jack abbot x fem!resident!reader word count: 9k warnings: medical inaccuracies, age gap, slight power imbalance (technically he’s her boss), miscommunication, angst w happy ending, past spouse death mentioned, emotion vulnerability, sexual innuendos, oral (fem receiving), MDNI note: this may be the longest fic i’ve ever written. just two idiots in love with major miscommunication (just talk it out already omfg) also, episode 13 abbot return soon!!!!😝😝
the room smells like sweat and your laundry detergent. your chest is still rising a little too fast, the sheets twisted around your legs, your hair sticking to the side of your face. the ceiling fan hums above you, slow and uneven, pushing warm air around instead of cooling anything down. jack’s hand is still on you. his muscular body is splayed beside you. he’s breathing heavier than he’ll admit to later, breath hot on your skin. his chest lifts once, twice, before he drags in a quieter breath and finally comes back down to earth.
you turn your head toward him, watching him instead of the ceiling. his jaw is tight—it always is after you’re done. “you okay?” he asks, voice rough, like it had to fight its way out of his throat. his speckled gray and white curls are sweaty, clinging to his forehead. you fight the urge to run your fingers through them.
you let out a soft laugh, still a little breathless. “i think so.” his thumb moves against your skin in soft circles and it’s enough to make you ready for round two.
for a second, neither of you says anything. it’s not awkward—it never is—but it’s not easy either. it’s that weird space in between you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist for months now. you shift slightly, turning more onto your side so you can see him better. his hazel eyes are already boring into yours when you turn. your breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away. these are your favorite moments. the haze of post-sex and soft gazes.
jack exhales through his nose and sits up. there it is. just like clockwork the mattress dips, the air shifts, and suddenly you’re alone even though he’s still right there. he runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, before reaching down to grab his boxers off the floor.
you watch him. you don’t even try not to. “where are you going?” you murmur just loud enough for him to hear. you don’t even need to ask anymore, yet, you still do.
“we’ve got a shift in a few hours,” he replies, already reaching for his pants. “probably should get a decent nap in.” he keeps his eyes on his clothes, focusing on getting dressed rather than facing you.
you push yourself up onto your elbows, sheet slipping down your naked torso without you noticing. “you could always nap here.” it comes out light, like you don’t care either way (you do).
he pauses, and you wonder if for the first time in forever, he’ll take you up on the offer. his hand stills where it’s halfway to his shirt. his shoulders tense just slightly before he keeps going, pulling it over his head. “i sleep better at my place.”
your stomach sinks. stupid, stupid girl. it’s such a normal answer. practical, logical, and very him. you nod anyway, even though he’s not really looking at you. “right. yeah. makes sense.”
he glances over then, like he’s checking your reaction without wanting it to look like that. you’re already reaching for the edge of the sheet, fixing it around yourself, pretending you didn’t just offer him something that felt a little too close to asking him to stay.
“i’ll see you tonight,” he adds, like it’s enough to lift your spirits.
you hum, nodding once. “yeah. see you.”
he grabs his watch off your nightstand, fastening it around his wrist. your eyes track the movement automatically. you notice stupid things about him. the way he’s always precise and controlled, especially now.
he steps closer to the bed again and your heart does something annoying in your chest. the feeling is something hopeful and something you immediately hate. he presses a kiss to your lips. it’s soft enough to distract you for the meantime. after a beat too long, he pulls away. “get some sleep,” he murmurs, ruffling your hair with his hand.
you nod again because what else are you supposed to do? he turns, grabs his keys, and heads for the door. there’s no hesitation. no looking back. he used to look upset he had to leave. that affection faded sometime between the last few months.
the door shuts with a quiet click, and just like that it’s over. you sit there staring at the spot where he was standing like he might walk back in and say just kidding, i’ll stay. but of course he doesn’t. you let out a slow breath and fall back against the mattress with a thud, staring up at the ceiling again. the fan is still spinning in its useless way.
your skin still feels warm where he touched you. your apartment still smells like him. which doesn’t soften the blow. you drag a hand down your face, exhaling sharply. “so stupid,” you mutter to yourself, voice muffled against your palm. this was your idea—you have to remind yourself that daily. well, you didn’t propose the idea officially, but you let it happen. days like this, no questions asked, no expectations, and absolutely no labels.
casual was the way he preferred to describe it. he said it to robby once after he asked what was going on between you two. you were standing right beside him, looking at him with both hope and curiosity. then he used that six letter word, and you deflated like a balloon. but you didn’t argue against it. so, you don’t have the right to feel like…this.
you turn onto your side, facing the empty space beside you. your fingers brush against the sheets, still faintly warm. you press your lips together, eyes stinging. “it’s casual,” you whisper, reminding yourself of the rules. you close your eyes, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. the worst part isn’t that he left. it’s that you already know he’s going to walk into the hospital tonight, look at you like nothing happened, joke with you like nothing happened, and you’re going to let him.
“fuck,” you curse, keeping your eyes up to stop the tears from falling. your fingers scrunch the sheets, gripping them hard enough to hurt. get it together. “you agreed to it,” you mutter, reminding yourself one more time before attempting to get some sleep.
~
stepping through the ambulance bay doors of the PTMC always feels like a fever dream. like stepping out of the hospital at the end of every shift leads you right back through those automatic doors. a coffee is tucked into your hand, hair pulled back, and a neutral smile gracing your lips. it’s become easy to pretend like you didn’t spend half your afternoon staring at your ceiling, trying to convince yourself you’re fine. you tuck your bag under the desk and log in, fingers moving automatically across the keyboard.
“you’re early,” dana notes from beside you, not even glancing up from her screen.
you shrug, scanning the board. your leg bounces rapidly under the table. “couldn’t sleep.” it’s not a lie…just not the full truth.
“join the club,” she mutters.
you hum in response, already pulling up your first chart. “what’s the damage?”
“room four’s been waiting too long and is about to bite someone’s head off, six is chest pain, eight’s a disaster-”
“when is eight not a disaster?” you mumble, grabbing a pen and mentally preparing yourself.
dana snorts. “fair.”
you’re halfway through reading when the doors swing open. you don’t even have to look. your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulders tightening just slightly, grip on your pen shifting, something low in your stomach pulling tight.
jack abbot walks in like he always does. his strut is steady and grounded. the emergency department chaos bends around him instead of the other way around. he’s clad in a black scrub top, sleeves pushed up, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck. his hair is still a little damp. you hate that you notice that. his eyes sweep the department once, before landing on you. his face stays blank, but his eyes are intense as ever. he looks away before you can react.
“abbot,” dana calls, lifting her chin. she looks him up and down, not impressed (she never is).
“dana,” hearing his voice is like tasting water in a desert. he sounds normal. like maybe he spent his time outside of work alone, or doing something productive. like he didn’t leave your apartment a few hours ago with your taste still on his mouth.
you swallow, forcing your eyes back to the screen. don’t make it weird. he steps up to the station a second later, fingers drumming against the counter. “what’ve we got?”
you glance at his fingers, then at him. he’s already looking at you. he’s good at this. no tension. no hesitation. just that same slightly amused look he gives you every shift. you clear your throat. “room six. chest pain, fifty-eight year old male. ekg’s…not great.” you keep your eyes on the screen, a subtle way to evade eye contact. he leans in slightly to look at the computer, shoulder brushing yours for half a second.
“not great how?” he asks. you can smell his shampoo and conditioner, the same ones you use when you’re over his place.
you click through the results, pointing with your pen. “st elevation in the inferior leads. troponin’s pending but i’m not waiting on it.”
he nods once, focused now. “good.” your chest warms at that.
“cath lab?” you ask.
“yup. page cardiology,” he says, already straightening. “let’s not waste time.”
“on it.” you pick up the phone, dialing quickly, slipping into that rhythm you know too well. you don’t think about him. when you’re working, you have no time to think. that’s one perk of being apart of the medical field.
by the time you hang up, he’s already halfway down the hall, calling out orders, pulling a team together and teaching med students. you watch him go for a second longer than necessary.
“eyes forward, doctor,” dana murmurs under her breath. her eyes are narrow, looking you up and down like she did to abbot before.
you blink, snapping back to your screen. “i was looking at the board.”
“mmhmm.” she hums. you can’t get anything past dana. she’s seen it all, and knows it all too well. “well, i’m out of here. gotta go before i’m pulled back in.”
“sleep well,” you blow her a kiss as she shuffles out the doors. when the doors close, you watch her grab a cigarette. you chuckle, shaking your head.
the next hour moves fast. patients come in, patients go out. you send out orders, labs, reassessments. you’re moving constantly, barely sitting, barely breathing, exactly the way you like it. it drowns everything else out.
“hey.” you turn at the sound of his voice. jack’s standing a little too close again, tablet in hand, looking at you like he’s been talking for longer than you realized. “you with me?” he asks, brow lifting slightly.
you run a hand over your face. “yeah. sorry. what?”
his mouth twitches. “i asked your plan for room four.” he crosses his arms over his broad chest. the same broad chest that you littered with hickies just hours befor—
right.
focus.
“uh, probably gallbladder,” you say, pulling the chart up on the computer. “pain after eating, radiating to the back, she’s nauseous-” you list the symptoms on your fingers. he watches you as you talk. “i was thinking ultrasound to start,” you finish.
there’s a beat before he nods. “good call.” you exhale softly, tension easing just a little. “you look tired,” he adds, shifting seamlessly between work and personal. it catches you off guard.
you shrug, keeping your tone light. “couldn’t sleep.”
his gaze lingers on you. “join the club,” he mutters instead, echoing dana from earlier.
you huff out a small laugh. “original.”
“i try.” he smiles sweetly. his dimples poke out from his cheeks. ugh you love those dimples.
for a moment, you just stand there, staring at each other. then, someone calls his name from down the hall and the bubble bursts. “abbot!”
he glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “don’t let four crash on you,” he says, already stepping away.
you roll your eyes. “no promises.”
“that’s reassuring.” and he’s moving on to the next thing.
you stand there, staring at the chart in your hands. your chest feels…tight. not in a bad way either. you always react like this to him. this is what he does. he’s kind and attentive. he listens to you, trusts your judgment, jokes with you like you’re the easiest part of his day. and none of it is supposed to mean anything more than that. it’s starting to hurt.
“you good?” lena asks, glancing over her thin glasses. she tucks her red bangs behind her ear while the rest of her hair stays pulled back into a ponytail.
you nod quickly, already busying yourself with the nearest object. “yeah. just tired.” your hands land on a pen. you click it repeatedly.
she nods and hums, not convinced. you know she means well, but you can’t look at her. if she’s looking at you with that knowing look, you might just break down, and that’s the last thing you need. so, you don’t look at her. you don’t look down the hall where he disappeared. you just keep working.
~
central seven smells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. burns always do that. you’re standing at the bedside, gloves snapped on, eyes scanning the injury while the patient talks a mile a minute. adrenaline will do that to you. she’s in her late thirties, maybe early forties. pretty in a put together way, even with her hair slightly frazzled and her voice pitched a little too high.
“it was the pan,” she’s saying, wincing as you gently adjust her arm. “i didn’t even realize how hot it was until—god, it hurts.”
“i know,” you murmur, voice steady. “you’re doing great. just keep your arm still for me, okay?”
she nods quickly, eyes flicking between you and him. jack stands on the other side of the bed, gloved hands resting lightly against the rail, watching you work. he’s quiet, letting you lead, only stepping in when needed. it’s natural when you work together.
“second-degree,” you say, glancing up at him briefly. “no blistering yet, but it’s heading there.”
he nods once. “agreed.”
your shoulder brushes his when you shift closer to the patient. you pretend it doesn’t register. the patient, unfortunately, does not. “are you two always this in sync?” she asks, a breathy little laugh slipping out despite the pain.
you offer a polite smile, already reaching for more gauze. “we try.”
jack huffs quietly, something amused in it. “she’s the one doing the work.” he praises and your warmth blooms in your chest.
“team effort,” you correct, not looking at him.
“sure,” he agrees, but there’s that low, teasing tone. the same one he uses in more private situations.
you clear your throat slightly. “i’m gonna grab the silvadene,” you say, stepping back. “be right back.”
he gives you a thumbs up. “i’ve got her.”
you slip out into the hallway, the noise of the department swallowing you up again. it takes maybe two minutes max to grab what you need, maybe a little longer because you stop to answer a quick question from a nurse, scribble an order, check a lab.
when you push the door back open with your hip, you pause. the patient is smiling. not the tight, pained smile from before. she has that admiration in her eyes. the same type you have when you look at him. jack’s standing a little closer than he was when you left. not inappropriate—never that—but closer. one hand braced near her arm, the other adjusting something on the tray.
“guess i’ll have a pretty good scar to show off, huh?” she’s saying, voice lilting.
jack glances up briefly, a small, smile tugging at his mouth. “we’ll try to keep it minimal.”
“mm,” she hums, eyes lingering on him a second too long. “well…if i need a follow-up, i wouldn’t mind seeing you again.”
your stomach drops. he doesn’t react the way you do. of course he doesn’t. he just chuckles. “always happy to treat a patient again.”
you step further into the room, setting the supplies down a little harder than necessary. “okay,” you say, voice back to clinical and controlled. “let’s get this dressed.”
jack shifts back immediately, giving you space without question. you focus on the burn and the steps. on anything but the way the patient keeps glancing between you and him.
you finish quicker than usual. “i’m going to have someone else take over from here,” you say suddenly, pulling off your gloves and tossing them in the bin.
jack raises a brow. “you don’t have to-” he starts.
“dr. ellis is better with burn care,” you cut in smoothly, already stepping toward the door. “i’ve got a few things i need to catch up on anyway.”
jack isn’t the only one with oddly reasonable excuses. he studies you for a second longer, forehead creased from confusion. “ok.” he’s reluctant to say.
you ignore the weird twist in your chest at that and step out into the hallway, already scanning for parker. “ellis,” you call, waving her over. “can you take over nine? second-degree burn, i’ve started dressing it but-”
“yeah, of course,” she says easily, already snapping on gloves and heading in.
“thanks.” you don’t look back. you don’t look at jack. you just keep moving.
~
the rest of the shift blends together. you throw yourself into it harder than usual. you pick up more patients, more notes, more anything to keep your brain too busy to circle back to that room. to the way he didn’t-
you stop that thought before it finishes.
by the time things finally start to slow, the clock creeping toward the end of your shift, your shoulders ache and your eyes burn from staring at screens too long. you’re hunched over the computer, typing out your last note, when a familiar presence settles beside you.
“you’ve been avoiding me.”
your fingers still for half a second. then keep typing. “have not,” you murmur, voice absent of its usual warmth.
jack leans his hip against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “mm,” he taps his fingers next to your keyboard.
you finish the sentence you’re on before finally glancing up at him. “i’ve been busy.”
“you reassigned my patient.” there it is.
you shrug, turning back to the screen. “parker is better with that stuff.”
“since when?” he huffs a laugh, shaking his head.
“since always,” you say a little harsher than you intend. you take a deep breath before continuing. “and i had to catch up on charting,” you add, clicking through another tab.
you can feel him looking at you. “everything alright?” he asks, leaning close enough that you can feel heat radiating him. that almost gets you.
you force a small smile, glancing up at him again. “yeah. why wouldn’t it be?”
his gaze lingers. searching for something. “just asking,” he says finally.
you nod once. “well, i’m good.”
no one talks for a moment. he shifts slightly, looming over you while you try to work. you swallow, skin burning from his gaze.
“you wanna come over tonight?” he pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “or…we could go out or something.”
your heart stutters. of course that’s what he follows it up with. he says it like it’s nothing. you should say no. you should say you’re tired. you should say you have plans. you should say literally anything that puts space between you and this thing that keeps pulling you back in.
instead, without thinking, you say, “uh, sure.” and the cycle continues.
his mouth twitches slightly, something satisfied flickering there before he looks away. “i’ll text you when i get home,” he smiles.
you nod, turning back to your computer before he can read anything on your face. “okay.”
he lingers. then pushes off the counter and walks away. after he’s out of sight, you sit there, staring at the screen without really seeing it. once again, you bring it onto yourself.
