit when you speak, squirming just a tad beneath his natural glare. āWhatās her pain level? What do I see on the physical exam?ā
His head tilts one way before the other, as if debating. āModerately controlled, still limiting deep inspiration, would rate it at about an 8. Decreased breath sounds at the right lung base and oxygen saturation is ninety-three percent on room air.ā
Jack props his arm up on the counter, glancing around to ensure that everything was still running smoothly in the department. You turn to place both arms on it, stretching out a twinge in your back as you think. āShe needs to be placed on oxygen, thatās for sure. The decreased breath sounds is a worry. Can I get a chest X-ray for 100, Alex?ā You jest.
āRight lower lobe opacity with associated volume loss.ā He rattles it off easily, still watching you closely.
Your eye catches on his wedding ring, glinting in the light every time his finger taps against the table. Without thinking, you reach out to brush your index finger along it in thought. Thereās not even a flinch from him, just a glance at the gentle touch before a curious look at you.
Your lips curl into a smile as you look up at him, pulling your hand back to tuck it back near your chest. āAtelectasis from the anesthesia used in her surgery. Treatment plans include incentive spirometry and deep breathing exercises, and can most likely go home later that day.āĀ
Ellis calls Abbotās name across the emergency department, hanging out of the doorframe of Central 9. He lifts his attention from you to nod at her in acknowledgement, already sitting up straighter and putting weight back on his prosthetic.Ā
Thereās not a singular word from him as he starts to walk around you, leaving you to frown at the absence of closure to your little game. Youāre just starting to deflate when thereās a soft tug at your ponytail, Jackās voice low in your ear. āSmart girl.ā
When you turn around to say something, youāre met with the view of his back, watching as he walks away without even a look back.
Just as your shift winds down and youāre allowing yourself to relish in the idea of going home soon, especially with the day shift slowly trickling in, your name is called out across the emergency room. Thereās the familiar sound of an alarm going off, spilling out of the room your MVC patient from this morning had been hanging out in while he awaited his cast.
Your shoes are heavy against the ground as you sprint towards the room, sliding in. The patientās hand clutches at the railing of his gurney, his other hand sprawled across his chest. A quick glance up at his vitals shows a critical drop in his respiratory rate and an increase in his pulse, both never good signs.
āLetās get him on oxygen!ā Youāre a bit louder than you need to be, grabbing your stethoscope off of your neck and pressing the bell to his chest. Your brows squint as you try to focus on the sound of his breathing, furrowing more at the crackles coming through. The exhaustion from the shift seems to weigh down on your shoulders, adding to the stress of a sudden drop in sats. āTell me whatās happening?ā
āCanātā¦ breathe. And my chestā¦ it hurts.ā Your patient, Thomas, is wheezing as he speaks. The fabric of his hospital gown crinkles beneath his fingers from where he clutches at his sternum, skin turning white from the tight grip.
āYour oxygen has dropped quite a bit, so weāre going to give you some to hopefully help you catch your breath.ā Youāve never been too good at soothing, especially actively in the middle of a tense situation like this. You had a tendency to stick to facts, rather than worst case scenarios, finding comfort in the lack of unknown.
The sound of the sliding doors open and your head whips up, shoulders deflating at the sight of the two attendings. Their presence was both a blessing and a curse; experience to assist you with making sure your patient didnāt die, but watchful eyes to point out every mistake you could make.
āWhat do we got?ā Jack says as he sidles up on the side of the gurney, forearm pressing into yours.
āWhat happened?ā Robby barks at the same time, taking the other side of the gurney.
āPedestrian versus car, struck at a low velocity, presented to me and Robby this morning with lacerations to the forearm, forehead and hip, along with a potential broken leg. Radiology confirmed a break in the tibia. We were waiting on someone from ortho to come down and put a cast on, however is now presenting with trouble breathing, chest pain and tachycardia.ā The words spill out before you can stop them, straining to pull out every fact in your head. āI can hear crackles in his lungs.ā
Your head raises to glance at both of them, gaze flickering between them like a doe caught between two coyotes. You canāt make any wrong moves here, not with the lack of experience under your belt, not with your future hanging in the balance. āDVT?ā
Jack tilts his head, pressing his own stethoscope to Thomasā chest. āPossible with the broken leg. Check with the ultrasound.ā His tone is sure and steady, movements a bit less frantic.
You fumble with the cords as a nurse hands you the Doppler, brow furrowing and lips pursed. You press the probe along the muscle of Thomasā leg, following along the femoral and small saphenous vein. After a moment, you finally speak up. āSmall clots in the small saphenous vein,ā you report.
āWhat does that mean and what do we do?ā Robby asks, giving you a pointed look.
āIām guessing itās venous thromboembolism, a pulmonary embolism caused by deep vein thrombosis. We need to switch to a high nasal cannula and give thrombolytics.ā You hand off the Doppler, glancing at Jack for more guidance.Ā
While Robby was technically also over you hierarchy-wise, Jack was your attending. At the end of the day, his instruction (and opinion) meant more to you than anything else.
After getting Thomas stable, many anxiety-inducing minutes later, you step out of the trauma room with adrenaline still racing through your blood. Robby stops you with a hand on your bicep while Jack heads to give a second opinion to Shen, his other hand raising to brush over his head. āDid you do an ultrasound on Thomas when he arrived?ā he asks.
Your lips part in surprise at the question, glancing away from him in thought. āNo,ā you answer honestly. āThere was no indication of DVT in the few check-ins I had on him in the time it took to get his scans back from radiology. No skin discoloration other than the bruise from being hit by the car bumper, no leg cramping, nothing other than normal symptoms of a broken leg.ā
The attending presses his lips together for just a moment before his head tilts. The action looks different on him than it does Jack. More condescending, more revealing. By now, you can tell that itās usually followed with a thinly-veiled statement of passive aggressiveness.
āAnd you do know that DVT is often a direct response to trauma to the leg, yes?āĀ
There it is.
āOf course I do.ā You keep your voice level as you stare up at him, pulling your hands behind your back to keep from curling your fingers in frustration. āBut I also know that DVT symptoms can occur without any noticeable symptoms and that I checked on my patient multiple times this shift.ā
Robby raises his eyebrows at your response. āIf you know so much about DVT, you shouldāve done an ultrasound on the leg once his scans came back from radiology. DVT and pulmonary embolisms are one of the most significant causes of mortality in trauma patients and therefore they require constant surveillance using the Doppler.ā
He moves around you to head into the emergency department, which is only getting busier with the morning crowd. After a moment, he pivots in a half-turn to look back at you. āThis is why youāre a med student,ā he says over his shoulder. āItās best to remember that you do not know everything. Check in with your attendings and stop marching around here like youāve already become a doctor. Youāre lucky this went our way today, or you wouldāve killed my patient.ā
And like he didnāt crush a handful of the confidence you possess, he continues walking away without another word. Mentally, you scream at his back. My patient! Mine! You werenāt here!
The thing you hate the most in this world is being wrong. Mistakes are for losers, people who do not work as hard as you do. Youāve spent years studying and perfecting, even if thereās only been a couple years of mastering inside of a real hospital. Youāre aware that there are things you do not know, and youāre always open to learning more, but you are not a moron, and you hate being treated like one.