~
his couch dips under your weight. the leather is worn in just enough to feel lived in but still structured. everything in his place feels like that. modern decorations, muted colors, nothing unnecessary. you’re sprawled across it, back pressed into the armrest, one leg hooked loosely over his shoulder.
he’s between your legs, hands holding your thighs to keep you open. your fingers are tangled in his curls before you realize you’ve reached for him. “jack-” it slips out, breath catching halfway through his name.
he hums against your skin, low and satisfied, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. he’s taking his time on purpose. he always does this. his thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin, and it’s enough to make something uncomfortable settle in your ribs.
you let your head fall back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut, chest rising too fast. “you’re-” you cut yourself off with a shaky breath, grip tightening in his hair.
he moans in response, not letting up. just keeps going until your voice breaks and your body follows, tension snapping all at once. your climax hits hard. you arch as a breathless sound falls from your lips. he stays between your legs, licking you entirely clean before coming up for air.
you’re still catching your breath when he shifts up beside you, one arm sliding around your waist, tugging you into him like it’s second nature. he wipes your slick off his mouth and chin with his arm, licking his lips clean. your cheek presses against his shoulder, his skin warm, steady.
his hand comes up to your arm, fingers brushing lightly over your skin, slow and absent. “have fun?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it is anywhere else.
you huff a quiet laugh, still a little dazed. “yeah.”
he hums, like he expected that answer. his thumb keeps moving against your arm. up, down. up, down. it’s stupid how that alone makes you feel woozy. “you want something to eat?” he asks, turning his head slightly toward you. “i’ve got-” he pauses, scratching his chin. “i don’t know. something. probably.”
you smile. “yeah, i-” your phone buzzes against the cushion beside you. you glance over without thinking, reaching for it. a name you haven’t seen in a while lights up the screen. your face softens instantly.
no way you’re still alive. drinks?
you let out a small laugh, the sound light and surprised. “oh my god.” you type back quickly, thumbs moving without much thought.
next to you, jack stills. every muscle in his body tenses. his throat bobs as he swallows. he tries not to care, but that sound—that giggle—is reserved for him. his hand slows against your arm before stopping completely. “what?” he asks, attempting to sound nonchalant:
you shake your head, still smiling at your phone. “nothing.” you don’t mean it like that. you really don’t.
his jaw tightens just slightly. “doesn’t look like nothing,” he rasps, memorizing the cracks in his wooden floors.
you shrug, setting your phone face down on the cushion. “just a friend i haven’t talked to in a while.”
“mm.” he doesn’t ask who, and it eats him alive. something green and fiery pits in his stomach.
you sit up slightly, pulling away just enough to reach for your jeans draped over the arm of the couch. “actually,” you clear your throat, trying to stay normal, “i might meet them out tonight.”
the words ring in his ears. his hand drops from your arm. “tonight?” he repeats.
you nod, sliding your phone into your pocket. “yeah. i haven’t seen them in forever.”
he watches you now. “thought you were staying,” his tone is flat. his mind is anything but. the mere thought of you meeting another person—possibly a man—for a drink has him seeing red.
you pull your shirt back on, smoothing it down like it gives you something to do. “i was, i just—this came up.”
he leans back slightly against the couch, arms resting along the back, posture more stiff than it was a second ago. “right.”
“it’s not a big thing,” you add quickly. “just drinks.”
“with…?” he trails off, like he doesn’t want to sound like he’s asking. his fingers drum against the leather of the couch. he wanted this.
you hesitate for half a second too long. “just friends,” you say again, not feeling like explaining.
he nods curtly. “got it.”
silence settles around you. you grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, suddenly very aware of the space between you now. how fast it showed up. he watches you pack up your things with no argument. his eyes follow your every movement like glue.
part of you wants him to fight. to tell you to stay. to tell you he needs you. when those phrases don’t come, you sigh. “i’ll see you tomorrow?” you offer, hovering near the edge of the couch.
“yeah,” he mutters, coughing lightly. “see you.” it’s the same tone he used this morning. like letting you go doesn’t cost him anything.
you linger anyway. just for a second. long enough that it almost means something. if he wanted to, he’d fill the space. maybe say your name, tell you to stay, give you anything to hold onto. but he doesn’t. you swallow, forcing a small smile as you turn toward the door.
you don’t look back this time. you know better now. for what feels like the first time, the crack in the canvas isn’t just something you imagine, it’s something he’s choosing not to fix.
~
the next time you step into the pitt, something is different. you’re smiling, and it’s not forced or fake. it’s real. you’re talking to princess, laughing at something stupid she says, coffee in hand, shoulders not as tight as they usually are at the start of a shift. you feel good. which is rare enough that you don’t question it too hard.
“you’re in a suspiciously good mood,” princess raises a brow, eyeing you with a grin.
you shrug, taking a sip of your coffee. “saw some old friends last night. i had fun.”
she snorts. “no way. taking time away from that casual relationship?” she lingers on the word casual, rolling her eyes.
“believe it.” you don’t elaborate. you don’t mention the drinks, the loud music, the way it felt to be something other than a resident for a few hours. to laugh with friends without checking the time. to not worry about him.
three feet away, jack notices everything. he got to work early just to see you walk in. his heart stutters as he watches you talk animatedly. you’re smiling—genuinely smiling. the sight sends goosebumps down his spine. you used to smile like that when you first started seeing him. how, he’s used to something more closed off.
he watches you longer than necessary before forcing himself to look at the labs on the screen. he lasts about ten seconds before looking at you again. you’re talking, explaining something to a med student, gesturing with your pen, that same easy smile still sitting on your mouth like it belongs there. it shouldn’t bother him, but it does.
the last twenty-four hours have felt…off. your texts came slower and often with shorter messages. he sent one this morning, sweet and teasing. he asked about your night (even if it made him clench his teeth at the thought). it took you three hours to respond, and all you sent back was good. no follow up. no teasing. no nothing.
he was the one to call it casual first. he meant it when he drew that line. so why does it feel like you’re the one pulling away now?
robby glances past him, toward you, and then back again, something knowing flickering in his expression before he drops it. “right,” he sighs, slapping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “well i’ll see you in about twelve hours.” he salutes before walking off.
jack exhales through his nose, humming and sending him a wave goodbye. he drags a hand down the back of his neck before pushing off the counter. he steps into a case, then another, falling into work the way he always does. it should be enough to keep his head clear. it was working for most of the shift. that was until he heard your laugh.
it cuts across the department, soft and sweet. he looks up before he can stop himself. nick barker, head of radiology, stands too close in proximity to you. he’s leaning against the counter like he’s got nowhere else to be, one arm braced beside you, posture relaxed in. he’s practically melting into you.
“i’m just saying,” nick’s grinning, tone light, “if you’re gonna question my read, at least buy me dinner first. make it worth my time.”
you huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “your reads are questionable on a good day, barker. i’m not rewarding that.”
“harsh,” he says, but he’s smiling wider now. “i like it.” his eyes drag slowly up and down your figure. jack’s molars grind.
you roll your eyes, clicking through the scan on your screen. “i’m sure you do.”
he leans in slightly, looking at the monitor, but it’s not the screen he’s focused on. it’s you. “so what’s the verdict, doc?” he asks, attempting a seductive tone. jack wants to see if he keeps that tone while he smashes his fist into-
breathe.
you tilt your head, studying the image. “small bleed. nothing crazy, but it’s there.”
“mm,” nick hums, still close. “good catch.” you glance up at him, and there’s that smile again.
jack feels something shift. his breathing labors. he looks away because he doesn’t like what that does to him. he doesn’t like that it bothers him at all. he agreed to this. no expectations. no exclusivity.
you laugh again, quieter this time, at something nick says under his breath. that gets him. he grips the closest counter to him, knuckles going white. it’s nothing. you’re just talking and being polite as usual. but when you barely looked at him all night. when your texts have gone quiet. when someone else is grabbing your attention—that’s when it feels like something else.
across the room, shen follows his line of sight and snorts under his breath. “yikes,” he mutters.
jack doesn’t respond. he just exhales slowly, forcing his attention back to work even though he imagines the sound of barker’s nose cracking under impact from his fist. he grips the counter harder to keep him from doing something beyond stupid.
he doesn’t get to feel this way—he reminds himself for the tenth time—not when he’s the one who made sure it stayed casual. yet, his eyes flick back to you. as much as he tries to keep it simple, nothing is ever simple when it comes to you.
~
the shift drags after that. the cases aren’t necessarily harder and the workload isn’t overwhelming. it’s the usual mix—some chest pain, a drunk guy with a busted eyebrow, a kid with a fever that has two terrified parents hovering like satellites. you mind your business, keep to yourself and try your best to get through the shift.
on the other hand, jack’s senses are heightened tenfold. he notices that you don’t linger near him at the desk anymore. that when you pass each other in the hallway, your shoulder doesn’t brush his the way it usually does. that you talk to everyone the same way you always have, but when it comes to him, you keep it strictly clinical.
“cbc and cultures,” you say at one point, handing him a chart without looking up.
he takes it. “already ordered.”
“good.” you murmur and that’s it. just work.
the distance sits in his chest like something heavy. when he thinks about it for too long, his eyes sting and his throat hurts from breathing harshly. and just to add onto it, nick barker keeps wandering back over. it’s not constantly. not enough that anyone could call it obvious. but it’s enough to have jack spiraling.
you still don’t flirt back, but you laugh and answer him a little too comfortably for jack’s liking. by the time the shift finally starts to wind down, the exhaustion has settled into his bones. twelve hours of adrenaline wearing off leaves him irritated.
the locker room is quiet when he walks in. most of the nightshift has clocked out already, leaving few lockers full. you’re already in there when he walks in. your back is to him, tugging your hoodie over your scrubs, hair falling out of your clip as you pull your bag from the bench. he just watches you. he does that a lot. it’s hard not to.
he exhales through his nose and drops his own bag onto the bench with more force than necessary. you glance over your shoulder. “long shift,” you say lightly, tone neutral.
“yeah,” he mutters. he starts shoving things into his bag, movements harsher than usual. the silence stretches for a moment. you zip yours closed, and that’s when he says it. “so what—was he the ‘friend’ you met out with last night?”
you freeze for half a second. you think you imagined the sudden outburst. slowly, you turn toward him. “…what?”
jack doesn’t look at you right away. he’s still digging through his locker. “barker,” he says flatly. “that who you were out with?”
your eyebrows pull together. “are you serious right now?” you scoff, crossing your arms.
he finally looks at you then. “just asking.”
you let out a small, incredulous laugh. this is classic coming from him. “you’re not asking. you’re accusing.”
“am i?” he shoots back, voice deepening. you swear steam is rushing out of his ears. his hair is tousled, probably from running his hands through it. his eyes are dark, like he didn’t get a wink of sleep. you haven’t seen whatever version of jack this is.
“yeah,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “you kind of are.”
he huffs, hands clenching by his sides. how can you not see it? how do you not understand his views? the thoughts only fuel his fire. “looked pretty cozy out there tonight.”
your eyes widen slightly. “cozy?” you sputter. “jack, what are-”
“laughing at everything he says,” jack interrupts with a growl. “letting him lean all over the counter-”
“oh my god,” you cut him off, disbelief bleeding into your voice. “are you actually jealous right now?”
the word hits something. his shoulders stiffen. “i’m not jealous.” he says quickly—too quickly.
“jack-”
“i’m just saying it looked a little-”
“no,” you shake your head before he can finish. “don’t do that. don’t pretend that’s not exactly what this is.” his mouth presses into a thin line. “you flirt with people all the time,” you continue, voice rising slightly. “patients, nurses, literally anyone who walks through the door.”
“that’s not-”
“it is,” you snap. “i’ve seen it.”
“i’m just being polite.” he mutters each word.
“and i’m not?” you raise a brow. “no one can be polite except for you?” you stifle a laugh. ridiculous.
“i’m not the one who went out with someone else last night.” he blinks rapidly, like he’s fighting emotion. his throat bobs after he says it.
silence fills the room. the overhead lights flicker under the tension. your eyes widen slightly, mouth falling slightly agape. “i was with my friends!” you’re quieter now. you don’t need volume to show how mad you are.
he doesn’t stop, just rolls his eyes. “doesn’t matter. you couldn’t even text me back, but you had time to go out drinking?”
“you don’t get to say that,” you fire back.
“why not?”
“because you’re the one who wanted this to be casual,” you say, the word coming out harsher than you mean it to. “remember?”
his chest rises slowly. “i never said you could-”
“no,” your voice cracks as you shake your head. “you just made it very clear there were no expectations.” the room feels smaller now. “so what,” you continue, voice quieter but cutting deeper, “now suddenly you care who i talk to?”
jack runs a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging at the curls. “that’s not what i said.” his teeth sink into his bottom lip.
“it’s what you meant.”
“you’re twisting this.” he holds a hand over his mouth before dragging it down. his stubble scratches his hand.
“oh, am i?” you shoot back incredulously.
footsteps near the entrance of the room grow closer before you can finish. robby steps inside, mid sip from a coffee. he immediately stops when he sees…whatever this is. his eyes flick between the two of you. jack standing rigid near the lockers. you looking like you’re two seconds from throwing your bag at him. “…wow,” robby mutters, closing his eyes.
neither of you notice. or maybe you do, but you’re too upset to care. “you don’t get to be mad at me for moving on with my life,” you mutter.
“moving on?” jack repeats, huffing a chuckle.
“yes.”
“from what?”
you blink at him. “exactly,” you say quietly.
jack opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. his chest heaves with every breath he takes. “how dare-”
robby exhales loudly. “okay,” he sighs, stepping between you. “both of you get some air.” he claps his hands together like a mother separating two children. neither of you move. “seriously,” robby adds, voice firmer now. “this is a hospital, not couples therapy.”
jack scoffs while you shake your head. you sling your back over your other arm harshly. “forget it.” you mutter, pushing past them toward the door.
“hey-” jack starts, reaching for your wrist. his hand falls short of your arm and you don’t stop. your heavy footsteps echo through hospital as you leave.
that leaves just jack and robby in the room. robby slowly looks at jack. “…casual, huh?”
jack stares at the closed door with his jaw tight. “yeah,” he mutters through clenched teeth. the word sounds a lot less convincing now.
~
three days pass in stubborn silence. friday night ends with raised voices and slammed lockers. no one apologizes. no one reaches out. saturday passes. then sunday. both of you check your phones more than you’ll admit to. both of you type messages that never get sent. stubbornness wins every time.
monday night comes slower than it should. the pitt is alive when jack walks in, the department humming under the harsh fluorescent lights. patients complaining, nurses exchanging updates, the board already full curtesy of the day shift.
though, he notices it the second he steps through the doors. you’re not there. you’re almost always one of the first residents on shift. clad in your colorful undershirt, coffee in hand, already scanning the board. jack usually comes in a few minutes after with his bag slung over one shoulder, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. he likes the routine of walking in and spotting you.
now, as his eyes flick instinctively to the usual spots—the workstation, the trauma bay, and the corner where you tend to hover when reading a case over. nothing. his jaw tightens. it’s dumb, the way disappointment creeps in so fast. it shouldn’t matter whether you’re there yet or not. people run late. people get pulled into things. he tells himself that as he drops his bag into the locker and heads out toward the floor. still, he keeps looking.
ten minutes pass. then twenty. you still haven’t walked through the doors. he checks his watch too often, paces back and fourth between stable patients, and pinches the bridge of his nose enough times to bruise. he’s leaning over the counter, staring at the doors as if you’ll magically appear when lena cuts in.
“you’re early.” she hums, smacking gum in her mouth. he glances over his shoulder. lena’s setting her bag down at the desk, tying her hair back into a loose knot as she looks at him.
“could say the same to you,” he mutters.
she shrugs, pushing her bangs back. “early bird gets the worm.” the contents in her bag clack as she reaches for something. jack makes an absentminded noise of agreement, eyes drifting back toward the entrance again. her mouth twitches slightly as she follows his line of sight. “she’s not here, you know?”
his shoulders stiffen just enough to give him away. “who?” he feigns innocence.
lena gives him a look that says don’t be stupid. “your resident.” she narrows her eyes, tilting her head.
he exhales through his nose, turning back to the screen. he clicks into the login, flashing his badge like muscle memory. “i have multiple residents.”
“yeah,” she says dryly, “but you only stare at the door for one of them.” she huffs a laugh. jack doesn’t respond. lena scans the board, tapping a pen against the desk. “she took a couple days.”
that gets his attention. he turns fully now. “what?”
“oh, now you know who i’m talking about,” she tsks with smug grin. he scoffs in response. “called out,” lena continues. “sunday morning, actually. said she needed a few days. scheduled off tomorrow too.”
jack blinks once, trying to shuffle the words together to make sense. “she sick?” he asks.
lena shrugs. “didn’t sound like it.”
his stomach sinks. the events of friday night flood his mind. the way you stormed out before anyone could stop you. how tired and angry you sounded. the slight crack in your voice at the end of the argument. he drags a hand down the back of his neck, feeling a dull weight settle in his chest. he hears his own words again—jealous, and so, so stupid.
was he the friend you met out with?
the look of hurt that flashed across your face, and how that hurt turned into anger quickly.
lena’s watching him now, quiet for once. “you two okay?” she asks.
jack looks away immediately. “fine.”
she doesn’t believe that for a second. she nods slowly, “right,” she raises her brows.
he nods once, already turning back toward the computer like the conversation’s over, but the screen blurs in front of him. two days. you took two days.
way to screw that up.