You glare at his back until he disappears upon the sea of people, deciding to be angry rather than upset. It was always easier for you to snap than whine, the equivalent of a scared dog that chooses biting over a tail tucked between its legs.Ā
Attempting to shake it off, you move towards where the day shift youngins have gathered at the hub. Whitaker and Santos are having some type of heated conversation, as usual, while Javadi and Mel listen in with somewhat bored expressions. Theyāre used to the sibling-esque bickering, it seems, and that doesnāt surprise you one bit.
Your elbows slam onto the counter the minute youāre close enough, stretching out your arms and pressing your forehead to the cool top. Your shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh, the picture of dramatics.
āYou alright, hustler?ā Santos asks. Her eyes bore into your back, tone carrying that familiar lilt of teasing that she carries with her to work every day.
Slowly, your head raises, blank stare meeting her taunting one. āIām going to kill your attending.ā
Whitakerās brow furrows in the corner of your eye, one finger raising. āHeās still technically your attending, you know. Being on night shift doesnāt mean heās not your boss.ā The corner of his mouth presses down in a āwhat can you doā look.
āI will kill you,ā is your immediate response. You donāt even grace him with your focus, although you do see him put that hand back down into his pocket. āSmart guy.ā
Trinityās grin only grows wider at the threat towards Dennis, crossing her arms over her chest. āWhatād Robby do to get you soā¦ uncool? Insult your mother?ā Her eyes roam over you as she takes in your raised shoulders, tight spine and wild hair. To her credit, youāve never seemed to have even a hair out of place. Not even when youāve been yelled or cursed at by patients. Always the picture of perfection and patience.
That elicits a sound of annoyance from you, placing your forehead back down on the nurseās station. āI really donāt want to get into it, lest the rumor mill starts and gets back to him. Just know heās a mean son of a bitch and Iāve never been happier to work beneath Abbot everyday.ā
āWell, of course,ā she snorts in response. āBecause he has a crush on you and would console you even if you stabbed a patient in the chest with a scalpel.ā
Javadi, Whitaker and Mel all pipe up at the same time. āWhat?āĀ
When you raise your head, youāre met with three matching faces of pure shock, while Santos looks nothing but smug. Your lips immediately part to correct her, accusatory finger raising. āDonāt. He does not have a crush on me.ā That you could prove. Yet.Ā
āWho doesnāt have a crush on you?ā
Like the ghost of embarassment past, Abbot hovers near your shoulder once heās stepped close enough, eyebrow raised as he looks down at you. He stares into your eyes for just a moment before looking over the other doctors, tilting his head towards the patient rooms. āDonāt you guys have some patients to meet and catch up on? Rounds?ā
Suddenly silent, they all nod, turning and disappearing into different parts of the department. Jack turns around to look back at you, corner of his lip twitching at just the idea of making fun of you. āGot some admirer in the Pitt that I donāt know about, kid?ā
You run your tongue over your top set of teeth in relief that he hadnāt heard the rest of that conversation, even as your cheeks pink up at even the idea of it accidentally happening. āNo. Are you worried?ā
That pulls a small chuckle out of him, head shaking. His hand raises to pinch a chunk of hair in your ponytail, giving it another tug. āDonāt.āĀ
Without giving you time to respond again, he points towards the lockers. āGo on. Youāre done for the day. Grab your stuff and head home while you still have some life behind your eyes.ā Now, he finally graces you with a smile, focus not wavering at all.
You return the smile gratefully, nodding. āHave a go -āĀ
Youāre interrupted by the sound of a trauma being rushed in and Dana calling your name, sighing as your head rolls back between your shoulders.Ā
Jack gives you a mock grimace before raising his eyebrow, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. āOne more trauma with me, hustler?ā
āPlease leave that nickname to Santos. Itās bad enough from her.ā Your nose scrunches in playful distaste, grin sprouting slowly before you nod. āWhy not? Itād take me a bit to get out of here anyway.ā
Running traumas with Abbot is one of the easiest things youāve ever done. He guides you effortlessly, gives out gold stars and praise like itās candy, and never loses his cool. Itās almost annoying how smooth and steady he keeps himself, even when things tend to go wrong.Ā
The new patient is a kid suffering from an asthma attack. Nothing too bad, solved with some albuterol, no need for an intubation or anything serious. It doesnāt add too much time onto your shift, thank goodness, which means youāre able to finally go home at a reasonable-enough time.
Except Robby is on your heels and heās calling your name.
Fuck.
āYes?ā You turn on your heel, glancing up at him and fighting the urge to give him the annoyed glare you had saved for him earlier.Ā
He raises the IPad in his hands before holding it out to you, that same condescending look on your face. āNot sure if you were asleep when you were doing your charts earlier, but these are a mess. You need to lay out all of your differentials and how you marked them off one by one until you got your final diagnosis.ā Both brows raise, like heās unable to not ruin your night, and life just is what it is.
Your hackles raise again, jaw falling. You take up the posture of a teenager told that sheās grounded for a month, fingers outstretching. āDr. Robby, my shift ended an hour ago. Re-doing my charts will take me ages. Can I finish it at home?ā
āAnd leave your fellow doctors with half-finished charts on patients that are still here? Doesnāt seem very productive for them.ā He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, free hand raising to run along the back of his neck.
For a moment, the two of you are caught in a staring contest. Two stubborn minds put together in a brawl of determination to see who gave up first. In all reality, you should give up. He is your superior, which means that everything he says goes, even if you think itās stupid or dehumanizing or an absolute joke.
Just as youāre starting to give up, shoulders falling away from your ears in defeat, Jack strolls over from where you had left him near Central 6. āCāmon, Robby, let the kid go. If any of the doctors have a question about a patient, her numberās on file. She can finish them up while she rests her feet.ā He doesnāt look at you as he speaks to his fellow attending, shoulders down.
Robby looks at Jack for a moment, eyebrows raised in surprise at his disagreement, before he shakes his head. āFine. But if anything happens because these files are incomplete, itās on her.āĀ
As he strolls away, Abbot lets out a soft grunt, watching him go. Once heās out of sight, he presses his elbow into your bicep. āGo. Before you get yourself in some other situation, trouble.ā
This time, you donāt even try to say goodbye before you head towards the locker room.
Youāre home about an hour later, still in your scrubs and sunken into your couch like youāre vowing to merge into it. The morning light streams through the curtains youāve failed to close since stepping through your door, illuminating your apartment in golden sunlight that doesnāt do anything to fix the dread settled in your stomach. A glass of wine is perched in your hand despite the clock on the wall reading way before five oāclock, but thereās no limits when it comes to being on the night shift.
For a good twenty-four hours, youāve decided to push the upsetting part about most likely not being matched to the PTMC to the back of your mind. Instead, you had shifted your focus towards your experiment, something that brought you fun and distracted you from the idea that you were failing at your one overarching goal.Ā
To say that Robbyās comments had brought you back to reality would be a drastic understatement. Every reminder of your failures, of your lack of knowledge, had settled upon your shoulders the moment you had stepped foot into your apartment. Naturally, as a perfectionist, it felt like a thousand bricks had been placed directly on your shoulders.
Growing up, you always knew that there would be a part of you that was considered dramatic. Tears lining your eyeline when teachers handed you back a bad grade after you studied all night, irritation running through your veins at someone doing better than you after putting in the same amount of work, feeling like a failure for being anything less than the best. The smallest inconvenience was always blown up into something bigger, something close to debilitating.
Perfectionism runs in your blood. Your greatest strength and yet your greatest weakness. Everything you did was done right or not at all, an innate ability to fail without wanting to punt yourself into the sun.Ā
To say that youāre spiraling over a few grumpy comments from an attending and the impending doom of having to acclimate at a new hospital would be an understatement. All you had to do was ask the dwindling bottle of pink moscato sitting on your coffee table.
The alcohol subtly floating through your veins provokes you into pulling out your phone.
Your phone rings only a couple of moments later, Jackās contact photo illuminating the screen. It was a stupid photo you had taken at some meeting everyone was required to attend, a half-asleep effort at finally putting your final contact photo in. He didnāt even know it existed until he had texted you an article about anticoagulation for acute mesenteric ischemia and watched it pop up on your phone.
Thereās not even a moment to say a greeting before he speaks. āYou cannot be this worried over just what Robby said to you. Whatās bugging you, trouble?ā
Your response is a heavy exhale, falling back into your couch and fighting to keep your wine glass steady. Heās patient as you take a moment to collect your thoughts, not a single peep coming from his side of the call. āMy future. The end of everything I know. How Iām unlikable and alone and donāt allow people to get close to me for the sake of the future that is ending soon.ā
āSorry, youāll have to elaborate a bit more, sweetheart.ā Jackās voice gets softer when he hears the obvious exhaustion in yours. You try not to let it get in your head too much, but the wine seems to speak for itself. Thereās a flutter beneath your sternum before you can stop it.
You try to quell the feeling with yet another swig. āFor the past two years, Iāve been in the Pitt. Not only have I been in the Pitt, Iāve been working my ass off in the Pitt. Iāve pushed aside the idea of making friends in order to get better at my job, I gave up the gym for studying medical textbooks and studies. I have spent so many years of my life doing things everyone elseās way so that I can reach goal after goal and now there may be something I cannot get.ā
The sound of rustling echoes through the speaker. Your face crumples at the idea that you may be pulling him out of the short time he has to sleep, balancing your glass on your thigh. āIām sorry, you should be sleeping. Please go to bed.ā
āStop worrying about what Iām doing or should be doing. Iām a grown man and can make my own decisions.ā He pulls out the tone of finality youāve heard multiple times with patients, one that tells you to shut up and listen. A newfound feeling shivers up your spine and, again, you take another drink to calm it. It shouldnāt turn you on that your attending is reminding you of the decades between the both of you, but here you are.
Jack continues, blissfully unaware of the way you readjust where youāre sitting. He returns back to his gentle voice, the one meant to soothe. āIām not going to dig more into your personal life, but youāre always free to offer it up. For now, you should be getting some sleep. We have another shift tonight. Friday night, if I could remind you.ā
Your response is a soft grumble, pulling your legs up closer to your chest. You lay your chin upon your knees, wrapping the arm holding the wine glass around them in an attempt to close up more. āI canāt sleep. To be quite honest with you, I never can when Iām spiraling. Iāll stay up thinking about how tomorrow I will walk into the ED and I will do something else to mess up and then Iāll be reminded about it forever and ever by my own stupid brain.ā
āWhat do you need?ā He asks, like itās the easiest thing in the world.
āWhat?ā You respond, unable to contain the shock in your tone. Admittedly, you cannot remember the last time someone asked you about what you needed. It would be nice if it wasnāt so jarring.
You can hear the smile in Jackās voice. āWhat do you need, sweetheart? Warm tea? A movie? A bed-time story?ā The last part is a soft tease, breaking the slight heaviness that has settled over the conversation.
Truth is, youāve always had a bit of trouble sleeping. Itās one of the reasons why the change to the night shift hadnāt affected you too badly. Youāve always gone home at the end of the day, winded down and gotten nice and tired just to stay up for hours reciting every situation you had been in ever. Conversations, arguments from months and years before, things you did well but couldāve done better.
The last time you had gotten any type of good sleep, even if not all night, was yesterday morning.
Maybe it was the liquid courage. Maybe it was the craving for something to silence your brain. Something moves you to sigh again, pinky finger tapping at your glass nervously. āCan you come over?ā
To your surprise, he doesnāt hesitate to respond. āIāll be over as soon as I can.ā
Thereās a knock on your door not even half an hour later.Ā
When you open it, teetering on the line on tipsy and wine drunk, you are met with the delicious view of off-shift Jack Abbot. Light grey t-shirt that stretches over his chest and sits tight on his arms, loose dark sweatpants that closed just above the sneakers he had no doubt just thrown on, if the loose tie on his shoelaces said anything. The slight bit of mess was welcome compared to the uniform tie he usually kept.
Thereās a backpack slung over his shoulder, although itās different from the large camouflage bag he carries into the hospital. Itās smaller, simple and black, worn at the straps from multiple years of use.
āYou came,ā is the only thing you can say once youāre done blatantly ogling him.
āYou told me to.ā Jack says it like itās the only answer he needs to say.Ā
He gestures into your apartment with a nod of his head. You step back and pull open the door, letting him step inside for the second time in the last twenty-four hours. This could not be HR appropriate, but you canāt find it in you to care.
Now that heās actually here, you feel embarrassment wash over you in a wave. You would put three months worth of paychecks on the fact that no medical student had ever asked their attending to come to their house so that they could sleep and not stay up fretting, and that wasnāt something that you would wear like a badge.
āStop thinking.ā Jack muses as he sets his backpack down on the couch, sitting up straight to cross his arms over his chest. āI can practically see the words flying behind your eyes.ā
You scrunch your nose in response, getting just a couple steps closer and laying your hand on the back of the couch. āI donāt know what else to do,ā you admit. āIām not sure why I asked you over here, to be honest. Itās like weāre going to play Scrabble or drink wine and gossip.ā
His eyebrow raises, watching you closely. Thereās a slight shadow lining his eyes, evidence of how long heās been awake. Heās never mentioned his own problems with sleeping, however everyone in the emergency department had already deduced that they existed. It was the only logical answer to how he always managed to show up whenever the morning shift needed extra help.
āSweetheart, we were talking about sleep and you asked me to come over. So thatās what youāre going to do, alright?ā One hand raises to gesture to the hallway moving deeper into your apartment. āWhereās your bedroom?ā
A bit forward, but youād take it. Nodding lamely, you stroll towards your bedroom, praying that you had remembered to make your bed yesterday afternoon or that you hadnāt left a pair of underwear abandoned on the ground.
Jack follows behind you obediently, his shoes loud on the floor compared to your sock-covered feet. Once you both breach the doorway, he gives an approving nod, whatever that means. āGet out of your scrubs and into some pajamas.āĀ
Every word comes out as a command, although thereās nothing irritative or bossy about him. Heās as calm as heās ever been, leaning against your doorway and admiring the decorative pillows lining your headboard. As to what he is thinking, you have no clue.