~
across the city, monday night looks very different. your apartment is quiet. the curtains are half drawn, thin streaks of the sun set slipping through the gaps and stretching across the floor. you haven’t moved much since yesterday…or the day before that.
your phone sits face down on the nightstand. you told yourself you wouldn’t check it again. you checked anyway. the outcome was the same as before—nada. no messages. no calls. no apologies. you would rather him reach out to argue more than to just ghost you.
you stare at the ceiling, blanket pulled up to your chin, eyes swollen and raw from crying so much your body eventually just ran out of tears. you feel ridiculous. you’re a doctor. a grown woman. someone who handles trauma cases and dying patients without falling apart. yet, somehow this relationship (if you can even call it that) wrecked you.
your throat tightens again. “god,” you whisper hoarsely, dragging your hands down your face. the argument replays in your head whether you want it to or not. the jealousy. the accusations. you swallow hard, staring at the wall. “you knew what this was,” you mutter to yourself, but the words don’t help.
you didn’t mean to fall for him. you didn’t mean to care this much. now you feel stupid for every second you let yourself believe he might care the same way. you turn onto your side, curling tighter into the blankets.
outside, the city keeps moving, while you stay stuck. what’s worse is that jack has no idea you’re lying there, crying into your pillow, wondering if you just ruined the best thing you’ve ever had.
~
the next morning, your body wakes up before your brain does and for a few blissful seconds you forget everything. that’s until the ache in your chest reminds you. you groan softly, shifting under the blanket. the couch cushion beneath you dips awkwardly, and it takes a second for your brain to remember why you’re here instead of your bed.
last night you finally got up after spending most of the day rotting in your room. you brushed your hair, washed your face, and tried to feel like a functioning adult again. it lasted maybe twenty minutes before the tears came back. so you grabbed a pint of ice cream, curled up on the couch, and put on the stupidest, sappiest rom coms you could find. you cried through three of them before exhaustion eventually dragged you under.
now the tv is still on, volume low, playing the end credits of something you don’t remember finishing. an empty ice cream container sits crooked on the coffee table beside a crumpled napkin. your face feels puffy. your throat still burns faintly from crying. you stare at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle over you. you would’ve stayed there forever had you not heard the knocks.
knock knock.
your brain doesn’t fully register it at first. maybe it’s a neighbor. maybe you imagined it. you sit up slowly, blanket sliding down your lap.
knock knock.
this time it’s louder. yup, definitely real. you frown, glancing toward the door. nobody ever comes here unannounced. something deep in your body clenches. you push yourself up off the couch, wincing as your stiff neck protests. your bare feet pad quietly across the floor.
knock.
“geez, learn some fuckin’ patience,” you groan under your breath, reaching for the door, and peaking in the peephole, heart dropping straight into your stomach.
jack stands in the hallway still in his scrubs. his hair is more disheveled than usual, curls flattened slightly on one side. faint shadows sit under his eyes, the kind that only show up after a long shift. in one hand he’s holding a coffee carrier. in the other, he’s holding flowers with a small box of chocolates tucked awkwardly under his arm.
you stare at the door like it might bite you. your pulse starts racing.
“i know you’re home,” his voice calls through the door, tired but unmistakably his. “your car’s outside.”
you close your eyes for half a second. your hand hovers over the lock. part of you wants to pretend you’re not here. the other, bigger part is already turning the handle. the door creaks open slowly.
jack looks up immediately, his shoulders dropping slightly. “hey,” he says softly. you don’t respond, just blink. you probably look like a disaster with tangled hair, swollen eyes, and an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. jack takes you in quietly. “so,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the flowers, the coffee, and the chocolate box. “i brought options.” his mouth pulls into a small, sheepish smile. “figured i’d give you a variety of things to throw at me.”
for a second, you just stare at him. jack abbot—veteran, doctor, and professional pain in your ass—standing in your hallway holding flowers like a nervous teenager. you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding loosely over your chest. your voice comes out rough from sleep and crying. “you’re persistent.”
he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like that’s the closest thing to a victory he’s getting right now. “occupational hazard.”
the hallway light flickers softly overhead. neither of you moves. up close, he looks worse than you expected. the dark circles under his eyes are deeper than they should be. there’s stubble along his jaw he probably didn’t bother shaving after his shift. his shoulders sag slightly under the weight of the shift.
“you just get off work?” you ask.
“yeah.” he nods, rocking back and fourth.
“and instead of going home…you came here…?”
“yeah.” he nods once again.
you tilt your head slightly, unimpressed. “bold strategy.”
“desperation, actually,” a chuckle slips out before he can stop it. the smell of coffee drifts up from the carrier in his hand and your stomach twists. you didn’t eat anything besides ice cream yesterday. jack notices your eyes flicker to it. “one’s black,” he says gently. “one’s that…caramel thing you get. i don’t know the exact name because the menu looks like it was written by a wizard.” your mouth twitches despite yourself. he holds the flowers up a little awkwardly. “and these were the least offensive ones they had at the hospital gift shop.”
“high praise.”
“it was between these or balloons that say get well soon.”
you sigh, rubbing your forehead. that familiar ache presses behind your ribs. “jack…”
his expression shifts immediately. the joking drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. “yeah?” he braces for impact.
you step aside. “come in.”
he hesitates for half a second—he’s surprised you didn’t slam the door in his face—before stepping into the apartment. the door shuts behind him with a soft click. the place looks exactly how it felt last night. blankets on the couch. empty ice cream container. credits still rolling silently on the tv.
jack takes it in without comment. he sets the coffee and chocolates on the table, then places the flowers down carefully beside them. you hover near the couch, arms folded again. neither of you speaks.
finally, jack exhales slowly and rubs the back of his neck. “so,” he mutters. “this is the part where i try not to screw this up worse.”
you lean against the arm of the couch. “good luck with that.”
he huffs quietly. “yeah, fair.” he inhales deeply, looking up at the ceiling, before exhaling and looking at you properly. “you look like hell,” he states bluntly.
you glare. “thank you.”
“meant it affectionately.”
“i’m touched.” sarcasm drips from tone.
a ghost of a smile crosses his mouth, but it fades quickly. “look,” he says, “i’m just gonna say it straight because historically when i try to be subtle everything explodes.” he taps his fingers against his wrinkled scrubs. “the thing i said to robby,” you swallow immediately. “the casual thing,” he squeezes his eyes shut. “was a reflex.” your gaze sharpens. jack’s gaze drops to the floor before coming back to you. “he caught me off guard,” he sighs, “came outta nowhere. started asking what we were.”
“and your instinct was to say casual?” you retort. the word tastes bitter in your mouth.
“yeah,” he admits even though he’s shaking his head.
“why?” you ask.
jack opens his mouth…then closes it again. a muscle in his jaw twitches. you wait. “because i panicked.”
your forehead creases. “jack-”
“i didn’t know what the hell to say,” he says, throwing his hands up. “and before i could think, the word just came out.” you stare at him. “and when you went along with it…” his mouth tightens. “i figured that was what you wanted.”
your brows knit together. “you thought i wanted it to be casual?”
“well you didn’t exactly argue.”
“i was standing in front of my two bosses.”
“yeah,” he mutters. “realized that about ten minutes later.”
you drag a hand down your face. “i thought you meant it.”
he laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “trust me, baby, if i meant it i wouldn’t be standing in your apartment right now holding flowers like an idiot.”
your heart gives an annoying little flip. you try to ignore it. “then why didn’t you say anything after?” your voice is sheepish.
he goes quiet again. his gaze drifts toward the window, like he’s watching something only he can see. when he finally speaks, his voice is lower. “because opening your mouth about stuff that matters,” he licks his lips. “is how you lose it.” jack rubs a hand across his jaw. “i’ve done this before,” he admits. “the whole loving someone thing.” he doesn’t look at you as he continues. “had a wife,” he lingers on the word. “she was…everything.”
you knew that vaguely. pieces of the story everyone in the hospital knows but never says out loud. hearing him say it like this feels raw.
“and then one day she wasn’t there anymore.” his throat works once. “you learn real quick after that,” he stutters, “that the universe has a pretty sick sense of humor.” he finally looks at you again. “so yeah,” he concedes. “i keep things,” he squints, racking his brain for the right word, “light.”
the room is quiet now. you’re processing and…well, processing some more. the early morning sun shines harshly through your windows. gour faucet drips repeatedly. “jack…” you murmur.
he stop you before you can continue. he has to say it now or he won’t ever. “because if you don’t say the important parts out loud,” he finishes, “then when it all disappears you can pretend it didn’t mean as much.”
your heart twists painfully. you step a little closer without realizing it. “that’s what you thought this was?”
“no,” he says immediately. he shakes his head. “that’s the problem.” his gaze flickers over your face. he memorizes your eyes, your mouth, the messy hair falling over your shoulder. “this stopped being casual for me a long time ago,” he admits quietly.
your breath catches. you take a step back. “then why-”
“because you’re younger than me.” your eyes widen. you rest a hand on your coffee table to stable yourself. he huffs out a small breath. “by a lot.” he looks to the side. “and i kept thinking,” his voice is tight, “one day you’re gonna walk into some bar and meet some guy your age who doesn’t have an endless supply of baggage.” you stare at him. “and he’s gonna look at you the way guys your age look at women like you.” the veins in his arms tighten at the thought. “and you’re gonna realize dating the grumpy middle-aged doctor was just a phase.”
you can barely breathe now. the room goes completely still. you stare at him. the tired lines in his face. the guarded way he’s standing like he’s bracing for something he fears. “jack,” your voice is like candy. he lifts his eyes. “i thought you didn’t want more.”
he frowns slightly. “why would you think that?”
you let out a small, incredulous laugh. “because you were the one leaving first,” you shrug. “drawing boundaries.”
“well-”
“and,” you continue, “we never talked about what we are.” he goes still. “and i thought that meant we were nothing.”
his expression shifts immediately. “hey,” he coos.
you shrug helplessly. “so i went along with it,” you admit. “because i figured if that’s all you wanted, i wasn’t gonna beg you to care.”
“god,” he mutters. it feels like a spear is lodged in his chest.
your arms drop to your sides. “i liked what we had,” you murmur. “but it never felt casual to me.” you blink back tears. “not once.”
jack steps forward instinctively. “so let me get this straight,” he recounts. “you thought i didn’t want more?” you nod once. “and i thought you didn’t want more?” you nod again. he exhales. “that might be the dumbest standoff in human history.”
a reluctant laugh slips out of you. he smiles faintly. the tension in the room loosens just a little. jack stops a step away from you now. “for the record,” he whispers, “i’m pretty sure i’m in way too deep for casual.”
warmth crawls up your neck and plants itself on your cheeks. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
you tilt your head slightly. “took you long enough to say it.”
his mouth quirks. “cut me some slack. emotional honesty isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”
you study him for a moment. “are you still scared i’m gonna run off with some guy my age?”
jack doesn’t flinch. “probably.”
you roll your eyes gently. “jack.” you’re not joking now.
he shrugs. “i’m working on it.”
you shake your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth now. “you’re unbelievable.”
“i’ve been told.”
the weight that sat between you yesterday feels lighter now. it’s not gone—that will take some time—but the cracked pieces are starting to fuse back together.
jack glances toward the flowers on the table. “so,” he says. “are you gonna forgive me or do i need to start groveling more dramatically.”
you consider it. “the flowers help.”
“damn right they do.”
“the coffee helps more.”
“excellent choice on my part.”
you step closer, your shoulders brushing together. jack’s voice drops a little. “we okay?”
you look at him through your lashes. “yeah,” you say quietly.
author's note: wrote this one in response to this lovely ask i received earlier today:
"Omg but like, the reader being so flirty with jack all the time (secretly is in love with him) amd he just smiles and shakes his head but he loves the attention from her then one day she sees him ask dr al hashimi for beers and she assumes he asked her out on a date and she backs off and stops flirting and barely even looks him in the eye because if she does she'll fall apart and abbot doesn't understand why she stopped flirting and tries to give her openings for her usual flirty lines but she doesn't bite anymore and just the she fell first, he fell harder stuff it's soooooogood😭😭"
thanks so so much to the lovely @stuffingbuttsandshit for this message (i fw your username sm) and i hope i did it justice. please never be afraid to send me a request, and thank you for all the support, it means the world !!! also, i'm back into my teaching job tomorrow, so this will be the last of what you'll hear from me for a couple days <3
pairing: jack abbot x resident! reader
word count: 4.1k
warnings: miscommunication/misunderstanding trope! medical inaccuracies, reader is a resident but no mention of age, no specific phsyical attributes to certain gender mentioned, also not proofread!
songs i listened to while writing this: so easy (to fall in love) by olivia dean, easy by the commodores, purple by wunderhorse, when we are together by the 1975
description: You flirt with jack every shift like that's what you spent years in med school studying for. When you overhear a conversation between him and another attending, you decide to pull yourself together and face the music - no amount of one sided love would ever change your relationship. At least, that's what you think.
It started out as a joke at first.
It wasn't a calculated one. Not even a particularly brave one. It was a way to find a bit of fun in the middle of a 12-hour shift that tested every line of the Hippocratic oath that you had taken against your better judgement. It was the kind of dumb thing that slipped out of your mouth during a long shift that should have died an embarrassing death right then and there.
It was harmless flirting. Something to take the edge off. Maybe you should have taken a less, well, serious victim.
"Careful, Dr Abbot," you'd said lightly, half leaning against the nurses station while he was in the middle of catching up on charting. "If you keep looking that good under fluroescent lighting, people are gonna start accusing you of witchcraft."
Jack had looked up from the keyboard he was typing away at with that familiar flat, unreadable expression and the smallest hint of amusement at one corner of his mouth. The entire nurse's station had gone quiet, and if you hadn't known any better, you might have thought an elephant had waltzed into the room and taken his seat in trauma room one. You watched as Mel looked up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash, which is what made you realise you may have taken it too far, because to be honest, Mel usually passed no heed on your usual antics.
Jack had lifted his eyes to yours, studying you for exactly two seconds, then given one slow shake of his head.
"I could do with a check-up on our food poisoning patient in room 4, doctor y/l/n."
That had been it. No scolding, no shutdown, no sharp reminder of professionalism. You ran the image of that twitch in the corner of his mouth over and over again in your head that night like a teenage girl with a crush on her best friend's brother. Or in this case, more like her best friend's dad.
So naturally, because you were a glutton for punishment and loved the thrill of tethering on the edge of something hopeful, you did it again.
And then again.
And somehow, over the next few months, flirting with Jack became a part of your regular shift rhythm, as natural as grabbing gloves from the wall or stealing sips of stale coffee between traumas. You called him handsome under your breath while passing in the hall. You leaned into his space during chart review just to watch his jaw flex. You told him he was ageing like your favourite bottle of red, which had earned you a long, suffering stare and a low, "Jesus Christ."
You did it at first because it was fun. A way to pass the time. But as the months went on, and you moved from junior to senior resident, the truth behind your incessant flirting became a lot more embarassing than you ever wanted to admit.
You were smart. Too smart. Educated and graduated at the top of your class, saved countless lives on the daily and still had time to feed your tabby cat at the end of it all. So there was no reason why your stupid, dumb brain had decided to fall in love with your attending.
You flirted, because you were in love with him. With Jack.
You had been for longer than you wanted to admit to yourself. Long enough that the whole thing had settled beneath your ribs like a live wire. It was warm, and humming, and a little dangerous. Long enough that it had stopped feeling like a crush and started feeling like something worse.
The problem was, Jack never really gave much away.
He liked the attention, you knew that. You weren't imagining that part. He never stopped you. Never looked annoyed in any serious or real way. There was always that familar tiny shake of his head, that almost-smile, that quiet tolerance that was so stupid adorable and somehow felt more intimate than an outright encouragement would have.
But Jack was Jack.
Steady. Closed off. Impossible to read unless he wanted to be read. So you flirted, and he let you, and you told yourself that that was enough for now. You were a resident, and he was your attending. You weren't naive enough to believe that he would ever take a relationship with you seriously.
And you know, maybe it would have been. If you hadn't caught him mid conversation with Robby's sabbatical replacement, Dr Baran Al Hashimi.
It happened halfway through a nightmare shift when you were running on little else but caffeine and instinct, and the Pitt had that strange, overstretched feeling it got when every room was full, and everyone inside them was talking too loudly. You were cutting through the hall outside the break room with a chart tucked to your chest, already halfway to Trauma Two in your head, when you heard Jack's voice from inside.
It was common to catch Jack in during the day shift, and you wouldn't have stopped if he'd been talking to anyone else. But you caught Al Hashimi's laugh first. Low, and brief, and then Jack saying, "You want to grab that beer later?"
Your feet stopped moving before your brain caught up. There was no hesitation in the question or audible awkwardness. No heaviness to it that made it sound work-related. It sounded easy, casual. Like asking someone out. You wondered if he was shaking his head in that way he did with you.
Al Hashimi said something you didn't fully hear, because by then your pulse had gone loud in your ears. You self-diagnose with mind-numbing tinnitus and prescribe yourself a huge dose of amitriptyline. The ringing grows louder as you watch her smile, small, but warm, and nodded once.
"Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."
And that was it. So, you kept walking before either of them could see you standing there. By the time you eventually got to trauma two, your face was perfectly composed and your stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. It was ridiculous, really.
Jack had never promised you anything. He had never flirted back in the way you flirted with him. Never said anything you could hold up in your defence. He just let you tease him and seemed to enjoy it. That was not the same thing as wanting you. And Baran Al Hashimi was gorgeous, and strikingly intelligent, and better yet, an attending. You heard that she had worked overseas doing humanitarian work in Afghanistan. She was everything you weren't and more. Of course Jack would want her. God, you didn't blame him.
So, you stitched up a teenager's chin and reassured a frantic mother and signed off on discharge paperwork with steady hands, all while something sore and humiliating tore through your chest and the ringing in your eyes got louder.
Then, because apparently the universe had a cruel sense of humour, Jack found you by the supply closet twenty minutes later.
"There you are," he said.
You looked up automatically and cursed yourself. And there he was. The same broad shoulders, same tired eyes, same infuriatingly unreadable expression.
Usually, by instinct, you would have said something. Nice of you to finally show up, handsome. Missed me? Something stupid and teasing and light enough to keep the whole thing moving. To keep that little nugget of hope that lived between your ribs aflame.
Instead, you just held out the chart in your hand.
"Dana needs your signature on this."
Jack took it, but his eyes didn't leave your face.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine-
You cut in, begging to be finished with the conversation, and forced a small smile. "All good, really."
His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. It was the first time in almost a year that you'd walked away from him without giving him something. And Jack, as it turned out, noticed immediately.
The following night, you called him Dr Abbot during rounds. It came out before you could stop it, a verbal guard you decided to throw up to protect yourself from more hurt that wasn't even his fault. Not Jack, not any of your usual easy little digs. Just Dr Abbot, flat and professuonal and wrong enough that his head lifted from the chart like you'd said something in another language.
He looked at you for a second too long.
Then he said, "You sick or something?"
You pretended to not know what he meant. "Nope."
"Then why are you acting weird?"
"I'm not acting weird?"
Santos, standing two feet away with a pen tucked behind her ear, visibly turned her whole body to watch.
Jack's mouth flattened, unreadable. Shocker. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
He looked like he wanted to say it outright, but with half the team standing around the nurse's station and Lena calling for updates across the room, all he ended up saying was, "Never mind."
But it wasn't never mind, because you kept doing it. You stopped leaning into his space. Stopped giving him those easy openings for banter. Stopped calling him old man, stopped telling him his curls looked good, stopped stealing sips from his coffee and dropping protein bars in his pockets when you passed him in the hall.
At first, Jack felt confusion, which quickly turned into a gnawing annoyance he couldn't shake. By the third shift, with no change from you, the whole thing had become impossible to ignore.
You were charting at the nurse's station when he came up behind you and set a fresh cup of coffee down by your elbow. A sleek, black takeaway cup that looked suspiciously like the one from the new bakery across the street you talked about going to with Santos before shift.
You looked at it, and then at him. Usually, this would have been an easy way in. What, no little heart on the lid? Starting to lose your touch, Abbot? Anything, anything would do.
Instead, you said, "Thanks."
Jack stared at you.
"Thanks?"
You blinked at him. "What?"
"That's all I get?"
You looked back at the screen where your chart lay half full. "It's coffee."
"It's your coffee. Two shots, and vanilla creamer. I made sure they used the barista oat milk you always rant on about."
You kept your eyes on the screen, even though every bone in your body was begging you to reach out and touch his forearm in thanks. "Oh, well, thank you very much, Dr Abbot."
He stood there for another beat, arms crossed, like he was waiting for the rest of it. When it didn't come, he muttered, "Right," and walked away.
Across the station, Santos leaned slowly towards Whitaker.
"This is sooo much worse than I thought."
Whitaker looked nervous. More than usual. "Should we..do something?"
"No," Santos smirked. "Absolutely not. This is premium entertainment."
Javadi, creating a circling motion with her hand towards the direction of you and Jack, said, "That looked like some form of attachment rupture."
Santos pointed at her while still looking over at you. "You are absolutely right."
You ignored them all and kept writing. Any acknowledgement and you'd have to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment and humiliation. You think that actually might be a better way to go then facing Jack again the way you just did.
Four days go by. Four days of you being perfectly pleasant and professionally distant and absolutely miserable about it. You felt like like a three year old kid sulking in the corner after being refused ice cream for dinner.
Jack still tried, in his own strange, increasingly irritated way, to hand you opportunities you no longer took. You didn't read them as openings anymore, couldn't let yourself slip again into the realm of hoping it meant anything more than trying to get through a shift in one piece.
By the end of the week, Dana got involved.
She caught you restocking suture kits in a supply alcove and leaned against the doorframe with the expression of a woman who already knew the answer and was just waiting for you to say it out loud.
"What'd you do to him, hon?"
You kept your eyes on the shelf. "Nothing"
Dana snorted. "Honey, I know I'm in day shift territory, but I have known Jack Abbot for too long to miss when he's sulking."
"He doesn't sulk"
"He absolutely does. He's just old enough to do it quietly."
You smiled despite yourself. If Jack was here right now, you'd make a joke about old dogs not being able to learn new tricks, or whatever that saying is.
"There it is," she said, poking an accusatory fingernail at your shoulder. "Tell me what happened, kid."
You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pack of gauze. Dana Evans had a way of dragging honesty out of people with nothing but eye contact and a gaze that reminded you of your mother. You make a mental note to call her after shift and apologise for every time you've ever talked back to her.
"You know Al Hashimi? Robby's stupidly hot replacement? I overheard him ask her out"
Dana let out a laugh - no - a cackle. Dana was cackling at you.
You frowned. "Dana! Seriously, I know, it's not like I'd have any chance with him, but I just thought, just maybe-"
"You are a total idiot."
"Dana."
"She was going to a trauma conference with one of his old friends from the military and he asked if she wanted to talk to talk about it over a beer."
Your grip loosened on the gauze, and you turned to stare at her.
"Sorry, what?"
Dana crossed her arms. “Robby asked him to get her thoughts on some presentations he's gonna miss on his sabbatical. He's tryna suss her out, you know."
Your stomach dropped all over again, but this time for an entirely different reason. If your first option was crawling into a deep, dark hole, well, this option would have to be something far worse. Like, being shot from a canon, butt naked, while every one of your ex-boyfriends watched.
Dana's expression softened just enough for you to recognise her natural maternal instinct taking over. "You really thought he was asking her out on a date?"
You nodded, slowly. You ran an exhausted hand over your face, hoping the ground would come and swallow you whole.
Dana shook her head then, taking your shoulder in her hand and rubbing softly, a comforting presence that took you out of your head. "Baby, that man has been halfway in love with you since before Christmas."
You didn't acknowledge it until she was already pushing off the doorframe, walking away with that irritatingly final air of hers.
"What?!"
That made everything worse. So, so much worse.
Because now, you had no excuse. Now it wasn't about Al Hashimi, not really. It was about the fact that if Dana was right, if Jack had wanted your attention all this time, if all those tiny almost smiles and deliberate little openings had meant what you'd wanted them to mean - then you had spent four days acting like a stranger because you were too scared to ask, and too damn immature to think of any other possible situation.
That night, you slipped into the stairwell in between consults to breathe for exactly thirty seconds and maybe lightly bathe yourself in peace. Then, the door opened, and there he was, filling the space with the same steady presence that always made it feel a little smaller, and a little warmer.
He shut the door behind him, and you waited for the onslaught of questions.
"You gonna tell me what the hell your problem is?"
You stared at him over the railing. There was no real heat in his voice, but there was frustration. And beneath that, something else, something tighter.
"Uh, nothing?" You cursed yourself for making it sound like a question you definitely knew the answer to.
"Try again."
"Shouldn't you be working?"
"Yeah," he said. "I should be. But instead, I'm here. Because you've spent four days acting like you don't know me anymore."
Of all the things you expected him to say, that one landed harder than you expected. You looked away. Embarassment was a feeling that you were getting far too used to.
Jack waited a beat, then came down two steps so he was closer, though not close enough to touch.
"You stopped flirting with me." You laughed at his bluntness. He continued.
"You won't look at me. You won't call me Jack. I spent fifteen minutes of my twenty minute break time arguing with a lady in a bakery the other day about how she had to use the milk I brought for your coffee, and all you could say was thanks?"
The obvious edge of offence in that almost undid you. Load the canon now, doctor!
You said quietly, "I heard you ask Al Hashimi for a beer."
Jack turned and blinked at you, and for one second, his face went completely blank. Then he stared at you like he'd just discovered the source of a leak that had been flooding his basement all week.
"That's why?"
You swallowed. "Um, yeah. I assumed, you know. You, gorgeous woman, a beer. Date territory."
"That wasn't a date."
"It wasn't a date."
"No." He let out a breath through your nose. "Robby wanted me to ask her about this conference. We were talking about work. He's cagey about her, taking over his ER and all."
"Oh."
"Yeah," Jack said.
He continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would that matter, anyways?"
You laughed once, sharp, and utterly miserable. You were so far past the point of humiliation, you might as well get it all out now. "Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously."
You looked at him then, really looked at him. And you saw it, that he genuinely didn't understand. That whatever this had been to him, it had not included the possibility that you'd step back so quickly. That made it worse somehow. Better, too, But mostly worse.
You looked down at the stairwell floor and said, because apparently there was no salvaging you dignity now. Here goes, you guess. "Jack, I don't know how to say this without, just saying it. I-I'm, in love with you"
Then the words sat there. Plain, horrible, real. For a second, that felt like so much longer, neither of you moved.
Jack broke the silence, very quietly, "You're kidding."
Your head stayed staring at the ground. That was it, there was no going back now. You tried to ignore the intense stare you could feel burning two holes through your head.
"You're in love. With me?" he repeated.
Heat climbed your face, and you couldn't believe this was happening right now. Is this not an ER? Does nobody with a GSW want to come through and interrupt your lovely moment here?
"This is deeply humiliating, so, if you could not-"
"Jesus Christ." He laughed once, and your heart fell into your ass and ran fifty miles in the opposite direction.
Then he came down the last two steps and stopped right in front of you.
“You thought that was one-sided?”
Your mouth opened. Closed.
“I flirt with you constantly and you smile and shake your head,” you said weakly. “What was I supposed to think?”
Jack looked at you like that was the most ridiculous sentence he’d ever heard.
“I never stopped you.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I wait for it.”
You blinked.
His jaw flexed once, like he was annoyed you weren’t getting there fast enough.
“I know what time you usually get coffee. I know when your shift starts from the sound of your shoes in the hall. I know when you’re about to make one of those stupid little comments because your whole face changes before you say anything.”
Your heart was pounding now, hard enough to hurt.
Jack took one more step closer.
“When you stopped, the place felt wrong.”
That did it.
That cracked the whole thing open.
You looked at him and saw it all at once. Every quiet little allowance he’d made for you, every almost-smile, every opening he’d handed you on purpose just to hear what you’d say.
You whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I thought I was being obvious.”
You let out a wet, startled little laugh of your own, because of course he had. Of course Jack Abbot thought silently orbiting someone and letting them flirt without interruption counted as emotional transparency.
“You are a disaster,” you said.
“So are you.”
You smiled despite yourself.
His gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again.
Then, in a voice gone rougher somehow, he said, “Say something.”
“What?”
“One of your lines.”
You stared at him.
Jack looked almost impatient now, but there was something fragile hidden under it too, something he would probably deny to the grave.
“You’ve had one ready every shift for 9 months,” he said. “Say it.”
A laugh caught in your chest.
Then, softly, because it felt different now and somehow still exactly the same, you said, “You know you’re ridiculously handsome, right?”
Jack shut his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, there was that tiny head shake again, the one that had started all of this.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative, or rushed either.
It was the kind of kiss that felt held back for too long, warm and sure and a little bit annoyed, like he was making up for the fact that both of you had apparently been idiots about this. Your hand came up to the back of his neck automatically. His slid to your waist, steady and firm, drawing you in until you had to grab the front of his shirt just to hold onto something.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“You done making assumptions?” he murmured.
You laughed softly, breathless. “Maybe.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Okay,” you said, smiling. “Yes.”
“Good.”
You looked up at him. “You loveeeeee me!"
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Don’t start.”
“You do.”
He leaned back just enough to look properly annoyed. “You really want to have this conversation right now?”
“Yes.”
He sighed in that long-suffering way of his, but you could see the amusement sitting just under it now.
“You realised it first” he said.
You grinned. “Yeah, okay, but mine was slow. Yours was like, falling off a cliff into a stream of like, love crocodiles .”
Jack looked at you for a second, then gave in with a tiny shake of his head.
“Yeah, okay ” he said quietly. “Shut up.”
Something in your chest melted completely.
You kissed him again before he could ruin it by pretending he hadn’t said that. This one made him laugh against your mouth, just for a second, and then his hand tightened lightly at your waist and he kissed you back.
When you finally pulled away, there was a muffled voice from the other side of the stairwell door.
“Are they in there?”
Damn it Trinity.
You dropped your head briefly to Jack’s shoulder and groaned. “I hate this hospital.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack tipped your chin up with two fingers.
“You coming back down?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
You smiled. “Very romantic.”
“I’m not here to romance you. I’m here to stop you making yourself miserable over nothing.”
“Wow.”
“You started it.”
You laughed again, because there it was, that grumpy, teasing edge that somehow made everything feel more like him, not less.
As he opened the stairwell door, Santos nearly fell inward from where she’d clearly been listening.
Her eyes went wide.
Then narrowed. Then widened again.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I knew it.”
Jack looked down at her with profound irritation. “Don’t you have a patient to bother?”
Santos, unfazed, looked past him at you and grinned. “So I was right.”
Whitaker, standing three steps behind her looking mortified, asked, “About what?”
She pointed at both of you. “Everything.”
Jack muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable and moved past her, one hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into the hall.
Not enough to draw attention.
Just enough that you felt it.
And this time, when you looked at him, he was already watching you with that same tiny, impossible almost-smile.
You smiled back. He shook his head once more, like he couldn’t believe you. But he looked pleased.
Summary: Smosh stars and longtime roommates, you and Damien have been denying your obvious chemistry for a decade, much to the confusion of your fans and castmates. Everything changes on Damien’s birthday when your raw jealousy over a flirtatious woman leads to a messy confession of your secret romantic feelings for him.
Word Count: 7,900 ish
Warnings: Angst to fluff, a guy getting too handsy with you, and drunken confession.
Author Note: Req by Anon! While writing, I was listening to Entropy by Beach Bunny (yep I’m a big fan of this band) and Radio by Bershy, loving that song rn like I could just imagine Reader being Invisigal watching Robert (Damien) and Blonde Blazer (Stranger lady) talking lmao also HAPPY EARLY BDAY TO OUR BOI DAMIEN YAYY!
Pls don’t ever perceive me & my blog, Damien _(;3 」∠)_
******
The tension was a tangible thing, a shimmering heat haze that only you and Damien seemed perpetually immune to. Everyone else—the Smosh cast, the crew, and most crucially, the millions of fans—saw it, documented it, and shipped it relentlessly.
You, Damien, and Shayne had been an inseparable trio since you were teenagers. The story wasn’t new; it was an artifact of shared childhoods. This was your life. A constant, low-level hum of shared history, inside jokes, and deeply interwoven professional paths. It was a life built on sketch comedy, dressing rooms, long nights memorizing lines, and even longer nights sharing cramped, temporary houses and apartments in Los Angeles.
History between the three of you was long, deep, and utterly undeniable. It stretched back to the dizzying days of Disney Channel, where all of you met on the set of ‘So Random!’. The three of you quickly clicked, navigated the bizarre, accelerated growth of being minor public figures together. When the show eventually ended, you did everything to get by, slowly transitioning into the next phase: YouTube.
When Anthony transitioned out of the sketches, and the Smosh Family as it was known began to form, it was an unspoken surety that wherever Shayne and Damien went, you would follow, and vice versa. Smosh became your adult playground, a place where the juvenile energy of your Disney years could be honed into sharp, often deeply chaotic, comedy.
You and Damien had been roommates for more than a decade in total. At first, it was a chaotic group house with various people coming and going, including Shayne for a significant period. Over the years, careers shifted, partners entered the picture, and one by one, everyone else moved out—seeking more space, moving with their partners, even you and Damien briefly lived separately because of relationships. But you and Damien always went back to live together again.
The two of you found the rhythm of cohabitation too easy, too comfortable to break. The house was now what you and Damien called home, a familiar sanctuary. Your lives were completely intertwined: shared grocery runs, mutual knowledge of each other’s laundry habits, and the silent, universal understanding of when the other needed coffee or space. It was a closeness that transcended friendship, but because it had always been there, you were both too blind, or perhaps too terrified, to categorize it as anything else. You were just two pieces of the same puzzle, permanently slotted together.
This proximity, undeniable current of chemistry had not gone unnoticed. Not by your friends, and certainly not by the internet. Smosh fans were detectives, artists, and, most noticeably, avid shippers. The algorithm, it seemed, was determined to expose the romantic tension neither you nor Damien would admit to. But the evidence was everywhere.