You follow his instruction without a second thought. After plucking some soft shorts and a long shirt out of your closet, you change in your bathroom, shuffling back into his eyesight once you are dressed.
āNice and cozy. Youāre lovely when you actually listen,,ā he teases gently. At your attempt at a scalding glare, diminished by both the wine and the exhaustion, he gives you a sly grin before nodding towards your bed. āBed, trouble.ā
As you move to remove your excess pillows and pull back your comforter, you allow yourself to relish in the goosebumps that crawl along your arms at the words. Your drunk brain allows you to think about the possibility of him saying those words in a totally different context.Ā
Jack only moves once youāve fully put yourself beneath the blankets, curled up to keep yourself warm. Calloused fingers work to turn off both lamps in your room before he sits on the edge of the bed, methodically undoing his shoelaces and pulling off his shoes. His prosthetic is next, popped off before being propped up against your nightstand.
You watch as he settles down on the bed beside you, back leaning against the headboard, the blanket pulled taut with the weight of his body on it. Your lips pull up into a goofy smile as you watch him get comfortable, peering up from beneath your duvet. āYou look silly on top of the blankets.ā
He glances down at you with an amused raise of his brow, hands folded in his lap. āStop worrying about how I look, trouble. Youāre the one that needs to be getting some rest.ā One hand reaches out to push back a strand of hair that had draped over your cheek, fingertips brushing against your cheekbone.
āYouāll sleep, too?ā Your words have turned into mumbles with sleepiness, still able to feel the heat radiating off of him through the layer of blanket. āThereās spare blankets in my closet if you get cold and choose not to join me.ā
Rather than pull his hand away, Jack continues brushing his fingers over his hair. The touch is barely-there, as if he was ready to jerk it back at any moment, but itās enough to get your eyes to shutter closed. āIāll remember that. For now, you just worry about getting some shut-eye, sweetheart.ā
Your only response is a soft hum, already being lulled away from the land of the awake. As you fall asleep, you wonder just what it is about Jack Abbot that puts you in such a relaxed state. Maybe it was the idea of being close to someone for the first time in what seemed like forever. Maybe it was his relaxing and calm presence.
Maybe it was the fact that you had started to like him.
summary: you've been gunning for a spot at residency in the ptmc for two years. when another med student looks to steal your spot, you decide to conduct a little experiment in your final days. how does your attending feel about you?
pairing: jack abbot x medical student!reader
tags: afab reader, ambitious & kinda delusional reader, age gap mentioned [reader is late 20s, abbot is early 50s], just some tension. again.
word count: 1.4k
glossary: the hypothesis.
notes: a small part two so that i get something out! more parts coming...
When you wake up, Jack is still there.Ā
You donāt realize it at first. Your entire apartment is dark, the black-out curtains that cover every window still shut, and thereās no sound other than the periodical thrum of the air conditioning. For a moment, you wonder if he had abandoned you on the couch, leaving your front door unlocked and you vulnerable.
The smell of food makes you sit up, one hand combing through your slightly tangled hair. Thereās indents on your arm from where it had been tucked beneath your jacket, the sign of a nap well-taken. You swipe a finger along your waterline to rid of any crust, freezing in place at the sound of a deep breath.
There, on your recliner and close enough to reach out your foot and touch him, is Jack Abbot. Heās leaned back as much as possible while keeping his feet flat on the floor, arms crossed over his chest like he was still trying to keep himself protected in his sleep. They rise and fall with each inhale and exhale, muscle lines just as prominent with each movement. His head tilts to the side, the vein in his neck bulging slightly at the crane. Long eyelashes frame his cheekbones, the laugh lines next to them smoothened.
Sleeping. Jack Abbot is sleeping on your recliner, in your apartment. Your boss.
Scientifically, people are more likely to fall asleep around people they trust than strangers. When you feel safe next to someone, your parasympathetic nervous system is activated, lowering your heart rate and slowing your breathing, which slowly lulls your body into sleep. Your brain recognizes the protection of being around something comfortable and lowers its guard, allowing for a reduction in overthinking and insomnia.
For a moment, you just stare at him. Itās foolish, and slightly creepy, but it feels like the one moment you can see Jack without having to worry about anything else. No social perceptions, no worries of him catching you staring.
After forming the hypothesis of an experiment (in this case: if you were forced to leave the PTMC, Jack Abbot would care more than an attending should), the next step is to design your variables. An independent variable that changed, a controlled variable that stayed constant and a dependent variable that was solely the outcome of your independent variable mixed with your controlled variable.
Your controlled variable was working at the Pitt. For the next week, youād be working the night shift alongside Jack, the same hours as normal. Independent variables would be a range of behaviors. What would happen if you were super kind? What if you ignored him for everything other than professional matters?Ā
The dependent variable? Jack Abbotās attitude. The behaviors he exhibited based on each different treatment you gave him. No change would indicate a rejected hypothesis, while noticeable change would point towards a supported hypothesis.
Yes, this morning you had said that that was enough experimentation for one day. But now, with him looking so sweet and comfortable on your recliner, you had to take your chance.Ā
For science.
After a moment, you reach out, hand closing gently around his knee. āJack?ā
He jumps like you had pinched him, arms uncrossing and blue eyes widening. His head swivels as he looks around, visibly softening when he looks at you. āFuck,ā he grumbles softly. āSorry, you scared me.āĀ
āIām sorry. I didnāt mean to.ā For once, you sound genuine, voice still raspy with the remnants of your nap.
Jack shakes you off with a singular wave of his hand, sitting up with a deep inhale. āItās fine. I didnāt mean to fall asleep.ā His throat clears, nose scrunching as he blinks away the sleep, even though his eyelids struggle to open after every press. Exhaustion weighs on every part of him as he reaches down to rub just above his prosthetic, scrub pants wrinkling beneath his fingertips. āI just finished up setting out the takeout and thought Iād sit until you woke up.ā
An amused smile slowly pulls at your lips, even as you attempt to push it down. āYou were going to watch me sleep?ā
āNo,ā he corrects sternly. Thereās a glimmer of mirth in his eyes as he fixes you with a look, giving the tiniest shake of his head. āI was going to get on my phone. Or stare at the wall.āĀ
If you didnāt know any better, youād think he was getting a bit flustered. He avoided your eyes, which was unnatural for him, instead settling for looking around the room with a tired gaze.
Finally, your grin blossoms over your face, head shaking. āWhatever you say, Jack.ā His name falls off your tongue with a slight purr, his eyebrows raising a smidge in response. Noted.
Your palms flatten against your thighs as you move to stand up, tired muscles groaning in protest and your knees popping. āIām going to eat and then get more sleep before our shift tonight.ā Slowly, you move to the dresser against the wall, grabbing a ring of keys.Ā
Jack watches as you step towards him again, focus shifting to the glint of metal between your fingers as you hold it out to him. āWhatās this?āĀ
āYouāre too tired to drive home,ā you note. āYou can barely keep your eyes open, and weāve seen enough people end up in our emergency department from falling asleep at the wheel. So hereās a key to my apartment. You can sleep in my guest room until youāre rested enough to drive and then you can lock the door on your way out.ā
Much to your chagrin, your heartbeat thrums a bit harder against your rib cage as he continues to stare at you, as if trying to pick apart an ulterior motive beneath your offer. āYou can return the key at work tonight,ā you press anxiously. āItās only fair since you drove me home because I was tired.ā
Casually, in a way thatās almost flirtatious, he leans back in the chair again. Those arms cross across his chest again, biceps pushing against the fabric of his black t-shirt. Itās now that you notice heās removed his scrub top, leaving him just in loose-fitting pants and a tight t-shirt.
Slut.
āArenāt you going to need a ride to work?ā he asks.Ā "Your car is still at the Pitt."
āGoing to miss me if youāre away from me for a few hours, Abbot?ā It slips off of your tongue before you can consciously consider your decision to flirt with your boss, too caught up in the way that heās staring up at you, amused and flirty and delicious-looking.
That stern look returns, leaning forward to press his elbows onto his knees. Closer to you. Youāve already known that he has no sense of personal space, especially with the way he seemed to always hover directly behind your back during traumas or press his arms into yours on the nurseās station. Each time, he didnāt even act like he was directly popping your bubble, just continuing on with whatever he was saying beforehand.
Jackās head tilts up to catch your eyes again. āNo. But I also wonāt be happy if I have to cover your ass because youāre late to your shift.ā His hands clasp together in front of him, tendons stretching as he squeezes his fingers. āI think this conversation has made me awake enough to drive home. But Iāll come back later to take you to work.ā
He stands up abruptly, shuffling his weight from one foot to another. You step back to try and get some distance between you, but his hand reaches out towards you. Fingertips brush against your skin as he plucks the extra key out of your fingers, smirking down at you. āKeeping this just in case you sleep in.ā
You watch him, slightly breathless, as he strolls across the room to where heās abandoned his backpack. His fingers run along the waistband of his scrub pants, t-shirt riding up just a smidge, and you exhale out the rest of the oxygen in your lungs. He steadily pulls off his keys from where theyāre clipped to the handle on the top, slipping your spare key onto the keyring in one motion. Somehow, thatās more attractive than everything else, especially with how much you tend to struggle to do so.
āSee you later, kid. And eat.ā One hand raises to wave at you over his shoulder, just before he steps out of your front door and leaves you standing agape in your living room.
summary: you've been gunning for a spot at residency in the ptmc for two years. when another med student looks to steal your spot, you decide to conduct a little experiment in your final days. how does your attending feel about you?
pairing: jack abbot x medical student!reader
tags: afab reader, ambitious & kinda delusional reader, multiple uses of the words "medical student," age gap mentioned [reader is late 20s, abbot is early 50s], just some tension
word count: 3.9k
notes: i'm aware i've messed up my medical hierarchy a handful of times in this fic. frankly i dont want to talk about it. by the time i realized i was like 4k words in. anyways this has the chance to be a shorter series so let me know if that's interesting to u guys!
Adrenaline. A hormone secreted by the adrenal glands, especially in conditions of stress, increasing rates of blood circulation, breathing, and carbohydrate metabolism and preparing muscles for exertion.
The one thing that is guaranteed to be found present in the autopsy of a medical student is adrenaline.Ā
It flows through the blood of every student, fueling each and every long shift pulled at the hospital. Where there is fear and uncertainty, adrenaline lies beneath like a wind in a sail, assisting in pushing through even the worst of situations. Tragic and sudden deaths, unknown illnesses, mass casualties. Adrenaline sits tall through it all.
Now, rounding out the end of your fourth year as a medical student, the hormone rushes through you stronger than it ever has been. Your last month is the final stretch to even attempt at landing a residency in the Pitt, where you have spent your last couple years and grown comfortable. When ranking your preferences, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center would be your top choice.
You just had to hope that you were theirs.
For the last two years, youāve mostly kept your head down, attempting to not make a fuss. Of course, you still held some friendships with the other medical students and residents, but you also learned from their mistakes and adjusted accordingly.Ā
Santos was too blunt, to the point where it was seen as harsh, and let her own experiences negatively affect her time in the hospital. Javadi was a product of her quick childhood, taking things to heart and, at times, being too impulsive with judgement. Whitaker had taken his first death too hard, Mohan sometimes threw away flexibility to her methods when it came to showing empathy towards her patients. Not even Langdon and Collins, despite their seniority, were perfect.
Maybe it was too calculating, too unempathetic, to point out all of their flaws to yourself in the quiet of your apartment after laughing with them all shift, but you held yourself to the same standard. You knew that ambition clouded your own judgement, that you were willing to do anything to stay at the PTMC. Even if it meant kissing up to the attendings, even if it meant not getting too close to the other medical students because you wanted to be better than them.
Quickly into your time at the Pitt, you realized that favoritism was a good way to climb the ladder. Dr. Robby had an affinity for Langdon and Mohan, it was clear as day, even if he was harder on the latter. But, despite your acknowledgement of this fact, he had latched on to Whitaker during the new rush of interns.
And what do you do when you start to lose your advantage?
Find another way.
So, you switched to the night shift. A tight-knit staff, a bit looser in the shoulders than the day shift. Shen portrayed himself as having no care in the world, Ellis was his comrade in arms. Even Walsh tended to be the more light-hearted version of Garcia despite her tough attitude.
Jack Abbot? Well, he was the calm-headed counterpart of Robby. Prepared for any situation with a quiet baritone and praise where needed, approving risky attempts at healing patients, leaving all of his personal baggage at home. Another perk was that he was nice to look at, even if he was more than a couple decades your senior and your boss.Ā
Plus, he seemed to favor all of the doctors beneath him just the same.
You had immediately planned on changing that.
First, you had worked on seducing him with your brain. Nonchalantly answering questions, thoroughly and clearly, as to not step on any toes or make your plans apparent. There was nothing that killed a reputation more than being labeled as any nickname, whether it be a pick me, know-it-all or, worse, gunner.
Gunner. A term passed around medical school and all of your rotations. The worst kind of student, who held some of your qualities and yet showcased them in the worst way possible. Someone who blurted out answers rudely, who asked too many questions, who would smile when they undermined their peers to their face.
Itād never be you. Your ambition had decorum and your lapses of empathy still had heart. You werenāt afraid to step up and teach the students beneath you, or to share your knowledge from hours of sticking your nose into articles and medical investigations.
Teamwork was crucial for being ranked first, afterall.
Abbot had once told you that he liked your gut, your brawn, after you had deliberately disagreed with Shen and hadnāt backed down, even when Ellis had hopped into the conversation on his side. It was a jump in his respect for you, another large leap towards becoming his favorite, something to solidify your spot at the PTMC. Heād even adjusted from calling you solely by your last name, rotating between nicknames instead.
Itās the second week of March now. The week before the daunting Match Week. On Monday, youād find out if you matched anywhere. On Friday, youād find out where. Five full days of psychological torture, if anybody asked you. Five days of wondering whether or not all of the time and work youāve put into your reputation at the PTMC would pay off or not.