In the Try Not To Laugh format, your interactions were gold. You could deliver a joke that was frankly mediocre—a tired pun, a recycled observational bit—but if it was directed at Damien, his reaction was always explosive.
“I didn’t know why I was so scared of you replacing me on ‘So Random’, you can’t even get the role of Chad on Sonny with a Chance anyway.”
“And I was like, ‘What, Damien? Bird flu? Well, I sure hope those birds are feeling better soon’.”
“In the old days, I would wake up in the morning at six and through the wall, Damien’s loud customer support voice would instantly give me retail jobs flashbacks, so that’s the story of us first thinking that, maybe, just maybe, we should start getting into therapy.”
Damien didn't just spurt out water and laugh; he folded over, tears streaming, sometimes falling entirely out of his chair. It was a laugh so genuine, so unrestrained, that it seemed to belong to someone who had been holding it in for years, waiting for a specific person to release it.
At a Smosh Games video, both you and Damien were one of the players to play a ‘Which One Would You Pick?’ game, focused on putting out a card and explaining why the judge of that round should pick your card. That video was one of the most damaging pieces of evidence. The camera would, more than often, invariably catch you completely checked out of the activity, simply watching Damien. Sometimes he would be doing an absurd bit, twisting his face into an impossibly exaggerated expression. Other times, he would just be sipping water, influencing his card to Courtney, or calmly explaining a board game rule. Your gaze, however, was consistently soft, lingering, and utterly devoted. It wasn't the look of a friend watching a friend; it was the look of an artist watching their muse. A tender gaze of something far more intimate than friendship.
Your physical interactions were the most difficult to deny. You were constantly touching. Damien resting his hand on your knee at a Reddit Reading video. Your hand patting him repeatedly on the small of his back as you walked past each other in a Challenge Pit. Damien’s arm slung casually over your shoulders during thumbnails and group photos. You often adjusted Damien’s collar, brushed imaginary lint off his jacket, or leaned into his personal space while telling a secret. To anyone watching, it was the easy, casual intimacy of a long-term couple.
The entire cast had a running gag about it. Shayne, who was usually the one sitting between the two of you in your natural habitat, was often the victim. “Viewers call me the cockblocker,” he’d declared once, dramatically. “Said I’m here to hinder my two obviously platonic coworkers from making out on camera—which they have done approximately zero times—but the tension is so thick it’s violating my personal space.”
Everyone saw it.
Everyone but them.
Damien genuinely believed this was just how close friends who had known each other since adolescence behaved. He was a caring, affectionate, deeply loyal person, and you were simply his favorite person in the world.
You, on the other hand, were terrified. Terrified that the intensity of your actual, secret romantic feelings would be exposed, ruining the perfect, comfortable dynamic you had built. So, you performed the role of a best friend with such dedication that you had convinced Damien, the world, and most dangerously, yourself, that it was all just platonic chemistry.
“You’re just too good at getting him,” Courtney had observed once, during a break in filming. “It’s like you have a manual for his soul.”
You’d just shrugged, sipping your water. “We’ve been friends for, like, fifteen years, Court. And roommates for half of that. We basically know each other's breathing patterns by now.”
“Yeah, but it feels like you two are more than roommates,” they’d pressed gently. “And his reaction to you... that’s not just a friend laughing. That’s pure joy.”
And that was the core of the problem. Everyone saw it.
Yet, despite this cinematic perfection—this overwhelming, undeniable evidence of romantic tension—you were both utterly, profoundly, and hilariously dense.
“We’re best friends!” you’d insist to anyone who dared ask, usually accompanied by an eye-roll. “We were teenagers together! Dating him is like dating my own brother.”
“They’re my ride-or-die,” Damien would affirm, typically during a stream. “We’re like those two old people you see bickering in the park about what to feed the pigeons. It’s all normal behavior around best friends, guys.”
The densest material in the whole universe, the center of a black hole, pales in comparison to how dense the two of you are to each other’s feelings. The tension was there, like the hum of an unnoticed refrigerator in a quiet room, always present but never addressed. Until his birthday, the 23rd of November.
******
The weeks leading up to Damien’s birthday was a blur of Smosh projects, but for you, it was stressfully dominated by one thing, the perfect gift for Damien.
You were sitting in the snack room with Shayne during a short lunch break, agonizing over the purchase. Shayne, who was supposed to be helping, was instead acting as the world’s most irritating relationship coach.
“So, you’re telling me you’ve been his best friend for fifteen years, and you’re still stressing about a gift?” Shayne asked, munching on a sandwich.
“It’s Damien! You know he’s a great gift giver, but he’s impossible to shop for!” You hissed, scrolling frantically through your phone. “He either already has it, or he doesn’t want it. I need something meaningful, something that says, ‘I see you, Damien, and I celebrate the spooky creature that you are.’”
“Meaningful, huh?” Shayne raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m sure he’d love a framed picture of the two of you, with a little diamond ring taped to the back of the frame.”
“Shayne! Stop it, this is not the time!” You swatted his arm. “I was thinking… something customized. Remember how he always talks about that ridiculously niche, awful TV show from the late 90s? The one with the marionettes?”
“Vaguely, yes,” Shayne replied, amused.
“A couple months ago, I managed to find an artist who can custom-made a miniature, perfectly accurate marionette of him. It’s terrifyingly detailed, right down to the little tattoo streaks on his arm and his specific beard shape.”
Shayne actually looked impressed. “Okay, that’s actually really thoughtful. And very creepy. So it’s perfect for him, actually.”
“I know right? I sure do hope so.” You sighed in relief. “It’s arriving tomorrow. But this is the problem: it’s too good. It feels like a lovers gift, not a best friend gift.”
“Come on, you practically share a life insurance policy. You’re allowed to give him a great gift,” Shayne reasoned. “Besides, you spent three times the amount on my last birthday, and I still think you hate me.”
“You’re wrong,” You said flatly. “I spent two times the amount. As my other best friend, you should know that.”
The thought of the gift made your mind drift to Damien. Lately, he had been subtly more affectionate. Yesterday, after a particularly draining script read, he had approached your desk at work and simply stood there until you looked up. Then, he’d just given you a long, unexpected hug—a full, weight-shifting, squeeze-you-tight hug—before murmuring, “Rough day. Needed that. See you at home,” and walking off, leaving you feeling unbalanced and warm.
******
A few weeks before November 23rd, the birthday that loomed large on your calendar, you found yourself sitting across from Damien and Shayne in the brightly lit, acoustically treated corner for the Smosh Mouth podcast.
The theme that week was 'The Damien and Shayne Show: Longterm Friendships'
“Hi, welcome to Smosh Mouth, I’m Shayne,” Shayne began, his voice taking on the professional, slightly exaggerated radio host tone he always adopted.
“And I’m Damien Haas, the one that’s not Shayne. And joining us today, we have a very special guest who is one of the foundational stones of both our professional and personal lives: the one and only, our best friend.”
You waved awkwardly at the camera as he introduced you, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the combined focus of two of your closest friends and thousands of unseen viewers.
“It feels weird being interviewed by the two of you,” You admitted, laughing. “Like, you know all the embarrassing stories about me already.”
“That’s the point,” Damien said, leaning forward, resting his hands on the wooden table. He was wearing a soft black shirt with white countless cartoon eyes that pretty much encompasses his personal style. “We’re here to give the audience a peek behind the curtain of our long-lasting friendship, which I think, this is the first time we’re officially talking all about it on camera.”
The conversation flowed easily, the three of you falling into the familiar rhythm of your shared history. Shayne steered the ship, a natural facilitator, while you and Damien became the primary, often tangential, commentators.
“So, the first time we met was at a table read in the set of ‘So Random’, right?” Shayne prompted.
“You guys already met, and then I slowly came into the picture on my first day of the table read,” you confirmed. “I was terrified. I was like, fresh out of—well, nowhere—and as I walked in, I bumped into this tall guy, and I spilled my water all over him.”
Damien laughed, clutching his chest dramatically. “It was a love-at-first-spill! A first meeting that seems like the start of a disney channel series. Both of us were scrambling to apologize to each other, and the apology was so long and rambling that I felt obligated to spend the entire day with you just to stop you from making that guilty puppy face all day.”
“He’s not wrong,” You chuckled, shaking your head. “And so I also met Shayne, and we quickly became the trifecta of chaos on set.”
“Yep, and it makes perfect sense for us to hang out more outside the set after that,” Shayne summarized. “And then the roommate situation happened. I mean, I was only living with you guys for a year, but the two of you stuck together, even until now. How has that been for both of you?”
You immediately pointed at Damien. “Actually, there was a brief moment where we lived separately, you know, with relationships and all.”
“Oh yeah, that’s true,” Damien nodded seriously. “For some reason, we always go back to living with each other though, we experienced the coming and going of other roommates but I genuinely appreciate having you as my roommate. You kept a great tab on the shared utility bills, everything is clean, and you’re not scared of all the spooky stuff I have laying around.”
You flushed slightly at the genuine compliment, trying to play it off with a joke. “Honestly, I think I said ‘Get out of my room’ to him more than his sister did in his entire life.”
Both Shayne and Damien laughed.
“Really? I said you’re a great roommate and your reply is that I’m like that one annoying little cousin barging into your room to play with your Nintendo DS?” He looked at you, feigning an exaggerated frown.
“Oh right, Shayne,” You turned to Shayne with a playful smirk, “I lived with Damien for so long, how do you think I survived it without learning to tune out most of his rants?”
Shayne started wheezing as you continued, “You could say ‘that sucks, dude’ and ‘damn, that’s wild’ for a gazillion times, Damien will still keep going about how Kingdom Hearts was born because Square and Disney were located in the same building and the executives met on the lobby or something.”
“Actually,” Damien raised his index finger and pushed his glasses like an anime character, “They talked about it on the elevator, guess I needed to talk a gazillion more times about it until you remembered, buddy.”
You groaned playfully, “You see, Shayne? If I had money in this economy, like, if I had a choice then why would I torture myself like this?”
Shayne is a literal ball of helium gas leaking out as you and Damien kept on bantering with each other, the video wasn’t even a Try Not to Laugh format. He had a feeling more edits of the two of you being shipped are increasing after the video released.
“That’s a great financial choice though, gotta save pennies whenever you can, you know. And I like spooky things, I like to torture myself so why not just live together with you.” Damien countered.
“Honestly, though,” Shayne interjected, his voice rough from laughing and crying too much, “I lived with you both for a while, and the thing that always struck me—and this is something the fans pick up on—is how much effort you put into each other’s happiness, even in the smallest ways. Like, the other day, I saw you painting his nails black, without him even asking.”
Damien nodded slowly, looking at you with that soft, full smile again. “It’s that. It’s that constant, telepathic care we have though. I was just thinking of painting it again when you just showed up with a black nail polish. Shayne, we’ve seen each other through everything. Breakups, career highs and lows, that one time we tried to dye each other’s hair purple and it turned more like pink. It’s a partnership, right? A life partnership, just…platonically.”
The word ‘platonic’ hung in the air, a tiny, charged echo in the quiet studio. You felt your palms start to sweat.
“Right. Exactly,” You agreed quickly, maybe too quickly. “It’s like… we’re family. We know too much about each other. I wouldn’t trade our friendship for anything in the world.”
Shayne held up his hands, laughing good-naturedly, but with an edge of exasperation. “Okay, okay. The sheer amount of perfect, conversational back-and-forth between you two right now is making me feel like a third wheel in this podcast. The viewers are screaming, I can hear them through the screen. We have to address the elephant in the room.”
He turned to the camera. “For the millionth time, folks. Despite the chemistry, the accidental hand-holding, and the fact that they literally share a house, what is the official status between the two of them?”
Damien gave a dramatic sigh and threw his hands up. “I’m sorry to break the hearts of hundreds of thousands of shippers, but no. We are just… perfect friends. A beautifully pure friendship. We would’ve dated a long time ago if we liked each other in that way, right?”
He glanced at you, meaning it as a rhetorical, jokey dismissal of the shipping. But the way he turned to you, seeking confirmation, made the breath catch in your throat.
“Absolutely,” You confirmed, giving a firm, slightly strained smile. “Couldn’t think of a better way to explain it.”
Shayne made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a groan of defeat. “You two are exhausting. Anyway, moving on. This episode should actually be out near Damien’s birthday. Happy birthday, man.”
“Yeah, happy birthday, Damien! Prepare yourself for the best gift I’ve given you yet!” You quipped as the segment ended, Shayne moving on to other topics.
After an hour, the podcast wrapped, but the energy between you didn't dissipate. As you were un-mic-ing, Damien leaned in close to whisper.
“Did you really prepare a gift for my birthday?”
His breath was warm against your ear. It was a completely innocent question, seeking reassurance from a friend, but the proximity, the private moment, felt electric.
“Are you kidding? I’ve been stressing about it for so long,” You whispered back, pulling away perhaps a millisecond too late. “But you’ll love it. I promise.”
Damien’s smile was wide, genuine, and immediately made you feel a little flutter in your chest.
“I know I will,” Damien said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Anything from you is the best.”
You felt a tremor run through your chest—the familiar ripple effect of having been too close to him, of having successfully played the role of the platonic best friend while your internal wiring was completely short-circuiting. You quickly gathered your things and hurried out, needing to reset before the next shoot.
******
The morning of November 23rd arrived with the crisp, bright indifference of a Southern California autumn day. More importantly, it was Damien’s birthday.
The Smosh offices, usually a bustling hub of creative chaos, had been transformed into a low-key, celebratory venue. Balloons bobbed around the room, a ridiculously large, rectangular sheet cake sat in the middle of the large conference table, and the entire Smosh family—cast, crew, writers, and producers—were milling about with plastic cups full of energy drinks.
Damien, the birthday boy, was radiant. He looked genuinely touched by the effort, his black sweater vest and white button-up shirt clashing perfectly with the colorful festive streamers.
When it came time for gifts, the cast gathered around the conference table. Damien opened a few fun, gag gifts and some genuinely nice things.
Then, it was your turn. You approached the table, carrying a small, custom-made box.
“Happy Birthday, my guy,” You said, your voice suddenly quiet amidst the crowd noise.
Damien’s eyes lit up the moment he saw the familiar, slightly distressed brown box. “Ooh, this looks mysterious.”
He carefully peeled back the wrapping paper to reveal the custom marionette. It was a perfect, tiny replica of himself, right down to the little details you had specified before to Shayne.
A collective, amused gasp went around the room.
Damien stared at it for a long, silent moment, his expression slowly shifting from shock to pure, unadulterated emotion. He gently lifted the marionette out of the box by the strings.
“Woah, this is… this is the most thoughtful thing I’ve ever received,” he murmured, turning it over in his hands. “It’s spooky. It’s perfect. It’s so niche. How did you even find someone to make this?”
“Best friends have superpowers, remember?” You joked, but you couldn't help but smile at his genuine reaction.
Damien put the marionette down, stepped around the table, and pulled you into a massive hug. This wasn't the quick comfort-hug from the other day; this was an earnest, all-encompassing embrace.
He squeezed you tight and whispered directly into your ear, “Thank you. I seriously love it.”
You hugged him back just as fiercely, resting your chin on his shoulder. You could smell his familiar cologne and the comfortable warmth radiating off him. In that moment, with his arms around you, the rest of the crowded room, the shipping comments, the denials—it all melted away. This was a safe space for the two of you.
When you finally broke apart, the moment had clearly been noted. Courtney, sitting nearby, gave a small, exaggerated cough and covered their mouth with their hand, exchanging a highly amused glance with Shayne. You and Damien immediately stepped back from each other, a slight flush rising on both your cheeks.
“Alright, alright, enough mushy stuff!” Ian announced, cutting the tension by raising his glass. “To Damien! Now let’s get this party started and eat some cake!”
As the evening wore on, the group, as was tradition, decided to transition from the low-key office environment to the high-energy, louder environment of a club in downtown L.A.
The club was everything the Smosh office was not: dark, thumping with bass, and smelling faintly of sweat, expensive cocktails, and regrettable life choices.
You, eager to shake off the lingering, confusing tension from the morning birthday celebration and the general weight of having a secret crush on one's roommate, dove headfirst into the party atmosphere. You danced wildly with Angela, shared a loud, shouted conversation about obscure video games with Spencer, and ordered your first drink—a deceptively fruity concoction.
You were mid-twirl, a ridiculously catchy 80s synth-pop track pumping through the speakers, when your eyes flickered toward the bar area—a sanctuary of relative quiet where the lighting was dimmer. Damien was there, of course, leaning against the polished wood counter. He was talking to the bartender, probably asking for sparkling water or an elaborate, fruit-heavy mocktail—something that looked festive but was completely non-alcoholic.
Then, she appeared.
She was stunning. The kind of woman who looked effortlessly put-together in the chaotic setting of a nightclub. Her dress was sleek, her makeup flawless, and her body language radiated confident, smooth intent. She approached Damien with the kind of directness you had always admired (and lacked) in the dating world.
You watched, frozen in place, a silent movie unfolding across the club floor. The woman smiled—a flash of perfect teeth. Damien smiled back, the friendly, open, genuinely pleased-to-be-acknowledged smile he gave everyone.