Needless to say, youāve been on edge for the past month. There were too many variables that could lead to your demise. Another student doctor who shone on the days you were off taking your spot. Those day-shift interns sucking up to Robby so much that none of the night shift even stood a chance. Jack Abbot not liking you as much as you thought he did.
Youāre interrupted from staring at the intake board from a slap of a palm on the nurseās desk. Raising your eyebrows in surprise and turning your head, youāre met with the sight of Santos, who looks way too refreshed compared to you. You hadnāt even noticed it was already six-thirty. Thirty minutes until your shift ended.
āWhatād you leave me, hustler? Anything good?ā Trinity asks, squinting ever-so-slightly in an attempt to read the patient notes on the TV. She completely ignores the eye roll you give her at the nickname - just like she always does.
Thereās a soft snort from you as you grab your energy drink, taking a sip and shaking your head. āI think the only thing considered good to you is when people are actively bleeding out. If I left that out for you, Iād have a one-way ticket out of the Pitt.ā Your lips part in a large yawn, clutching your can tighter. āWhich Iām trying to prevent, thank you.ā
Now, her gaze finally sidles over to you, glancing over your shoulder before back at your face. A grin slowly spreads on her lips as she leans her elbow on the counter. āYouāre not gonna get tossed out of here,ā she assures. āBecause Abbot has a crush on you.ā
Visibly, you stiffen, head whipping around so fast that youāre sure you hear a tendon snap. āWhat? No, he doesnāt.ā That would be bad. He was too sensible, meaning thatād ruin your plans. A crush on you would snowball into him believing he couldnāt have you around, which meant no residency at the PTMC.Ā
No matter how good looking or charming he was, you wouldnāt allow a man to ruin your chance.Ā
āPlease.ā Santos looks too pleased with herself, like spreading this rumor had been a secret task given to her. āI know a thing or two about higher ranking doctors wanting to hook up with interns and residents. He,ā her eyes move, likely seeking out Abbot in the crowd, āwants to bang you.ā
You glare at her for a moment before shaking your head. The only thing that fueled her ideas was when her target reacted to them. āYouāre too focused on Abbot and not focused enough on the multiple patients night shift is leaving you.ā A weak response, youāre aware, but thereās not much else to say that wouldnāt just egg her right on.
She gives you a final knowing grin before twirling away from the nurse station to go bother someone else. Javadi, probably, to get the most attention for it. If she was an only child, you wouldnāt even spare a surprised raise of your brow.
Coming to the realizaiton that your shift was just pass-offs and then finally over, your exhaustion finally washes over you in a wave, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. Your shoulders lower for what felt like the first time since your shift started, feet starting to drag against the linoleum as you head towards where the residents and interns of the day shift have gathered.
Robby leads the way through each patient room, each night shift doctor speaking up at some point to go over ailments and current treatment plans. Abbot is beside him the entire time, only speaking up when thereās something super attending-like to pass between them. His gaze lingers on you a few times, causing Santos to look between the two of you pointedly, but you simply adjust your gaze back into some sort of focus each time.Ā
āExcited for match week?ā You hear Santos ask behind you. By the hushed tone of her voice, you assume the question is not meant for you, so you stick with eavesdropping instead.
Javadi huffs. āIs anyone ever excited for match week? My momāll kill me if I donāt match here.ā
You glance out of the corner of your eye just in time to see Santos knock her shoulder against Javadiās, completely ignoring the patient that Shen was currently introducing. āOh, donāt be so hard on yourself, Crash! Youāre basically a shoo-in. I swear I heard the attendings passing your name around yesterday during rounds, but you didnāt hear it from me.ā
Victoria responds with something, but the sound is muted to your ears. The only thing you can focus on is the fact that Javadi might take your spot, might steal everything that you had worked so hard for. Sure, she was a hard worker and an amazing doctor, but you had hoped that her mother constantly pestering her within the hospital would make her work a bit less hard, leading to her matching somewhere else.
The clocks around the emergency department finally hit seven in the morning and, ten minutes afterward, youāre finally in the locker room. You move sluggishly to grab your stuff, slinging your backpack over your shoulder and grunting at the weight of it. Your chest feels tight with the realization that you might only have a week left in the Pitt before youāre sent off to some other hospital to meet multiple other doctors to prove yourself to.
āAre you okay?ā A voice speaks, and the bass in it makes your spine stiffen. Abbot. āTo drive home, I mean. You look kinda beat.ā
You turn to face him, met by the same view youāve seen for the past couple years. A white shirt beneath black scrubs, curled salt and pepper hair just a bit mussed from the long shift, camouflage backpack held over one shoulder. Abbot doesnāt even look touched by fatigue, looking the exact same as he had when heād stepped into this locker room early last night.
Clearing your throat, you shake your head as you pull your stethoscope off your neck, hanging it up where your backpack used to be. āIāll be fine. Iāve driven home tireder.ā Your actions pause and your brows furrow. āMore tired. YouknowwhatImean.ā The last bit comes out as a jumble, one hand sticking out to wave your misspeaking off.
Of course heād show up when you were so distraught over Javadi getting the spot you wanted so bad. You knew it was pitiful to believe that you deserved it over Victoria, especially knowing how hard she had also worked, how she overcame all of the obstacles of being so young, but you also knew that feeling your emotions through was healthy. At least, thatās what your therapist had said.Ā
Abbotās quiet for a moment, staring at you like he was waiting for you to crumble into dust in front of him. When your gaze finally catches his brown eyes, the conversation with Santos earlier crawls forward. He wants to bang you. Now, itās a totally unsubstantiated hypothesis in your opinion, but what if she could really see something that you couldnāt?
If Javadi got matched to the PTMC, youād never see any of these people again. You were a dead girl walking. Only a few 12-hour shifts until you knew your fate and were forced to succumb to it. What would be the harm in testing Santosā theory?
Your teeth find the inside of your cheek as you stare at him, almost unnerved by the way he doesnāt seem to move. With a heavy, only slightly exaggerated sigh, you shake your head. āReally, itās fine, Dr. Abbot. If itās bad once I sit in my car, Iāll just take a quick nap in my car before driving home.ā
Bait set.
Finally, he moves. His head shakes, a small movement at first before it turns into a more adamant one. āIām not letting you sleep in your car.ā Thereās a finality to his tone, the same one he uses when he gets stern with one of the residents about a treatment plan.
Bait taken.
āThereās no public transportation near my apartment, and itās too cold to walk.ā Giving in too easily would be too noticeable, not to mention completely unlike you. There had to be a bit of back and forth, lest you wanted him to think that you suddenly had a growth in your frontal lobe that affected your personality. You werenāt known for backing down.
A line forms on his forehead as he resumes his staring. Then, he steps forward, left leg hitting the ground a smidge heavier. Fingers slip beneath the strap of your backpack, sliding it off of your arm and onto his shoulder. He looks a bit silly, standing with a bag on each arm, but you manage to quell the amusement looking to find its way onto your face. āIāll drive you.ā
Bait consumed, again. He was really making this easy for you.
Now, itās your turn to stare. Blank-eyed, lips slightly parted, the picture of shock and surprise. Part of it is real - you didnāt expect for him to inconvenience himself that much for his intern, much less physically take your baggage. In fact, youāre not sure what you expect from this experiment youāve set in place. To see how far heād inconvenience himself to do things for you? To see if he attempted to do more than just the bare minimum?
It wasnāt a well laid-out plan, but youād come up with things on the spot. Impulsivity was at the core of all of your best memories.
āSir,ā you start, only to be cut off when he raises his hand.
āLetās go,ā is his only answer before heās strolling away with your belongings.
He stays only a couple steps ahead of you all the way out to staff parking, leading you to a slightly beat-up sedan before shoving his hand into the pockets of his scrub pants to unlock it. Thereās no gentlemanly show of chivalry as he slides into the driverās seat, tossing both of your things into the backseat. You stand in front of the car, staring at him through the windshield, until he finds your eyes and waves you in.Ā
Itās quiet as you settle into your seat and as you drive. Abbot looks almost uncomfortable, sitting straight up in the driverās seat. His thumb drums against the steering wheel despite the absence of music coming from the radio.
The both of you drive for a couple minutes before you gasp, your fingers pressing into the bridge of your nose. āFuck. I totally forgot I was going to stop at the grocery store on the way home for dinner.ā Slowly, your focus slides over to his face, fighting back a twitch of your lip at his startled state from your gasp. āCan you just drop me off at the grocery store? I can just walk home afterwards, itās fine.ā
With each piece of bait laid, you slip some truth in to keep from being found out. You had been exhausted back at the PTMC and taking a nap in your car wasnāt something you had never done before. You didnāt have anything in your fridge at home, but youād never go grocery shopping so early in the day. The morning crowd at the store seemed to be the judgmental type and you were rarely awake enough to eat breakfast when you got home anyway.
Abbot seems to contemplate your words for a brief second before he declines with a shake of his head. āYou said yourself that itās too cold to walk outside. You can order takeout when you get home.ā He doesnāt look at you as he speaks. Just looks at the road. Perhaps too scared of car crashes from his time in ER, maybe just avoiding the sight of your confused expression. āIād tell you to go straight to bed if I didnāt know you havenāt eaten since last night.ā
Your visage crumbles just a bit more at that, studying the side of his face like itās a crucial step in your investigation. The idea of anyone tracking what times your meals were, when you didnāt even do that for yourself, was foreign. But there was a crucial factor at play in this instance. He was your attending. If he felt you werenāt taking care of yourself, he had to bench you from bigger traumas.
Right?
In response to his dismissal, you choose to not argue. As fun and interesting this game was proving to be, your tiredness was overpowering your need for constant experimentation. This was enough evidence for one day, and you still had a few shifts to gather more before youād be too upset for play.
The silence that stretches between you and Abbot is nothing but awkward, his jaw clenching every couple minutes as a sign of life. As much as you werenāt the extroverted type, silence had never been where you stayed. It made you feel itchy, or like there were thoughts going on in the other personās head that you didnāt want to know just as much as you did.
With your eyes still on the road, you finally speak. āDo you not listen to music?ā
His head turns to look at you for a brisk moment before flickering back out the windshield. āNot really,ā he responds. āI usually listen to the police scanner, but I assumed you didnāt want to hear that.ā
Now, itās your turn to look at him. That silence returns for a little bit, stretching between you, before you break it again. āYou can turn it on, if you want. I donāt mind. Maybe something interesting will happen.ā Probably not, but you needed something to fill the cumbersome air between student and mentor.
He looks at you for a moment, testing to see if youāre serious, before giving a firm nod. A breath later, abrupt chatter fills the cab of the car like white noise. You lean your forehead against the passenger window, watching each yellow streetlight until they turn into blurs. Then, your eyes close. For just a couple minutes, you say.
The next time your eyes open, you register the sound of the gearshift clicking into the place. The car jolts slightly as the tires settle onto the brakes. Your head turns to look at Abbot, whoās features had turned into something gentle, although not affectionate.
āCāmon. Letās get you inside.ā He urges you with a gentle brush of his knuckles to your bicep. You sleepily linger on the care he takes to not touch you with his fingertips or his palm, almost as if a touch like that would be too much to bear.
Your lips part in a heavy sigh as you sit up straight, your shoulders aching from stiffness. Thereās not a chance for you to attempt to grab your bag, watching as Abbot slings it over his shoulder and steps out of the car without looking back.
He hovers near the hood of the car until youāve caught up. Letting you take the lead, he keeps silent as he follows you up to your apartment.
āYou donāt have to walk me up, you know.ā Your hand fumbles in your jacket for your keys, prying them out and fumbling for your house key. āItās a good neighborhood.ā The key slides into the lock only after you stab it against the metal a couple times, nose scrunching in annoyance at your own fumbling.
Abbot takes one step forward as you step into the threshold of your doorway, pausing when you turn and look back at him. You expect him to hand over your bag, but he just shoves his hands into his pockets and tilts his head. āIf you go in there by yourself, will you eat?ā A simple question, but the slight twitch of his eyebrow gives away the challenge.
The two of you sit in a stand-off until you finally sigh, stepping back and opening the door just a bit wider. Your back turns to him as you struggle to yank everything out of your pockets and toss them aimlessly onto the table in the doorway.Ā
Thereās a heavy exhale from Abbot as he watches you, gaze stuck on the haphazardly tossed items before he looks at you. Youāve noticed before that heās a bit of a clean freak, probably from his military days. Heād have a hell of a time staring at your messy apartment, then.
āGo lay down. Get some shut-eye.ā He instructs, not asks, tilting his head towards your couch. āIāll order the food and wake you when itās here.ā
That makes your spine tense, hand reaching out to stop him from moving further into your abode. āAbbot, really, you donāt have to. I can take care of myself.ā
One singular brow quirks, that no-bullshit gaze returning. ā37.23% of medical students end up with burnout, the number higher in students approaching residency. Match week is next week and you refuse to sit down.ā His knuckles press into your bicep again, his other hand sweeping out in front of you. āIf I can ensure you take care of yourself at least one night, I will do so. And, Jesus, weāre not in the hospital, please call me Jack.ā
Jack.Youāre not fishing for evidence anymore, but heās handing it over, and thereās a part of you that likes it. Admittedly, that part is a majority. Even though heās at least two decades older than you, even though heās your boss. Heād be older than you forever, sure, but he wouldnāt be your boss for much longer if Javadi was the shoo-in Santos said she was.
You take in the expression on his face before you let your shoulders fall in defeat. You wouldnāt call it that, of course. The idea of sleeping and waking up to some hot food was tantalizing.
After kicking off your shoes and emitting a grunt at the soreness of your feet, you collapse on your couch. Your cheek finds a throw pillow as Jack wanders into your kitchen. āSleep.ā He calls, and you have no choice but to listen.
Please could you do Morgan comforting reader when they feel like they don't belong or they're not talented enough to be at the BAU? Could be platonic or romantic, whatever you'd like!