She leaned in, saying something that made Damien throw his head back slightly and laugh—a smaller, more contained laugh than the one you could reliably trigger, but a laugh nonetheless. Then, she reached out and rested her hand gently on his upper arm, patting his shoulder with a familiarity that implied she was either a dear, old friend, or someone highly interested in becoming one.
The casual, proprietary touch ignited something sharp and cold inside your stomach. It wasn’t just a pang of sadness; it was a brutal, physical wrenching.
Jealousy.
The realization was a punch to the gut. It was an emotion you had successfully avoided for years. Damien had dated, of course. He’d had a few serious relationships that ended amicably. You had handled all of them with the appropriate, supportive distance of a best friend. You’d offered advice, helped him pick out gifts, and consoled him when things ended. You’d always felt a mild, distant ache, but never this raw, territorial sting.
This felt different. This felt like a threat to an equilibrium you hadn't even realized you were fighting to maintain. This woman was new, unburdened by ten years of complex history. She could look at Damien and see a handsome, kind man, not a roommate who needed to be reminded to do the dishes. She didn't have to navigate the terrifying friend-zone barrier. She could just flirt her way to his heart. She’s totally his type.
Your internal monologue began to spiral.
‘It’s fine. He’s allowed to date. He’s allowed to be happy. He’s Damien. He deserves to be happy with someone who can actually hold his hand in public without having an existential crisis about it.’
But the rationalizations were paper-thin against the image of her hand on his arm. It was a small gesture, but it felt like a declaration of war. It felt like she was staking a claim on the one part of the world you considered your own.
You spun around to face the dance floor, grabbed a passing server, and ordered a tequila shot. Then another. And then you decided a vodka soda would probably be a better idea for sustained oblivion.
Your goal shifted from enjoying the party to actively trying to forget the attractive woman at the bar who looked far too comfortable next to your Damien—No, your best friend Damien. You drank too fast. The sharp, cold jealousy began to dull, replaced by a warm, reckless numbness. You leaned into the buzz, determined to override the confusing, painful feelings with sheer, unadulterated party energy.
The bass in the club started to vibrate deep in your chest. The lights blurred into streaks of neon. You were laughing too loudly, swaying a little too enthusiastically. You were visibly, aggressively drunk.
A guy, clearly sensing the easy target, drifted over. He was handsome, but in a generic, forgettable way, with a practiced, predatory smile.
“Hey, you’ve got amazing energy,” he shouted over the music, leaning close. “Wanna dance?”
“Sure!” You slurred, your balance immediately shifting as you tried to move. “Let’s… let’s do the macarena.”
The guy laughed, amused by the drunken absurdity, and pulled you to dance near him. You were too far gone to care about his identity, only about the desperate need to move and feel nothing.
But the guy’s initial charm quickly curdled. His hands started to wander. A little too low on the back. A lingering touch on the hip that wasn't part of the dance. Your drunk brain registered the transgression instantly. The fuzzy numbness lifted just enough to replace it with cold, hard anger.
“Hey,” You snapped, trying to pull away, but your body wasn't cooperating, and your speech was thick with alcohol. “That is not okay. Keep your hands on your own… your own person.”
The guy just smirked, thinking it was playful resistance, and tightened his grip, pulling you closer.
You were about to unleash a tirade of slurred, furious words—the kind of messy outburst only extreme drunkenness can produce—when a sudden, firm grip locked around your arm.
It wasn’t a gentle guidance. It was a pull. Strong, fast, and completely non-negotiable.
You were yanked out of the dance floor’s center of gravity and spun around. The guy stumbled slightly, caught off guard by the unexpected force.
It was Damien.
His face was etched with a mixture of concern, annoyance, and something colder that you had never seen directed at you before—a fierce, protective anger. His eyes, usually so soft, were narrowed and dark.
“We’re leaving,” Damien stated, his voice tight and dangerously low. His grip on your arm was still tight—a little too tight, actually, pressing into a tender spot.
“Hey, man, what’s the deal?” the guy protested, moving to follow.
Damien didn't even turn his head. “The deal is they’re with me. And they’re done for the night. Go. Away.” His tone was absolute, radiating a protective authority that brooked no argument. The guy, perhaps sensing the latent, suppressed fury in the normally gentle man, backed off with a shrug.
You, however, were not intimidated. You were drunk, emotionally wrecked, and now physically in pain from the iron grip on your arm. The protective gesture, while intended to save you from a handsy creep, felt like a cruel irony.
“Let go of me, Damien,” You slurred, trying to yank your arm back. The pain was real enough to sober you momentarily. “You’re hurting me. I can handle myself fine.”
Damien’s expression flickered to regret, and he immediately loosened his grip, though he didn't release the arm entirely. He just held it gently now, maneuvering you through the crowd toward the exit.
“I know you can, but right now you can’t,” he said quietly, keeping his voice level despite the chaos surrounding them. “You’re barely standing. And that guy was a creep. You shouldn't ever have to deal with that, especially on my birthday. I should have been watching.”
As soon as you stepped outside, you realized it was pouring rain—a rare, heavy shower for Los Angeles that night. Damien had grabbed his jacket, but you were instantly soaked.
He pulled his keys out from his pocket, trying to navigate the slick, dark parking lot toward his car. The rain plastered your hair to your face, mixing with the sweat and the sheer alcoholic fumes radiating off you.
You ripped your arm out of his grasp, finally gathering enough drunk adrenaline to confront him.
“Watching?” you slurred, stumbling to a stop by a lamppost, the rain hitting the asphalt around your feet. You pointed a wobbly finger accusingly at him. “Why should you be watching me? You should have been hanging out with the beautiful woman at the bar who was actually interested in you! She seemed nice. You should have stayed and gone home with her! I don’t need you to be my… my ride service! I’m fine! I can handle myself fine!”
The look on his face was one of extreme pain and utter exhaustion. He started to step toward you, his arms open in a gesture of surrender and care.
“No, stop it. She was just saying she’s a fan. I was only looking for you,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm against the noise of the rain.
“Why?” you cried, the rain washing away your tears, making them indistinguishable from the water streaming down your face. “Why me? Why do you always choose me? It’s your birthday! You’re supposed to have fun! You’re supposed to date! You’re supposed to find someone who you don’t have to share a stupid, cramped house with! You’re supposed to have a life that isn’t just… me!”
The pressure of the denial and the alcohol finally cracked your resolve. You threw your hands up in a gesture of drunken, hopeless surrender.
“It’s annoying! Because everyone is right! Everyone sees it! And I’m so sick of pretending! I’m in love with you, you idiot!” you screamed, the words lost slightly in the sound of the rain, but crystal clear to him. “I’m in love with the way you laugh and the stupid characters you play and all the inside jokes only you and I know! I love you! I love living with you! And I hate that I’m scared of losing you, so I’ve been fighting my feelings for fifteen years! But I can’t pretend anymore! Just… tell me how you feel, or take me home and leave me alone!”
You finished the tirade with a dizzying cough, the sheer effort of the confession sucking the last bit of energy out of your body.
Damien stood frozen for a beat, the rain pouring down on his head, his vest completely soaked. His expression was a volatile mix of shock, relief, and deep, profound happiness.
“I didn’t know, I—" he started, finally stepping forward.
But it was too late. The world tilted violently, the lights of the parking lot swimming in your vision. Your knees buckled, and your body went instantly slack.
The last thing you felt was the solid force of his arms catching you as you pitched forward. The scent of his familiar cologne mixed with the fresh rain.
“Wait! Hey! Are you okay?!” he yelled, the sound muffled and distant.
You were out cold, passed out from the emotional drain and the excessive alcohol, completely safe in his arms in the middle of the rainy parking lot. It took a moment for him to shift his position and carry you in his arms to the car, awkwardly maneuvering to unlock and open it. He hoisted your limp body into his car, securing the seatbelt around your sleeping form.
Damien’s heart was hammering against his ribs. He held your unconscious weight, his confession hanging unfinished in the humid, dark air of the car. He felt a ridiculous mix of intense worry, profound relief, and sheer, utter exasperation.
‘Of course. Of course, this is how this conversation ends.’
He sat there for a long moment, just holding you, listening to the rain fall against the windshield, letting the reality of your mutual confession—scattered, drunken, and entirely one-sided in its reception—sink in. You love him. He loves you. The years of agonizing, emotional tension had been mutual all along.
He gently shifted you, carefully adjusting your seatbelt before pulling back into traffic. The drive home was a slow, silent torture. He kept glancing over at your slumped form, a protective arm instinctively outstretched during every turn.
When he finally pulled into the driveway, the rain had calmed to a steady drizzle. Damien turned off the engine, got out, and opened the passenger door. He gently unbuckled your seatbelt, looping one arm under your knees and the other around your back. He lifted you with surprising ease. You were dead weight, breathing shallowly against his neck.
He carried you inside, the familiar layout of your shared house suddenly feeling different, charged with unspoken declarations. He carried you directly to the living room sofa.
He set you down gently, folding a pillow under your head. You immediately flopped sideways, groaning softly, still out of it. He knelt, carefully pulling off your soaked outer jacket and discarding it on the floor. Next came the wet, sticky shoes. He then went to his room, grabbed his thickest, softest fleece blanket—the one he always used when reading—and tucked it securely around your shivering frame.
He stood up, wiping his wet hands on his jeans, watching your peaceful, if slightly puffy, sleeping face. He needed to go change, to process, to scream into a pillow about the emotional rollercoaster of the last hour.
As he turned to leave for his room, a cold, weak hand shot out and clamped around his sleeve.
“No,” you slurred, your eyes still mostly closed, your voice a low, gravelly mumble. “Don’t go. Please don't leave me alone. Not right now.”
Damien’s resolve crumbled instantly. He looked at the face of his best friend, his secret crush, his newly revealed mutual secret crush, and realized he couldn’t leave you in this vulnerable, alcohol-induced state.
He sighed, a soft, defeated sound, and pulled a nearby ottoman closer. He sank onto the sofa next to you, still partially damp, and grabbed the TV remote.
“Of course, don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, flipping through YouTube to find a low-volume, familiar background video—something about a bird documentary. “I’m right here. I promise. Just rest.”
He settled back, the low light of the screen casting flickering shadows across the room. You immediately shifted, your head tucking into the space between his shoulder and his chest. Your arms, still weak but purposeful, wrapped around his torso, holding him in a tight, slightly damp embrace.
The scent of your hair, slightly of your shampoo that morning and residual club perfume, filled his senses. The physical intimacy was so familiar, yet tonight, it was entirely new. It wasn't the casual, friendly touch of the past. It was a request for sanctuary, and he was happy to provide it.
You snuggled closer, your breath evening out, but then you mumbled again, the alcohol-induced filter completely gone, speaking straight from the depths of your subconscious.
“I’m so scared,” you whispered, your voice heavy with sleep. “Afraid of seeing your face in the morning. When you realize it’s all a mistake. I’m afraid I’ll ruin the longest, most important thing in my life. I don’t want to see you look at me and not feel the same. I just want you to be happy. Please, be happy. But I’m so selfish that I want to be the reason why.”
It was the perfect summary of a decade of shared denial and mutual terror. The confession wasn’t just about love; it was about the crushing weight of the fear of change.
Damien gently ran his fingers through your hair, his throat tight with emotion.
“You’re not selfish,” he whispered, his own confession welling up again. “You’re just confessing your feelings. And I promise you, I feel the same way. Every single bit of it. I love you too much to ever look at you and think it was a mistake. We’re going to be fine. We’ve always been fine. It’s just a relationship upgrade.”
He waited for a response. He wanted to hear the laugh, the silly comeback, the final confirmation.
Silence.
This time, the silence was deeper. Your breathing was slow, heavy, and even. You were completely, truly passed out.
Damien smiled sadly in the dark. He kissed the top of your head—a tentative, gentle, first-ever kiss that meant everything and nothing, since it went unregistered.
He waited another hour, until he was sure you were fully stable. Then, with painstaking care, he gently detached himself from the sleeping body. He picked you up again, carried you to your own bedroom, and tucked you snugly into your bed. He left a tall glass of water and two ibuprofen on the nightstand.
He closed the door and retreated to his own room. But sleep was impossible. He tossed and turned, replaying the words in his head: the jealousy, the pain, the profound, mutual confession, and the drunken blackout on him, twice. He thought about the attractive woman at the bar, the easy out he had refused, and the simple, undeniable reason why: because of his feelings for you. He stayed awake, watching the rain stop, waiting for the dawn—and the terrifying, wonderful, awkward conversation that had to come next.
******
The morning arrived with a blinding, terrifying clarity.
You woke up to the kind of headache that felt like a tiny, aggressive construction crew was renovating the inside of your skull. You sat up, instantly regretting the motion, and then the memories hit—a painful, chronological montage of the night before.
The jealousy. The drunkenness. The confrontation. The ride home. The confession in the rain. The emotional declaration on the couch.
‘Shit. Holy shit. Absolute fucking shit. Me and my big fucking mouth.’
The shame was absolute, a cold knot in your stomach. You had done the unthinkable: you had essentially puked out a decade’s worth of repressed feeling onto your best friend/roommate in a slurred, emotionally manipulative flood.
What if Damien had just been humoring you last night? What if he was just being protective, the caring friend, and now he was downstairs packing his bags, terrified of the disaster he lived with?
You saw the water and pills on the nightstand, a silent confirmation that he had been there. You swallowed the pills and the water, then slowly, agonizingly, got out of bed.
The house was too quiet. The anxiety was a physical weight on your chest. You crept out of the bedroom, fully expecting to find an empty living room or, worse, a meticulously packed suitcase and Damien staring at you with a disappointed face.
Instead, the soft smell of orange juice and frying butter hit you.
Damien was in the kitchen, humming quietly to himself, meticulously flipping pancakes on the stove. He was wearing a fresh, dry grey bunny T-shirt and his favorite pair of sweatpants. He looked like the picture of domestic, unbothered tranquility.
He glanced over his shoulder as you entered the room. His humming stopped. The smile he gave you was small, cautious, and incredibly tender.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said softly, turning off the heat. “I made breakfast, and I think you need these more than I do.” He gestured to a plate of perfectly cooked pancakes.
You wanted to retreat, to hide under the nearest table. You leaned against the door frame, feeling fragile and exposed.
“Damien… I…” You started, the words catching in your dry, cotton-mouth throat. “I am so sorry. For everything. For the club, for drinking too much, for being a mess, and especially for… what I said. You don’t have to answer. We can just pretend it never happened, and I can move out, and we can still be friends, and—”
“Stop,” Damien said gently, putting the spatula down. He walked over and gently touched your forehead, checking your temperature. “You’re fine. You’re just hungover. And no, I won’t forget it. You can’t just drop that on me and then tell me to forget it. I’ve been waiting for you to say something like that for… I don’t even know how long. Sit down. Eat. We need to talk, and we’re going to do it when you have food in your stomach.”
You sat at the kitchen island, the silence heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. You picked at the pancakes while Damien poured a bit of maple syrup on it, which felt perfect.
After a few minutes, you looked up, steeling yourself.
“The woman at the bar,” you said, needing to address the catalyst first. “Did you… did you get her number?”
Damien sighed, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. He looked weary, like he hadn't slept at all.
“No, of course not. I didn’t. When she started getting… too touchy, I made an excuse and came to find you. I didn’t even remember her face, honestly. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own head about other more important things.”
He pushed off the counter and walked to stand opposite of you, placing both his hands on the island counter, leaning toward you. His gaze was steady, intense, and full of the raw emotion he had held back for years.
“But here’s the actual truth about yesterday. When she put her hand on my arm, the only thing I felt was… it was very uncomfortable. Because I kept thinking about you. I was thinking about your thoughtful gift for me, or how you always touch my elbow when you want to get my attention, and how your hugs give me a boost to continue my day, those are the best part of my entire week.”
He paused, gathering his courage. “I rejected her, because my heart is already occupied. And it has been for a very long time. It’s occupied by the person who has been my roommate and my best friend for more than a decade, who I’ll willingly make breakfast for the day after my birthday.”
You felt tears prickling your eyes again, but this time, they were tears of overwhelming relief and staggering joy.
“Everything you blurted out last night,” Damien continued, his voice softer now, almost a loving caress. “All the fear of ruining the friendship, all the wanting to be the reason for my happiness—I feel it too. I was terrified of saying anything. I thought my best friend would think I was a creep for having these feelings after all this time, or that I’d just ruin our roommate situation, our job, our friendship. So, I hid it. I denied it. I laughed the hardest at your jokes because it was the only way I could channel that much energy and happiness toward you without having to admit I was deeply, hopelessly in love with you.”
He reached across the counter and gently cupped your hand. His touch was warm and comforting.
“When you passed out in the car, I was literally mid-confession. I had finally gathered the courage, and then… you passed out on me, twice. I stayed up all night, because I had to decide if I could go back to the way things were. And I can’t. I don’t want to be just your roommate and best friend anymore. I want to be more than that.”