Thank youu, i love you š
tysm for ur request, ily! not quite your boyfriend derek comforting you (fem!reader) after a mistake
"Woah, what's with the face?"Ā
You wince at the sudden intrusion and look up where you're standing at the round table, plastering a practised smile over your worried frown. "Hey. I'm just looking the case over."
"Face?"Ā
His dark eyebrows have pulled together, slightly upward toward the start, and you've seen it enough to know he's not only sussed you out but he's also not gonna leave you alone until he knows what's wrong.Ā
"Do I have something?" you ask, reaching for your compact.Ā
He rolls his eyes and takes your arm into his hand before you can fish the mirror from your pocket. It's a friendly touch but super firm, his fingers braceleting your forearm and sliding down to your wrist.Ā
"I meant your world class frown, sweet thing." He tilts his head to the side imploringly. "What's wrong?"Ā
"It's nothing."Ā
"It," he repeats. "So it is something?"Ā
"No, it's nothing. That's why I said 'nothing'," you insist, though it comes out soft.
It's hard to be fierce with him when he's shown you nothing but sweetness since you first joined the team. Morgan has a soft spot for you, and he always has. You try not to take advantage of that.Ā
Right now, however, you might need to. "It's really nothing, Derek," you say, first name said with adoration to trick him into moving on.Ā
He does seem to waver. "Baby."Ā
It would be nice to tell him. It would be really, really good to get it off your chest. You decide to tell him a little bit of the truth.
"I just- I'm still embarrassed about the mistake I made. I should've left the geographical profile to Reid, he's good at them, and I- I set us back."Ā
He doesn't like that at all. Morgan works his fingers into your own and squeezes, understanding and something worse settling on his face ā indignation.Ā
"You don't hold us back."Ā
"That's not what I said."
"We both know it's what you meant."Ā
You hold his gaze, pouting, and find yourself dissolving into a defeated laugh. "Okay! Okay, you suck so much right now. What happened to not profiling each other?"Ā
"Babygirl, you know we all break that rule all the time."Ā
You let your head tip forward. "I know. It sucks."Ā
"Maybe. But it means we can be there for each other when the other person is too stubborn to share what's bothering them." He moves both of his hands to your shoulders. "You didn't set us back. Everybody makes mistakes all the time, that's why we're a team. You can't do this by yourself."Ā
"But you guys could do it without me."Ā
He glares at you, words said slowly, each heavy with meaning, "No, we couldn't. Not as well. And you know none of us want to do it without you."Ā
You laugh again, this one stretched high with exhaustion. "I don't know. I just feel dumb today."Ā
"You are dumb if you think we don't need you."Ā
You huff. He's smiling at you, waiting for you to concede.Ā
"Thanks, Derek," you say eventually, quiet with both embarrassment and sincerity at once.
He pulls you in for a hug, all corded muscle and nice smells. "Any time. Every time. Whenever you need a reminder, just let me know."Ā
could i request something similar to the fainting blurb with derek instead of spencer?
thank you for your request ā” fem!reader
You don't expect it to happen while you're sitting down, so you have no idea how to react. It's a fairly average day in San Francisco, not too hot nor cold, and for all intents and purposes, you're fine.Ā
Spencer will explain it to you later āyou'd been standing for three hours in front of a whiteboard, and suddenly sitting was enough to encourage a drop in blood pressure along with a case of mild dehydration.Ā
But for now, you don't feel well. You blink against spots as they cloud your vision, reaching out for Derek's hand. He's the only one here with you (and, in any painful or uncomfortable situation, it's his comfort you seek).Ā
"Derek," you say, getting a hold on his wrist. The feeling is heavy, foreign, and cause for panic.
"What?"Ā
"I don'tā¦" That's as far as you get. One second you're conscious and sitting up, the next you're sliding forward, your papers slipping from your elbow and knocking over a paper coffee cup.Ā
Derek puts his hand under your jaw instinctively. "Woah, woah!" he says, standing from his chair. He uses his chest to catch you and pushes you back into your chair rather than have you smash your face into the edge of the table. "Hey, what's wrong?"Ā
This would be a brilliant time for the others to be here. Derek knows how to take care of people. He knows how to take care of you, usually, when you're down from a bad case, when you're cranky-tired, he can wrap a more than friendly arm around your shoulder and indulge you with a hug. He can steal your hand under a table and play with your fingers, his heart in his throat as your breath catches. But what can he do now?Ā
You're unconscious. Derek bends without regard for comfort by the let's of your chair, hands holding up your face.Ā
"Shit," he mutters. "Shit. Y/N, can you hear me?"Ā
Derek should lay you down, that he remembers. He's putting his hands under your arms when you start to blink, mumbling, "What are you doing?"Ā
"What are you doing?" he asks.
He gets you on the floor, legs first, gentle as he encourages your head to the floor. He grabs your jacket from your chair and rolls it up to cushion your neck, unreasonably careful with how he touches you.Ā
"I didn't feel well," you say.Ā
Derek rubs your cheek with his thumb. "You think? Good thing I'm always here to take care of you, huh?"Ā
Your face crumples.Ā
He rubs your cheek with more dedication, pretending to feel more sure than he actually does. "Hey, it's okay. What are you stressing about? You just lay here for a few minutes and you're gonna feel good as new."Ā
"I don't feel right."Ā
"You fainted. Thought you were a professional?" he teases lightly.
"I'm feeling rebellious today," you mumble, closing your eyes.Ā
Derek brings your hand to his mouth and kisses it. It's not his fault: seeing you down for the count has his body working of its own accord. Your eyes open again at the touch but neither of you say anything. It's weird for Derek to be quiet. It's odd to see you looking at him without a smile.Ā
Hotch arrives just in time to see Derek helping you up from the floor, Emily at his side. "What happened?" he asks.Ā
"I'm slacking," you say.Ā
Derek curves a strong arm behind your back for support. "Wonder Girl fainted."Ā
"You what?" Emily asks.Ā "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Had Morgan to look after me."Ā
Derek hugs you to his side. "Damn straight she did."Ā
Hotch raises his eyebrows at the scene and calls for an on-site paramedic anyways.Ā
just fyi, fanfic culture is dying because people from tik tok (and most likely people who shouldnāt be on tumblr reading smut anyway) leave hate comments, harrass the writers, people call anyone writing fanfic thatās slightly dark rape apologists and pedophiles, people that enjoy the fics donāt comment, thereās no actual engagement, and because of all thatā¦why would anyone want to write anything?
people write fanfic because itās fun and they want to share it. tumblr community used to be a place where people would come in your inbox and talk about fic, your favorite characters. now you publish something with rough sex and people start calling you the most horrific names in existence.
at the same time, there are parts of tumblr that are getting so dark it scares me to even be on this website.
i just wanna have a pink page and talk about calling my fave fictional men daddy š iām in my twenties. i have a busy busy life. this is supposed to be a fun escape. content for adults by adults featuring adults.
i get why people don't believe in marriage as a social construct but legally it is the best and easiest way to say "this is who i trust to take care of me when i can't take care of myself" and i'm so glad gay people fought for that right bc when shit gets scary at least i know im in good hands