You squeezed his hand, your voice deep with emotion. “We don’t have to go back to that, I want to be the reason you look so genuinely happy. In every Try Not To Laugh, I think that whenever I hear your laugh, ‘That’s my favorite sound in the world, and I made it.’ I want to see your face in the morning every day, too. And I’m so happy that you’re the one who got me out of that terrible conversation yesterday. I love you, Damien. I have for a long time.”
The tension, the ten-year-old, suffocating tension, finally broke.
Damien’s face transformed, losing the stress of the sleepless night and gaining the incandescent light of pure, unadulterated happiness. He didn't hesitate this time. He rounded the island, pulled you out of the chair and into a fierce, solid embrace that lifted you slightly off the ground.
“I love you too,” he whispered fiercely into your hair. “I can’t believe it only took you being brave enough to blurt your feelings out when you were drunk.”
He pulled back just enough, a goofy grin decorating his bright face. His hazel eyes met yours—no denial, no fear, only the overwhelming, joyous recognition of mutual love.
“Consider it my other birthday gift, boyfriend,” you murmured, the title feeling natural, exhilarating.
“And happy birthday to me, for finally getting the best present in the world,” Damien replied, his voice thick with emotion.
He closed the final, terrifying inch of boundary that had separated you for a decade. The kiss was perfect. It wasn’t rushed or chaotic; it was soft, reverent, and full of the easy, comfortable familiarity of two people who already knew everything about each other’s heart. It tasted like orange juice, milk, butter, and a promise for a future where you never had to worry about the shipping edits again.
After a long, wonderful moment, Damien pulled back, leaning his forehead against yours.
“Pancakes are getting cold,” he whispered, his eyes bright. “But I think we need to add a new rule for the house: a good morning and good night kiss.”
You laughed, a clear, happy sound that Damien knew he would cherish more than any laugh he’d ever gotten on camera.
“Agreed. Now, come eat breakfast with me. I’ll pour the maple syrup for you.”
******
Author Note: Hope you enjoyed the fic and it was what you imagined, Anon! I needed to churn this out before I missed Damien’s bday lmao now to go back to devouring Dispatch content
summary: Joel wants you to come live in Jackson. With him, maybe. But you are stubborn.
warnings: reader's eyesight it failing, two people sickeningly in love, argument and conflict, miscommunication but only very slightly, mentions of canon typical violence, isolation and loneliness, anxiety, fear of being trapped, referenced past torture, reader's age is ambiguous
a/n: this is partially based around the abandoned plot thread from tlou2 where Joel has a partner outside Jackson. thank you for reading! let me know what you think!
There’s a storm coming.
It’s something you feel in your bones, a particular stirring in the air, the smell of ozone electric and pressing on the breeze.
You had always been able to tell when a storm was coming, though the signs you looked for used to echo differently. The smell and caress of the air always, but the shift of the trees too, the underside of leaves thrown to the sky, their veined bellies like the flash of a warning signal.
When the air goes still and soft and silent, there are mere minutes, moments, to take shelter.
Pressing at your memory is like pressing on a bruise, it yields nothing but pain. You’d like to believe someone crouched beside you as a child and pointed the trimmings of the world and its secrets out to you, but you very much doubt it.
The other signs would come later of course, the more obvious ones, great purple clouds blackened at their edges, like a great wave that sought to swallow the world down the long column of its throat.
The sky isn’t clouded yet, just a few dark gray, fuzzed, puffs, but there’s a stirring in the wind, the shuffle of leaves that you sense might be turning over, might be offering themselves to the rain.
You aren’t sure, the horizon is a mass of furred emerald green and brightest blue, suggestions of color and shape and nothing more to your failing eyesight.
Most of the world is a tempestuous blur, blocking and light, shapes and the vague notions of objects, shambling figures, but nothing more, not unless whatever you’re trying to look at is right beneath your nose.
It’s impossible to know why your eyesight started to go, though you can pinpoint when it started to get really bad. Maybe it's just the genetic lottery at play, something passed down through a family tree. You can only trace it back one person, your mother who died before she ever had the chance to lose her vision. Or, maybe, because of the gunpowder once thrown in your face back in the QZ, back when you still thought there was a better world worth fighting for, the black caress of it in your nose and lungs, the burn in your eyes.
When you could still get a good look at yourself in the mirror, you swore the whites of your eyes were gray with the stuff, even all these years later.
You hadn’t thought there was a better world to fight for so much as you needed something to hope for, something to fill the slow, crawling hours, the day by day, piece by piece devastation of the reality of everyday life. Not the Fireflies as Tommy Miller once had been, something revealed to you over tea in your kitchen after you almost blew his head off with a shotgun for creeping around on your porch, but a different group, one that had long ago fallen apart in a QZ that no longer existed.
The air doesn’t smell of rain yet, that morning, just the whisper of the leaves, only a promise of what might come.
For the moment, the sky appears a bright blue, rain clouds only a suggestion on the horizon, morning sun peeking through to burn away the fog left by the night’s cold humidity. \
Rifle in hand, you sit down on the top step of your front porch and breathe in the still chilled air. Fingers of dawn turn the horizon a milky pink. The pistol holstered at your side digs into your hip, so you lie it at your side.
It rained through the night, the world is still a little damp for it, the overgrown grass most likely covered in a dew you aren’t able to see.
The world is still partially caught in the web of night, those sore hours just after the sun has risen and shadows still lie thick between the trees, close to the ground at the bottom of the earth.
You set about taking apart the gun in your hands, cleaning the parts as you go, examining them for signs of wear, of red spotted rust by holding them close to your face.
The day lightens as you work, waiting, spine aching where you’re hunched over, as the clouds gather and the air grows warm and thick with the scent of too familiar rain.
The clouds had cleared through the night just to return and dump on you again, muddying trails, downing branches.
It makes a nerve twinge in your chest, a fluttery anxious feeling that you bat down.
The chatter of insects, the thready trails of thousands of animals suddenly fall silent, noise that hums in the background unnoticed until it suddenly stops. You rely on it, to warn you of someone, something approaching. You listen carefully, fingers shifting to the pistol, quietly pulling back the hammer. Eventually the sound of a horse drawing near reaches your ears, the slight jangle of the rider adjusting in the saddle.
Whispering through the overgrown weeds that choke the back beneath the copse of trees.
A moment later, the horse and rider appear from between the trees. Your eyesight is so poor it should be impossible to tell who is approaching, but you recognize the shape of the man, the blurry outline of him somehow more clear than anything else.
“Quit pointin’ that thing at me,” he grouses, though you have already lowered the gun and though there is affection shelved in his voice.
“You’d be dead if I meant you any harm.”
“Don’t doubt it, sweetheart.”
You stand and shoulder the rifle, shove the pistol into the holster at your thigh, and descend the porch steps into the yard.
The wind is picking up, rustling the world, warmth stroked air stirring around you, scented with pine and rain, the soft, leather, wood oil smell of Joel.
“Hi Joel,” You greet, reaching out to stroke his horse, nosing at the grass at the base of one tree. She makes a soft grunting noise, the vibration of it echoing against your fingers.
“Mornin’,” he answers. “You smell like coffee.”
“I brewed some for you. It’s inside.”
“Didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, you gave it to me, it's only right I share.”
He steps closer and plucks at the shoulder strap of your rifle. You can just feel the pressure of his fingers through your jacket as he takes it from you and slings it over his own. There’s something gravitational about him, the pull of the earth against the moon, tugging you in until you’re close enough to see his features clearly.
Anyone else would find the proximity uncomfortable, but not him, not with you. He knows you like to see, and doesn’t begrudge you his face, though he has insisted it's nothing to look at anyway.
His breath fans over your cheek as he looks you over, gaze a careful assessment of your wellbeing that isn’t entirely necessary.
You reach out and tug the strap of the rifle as he’d done to you. “Come inside,” you murmur, tipping your head toward the house. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
“Now hold on a minute,” he says, curling his hand around yours, keeping it pressed around the rough cotton rifle strap.
“What?”
He cups your face in his palms, his skin warm against your jaw, looks you over again before tilting your chin toward him gently. Joel kisses you like it means something to be able to. His beard scrapes against your cheeks, fingers tightening against your jaw for just a moment. You choke on the nearness of him, bracing your hand against his chest. The fabric of his coat beneath your fingertips, the silver curl of hair that you stroke behind his ear, the smell of pine and cedar and warm gun oil, is familiar now and so comforting.
Overwhelming, too, in a way that you adore.
It’s possible that your infatuation with him is because you’ve been isolated for so long, but you don’t think so.
There’s too much about him that you like, things you have never noticed about other people.
You like the way he talks, his deep tug of his accent, the bottomless well of his voice and occasional regionalisms he spouts off. Dagum, being your favorite so far. You like the way back of his hands look and the age spots near his temples; the gray hair in his beard, and the way the skin at the small of his back looks when his shirt rides up; the way he smells and grits his teeth and shakes his head when he’s angry, but really just worried and not good at saying so.
You really like how he worries about you, even if you wish he wouldn’t.
It’s been such a long time since anyone cared about you.
You’d forgotten this need, to be looked over and cared for and touched, in the intervening years.
“All right,” you whisper when he pulls back, eyes still closed just to have the sensation last a bit longer, his lips still brushing yours, just a little. His hair feathers against your forehead, face tilted towards yours like the north point of a star. With some pain, you open your eyes, blinking until the map of his face comes into focus again, a highway of scars and weather lines. “You’re getting soft in your old age.”
Joel snorts and releases you, crow’s feet deepening at the corners of his eyes with mirth, nudging you back toward the house. “I reckon you’re right.”
You caught him at a good time, Tommy once said to you. My brother ain’t always been so easy.
“I have somethin’ for you,” Joel says, hand against the small of your back, guiding but only lightly. He pauses briefly to hitch the horse in the open air stable, dilapidated but still useful.
With Joel there, you don’t have to pay attention as much. You can let your strained eyes unfocus. The world takes on a softened, wavered quality, like undulating sunshine through stained glass.
The gathering of rapidly purpling clouds gather at the edge of your vision. For the moment, the breeze caressing your face remains soft instead of cutting, the deep green of the furred boughs of ancient pine trees dancing with it. A rabbit darts into the undergrowth around the house ahead of you, a white-gray blur.
You only know which animal the ball of color amounted to because it is so often what you find in your traps.
You think Joel probably knows you give your eyes a rest when he’s around because he offers his hand up the steps, even though you don’t need the assistance, muscle memory and the feel of the railing beneath your palm enough to guide you even in the total dark of night. It’s a good excuse to touch him again, feel the bones of his fingers between your own.
“You do?” You ask. “More whiskey, I hope.”
He chuckles and pushes the ragged screen door open. “Watch yourself here,” he directs and pulls you in front of him, squeezing your fingers again but not letting go until you’ve cleared the raised frame of the door.
“I got it.”
“I know.”
The cabin is warm, the spiral of wind from the front of the house to the back, turning more violent as the storm brewing moves ever closer. Joel hangs his backpack from the back of a kitchen chair, leans your rifle against the door jamb and unholsters his own pistol. The safety is clicked on and the gun laid on the sideboard by the door.
You like watching him, even if his outline is fuzzy at the edges. You hop up onto the counter and swing your legs, watching him.
Every movement of his body is fit with purpose, intentional and lethal. He pays attention to things, even when it seems like he might not be. He’s handsome, too, of course. Beautiful in a way that you will pencil down on paper later, laden with interesting lines that move with each expression.
“You’re outta firewood,” he says when he sits down to tug his shoes off one at a time.
“We’re heading into summer in case you forgot.”
“Still gets cold at night,” he says, unraveling the laces of his left boot, not looking at you.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says, rising from the table with a grunt to place his boots neatly by the front door.
You roll your eyes, “I can do it.”
“I know it. I want to.”
He dusts his hands off on the thighs of his jeans and approaches you slowly. You reach out and tug him closer by the collar of his jacket, pulling the zipper down before glancing into his face again when its descent reaches the middle of his chest. “I mean,” you meet his eyes, click your tongue in sympathy, “unless it’s too cold for you in here—” you murmur and start to drag it back up again.
“Cute,” he snips, unholstering your gun to place on the counter, hands on your hips.
“Well, I’m being serious, Joel. I’m just thinking of you—” You slide your hand to the back of his neck and pull him that much closer. “I might be feeling a little warm but if you’re—”
He rolls his eyes in such an annoyed and familiar way it makes your chest ache. He returns your hand to the zipper of his jacket and you happily indulge him by pulling it back down, razor teeth coming apart in your hands.
There’s a shush of fabric as the jacket falls away from his body and hits the floor, your hands already occupied with other things, touching the bare skin of his wrists, tracing the thick veins that run beneath his skin to his elbows, feeling the flex of his forearms. He is thankfully only wearing a t-shirt beneath to contend with the warmth that, with luck, will be driven away by the rain drawing closer.
It’s practical of him, to cover his skin. Protection from the sun and the elements and the looming possibility of life ending teeth digging into the soft flesh, but you like him like this better.
His palms are warm and dry in yours, the heat familiar and comforting against your own.
“A storm is coming,” you say.
“That it is.”
“Were the leaves turned over when you rode up?”
“Yep.”
“Your hands are dry. Have you been using that ointment I gave you?”
“Nope.”
“Joel,” you chide. “That hurts my feelings.” You had hunted for herbs, sought out and meticulously cleaned a little tin. And he—
“I gave it to Ellie. She went on patrol when it was real windy. Face and hands was all red. Helped her a lot.”
“Oh.”
It’s a bigger compliment, maybe, that he had given it to Ellie. You have no proof that he isn’t lying, but you don’t think he is.
“Uh-huh,” his eyes are amused. “Besides, how else am I supposed to get you to fuss over me?”
It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “I fuss plenty,” you murmur, sweeping your thumb over the rough skin. You nudge your knees against his hips, tucking him in closer to the cradle of your hips. “Let me help you.”
Joel kisses you instead of answering, hand cupped against the side of your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You draw your knees in tighter, urging him as close as he can get. His hand slips beneath your shirt, palm flat against your back, tracing the ridges and hills of spine and muscle and fat.
His fingertips skim the hem of your jeans, grip your hips and move you forward to the very edge of the counter. You gasp against his mouth and then laugh when he steadies you. You feel his grin against yours, a strange kind of intimacy accompanies that, that you know the shape of his laugh.
It sickens you sometimes, how much you like Joel, how much you might love him, how much you look forward to his visits and these moments. How you worried he might not make it to you because of the impending rain and the accompanying mud.
Your reality is left behind for moments or minutes or hours; it's just you and him in a quiet world. He groans softly when you cup him through his jeans, dragging your nails against the rough denim.
He groans and drags you ever closer, hands slipping higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.
You arch into him, but when thunder suddenly cracks overhead, you break away with a gasp.
He laughs, the sound hoarse and desperate, caught up in the center of his chest.
You just pant against his mouth, eyes closed, and pull back a fraction. You comb his hair back, feel the strands slip through your fingers, longer than it once was, grayer too, soft under your fingers. You trace his face, aware that it might be your only way of seeing him in the not too distant future. If he continues to visit you, if he still wants you.
“It scared me,” you reproach softly, still cupping his face in your hands, the weight of his head in your palms.
He doesn't move, hands still firm and warm against your spine, thumbs stroking circles into the space beneath your ribs. “I got you.”
“My hero,” you pat his side. “I’ll get you some coffee if you shut the door.”
“That ain’t really a fair trade,” he grouses.
“Sure it is. You love coffee.” He grumbles something under his breath, and you laugh. “What, you’d pick me over coffee?”
“Shit, honey, any day.”
He doesn’t mean it, but it still makes you laugh.
You slide down from the counter and giggle to yourself at the way he walks a little funny. “Problem?”
“You ain’t funny.”
“I’m hilarious. Ask Tommy sometime, or Ellie. I can even get Maria to laugh.”
You don’t see it but you know he rolls his eyes.
“So what’d you bring me?” You ask when he’s settled at your kitchen table with the cup of promised coffee. You lean against Joel’s shoulder, cheek against the side of his head, fingers feathering through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You said you brought me something.”
He digs in his bag instead of answering you, eventually depositing A loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and a jar of conserve on the table. There’s something scrawled on the side of the jar but you can’t make out what it says even when you bring it close to your face, the color of the ink too similar to the contents. Instead you unscrew the jar and sniff. The jam is strawberry, a favorite of yours during the spring and summer months.
The bread is still warm and makes a satisfying crunch when you unwrap it and press a thumb into the crust.
“Well,” you murmur and sit down across from him. “Thank you, but what’d I do to deserve all this?”
Joel just shakes his head, his expression hard to read. “Nothin’.”
You raise a brow but let it go for the moment. If Joel had something he really wanted to say, he’d get it out one way or another, in time. “It’s cause you like me, huh?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Still warm,” you murmur, breaking the crust on the bread. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you.”
“Good, I didn’t bring it to swap for somethin’.”
You slice the bread with a serrated knife from a drawer in the kitchen and spread strawberry jam over it, a first little taste of summer. You try to pass a piece to him but he shakes his head. “It’s yours.”
“Well, thank you, baby.”
“Mm.”
For a moment, there’s only silence, the crunch of fresh baked bread in your mouth. The whistle of the wind through the trees outside, through the still open windows, bringing the scent of rain and petrichor and earth. You inhale the cool air as the humidity dissipates and the room falls to shadows, clouds gathering thickly overhead.
“How’re you, uh, gettin’ on?” He asks suddenly. “With supplies.”
You wish his face were clearer to you, a clue to what the tension in his voice means. “Fine. Winter depletes a lot, you know that.”
“No firewood.”
“It’s summer, Joel.”
His jaw ticks, your eyes tracing the quick movement, but his expression is still unclear. You drag your chair closer. Joel is hard enough to read as it is, and if he has something to say, you need to see his face.
Often his meaning is hidden in his eyes, his voice is untrustworthy, prone to aggression when anxious or passionate.
His brows are tugged together over his eyes, hard and unrelenting, on a mission you can’t begin to guess at. “It drops below freezing at night, darlin’.”
“Joel,” you start gently, “It’s not like I’m starting fires out here. It’s asking for attention. For trouble.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, swiping a hand down his face before he leans toward you. “That’s the goddamn problem.”
Ah. Now you know what this is about, what the bread and jam, two things you can’t get yourself, are about.
“I’ve been doing this for years, Joel.”
“Ain’t just about firewood,” he starts, tilting his head, eyes locked on yours in challenge, like you don’t know its not about the firewood. “Food, clothes, medicine—”
“Is there an abundance of new clothes and medicine lying around somewhere that I don’t know about?”
“Funny.”
“I have what I have,” you shrug. “It’s always been enough.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek and jaw, teeth ground together to avoid saying something he can’t take back. “All right,” he answers eventually. “Have you been huntin’ lately? I can get you something, bring it up from Jackson—”
“You don’t need to worry, Joel,” you reiterate, feeling as though you’re about to be ambushed. “Really. I have enough.”
“Yeah,” he agrees in a defeated sort of way, rubbing one hand against his jaw. You close your eyes, to savor the sound of his fingers against his beard. It’s like a balm, one of the things you like best about him. It’s indescribably attractive, the sound of the rubbed bristles against the bowl of his palm. “But I do,” he admits. “All the time.”
“But I don’t want you to,” you counter. “You don’t need to.”
You mean it in a reassuring way.
There’s no reason for him to worry. You’re okay. You can take care of yourself just fine.
His shoulders tighten, expression pensive and far away, jaw working slowly, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He’s grinding his teeth, keeping something inside. The room grows steadily cooler in the silence as the rain finally bursts from the clouds in a violent torrent.
You lean closer, peering in at his face, watching the lines by his eyes deepen, waiting for him to loosen up.
It’s a minute before he answers, not looking at you. “If you lived in Jackson, neither of us would have to worry.”
The room grows darker. “So that’s what this is about.”
“What?” He asks, too nonchalantly and a little too loud.
“You aren’t subtle, Joel. You don’t know how to be.”
He grinds his teeth. “Why won’t you come live in Jackson?”
Some vast, nameless fear unfurls in your chest at the suggestion.
You don’t answer him for a long time, not sure what to say, how to explain yourself. There’s some part of you that curls up tight, a protective shell reforming around your heart, because maybe Joel won’t come back, if you don’t explain it right. And you don’t want to be trapped in Jackson, but you don’t want to lose him either.
Maybe that’s unfair of you, vilely selfish, but it doesn’t make it any less true.
“I’m sure Tommy has already told you,” you answer eventually, “that they’ve offered before. Tommy has, Maria has, her dad did before he passed — I’ve always said no. I don’t want to, anyway.”
Joel clears his throat, hesitates for only half a second. “Well, now I’m askin’.”
The words are spoken so softly, a gently sung plea.
He’s asking, and so it should be different, because it's him. It is different, it’s—
“No.”
The word rips from your chest, tears from your mouth. Terrible and mean.
He scoffs. “That easy, huh?”
You bristle. “That’s just how it is, Joel.”
“What happens when I come out here one morning and you’re fuckin’ dead—”
“You bury me and get over it.”
“—or infected?”
“You kill me and get over it.”
He doesn’t laugh and you don’t expect him to but a sour thread of irritation ignites in you anyway. “I don’t know, Joel, just stop coming out here then.”
Joel gives a humorless laugh and drags an exhausted hand down his face. “Yeah.”
You wonder how hard it must have been for him to ask in the first place. “Nobody is dragging you out here but you.”
Your words are dismissive of what you mean to each other. Horrible in how short and clipped they are, how little meaning you assign to them, to him.
For a moment he doesn’t answer as you mindlessly sweep the crumbs leftover from the crust of bread into a little pile.
You make the mistake of glancing up to see the expression on his face, hurt and resignation, but not surprise spread over his features. Something about it is unsurprising to him, that you would say no to him about this.
“All right,” he sighs, “not for me then—”
“That isn’t what I meant—” you try to correct and then stop, not sure how to say what you mean.
A long, icy, stubborn and stupid, silence persists for so long you start to wish he’d just storm out, just leave. You expect it, because Joel is like a kicked dog sometimes, mean and avoidant when he’s scared or hurt.
Instead, he says, accusing, voice a harsh slice through the air, “I know your eyes are gettin’ worse.”
You freeze, lightning forks through the sky, thunder shakes the walls of the house as the rain drums down harder.
“You can’t see and it’s gonna get you killed. If it don’t get you killed, somethin’ else will. You won’t be able to hunt if you can’t see. You ain’t gonna last by yourself much longer.”
The words are calm, but bordering on a snarl, the shift of old fear just below the surface of his voice.
“And you’re askin’ me to just ignore it. Pretend like you ain’t sittin’ out here in the goddamn dark, alone, all the time.”
You don’t reply, because that is what you’re asking. You don’t want him to think about it because the notion scares you. Not being able to hunt anymore, losing your vision entirely, feeling like living on your own might be a death sentence you willingly walk toward, terrifies you. You try to avoid thinking about it most days, telling yourself that you would manage somehow, you always have, that finally losing your sight would just be a new challenge.
You have survived much worse after all.
“I don’t need to hunt. I trap—”
“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “That ain’t the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
You don’t mind living close to Jackson, having people nearby isn’t such a bad thing. Their patrols help with curbing the hoards of infected that sometimes passed through, help with culling and discouraging raiders in the area.
It’s nice, you suppose, to know you aren’t totally alone in the world.
Jackson is nice enough. The few times you visited felt like stepping onto another planet, or maybe into the past.
Smiling people, folks that helped each other out, a school and a store and food to go in the store. Greenhouses and stables and laughter.
Strange.
But the walls are enough to frighten you.
The walls are suffocating as much as they are protective. They remind you of gunfire and smoke and screaming; of a weapon in your hands and blood on your skin and gunpowder in your eyes, a viselike grip on your arm dragging you down, into a basement where screams bounced off the walls.
It had been hard to shake the feeling of surveillance there, of being watched. Of being trapped, doors and walls closing in on you that could not be opened again. Of being at the mercy of other people.
Maria had offered you a place there a long time ago. Long before Joel, long before Tommy, even. You had always declined, and it wasn’t until Joel arrived one spring that you spent more than an hour there.
Joel has spoken your worst fears aloud. You’re afraid of losing your vision more than you’re willing to admit, terrified and in denial about it. Pressure builds in your ears, the walls squeezing in tight around you, helplessness of learning to navigate without sight and take on a new, strange world, of not being able to see his face again, even close up, a filmy white blur and nothing else.
“You can’t take care of yourself out here alone,” he repeats, gentler this time, evidently thinking he’s broken through to you in the interim of your silence, that you don’t already know and aren’t petrified of it, incapacitated with fear when you think of being blind and alone, maybe not adjusting to it, maybe needing help and being killed over it.
“I can,” you insist. “I always have.”
He huffs, annoyed or maybe scared, and looks away from you, shaking his head. “Can you see the goddamn spores?”
You swallow and answer honestly. “No.”
“Jesus.”
“Spores are usually underground,” you defend, “so I don’t have to worry about them.”
He sits back, one hand braced on his thigh, brows tilted up, watching you with eyes that say he knows you know it’s bullshit. “And infected. . .” He says slowly, not looking away from you. “How close they gotta be before you can tell they ain’t people?”
“Well I can tell from the sound—”
The sound of their shuffling gait, the pounding of runners’ feet against the ground, the clicks and groans.
“If you couldn’t hear ‘em,” he interrupts loudly, “could you tell them apart? Stalkers are quiet.”
You don’t answer because the truth is worrying and doesn’t help your case. It doesn’t matter to him that stalkers are also usually inside, and hide. It doesn’t matter, because he knows the truth. He’s making a point.
You press your lips together and Joel shakes his head, jaw gritted, the tension pooling into his neck.
“You can’t.”
“So go, if it bothers you so much,” you deflect. “It’s not your problem. I’ll manage. I’ve been fine for years. I will keep being fine.”
“That’s not what I—” He sighs.
“Joel.” Your voice raises a panicked octave that you can’t hold back. His name tastes like acid and fear, like the rotting carcase of a dead world closing in on you, just like it always had and always would. “I can’t, okay? I just can’t.”
If he hears the fear in your voice, he doesn’t fold to it. “Why?” He demands, a touch of exasperation in the hard edge of his voice.
You don’t answer for a moment and then remember his hands. It’s a good enough excuse to walk away. You need to walk away from just a moment, to gather yourself.
When you stand, Joel’s fingers closer around your wrist, a soft, pleading hey, sweetheart on his tongue.
“I’m just getting something for your hands.”
He releases you and your hands shake as you navigate the rain darkened hallway to your bedroom, to the oil in your bedside table.
The trees outside appear to be taking a beating, bending in the howling, unrelenting wind. Rain lashes the window panes and the roof in a violent tattoo.
You return to Joel, and let your eyes focus on him. Even if he’s angry with you, you want to see his face. The scar over the bridge of his nose, other little marks against his cheeks, the warmth of his eyes, the lines in the palms of his hands, the patch of gray in his beard.
He doesn’t protest when you pick up his hand and spread lavender oil over his knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
The lines around his eyes soften, just a little. “That’s all right.”
His face could be lost to you someday, only a picture in your memory. Are you willing to lose him sooner over something like this? Would he make you choose? Say he can’t come back to you anymore?
Joel lets you rub the oil into his hands, the joints of his fingers, massaging until your own hurt, warm oil finally soaked into his skin. You sit on the very edge of the chair next to him anxiously, spine stiff. “I’ll give you some, to take with you,” you say instead of what you need to. “It's different to the one you gave to Ellie.”
And enough to last a while, you think, just in case.
You can’t make yourself look up from his hands. Hands that you know better than your own these days. Thick fingered, broad palmed, lined, calloused, spotted, sun roughened. Some of it gleaned from careful examination, the rest from memorization of touch you’d know anywhere.
His hands in yours are a touchstone, a grounding force. You know what they feel like almost everywhere, what sounds they can dredge up out of you, how carefully they treated animals and instruments.
Joel says your name, the sound of it so soft in his mouth, a pleading thing, but you don’t look up. There was a time you wouldn’t have believed him capable of this, but he’s changed, different since you first met him and Tommy introduced you on one of his first patrols, new to Jackson and still half feral, untrusting.
You suspect, though you are sure you’ll never know, that Joel had told Tommy you needed to be dealt with, living so close to their little haven, but not apart of it. And here he is, months and years on, wanting to deal with your outsider status in another way.
“I’m scared,” you admit to his hands, the softened skin beneath your own. “Really scared.”
Joel retracts one of his hands from between yours to tilt your chin up.
Your faces are close together. He’s never particularly minded your need to be close, to see.
He blinks, surprise registering. It reminds you that he’s right. “You ain’t scared out here?” His voice is troubling, supplicating in a way that Joel simply isn’t. He’s needling you, lulling you into complacency, because the surprise belies worry. He’s worried about you. “Infected and raiders and slavers that a whole damn town has trouble fendin’ off sometimes?” Hius voice raises as he speaks, not in volume but agitation, aggression pooling in his tone like poisoned honey.
“That’s nothing,” you murmur. “It’s nothing compared to not being able to take care of myself.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand you.”
“Yes you do, Joel. You understand, and you know you do. You just don’t want to because it's me.”
“‘Course it’s different because it's you,” he snaps.
You balk. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer, shaking his head. Joel takes his hands from yours and stands and walks a few steps away, toward the door.
He stops, one hand scraping over his beard, the other anchored on his hip. You can tell he wants to walk away.
But, he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say anything either.
“It’s not Jackson that scares me,” you say, finding the gentle voice trapped in your chest. “It’s not you that scares me. It’s losing my sight there and not being able to get out. It’s getting trapped somewhere again. It’s not being able to take care of myself.”
“Honey,” he says and turns back to you.
You meet his gaze as best you can. The edges of him are grainy, blurry, like a dream. “I ain’t done much beggin’ in my life. But I am now. Please. Please, come live in Jackson. I worry—I worry all the goddamn time.” He walks closer again. You know he does it so you can see his face, shame welling up terribly in the back of your throat. “And I don’t like sayin’ it. It don’t have to be with—I just need to know you’re all right.”
“Joel—”
“It’s not like out there,” he gestures vaguely outside, to the still swirling storm. “It ain’t like in the cities.” He takes your hands in his, warm, the scent of the first of summer’s lavender lingering in the air, twinning with Joel’s familiar smell, the fresh scent of rain washing through the open windows. “Whatever happened to you there, it won’t happen in Jackson.”
The way he says it gives you pause, such intense sincerity, so much desperate need. He means it. Not just that it wouldn’t happen, but that he would not let it happen. “You really care about me, Joel Miller.”
“Shit, was I not makin’ it clear before?”
“You have your ways.” You pat the chair. “Can I tell you what happened?”
He takes the chair again, knees pressed together like children sharing secrets.
The rain abates, a little, slowing to a downpour instead of a deluge.
“You tell me anything you want.”
Finding a foothold for your voice is hard. The threads of your like hard to weave together, to pick up where one thing begins and another ends, where it all leads.
But he’s patient, for once, hopeful, maybe.
You tell him.
About the gunpowder, about the many bombs and firefights, about the basement and the walls. The leaving that came later when you were so sure you would die there, ribs bruised, face a mess of wounds and popped blood vessels.
The room feels calmer, after you say it, like not so much is at stake anymore, like he might understand your irrational fear of gates shut behind you, why your vision failing feels like a different kind of wall.
“And then I had to figure out so much on my own. I didn’t know how to trap or hunt or garden, but I couldn’t go back. And I didn’t trust anyone. The first time I had to break down a rabbit, I threw up, and I was so proud of the little trap I’d caught it in. A trap that took days to get right. The first deer I shot. . .half the meat was wasted because I was so squeamish. How could I kill people like nothing and an animal made me sick?”
You look at him, and Joel squeezes your hand but doesn’t answer.
“I went hungry because I didn’t know how to feed myself.” You close your eyes. “It’s no different than what anyone else has been though. But I figured it out and I didn’t have to rely on anyone. I didn’t have to rely on favors or shitty ration cards or—”
You open your eyes again, that careful, steady gaze of his on you, accessing. You already know what he’s going to say.
“But it got better and I was free. Then my sight started to go. And I feel trapped again. I don’t want to owe anyone; I don’t want to rely on anyone. I don’t want walls around me again. So I have to figure it out, like I did before because I can’t go back.”
He shakes his head. “But you don’t gotta now. I know—” he emphasizes before you can interrupt, “I know how it is. I know what you mean. Jesus, I know. But it don’t have to be that way. It ain’t that way.”
You shake your head, not sure he really understands.
The rain continues to slow, pattering to a tiny, insignificant drizzle. He urges you up, into the cradle of his body, arms curled around you. “Can you visit me?” Joel offers, a desperate olive branch. “Ain’t even gotta be overnight.”
You chew on it for a moment, the anxious pulse of your heart slowing as his hands rub the base of your spine. “I’m not saying yes, but maybe I can visit.”
He breathes out. “Well, all right.” There’s such stark relief in his voice, it makes the middle of your chest ache. “That’s a start.”
“I’m not—I can’t promise you anything.”
“I know it.”
You blink. “We’re okay? You’re okay with—”
“For now. Ain’t gonna leave it alone neither.” He pats your hip. “And you’ll let me bring supplies.”
It’s not a question. You smile and duck your head. “I guess I should be flattered. Will you still come hunting with me?”
“‘Course I will. Will you come home with me tonight?”
You hesitate, but only for a moment. “Of course I will.”
It’s not as hard as you think it is, climbing atop the horse with Joel at your back in the evening sunshine that turns the world into a slipshod mullion of orange and yellow peeking through still dripping trees.
His arms branch around you to hold the reins, tucking you close to his chest. He promises to bring you back before nightfall and you believe that he will never become something that might make you feel trapped, even if you never learn to live in Jackson.
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